I had a dream about Jonathan crane absolutely kissing and grinding against me. Then pulling back, going 'wait one second doll' or somethin' in his country accent. Then I heard his car start and he left. I would LOVE it if you could do a 5sentence blurb on this. Thank you benevolent oh so great porn writer
Don't say I never do anything for ye 🤣
To dry-ride with the Scarecrow was to be caught in a tornado of rough handling and punishing teeth which promised to deliver as much discomfort as they did pleasure with every lingering touch; but splaying across the bed like this with Jonathan Crane pinning you to the sheets, there's no better feeling as he grinds his cock into your clothed groin while you both enjoy the wicked sensations.
A soft beep interrupts the haze of your petty arousal and you unleash a small, despeste noise as Jonathan glances at his watch and pulls away in one smooth motion.
"My latest batch of toxin is complete," he explains with a slight breathlessness as he snatches his keys free of his left pocket and turns away from your confused positioning, "so I need to leave and check on the output. Feel free to finish yourself off."
Genuinely unable to believe what you are seeing as you watch him adjust his tented groin and slip free of the bedroom door, it's not until you hear the deep rumble of his truck starting up that you allow a scandalised huff of disappointed to slip free of your lips.
"Useless limpdick straw fucker," you mutter to yourself under your breath as your hand instinctively crawls towards your top drawer and the promise of pleasure which the small vibe within can always guarantee.
Working on the next chapter of WDO so have a little snippet below 😉 I will be revealing a good chunk of Jonathan's backstory, all told through the time old conduit of...uhh...anal sex 👀🫴💦
Summary: Jonathan rarely shows affection, and even more rarely initiates intimacy, but when he does, who are you to say no?
It is my first time writing a sex scene and it shows.
Warnings: Penis in vagina sex, MDNI
The thing about Jonathan is that he rarely demonstrates affection, and even less so, intimacy. You were usually the one initiating sex with mixed results. Sometimes he would oblige with an almost imperceptible nod of his head, other times he would say that he’s not feeling it that day or that he was too occupied with another scheme involving Batman and his fear toxin, not that you minded… or at least that’s what you kept telling yourself. The times that he does initiate are exceedingly rare, enough so that you could probably count the times on your fingers and toes. Therefore, you always accepted the offer whenever he sought you out, never the one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Today, the stars happened to align.
The two of you were sitting on the couch, reading. You were engaged with Her Body and Other Parties, while he was reading a newly released book on theoretical psychology, making notes in the margins. Suddenly, you heard him close his book and place it and the pen on the side table. Your eyes drifted towards him. He shifted closer to you, his gaze settling on a passage in your book.
“Tell me,” he began, his eyes finally lifted to meet yours, “what are you reading?”
“It’s a collection of feminist horror stories,” you explained, “and each story explores a different aspect of women’s bodies.”
“Hm,” his gaze drifted back to your book, “interesting.”
“I’ll let you borrow it when I’m done,” you smiled softly at him.
“Thank you,” he shifted closer until your shoulders nearly brushed. You stared at him, puzzled. Jonathan rarely sought out physical closeness, much less this casually. Unless…
You grinned, closing your book and setting it on the coffee table. You felt excitement bloom in your chest, your heartbeat quickening.
“Is there something you would like, Jonathan?” You teased, as you reached out to touch his shoulder.
“Perhaps,” he muttered, his eyelids lowering. Jonathan’s hand reached out to caress your face, and you flinched despite yourself. His hands were always cold. You nuzzled your face into his touch, smiling softly. You moved your face to press a kiss into the palm of his hand, then kissed each of his fingers. Jonathan sighed.
“Did you like that?” You smiled mischievously.
“I believe you already know the answer to that, my dear,” he said dryly. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. You laughed as you swung a leg over his lap, now straddling his hips. Your hand still on his shoulder, the other idly combing through his short, russet hair.
“I think so too,” you chuckled softly, as you carefully removed his glasses and set them on top of his book. You pressed your forehead against his, brushing your noses together. You felt his long arms wrap around your waist, pulling you tightly against him. Your heart soared. Every rare display of affection from Jonathan felt precious. You kissed him tenderly on his forehead, tracing a line of kisses until you reached his lips.
When you met his lips, you kissed him slowly, closing your eyes, lingering as though neither of you had anywhere else to be. Your hand left his hair to caress the back of his neck, while the other slipped under his shirt to rest against his side, your thumb tracing the line of his ribs. You felt him shiver beneath your touch.
You felt his still cold hand slip under your shirt, coming to rest against your back. His finger traced part of your spine, slowly moving up and down. You moaned, content with his touch. You felt an eagerness to move faster, to keep going, but you wanted to show restraint. You wanted this to last.
You broke the kiss first, breathing heavily. You stared at each other. Jonathan was breathing a bit more quickly, unable to look away from you.
“Do not stop,” he muttered. Your mind froze, the request was even rarer coming from him. Without a word, you obliged, moving your lips back onto his. You opened your mouth a bit wider, his tongue slipping in and yours meeting his in earnest. His hand moved from your waist to tug at your shirt. You briefly pulled away from the kiss to take it off, struggling to remove the shirt because of your impatience. You went back in for more, but he stopped you, both of his hands on your shoulders. You blinked.
Jonathan watched you. His gaze drifted from your face down to your shoulders, your chest, your arms.
“You are beautiful.”
The compliment made you breathless. You pulled Jonathan into a hug, removing your hand from beneath his shirt. You brought your lips close to his ear.
“Thank you,” you whispered. You began a series of kisses from his ear to his neck. He tilted his head slightly, offering his neck without hesitation. You felt his throat rumble. Your hands trailed down, tugging on his shirt, still sucking and kissing his neck. You removed his shirt, revealing his lanky frame. You hummed, pleased to see his exposed skin. Your fingers brushed the scars on his shoulders, gently caressing each one. You felt him shift underneath you, his hard cock, trapped in his slacks, pressing against you.
“...I am shocked that you have not pounced on me yet,” he said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.
“Excuse me for taking my time,” you retorted, a small smile on your face.
“Because you are known for your patience,” Jonathan rolled his eyes. You rolled your hips in response, slowly, teasingly, enough for him to close his eyes and let out a small groan.
“Extremely well known for my patience,” you agreed, chuckling lightly. His hand moved to play with the waistband of your shorts. “It seems like you’re the eager one today, Jonathan.”
“I wasn’t aware that my dear was capable of playing the waiting game,” Jonathan’s mouth moved to attack your neck, “it has intrigued me and yet… made me impatient.”
You groaned as he nibbled and sucked on your neck. Your hand moved to thread your fingers in his hair again, “I had no intention of playing games… I just wanted to enjoy you…”
“Hm,” his mouth moved down to your shoulder, his hand moving from waist to caress your breast. You groaned again, throwing your head back and tightening your grip in his hair. You rolled your hips against him again, unintentionally, desperately trying to relieve this massive tension in your core. “You are starting to become impatient.”
“A bit,” you let out a breathy laugh. You gasped. His fingers began to play with your nipple, twisting and pinching it. The sensations made you arch your back. “Ah… fuck!”
“How vulgar,” he clicked his tongue. Your hand began to claw his back, the other tightening on his hair. His hand began to work at your shorts, tugging them and your underwear down. You shifted your weight onto your right leg to free your left leg. Jonathan started to unbuckle his belt and undo the button on his slacks. He shimmied out of his slacks and boxers enough to free his cock, long and not too thick. You shifted back on top of him, one hand on his shoulder and the other hand slowly guiding his cock inside. You bit your lip, feeling his head enter. Then. The rest of him. You exhaled deeply at the new feeling, while Jonathan groaned at the sensation.
You worked him slowly, feeling his cock drag slowly across your walls and back in.
“Jesus,” you breathed, resting your head on his shoulder and pulling him close. Jonathan returned the sentiment, holding you close. You could hear his shaky breathing. Your heart was thundering in your chest so loudly that you thought he could hear you. Even still, you felt close to him. A tender affection reserved for him and him alone. You wanted to take your time, to make it feel amazing for the both of you. You wanted him to feel your love too and not just your passion. You wanted this time to be different.
You rode him at a steady rhythm and pressed kisses along his neck.
“You feel so good, Jonathan,” you moaned into his ear, “I just love riding your cock.”
You could feel him shiver at your words, squeezing you tighter.
“Faster,” he stammered. You smiled at his request, ready to fulfill it. You readjusted your arms and placed them on his shoulders. You began to ride him at a quicker pace. Jonathan rearranged his hands to place them on your hips. He began to thrust upwards, matching your pace.
“Oh, god!” Your voice began to get louder. His cock was hitting you deep. You closed your eyes. You felt shocks of pleasure hit you with each thrust. The momentum. The rhythm. You could feel it with each thrust. “Oh, Jon- I don’t- I can’t-”
You stumbled over your words, unable to focus, your orgasm close at hand. At this point, both of you were recklessly and relentlessly fucking each other. Jonathan was bucking his hips wildly. He was close too. It made your mind spin. Normally, whenever you rode him, he didn’t move, he would only touch you. His blatant desire for you now drove you crazy.
“J-Jonathan, please…” you started off, “Ah! Please come with me!”
He looked into your eyes and nodded. You grip his shoulder hard, resting your head to the side of his head. Your stomach tensed, feeling the release.
“Jon, I’m-” you couldn’t finish, only moaning in his ear. The waves of pleasure entered your mind as your cunt squeezed him tightly. Jonathan moaned, only squeezing you tightly as he came. His cock twitched inside of you, the feeling of his cum leaking from your hole. Both of you held each other tightly, breathing heavily. You let go, staring at him. Jonathan’s face was flushed. You smiled brightly.
“You look pleased with yourself,” he looked at you, then reached for his glasses.
“That’s because I am,” you said smugly. He scoffed. You got off him, staring in horror as you realized the couch had been stained. “Oh, no!”
“I will clean it,” Jonathan sighed, curling his arm around you, “just give me a moment.”
You blinked at the action, and then you gratefully snuggled up next to him, listening to his rapid heartbeat slow down.
General!Scarecrow x Fem!Reader, word count: 6k
commission: jonathan exacts his own brand of psychological revenge on his patient, offering some psychological torture to make sure she stays his 🎃
commission me here!
request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist
minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: jealousy, possessive behaviour, drugging, fear toxin, pain play, stepping, panic
A deep, heavy sigh emanated from Jonathan's slender and frail chest. His torso didn't seem big enough to accommodate the inhale it had taken to procure as much breath as he needed to expel the plethora of feelings that plagued him, but needs must, and he was nothing if not a risk taker. Fainting spells were a little beyond him. As fragile as he might seem to those who were willing to take their own risks and belittle or mock him, he was particularly determined in a manner so stubborn he could muster up strength from spite alone. And he was wasting that energy on his newest hobby.
It was torture. Self-flagellation. Punishment of the self in lieu of the ability to punish another. Jonathan was so very aware of it all, painfully cognizant, and thoroughly unimpressed by the fact he'd become a prime case study for his own subject of choice. It was humiliating, to be so simple. To fall within the standards of normality. That was how everyone else should be, not him. He was above it, beyond it. He was the master of it, even if several colleagues and students would argue the contrary if given the chance. Even now, as he recognised the pointless triggering of his emotions, he still couldn't pull himself away from the window of his office. He knew your schedule, and any minute now you would be passing by, unaware of him as he hovered behind to the side, obscuring himself from your view should you deign to take a quick look to where you were now heading.
Perfectly timed, almost to the exact second he had marked visually on his wrist watch, he caught a glimpse of you. Definitely you, right there. He would have been able to tell from miles away, and even without his glasses on. From the way you walked, he could tell that there was a change in you. Of course, as your therapist, Jonathan knew your interior so well, perhaps even better than you did yourself, but his lingering gazes and studious leers meant he had developed a good sense of your exterior habits too. And while normally that level of control, that thread of authority over someone else, might have given Jonathan the satisfaction he hoped for, this time it was a slap to the face of his entire being. The longer he looked, the more obvious it became that you were not alone. Someone by your side had begun to speak to you, and that difference he noted in your pace and gait seemed to be down to them. You smiled at him, laughed at whatever words he said.
A new beau. Someone else, someone other than Jonathan, for you to tether your needs and wants to, someone who wasn't in turn attempting to wriggle their nasty fingers into the ridges of your brain. Without really knowing the concrete truth of the matter, Jonathan felt his blood begin to boil.
You hadn't mentioned any of this in your sessions with him. Could you really have bonded with someone so quickly? Within a week between today and your last hour spent with him? It seemed unlikely, given what he knew about you. But still, it bothered him. And he wondered if that was because it felt like he had been rejected. Like you had moved on. Weren't you, only weeks ago, lamenting over the fact that he was your only true relationship? Your one contact in an otherwise shallow world of surface level connections? How special that made him feel. How true it rang. How quickly it confirmed and encouraged his deeper feelings that had been slowly developing.
Jonathan seethed, filled with nothing but vitriolic hatred which he knew, if unleashed, could tarnish the lingering shreds of his reputation with colleagues and peers who were constantly looking for a reason, any reason, to be rid of him. His tenuous grasp on his own emotions was slipping, but he could maintain the metaphorical mask until he could be adorned with his physical one. All of that would have to wait, however. For now, he could only stare, look on with a jealousy he refused to acknowledge but which lingered regardless.
Once you were out of view, he turned his back completely, leaning against the wall beside the window that offered nothing but pain. With a sigh that was more of a growl, he slumped down into his tarnishing leather office chair and let his head thump down onto the open book atop his desk. It was a cruel trick that the mind played, where the only memory it allowed you access to was the one you were least keen on remembering. And for Jonathan, in that moment, it was your act of apparent and ultimate betrayal that lingered there.
But it was fast approaching your diarised appointment, and he knew he had to calm himself down enough to begin the session as standard. Then, he could finally do what he'd been intending to do for months now.
Now he knew that you were a quick mover, not someone who lingered and waited and pined like he had been. No longer did he have to halt his plans and control his desires. Someone else had attempted to steal what he believed was his rightful place, especially given how long he had been working on you, manipulating your form into the perfect… He cycled through the options. Victim. Subject. Patient. Partner. Either way, it was time to put into practice his long awaited plans.
He reached into his desk drawer and removed a small vial. A bright orange liquid sloshed gently within the thick glass confines. His latest attempt at his fear toxin. You'd be the perfect test. A few drops in a welcoming cup of tea and he could finally make his move. No appointments after this one, the hallway his office was on completely devoid of any other occupants. This was it.
In the slight reflection of the vial, Jonathan could make out his reflection. The jealous rage settled into a deep wrinkled scowl on his forehead and he smiled at the image of it. It seemed jealousy suited him. It was a suitable motivation for continuing his work. For so long he'd been distracted by you, and now, by some miracle of coincidence, the concept of losing you meant that he had regained his concentration, and regaining that meant he could get you back too. A delightful turn of events, one that made him chuckle as he plotted in the silence of his office, waiting for you to arrive. A dream for him, a nightmare for you.
Though he had timed how long it took you from first sight to standing at his door, Jonathan had been far too distracted by his own excitement that when you knocked, he jumped in tender fright. The sensation of experiencing the shock sent a tingle of glee down his spine, a telltale stirring of more lustful emotions softly flowing through him. Your voice only strengthened them.
"Professor Crane?"
"Yes, come in."
Jonathan's office never felt like a peaceful place to you. It always seemed to exude the kind of atmosphere that was the antithesis of what someone would want from their therapist's place of business, and he made no efforts to change that. In fact, it was safe to assume that he had curated it in such a manner on purpose. The room very often felt like it was closing in on you as you spoke to him, rendering you incapable of escape from his oddly seductive charms. But right then, as you sat on his cough and tried to calm your breathing, it felt like an encroaching tomb, sealing you in your fate.
The tight, strict rhythm of the antique clock in the corner was all you could find to focus on, trying your best to work your heart beat to it's steady pace in hopes it would soothe you while you tried not to become flustered just by being in his presence. You believed you were hiding your crush well so far, and that if you weren't, he was used to this kind of thing. It probably happened all the time, you imagined. A close relationship with someone who listens intently and understands you? That was a definite recipe for misplaced feelings.
You couldn't, however, have imagined that Jonathan had similar feelings, despite his often more personal and potentially inappropriate behaviours. And more than that, you couldn't have expected that you were so good at concealing your desires that Jonathan had missed the signs entirely, becoming jealous over nothing with a no one.
It wouldn't stop him from trying, though. He was a determined soul.
Jonathan raised his hand so silently, so slowly, that you had barely noticed it even once it was resting atop yours. Only when his thumb slid from your wrist to your thigh did you suddenly jump, shirking away from him and sitting back away from him. He seemed perturbed by your movement, but remained silent as always. It was one thing, after all, to seek intimacy, physical or otherwise, from a patient, another thing entirely to force it on them.
It wasn't that you didn't want his touch. Despite how awkward it felt, how taboo in nature it seemed, you still found yourself wanting. The presence of his fingertips against your lower back as he ushered you in, or on the back of your hand in an attempt to soothe, or brushing a strand of your hair behind your ear to stop it from irritating you, it so often made your blood run cold rather than hot. But you found yourself reeling with glee any time he chose to bestow that particular affection upon you. Like he was choosing you over the 'rules'. As though he couldn't keep his hands off of you, despite knowing how wrong it was. There was a sordid excitement there, but you knew it had to stop, otherwise you weren't sure you could keep your feelings hidden for much longer.
But he could sense that you were withholding something of importance from him, and able to smell your nerves as they clouded the room, Jonathan leaned in, keeping his hands folded between his spread thighs, and encouraged you to give in to him.
"Take your time. This is your space to speak freely. What's on your mind today? What has you in such a state? Pulse quickening. Sweat on your palms. Lips dry. Something is bothering you. If you can't tell me, then who can you disclose your problems to?"
The stress he caused you was intolerable, and you could guess all too palpable given the physical reactions he had pinpointed. The way he looked at you, like he could see inside of you, into your mind, made you feel almost nude. Too vulnerable, too exposed. Dirty, in a way. But that thought crossed over with a distinct tingle, and you pressed your legs together in an attempt at controlling the other physical effects that Jonathan seemed to stir in you.
When you still hadn't answered his question, too focused on hiding your obvious arousal at the genuine care and ever so slightly seedy way in which he seemed to watch you, Jonathan let out a sigh and leaned back in his chair.
"Perhaps we should call this off. Not just our session today, but our remaining scheduled appointments. If we can't have complete honesty then the work we do together will be useless. You are supposed to feel comfortable enough to share with me here, and it is rather obvious that yo-"
"No! Please!"
The begging was borderline hysterical, but you couldn't tone it down. Having Jonathan leave you, in any respect, would shatter your being.
"Please… Doctor Crane… Don't… I just…"
"Yes?"
He braced himself, ready for you to confess that you were withholding information about a new relationship from him, a sordid little secret affair that you, for some reason, chose not to bring into his office for whatever reason.
"I… I think…"
A simple answer would have been that you found yourself falling for him and his ever more present flirtations. But you seemed entirely incapable of speaking it in full, despite his growing impatience.
"I think… I th-"
Jonathan interrupted, correcting you and shaking his head in disappointment as he realised that everything he'd worked on with you in relation to your confidence seemed to be going out of the window the minute you were under slightly more pressure than usual.
"Do you think? Or do you know? If it's within you, then the answer is surely more concrete than you're letting out."
You took a deep, steady breath, attempting to let your nerves out with the exhale that came with it but ultimately failing to do so. The next sentence you were able to get out, though formed with the intention of confidence, still managed to come across on a shaking voice.
"OK. I know." Another deep breath, exhaled slowly and with as much patience for yourself as you could find, and you continued. "I know, now… After a lot of thinking, that is… So maybe I think… Maybe I don't know… I… can't."
The tension filled the room, and the second you had finished uttering your last nonsensical word, Jonathan's eyebrows raised quickly and then lowered again slowly. He scowled in your direction, covering the short distance with his torturous stare. His fingers tensed and flexed, knuckles whitening as he clenched his hands into tight fists in complete frustration.
"Oh you can't, hm? Or you simply won't, rather?"
He spat the words out violently across the table from the large leather wingback he sat in, the size of which always seemed to swallow him but from which he now emerged with a bolstering anger you'd never seen before in him.
"Please, Doctor Crane. Don't push me, I-"
"I push you to do better!" He slammed his palm down on the coffee table between you, realising that his emphasis was perhaps a little misguided given your emotional state and the discussion you were having. So he cleared his throat and leaned back in his chair, a stiff exhale pushing through his nostrils as he tented his fingers in front of his chin. "Do you think you're going to find someone else who will put in this kind of work for you? Someone who will push you? Do you know how often therapists tell their client what they want to hear? How frequently they misguide in an attempt to validate your feelings? Too afraid to say the wrong thing or else they'll suffer the wrath of a poor review in this oh so unfortunately 'customer' focused landscape we are in?"
Jonathan stopped, not expecting an answer, not waiting for one before he decided he might have pushed too far too soon. He had to play this carefully. Breaking you down psychologically and turning you into his perfect subject was a long game, and he had to play by his own devised rules.
"Please, let me get you a drink. Something to settle your nerves."
But the intended outcome was of course the opposite, a stark contrast from what was conjured up by the gesture. If all went to plan, two or three sips would have you in a state of pure terror and completely malleable to his every whim.
"That would be lovely, Doctor Crane."
And you were none the wiser. You trusted him, and that implicit faith stirred something deep within him. The concept of losing you to another was interesting, the fear it struck in him, but, for possibly one of the few times in his life, the adrenaline felt far sweeter when he considered the positives. Of course, those positives were his, not yours.
"Here. Freshly brewed tea."
You took the cup from him, sniffing at the oddly orange coloured liquid contained by the stained porcelain.
"It smells like… I don't know. Not oranges. But the colour…"
"I sourced the leaves myself. Brewed it fresh with some added properties known to induce the kind of mood I prefer my patients to be in. Open to experiences and their base level responses."
You eyed up the cup once more then turned your gaze to Jonathan who was watching you like a hawk, waiting for you to taste his concoction.
"Wow… Is it… Is it like drugs?"
"I suppose in a sense. But where better than to experience the very mild effects of the hallucinogen than in here with me, a professional. It will help, I promise. I know what you want to get from these sessions, and this? This is just a guaranteed way of getting it."
"Maybe I shouldn't. I wouldn't want to…"
That sentence couldn't be finished. You were concerned that losing your hold on yourself would mean you might let slip your interest in him, and that couldn't happen. Not yet.
"That's fine with me, dear. Far be it from me to hinder any regression. I must pay the bills somehow, after all. You can make your choices, make them wrong, and then let me pick up the pieces."
He was attempting to put pressure on you through guilt, and you knew that. But it worked anyway. Jonathan stifled his grin as you sipped from the cup greedily, having to soften the cruel expression into one more placid so as not to arouse any suspicions.
"Well done, dear. Now, shall we begin? Get to the meat, so to speak?" The way he annunciated the word made you shiver, playing off the physical response as one inspired by the tea as opposed to his thin lips speaking such a meaningless word in such a filthy tone. "Why are you struggling to place your trust in me? You can tell me anything. You have told me quite a lot. Why stop now?"
You were trying to let the tea calm you down, to find the space, the capacity, to answer him clearly and honestly without any kind of shame, but it was proving more difficult now than before. As you tried to process your running thoughts of panic, you saw something shift in the corner of the room. A dark shadow, seeping in from the ceiling and spreading like damp down the walls. As you spun your neck to face it, it disappeared, and Jonathan followed your eyes before bringing his back to face you with a smile.
"Are you OK?"
"Uh… Yes, I'm fine, I just-" Another one, this time with a defined figure, reaching out to you from behind Jonathan, long, ragged nails on outstretched fingers skating over his shoulder and coming towards you. "Doctor Crane!"
Jonathan followed your pointing and trembling finger, looking over his shoulder, committing to the act though he knew he would find nothing there. Hallucinations, that's all they were. The tea was working.
"Should I give you a few minutes? Perhaps I'll leave the room and allow you-"
"No! Doctor Crane, no! Please. Please don't leave me. Please. Don't leave me alone."
His sly smile crept up onto his gaunt cheeks now regardless of how obvious the expression made his guilt and his enjoyment.
"Don't leave you alone in here? Or at all? Surely you mean within the confines of this room. Because you have your friend to keep you company outside of these four walls, don't you?"
"Who are-"
"Are you ignoring any feelings for me? Burying them in someone else to take the pain away?"
"He's not anyt-"
"Or is it a lack thereof? No feelings for me whatsoever despite your blushing and smiling and deep desire to please me, to have me be proud of you."
"That's not fair, Doctor Cr-"
"In your quest to avoid abandonment, a fear so pathetically predictable that it's of no interest even to me at this point, are you seeking to get there before it?"
"I've never mentioned-"
"Is it an attempt to exert control?"
"Over wh-"
"Does it make you feel better to be the one who abandons? Cruelly, and with no warning. A quick pulling back from anything that was or could have been. A simple note of disinterest would have been far less painful than that. But who am I to question your motives. I'm only your therapist. Not a friend, not a partner, not a lover. Not even potential. I am a service you pay for and use. Yes?"
You'd given up trying to answer his quick fire questions. Each one felt like a dagger to your chest, striking the bones of your rib cage hard enough that they seemed to resonate outwards, vibrating through your soul. Now, though, he seemed to be waiting for you, perhaps without the intention of interrupting as he had done each time since. But there were no words, only shuddering, choking panic. You were struggling to catch your breath, unable to find yourself in the space. Each accusatory claim, each tender twist of the knife into your psyche, each reveal of aspects you hadn't divulged yet, brought with it another shadow, encroaching, stalking, closing in on you alongside those claustrophobia inducing walls. It was as though they were backing him, creating an army on his side, there to intimidate you into whatever semblance of submission you could offer.
And you couldn't convince yourself that they weren't real. Because Jonathan refused to give you the satisfaction of calming your nerves. He followed your haunted gaze, craning his neck and turning from you to survey the darkness behind him. And when he turned back around there were no platitudes, no confident reassurance that you were fine. Only his smile, wide, toothy, and full of delight.
With a great deal more resolve than you had expected yourself to be able to muster not only in his presence, but in the state of sheer panic you found yourself entering now, you found it in you to speak.
"I have to go. I have to… I have to leave!"
Escaping seemed like your only option. You wanted to stay, to answer his questions, to beg him to comfort you, but you feared it would only lead to further conversation that dragged you in a confusing loop. You weren't in the right mind to debate or to argue, you couldn't set any clear boundaries or to draw a line between reality and fantasy even. You wanted to make him proud, to face the demons that now seemed to be manifesting physically, but your body was begging to run.
In a display of further cruelty, Jonathan continued with his plan, an internal schedule ticking along nicely. He could use these fears against you. He stood up from his chair and made his way to the door, noticing the way your body tensed and quivered as he got closer to you, your muscles relaxing only slightly as he passed you by.
"You want to run? You can't. Not really. Not from your mind. Not from me. No one will ever know you like I do. Abandonment comes in many forms. And you are doing this to yourself."
As you prepared a shaking retort, unsure of your own feelings but still hoping to argue strongly enough that he might let you leave, Jonathan stepped quickly to the door of his office, a sleek side step that felt akin to the way those shadows moved. He took the handle in his palm and turned it, opening the what was once the sanctity of his office to the seemingly safer outside world. In complete silence he gestured to the dark hallway, showing you the way out. You couldn't argue now, even if you wanted to. Couldn't change your mind, because he had made it for you. So you stood on weak and trembling legs and made your way out, taking one cautious glance behind you at the shadows who had stopped to watch your exit.
The door slammed behind you once you were out in the corridor and as the sound dimmed, so did the light from Jonathan's office with it. In the dark, a slow howl began to creep up in volume to replace the echo of your disappearance from Jonathan's office. You could place it, only slightly, as coming from the end of the corridor. The darkness there was like a void, but you could see it shifting. It shambled, moving and creeping towards you. As it got closer, the light seeping from the crack at the bottom of the office door lit it, only slightly. You. And behind you, a friend, a classmate, people from your history, shuffling in sync as they reached out for you, led by your dark duplicate. A whimper escaped from your throat, mimicked by the shadow version of yourself, and you let the sound turn to a scream as you reached for the door handle without drawing your eyes away from the coming threat.
Jonathan listened to you struggling blindly with the handle. He wondered, as he felt his cheeks grow warm with equal parts shame and excitement, if he hadn't made a mistake pushing you to isolation so soon in your experience with his toxin. But he had to trust his calculations. He had instilled that little bit of fear in you, the seed of worry that was now growing into a large and gnarled oak within your chest. He didn't have to bide his time. You were already following his plan perfectly.
You began to bang your fists against the door, not caring about the noise you were making, only conscious fo the desperation to flee from the unknown dangers and return to the ones you were at least somewhat familiar with as you sat with them in Jonathan's company. Leaning against the door with all of your weight, hoping the wood might absorb you and let you fall through, you tried to get away from what you felt was fate catching up to you. But just as the shadows reached within touching distance, you stumbled and fell to the floor at Jonathan's feet. He had opened the door, merciful, but less than impressed with your incoherent mumbling of gratitude.
"Ah, back so soon? Just as I expected. A glutton for punishment. Did you know, criminals often return to the scene of their crimes to revel in them, to relive the blissful moments. For you, I imagine this is a fitting comparison. Though you are here to relive the pain, no? Or are you here because you simply can't leave? Jealousy comes in many forms. I showed you mine, perhaps you can show me yours?"
Your eyes were focused on the door, waiting for your hunters to catch up with you, so in your silence, Jonathan continued. The words, though not producing a physical reaction in you, were getting through to you regardless.
"Not talking, hm? And here I am, letting you back in. But that's because we are just the same. Kindred spirits. You're returning out of fear, something you seem to despise. Though for me, that feeling is… fascinating. I fear losing you, to some extent. So similar. But where you have been reduced to this sickening display of cowardice, I relish it. Fear is… sustenance. Don't you agree? How could you not?"
No response seemed valid, no answer was correct. So you decided to peddle your truth.
"J…Jonathan…"
"How informal! Do continue. It feels rather sordid to fall out of formalities, to dispense with the restrictions of our previously determined roles in our relationship. I think we're past that now, don't you?"
He was pushing you, but for reasons you couldn't quite figure out, or at least couldn't commit to believing. As much as you felt yourself falling for Jonathan, it was difficult to imagine him returning the sentiment. But the way in which he seemed to want you to stay, the fact he hadn't laughed in your face over your reaction to something he couldn't see. The jealousy that sparked an outburst. It was taboo, at least breaking several codes of conduct. You didn't want to be responsible for a tarnished reputation on his part, but you were struggling to decide whether you would let him do it himself.
Jonathan, of course, felt differently. He couldn't be sure whether in your fear-addled state if you had sussed out his attachment to you, but he could manipulate you into returning it all the same. He had noticed the way you looked at him, the way your skin shivered at his touch, the way you seemed to hate therapy and his methods but kept coming back again and again, not wanting to sever the ties that now bound you both. He loved knowing you so well. The swell of pride in being someone who could know you, who was worthy of studying you. And no other patient had ever felt so reciprocative. No other patient was so fascinating. So intriguing. He refused to lose you. He'd never been one for the formalities of standards and rules. That, to him, was the antithesis of study and research. He was aware of those lines, and he was keen to cross them at any given opportunity. He was just glad that he'd been able to bring you with him, finally.
"Whatever has frightened you, I can protect you. But of course, I'll need you to promise me that those efforts will be worth it."
In desperation you nodded, not even considering what he might mean before agreeing, if only to feel safe, to feel comfortable with your eyes open.
"In future, when I ask you to spill your secrets like bile from the depths of your tension wrought stomach, you will do so?"
"I… Yes. Of course."
"With no lies. Because I will know if you are lying. I can tell with everyone. Lying, regardless of how fluent you are in it, involves an element of risk, adrenaline spikes, and even if you enjoy it, there's still the sweet stench of fear rising up from underneath any bravado you think you can muster. I'll know you're lying before you speak, before you even know you're going to lie. Your pupils will dilate, your heart rate will increase, your body will respond to the preparation to conjure fiction in minuscule ways that I'll pick up on immediately. And I imagine your responses will be quite similar to the way your body reacts to arousal. It will be interesting to compare the differences, if there are any."
"How-"
"Because I know. And because I know you. Do you think I couldn't see you, writhing in that chair, attempting to do so discreetly but failing so miserably? Do you think my jealousy was borne of one-sided lust? I'm afraid I make my attachments with much more intention than that. I'm no gambler."
A collection of dark, clawing fingers seemed to scratch at the door, grating against your consciousness as Jonathan seemed to ignore them. You would have considered this proposal regardless, but now you were committed to agreeing to whatever he wanted from you.
"OK."
It was all you could muster, but it seemed satisfactory to him.
"Very well. I need you to prove how serious you are, how committed you will be. You're not the only one who has suffered the pain of abandonment. And I want you to show me that you'll never consider making such a mistake again."
Another bout of profuse nodding, eager to show him how dedicated you were, how you would never so much as look in the direction of another, not if it made him feel bad, not if it made you feel like this.
"Unfortunately for you, dear, I'm finding it hard to believe you. Not because I think you don't mean what you say, but because I know you all too well. You are a flight risk. So I believe we'll have to employ some behavioural correction methods."
You weren't entirely sure what he might mean by that. He'd never been one to skirt around facts, and he was abnormally direct for someone placed in responsibility for your mental well being. Normally by now he might have begun waxing lyrically about the meaning and the history of whatever correctional methods he intended to exert on you, but instead he remained silent, gazing down at you as he rested himself so casually against the desk, between it and you, close enough you could smell the coffee on his long exhales.
"Wouldn't you like to feel safe? Wanted? Needed, even? I could take you now, cradle you in my arms, show you kindness that you can count on. But do you deserve it? Will you appreciate it?"
"I will."
"Hm… Perhaps, in my old age, I am growing soft. I could find the kindness to provide you with it, but is it worth it?"
"Please, Jonathan. I just want it to stop. I want… I want you. I have wanted you. And I'm sorry
for… Please. Please. I'll do anything."
"I need you to suffer for me. I want you to be sufficiently confident in your promises to never leave. I hold the key to your terror, but I also hold the cure. I am the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. I am everything in between, and you will acknowledge this before we are done here, do you understand?"
Another silent nod, wide, strained eyes trying to convey all of your intent and sincerity.
"Good. On your knees, please. Lower yourself in front of your betters."
You did as he asked, a fleeting moment of relief from the sound of your pounding heart beat in your ears, as though obeying him lessened your troubles and worries. Like it cast a light on the shadows. Good behaviour seemed to equal survival under Jonathan's rule.
"Good. Now, please, if you will, remove my shoes. I wouldn't want to make a mess of that lovely shirt, or hurt you too badly. I'm not evil, after all. And the socks. I'd rather have complete feeling, total control over the pressure."
It was a simple request, and one you easily undertook. But there was more to follow.
"Now. Splay your fingers out on the floor. Spread them further. Exactly like that, well done. Your willingness will not go unnoticed."
He lined his feet up with your fingertips, taking only a slight pause before he continued.
"Please don't hold back on any sounds. There's no one else in this corridor, hardly anyone else in the building at this time. I want to feel your pain, I want to recognise it. I hope to hear the quivers of fear as you wonder whether the skin will bruise, or your fragile bones will break."
You prepared yourself for him, letting your hands spread out flat on the floor. And he didn't wait too long before he rested his toes against your fingernails, the sudden pressure stinging and aching, sharp at first and then dull until he rocked back onto his heels. The relief was non-existent. It only made things worse. You were almost grateful when he rolled back onto the balls of his feet and let them come down on your digits again, harder this time, firmer and meaner.
"I could break you. Mentally. Physically. You know that, don't you?"
Every second of silence brought his weight down harder on you, and when you finally whimpered a mewling response of affirmation, he decided this wasn't enough.
"Bow down. Put your body flat, your head to the side. Facing me. I want to see your eyes, I want to see your fear."
Each time he moved you could see his shadow warping and shivering as it followed him, a separate being to his corporeal form, a lingering reminder of what awaited you should you defy him and stand up, facing the office, the dark corners where the true horrors lurked. You placed your body flat to the ground, as much as you could, and placed your cheek on the cold ground, looking up at him as he smirked maliciously.
"There, nice and subservient. I can keep the horrors at bay, remember. But I require trust and dedication. You can't abandon me, but in turn, I won't abandon you. Symbiotic. Bonded. Needs, not wants. That's how you must think of this. Of us. Of me."
Your body was pressed firmly against the floor, and you let yourself squirm just a little. Not outright writhing, but a little shift to try and dampen the awkward sensations of arousal that rose up through your blood stream and clouded your mind.
Pinning you there felt good, it felt right. Degrading, yes, but no more so than he felt you deserved. So Jonathan leaned harder now, his foot pressing into your skull, the bones of his toes cracking slightly as they curved with your head. It was forceful, but still held an element of care. After all, this wasn't supposed to make you fear him, only the consequences of trying to break free, of trying to leave. If he wanted you to be afraid, he had easier methods. But those were far too impersonal for this particular need, and he grinned wide at the thought.
With your cheek pressed to the floor, drool spilling over into a puddle that glistened on the wooden boards and your skin, you chose to stay completely still. In a muffled voice, the sounds of your vowels garbled by the distinct pressure on your jaw, you managed to get out the words he wanted to hear.
"Yes, Doctor Crane. Anything."
"Good. Then I will see you for our session next week at our regular time. I would advise you come prepared. We're about to start diving into some difficult work, but it will be worth it all in the end, I assure you."
MINORS DNI 🔞🔞🔞🔞 cw for: slapping, smut, blindfold, teasing, light bondage, biting, choking, oral (F receiving), facial, slut shaming, power dynamic, degredation
pls lmk if i missed any tags <3
Now blind and bound, you were at his mercy. It was intimidating to say the least. Images of his victims fluttered through your mind. The way they had died terrified and wild like animals. This was different you knew, this was a trap you had willingly allowed yourself to fall into.
You were pulled from your thoughts by a pair of rough lanky hands pawing at your breasts through your shirt. Their touch held a mix of hunger and a slight hesitation. Almost as if he was learning this new contact. His lips met yours, chapped and rough. You met his kisses with eagerness as you started to crave all that he could give you. Mouth consumed mouth in a wicked battle for complete consumption. His tongue invaded your mouth with a harsh intensity, exploring every millimeter.
When that proved not enough for him, he made his way to your neck. Biting and lapping at the delicate skin and muscle, coaxing a pathetic whine from you. His hands moved from their rough groping to carefully unbuttoning your blouse, working his way down in slow deliberate movements. The exposure made you blush, wishing you could see what you looked like in front of him. Now fully unbuttoned, he pulled away for a short moment, fingers playing with the lacey borders of your bra.
“Do you always wear such tantalizing little pieces under your clothes, or did you put these on in hopes the Scarecrow would take you tonight?” he whispered as if to himself. Without waiting for an answer he pushed your tits out, exposing your hardened nipples to the cold air.
The only response you could give was an arching of your back into his hands, silently begging for more. Too anxious to put your needs into words. Eagerly his mouth connected with your pert nipples, harshly biting and sucking. The pain his sharp teeth elicit was pleasurably awful, furthering your already aroused state. You could feel the wondrous thump of your heartbeat in your clit, aching for any kind of stimulation. The feeling was nearly unbearable.
Unable to stand the need anymore, you hooked your legs around his hips, pulling his groin against your own. The hard pressure of his cock pressing into you provided a small relief to your aching cunt. His face was pushed to your neck, slipping from your breasts with a pop. A low growl escaped him and he bit down violently into your skin. A pained scream escaped you. You couldn't see the wound in your blinded state, and could not tell if he had drawn blood. Honestly, you didn't much care if he did. His hand shot to your throat, restricting the delicate veins and arteries within. “Try that again dear and I will not be so kind.” A small smile escaped you, enjoying his threatening words.
“Dirty thing,” he scoffed, using his free hand to yank down your skirt. Now left there, only a delicate thong left to cover you from the cold laboratory, your body felt alive. “If you want something from the scarecrow you must beg.”
You let out an indignant whine, growing impatient with his teasing. His hands ran smoothly over your thighs growing closer and closer to your cunt, only increasing the need held between them. Before making contact he stilled them and pulled away. “Please Doctor Crane!” you pleaded.
A harsh slap was delivered to your inner thigh. “Doctor Crane cant help you dear.” he grabbed the bust of your hip so hard you knew you would see bruises the next day.
“Please Scarecrow! Anything please!” the hand pinching at you loosened and smoothed over your leg to your thong. Slowly, he hooked a finger around the strap and pulled them to the side, revealing the wet mess there. He grabbed your inner thighs, pushing them gently apart until you were fully on display. His hair tickled your skin as you felt him lean down between them, his breath hot against your most sensitive area. Electricity shot through you as he licked a careful stripe up your cunt, stopping at the clit.
Mercilessly he started to lick and suck and tease your bud, drawing an almost animalistic scream from you. You thrashed your arms against their restraints, wanting to grab onto his hair, needing something to ground you. His hand snaked its way closer to your slit, fingers gathering up the moisture. Two long rough fingers entered you. It was almost too much. You felt so tight around them, reaching so deep into you. They spread and wiggled and coaxed moan after moan from you. His spare hand groped harshly at your ass and hips as he tried to tame your wild movements.
He was a man possessed, groaning and growling into your pussy sending vibrations through you. Lost in the moment of it all his free hand moved to grab at your tit, rough and near painful movements that left aching in their wake. You perched your ankles on his shoulders, beckoning him further into you.
The combination of his fingers and mouth felt so intense, a tension started to build in your gut. Everything started to fade away until the only sensation you were able to process was the earth shattering explosion within you. Animalistic moans and whines escaped you as he kept working you through your orgasam. Each time you thought it was over another wave would pass over you, clenching around his fingers. He seemed to work harder, faster, rougher, now. Milking you for every bit he could get.
Once your breathing started to slow and your body went slack he pulled away. Wiping his fingers on your thighs, furthering your already ruined state. Every muscle felt relaxed, your mind unable to focus on much other than the feel of pure bliss rocking through you. Still, you craved him. Not just what he could give you, but his pleasure as well. That divine proximity to his genius.
For a moment, you feared that was it. That he would not let himself be vulnerable to you in that way. “Doctor,” you said, jutting your chest out, trying to offer yourself once more. “I need you.” you snaked your heel up his thigh and pressed gently on his clothed erection.
“If you could only see what you do to me.” he panted, moving away your leg. His voice was soon followed by the sound of a zipper and a shuffling of clothes. He dipped a finger into the wetness between your thighs, gathering some of the juice there. Even without sight, the slight squelch and ragged breathing alerted you to his actions.
He was jerking off.
The high of your recent orgasam had begun to wane and a new hunger was struck within you. You could see him through your mind's eye, standing over your naked body tied up and heaving. His height towering over you as he pleasured himself to your wrecked form. You wished you could take him into your mouth and feel him hit the back of your throat. Your mouth watered at the thought.
“You wicked wanton thing. Ever so eager to tempt the Scarecrow.” His words were interrupted by throaty grunts. You felt his free hand start to caress your face, commanding and solid against you. “What sick fantasies do you hold, hmm? What would you ask from the master of fear?”
He pinched your cheeks together, contorting your face into a humiliating expression. “I want you...” you managed to squeak out. “I want you, however you will take me.”
He gave a satisfied hum at your subservience. “Then open up harlot.” He panted, moving his hand to pinch your chin, slowly coaxing your mouth open. Taking the hint you stuck your tongue out as far as you could. His breath started to hitch and the sound of his hand working himself became faster and faster until you felt liquid, hot and thick fall against your face. “Take it, take all that your master has to give you.” He groaned above you, breathy and obscene. The erotic sounds had your cunt clenching, sparking a slight, empty pleasure within you. His cum continued to spray on you, the salty taste hitting your tongue.
Once you felt him slow to a halt, you swallowed all your mouth could reach, making a show of your eagerness.
The sound of footsteps and rustling fabric was soon followed by a soft tissue cleaning the parts of your face you could not reach. Gentle hands smoothly brushing the stray hairs from your still covered eyes. There was a tenderness to his touch now, as if you were something fragile.
A week later, your body began screaming warnings you couldn’t decipher, a chill running down your spine, anxiety creeping and settling into your bones. Usually, your instincts could distinguish between an angry spirit, curse, or approaching demon, but tonight, it gave no answers. It was midnight in Gotham Cemetery, an expansive graveyard that stretched for miles. You were kneeling at a tombstone, closing your eyes, praying for your latest spirit. Praying for forgiveness, for rest, for the soul to approach heaven for their only sin was to be noticed. You could feel something shift in Gotham, just a feather lighter, and you opened your eyes. You looked at your clammy hands, the spirit is gone, but the wrongness remains. You scanned the cemetery, trying to search for the source of your unease. You narrowed your eyes once you saw a tall figure in the distance, the features of the figure were difficult to discern. You didn’t react, taking a deep breath. The figure did not move either. Just standing still as still as a scarecrow. After a moment, you turned your head, keeping the spirit in your peripheral as you searched for another grave to pray at.
It was odd. Most ghosts watched the living with longing, anger, or confusion. This one merely watched. You closed your eyes, trying to figure out where there were any more minor spirits at the cemetery. You feel something in the direction of the spirit that was staring at you.not hostility, envy, nor grief, but rather something stranger. You open your eyes, and turn your head in the direction again. The spirit was gone. However, the unease didn’t leave with it. You frowned. You gave the cemetery one final glance before leaving after the other minor prayer. The figure never returned.
The next day, you were at an old church. Priests had contacted you saying they felt something unnerving inside of it. The sun was beginning to set as you stepped through the large, wooden double doors. The air smelled faintly of mildew and old incense, dust had coated the pews, stained-glass windows were cracked. Your stomach dropped, every muscle in your body tensed. Anger was easy to recognize. It rolled through the church in suffocating waves. Whatever was haunting this place was furious, and spirits being angry in a house of God was tough to deal with.
The hairs on the back of your neck begin to stand. Beneath the anger, there was something else. Watching. Observing. It was a similar feeling to last night when you were at the cemetery. You frowned. Ghosts occasionally latched onto you. When they did, you felt them constantly, not in brief, isolated moments like this. You looked around. The church wasn’t large. Beyond the pews sat the altar, with a handful of confessionals lining the wall. There weren’t many places to hide in the church. The anger radiated from above in the rafters, while the watching came from somewhere else.
You closed your eyes, tilting your head. The watching was on the same floor as you, coming from one of the confessionals. You might as well check it out first. Your hand reaches out to open the confessional, but then you hear something shift in the rafters. You pulled your hand immediately and you heard something growl. Before you could consciously think, cold metal slid into your palm. You held your bronze pewter staff with both hands, slowly walking away from the confessional, eyes still up in the rafters. A being crashed down in the center of the altar room, dust raining from the rafters as it landed. A beast with eight legs and three heads, covered in black fur, red eyes glaring at you as it snarled. You frowned, unable to quickly identify what this creature is. It wasn’t a ghost nor a demon, and that worried you more than either possibility. However, you couldn’t give it that much thought as the beast lunged towards you. You swiftly dodged, plunging the butt of your staff into the ground and launching yourself over it with your momentum. The beast charged towards the altar, destroying it completely. It snarls again, turning quickly to face you about to charge again. It was fast, too fast. You needed to kill it immediately.
“Wana ni kakeru,” you muttered, drawing three circles in the air and snapping. The three rings attached to the circular finial part of your staff detach with a metallic chime. The rings shot forward, where one snapped shut around the center head, while the other two locked around its front limbs. With a metallic crack, they expanded and slammed the beast into the floor. The creature hit the ground hard enough to shake the church, snarling and thrashing against the restraints. The other two heads were gnawing at the rings in an effort to escape. The metal screeched beneath its teeth. One ring cracked, but it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. The beast’s fate is sealed.
You closed your eyes, visualizing the finial transform into a curved blade, one side sharp, the other blunt.
“Creature, tell me your name,” you plead, “no soul should leave this world unnamed.”
The creature doesn’t answer, only snarls and keeps chewing on your rings. You walk slowly, positioning in a spot to cut three heads at once. You lift the naginata above your head and bring the blade down, cleanly cutting through the necks of the beast. You heard one last grunt from the beast as it started to disintegrate into ash. You transformed the blade into the finial, commanding the rings to attach themselves back to the finial. Then, you kneeled and prayed.
“O God of the West, this creature has disturbed and trespassed in your home, a sacred ground.” you begin, “please forgive it, grant it mercy, give a space in your heaven with you and your angels. This beast was not asked to be born, only to be noticed. Its anger was misguided. Amen.”
You open your eyes, and turn your head at the confessional to investigate the observant spirit. However, you didn’t feel its watchful gaze anymore. Hm.
You start walking towards the wooden doors, when you spot it engraved on the wood. An etch of a serpent, carved deep into the wood, as though someone had wanted it to remain long after the church itself had rotted away. You brushed your thumb across the carving, frowning.
“Hm,” you think, tracing the outline. The cuts were sharp, recent. The carving wasn’t part of the original woodwork. A snake in the house of the Western God? Normally, a bad omen. You sighed. No ideas were coming to your mind right now. Your stomach growled. It was time to get some takeout.
Jonathan was frantically writing in his notebook. Subject capable of perceiving unseen entities, subject capable of manifesting weaponry and magic. Unknown creature encountered within the old church. He paused. The tip of his pen hovered above the page. Why pray for it? The creature attempted to kill subject. Subject neutralized threat. Subject then proceeded to offer prayers on behalf of the threat. Jonathan stared at the sentence. It made no sense.
Religious obligation? Jonathan bit down on his pen. It’s a possibility. You did pray at the cemetery and at the church, but it was interesting how you addressed God as ‘Western God’, a clear distinction. It indicates a professional relationship depending on the environment. Although, most religions offered forgiveness. Mercy was hardly a novel concept. He stared at the sentence. It still bothered him.
Jonathan closes his eyes, trying to recall your prayer. Most of the lines escaped him, but two lines remained.
“This beast was not asked to be born, only to be noticed. Its anger was misguided,” he muttered. Jonathan closed his notebook. Compassion. The word sat uneasily in his mind. He heard a knock at the door. A new patient was waiting.
I have a question and I need your expertise on the subject. In your opinion, how would these characters react?
DC: Scarecrow, Bane and the Riddler
Marvel: Doctor Doom, Bullseye and Kingpin.
What if one of their henchmen hit/made their partner cry? (Without knowing that the partner was the villain/boss's partner, because SO is a quiet person and doesn't brag that their partner is a villain, and that the henchman did that thinking the villain wasn't present or watching.)
I love your writing style, and I eagerly await your reply. You're one of my favorite writers.
think no matter what those henchmen are totally cooked
Scarecrow is going to ensure that they're a total gibbering wreck carted off to Blackgate Prison by the time he's done with them
Bane is going to ensure that they're a fine schmear across the pavement
Riddler is going to ensure that they starve to death or suffer an agonizing death at the hands of a labyrinth he's made expressly for them
Doctor Doom is going to systematically ruin their lives by ruining everything piece by piece by piece until there's nothing left
Bullseye is going to [redacted] [redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted] until there's [redacted][redacted][redacted][redacted]
Kingpin is going to tear them apart with his bare hands.
hope this answers your question friend.......adios........
Gotham Haunts Chapter 1: Dr. Gruidae (Scarecrow x Reader)
Ao3 version, Check out the Chapter List
Scarecrow is a creepy guy, but I love him.
You are sitting in a bus, face pressed up against the window watching the buildings change, on a 30-minute journey from Gotham to Bludhaven. You scheduled your first appointment with a therapist, Dr. Grubby or was it Griddy, if you remembered the name correctly, finding his practice through a Gotham Gazette newspaper ad. The ad offered a $100 per session if you didn’t have insurance or if insurance was too costly. The commute was the only rough thing besides that, since the doctor’s office was in Bludhaven, a bit far from Gotham but not impossible.
It seemed fine to you, it was considerably cheaper than what your insurance company would’ve asked you to pay for. Even the man you were speaking with on the phone to schedule the appointment seemed okay, his voice was calming, speaking in a monotone voice asking the questions about why you wanted to start and when you would want to meet.
“Last stop at: Bludhaven. Last stop at: Bludhaven. Please gather all of your belongings and exit the bus,” the recorded announcement snapped you out of your thinking and you stood up from your seat, raising your arms and stretching. You waited for the rest of the passengers to exit, and then followed suit, looking around at your surroundings, squinting at the bright orange sunset. Bludhaven was surely the sister city to Gotham, still the same feel with the buildings and all. Hopefully less supervillains here. Hopefully.
Using Google maps, you briskly walked towards the location of your session, talking about 15 minutes or so until you reached the building. The receptionist in the middle of the lobby stops typing on his computer to look up at you walking towards him.
“Hi! How may I help you?” He greeted with a smile, white teeth bright and sparkling, an award-winning look, and you looked at the name tag pinned to his wrinkle-free white shirt, ‘Marcos’.
“Hey, Marcos. I’m just looking for,” you paused, looking at your calendar app that had the doctor’s name, “Dr. Gruidae. I have an appointment with him in eight.” Ok, so not Dr. Griddy. Marcos nods.
“Okay, awesome! Yes, Dr. Gruidae,” Marcos repeats, “he’s one of the new therapists that’s renting the space. Just let me look up where he’s at.” He typed on the computer for a few seconds. “Sorry for the hold up. He’s on the 5th floor in room 536. Elevators are right around the corner in the back left.” Marcos points towards the general direction. You nod your head at the instructions.
“Thanks. Have a nice day,” you departed, walking briskly towards the elevator. You pressed the button to call down the elevator, crossing your arms while you waited. The metal doors opened, someone already inside of it, not moving. You didn’t take a closer look, striding inside and pressing the button that will take you to the fourth floor. In your peripherals, the person did not turn to look at you, only staring ahead and standing in place. Don’t engage, don’t look, don’t speak. Do not be afraid.
As the doors closed and the elevator started to move from ground level to the second floor, the person turned to look at you, messy brown hair, wide eyes void of emotion, a far too wide grin settled on his face and his mouth opened:
“Is this your floor?” The voice was creaky as it spoke, like nails grinding on a chalkboard, and he took a step closer to you. You stared straight ahead, the floor moving to the third one. Another step.
“Is this your floor?” The being was closer, the voice getting louder. Don’t flinch, don’t react. Now, the elevator is traveling upwards going to the fourth. The person-like being is now next to your ear.
“IS THIS YOUR FLOOR!” A shout, rather than a question that rang into your ear, taking everything in you not to flinch. Do not panic, stay calm.
It is okay to be scared, my child.
Comforting words entered your mind from your grandfather made you more relaxed. There is nothing to fear in this elevator, only a lost soul.
Once arriving at the fifth floor, the doors opened, and you calmly stepped out, ignoring the presence breathing down your ear. Don’t look back. Don’t acknowledge.
Using the signs, you made your way to Dr. Gruidae’s office, checking your phone that you were going to be five minutes early. Hopefully that was okay. Making your way to his door, you stopped in front of it, seeing it was closed. You raised your fist, about to knock on the door, but a shiver crawled down your spine. You felt goosebumps grow on your arm and the hairs on the back of your neck stand. A warning. Do not go in there. Something is wrong. Despite your instincts screaming at you, you knocked. You had to, it was your job to go against your instincts and to investigate. Better you than some other poor soul. You knocked on the door.
“Come in,” said a muffled, familiar voice, which sounded like the man you talked to on the phone. You grabbed the door knob and turned. What greeted you was a beige square room and a singular, bright lighting fixture in the middle. The decorations were sparse, a couple of generic paintings and a bookshelf filled with psychology books that you couldn’t wrap your head around the topics, a somewhat beat up red couch, and a nice mahogany desk with neat embellishments on the legs. Sitting at the desk was who you presumed to be Dr. Gruidae. He was writing something down on paper before turning his attention towards you, his facial expressions neutral. The most notable feature of his had to be his light blue eyes, not the color but the way he was looking at you through his circular frames, maybe the correct word would be examining. Maybe examining the scars on your face, but who knows. Dr. Gruidae was interesting to look at, not exactly pleasant, maybe the only pleasant things would be how his brown hair that was beginning to gray at the front was parted in the middle. Otherwise, he had very sharp features, a pointed face, a hooked nose, and was nicely dressed with a dark orange button up under a grey suit jacket.
The very interesting thing about Dr. Gruidae was the woman standing behind him, who had similar features to him, although her facial features were beginning to become distorted, wider eyes and her own hooked nose was becoming too big to fit on her face. Her grey hair was pulled in a tight bun and she was wearing a very dated, black dress. The woman’s body was completely covered by that dress, from the tips of her feet up to her neck and her arms were covered as well. She was leaning especially close to Dr. Gruidae’s face, whispering his ear, but you were too far away to tell what she was saying. Safe to say that she is probably dead since Dr. Gruidae isn’t reacting to this distorted woman murmuring in his ear. However, your concern is that she looks very attached to him. Too attached for your liking.
Dr. Gruidae sets his pen aside, swerving his rolling chair to the center of the room. His limbs were surprisingly long. He says your name, snapping you out of your observation. The woman glides over to follow him to keep whispering things into his ear.
“You’re just on time,” Dr. Gruidae’s voice was just as monotone on the phone, but you couldn’t help but feel unsettled rather than calmed down by his tone. He gestures to the couch, “sit.”
You sat down on the couch, surprisingly it was well-used considering how much you sank down into the seat. You gave a wave, trying your best to make eye contact with him and to not look at the woman harassing him. You were now somewhat close to hearing what she’s saying to him, something about being a ‘bastard son’ and was going to ‘punish him’ and something about churches and God. You shivered at the intensity of the woman, the malice radiating off of her in waves. It made you feel sick. In front of you, Dr. Gruidae tilts his head slightly.
“Is something the matter?” He questions. Dr. Gruidae sounds oddly pleased, “you look… unsettled.”
You pause at his question. Did he notice? Does he know what you know? You gave an awkward smile and lightly chuckled.
“Yeah, I was just coming here from Gotham, so… I was worried about all the supervillains in the city. The usual,” a half-truth spilled from your mouth. For a miniscule moment, he paused to give you a look, something dangerous flashing for a quick second in his eyes that you could never miss, before smoothing away beneath practiced professionalism.
“Yet you still came,” Dr. Gruidae observed, “so either your fear of Gotham is manageable or, perhaps, you are simply careless.”
“Well, your rates were cheaper than the insurance was willing to pay for,” you shrugged, the honest truth, “the commute here isn’t that bad either. I’m just saving money, so it's worth the trip.”
Dr. Gruidae leans back in his chair, putting the clipboard on his lap and steeples his long fingers together, almost as if he was considering something.
“Interesting,” he says, not sounding interested at all, “thank you for that. Now, let’s start.”
“Okay,” you straightened up.
“Let’s start off with who you are,” Dr. Gruidae stated. You paused, waiting to hear more. Nothing else came out of his mouth.
“Oh, just… in general?” You were confused. He nodded, writing something else down in his notes.
“Yes,” he confirmed, “Most people start off with what they fear losing. Fear is foundational. It is established early in childhood and carries on into every stage of adult life.” You nodded and sank further into the couch, pondering this question for a few moments.
“I think…” You began, trying to find the words to describe it, “I like my job, and I care about my family, so I guess I’m scared of losing those things.”
“Hm,” Dr. Gruidae stops writing, “only two things? Most people take longer describing who they are.”
“I’m a pretty career-oriented person. I’ve been working the family business for a long time, and it’s all I think about,” you shrugged, “it’s all I know.”
“Does it bother you that your identity is dependent on your work and family, that without these roles, you might lack a purpose?” Dr. Gruidae latches onto every word you say that interests him.
“It’s been bothering me lately,” you admit, looking down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers, “I’m scared that this is all I’ll have in life, and I just don’t know what to do about it.”
Dr. Gruidae’s attention sharpened at the admission, “then confront it, understand it, and control it. To live in fear means to be ruled by it,” you gave a light chuckle at his response, still looking down at your hands. His tone was icy when he asked, “what do you find so amusing?”
You stared into his narrowed eyes, visibly offended, “sorry. It’s just… what you’re saying is completely different from my grandpa’s whenever I got scared,” you closed your eyes, trying to remember his voice, “he always told me that being scared was normal, something to live with because it makes us human.”
For the first time since the session began, Dr. Gruidae did not immediately answer.
“Humanity has always mistaken resignation for wisdom,” Dr. Gruidae began, leaning in and staring at you with an unnerving gaze as though you were being examined under a microscope. Besides him, the woman’s whispering became harsher, more frantic. He continued, “however, fear is only human until it controls you.”
“Agree to disagree,” you met his gaze. It felt less like playing with fire and more like standing too close to something fundamentally wrong. You felt a shiver run up your spine. Maybe the dangerous thing wasn’t the ghost next to Dr. Gruidae. Maybe, just maybe, it was him.
Dr. Gruidae watched you carefully, as though measuring your reaction. He asked, “you say you work in your family business, but you speak about it the way people speak about survival. Not a passion, but a necessity. If you lost it tomorrow, who would you be?”
“A normal person,” an immediate response, “I’d just be living day to day life.”
“You crave normality,” he observed, “yet it sounds like you can’t have it. Why is that?” The question caught you off guard because the answer to this question is complicated and unbelievable to most people. An answer that pushes people away from you and gets you insulted and bullied.
You can’t have normality because normal people don’t spend their nights speaking to the supernatural, normal people don’t come home covered in injuries from things no one else can see, and normal people don’t have to be scared everyday and to pretend everything is okay.
“It’s complicated,” it was a vague answer. You didn’t even realize you moved your hand to touch your face, tracing over a part of a large scar, one of the three scars that dominate your face. A reminder from when you were younger, messing with something you didn't know how to deal with. Dr. Gruidae looked unimpressed by the avoidance, scribbling something down in his notes and then checking his watch. The woman next to him stopped whispering, seeming satisfied with his irritation.
“Is it because of your scar?” He questioned, his eyes looking at your hand, “you’re touching it right now. You don’t seem the type to care about looks, so it must be whatever caused it. Whatever caused it is what prevents the normalcy you crave,” your hand dropped from your face. Dr. Gruidae leaned closer in, whispering conspiratorily, “you must be in quite the dangerous profession.”
You feel like Dr. Gruidae had unfolded you, exposing things that you didn’t want to show. For once, you are at a loss for words, unable to say anything. You see Dr. Gruidae checking his watch.
“You were remarkably quiet at that last question,” he noted, “we can examine that next session.”
“...Right,” you nod, uncertain about this entire exchange. You notice the woman begin whispering furiously in his ear again.
