#donald crane

[scarycranegame]

EVERYONE SHUT THE FUCK UP AND READ THIS.

THE CURRENT VOTE COUNT IS NOT THE FINAL RESULT.

IT WILL TAKE SEVERAL DAYS TO COUNT ALL OF THE VOTES AND DETERMINE WHO WINS THE ELECTION (POSSIBLY MORE IF A RECOUNT IS NECESSARY).

IT IS VERY LIKELY THAT THE FINAL RESULTS WILL NOT LOOK LIKE THE INITIAL RESULTS.

STOP DOOMPOSTING AND LEARN HOW THIS SHIT WORKS.

[staiyn]

more memes of Cillian Characters

[metis-iphigenia]

my lab rats hyperfixation came back and i've been doing some thinking ever since

so from the start of the show there have been multiple references to comic book heroes especially dc references

(leo saying "my new dad is batman" in the first episode and douglas calling chase "boy wonder", referencing to robin)

well since mighty med ans lab rats take place in the same universe, mighty med characters are also comic book characters and dc is a comic book series, are they in the same universe?

no because imagine superman and tecton in the same room😭😭

or bruce with his "brucie" wayne personality being "friends" with donald davenport(they cant stand eachother)

donald davenport would 100% sell his inventions to lex luthor for a really pricy deal

or chase, bree, adam and leo going to same school with tim, bernard and darla lmao

i think adam would listen and add onto bernards theories(leo would call him delusional but also would be interested)

bernard made a theory about them being bionic but darla shut it down('i told you so' and 'aha i knew it!' were the first things he said when he found out about the truth)

darla would absolutely eat trent up i just know it

young justice and elite force team up with tim and bree/chase seeing eachother and going like the spiderman meme

damian and leo being friends(lethal duo warning!!)

also damian would've believed leo during the whole marcus fiasco

leo would push damian into reading comics and damian would push leo to read mangas(canon information)

talia and horace both know eachother from being in the same field(medical) they are the type of friends who say hi and talk like 4 hours when they run into eachother but then dont talk until the next time

bree would've loved exploring her girlhood with cass, steph, harper and babs(and darla) since she never got to

marcus, taylor, rose and jason would get along very well and love talking shit about their fathers🥰

i think daniel would love duke(they played video games together later on duke let daniel absorb his powers and tried to teach him how to control it exactly)

taylor, damian, leo is a trio i would die to see tbh i think they would get along well

cassandra and skylar teaming up with eachother would be absolutely amazing. i think they would work together so well

I HAVE MORE LATER I LOVE THIS CROSSOVER SM!!

[houseofmouselove100]

Mickey asks if the three caballeros have arrived but is surprised to see Donald dressed like a rag picker to make him look like a star rather he looks like a rap star he even brought weasel lawyers

While Donald's 3 nephews danced, Donald made publicity by throwing caps and ect at the monkeys, they censured them, they did not test and Donald signed autographs.

Donald got so worked up in his head that he put up a huge sign mentioning him

[gatutor]

Pearl White-Crane Wilbur "The perils of Pauline" 1914, de Louis J. Gasnier, Donald MacKenzie.

[disney-sega-prize-usa-database]

[sbcdh]

On the morning of August 19th 1966, the merchant marine vessel Pelican unloaded its cargo into the port of Los Angeles. Recently declassified information about the Pelican’s ship manifest confirms that the ship was carrying experimental materials for a nascent project Clover. Of the 425 drums of material, only 424 were accounted for. 

While government officials have not confirmed exactly what was in the lost barrel, its contents are believed to be approximately 55 gallons of an experimental substance similar to LSD. 

To anyone with a passing interest in the 1970’s music scene, this will not come as news. Tall tales of a lost ship full of experimental drugs were as common as disco, though the stories have been exaggerated. The most common form of the story features a drunk crane operator loading a shipping crate onto the wrong train, though in reality it was only a single barrel that went unaccounted for. The more outlandish forms of the legend include everything from a daring heist by a crew of rocker-pirates to shadowy government entities vanishing the entire ship for their own nefarious purposes. 

The reality was a simple logistical mixup, a mistake that can be tracked back to a simple addition error on an inventory sheet, an ordinary yet deeply embarrassing mistake on part of the government. Additionally, The information that revealed the lost barrel came alongside a report detailing project clovers lost asset tracking protocol. Protocol that reads as comically naive in hindsight, with guidelines including “monitoring local jazz bars” or keeping an eye out for “feminist thought.” With the benefit of retrospective, it is no surprise that agents were not able to track the barrel. 

Declassification of the Pelican’s manifest prompted an unexpected crossover with another niche legend of the 1970s Los Angeles music scene: the disappearance of the Knights of Altonia. 

Even today, many consider the Knights of Altonia to be a myth, but scant references to their existence can be found. According to a review from a 1977 issue of Jam! Magazine, the Knights of Altonia were a “D-List psychedelic glam metal outfit with more style than skill, known more for their disappearance than their music.” Though a 1997 retrospective from Tempo calls them “A band too ahead of their time to be properly appreciated” noting their flamboyant stage costuming and its significant influence on the aesthetics of the genre. 

To the frustration of music historians seeking to separate fact from fiction, the band featured an elaborate mythology, with each member claiming to be a “Wizard-Knight of the Mystic Tower” who traveled from their world to ours “on a journey through the Nine Realms to find the secret stone.” This has been the source of innumerable urban legends around the band. A common joke among hobbyist historians at the time claimed that the Knights did not vanish, but simply “returned to the Nine Realms.” Information on the band is so muddled that many music historians doubt their existence entirely. In fact, the only confirmed, physical evidence of the band’s existence is a photograph at the bottom of the Jam! Review, it features:

Lead singer and guitarist Donald Hawkins as his stage persona “Zozimos the Wise.” He sports a mane of dreadlocks, and a classic blue wizard hat and robe decorated with yellow stars.The robe is worn open to reveal Donald’s bare chest, along with velvet short-shorts and a pair of thigh-high leather boots. The article states that the glittery bright purple guitar in his hands was named “Excelsior.”

Rhythm guitarist Jon Todachine as “Wan the Witch King.” He wears a deerskin jacket, also open at the front, decorated with what appear to be crow feathers and small animal bones. The theme of bones continues to his belt buckle, which features an as-of-yet unidentified animal skull. This figure is presumed to be Jon, although it should be noted that the broad hat he wears features a curtain of beads that obscures his face. 

Bassist Riley Knox as “Chulainn the Horned.” He wears a full deer skull, along with a lit candle that appears to be slowly melting down over the mask. Most of his upper body is obscured by what appears to be a cloak of leaves. Beneath the cloak he appears to be wearing a pair of Nike Blazers. 

Drummer Marcus Wilson as “Magnus Fire-Weaver.” He wears a viking helmet over intricately braided red hair, a chain-maille loincloth, a pair of medieval bracers on his wrists, and nothing else. 

Most notably, a speaker on stage left is placed upon a large steel drum identical to the ones used by project clover. 

Study is ongoing. 

[ladychandraofthemoone]

REBLOGGING AGAIN FOR 9/8 DAY & A early 9/9 present 🎁🤩💚🖤!!

8/8 💚🖤🦆8x9🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🏹💘

(Ignore the fact it’s 2 days late but here’s a messy doodle that I’m probably never got add final adjustments to, also another 8/8 pic yee 😆😁)

[fernandopiastri28]

Oscar is angry about carlos situation and his Miami GP result so y/n helps him relax (maybe a handjob,maybe Smut..you chose)

the city that keeps the roof blazing ~ oscar piastri

“Please,” The heat between her legs is near unbearable from how desperate he sounds, and her thighs chafe from how she’s kept them squeezed together as an attempt to relieve some of the ache of her cunt. “Y/N, I need you,”  The tips of her fingers jut down to splay across the bulge in his shorts, applying some sort of pressure to the spot. He groans, grabbing her wrist and pushing down harder so she’s fully palming him. He sits on the edge of the bed, looking all pretty and desperate just for her as she continues her ‘massaging’. “You’ll get it Osc, I promise,”

| warning ~ smut, degrading language. MDNI

Y/N’s heart thrums in her chest, an anxious sweat pooling across her back under her corset dress. Oscar’s not doing well, having taken a hit from the Ferrari of Carlos Sainz and losing his front wing as a result. He’d had to pit, finding himself in last, only in front of Logan who’d already DNFed. Her nails are bitten up, rough on the edges. She can hope and pray for at least a points finish, even if it’s just one or two, but at this point, the whole situation is looking rather dire.

If Oscar doesn’t already despise Carlos, he certainly does now. 

In the final few laps, the team instructs Oscar to basically not pull anything stupid and risk Lando getting his first win. It’s honestly offensive of them, as if Oscar has ever done something to sabotage anyone else in any circumstances. In anything, the McLaren team should be focusing on getting a penalty awarded to Carlos for his shitty stunt against Piastri or figuring out why the fuck Donald Trump is in their garage.

When a McLaren passes the chequered flag first, Y/N can’t even feel happy for Lando. She just feels fucked over for her boyfriend who’s being perfectly polite and mature over the radio but is gonna be absolutely destroyed once he’s out of shot from all the cameras and media. 

He’d been leading the race at one point, and now he’s having his first out of points finish of the year in 13th. Stupid Carlos, stupid fucking Carlos. Y/N looks around the rest of the garage at everyone jumping around and cheering for the brit’s win. She keeps her headset on, smiling politely as Oscar would be if he were here. She can’t muster up any excitement, so she’ll fake the bare minimum.

She navigates her way through flocks of commentators and team members as she attempts to find her boyfriend. “Oscar?” She has to crane her neck, searching for a papaya race suit that isn’t the one being showered in praises. As two men who tower over her push past, she bends her arm tighter to keep her bag in the junction of her elbow and close to her. 

“Y/N,” A tired voice calls out, Oscar tugging his balaclava off with one hand. “I’m not crazy right? You say that- that was all Carlos,” He pants, wiping a line of sweat that’s gathered over his top lip. Y/N rubs his cheek, applying pressure to where the outline from his helmet is especially dark. 

She nods, her hand squeezing his bicep through the thick material of his race suit. “Completely baby, you were doing so good.” She’s about to tell him that she was convinced today would be his first race win before her mind reminds her that telling him that isn’t going to make him feel better, in fact he’d probably feel even more shitty that she was expecting a win for him and he ‘let her down’.

He drops his head into his hands, letting out a noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a whine. “What is his problem with me? Because if it’s genuinely got to do with Lando and I being mates,” He groans, shaking his head in disbelief. “Just can’t deal with this right now,”

Before she knows it, Oscar’s being whisked away from her to be weighed and then dragged through endless interviews and media tasks. It’s the absolute last thing he wants to be doing, which is just going to make him more irritated and upset tonight. 

Y/N has to come up with something to cheer him up.

Something certainly. 

At the end of interviews, when they’re finally allowed to head home, Y/N slips her hand into Oscar’s, squeezing each of his individual fingers as she aligns the time of their feet hitting the floor. He just hums plainly, instead of laughing along with each pinch she gives to his digits. “Do you wanna talk about it?” Her tone is soft as they get into the car, Oscar’s eyebrows furrowed as he clicks his seatbelt in.

Oscar doesn’t need to be offered twice as he immediately shoots off into a rant. “He’s just so immature, he’s almost 30 and driving a 23 year old in his second year off the track. Each time I get blamed for it.” He starts the car, his eyes hyper focused on the road ahead as he just aimlessly insults Carlos. “I mean- he’s just an absolute idiot. I meant it when I asked if he was blind because in what reality did I deserve a penalty and he deserved a spot change?” 

Y/N keeps her eyes on him, watching as the muscles of his neck flex and tense, his cheeks getting hot, the veins in his hands becoming infinitely more defined as he grips the steering wheel. She’s ashamed of how turned on it makes her, seeing him like this. Maybe that’s exactly what he needs tonight though.

“And-and, fuck, he’s just soo desperate for another Carlando podium that he’s willing to drive me into a fucking wall just so he can stand on the top step with his precious Lando,” He mocks him, positively seeing red. “I’ve considered Logan my best mate for years longer than those two have known each other yet you don’t see me risking all of Carlos’ races so Logan can get a fucking point,” The swears are just spilling out of his mouth at this point, sounding like a second nature to a degree.

Her hand meets his thigh, rubbing it tenderly as a way to calm him down. “Keep going Osc, just let it all out,” Her voice is thick, warm, and sweet like honey. It’s exactly what he needs right now. He needs her next to him, needs her voice in his ear. 

Needs her hands on him.

“I just think he’s an entitled brat who doesn’t deserve a seat,” It’s harsh, but it’s coming straight from the heart. “I’m glad Ferrari dropped him,” It’s said accompanied with a long, drawn out sigh. He’s relieved, finally able to have gotten that all out.

Yet, there’s still a bugging sense of dissatisfaction deep in his bones that he knows he won’t get from continuously insulting the spaniard. Luckily for Oscar, he’s just about pulling into the hotel valet. 

With a single look at Y/N, he conveys everything he wants when they get to their hotel room, and lucky for him- she wants the exact same.

They maintain a sense of decorum in the elevator ride up, which can’t be said about each time Oscar has a bad race. Example, the 2023 Belgian grand prix. After his DNF, his mouth had been attached to her neck and his hands on her breasts the second the elevator doors shut. 

It had been a very awkward situation to apologise for after a family of four with two very young kids had entered the lift five flights before their hotel room.

But back to now, the second their hotel door clicks shut behind them, Y/N’s taunting him over to the bed with chaste kisses on his cheeks, each one just narrowly avoiding his lips. “You’re a crazy tease, you know that?” He groans, lacing his fingers into her hair and pulling her in for a kiss as they reach the bed. 

She replies with an ignorant shrug and a careless smirk, “It’s fun- getting you all riled up. Makes me feel like Carlos,”

Oscar’s touch sears hot against her skin, his glare even worse. “Don’t fucking mention him in our bedroom,” It’s barely a hiss, but it’s enough of a warning to keep her in line. Instead, she decides to take action on him. Her fingers drag along the hem of his polo, tantalising slowly. She doesn’t need to wonder why that is, it's the same as when he does it along the zippers of her dresses or buttons of her blouses. 

She wants him to beg for it.

“Please,” The heat between her legs is near unbearable from how desperate he sounds, and her thighs chafe from how she’s kept them squeezed together as an attempt to relieve some of the ache of her cunt. “Y/N, I need you,” 

The tips of her fingers jut down to splay across the bulge in his shorts, applying some sort of pressure to the spot. He groans, grabbing her wrist and pushing down harder so she’s fully palming him. He sits on the edge of the bed, looking all pretty and desperate just for her as she continues her ‘massaging’. “You’ll get it Osc, I promise,”

His legs are nudged apart by her hands as she sinks down to her knees in front of him. His eyes light up, his lips red and bitten up from how he’s been chewing down to keep in his whiny noises and begs. Her fingers expertly undo his shorts, poking him so he’ll lift his hips so she can pull the pants and his boxers down in one go. 

His cock doesn’t hit up against his stomach when his tight boxers are removed, instead just lays heavy between his muscular thighs. Truly a sight to be seen. “So hard,” Y/N marvels, gently sliding her cupped hand up and down his length. One pump, two pumps. “And needy,” He looks up at him through her lashes to where his bottom lip is tucked under his teeth and his cheeks are flaming red. 

Oscar bucks his hops forward instinctively, chasing the high of how good her hand, or mouth preferably, feels. He’s lucky when she doesn’t make him wait too long before she grants his wish, opening her mouth, flattening her tongue, and taking the majority of his length into her mouth. 

Y/N’s toes curl in an attempt to remove her somewhat of a gag reflex she has. Today, she wants to take him as deep as she can and make him feel as good as possible. It’s deeper than she was expecting, which is definitely a win in her books. Pulling back slightly, she focuses on the head for the time being.

A string of praises spill past his lips, “Fuck, yes, so so good.” His hand snakes into hold her hair, keeping her head in place as he gradually goes deeper. “Taking me so good, sucking me off like an angel,” Her lips stretch around his thickness, her eyes void of any emotion beyond lust as she stares up at him. 

Y/N’s tongue glides back and forth along the underside of his cock, disgustingly loud sucking noises filling up the entire hotel room. He cups her cheek, his thumb dragging along the bulging of her cheek. His hips inch forward, his cock stuffing her mouth full and moving towards doing the same for her throat. 

Y/N feels insanely good, and maybe even too good. Panic fills her head, what if Oscar’s still thinking about pleasuring her over himself. It’s typical Oscar, catering each sexual experience to prioritise her and her pleasure, even if it means he doesn’t cum as quickly as expected. Steadying her hands on his thighs,she pulls back gradually, “Fuck my mouth,” It’s not a question, suggestion, or even request. 

It’s a straight up demand.

“What, why?” His voice is more broken and weak than she’d expected. Hers is too, but that’s to be assumed when someone has a cock prodding the back of their throat. 

“Because I'm giving you head to make you feel good. This isn’t about my pleasure Osc,” Her voice is absolutely ruined and will likely be even worse by the end of this. Y/N cuts him off before he can begin to protest, which once again, she knows he will. “No but-s Oscar, just fuck my face,” He gives into the carnal desire as his hips begin to snap back and forth, burying into her throat. 

Drool spills out over her bottom lip and down her chin, her mind fuzzy without another tangible thought besides giving Oscar the best blowjob possible. Her jaw is aching but it’s ignored as she solely cares about getting him to orgasm. He huffs and groans, continuously sending praises mixed with harsh insults of calling her a slut and a whore as he gets more shallow with his thrusts, clearly very much so on edge.

She takes advantage of his situation, suckling solely on the sensitive tip as he warns her that he’s “So close Y/N, I’m ‘bout to cum,” The fact that she doesn’t budge or show any signs of slowing down tells Oscar enough. With three pumps of her hand on his cock, he’s spilling out into the wet heat of her mouth. As if time and consciousness is slipping further from her, his index and middle fingers tap her cheek to get her to pull off, then again to tell her to swallow.

Her jaw goes lax to show the proof that she did what he told her to as he takes his shirt off, gently wiping a mixture of cum and drool off her chin. Her eyes fight so hard to focus on the glorious sight of his toned abdomen and well filled in muscles as he cleans her up, but she’s so overwhelmed by the pleasure that she not only gave, but genuinely got from that experience. 

Oscar scoops Y/N up onto the bed, arranging her under the sheets so he can cuddle up against her, his chest to her back and his arms slung loosely around her stomach. “That was perfect,” He murmured, pecking at her cheek and ear as a further thank you.

Her throat does indeed ache, but it’s a worthy pain. “You’re not as upset about what happened with Car-” She can’t even finish the spanish ferrari’s name or her question before her boyfriend has his hand squished over her mouth.

“No saying his name,” He shakes his head, tutting disapprovingly. “But yes, I feel much better. Thank you babe,”

[usindistress]

THE BIG ASS LIST OF CONSERVATIVE SEXUAL VIOLENCE

NAME, POSITION, CRIME Aaron Bruns , Fox News , Possession of CP Alan David Berlin , Congressional Aide , 15 YO Boy Andrew Buhr , Committeeman , 13 YO Boy Armando Tebano , County Council , 14 YO Girl Audrey Grabarkiewicz , SBC Preschool Teacher , Sex parties for Middle Schoolers Bernard Preynat , Catholic Priest , Molestation Beverly Russell , Conservative Activist , Step-Daughter Bill O'Reilly , Fox News , Sexual Harassment Bob Packwood , Senator , Sexual Harassment Bobby Stumbo , Party Leadership , 5 YO Boy Brent Parker , State Legislator , Solicitation (Male) Brent Schepp , County Candidate , 14 YO Girl Carey Lee Cramer , Campaign Consultant , 9 YO Step-Daughter Charles Fishburne Rhodes IIII , SBC Teacher & Coach , Soliciting 12 YO Girl Craig J. Spence , Lobbyist , Solicitation (Male) Cristián Precht Bañados , Catholic Priest , Molestation Dan Crane , Congressman , Teenage Girl David Swartz , County Commissioner , 11 YO Girls David Vitter , Congressman , Solicitation (Female) Dennis Fred Rutledge , SBC Minister , Child under 11 Dennis L. Rader , Zoning Supervisor , 11 YO Girl + Murder Don Sherwood , Congressman , Domestic Abuse Donald Chrisler Batson , SBC Minister , 2 Underage Girls

[fionaapplerocks]

A wee list of musicians who are on record with their love for Fiona Apple / influence by her music:

Adia Victoria Aimee Mann Amanda Palmer Anoushka Lucas Annie Clark (St Vincent) Ariana Grande BANKS Billy Howerdel (A Perfect Circle) Caroline Polachek Christine and the Queens Corin Tucker (Sleater-Kinney) Dave Grohl Ben Weinman (Dillinger Escape Plan) Donald Glover (Childish Gambino) Emilee Petersmark (The Crane Wives) Florence Welch (Florence and the Machine) Gabriel Kahane (composer)

Halsey Hayley Kiyoko Hayley Williams (Paramore) Ingrid Laubrock (jazz saxophone) Jack Antonoff Janelle Monae Jason Isbell Jay-Z Jenny Lewis John Legend Julia Michaels Kanye West Katie Crutchfield (Waxahatchee) Katy Perry Kenny Mason Lady Gaga Lars Ulrich (Metallica) Lauren Mayberry (Chvrches) Lil Nas X Lin-Manuel Miranda Lindsey Jordan (Snail Mail) Lorde Madison Cunningham Magdalena Bay MARINA Maya Hawke Melanie Martinez Michelle Zauner (Japanese Breakfast) Natalie Maines (The Chicks) Olivia Rodrigo Mike Hadeas (Perfume Genius) Phoebe Bridgers Rina Sawayama Robin Pecknold (Fleet Foxes) Samia Sara Bareilles ('Little Voice' book) Shirley Manson (Garbage ) Sky Ferreira Solange Knowles Sondre Lerche Sophie Allison (Soccer Mommy) St. Vincent Tegan and Sarah Vanessa Carlton Yuna Zoe Kravitz

[staiyn]

more headcanons

[pictureinme]

kinktober '23

first time i've ever done something like this, so forgive me if it isn't up to par! (very much ib @floralcyanide)

ao3 | main master-list

i. strap-ons - patricia 'kitten' braden ii. hate sex - jackson rippner iii. roleplay - robert fischer iiiv. collaring - paul sunday v. praise/degradation - burt fabelman vi. sex toys - agent donald buchanan vii. overstimulation - jonathan crane viii. virginity - eli sunday ix. dry humping - neil lewis x. bondage - jay (okja) xi. fear play - jonathan crane xii. semi-public - neil lewis xiii. high sex - vw guy (taking woodstock) xiv. sex tape - edward 'riddler' nashton xv. impact play - thomas shelby xvi. body worship - louis ives xvii. cum play - joby taylor xviii. wax play - jackson rippner xix. daddy - burt fabelman xx. lingerie - patricia 'kitten' braden xxi. free use - calvin weir-fields xxii. voyeurism - edward 'riddler' nashton xxiii. panties - seth (looper) xxiv. mutual masturbation - jim (the delinquent season) xxv. dacryphilia - eli sunday

[harmslength]

Molt —

Pairing | Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count | 8.3k

Summary | In the aftermath of an untimely event, you find yourself struggling to get back to the life you had once before. Luckily (or unluckily), a certain psychologist might be able to help you with that.

TLDR - Jonathan and you meet at an annual conference, there’s tension, sex and one reference to It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia

Info | SMUT (18+ only), brief mentions of gore, brief mention of suicide, angst and lots of it, it’s awkward I’m ngl, they’re both getting something out of this, dare I say meet-cute?, Jonathan has a subtle breeding kink, use of y/n forgive me

Notes | this is my firstborn, so be nice. Or don’t, I’m into that.

Build Your Own Adventure | This is for the babes that like a little more freedom and a little more interaction with their plot/porn. I present to you my Jonathan Crane C.ai. Hate or love it, that’s your business but I do plan on releasing one for each story. (this was also made very quickly so if it’s off or not working just lemme know and I can fix it)

Empty boxes sat with gaping mouths, swallowing the remnants of a life once lived. It pained you to be here, both physically and mentally, but it had to be done. This was the first significant stride back toward normalcy, and so you embraced it, as best as you could.

Of course things were lost along the way. Anything yellow had to go–clothes, books, decor, anything. Some things passed in trash bags that smelled of lemon, some items met their untimely death much quicker. Shards of glass littered your dining room floor, bits and pieces cracking underneath your worn down slippers as you made your way across the room.

Today marked a year and half since the incident. The incident.. Oh, how those two words held so much and still couldn’t fully portray the horrors of it all.

You had abandoned your career at the door. Promises of returning yet to be fulfilled. You weren’t ready; not yet. You just needed more time–that's what you’ve been telling yourself, at least.

For the first few months your phone wouldn’t stop ringing. That damn incessant ringing. If it wasn't clients asking for a return date then it was news outlets begging to get an insider's perspective. ‘Oh how terrifying that must’ve been,’ they’d coo into the phone.

You grew to despise the ringing, so much so that you had yanked the chords right out the receiver and let it dangle there by one copper thread. It swayed every time you passed it, mocking you, taunting you.

This act of course had denied you the opportunity of listening to the monotone voice of a woman who would ‘cordially invite you’ to this year's annual Gothams Psychological Association conference. Don’t fret though, a decorative written letter arrived in the mail just a few weeks later, wax sealed and signed by the mayor.

The invitation laid amongst the mess that was your dining room table now. Collecting dust like everything else in this apartment.

When it had first arrived you had torn the paper in half and tossed it into the trash, but after much contemplation (and not so gentle pushing from Janine–your therapist) you dug out the two halves of the invitation, taped them together and decided that this was something you had to do.

For you.

—

The first time you saw Jonathan was in the paper.

As you packed away the last remnants of your home, vase in hand, crinkled newspaper in the other, your eye was immediately drawn to a headline.

Gothams own Donald Hebb: Dr. Jonathan Crane – it read.

The article was a mouthful of praise and spoon-fed accolades, heralding the doctor as a distinguished figure in the field. You didn’t get very far due to the fact that his picture had stolen your attention.

Your thumb skimmed over the calloused paper, engrossed in the way his intense stare seemed to burn through the pages.

You’ve heard of the great Dr. Jonathan Crane before, of course you had, who hadn’t? But you had never seen the man. He was.. prettier than you would’ve expected, and surprisingly young for his accomplishments.

He was also remarkably small. As he stood to get his photo taken with a man who was nearly twice his size, it became very apparent. You examined the way Jonathan stood, the distance between the two gentleman’s heads. The way his hands were laced together in front of him, and that stare. That goddamn stare. Like he was looking through you, barely even seeing you. Just taking notes of your bones and the red meat that encased them.

It interested you, at least for a few minutes before you got distracted and left the wrinkled paper and vase sitting there on your dining room table.

Now as you’ve officially seen him for the second time, finally seeing the great Dr. Jonathan Crane in the flesh, you remembered the photo.

You had first caught a glimpse at him from the corner of the room. He was sitting, perched to the side, waiting for his turn to speak as a small group of doctors coalesced on the stage.

He looked different, so to speak. Different in the way that his sardonic displeasure permeated the whole room, instead of just the flimsy pages of a newspaper.

He held nothing in his eyes but grief. His lips cut into a thin line, hands placed ever so gently on his knees. You could see it and you were sure everyone else in the room could too—he couldn’t stand being here.

To be fair, you didn't blame him. Enduring a barrage of regurgitated monologues can drive anyone to the brink of insanity. This sentiment echoed in the long weekend's itinerary, filled with hotels, cocktails, and seemingly endless speeches. All courtesy of GPA—Gotham’s Psychological Association.

So here you sat, a few rows back, sitting in heels that have started to pinch at your toes and a dress that has long ago started to itch. You grew flimsy and snippy, in the mood for a drink or a little less talking.

Dr. Crane stood and took his spot at the podium. For the first time that night, your attention was held.

His voice was lower than you expected too. Before speaking, Jonathan cleared his throat, surveyed the room and then leaned in close. His full, pink lips parted slightly just to let out the most wistful voice you’ve ever heard. A mixture of annoyance and deep longing blending together in this almost angelic way. It drew you in, made the skin on your back tingle and your eyes dilate just ever so slightly.

Subconsciously, you edged closer to the end of your seat, as if that would bring you any closer to the revered man.

“I respect the mind's power over the body. It’s why I do what I do.” He spoke calmly, lips pursed and waiting patiently for his applause.

People clapped generously and another doctor moved up to take his place. You watched as he made his way down the line of chairs and returned to his designated seat.

“I would like to thank everyone for coming out to our annual celebration. Now to commence the rest of the evening, the bar is officially open, time to pick some brains!”

—

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes of listening to mindless chatter, listening to ice clinking against glass, heels clicking against marble and laughter. Sweet, joyous laughter. That’s all the time it took for you to officially give up.

It was almost laughable how quickly you had found yourself at the bar; sipping on what was already your second drink of the night.

You had spent some time perusing between conversations, meeting up with some old colleagues and sharing times of when things were much simpler.

It was good for a minute, casual, but then the eyes would linger on you just a little bit longer than what was normal. Bushes would be beaten around, and then suddenly you felt small again. Like a bug under a microscope, being poked and prodded. Trapped.

You weren’t trapped of course. As soon as you entered the room you made sure to note where each exit was. Four emergency exit doors to the left, two grand doors on the right.

Regardless of your efforts, you ended up here, sitting alone at the bar—and god you swore it never looked this depressing in the movies.

You checked your phone, but after a while that only made you feel worse. Texts and missed calls from friends and family, wondering where you’ve been and if you’d call them back. Some of the worst messages saying that they’re ‘worried about you’ and they’re ‘scared for your health.’

It made the distance grow. There were just some things that others couldn’t understand. Right now, especially right now, you didn’t want to think about this, you just wanted to sit here and drink your drink and socialize and not think about this. Stop thinking about this, stop thinking about it stop thinking—

“Tonic water.”

You recognized that voice. Your eyes slipped from the martini in your hand and moved to the man now standing beside you.

Your eyes traveled from his tailored black trousers up to his finely combed dark hair. He was wearing the same polished, silver frames that he wore in the photo.

You knew his eyes were blue, but now seeing them up close and under the dim light of the chandelier—he was gorgeous. You stared perhaps a little too long, liking the way his dark lashes fluttered when he blinked.

Jonathan cleared his throat, tapping his fingers against the glass of the bar. Impatient and perceptive, he caught the subtle movement from the corner of his eye— your gaze lingering on him. His blue eyes turned, fixing upon you with an intensity that hinted at both curiosity and acknowledgment. Caught off guard, you quickly averted your eyes, stirring your drink, hoping the faint flush in your cheeks went unnoticed.

You didn’t understand why exactly he had the ability to make you so nervous but he did.

You weren’t one for shyness or beating around the bush, in fact quite the opposite. You were a go-getter, at times a charmer. But with him, and due to recent events, you grew timid, meek. So unrecognizable to whom you used to be.

When the bartender finally supplied him with his drink of choice — tonic water, he took a sip and raked over the man with a dead stare.

“Start a tab.” Is all he said, simple and cold, before placing his credit card on the counter.

You watched him walk away, damning yourself for not having the courage to say anything, but also not sure at all what you would say.

—

“Dr. L/N, come here my dear!” You were mindlessly wandering around when Dr. Patel, a former colleague of yours, called you over.

“Have you met my constituents Dr. David and Dr. Cr—“

Jonathan Crane.

The man needed no introduction. You knew who he was and by the way he was looking at you—or well, looking through you, perhaps he knew who you were as well. Hopefully, not just as the woman who couldn’t keep her eyes to herself.

"-Jonathan Crane," he finished for Patel, offering a small smile that, to him, might be considered slight, but to the rest of the world, appeared as a hollowed smirk. He cocked his head, subtly leaning back as if sizing you up, assessing what was on the menu for tonight. Not in a sexual manner, but in an almost carnivorous way.

You stuck your hand out politely to shake his, and with some hesitation he met yours. His grip was intense and loose at the same time. Something like a stiff fish, fresh out of the water.

He was the first to pull back, quick like he was afraid of catching something. You let your hand fall back at your side and tried to hide the shame of the interaction.

Was he always this.. abnormal or was it you?

No one seemed to notice though, Dr. Patel and Dr. David broke out into another conversation, often trying to rope Jonathan in but he wasn’t interested.

You both drowned out the people around you, both sets of eyes fixed on each other, completely entranced.

It didn’t feel like a collective decision, it felt like he had locked you in with his oceanic stare and was picking you apart, piece by wretched piece.

It wasn’t until Dr. David nudged you lightly that you were finally brought back down to earth.

“So, how have things been business wise?” Patel asked and all three of the men turned their attention to you.

“They’ve been.. good.” You lied casually. You hadn’t seen a client in almost two years.

“That’s so good to hear, and how are the clients?” Patel dug further, almost as if he was reading your mind.

You could tell by the look he was giving you that something was at the end of his questions, like there was some joke you weren’t in on.

“Fine.” You said a bit more sharply.

Patel carried on as if it was nothing. He nudged Jonathan playfully, clearing not picking up on, or not caring to notice, the way Jonathan shifted away.

“Crane, you’ll love this. This woman has a knack for collecting some of the most strange and peculiar people, I swear!” He said as if it was the most interesting thing ever.

“I mean, talk about some of the most mentally deranged people you could ever meet— outside of what you do of course.” Patel added, gesturing towards Crane.

“Oh yeah, if they’re not serving time, then trust she has them on her books.” David joined in.

The two older gentlemen shared a look of amusement, nasty smirks plastering their wrinkled faces.

“Is that so?” Crane asked, his interest for once slightly peaked.

You took a sip of the drink in your hand, once again, not quite sure of what to say.

You wouldn’t say you collect the mentally deranged, you’d call it something much more appropriate. Like counseling the mentally ill, whichever level of ill that may be.

“I suppose some may say so.” You said, with a dull smile.

Dr. Patel chuckled and clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, once again making him shrink away.

“She’s being humble, don’t listen to her. Trust me, this is a woman you could spend years picking apart and still never scrape the bottom of the barrel.” Patel gripped Jonathan by the shoulder, holding him place as he wiggled his wrinkly finger at you.

“The only thing you’d find is the bottom of a shotgun barrel.” David jabbed Patel before both of them bursted into heavy laughter, clutching their guts and wiping their metaphorical tears.

You felt the air leave your lungs; a choked cough escaping from your lips in the process. You clutched your drink in your hand and averted your gaze. Anger, resentment, guilt peeling away at you, shucking you of your skin.

You clenched your fist so hard around your glass you thought it was going to break, you hoped that it would so you could proceed to lodge the end through both of the men’s chicken-chinned gullets.

You opened your mouth to throw a gargled insult their way. More likely though, storm off and drink away your imminent sorrows.

“I assume discretion isn’t something you gentlemen like to practice.” Jonathan interjected, taking both of them off guard.

Dr. Patel’s laugh faded as he narrowed his eyes and took a sip of his aged whiskey. “There’s nothing wrong with a few jokes Crane. We all work in the same field, do the same work. If we don’t have humor, then what do we have?”

“Self preservation.” Jonathan replied, as if it was so simple.

Patel could argue, he could go on and on about how one of the core parts of being human is the humor— the joy. But what joy was there to have here? An inside joke that seemingly everyone was a part of but you? That came at the expense of you?

Luckily, the older men knew to not argue, not with Crane at least, so they took the hint.

Patel tossed back the rest of his drink, taking the melted ice cubes into his loquacious lips and swallowing.

You stood, teeth clenched and yet—surprised. You almost admired Jonathan in this moment. He stood before you, his unrelenting stare boring a hole through what used to be a dignified man and now was just a petty, arrogant prick. Be gone with him, be gone with them both.

“We’ll leave you two to talk, excuse us.” The two men left without another word. As they turned to walk away, you relished the way David’s face burned red like a freshly, boiled lobster.

When you looked back at Jonathan he held his empty glass in his hand.

“I'm getting another refreshment and I encourage you to join me.” With that he walked away and like some curious dog, you followed. Snout in the dirt following his ghostly scent.

You both reached the bar. With the swipe of his fingers and the swipe of his credit card, a tonic water and martini appeared.

You watched him take a sip and look into the glass. Once satisfied he set it down and motioned the bartender away.

You waited for him to ask you anything but before he could open his mouth to speak, you beat him to it.

“Tonic water?” You gestured to the fizzy drink in his hand.

“I don’t drink.” He said simply, not aiding you with anymore information.

You knew there were probably a million and one reasons why he didn’t. It was terrible on the body, highly addictive, past traumatic experiences. A million and one reasons that were truly none of your business.

“Why?” You spoke again, surprising yourself.

“I don’t like to drink.” Jonathan said like it was the simplest thing in the world and that you were just too stupid to realize.

Your eyes glazed over what was in front of you, a gentle hum of acknowledgement leaving your lips.

“I don’t like what it does to the body or the brain. Makes people vapid— careless, really.” You nodded, but didn’t have much to say.

You had to wonder now if that’s what he thought of you. Vapid and careless?

“Isn’t carelessness what brings opportunity? Aren’t we supposed to be drawn to the impulsive actions of others?” You pointed out, trying your best to keep up with his idea of conversation.

Jonathan swallowed down his excuse for a drink and looked at you. “Maybe not impulse as much as instinct.”

Touché.

You couldn’t argue with that, and so you didn’t. There was a pregnant pause before either of you spoke again.

“So is what Patel said true?”

“Hm?” You raise a brow to him, curious to what he was thinking.

“That you’re a collector of the mentally deranged?”

“Oh um—“ A door slams to your right, immediately stealing your attention.

“No, no I wouldn’t say that,” you replied honestly, turning back to face him.

“No?” He cocked his head at you. “Your name has been dropped in every conversation I’ve been in now. I can’t seem to escape you..”

You felt a subtle ache grow inside your chest, the kind that made you want to run and hide.

“Have you now?” You asked, hiding your unease in your words.

“I have.” Jonathan took a moment to sip at his drink. The edge of the glass met his lips and you watched as his adams apple bobbed against his cool-toned neck.

You averted your gaze. Swollen with discomfort, you tossed back the rest of yours.

“Especially with the recent news.” He added casually.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, your palms growing sweaty, your touch shaky.

Jonathan waited to gauge your reaction, probably wanting to see if the rumors were true. Probably trying to dissect you and ring you out like every other lizard brained psychologist here.

The thought made you more sick and soon your martini tasted a lot less like vermouth and more like bile.

“Excuse me—“ you reached for your purse and abruptly stood up, your eye firmly on the exit.

“Your dissertation.” He spoke quickly, his cold, dead hand now wrapping around your bare forearm.

You looked at his hand and then into his eyes.

“My dissertation?”

“Yes,” Jonathan cleared his throat and promptly pulled his hand away. “The news that your paper on psychosexual experiences on the youth—you were awarded the Fieldsman achievement..” His words trailed off.

Something finally clicked in your brain. “Oh—oh. Yes, my paper on the—yeah.” You rubbed two fingers across the crease on your forehead, it was slowly coming back.

“You know about that?” You asked, slightly surprised that he— let alone, anyone knew about it.

It was true, about a month ago you had received a letter in the mail stating that the paper you had written almost 6 years ago was being awarded for its contribution to science.

You were flattered of course, ecstatic even. But amongst the crushing chaos of what has been your life for the past year and a half, the victory fell a bit short.

“I do.” Jonathan set his glass down. “I like to keep tabs on the people that matter.”

You couldn’t help but become a little flustered at his words. Once again, this man had proven himself unpredictable, challenging to read, and irresistibly intriguing.

——

“Have you ever thought of working for Arkham? We could use someone like you.”

You felt your face heat up from the subtle compliment. Over the past hour of talking with Jonathan, you grew to realize that not much impressed the man. He wasn’t swooned by shiny objects or mouths full of intricate words. He certainly didn’t care much for his so-called ‘constituents’. Jonathan was a man of simplicity and high standards and you couldn’t deny that you were quite pleased to meet them.

“No, no. I don’t think asylums are quite my forte.” You said with ease, a warm smile crinkling at your lips. “Plus, I live so far away it would take forever to get there.”

Jonathan cocked his head, scrutinizing you as you both chatted at the dimly lit bar. "Don't you live in the city?"

You hesitated for a moment, swirling the ice in your glass. "Not anymore. The city lights hurt my eyes." A half-truth.

"So where do you live then?" He prodded.

"Kind of on the outskirts of the city... and then some more."

"That’s a shame," is all he could say. A subtle pause settled between you both, the hum of the bar providing background noise.

Jonathan's eyes flickered with an unreadable intensity. "So you have a room here then?"

You nodded, a slight unease in your expression.

"Yes." The admission lingered, allowing a new level of possibilities to transpire.

Pursing his lips, he let himself conjure up a thought—an idea.

Jonathan glanced over at you, a faint glint in his eyes. "Your dissertation.. it really is fascinating work," he remarked, sipping his drink. "I'd love to read it in more detail, perhaps even get a physical copy to show my subordinates."

You traced the rim of your glass with your fingertips, nerves, of all kinds, pricking beneath your skin. Jonathan's words hung in the air as you debated internally. Finally, you ventured, "Well, I do have a copy on hand... if you'd like to borrow it?"

He raised an eyebrow, a subtle yet intriguing shift in his demeanor. "Now? Or..later?"

A hesitant smile played on your lips. "Now works."

Jonathan stood, motioning towards the hotel's elevator. "Lead the way, then."

The journey to your room felt like a dance on ice. A slippery slope you were allowing yourself to teeter. As you fumbled with the key card, he spoke again.

"I must admit, I didn’t think I’d find you this intriguing."

His words tingled in your ear, his body close and warm, his hand reaching toward you—

The sensor on the door flickered green and before you could say anything he opened it, gesturing you inside.

The room was in slight disarray, a few clothing items on the floor, the bed wrinkled from use, your suitcase spilling with clothes and accessories.

The pain in your feet was enough to throw care aside. You briskly propped yourself up in the hotel room’s chair and kicked off your heels. A deep sigh of relief exhaled between your lips.

You thought about Jonathan’s doorknob confession and grew curious. “Were you expecting to meet me?”

Jonathan held his tongue as he made his way around the room, finding interest in the most inconsequential things.

You continued to watch him, nervous and yet emboldened.

“I was hoping.” He had his back to you now, pulling the drapes open long enough to peak outside. A soft smile pulled on your lips long enough for you to realize what you were really here for.

Standing up, you shuffled to the scrambled suitcase beside the bed, extracting a brown folder containing exactly what you needed.

“The paper—“ you spoke, handing it directly to him, his pale hand lingered on yours for just a second too long.

Now that he was in your room, part of you felt as if maybe you had made a mistake. Asking a man you hardly knew up to your room for a copy of a dissertation you wrote over 6 years ago…

It was all about the implication.

Jonathan took the paper in his hands and briskly skimmed through the pages. Unbeknownst to you, he could almost recite it word for word.

"Excellent, once I've made a copy, I'll send the original back to you," he assured.

“Keep it,” you insisted, “It’s only a copy.”

Jonathan nodded gently and folded it in his hands. “Very well.”

Underneath his layers of clothes was a man. Disgusting and vile, desirous and new. As he spoke, a subtle ache stirred within you, igniting a curiosity to unravel the enigma that was Jonathan Crane.

Mentally you scrambled for a reason for him to stay. His off-putting, almost antisocial behaviors did not deter you. In fact it was quite the opposite. Perhaps Dr. Patel was right—you did have a knack for the strange and peculiar.

“Would you like a drink?” You asked suddenly, wishful that he would accept the invitation.

“I don’t drink.” He reminded you, cool as ever.

“Right.” You averted your gaze, a warm tint filling your cheeks.

“If you’re wanting to have sex with me, it’s best if you just say it. There’s no use in waffling.”

You wished his words had come as a surprise, but once again—The implication.

“Is that what we’re doing here, preparing for sex?” You asked, finding the strength to be a bit more bold.

“No, but do people not converse before sex?” He responded absentmindedly, but he minded, he did. He was purposefully being indecisive, leaving it up to you to put a label on where this was going.

Sex or discussion. Sex or self preservation.

“It’s up to your discretion.” He added, making this all sound like some business deal.

“I suppose they do.” You replied after a moment of contemplation.

“So do you?” He tempted you, his words sultry and his intentions so very clear.

“Yes..” you said honestly. The words escaped your lips before you had time to think. Before you could ruminate and worry and run away in fear like a coward. This is different, you reminded yourself.

You want this.

Jonathan drew closer to you. His hand crept to your exposed shoulder, and for once you felt how cold his hands really were. He trembled slightly as he touched you, his own body betraying him, showing light underneath his darkened exterior.

“Is this something you do often?” He asked once his face had grown closer to yours. It was your turn to swallow, pinning back your own set of nerves that seemed to be growing on you, like fuzzy mold over leftovers.

“And if I do?” You asked, but you know you didn’t. It’s been at least a year since you’ve even gotten a passing glance. Two since you’ve had any form of actual I ntimacy. But you wanted to see his reaction, so you prodded.

“Then you do.” He said simply.

Then you do.

“Do you?” You counteracted. His hand slid down to cup at your fingers as they dangled, hot and probably sweaty from the tension.

“Does it matter?” He threw back at you easily. It’s like he had a response to everything.

Your eyes shifted to the hotel room door, then to the window to your left. Two exits.

You looked to the table beside you. A pen, a journal and a packet of Marlboro Lights. You looked at your purse, noticing that you tossed it haphazardly by the door.

You could use the pen as a weapon. If you’re quick you could lodge it into his jugular, maybe even in the eye or chest if need be. If that doesn’t work you can attempt to make a run for it to your purse, pull out the tiny pistol you stashed away for emergencies. Remember to take the safety off, grip with two—

The pressure of his hand squeezing yours brought you back. “Does it?” He repeated.

“No— I guess not.” You wanted this. Did you want this? Your head was spinning just a little. You could hear the crunching of your anxiety biting at you. Your prescription of Zoloft doing absolutely nothing for you at this moment, in more ways than one.

There was an almost unfamiliar dampness between your legs. Foreign and alien— you wanted to pry away at it, test it and finally, send it home back to its creator: Dr. Jonathan Crane.

He kissed you, slow and almost pubescent, like he’s never had the pleasure of a goodbye kiss.

Over time his soft lips met yours with ease, a vibration falling between the two of you as what seemed to be the peak of the night so far.

He pulled you into him quickly, chests hitting each other with a thump. You stumbled forward a bit, not expecting the act of feverish desire but not rejecting it either.

A warmth spread through your body, a gentle ache creaking inside your bones. You wanted out of this dress, and into the soft, delicate fabrics of the floral bedspread. But you had time, no need to rush this.

Jonathan had other plans, of course. With cold shaky hands and his own pleasure on his mind. He gripped at your zipper and yanked so hard you swore he snapped the dangling metal right off.

Your heart sped up immediately. You put your hands to his chest, the words “slow down” ready on the tip of your tongue.

His lips dove in, licking and sucking the perfume right off your neck. It felt good for a minute. Especially if you closed your eyes and imagined you were someone else.

That only worked for so long of course. Memories crept in. They found the key to the vault that was your safe space, the last place you had that wasn’t tainted.

When Jonathan’s cold hand reached up to caress your breast through the fabric of your dress it almost resembled a blade. The cold steel taunting you before slipping behind the fabric and dancing across your skin.

“S-Stop.” You froze. He froze.

Jonathan lifted his face from your neck and peered at you. “Something wrong?”

Jonathan could sense your hesitation, your fear, your dissonance. But he let you have the floor. He let you decide if this was going to continue, how this was going to play out.

You chewed on your bottom lip and mentally pushed back the fears that clung to you.

“I— I just need a moment. I uh, I like to take things slow.” You compromised.

Jonathan watched you through his silver lens, reading you, dissecting you like he’s been known to do. After a moment of contemplation, he agreed with a slight nod of the head.

Both hands cupped your cheeks, bringing you in close so your lips were only a breath away.

“Slow it is.” He murmured before kissing you with vigor and passion. The red warning signs going off in your head were slowly drowned out as his tongue pressed against your bottom lip. Asking—no, demanding entry.

This, you didn’t mind so much. Jonathan kind of reminded you of your first high school boyfriend. Subtly eager, clean yet filthy. He was your honey brewed arsenic.

Things stayed slow yet intense. The wetness between your legs growing as his hands cascaded down your body and gripped at the most unwelcome places.

You found comfort in his unpredictability and within that, you found pride in yourself. You knew you weren’t ruined. By all diagnostics and logistics, you weren’t ruined— just.. horrifically scarred. Like a burn victim or a C-section that was poorly sutured.

Unfortunately though, memories lingered like shadows, hurling nightmare fuel and the echoes of your muffled screams every time a room fell silent.

Closing your eyes, all you could see was blood and brain matter splattered against your eggshell stained walls. Sulfur—heavy in the air, so pungent it burned the insides of your nostrils. A festering wound would be left, soaking through your mustard colored shirt. Breathing choppy and unstable. Wrists splintered with plastic fibers of the rope that held you in place. You could barely move and so you’d stay like that for the next 36 hours.

As your noses brushed, stomachs pressed, and lips danced— you believed you caught a whiff of that suffocating night, but you were mistaken. He wasn’t here, and for now, you could feel safe.

This time, you leaned into Jonathan’s touch as he pulled back the fabric of your dress. Wrapping your arms around his neck, you let his fingers dance against the bare skin of your back, tracing down your spine and up over your shoulder blades.

You moaned aloud between your smushed lips. His breathing picked up as he exhaled air through his nose.

The dress slipped off your shoulders and into a heap on the floor. For a moment, you stood there. Brazenly bare for the whole 37 sq ft room to see.

He took a small step back, drinking you in. Hands dangling at his sides as he discovered what lies beneath the layers.

There was a long, ugly scar that ran from the top of your belly button to your sternum. It was hideous.

Each jagged edge told a story, but not one of triumph. The scar seemed to mock, a constant reminder of just how horrifically you were violated. Its presence screamed of a wound that had healed with reluctance, a silent testimony to the resilience of skin and the brutality of life's unpredictable encounters.

There was little-to-no beauty in it. The only thing it left in its wake was you. Still alive, still fighting.

You.

He stared at it like it was nothing more than a mole or a stretch mark. The only form of real attention he bothered to give it was the gentle slide of his thumb trailing its seams. He felt the bumps and the craters under his digit but he didn’t utter a word.

Maybe if you knew Jonathan just a little bit more - or at all for that matter - Maybe you could at least try to decipher what was running through his head. What that blank stare really meant..

Did he understand now? Did he understand the petty remarks and pitied glances? The way people seemed to stiffen around you or play all too nice? You were a victim in all forms, but calling yourself that made you feel sick.

You just wanted to be fine—to be okay. To be perceived as both of those things. But you weren’t sure if that day would ever come again.

“You’re so beautiful.”

You swore it was the slip of his tongue, niceties pouring out so he didn’t have to face the uncomfortable stench that followed you.

“So beautiful.” He echoed. He cupped your breast and trailed kisses down your neck. You swallowed the golf ball sized lump in your throat and tried to pretend that three simple words didn’t just thaw the coldest part of you.

It was in that moment that you decided that he had to have known what had happened, or at least as much as anyone else but he chose not to pry. That was enough for you.

Undressing Jonathan proved to be a challenge, a hurdle you hadn't anticipated in the wake of your own triumph.

Jonathan was skittish. Like a roach under a light, he fought to stay out of your view. He wanted no return on his investments. No gentle trailing of fingers or sweet nothings softly cooed between parted lips.

When you had finally removed his dress shirt and tie, you noticed the way he held himself back from wrapping his arms around his slender frame. Instead he opted to kiss you hard and messily.

You ran your hands through his hair, taking note of the residual gel and products that coated your fingers.

“Jonathan,“ you peeled away from him, but he held you so tightly.

“Just kiss me.” He ordered in desperation. His eyes were closed, he refused to look at you. So you did. You kissed him till you both fumbled your way to the bed.

He pushed you down gently onto the mattress before shucking away his trousers and underwear. You could only get a quick view of him before he turned you over and yanked your hips up so your ass was in the air.

Finally, undressed and malleable—he took you from behind. You craned your head back to look at him as he held you in place. One palm pushing down the arch of your back and the other on your hips.

He still had his glasses on, slightly fogged from the breaths of exerted air, and the pure arousal of it all.

He gripped at his cock, sliding through your folds, relishing the sounds of your arousal dampening his erection.

He moaned and lined it along the sweet spot, already feeling you wanting to pull him in.

“You’re so wet.” He exhaled, his voice whiner than it was before. You blushed and shook beneath him, taking in his words.

Without hesitation he pushed in, moaning at the feeling of your velvety walls enveloping him. First the head, then the base, and when he was finally inside of you, he put a little more weight onto your hips, pushing himself that much deeper.

You both let out a shaky breath. You felt full and a subtle burning from the stretch. He was already pushing against your cervix, jabbing at it with each subtle movement. You shifted in his grip, trying to pull away ever so slightly, but it was useless, he would just pull your hips back into place each time.

“Shit.” He groaned. The first time you’ve heard him cuss all night.

You watched him take off his glasses finally and blow out a breath of air.

The drag of his hips backwards sent the bundle of nerves in your guts ablaze. You scrambled to grip at the pillows as he thrusted back in. They were slow and hard for a minute, allowing you to get acquainted with the full sheer size of him.

Jonathan grunted and huffed behind you, getting lost in his own bouts of pleasure as he sped up his movements. You could feel his thighs pressed into yours and you wished that you could see him. See his moans leave his pouty lips, or the way his eyes rolled back in pleasure.

You tried to sit up, eager for a better angle when his hand pushed you down gently. “Just—“ He moaned, desperate and needy. “— stay like that a little longer.”

You obeyed, till he sped up once again, rutting against you like some fleshy hole in the wall. His pistoled his cock in and out, fucking you like it was a task and not an experience—a choice.

“Dr. Crane.” You objected, your discomfort growing. the words feeling out of place in this moment.

“Jonathan.. fuck, call me Jonathan.” He all but growled out. You couldn’t take this anymore.

“Stop—wait, wait.” You pushed a hand to his stomach and pulled yourself forward, making his cock slip most of the way out.

“What is it?” He asked, his concentration snapped.

“I—we need to change positions. This isn’t working for me.” You explained as calmly as you could.

Jonathan let out a short sigh and pulled away. “What do you suggest?”

“We could try facing each other?”

“Like missionary?”

“Would that be so bad?”

“No.. I suppose not.” He said nervously. You could see it in his face, his hesitation, but you prevailed.

Lying down against the mattress, your body on full display; he followed, slotting himself between your legs.

His tongue slid out, as his hands trailed down your body. You were an equation to him it seemed. Daring to solve, yet knowing none of the rules.

You wrapped your legs around his hips, beckoning him to make a move. Jonathan pressed himself against your chest as he slid in, in one good thrust he was filling you once again.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding and let him slowly rock against you. Each thrust was milking your body of tension and frustration from the night. Fuck—from the past two years.

It felt good, impeccably good. His lips were next to your ear, embedded in your hair, breathing hard and yet never uttering a word. It turned you on even more, fueling each thrust with your slick arousal.

“Fuck..” you pulled at the ends of his hair, your back arching and eyes fluttering shut. Jonathan took that as his chance and adjusted his hips ever so slightly.

He was still shaking in your grasp, hands still cold as they gripped at your shoulders; using you as leverage to fuck you and fuck you good at that.

At one particular thrust he finally hit that sweet spot inside of you. Both of you finally releasing all that pent up frustration in the sound of a mewl.

You gripped his face in your hands, needing some form of intimacy to this animalistic act.

“Fuck—Jonathan. Kiss me.” You demanded, reeling and hungry for him.

He did as he was told, pushing his lips into yours as he pounded his cock deeper into you.

You gasped in between his lips and held him for dear life as he grunted and hissed out your name like some slur.

He lazily moved his lips against yours once he finally tired himself out from the brutal pace. His movements were clumsy, teeth knocking together; vicious with the way he bit down on your bottom lip and pulled.

You let out a whimper which finally made him take the chance to look at you. Mental snapshots of what he’d probably be jerking off to for the next few weeks.

“Fuck..” he groaned aloud, filthy as ever. His hands fumbled for your tits, before hungrily latching onto them and sucking. His tongue slithered over your nipple, his mouth holding a strange coursing heat that his body tended to lack.

Jonathan wasn’t a very vocal man, but you enjoyed the sight of his eyes rolling to the back of his head as his hands and mouth desperately tried to encase you.

He was succumbing to his bodily urges much quicker than he anticipated. You could feel it too. His hips stuttering, thrusts becoming erratic. You didn’t mind, it was a good run after all. Perhaps, you’d wait another year to actually orgasm from something else besides your own hands or flimsy silicone toys.

Jonathan snapped his eyes open, as if reading your mind, he detached himself from your nipple and moved so you were now on top and his back was pressed against the headboard.

“Just.. give me a second.” He said between labored breaths.

You sat there for a moment, clenching around his pulsing cock. Every few seconds you would clamp down on him and each time he would grip your hips as a warning.

You were growing antsy just sitting here on top of him, so you cupped his face in your hands and brought his lips to yours. Jonathan was grateful for it.

He moaned into the kiss, his grip tender and yet ravaging. He touched your shoulders down to your breasts, one hand rubbing and twisting the sensitive nubs, one hand pressed to your spine.

It wasn’t until you felt his fingers slip past your navel and reach the bundle of nerves that your abandoned arousal was reignited.

You moaned into his mouth and trembled in his lap like a virgin. You hadn’t been touched like this in so long, you basically felt like one.

“Right there?” He teased you. His thumb ghosted over it at first, giving you a little taste of a friend you dearly missed. You clutched him now, both of you looking down; heads pressed together, watching as he worked you into a frenzy.

You nodded helplessly as he added pressure, moving his thumb in circles.

“Yes. Please don’t stop.” You begged, making Jonathan smile, a warm glow filling his cheeks. He didn’t stop, wouldn’t ever stop as long as you kept making those noises.

Feeling you grip around him, soaking him as you moaned like nobody has ever properly fucked you before— it sent a whole new wave of desire through him. A feeling that he’s never bothered to know before.

He kept his thumb moving in circles as he gripped your hips and humped into you. You couldn’t believe the pleasure that rippled through you, you couldn’t remember the last time you had ever been this turned on.

Jonathan rested his head between your breasts, mouthing at them as they bounced against his face, each thrust making you jirate more and more.

“So tight, god you’re so fucking tight.” He whimpered against your chest. You could feel that heat again, that bubbling heat coiling around inside you; tickling your toes and bones. “Feels.. so fucking good.”

“Oh—Jonathan, Jonathan.. Jonathan,” you praised his name like a mantra. He snaked his free hand up to the back of your neck, adding pressure and pulling you down to meet each thrust. Holding you there, making you take it, take all of it.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, glassy eyes staring up at you. It felt addictive to bask in his insatiable gaze.

You couldn’t even offer him a confirmation. The orgasm was ripped from your hands and displayed right before his very eyes.

“Yes—keep going, come all over my cock darling. Just like that.” He encouraged, his own orgasm right around the corner.

You were too fucked out to even pick up on the casual pet name he threw your way.

He kept the pounding of his hips going, each punch upward hitting you like a sledgehammer and knocking all the air out of you.

“Jo..na..than,” you spoke brokenly. The air was thick and filled with the sound of your slapping thighs and his grunts.

“I’m so close.. Y/N I’m so close.” He repeated over and over again. His thumb still continued to rub you till the room went blurry. Little zaps filling your body, making your hips stutter over his.

“I-It’s too much-“ you tried to protest, weakly prying at his iron grip.

“—feels so good Y/N, I want to come, please let me come inside you,” he gripped tighter at your neck, making you feel slightly lightheaded.

Your arousal was immediately brought back to life. Just thinking about his come oozing out of you, nice and slow, so filthy, so wrong, so freeing.

You felt this part of you that haven’t felt in a long time. An absence of shame or fear. To act and to do as you please in accordance to you.

“Fuck—Yes, please..” you begged loudly, rifling your hands through his hair. You pulled on the ends, forcing him to look at you. You wanted to watch him as he came.

“Oh my god.” He gaped, slowly reaching the precipice of his orgasm, looking at how absolutely fucked you looked right now.

You put your hips into motion, and tightened your insides, desperate to come again before both of you finally gave out. You were already there, right there, little jabs of heat scoring the inside of your body.

“Hold on—just a little longer, please.” You gasped between breaths. You were the one now begging for time. You’ve never been this starved for something.

Jonathan gritted his teeth, muscles clenching and relaxing. He rested his head against your chest and took a deep breath before working his sore thumb harder but not faster, careful not to send the orgasm fleeting.

“Fuck—look at you.” he moaned, “I just—“

His hand dragged into your hair and pulled you down to meet his vivacious kiss. Tongues swapping spit and rubbing against each other.

Both mouths vibrated as moans slipped from them. You rolled your hips once, twice and by the third time you were crashing down on him. Sputtering obscenities and some niceties, you came like you never had before.

Jonathan gasped, gripping you with so much force you thought you’d collapse in on yourself. His hips stuttered, but only harsh thrusts were granted as his cock flexed inside of you. Warmth pooled inside and around you.

You watched his face contort into a look of tension and pain and then finally, slowly relax as his mouth hung agape; eyes slotted in the back of his head. Pretty lashes fluttering and chest heaving.

He was truly a sight to behold.

The motions slowed down to where he was just mindlessly rutting against your heat. You could feel a hot, sticky coating where you both were connected. It felt like gorilla glue as he finally stopped, neither of you wanting or ready to pull away quite yet.

Jonathan’s sweat stained forehead was pressed to your chest, hands still gripping you like you were his only life force.

“Fuck.. I-“ Jonathan tried to speak but a hesitation filled him. Suddenly becoming very aware of where he was and whom he was in, he grew needy. The act being so much more vulnerable than he had ever intended, it weakened him. Cracked him open and now he had no other choice but to cling.

You placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to lift yourself off of him to give your aching hole some rest, but it was futile.

“Don’t— can we just stay like this?” He pleaded against your warm breasts. “Just a little longer..”

He sounded so small, fragile and expendable. But you didn’t toss him to the side, didn’t clammer off of him and dress yourself in record speed.

You stayed.. keenly aware of the softening cock on the verge of dribbling out of you now, you stayed.

Your body ached like you had ran a marathon, Jonathan’s hands rubbed at your skin, eyes closed like he was in another world.

“You don’t do this often do you?” You asked now. You spoke softly, hands reaching down to cup his chin so he’d look at you.

Jonathan caught his breath before lightly smiling up at you. “And if I don’t?” He asked.

It didn’t really matter now anyways.

“Then you don’t.”

[justinspoliticalcorner]

LATROBE, Pa. — When fascism finally went mainstream in America, it came hawking a $60 made-in-China Bible and shadowed by a 50-foot American flag braced by construction cranes — and it opened with a story about Arnold Palmer’s private parts. I’d driven nearly five hours into and under the Allegheny ridges of Western Pennsylvania — up and down slopes that got steeper each mile with the volume of Donald Trump flags and yard signs that proclaimed “I’m Voting for the Convict 2024″ — out of a sense that the decline and fall of American civilization has reached a depth that I needed to personally bear witness. It was a fever dream — maybe I could find words that have eluded everyone else. Just six days earlier, Trump came to the Philly suburbs and turned a supposed town hall into a 39-minute dance party as his deeply confused crowd watched a once and wannabe future U.S. president sway awkwardly to Sinead O’Connor and Luciano Pavarotti or look utterly frozen in the bubble of his 78-year-old head. And yet when the alarm goes off the next morning, it’s still Groundhog Day in America, an election with a 50% chance of the music-trance guy winning. Something both incredibly momentous and weird is happening at the same time. Now, the sun was nearly setting over the runway at Arnold Palmer Regional Airport. With the most consequential U.S. presidential election since 1860 just 17 days away, about 3,000 to 4,000 of the most die-hard MAGA Trump fans who weren’t exhausted by the campaign and the GOP candidate’s frequent visits to Steelers’ country had been waiting for hours on a sunbaked tarmac. They’d let out the obligatory whoop for the obligatory flyover of Trump Force One, and then finally the man tasked with bringing their country back was on the podium, filtered by bulletproof glass. Donald Trump’s red meat of mass-deportation camps and R-rated attacks on his opponents would have to wait. Monday’s DJ was now Saturday night’s comedian, with his cult as captive audience. What started out as an obligatory shout-out to Latrobe’s famous native son — Palmer, the late great golfer who brought the sport to your TV screens in the 1960s — went on for five minutes, then 10, then 12. What started as a nice but meandering tale about Palmer’s working-class roots grew into a stone silence during long detours into stuff like types of golf club shafts as the tale grew increasingly instead about Trump — about how his own power and wealth allowed him to claim friendship with this great man. You are standing in the twilight wondering if this could get any stranger when of course it did. The man who bragged in his first campaign that he could shoot somebody on Fifth Avenue and people would still vote for him now wants America to know he can tell a penis joke with the cameras rolling and still get elected as the 47th president. [...] So I came to Latrobe to try and write the 72-point headline that the Times editors can’t — “PHALLUS-JOKE MAN AND DANCING FOOL COULD LEAD THE FREE WORLD AGAIN” — and to scream at the top of my lungs from the bluffs overlooking this tiny airport that this would-be emperor telling the shower story is actually wearing no clothes. Who will shout that Trump’s “closing argument” is the melding of his increasingly public breakdown with how that might lead to an all-too-real domestic war of midnight raids and armored personnel carriers against the fiction of an “Occupied America”? Ironically, Trump’s endless Arnold Palmer bit seemed part of an effort Saturday night to prove that the rambling candidate is not “exhausted,” something that his own aides reportedly said after several recent interviews were canceled. But the Republican nominee — kind of like Madonna’s “Sex” phase and shock photos when her 1980s were ending — also appeared to sense that he needs to get more and more outrageous to get attention, after numbing America to his Hitlerian language that immigrants “will cut your throat.”

Will Bunch at The Philadelphia Inquirer on Donald Trump's Latrobe rally (10.20.2024)

Will Bunch wrote in The Philadelphia Inquirer about Donald Trump’s fascist insultfest in Latrobe, PA in which he infamously obsessed about Arnold Palmer.

[hells-plaid-angel]

Dean Winchester: Reading Recommendations

Because I headcannon Dean as a reader, here is a list of books that I think he would like. Some are directly referenced in the show, others are odes to America and a life on the road complete with horror, satire or complicated family issues. And, of course, some books manage to meet at the twist of the mobius strip where toxic masculinity and homoeroticism collide.

Books of Blood - Clive Barker 

Imajica - Clive Barker 

The Complete Poems - Hart Crane 

Hard Rain Falling - Don Carpenter 

Our Share of Night - Mariana Enriquez 

Catch-22 - Joseph Heller 

Iliad - Homer 

Jesus’ Son - Denis Johnson 

East of Eden - John Steinbeck

My Heart Is a Chainsaw - Stephen Graham Jones 

On the Road - Jack Kerouac 

Christine - Stephen King 

The Road - Cormac McCarthy

The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter - Carson McCullers

Survivor - Chuck Palahniuk 

The Moviegoer - Walker Percy

The Devil All the Time - Donald Ray Pollock

A Season in Hell - Arthur Rimbaud

Crush - Richard Siken

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas - Hunter S. Thompson

Cat’s Cradle - Kurt Vonnegut 

Slaughterhouse Five - Kurt Vonnegut

Time is a Mother - Ocean Vuong

Leaves of Grass - Walt Whitman 

Butcher’s Crossing - John Williams