#jonathan crane x bane

[ninja-potato-shelby-solomons]

#honestly though we'd all like to be doing him

[clearphilosophercandy]

Mad for you

Dr. Jonathan Crane x Bane [short pre-slash, mature]

It was incredible. Simply incredible to stand right in front of that bulk of a man, to stand in front of this legend he had only heard of. Somewhere in the asylum there were screams, shots, terribly scared voices of the running security men. Runnig for their lifes, Jonathan knew. It was a riot, long overdue, and still he couldn't get away from that huge man staring at him, just like he was doing.

Jonathan clicked his tongue, biting his lower lip, letting his gaze roam over that body built to kill. He was impressive from that close, only standing a few feet away from him. The dark eyes stared at him, gazing ice-cold over Jonathan's white coat. Attention, cruel attention, tingling through Jonathan's whole body. He didn't look away, not a single second, even when that bull of a man came closer to him. He had no weapon in his hands - his body was his weapon, Jonathan was sure. He had always been jealous of the colleagues that had gotten the chance to interview this guy, working with him.

"You don't run away. You should, doctor." That voice. That voice was so deep it left Jonathan in goosebumps, hearing the heavy boots coming closer to him. They shared a space now, a hand-wide length it was now between them. Jonathan pulled up his eyebrows, opening his lips in an amused manner.

"Why should I?", he asked, a shock of pure pleasure running through his limbs as Bane grabbed him by the chin, pulling him close. The grip was so intense and heavy that it hurt, but still Jonathan didn't flinch. He was actually pretty excited for this, for a man that could finally fit his wants.

"You should be afraid. You might die."

"I would be pleased to die from a hand like yours."

Bane pressed his thumb and fingers deeper into the skin of Jonathan's chin, pulled him closer, the mask only a few breaths away from Jonathan's face. He was so dangerous, so fucking dangerous it was simply insane - still, Jonathan felt excitement growing in his stomach. God, how long has it been since he's been fucked by a real man? Bane must be impressive, huge, thick and broad. He licked his lips, staring at these eyes. The pain was just right when Bane pulled him even closer.

"You're crazy. Mad. You sure you're a doctor?", Bane snapped, his eyes flinching with something like amusement. Yeah, Jonathan could read it, the psychiatric in him terribly fighting with his urge to sit down on that lap and grab for that impressive dick. Sucking it in, choking on that length and thickness that would definitely be too much for his thin throat. It made him go fucking hot inside, and he reached out for Bane's hand around his face - Bane batted him away, the grip growing stronger. Jonathan gasped.

"You want this?", Bane growled, and Jonathan nodded.

"I want this, so bad."

"You wanna suck me off?"

"Oh God, yes!"

Bane pushed him against the wall, hurting the small of his back, but the pain excited him to the bones. One wrist was pinned against the stone of the cold wall, scratching his skin, with the other he held Jonathan in check.

"Then go done on your knees, doctor", Bane hissed, and gave Jonathan enough space to move. And Jonathan did sink down on his knees, looking up greedily and hungry with his eyes, while a big hand grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling and pushing him more down. Jonathan nestled with the belt, fumbling to get that thick cock out...

[to be continued]

[ninja-potato-shelby-solomons]

#Bane and I are going shopping at Michael's tomorrow for craft supplies if anyone wants to join

Being an artist is super funny, because my skills allow me to do like anything and I decide to draw Bane knitting a pink scarf whilst wearing a sweater he made for himself, next to Jonathan Crane whom he made a knit dress for

[devilishcupid]

hot evil characters who i want to fix but will make me cry if i actually meet them in real life>>>>>>

[urdreamydoodles]

Batman Villains x Fem!Reader

You are a criminal hiding under the role of a psychiatrist in Arkham

You introduces yourself as a new psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, but beneath your professional facade, you're also a criminal with your own agenda. During your sessions with Gotham’s notorious villains, you forms twisted, romantic relationships with them.

Characters: Joker, Harley Quinn, Poison Ivy, Bane, Scarecrow, The Riddler, Two-Face & The Penguin

Joker

- You introduced yourself as the new psychiatrist in Arkham, armed with degrees and a mask of professionalism, hiding your true nature beneath the surface. Your sessions with the Joker began with cautious probing, dancing around his mind like any other doctor would. But the moment his cold, dark eyes met yours, you both knew it was a game—one neither of you intended to lose.

- His smile, wide and unhinged, widened further each session as he slowly unraveled your façade. You found yourself intrigued by him in ways you weren’t supposed to be. The chaos he offered was intoxicating, his unpredictable mind a puzzle you craved to solve. And while you knew the risks, you couldn’t help but draw closer to his madness. In your second session, his laughter became personal, no longer mocking Arkham's walls but meant for you.

- Joker had a way of pulling you in, teasing out the criminal lurking beneath your skin. You weren’t just a doctor—you were a kindred spirit, someone who understood his twisted view of the world. He could see it in the glint of your eyes when you spoke to him about Gotham’s hypocrisy, about the system’s flaws. And one day, as you were closing your notebook, his voice cut through the air: "You’re not one of them, doc. You’re like me."

- Your heart raced, but you played it cool, chuckling softly as if you weren’t shaken to the core. From then on, your sessions turned into something more intimate. Conversations turned into whispered secrets, truths about your past crimes, the people you manipulated to rise in the criminal underworld. Joker reveled in it, seeing the darkness he knew you were hiding. He began to speak about you in ways that made your pulse quicken, about how you could rule Gotham together, throw the city into disarray with your combined intellect and chaos.

- The tipping point came when, during a particularly charged session, he reached across the table, his gloved fingers brushing yours. There was a promise in that touch, something raw and dangerous. The lines between doctor and patient blurred completely when he pressed his lips against yours, leaving a smear of red lipstick on your mouth. You didn’t pull away—you couldn’t. Instead, you let him pull you into his world of madness, where logic twisted into a wicked kind of love.

- After that day, it wasn’t just therapy anymore. You became his accomplice, helping him from the inside, pulling strings behind Arkham’s walls. And when he finally escaped, you were right there beside him, both of you laughing at the chaos you would unleash. You weren’t just the Joker’s psychiatrist—you were his queen of madness, his partner in crime, and Gotham was yours to play with.

Harley Quinn

- When you walked into Arkham as the new psychiatrist, you were immediately drawn to her. Harley Quinn, the infamous former doctor turned criminal, sat across from you, her playful smirk never faltering. But you knew better than to take her lightly. Behind her giggles and flirtations was a woman who had once been where you were, a professional undone by obsession. Little did Harley know, you had the same spark of madness within you, hidden under the guise of professionalism.

- Your sessions with Harley were like a dance, a back-and-forth of wit and insight. She would tease you about your job, mock the way you spoke in clinical terms, but you both knew she was testing you. You always answered with a smirk of your own, showing her that you weren’t as buttoned-up as you seemed. You weren’t just here to analyze her—you were here to connect, to peel back the layers of her mind because you saw yourself in her.

- One day, during a session, she leaned in close, her eyes flickering with interest. "You know, doc, you remind me of someone." Her voice was low, almost conspiratorial, and you knew she meant herself. You chuckled, leaning back in your chair. "I’ve heard that before." She narrowed her eyes, suddenly serious. "You ain’t like the others." And she was right. You weren’t.

- You started to let bits of your real self slip through, sharing small pieces of your criminal side with her. You knew she would understand, maybe even admire it. Harley watched you carefully as you spoke about the schemes you had been part of, the power you wielded under the radar. She loved it. And before long, your sessions were less about her and more about the connection between the two of you.

- The day she kissed you was a blur of impulsive passion. After a particularly heated exchange, Harley had grabbed your tie, yanking you toward her, your lips crashing together. There was no hesitation on your part, only a thrilling sense of liberation. You were no longer pretending to be the psychiatrist, and Harley wasn’t just your patient. You were equals, two criminals playing a dangerous game of love and power.

- From that moment on, you were inseparable. You used your position to smuggle things in for her, weapons and plans for her next big heist. Harley, in return, made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could. She saw your darkness and embraced it, encouraging you to step deeper into the life you had been hiding. You became her partner in crime, but unlike the Joker, you weren’t controlling her. You were both free in each other’s chaos, equals in madness.

- The day you helped her escape Arkham was the beginning of something wild. Together, you wreaked havoc on Gotham, her unpredictable energy and your calculated cunning making you an unstoppable duo. You were Harley’s new obsession, but it wasn’t one-sided. She was yours too. You weren’t just another doctor who fell for the wrong patient—you were a criminal mastermind who found the perfect match in Harley Quinn.

Poison Ivy

- You introduced yourself to Arkham as just another psychiatrist, another cog in the system. But from the moment you sat down across from her, the infamous Poison Ivy, you knew you were dealing with someone who could see through your façade. Her green eyes were sharp, watching you with a knowing look as you asked your initial questions. You were careful, though. You knew better than to underestimate a woman like her.

- Each session was a test, a game of wits between the two of you. Ivy wasn’t like the others—you couldn’t simply manipulate her or play into her weaknesses. She was strong, both mentally and physically, her connection to nature giving her a kind of power you admired. And she could sense something off about you, something that didn’t fit with the usual Arkham doctor. You were good at hiding it, but not good enough. "You’re not just a shrink, are you?" she asked one day, a sly smile playing at her lips.

- You leaned back, meeting her gaze evenly. "And you’re not just a criminal." It was an admission, a silent agreement that you were both more than you appeared. Ivy’s curiosity grew from that moment, and so did yours. She wasn’t just another patient to you—she was a woman who had taken control of her life, her body, and the world around her. You respected her, even admired her strength, something you had always craved for yourself.

- Slowly, your conversations turned into something more intimate. You shared pieces of your own life with her, your involvement in the criminal underworld, your ability to manipulate others without them ever realizing it. Ivy listened carefully, her expression neutral, but you could tell she was interested. She liked the idea of someone who wasn’t afraid to challenge the system from the inside, someone who understood the game she was playing.

- One day, she leaned in close, her fingers brushing against your wrist, sending a strange, almost electric pulse through your skin. "You’re beautiful," she whispered, her voice low and sultry. You felt your heart skip a beat, but you didn’t pull away. You were drawn to her, to the danger, to the idea of losing yourself in her world. It wasn’t long before your professional boundaries crumbled, and you found yourself kissing her, tasting the sweet poison of her lips. It was intoxicating, like nothing you’d ever experienced before.

- From that moment on, your relationship was no longer confined to Arkham. You helped her in secret, bringing her the resources she needed, aiding her in her environmental crusades. Ivy saw the criminal in you and nurtured it, just like one of her plants. She didn’t want to control you—she wanted to empower you, and you let her. Together, you became a force to be reckoned with, a dangerous duo that Gotham wouldn’t soon forget. Poison Ivy had claimed you, body and soul, and you loved every minute of it.

Bane

- Your arrival in Arkham as the new psychiatrist was unremarkable to most, but when you were assigned to Bane, things took a darker turn. His reputation was terrifying, the man who broke the Bat, a living embodiment of strength and intelligence. But you weren’t afraid. You were drawn to him, to the power he represented, both physical and mental. You had always craved control, and Bane was the perfect subject—someone you could manipulate, or so you thought.

- Your sessions with Bane began like any other, with you trying to delve into his psyche, trying to understand the mind behind the monster. But he was different from the others. Bane wasn’t just brute strength—he was calculating, strategic, and he quickly saw through your act. He didn’t say it right away, but you could feel his eyes on you, watching, waiting for you to slip up.

- It didn’t take long for him to speak up. "You’re not here to fix me," he said one day, his voice deep and commanding. You froze, knowing you couldn’t hide from him anymore. "No," you admitted, a smirk tugging at your lips. "I’m not." You weren’t just a psychiatrist—you were a criminal, someone who had risen through Gotham’s underworld, and you wanted to understand the man who had brought the city to its knees.

- Bane respected honesty, and from that moment, your dynamic shifted. He didn’t see you as a doctor anymore—he saw you as an equal, someone with the same hunger for power that he had. You were fascinated by his mind, by the way he strategized and planned every move. He was a genius, far beyond what most people gave him credit for, and you couldn’t help but admire him.

- The tension between you grew with each session. Bane was controlled, disciplined, but you could see the way his eyes lingered on you, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you. It was subtle, but it was there. You were drawn to his strength, to the raw power he exuded, and you knew he felt the same. One day, after a particularly intense session, you found yourself standing too close to him, the air thick with unspoken desire. His hand, large and calloused, reached out to gently touch your cheek, his eyes dark with intent.

- "You are more than they realize," he murmured, his voice sending a shiver down your spine. You closed the distance between you, pressing your lips to his in a heated, dangerous kiss. There was no softness in it—only raw passion and the unspoken understanding that you were both forces of nature, bound by a mutual respect and hunger for power.

- From that day on, you were no longer his psychiatrist. You were his partner, his equal in every sense of the word. Bane trusted you in ways he trusted no one else, and you used that trust to help him plot his next move against Gotham. You were the brains behind his brawn, working together to bring the city to its knees once again. You loved him, not just for his strength but for his mind, for the way he saw the world and molded it to his will. Together, you were unstoppable, a force that no one could stand against. And you reveled in the chaos you would unleash.

Scarecrow

- When you first introduced yourself as the new psychiatrist at Arkham, you were already aware of Jonathan Crane's reputation. The master of fear, the Scarecrow, was infamous for his obsession with the mind's darkest corners. But what intrigued you wasn’t just his fixation on fear—it was the brilliance behind it, the cold, calculating intellect that twisted psychology into something deadly. You weren’t there to cure him, though. Beneath your polished exterior, you had your own darkness, your own secrets, and a hunger to learn from someone like him.

- From the first session, there was a tension in the air. Crane wasn’t like the other patients who tried to charm or manipulate you—he studied you, analyzing every word, every gesture. His voice was calm, his demeanor almost detached, but you could see the wheels turning in his mind. He knew you weren’t like the other doctors. "You’re curious," he remarked, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But not about my recovery."

- You smirked, leaning back in your chair. "No, Dr. Crane. I’m curious about your work." That was the moment he saw you for what you were—a kindred spirit, someone who wasn’t afraid of fear but fascinated by it. Your sessions became less about psychology and more about power. Crane saw potential in you, and you in him. You started talking about fear on a deeper level, about how it controlled people, how it could be harnessed and used.

- As the weeks passed, you found yourself drawn to his mind, the way he saw fear not as a weakness but as a tool. You began to share your own experiences, the times you had manipulated fear in others to get what you wanted. Crane listened, his interest piqued, and for the first time, he opened up about his own experiments, the thrill he felt when watching his victims crumble under his toxin’s effects.

- One evening, after a particularly intense session, you found yourselves standing close, too close for a professional boundary. His hand brushed against yours, sending a jolt through you. His eyes, dark and penetrating, locked onto yours. "You don’t fear me, do you?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous. You shook your head, smiling. "I admire you." That was all it took. In an instant, his lips were on yours, the kiss filled with an electric tension that had been building for weeks.

- From that moment on, your relationship was no longer patient and doctor. You became his confidante, his partner in exploring the darkest aspects of the human psyche. He showed you things no one else knew about—his latest fear toxin formulas, his plans for Arkham and Gotham. You helped him, using your position to cover his tracks, to gather resources, and to watch as he slowly gained more control over the asylum.

- But it wasn’t just about fear anymore. It was about power, control, and a twisted form of love that grew between the two of you. Jonathan Crane wasn’t just your patient—he was your equal, your partner in crime, and the two of you reveled in the chaos you could create together. The city would learn to fear you both, and you’d savor every moment of it.

The Riddler

- Arkham had seen many doctors come and go, but when you introduced yourself to Edward Nygma, better known as the Riddler, he immediately knew you were different. You weren’t just another psychiatrist trying to “fix” him. No, there was something in your eyes, something calculating. You enjoyed puzzles, mysteries, and games of wit—just like he did. You weren’t there to cure him. You were there to challenge him.

- Your first session was more of a mental sparring match than a therapy session. Nygma tested you with riddles, trying to throw you off balance, to make you stumble. But you never missed a beat. Every time he threw a challenge your way, you met it with ease, answering his riddles with a smirk. "Impressive," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But you’re hiding something, aren’t you, doctor?"

- You tilted your head, feigning innocence, but you both knew he was right. Edward Nygma thrived on solving puzzles, and you were a puzzle he wanted to crack. But what he didn’t realize was that you were just as much a player in this game as he was. As the sessions progressed, you began to drop hints, letting him see glimpses of the criminal mind beneath your professional exterior. It fascinated him, the idea that you weren’t just there to help, but that you had your own agenda.

- One day, during a particularly charged conversation about Gotham’s elite and their weaknesses, Nygma leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "You’re like me, aren’t you? You see the world for what it is—a game. And we’re the ones smart enough to win." You didn’t deny it. Instead, you smiled, leaning closer. "Maybe I am."

- That was the turning point. From then on, your sessions were no longer about his rehabilitation—they were about planning. You shared your own insights into Gotham’s corruption, its flaws, its riddles. Nygma loved it. You became partners, planning your own schemes from inside Arkham’s walls. You used your position to feed him information, to help him plot his escape and his next big move.

- The chemistry between you grew with every session, the tension crackling between the two of you like static. It all came to a head one night when, after hours of trading riddles and plotting, Edward stood and crossed the room, pulling you close. "I always did enjoy a good mystery," he whispered before his lips met yours in a fierce, possessive kiss.

- After that, you were inseparable. You weren’t just partners in crime—you were lovers, bound by a shared intellect and a thirst for control. Nygma trusted you in a way he trusted no one else, and you used that trust to help him execute his plans, bending Gotham to your will. Together, you were unstoppable, a pair of masterminds who thrived on chaos and complexity. The city was your playground, and every riddle, every challenge, only brought you closer.

Two-Face

- When you walked into the room for your first session with Harvey Dent, you knew you weren’t meeting the famed district attorney Gotham once adored. No, you were staring at a man who had been broken by fate, his face a stark reminder of the chaos that ruled his life now. But you didn’t flinch. You introduced yourself calmly, sitting across from him like you would any other patient, knowing full well you had your own reasons for being here.

- Two-Face sized you up immediately, his scarred eye twitching slightly as he watched your every move. "Why are you here?" he asked, his voice low and suspicious. You smirked, leaning back in your chair. "Maybe I’m just curious about how someone like you thinks," you replied coolly. He chuckled darkly, flipping his coin in the air. "No one’s ever *just curious* about me, doll."

- Your sessions were a constant tug-of-war. Harvey’s dual nature fascinated you—how he constantly struggled between his desire for justice and the dark side that had overtaken him. You, too, had a duality hidden beneath the surface. You played the part of the psychiatrist well, but beneath that, you were a criminal, drawn to chaos just like him. And as much as he tried to intimidate you, you didn’t back down, and he noticed.

- Harvey respected your strength. The more you pushed back, the more interested he became. He saw something in you, something different from the other doctors who had tried to “fix” him. One day, after a particularly heated session, he tossed the coin in the air, catching it in his palm before smirking. "You know, I’ve got a feeling you’re not so innocent yourself." You met his gaze evenly. "What if I’m not?" That was the moment you saw the shift in his eyes—the dual sides of Harvey Dent were no longer fighting each other, they were intrigued by you.

- It wasn’t long before your relationship took a darker, more intimate turn. One night, after hours of discussing Gotham’s corruption and his place in it, Harvey stood from his chair and crossed the room, pulling you close. The kiss was rough, almost desperate, as if he was trying to claim you as his, but you didn’t resist. You wanted it, wanted him. There was something thrilling about the danger, the unpredictability that came with Two-Face.

- From that moment on, you were his partner in more than just therapy. You helped him plan, working from within Arkham’s walls, aiding him in gathering resources for his next move against Gotham. You fed into both sides of him—the one that craved order and the one that loved chaos. Two-Face trusted you in a way he hadn’t trusted anyone since his fall, and together, you were unstoppable. His coin may have decided fate, but you held the real power in your hands, manipulating the outcome to suit your shared goals. You were drawn to the danger, and with Two-Face by your side, you reveled in the chaos.

The Penguin

- As you introduced yourself to Oswald Cobblepot in Arkham, you could feel his eyes assessing you from head to toe. The Penguin was a man who built his empire on manipulation, control, and knowing exactly who to trust—and who to use. But you weren’t just another psychiatrist walking into his cell. You had your own agenda, and the second you sat down, you knew Penguin would be a challenge worth taking on.

- Oswald wasn’t subtle. "So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this?" he sneered, the cane in his hand tapping the ground softly. You smiled, unphased by his attempt to unnerve you. "Just trying to understand what makes you tick, Mr. Cobblepot." He chuckled, clearly amused. "Is that so? Or are you here for something a little more… profitable?" He had you pegged, and you didn’t deny it. Penguin wasn’t someone who responded to weakness. He respected ambition, and you had plenty of it.

- The sessions became a delicate dance. You learned quickly that Penguin wasn’t just a gangster—he was a mastermind, always ten steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He loved the game, the power plays, the manipulation. And you knew how to play the game just as well. Every conversation with him was layered with unspoken meaning, your words carefully chosen to show you weren’t just another Arkham shrink. Oswald began to respect you, intrigued by your sharp mind and your ability to keep up with him.

- It wasn’t long before the lines blurred between professional and personal. Penguin’s calculating gaze would linger on you a little too long, his smirks becoming something more suggestive. "You’ve got a real talent for this," he’d say during one of your sessions, his voice low and dripping with amusement. "Maybe you should be working for me instead of this place." You didn’t disagree. In fact, the idea thrilled you. Gotham’s underworld was where you truly belonged, and Penguin saw it.

- One evening, after a particularly intense conversation about Gotham’s crime families, Oswald stood, walking around his desk with that unmistakable limp. He stood close, closer than ever before, his hand gently brushing your arm. "You and me, we could run this town," he whispered, his eyes dark with ambition and something more. You felt the electricity between you, the pull of power and attraction, and when he leaned in, you didn’t pull away. The kiss was slow, deliberate, and filled with the promise of what could come.

- After that, you were no longer just his psychiatrist. You became his confidante, his right hand, and eventually, his lover. Together, you plotted his rise back to the top, using your position in Arkham to gather information and pull strings. Penguin admired your cunning, your beauty, and your ambition. You weren’t just someone he used—you were someone he trusted, and in his world, that was more valuable than anything.

- You found yourself falling deeper into Gotham’s criminal underworld, by his side. Oswald respected your mind as much as your beauty, and you thrived in the power he gave you. The city became your playground, and together, you schemed to take it all. Penguin may have been a ruthless crime lord, but with you, he was something more—an equal. And together, no one could stand in your way.

[pochiperpe90]

My TomCillian cinematic universe (always expanding)

[nevis-the-skeleton]

Batman Wither Heart: Doodles Collection 1

Young Harvey and Harv, Duality

Jonathan and Jervis, Movie Night

Some draws of Jonathan

Jervis, Controlled

Jonathan, Psych

Jonathan x Crane (BaneCrow), Dance

Scarecrow, Fear is coming

[sl-newsie]

Behind Masks (Dr. Jonathon Crane x OC) Ch. 24: Love You To Death

Masterlist: https://www.tumblr.com/sl-newsie/744620213809594368/behind-masks-dr-jonathon-crane-x-oc-masterlist?source=share

It was all a lie. Dr. Crane gets the last laugh after all.

My heart drops into my stomach as a guard grips my arms behind me and forces me to stand. I’m led out of the echoing courtroom to the back door. The alley. Where they put bullets through skulls. And now it’s my turn. 

Congratulations, Prentiss. You finally went all the way off the deep end. How could I be such an idiot? All this time I thought… It doesn’t matter now. All I can think about now is how much I hope this will be quick and painless. As painless as being shot in the head can be. 

“On your knees!” The brute orders and kicks me down.

My knees scrape against the pavement. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters.

“Any final comments, Reaper?” The guard taunts.

He restoreth my soul; he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 

“Hello? Are you still here?” He pokes me and I feel the gun press to my temple. “Whatever. Say bye-bye-”

“Stop right there.”

Crane’s voice makes me want to bash my head against the ground. He makes me feel so naïve! If I could work my will I would rip his black heart out and then tear out my own shriveled heart. I hear his footsteps get closer until he’s standing right next to me. I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my broken spirit. Just pull the trigger already.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies. Thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

Crane kneels down next to me and I feel his breathing against my cheek. “Hold your breath and count to ten.”

Hiss! 

The familiar sound of a canister clicking open sends my body reacting on autopilot. I sweep my leg under the gunman, tripping him and sending him crashing to the ground as the fear gas spreads over him. Jonathan helps me to my feet and we watch with shared delight as the man spasms in terror.

“No- No! Get away!” 

Jonathan grabs my hand and I want to scream a million questions at him. Was this a trick? Is this some sort of rescue mission?

Crane pulls me back from the hallucinating man. “Hurry! Before someone-”

“Hey! What the Hell is this?” Another voice yells from down the street. 

A group of citizens wanders into sight. When they see the man screaming on the ground they begin to charge. Crane and I break into a run but he’s too slow. In the corner of my eye I see him get snatched and I turn around to see the mob pin him to the ground. 

“Wait-!” I gasp.

Thud! Thud!

The raging citizens kick at his ribs and Jonathon lets out a muffled cry. The sound makes my blood run cold. Not from the sight of the blood gushing from his mouth. But from the pained gasps and the horror seen behind his piercing blue eyes. An all-too-familiar feeling creeps across my skin. Fear. And this time I react differently.

I grip my knife and slice through one of the people. Blood gushes from the wound and they crumple to the ground. But I don’t stop. Stab. Stab. Cut. Cut. My body stiffens and all I can do is push the wounded citizens off of Jonathon’s limp body. He’s breathing. He’s still conscious. That alone helps to calm my pulse.

What does not supply relief is the pile of bleeding people moaning in pain. Guilt pools in my stomach. So much injury caused by such a small blade…

“C-Calico,” Dr. Crane stutters, clutching his side on the ground behind me. 

It snaps me out of my trance. “Come on. More will come. I will be hunted for dead once they see what I’ve done. And what you committed as well.”

I gently grip his shoulder and help him stand. He is in no condition to flee. Instead I’m forced to lean his nearly limp body against my shoulder to carry half his weight, leading Crane back to his penthouse. 

By the time we get to the bottom of the building’s stairs he’s gripping me to stay standing. The whole way up the stairs Jonathon spurts out gasps of pain. Each tortuous breath makes my heart race even faster. Gone is the man who did not hesitate to mock my weaknesses. Instead I am carrying a man who looks as if life has nearly been pushed out of him. 

I kick open the penthouse door and drag Jonathon to the couch. When he lies his head on the cushion his eyes fly open to stare at me.

“Calm your breathing,” I finally speak. “More than likely your ribs are bruised or broken so it will only make things worse.” I pause a second and swallow my jumping nerves. “Was that- Did you do that to save me?”

Even though he’s wincing in pain Jonathan still rolls his eyes. “Not really a rescue mission so much as a beating.”

Despite his attempt at a joke I cannot relax. I shakily take his hand and stare into those calculating eyes. 

“Remember when I said there’s nothing you can do to change my fear?” Crane nods slowly. “You did. I no longer fear failure. First I thought it was the fear of being loved, then it was fear of being alone. But now the greatest terror my mind can conjure is seeing you hurt like this. The fear of being alone without you.”

Something changes in Jonathon’s face. The shadow of doubt. “You must be in shock.”

I shake my head. “We all wear masks, Jonathan. Some… less obvious than others. Sometimes we’re trapped behind them, sometimes we hide behind them. Use them to lie, cheat, love…”

“How can you love someone behind a mask?” Dr. Crane murmurs.

A hint of a playful smile crosses my face. “You should know. You’ve been witnessing it first-hand.”

It clicks. Jonathan immediately catches my confession and pulls his head back. “This isn’t real. This can’t be real. This is all a hallucination…”

His disbelief saddens me. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I can’t love you,” Jonathan whispers and brings a hand up to touch my scraped cheek. “My obsession is fear. I can’t… but I want to.”

This is what we’ve been circling around. His obsession with fear and my spiraling mind. I guess the pressure of my fear set me off and Jonathon’s helped me to pick up the pieces. Why do our passions need to separate us when they are what caused our attraction in the first place?

“Being insane doesn’t make you incapable of love,” I reason.

Jonathan scoffs. “Clearly that’s proven by Quinzel and the Joker.”

My eyes narrow. “You’re basing this off of them?”

“Right. Good point. We’re much more civilized.” His eyes soften and begin to scan me. “I respect the mind’s power over the body. It’s how I do what I do. And right now my mind is trying not to dwindle on your intriguing mind... and your body too.”

I can finally admit it to myself. I’ve fallen in love with Dr. Jonathan Crane.

“No matter how hard I study it, no amount of books or research can help me understand romantic involvement.”

“Is this a new fear I see, Prentiss?” Jonathan asks, fascinated. “Philophobia, perhaps?”

I arch a brow. “Are you really going to mock my confession when we both know I’m more than capable of punching your teeth out right now?”

He licks some blood off his lips. “You can do that after I kiss you.”

And I let him. Jonathan leans in and captures me in the same mesmerizing feeling as before. Despite the metallic taste of blood the touch of his lips still makes me go limp. He pulls me closer until my upper half is lying on the couch next to him. I want to allow his embrace but don’t want to risk hurting his ribs.

Jonathan pulls away and leans his forehead to mine.  “Who knew my favorite patient would be my downfall? The death-obsessed Reaper.”

I give a small chuckle. “Sounds like a new method of murder. Do you think I’m going to love you to death?”

He lets out an annoyed groan. “As cheesy as that sounds, that wouldn’t be such a bad way to go if it was coming from you.”

“Are you going soft on me, doctor?” I tease and move a strand of his hair from his face.

“My mind is still wild enough to keep you guessing, Dr. Prentiss,” he smirks. “It is my ribs who have gone soft.”

Right. His injuries. “Would you like me to examine them?” I ask in a more serious manner.

Jonathan’s smile widens. “Darling, you never have to ask to examine me.”

I roll my eyes and tug away his shirt, ignoring his pained grunt. The bruising on his chest looks like a rigid pattern against his pale skin. This is the first time seeing him nearly shirtless and I can’t say I’m disappointed. There’s no question that he’s as skinny as he appears. Some girls might find this unappealing but it’s not his scrawny physique that attracts me. It’s his ‘wid mind,’ clever wit, and those eyes that stare at me as if I’m the center of his universe.

“Are you still here, sweetheart?”

My head jerks up. How long have I been staring- er, examining? Jonathan’s looking at me like I’m a child caught stealing a cookie from the jar.

“I- I’m still here.”

“That bad, hm?” He looks down at his wounds.

“No, it’s worse. You are still Dr. Crane,” I joke and playfully nudge his shoulder. “You’re fine. It looks like only bruising, no broken ribs. The best I can do is suggest bedrest and possibly dig up some narcotics around here. I don't know how long until someone comes looking for us but we'll cross that bridge when it appears. Sit tight. I’ll get a cloth to clean off the dirt.”

I sit up and begin to stand-

“You’re tending to me? After what…”

Jonathan trails off and I sense a touch of guilt in his voice. He must be talking about what transpired in Arkham.

“You’re right, Dr. Crane. If it weren’t for you I might still have half of my sanity left.” He hangs his head and I change to a more caring tone. “And if it weren’t for you I never would have believed I could fall in love. You made me into who I was supposed to be and you love me anyway. You’re in love with a killer and I’m in love with a mad scientist.”

Jonathan’s guilty face softens. “I suppose we’re both damaged. You know, Dr. Prentiss, you attract what you fear.”

I press another kiss to his cheek. “I guess I won the fear lottery.”

[joyjoy-the-troll]

Happy (late) Valentine day!

[lesbians4armand]

absolutely heartbreaking to find that there are only 28 bane/crane fics on ao3. do you guys not see the potential here???

[butterfly-lies-chase-them-away]

Kia Ora Koutou,  I finally got through the last list of requests and fics!! Thank you so much everyone for requesting, I could have never imagined this much love and stuff for my fics like..ever! so to have all these requests and other things like comments and all that come through means a lot to me, and i hope i can deliver good fics for yous ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ I have the end of next month off, so I'll be able to write more often then, but for now, i just gotta try fit writing in between life :,) I've also updated my masterlists and request thingys, so yeah..wee~

This is the order in which I'll try to write everything: - Behind the Mask (Part 2) - Bunny (part 3) - Secret Ties (Part 2) - You are the right one (part 2) - Raymond request - Jonathan Crane Song request - Jackson Ripner request And these (with them only being headcanons) I'll just write sometime between the other fics above: - Montgomery Gator headcanon - Bane headcanon

Also with Part 6 to Office Hours/Bells, I'll just squeeze it in somewhere (as I ended up cutting part 5 up so it wouldn't be so long and so i could get it out sooner)

Sorry for the wait everyone, Nga mihi 💚

[ninja-potato-shelby-solomons]

When she's a whore but she's also your sweet pretty babygirl who belongs to you and only you.

[clearphilosophercandy]

[scarecr0ws]

Latest chapter of What A Surprise! is now up!

[mothhball]

Beneath me

Pairing || professor!Jonathan Crane x student!Reader

Warnings || 18+ SMUT, NON-CON, DUB-CON, forced breeding, fingering, p in v sex, housewife kink(?), humiliation, dumbification, misogyny, unprotected sex, age gap (professor and student, everyone’s an adult), brief dacryphilia, condescending use of petnames, jon is a prick in this but gets better towards the end (if you squint hard enough)

Summary || The professor suspects you cheated on your exam, but you’re determined to prove him wrong.

Words || 3.7k

Notes || First ever fic and it’s smut because I love suffering. English isn’t my first language, so I hope everything makes sense. Please don’t read if you’re uncomfortable with anything mentioned in the warnings

Afternoon lectures. The bane of many students’ existence, yours included. You’d been on campus since 9 am, trying to catch up on homework and study material for the most dreaded class of the day. Abnormal Psychology, presented by none other than Professor Jonathan Crane. Crane with his smart suits and piercing eyes. Crane with his condescending remarks and off-handed insults. Crane with his ridiculously handsome face and –

“Are you even listening to me?” The man in question is now standing in front of you, staring you down with narrowed eyes as his lips pull down into a frown. Yes, right. It’s 5 pm now, almost the end of the lecture and time to get your exam results back. You shake yourself out of your stupor, glancing down at the paper he left on your desk. But instead of a grade, you only see a bold red question mark which takes up almost a fourth of the entire first page. Crane clears his throat impatiently, and his mood sours more and more the longer he has to stand next to your seat.

“I said, you will meet me in my office after class. Is that understood? And I’d suggest you get your head in order until then,” he hisses, icy blue eyes filled with disdain. Your heart sinks, and you can feel the blood leaving your face as you manage to nod rather stiffly.

“Of course… Professor Crane, “ you murmur in reply, and upon hearing that, the professor quickly resumes his round around the lecture hall, handing back grades to your fellow students. As the first people pack up their things and begin to file out of the room, you slowly pack up as well. Your hands are cold from anxiety as you zip up your bag and get up from your seat. Meeting Professor Crane in his office was the last thing you wanted to do right now. The plan was to go home, grab takeout on the way and curl up in bed with a movie starring this forty-something year old actor you have the hots for. But God forbit anyone in Gotham wants to have a nice time.

Soon enough, you find yourself in Crane’s office, taking the seat in front of his desk and folding your hands in your lap to keep from fidgeting. The professor runs a hand through his hair, looking you over with a skeptical glare before he straightens his posture and gets to the point.

“I’m disappointed, shocked and quite frankly, I feel personally insulted.”

Your brows furrow, but before you can speak, he pulls out two stacks of paper, smacking them down on the desk. You quickly recognize one stack as a copy of your exam, but as you look over at the other, it feels like someone froze time for a moment. It’s someone else’s exam, but they wrote down the same answers. Not word for word, but in a way and structure that’s quite obviously plagiarized. Squinting at the name, you remember the guy sitting next to you, and anger bubbles up inside of your chest.

“He cheated off of me,” you mutter, trying to stay calm.

“Brennan said the same thing. Funny how that works, huh? And in case it went over your head, I don’t find it funny at all. But I will have to fail one of you. The question is, which one will it be?”

He takes his glasses off, gingerly setting the spectacles aside before he pinches the bridge of his nose. A little dramatic, but very much expected from him.

“Look, I’m not saying you were the one cheating off of Brennan,” He starts, sounding exhausted and absent at the same time. Like this is all beneath him. Like your future in his class has as much importance as the piece of lint he’s picking off of his sweater vest. “But there’s no real proof that he cheated off of you either. It’s a case of ‘he said, she said’. And it’s not like Brennan had much reason to cheat. He has had consistently good grades, whereas you-“

“I’ll prove it, “ you interrupt him without thinking, clenching your hands so tightly that your nails dig into the skin of your palms. Crane looks visibly taken aback, perplexed that you have the gall to intercept before he could expose your rather mediocre academic history in his class. You know you’re average. A face in the crowd; one of many names on an attendance sheet he barely pays attention to.

“I’ll prove it to you,” you repeat, swallowing dryly. Your mouth suddenly feels like you ate sand, and you really want to clear your throat, but you’ve done so thrice within the past five minutes, and you can tell it’s starting to piss him off. “Give me a chance, please. Please, Professor Crane. I know the material, I swear.”

Crane’s eyes briefly dart down to your lips, and his eyebrows furrow in thought before he nods slowly, thoughtfully. He’s making a show of it. Portraying himself as the generous teacher while you’re desperate for even the smallest chance of passing this goddamn class.

“Alright,” He sighs, and the weight seems to lift off of your shoulders. A smile begins to spread on your face, and –

 “Get out a pen. And paper. You’re going to write an essay.”

Eyebrows raised in confusion, you tilt your head a little. You almost feel stupid to ask.

“What, right now?”

“Of course, right now. At home, you’d get the chance to cheat again, wouldn’t you?”

Again. He’s still convinced you were the one to cheat on your exam. His tone is bitingly condescending and he doesn’t bother to elaborate further as he gets up from his chair to head over to the almost overflowing bookshelf next to his desk. You’re still sitting there, hands in your lap until he lets out an exasperated sigh, signaling for you to get a move on. Not wanting to incur even more of his wrath, you dig through your bag to get out a pen and some loose sheets of paper.

In the meantime, Crane has chosen a book from his shelf, and he’s wordlessly flipping through the pages until he lands on a fitting topic for an essay. He snaps the book shut and returns to his desk, fixing his tie as he nods to himself.

“Alright. I want 5 pages on fear conditioning. If you truly studied for the exam, this should be a piece of cake. If you didn’t, this will be an embarrassing little lecture you’re in dire need of learning.”

Your eyes widen, and you stammer for a moment, unable to find the words while staying respectful.

“That many? But it’s already –“

“Five-thirty pm? I hope you didn’t have any plans for tonight. And you should be grateful that I don’t have plans either. I’m staying late for your sake. Because you convinced me to give you a chance. I don’t have to do this, you know? I could just fail you and go home. So, I think a little gratitude would be more than appropriate.” There’s an odd expression in his eyes. Halfway between hunger and conflict. He’s usually so composed. You must really be testing his patience.

“Thank you, Prof –“ “Thank me by getting to it already.”

You nod meekly, grabbing the pen and beginning to jot down the date and your name in the corner of the first page. While you’re focused on the introduction part of your essay, you miss the way that Crane folds his hands on the desk, gripping so hard his knuckles turn white. His icy gaze is focused on every twitch of your muscles, every swoop of your handwriting, every time you softly bite your lips in thought. If only you’d look up. You’d see the way his jaw is set and his pupils expand. You’d realize the situation you’re in. A bunny with its neck in the jaws of the wolf.

You’re about two thirds done with the first page when he wheels his chair around the desk, closer to yours. Once his arm brushes against you, you pause to lift your gaze, looking at him with equal parts confusion and curiosity.

“Uhm… professor? What are you doing?”

“Checking on your progress,” Is his curt reply, but he leans in even closer, staring down at your half-baked essay. “Eyes on the paper.”

You comply, getting back to writing after a short second of sorting your thoughts. It’s more difficult to write with him basically breathing down your neck, and your heart skips a beat when he scoots even closer. Despite this, you keep on writing. Until his hand lands on your thigh.

You tense, looking up at him. Your lips part, and you’re about to say something before he speaks first.

“Eyes. On. The. Paper. We’re going to simulate a stressful, distracting environment. Not unlike a lecture hall during an exam. If you can keep your cool, I’ll know you didn’t cheat.”

You bite your lip, hesitating.

“Or I could fail you right now, and you’ll prove me and my suspicions right.”

Back to writing it is. Your hand is a little shakier during the next few sentences while the warmth of his fingers seeps through the fabric of your skirt into your skin. But you get back into the motions, almost able to ignore him until his hand flexes and begins to wander. A shiver runs down your spine as his touch slips underneath your skirt, feeling the soft flesh on the inside of your thigh.

“That’s it. Keep writing. Try to show me how smart you are.”

Crane’s voice is a snide whisper right next to your ear. His breath sends a shiver down your spine, but you keep your focus on the essay. Well, at least some of it. Once his fingers brush over the crotch of your panties, your breath hitches as heat builds in your core. But you can’t even get a word in.

“Run your mouth and your final grade drops to an F. You’re on my time now, understood? Not a fucking word to anyone or else a failed class will be the least of your worries.”

You’ve never heard him curse before. The man sitting beside you, the man with his hand under your skirt isn’t the professor you’ve known throughout the semester. No, at this point, the mask is slipping and the difference is startling. Crane pushes your skirt up with one hand and your legs apart with the other, letting out a low, appreciative hum at the sight of your wet panties.

“Fuck. You’re soaking through the lace, aren’t you? I didn’t even touch you yet… Are you always this easy? Almost adorable… Keep writing for me.”

His words make your ears burn with embarrassment, and you bite down on the inside of your cheek as you get back to your essay. It’s getting harder to think. Especially once his fingers slip underneath your panties, running between your glistening folds. Crane quickly finds your clit, rubbing circles into the sensitive bundle of nerves for a deliciously brief moment before he moves his hand further down to your entrance.

“Now you’re being grateful, hm? Is this what you were thinking about while everyone else was making an effort during my lectures? While everyone else was busy doing their work… you were getting worked up in your seat thinking about me. Thinking about me playing with your little cunt.”

The corners of his lips pull up into a self-satisfied grin as he plunges a finger inside of you, and you can’t help but let out a soft sigh of pleasure. You’re so wet that he’s not meeting any resistance from your sweet pussy, so he quickly adds a second one. The slick noises are obscene, and you duck your head in an attempt to hide your flushed face and focus on the essay, but it’s futile. You’re writing complete and utter nonsense at this point, and he knows it. Crane scoots his chair even closer, pressing up against your side as he works his fingers inside of you, caressing that spongy spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. As he looks over your shoulder to catch a glimpse of your writing, he scoffs out a laugh.

“Goodness, sweetie. That’s what your pretty little head managed to come up with so far? All this talk about wanting to prove yourself, and you deliver this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more pathetic attempt at an essay in all my years of teaching.”

Tears well up in your eyes at the harshness of his words, and the sight of it makes Crane’s cock harden in his slacks. He licks his lips, curling his fingers inside of you with a little more urgency as he leans in to whisper into the crook of your neck.

“Let out those noises. I guarantee they’re worth more than every brainless contribution you’ve ever made in my class.”

It’s an order, not a request, and you find yourself unable to keep quiet anymore as his thumb comes up to rub your clit again. Your wetness is starting to drip down onto the seat below you while you let out a breathy moan, and you begin to doubt yourself. Maybe you really are as empty-headed as he says. To your dismay, this thought only causes the tension in your core to build up even faster.

“There we go. Close to cumming from being fingered by your professor. You’re so needy, so eager for the slightest bit of attention. A toy that needs to be played with 24/7. Aren’t you ashamed?”

You let out another moan of pleasure and humiliation, clenching around his digits as he stretches you open. When did you forget how to speak?

“Trying to play in the big leagues while you’re just a dumb little fuckpet for my enjoyment,” he hisses, before he sinks his teeth into your earlobe, causing you to squeak. It hurts. But that’s the point. You’re so close to the edge, toes curling inside of your shoes. And then suddenly, he withdraws his hand. You catch a glimpse of his glistening fingers, and you turn your head just in time to watch him lick your juices off of them. He lets out a groan, satisfied by your taste.

“Get up. Hands on the desk.”

You scramble to get up, standing on wobbly legs as you bend over Crane’s desk. The professor wastes no time, grabbing onto your sopping wet panties and ripping them off of you. The fabric shreds beneath his hands, leaving your skin stinging where it cut slightly into the soft flesh of your thighs. Your skirt is flipped up, exposing your rear to him, and he moans out another sound of appreciation. His hands come up to grab onto the meat of your ass, spreading them apart to allow him a perfect view of your dripping cunt.

“Lord knows you’re not made for higher education.”

Crane leans in, licking a stripe up between your folds, and you bite down on a knuckle to keep in the pathetic moan that hangs on your lips. Your body is desperately begging you to just let him take what he wants from you, but your mind clings onto the last shred of dignity you have. When the sound of his belt being undone tears you from your thoughts, you turn your head, looking at him from over your shoulder.

“Wait –“ You start, suddenly struck by the reality of it all.

Crane chuckles at the expression of wide-eyed apprehension on your face.

“You’re not braindead already, are you? What did you think was going to be the logical conclusion of this? Of course, I’m going to bury my dick in you. Fuck, if you were this tight around my fingers, I can’t wait to feel you squeezing my cock….”

“No, I –“

“Shh, no need to worry. Judging by your essay, you don’t have the mental capacity anyway.”

Crane roughly grabs a fistful of your hair, pushing your head down until your cheek meets the wooden surface of his desk while he hurriedly unzips his slacks. He’s painfully hard at this point, straining against the fabric of his boxers, and he lets out a relieved hiss once he’s finally freed himself. He leans over you, pressing his weight into your back and aligning himself with your tight hole before he pushes his hips forward. You’re immobilized under him, squished against the desk as he fills you with his length. Crane’s lips find your pulse, licking and nibbling at your neck as he bottoms out inside of you, shuddering from the sensation of your plush walls around his cock.

“Good girl… you’re so wet. All for me, huh? Yes… just for me.” He moans through his teeth, leaning back a little to watch as your pussy stretches around him when he begins to slowly thrust into you. You let out a soft whine in response, not quite adjusted to him yet. But if you know anything about him at this point, it’s that he doesn’t care.

“I know, sweetheart, it’s a lot. Just relax – shh, shh, that’s it. You feel so good, squeezing me like a proper toy. All obedient and sweet… you really were built for this.“

He lifts his hand, landing a smack on your ass before he pulls out all the way and pushes back in, letting out a condescending laugh at the way you shiver. You can feel how deep he reaches, hitting every spot while he stretches you out with calculated thrusts. His pace begins to speed up, and his other hand wraps around your throat to keep you close as he pounds into you. Coherent thought becomes difficult for you, and even if you did want to say something, it’s suddenly made impossible when Crane pushes two fingers into your mouth, almost making you gag.

“Needy little thing. Bent over and babbling like a whore. But you -fuuuck - you take me so well, don’t you? All tight and sopping wet for my cock to stretch you out...”

He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, yanking you back by your hair to make you lift your torso up from the desk. The carefully crafted persona of a calm, reasonable Professor Dr. Jonathan Crane has completely slipped from his face now and shattered by his feet like Fine China. His hands move quickly, urgently as his rhythm begins to stutter. The fingers that are now soaked with your saliva make their way back between your legs to circle your clit while his other hand leaves your hair to tear open your blouse, sending the buttons flying everywhere.

His teeth find your neck again as he grabs at your chest, kneading your soft breasts as he marks you up. Hickeys, bruises, bite marks. He leaves them behind to claim. To own. Your climax hits you like a truck, knocking the air from your lungs as he fucks you through your orgasm, not faltering for a second. Stars fill your vision for a moment, and you’re only vaguely aware of the kisses that he’s pressing to your cheek. Your walls are clenching him tightly, causing him to curse under his breath.

Crane swallows heavily, rasping into your ear between shallow breaths.

“Tell you what… No more thinking about essays. In fact, I don’t want you to think ever again. No more exams… no more studies. As if you’d ever be someone of importance in this field to begin with. No, no… I won’t let you waste your time on a silly little Bachelor’s anymore... Fuckpets like you only need to be bred. I’m gonna be generous and fuck a child into you.”

Your eyes snap wide open, and even with your cock-drunken brain, you realize just how serious he is about this. In an attempt to get away, you begin to struggle in his grasp, but he replies by kicking your legs further apart, forcing you down against the desk again. The wooden edge digs against your thighs, keeping your hips in place for him as he plows you into the piece of furniture. Your cheek is pressed up against your unfinished essay, reminding you of your failure on all accounts as you drool onto the paper.

Your hands are clawing at the desk, trying to find purchase when his own hands find yours, linking your fingers together in a frighteningly intimate gesture. Crane continues to moan your name, pressing his face into the crook of your neck before he pushes his cock as deep as he can into your poor cunt, filling you with his hot cum. He lazily rocks his hips back and forth a few more times, trying to push in his load as far as he can before he finally stills, panting against your skin. He stays on your back for another few moments, breathing in your scent and idly squeezing your hands with his.

Once his breathing has evened out once more, he straightens up, kissing the top of your head before he pulls out. Crane watches as his seed drips out of you, a glint of amusement and possessiveness in his eyes as he pushes it back into you with two fingers. You feel completely boneless, crumpled on the desk as you try to make sense of what happened and what will happen. The silence doesn’t last long before Crane speaks up again.

“In the morning, you’ll make me breakfast, and in the evening, you’ll cream on my cock. Like a proper little housewife. And I’ll get to see your tits swell and your belly expand as our kid grows inside of you,” He muses, running his hands over your shoulders and down your back, a gesture that’s more meant to ground himself than it is meant to soothe you.

His voice is soft, yet eerily determined. A man that’s planning the future out loud. Unbeknownst to you, he’s reaching into his suit pocket behind you, pulling out a small syringe filled with a clear liquid.

“And if you get bored again and your mind starts to wander, I’ll knock you up again and again until you know your place. Face down, ass up. Beneath me.”

[cherrycranes]

Under His Desk (Judge Jonathan Crane x Fem!Reader) [+18]

Pairing: Judge Jonathan Crane x female reader. Summary: Your husband is Judge Crane and you get under his desk while he's working. Word count: 1,159 Contents: +18 (minors DNI), oral sex (male receiving), public (but you're hidden under the desk), death of a made-up character. Autor's notes: As you can tell, I have on obsession with Judge Crane that is not meant to stop. Mandatory "english is not my first language" disclaimer.

Things went in interesting directions after Bane took over Gotham. And your villainous husband Jonathan, seizing the opportunity, decided to get more... Theatrical... Because of it. A side of him you never imagined he had.

It all started with his suits. Seeing the pointlessness of proper presentation in the anarchy, Jonathan got creative. Tearing at the shoulders of his suit so the messed up threads resembled the hay popping out of a scarecrow. He also stopped ironing his shirts, no real scarecrow had wrinkle-free clothes.

Then, he allowed his now grayish stubble to grow. Something inconceivable to the younger, perfectly polished Doctor Crane.

But 'Doctor Crane' was a thing of the past. Your husband had stopped practicing psychiatry a long time ago anyways. You were both full time criminals, going in and out of Arkham or prison semi-regularly until Bane took over and the changes began.

The man you had married and stuck with through thick and thin had metamorphosed into a dramatical representation of his moniker: unpolished, shamelessly torn at the seams and scary.

It's not like he was going to get judged for it. In fact, he was the one doing the judging.

Bane appreciated the Scarecrow. He was a self-declared admirer of his fear toxin. Thus, he pretty much gave him free will over a kangaroo court set to sentence the enemies of the people of Gotham.

This is where you now found yourself at. Jonathan put you in charge of collecting all the information available of the accused parties, specifically anything incriminating. You were his most trusted advisor, and, in a way, you were the one to decide if the person investigated was worthy of a death sentence. If they hadn't done anything that could really anger the people of Gotham or Bane, your word was enough to earn them a lighter sentence. Although, this rarely happened. Every day they always brought scum after scum to the sentencing chair. And your husband always ended the hearing with a sentence of death or exile. Both deadly either way.

Obviously, this only meant that after easily finding their crime and guilt, you had nothing else to do in the courtroom. And Jonathan didn't want you out there in the lawless land. So you lazed around. Sitting on his lap or on one of the many desks that formed his big mountain of judgment. Sometimes you read books or just watched the scene unfold. But some other times, when the hearings went on for long and you were restless, you would kneel under your husband's main desk and hear him struggle to keep his composure.

"NOW. Mister Smith. You have been accused of treason to the people of Gotham! How do you- ..." Jonathan paused, holding back a little sound at the feeling of your hands undoing his zipper and taking his cock out of his pants. He smirked after a quick recovery. You always caught him off guard when you did that but he was always eager.

"How do you plea, Mister Smith?" Jonathan repeated sternly, pretending that his beloved wife wasn't stroking his dick under his desk.

"Innocent! I'm innocent, sir! Please!" Mister Smith begged, completely unaware that his plea didn't matter at all. His fate was pre-decided, and Judge Crane was asking him just to toy with him and be an asshole.

The crowd present protested against Mister Smith's words, screaming insults at him and calling him a traitor. Jonathan slammed his gavel, commanding the room to be quiet, and masking the reaction he had when you licked the tip of his dick.

"ORDER!" He yelled, slamming the gavel one more time as you swirled your hot tongue around the head, your hand pumping the rest.

"Please, Sir. I haven't done anything! Please!" Mister Smith insisted, and Jonathan was glad he had, because it gave him an excuse to keep masking his growing pleasure by slamming the gavel a third time.

"Order, Mister Smith." Something in Jonathan's voice faltered ever so slightly. A 'don't-pay-attention-and-you-miss-it' sort of weakness produced by the feeling of your pretty mouth taking him in inch by inch.

Jonathan exhaled hotly. He pretended to adjust his glasses and read the case files. You, hidden under the desk, continued with your slow torture.

You had to be stealthy, being almost obvious was your husband's job. So in order to not gag around his length, you hummed. A low vibration concentrated in your throat that was always a killer for Jonathan and his sensitive cock.

"Mister... Tobias Smith..." Your head started to move, your humming never stopped. Judge Crane swallowed thickly and his nostrils flared in an expression that poor Mister Smith must have read as irritation towards him.

"You have been declared guilty of charges of high treason..." Just when he thought he had it under control, you started to hollow out your cheeks. The suction made his cock twitch.

"You have the choice here..." Judge Crane lied with a groan. The case files started to get wrinkly in his hands and you only got brutal. Sucking, humming, bobbing your head and moving your tongue as much as you could and as fast as you could get.

"Exile!... Or... Or death!" Jonathan stumbled upon his words and he quickly placed a hand over your hair, a silent sign for you to slow it down, to have mercy on him. But as he didn't have mercy on the man in front of him, you didn't have mercy on him.

The crowd, thankfully, yelled again. Clamoring for death or exile in a big entanglement of voices. If it were for Jonathan, he would leave them to quarrel so he could cum.

Your warm mouth felt so good around him, your humming sent him straight to heaven. The fact that you, his love, his wife, were always there to please him, to love him and make him feel worshiped, made his heart burst out of his chest and his balls tighten. You were always so good to him, he had a hard time not grabbing you, pushing you ass up over his desk and fucking you right there, for everyone to see and envy.

But he couldn't. Against his most primal desires, he had a Bane-given duty to fulfill... And a sentence to announce.

Nearing his orgasm and with his senses overwhelmed, Judge Crane slammed the gavel a final time.

"DEATH!" He growled, not even listening to the sentenced man's choice after all. His jaw trembled and his knuckles went pale from his iron grip on the handle. The commotion of the crowd that so eagerly obeyed his command, and the screams of Mister Smith served as the smoke screen he needed. The carnage took up all the attention. Nobody in that room even noticed Judge Crane leaning back on his chair with his head thrown back and his eyes shut. Thick hot ropes of cum went down your throat so easily, the only thing that made you flinch was the sound of a gunshot that ended Mister Smith's wails.