Dr. Jonathan Crane, PhD
Independent rp blog.
Faceclaim is Adrien Brody.
Blog rebooted as of 7/10/14.

Song: Didn't Leave Nobody But the Baby
Artist: O Brother, Where Art Thou?

kisswithpoison asked:
Forget you ever met me.

With the many macabre interests the young
and deranged Jonathan Crane had, it was a
small wonder that it took so long for Pamela
Ives, his recent Chemistry partner, to go


"I don’t think it’s that unethical. I mean, they’re
not sentient. I’m sure baiting carrions to attack
a member of their social cell with pheromones
— I mean, they’re just animals! Think of the
scientific significance — we could win awards —
a-and not just petty high school medals, b-but —

harlequinzel asked:
Are you just going to disappear on me again?


"It is a necessary evil, I’m afraid. Arkham has
a new shipment of experimental psychoactives
on the way, and I intend to walk away with it. If
I have to deal with shocks and a few new needle
marks on the inside of my arm, then —-“


"Wait. Disappear on you?

… Harleen, I’m coming back. And my door is always
open for you. You know that. My only reservations
are that you please keep my books organized in
their present system, but… I can leave you with a

Angsty Sentence Starters 

  • Are you just going to disappear on me again?
  • Are you saying that this is my fault?
  • Don’t pretend like you ever cared.
  • Everything was a lie, I was just using you.
  • Forget you ever met me.
  • How could you leave me here?
  • How long have you known about the affair?
  • I always knew I’d end up hating you.
  • I don’t think I can trust you anymore, or ever again.
  • I hope you never forgive me for what I did to you.
  • I needed you and you weren’t there.
  • I never want to hear your name again.
  • I remember when you made me happy, I don’t know what I was thinking.
  • I should have never trusted you.
  • I thought you said you’d never hurt me.
  • If this is goodbye, make sure I never see you again.
  • It was fun while it lasted, but I can’t do this anymore.
  • Just the thought of being around you makes me feel sick.
  • People have died because of you!
  • Please tell me what I did wrong, what I can do to fix this.
  • There’s no such thing as love, at least not between us.
  • Was everything a lie?
  • We used to have something great and now I can’t get far enough away from you.
  • We’ll never be able to go back to how we were.
  • What about all those nights, do they mean nothing to you?
  • What we had meant nothing to me.
  • You can’t just walk away like nothing happened!
  • You never want to see me again?
  • You used to give me hope and now you give me nothing.
  • You’re so caught up with impressing everyone that doesn’t matter.

(Source: inboxmemethings)


the  new ask meme: send me literally anything and ill tell you something i hate about it


Had she pushed him too far? Expected too much of her fragile lover? Perhaps, even, loved him too much? The hurt in his eyes nearly destroys her, knowing too well the symptoms of his condition. She knew his diagnosis, just as he knew hers. What a pair, the two of them. Jonathan masquerading for her sake, and Harley? Was she truly as sane as she liked to believe? Or was she just pretending too, trying to convince herself she’s not as twisted as the rest.

For her, he was doing this for her. To protect her, save her, keep her away from the darkness inside him. How could she hate him for that? No, she couldn’t. He was doing more for her than the Joker ever did. This was love, wholly and truly. The love of her life, Jonathan Crane.

Her grip relaxes, coming to stroke his cheek. “Jonathan…” How foolish had she been to try and force him into this when he had already done so much for her. “You’re not a better man, you’re my man. My Jonathan.” The woman in the chair was all but forgotten, pushed away as she traces his lips. Those thin chapped lips she loved so much, and it’s in that clarity, she realizes how wrong she was to try and change him. This was the man she loved from afar, the man she had wanted. Not the quiet man in the hotel room consumed with his books, but the twisted, calculating man before her. She had tried so desperately to forsake everything instilled in her by the Joker, she ignored her own, more eccentric nature.

Full lips meet those of her lovers, she can taste poison on his lips, it’s bittersweet, much like the madman himself. If anything, above all else, she’s addicted to Jonathan. An addictive personality. She once used those words to describe herself. How true they rang now. Once she had thought that she would be strong without a man, but she’d only traded in one madman for another. What’s worse? She liked it that way. She liked loving the danger, making love to the darkness of the world. And she wanted Jonathan, even with the mask.

“You don’t have to stop. I wont make you stop. Just— no more lies, no more secrets. I want to know—. I want you to show me.”

Is it curiosity? Maybe desperation. She just knows she wants him and him alone. Her Jonathan. She could forgive him for the dosing, after all it was she who pushed him. How selfish could she be? How wrong to try and lock him up in her heart, as her vision of him? No, she knows better now. Knows that she needs to embrace him for all he is, even the darkness inside.

She brings her lips to his once more, pale digits running through his dark locks.

“Kill her for me.”

They are, bittersweetly so, a toxic pair. Jonathan, who’s desperation and cruelty leads him to subvert Harleen’s sense of self and promote that love-struck stockholm disaster that Joker had made of her, and Harleen, whose pretty face and tender, sweet words beguile that lonely, agonizing old man. In the end, they are as crows on the corpse of their shared experiences, picking pieces of themselves away with sharp talons and pointed beaks. Jonathan, on his knees in front of her, is reeling at the totality of Harley’s change of heart. It strikes him like her hand to his cheek just moments ago, and once again his frantic, glassy eyes are searching hers for some degree of understanding that he dare not ask for verbally as she peppered his mouth with warm, tender kisses. She wanted someone who would chase the darkness away. And now?

She wanted the darkness, Himself.

Trembling for the fear of finding himself once again alone and departed from the promise of her affections, he tentatively rose, reaching for the familiar comfort of his mask. Is this a trick? A test? Some kind of twisted lie to see exactly how far gone he truly is? But how evil a woman would she be to test him in such a fashion — how cruel and calculative she is, how torturesome. Solitude is his heart’s sole occupant, and, yes… he would show her. He would kill the innocent writhing in the examination chair — torture her, make her scream. And, if need be, he would pin Harleen’s eyelids open to make her watch what he is.

What kind of monster she’d put behind bars and shamed. The whole and unsightly truth of Jonathan Crane: the Scarecrow.

Perhaps something changes in his eyes. Perhaps it changes in his voice, or in the way he carries himself. He’s never watched his own likeness on television or had a mirror present. He’s never wanted to know. But whatever it is that shifts in him that imbues him with power and unwavering confidence — whatever sheds him of his insecurities and unmoving emotional emptiness — emerges. Not another man altogether, but a persona adopted in desperation for those valuable assets such as bravado and unapologetic maliciousness.

With his mask on, he stays a moment to look upon Harleen as if she too is in awe of him and his godly power over the human mind. As if she, in this precise moment, understood exactly why he needed this. Shoulders squared and chin held high, he is no longer her sweet, soft-spoken doctor, who occupies himself with old romantics like Keats and Wordsworth and Joyce.

And so he turns to his much-valued guest. A bony finger clicks the record button on a portable audio recorder.

"Resuming Subject 164; Rosie Alverez, age twenty-four. Current pulse, 210 beats per minute, just shy of target goal of 250." Giving his back for less than a moment, he returned, recording device replaced with a glimmering silver syringe. "Would you care to do the honors, Dr. Quinnzel?"



     Ivy begged her chemistry teacher to not have a partner, she is smarter than most of her class. Despite her begging, he told her no. She had her partner and it was Jonathan Crane. He was in her class, well at least she thinks he is. Ivy walked through the halls, desperately looking for the boy. She finally spotted him near his locker. Pamela walked up to him and cleared her throat. 


Jonathan, right? I’m Pamela. We have chemistry together and we are partners for the semester project. Just thought I’d come and introduce myself.

The highlight of any afternoon (as English Literature was in one of the morning periods!) was, of course, chemistry. Any self-respecting young man with a passion for the workings of both mind and body would find himself equally enchanted when it came to tales of Agrippa, Magnus, and Paracelcus, who paved the way to the atom bomb and penicillin with their endeavors into the primordial and now defunct art of alchemy.

Granted this unparalleled appreciation for the subject, it would stand to reason that he would be quite sour upon the prospect of a partner. After all, no scientist enjoys putting another name beside their own on their cover page. 

"Hmm." It was more of an acknowledgement toward the situation, not entirely revealing his disposition towards the fact. However, as he continued, a Southern drawl betrayed his newness to Gotham and was, in his opinion at least, quite grating on sensible ears. "The Countess of Pembroke’s Arcadia, late 16th century England — ‘all sweetness,’ or ‘all honey,’ I believe. Your name, I mean. It’s quite uncommon today, I understand.

"Jonathan Crane. ‘S nice to meet you, miss."

No hand proffered for the sake of a genial handshake, but generally polite in the Southern fashion, despite.


Becky has seen skinny boys before, of course. She’s in high school. There is no shortage of boys who grow up faster than they can grow out. But not once has she realized how she would fit like this against one of them like they were a matching set. Like they were a couple.

She wants to say it. She knows that, logically, she has nothing to base it on because she’d just met him less than a month ago and they’re both completely new to this and clearly there were things about him that were not normal by any stretch of the imagination— she knows all of this, and despite her attempts at logical thinking, she wants so badly to tell him she loves him.

But she doesn’t. Not tonight. Because there is a dead man in the water, and no amount of happiness in either of their lives is going to change that. Perhaps she could manage to be logical after all.

She opens her mouth to tell him that they should go to the police, and then she hears him say that she’s strange and he’s lucky to have found her and everything inside her melts into honey. The police can wait. She’s falling in love.

"You’re strange too," she tells him with a meek smile. "I guess we’re both pretty lucky."

Holding Becky is an endeavor that involved both a spike of adrenaline and a spike of oxytocin — the latter of which he’d seldom felt at all in his young life. It makes for good chemistry, no pun intended, with her shy smile and carefully selected words. Especially now that he can smell her skin and clothes and hair over the briny saltwater. Right now, he could shove her over the ledge. He’d made sure she’d told no one of their little escapade tonight. There are no witnesses around to cry for the police. And, best of all, he could end this lovely night on his own terms — before either of them could let him down and leave him alone and miserable once again, but —-

"The train should be coming soon. We should go."

He doesn’t. She’s precious to him in some weird quasi-sororal way. Like he’d break all his knuckles and lose all his teeth defending her and be glad for it, despite any lack of personal gain. Strange, indeed.

"It’ll be a cold walk back. I haven’t got a coat, but you can have my flannel…" Wordsworth and Keats would balk at such poor conduct, but alas. It’s his first time entertaining the idea of a girl enjoying his company.

(Source: adrenalinesaint)