a dance of doves & crows ( jonathan crane )

fanatics and fantasies .

notes : writing the dream™ from jons pov is so difficult  ?? i would type stuff out and go "woah jon CHIIILL" like i wasn't the one writing it ?? i think he's just a mess ! anyways, here we go  ! we get to see what jon interpreted the very very peculiar dream ...... >:}

nothing too good to warrant a warning tho, sorry :p!  they're too difficult to really get INTO IT quite yet, however, jonathan crane is one massively unstable simp so. i suppose that's a warning in itself ! proceed with caution !

song of the chapter: the physical attractions by the symposium























God, he was a hopeless idiot.

Jules was spread out underneath him on his desk, back against the deep wood with his items scattered across the floor. Her hospital uniform was torn off her, discarded into scraps along with the mess around them. It didn't matter. None of it did. He'd clean it up later. He'd get her spare clothes later, too. His mind catches on the small things- her hair falling against the desk, starkly pale and spread out so prettily, the white lace on the edges of pink silk, the sprinkle of freckles on her shoulders...

His hand, firm on her hip, kept her close to him while the other disappeared under her waistband. He doesn't want her to leave or bolt out the door again, dangerously so, especially not when he finally had her right there. She didn't look like she was going to run away either, and that gave him more gratification than a hundred successful toxin trials. 

Jules is beautiful; soft and vulnerable and left wearing something that definitely wasn't hospital-grade. It's light and made of taffeta, but his focus wasn't solely on her underwear at the moment, even if she looked delectable. 

She trusts him, completely and fully in the way that held his coherent thoughts at gunpoint. Nothing was clear, nothing was logical, because Jules was looking up at him like that. Like she loved him. It made him crave to no end, falling into a trap he realistically knew was going to be the death of him.

He couldn't force himself to care because - yes, yes, finally - Jules trusted and wanted him. She can't speak, soft lips parting but no words fell out. She didn't need to, because Jonathan can feel what she means. He can tell by the way her hands trace along his form like he's a book for her to study. Gentle and delicate hands touch his mask, his neck, his chest - occasionally she tugs on his tie ; and oh - oh . She had him wrapped around her pinky finger. She could kill him, right then and there, and he wouldn't be mad. 

He'd probably even forgive her, because she's an angel.

Nothing compared to her, then and now. Her curves, her flushed face, the way she looked up at him and grinned. Her smile, real and free of any bitterness or heartache - was something that he would carry with him until he was dead. She's never smiled like that before, ( at least, she hasn't in front of him - which the knowledge that she was now comfortable enough to do so made his serotonin levels go insane. ) or let herself relax this much in his presence. His hand on her hip moved up to run over pink lips, silently praising her for being her.

He can't kiss her through the mask, but that's what every hazy, sex-fueled notion circled back to. He can't tell if it's Scarecrow or him fumbling over the thoughts, because everything was blended together. They were saying the same things. Kiss her. You need to. Look at her, Jesus Christ. Kiss her.