The Pancake

Given the questionable location, the fact that Crane’s shower boasted a decent water pressure was nothing short of miraculous. His bathroom may have needed a deep cleansing scrub to remove some of the more neglected areas, including one top corner in which you swore you could see mould peeking out from behind the fraying wallpaper, but it was clean enough for you to feel comfortable using it without too much worry. A fact you were at peace with as you press your face up into the heated stream while a sigh of pleasure makes your chest rise and fall in place.

You had left Crane asleep on the couch, his exhaustion apparent, as you extracted yourself from under his dead weight. After the events of the night, the urge to clean and take yourself for a quick shower was intense; just something to wash away some of the stress which sat heavily on your shoulders and in your injured pinkie finger as the digit continued to throb while it started its healing journey.

The marks on your neck stung for only a moment as you wash them using the water, the ghostly remnants of his fingers still clawing into the flesh as you wipe at the area gently with a clean cloth. At least you had seen some remorse over the injury, his shame at having left such uncontrolled and undignified marks giving you something positive to latch onto. It would almost be funny, given the depth of the pains which some of your more frantic sexual escapades had left etched into your skin, but the comedy of it all wasn’t quite ready to land.

Every droplet of water splashing off your skin feels wonderful and you take a moment to stretch under the stream. The tension in your back grows almost unbearable as you raise your arms overhead but it alleviates in an instant as a soft ‘pop’ emits from the base of your spine. Exhaling, you bring the washcloth to your chest as you begin to work your way down your body, leaving no inch unscrubbed in an effort to clean yourself as deeply as possible.

Jumping in place when the bathroom door opens, your anxieties are immediately extinguished as the tall frame of Crane quickly fills the space as he enters and quietly closes the door behind him. He looks better than he did before his sleep, much of the exhaustion having mellowed out into something rested and ready to face the approaching day.

Caught off guard by his presence, more so by how shockingly intimate it felt to have him casually enter the bathroom while it was in such obvious use, you follow his movements with wide eyes as he strides over to the toilet and moves to unzip his fly.

“Umm, hello?”

The sound of his piss hitting the toilet actually makes your mouth fall open a little, an almost childish indignation flaring in your chest as he turns to fix you with a questioning look. You don’t miss the way his eyes seem to be finding it difficult to look at anything above your chest, his gaze following the soft droplets of water as they roll down your chest before disappearing into the soft pubic hair which sits atop your sex.

"You'll find it hard to piss if it starts pointing up again."

His brow quirks in amusement at that, the open vulgarity and cheek clearly pleasing him on some level as he holds his cock in one hand, the other shifting towards your standing position as he leans slightly away from the toilet.

Without warning, he pulls the remains of the shower curtain back as he removes what little chance of modesty still existed between you. Not that it bothers you, if anything, you are quite pleased that he seems to feel much better after his sleep – a fact which does lift some of the heaviness in your chest as you sense that he has no desire to revisit the events of his little mistake.

“Ass.” You spit the insult at him with no venom, “Do I not get privacy anymore? Or do you like what you see so much that you can’t help it?” You ask with faux heat, narrowing your eyes playfully.

“Privacy.” Crane scoffs, shaking off his cock as he slips it back within his pants and flushes the toilet. “After the things you have allowed me to do you…” He trails off, quickly washing his hands before leaning on the closed bathroom door as he openly makes himself comfortable in the space and showcases his refusal to be cowed in any way.

“Well then, are you coming in to join me?” You ask, knowing that the simple intimacy of such a thing would never allow him to answer yes.

“Of course not, I much prefer the view from here. My participation feels unnecessary.”

“This view?” You run a hand down your stomach, allowing your fingers to ghost along your pubic hair as you tease your fingers towards your aching sex – the temptation to tease him too intense to ignore. “Are you sure I couldn’t think of some way to lead you in here? Surely the big bad Scarecrow needs to wash occasionally…”

“You will not tempt me into joining you.”

“It could be nice,” you refuse to give up with a sigh, “and I don’t mind helping you to scrub all those hard-to-reach places which need a good rub.”

“Vixen.” Crane accuses but you can see the growing tent at his groin, “Do you think that will sway me?”

“No,” you agree hotly, “but then I don’t mind if you want to watch me. You can see what you’re missing out on.”

Crane’s breath hitches as you slip your hand between your legs fully, your fingers quickly finding your clit as they rub soft circles around the aching nub – arousal quickly building as a voyeuristic shame only adds to the fire being stoked by your digits.

Something almost shy enters his expression and it makes you pause.

“Do you want to watch me?” The question comes easily and without any expectation.

“Yes.” Crane answers, clearing his throat as he pushes his glasses high atop his nose, “I think I would like that.”

Again left to mourn his genuine lack of dirty talk at times, you push back the thought as you focus on pleasing yourself in the ways you know how. You allow fantasy to lead you, imagining Crane’s long fingers replacing your own as their cooler sensation dances along your heated skin. The warmth of his body seeping into yours as he pins you to the shower wall, leaving no room for escape as the shower darkens his hair and pushes it flat to his head while he ravages you.

Your breath huffs excitedly as you build up a rhythm; your fingers stroking and pinching and dipping within your hole as you tease along all those wonderful spots which make you see stars. Crane watches you with genuine interest, his eyes never faltering as they patiently flick between your expression and your hands, and you can feel him filing away little snippets of information as though you were a butterfly pinned to a board before him.

His attention is heady and it pushes you to a quick finish, your directed focus on your own clit adding to the rapid release which chases you. Your fingers flex against the cool tile of the shower wall as you stroke two fingers across your aching nub, orgasm inevitable as you meet eyes as heated as your own.

“Jonathan.” You whine his name as you come, your fingers so slick that they struggle to keep to any kind of rhythm as they slip across your sex messily. It wasn’t anything mind-blowing but the release of tension, of the days’ stress, was welcomed and you don’t push it too hard as you pull your fingers away as soon as the high begins to ebb.

You can feel the restraint which rolls from his tensed shoulders and the heat which sits high in his cheeks, his refusal to break and showcase any kind of weakness to your teasing as you call out his name. It’s a refusal which amuses you as much as it ignites a slight embarrassment, a shame that you had allowed yourself – once again – to be so vulnerable in front of him in exchange for so little.

“I’m going to nap before I leave,” you announce, recovering quickly from your quick release and turning back to the shower as you hide your complicated feelings by allow the water to wash over your chest and soiled hand. “I need some energy before the drive home but I don’t want to sleep later in the day because then I’ll be exhausted going back to work tomorrow.”

“Do as you please.” His voice still rough with arousal, Crane opens his palm in invitation as he finally walks back through the bathroom door, leaving you to finish your shower with the company of your own thoughts and your own thoughts alone.

x-x-x-x-x

Trapped by a monster, the fear which is heaving your chest and making your limbs feel leaden is familiar in a painful way as you fight the losing battle with everything you have. The hand wrapped around your throat squeezes so tightly that you can’t help the pathetic squeak which slips free of your lips as you kick out with flailing legs.

Ignoring the pain of your shoes glancing off his shins as his face shines with sadistic delight, Roman Sionis holds you steady.

“I told you that you would be mine eventually.” Roman pauses only long enough to slam your head against the wall you are pinned to until stars explode in your vision, “And now that you’re mine I think I’ll have to change my plans up a little.”

“Let me go.” You choke out, desperate eyes darting across the vast expanse of darkness which sits behind Roman’s frame – his thick body blocking out most of your vision anyway as he chokes you with an almost inhumane strength, “Let me- fucking monster, let me go!”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Roman coos as he mocks your struggle, “I paid good money for you, and I’m gonna make sure I get every cent beck before you’re a used up and useless scrap of fuckmeat.”

Fear battling rage, you pull enough strength to meet his eyes, “Don’t touch me you fucking asshole. Fuck you, Sionis.”

“Touch you? Oh, babygirl, I’m going to do things to you that will make you beg for me to just touch you. You’re going to be popular and I’ll offer you at bargain prices to make sure you’re never left alone too long.” One gloved hand drops from your throat to cup your cunt roughly through your jeans, “Fuck, after I’ve had my fill I’ll even loan you out to the kennels and then, when you’re really fucked up, maybe one of the more nasty fuckers on the books will fork out a couple of grand to hang what’s left of you for one of their darkweb films.”

Your hands doing no damage to his chest as you continue to pound against his shirt, you abandon the attempted assault and instead dig your nails into the fabric just above his belt – hoping to tear the skin there where there could be a gap. Instead of skin, your hand loops around to touch something hard and metallic and you grab at it without much thought.

Even through your terror, there’s no mistaking what’s in your hand and you pull it free with a panicked flourish. Quickly pointing his beretta pistol as his own head, relief floods your system as quickly as adrenaline trembles your limbs while Roman regards his gun with open anger.

“Drop that you stupid cunt.” He snarls, eyes twisted in rage as he takes a step back and reaches for the pistol, “You even think about shooting me with my own gun and I’ll fuck you with i-”

BANG.

Something wet and warm flecks across your face and you barely register the look of pained rage on Roman’s face before your eyes glance down to take in the spatter of blood and viscera which coats your chest and arms in a shocking pattern.

Glancing down at the gun in your hands in disbelief, it’s only when the sickening thud of Roman’s falling body collides with the floor that you open your mouth and allow yourself to finally scream.

x-x-x-x-x

Standing over the couch as he observes her napping, Crane watches with growing interest as his witty girl grows more and more animated in her subconscious distress.

He recognises the nightmare. From the microexpressions which showcase her anxiety to the way in which her delicate fingers clench and unclench with each unknown action, whatever plagues her dream is something unpleasant indeed.

Dressed in only one of his older shirts and her underwear, her post-shower hair was still damp when she had curled up on his couch and decided to go for her well-earned nap. Content to allow her some peace, he had quietly retired to his workstation to create a record of the previous nights’ events in one of the yellowed journals which held his notes and private thoughts.

Recalling his experience, he wrote professionally and without any passion as he recalled the physical response which his body experienced as the toxin took hold, the shift in his perception and the loss of control after being restrained. Pausing as he reached the moment where his witty girl intervened, Crane found himself hesitant as he reflected on her intervention.

Despite his warnings, she had sought to comfort him and in response – although unintentional – he had once again hurt her. His guilt wasn’t absolute, a frustration at her inability to listen to his simple instructions whispering that she should hold a little responsibility for her own injuries, but her determination to intervene did leave him with a fresh feeling of debt which would need to be paid at some point.

Eventually though, her whimpers had drawn his attention from his work and he had walked over to the couch to find her experiencing her current nightmare.

She was beautiful in her vulnerability and he finds himself enjoying observing her, filing every little movement away for future consideration when he has more time to enjoy it properly.

She had masturbated for him, allowed him an insight into her personal pleasure in a way that no one else ever had. It was intimate in a way he had not expected and his arousal at watching her hands slide between her legs had been laced with a feeling which he could not pin down.

Unable to help himself, Crane slides his hand within her shirt and his cool fingers come to a rest atop her left tit as she continues to breath raggedly. The soft warmth of her skin seeping into his own, he can’t help but squeeze her breast gently – enjoying how easily she fits within his hand and the rapid beat of her heart as it thrums against his palm.

That heartbeat.

So simple to manipulate and force into action.

A vague thought passes through his mind, one which sees his witty girl hooked up to a heart rate monitor. It would be something light, portable, and easy to keep out of the way as he ensured she remained perfectly restrained and subject to his experiments.

His focus.

His touch.

He could practically see it, how rapidly the monitor would jump and increase its rhythm as he pleasured her and scratched that masochistic itch which guided her foolish choices. His cock throbs within its confines as he imagines which actions would spark the greatest reaction. A harsh suck of her peaked nipple? The crack of his belt across her rapidly-welting flesh? A feathery brush of his thumb across her engorged clit? The pinch of a needle as he broke her perfect skin and delivered her a fresh dose of his latest toxin?

So responsive is his witty girl that he isn’t even certain and that uncertainty has his breath coming short as he continues to feel her heart beat against his palm.

“Fuck you, Sionis.”

Crane flinches in place as she speaks, the unexpected words making his hand recoil in surprise.

Heat buzzes low in his chest, the emotion sitting somewhere between possessive jealousy and anger as he watches his witty girl struggle to control her breathing after her outburst.

Sionis is still affecting her, his actions with Sionis are still affecting her, and that truth is difficult to swallow. It was a truth that quickly put a slight stop in him from taking any real pleasure in her panic, rather, it quickly extinguishes the growing arousal which her frantic and anxious state naturally sparks within him.

Flinching as his witty girl shoots up from her nightmare with a stunted cry, Crane quickly schools his features into something unreadable as she fights to control her breathing, her hands coming up to clutch at her own chest in a childish pursuit of comfort.

"I shot him. I shot hi- god the blood was everywhere." The back of her hand flies to cover her mouth, her lips pressing into the skin roughly as she muffles her own words.

“Shot who, little mouse?” Crane asks, already knowing the answer.

“Roman Sionis. He-he was choking me and I got his gun and, oh fuck, I shot him. I killed him.”

“A subconscious wish fulfilment, perhaps?”

“I-I…I don’t know.” She finishes lamely, her breathing settling as she falls into conversation with him. Her hair is wild in its damp state and Crane glances between it and the exposed skin of her chest as she matches his assessment with her own. Her eyes quickly drop to his groin, the residual hardness there making her expression quirk into something unreadable as she sits up straighter on the couch. She takes in his arousal with shifting emotions; surprise, and then understanding as her eyes slowly tilt up to meet his own.

“Were you watching my nightmare?”

“Yes.”

“And you liked it.” It was almost posed as a question but one which had an answer so obvious that it deserved little intrigue.

“You ignite certain responses within me, witty girl. Let’s not pretend they’re all savoury.”

“What is it?” She asks but quickly follows herself up as she realises how broad her query is, “What is it than makes you like it so much? The fear, I mean? I get it when we’re, well, when we’re having sex but something like this? Why does my fear make you so-”

She breaks off, unable to fully put her question into a cohesive line of questioning but he is no fool and he understands her ask. The crux of his entire person. He hesitates, her question one which exposes him to more vulnerability than she could ever comprehend, but his pause is quickly swept under the rug as he redirects her attention fluidly.

“That’s not a question you want the answer to, witty girl.” He offers her a quirk of his lips, just enough to settle her and inspire a genuine smile in response. “Let’s put it to bed for now and concentrate on something of greater value. I think a meal will set us both to rights since we have not eaten properly since before the events of last night.”

“Food.” She considers the suggestion with painfully innocent eyes, the concept of something solid and nourishing completely overshadowing the emotional minefield she had been unintentionally ready to wade through, “Yeah. I could go something. Should I have it delivered to the warehouse and I’ll collect from the main entrance when it’s ready?”

“Sounds good.” Crane agrees readily, happy to allow the moment of unfamiliar domesticity if it kept the conversation flowing to less dangerous territory, “You choose the meal and I will prepare some drinks.”

Feeling the need to escape from the moment, Crane turns on his heel and makes his way over to the makeshift kitchen which sits in one of the corners of his basement hideout. The tiredness which pulls at his bones is familiar and exhausting, one which has been afflicting him since he had awoken restrained to his own dentist chair. However, it is lighter than he would have expected and he chalks it up to his witty girl and her impressive ability to distract him from his own failings.

Again, he muses on just how she had surprised him by allowing him to watch her pleasure herself. Such a private and base thing, something she no doubt had never shared with another person, and yet she had chosen to share that with him. Her willingness to show that vulnerability, knowing not only what he was capable of but also what he had already done was thrilling.

“And what about Harley Quinn? She seems nice. I mean- outside of all the obvious crime stuff.”

“Harleen has the potential to do great things but allows herself to be misled as she rapidly falls into co-dependency with her romantic interests. She would do well to develop her own skills and attempt to forge her own path but it seems unlikely.”

“Well, yeah, but is she nice?”

Visibly rolling his eyes to the ceiling, Crane nods. His knees are tucked smoothly under his desk, spine curled into its usual shrimp-like positioning as he hunches over the chemicals which are slowly being mixed by his expert hand.

“Yes, I suppose she has a certain charm to her when she’s not running her mouth.”

Delighted by the confirmation, you roll onto your side as you sink further into the semi-comfortable fabric of his couch. As naked as a babe, the chill of the room feels wonderful against your skin and you shift your thighs as you disturb the pleasant ache there.

You couldn’t quite recall who had been responsible for initiating but it didn’t really matter as you had quickly found yourself wrapped around his cock as you perched your ass off the edge of his workstation. He hadn’t even bothered to undress, simply releasing his cock from his slacks as he gripped at your hips with thin, insistent fingers. It had been messy and sloppy and ridiculously fucking hot as your hand brushed various papers aside in their fight to gain some purchase against the wood.

Crane had been just as enthusiastic, finishing surprisingly quickly and taking a moment to use his fingers to bring about your own release while he enjoyed his own comedown. Minus your usual toys and games, your body feel relatively peaceful after you had both finished – with the only exception being a deliciously aching, red mark which Crane had sucked into the heft of your left breast, just above the nipple.

A quick shower had washed away the mess left between your legs, your combined release swirling down the drain as you grimaced at some of the mould which you could see developing in the corners of the barely maintained bathroom. A mental note to maybe pick up some bleach before your next visit was neatly filed away for future consideration and leaving the bathroom had resulted in your naked frame dropping to the couch as you allowed your body to finish drying naturally.

To his credit, Crane has taken your willing nakedness with little more than a raised eyebrow as he glanced back at you from his workstation – the papers neatly rearranged as he fell back into his work routine with a casualness that suggested he hadn’t just fucked someone in that same space not ten minutes earlier. He had already taken a moment to explain that he was developing a new and experimental strain of toxin and that his attention would be mostly pulled towards that for the remainder of the evening.

But that couldn’t stop you from asking questions.

When his attention was split in such a manner, you had long since found it easier to get certain types of information from Crane as his mind chose to focus on his actions rather than his speech. Mostly you liked to ask about trivial matters, such as his opinion on various topics and his thoughts on his fellow costumed villains.

“Is Harley the nicest one? Like, if you had to choose.”

“Probably.” Crane confirmed, adding a few clear droplets of liquid to the beaker in his left hand. “Her danger lies in how loose her lips are when it comes to sharing information with others, mostly her clownish paramour.”

Sensing a slight tension in his tone, you follow up with a curiosity that makes your head tilt further towards him. A shark smelling the blood of fresh gossip.

“Are you and the Joker friendly?”

At that, Crane fully pauses his work and spins in his chair to face you fully.

“Joker is friends with no one as the concept is beyond him. He acts as more of a useful tool or a roadblock depending on his ever-changing mood. I do not enjoy spending time in his presence as his unpredictability is contemptuous.”

Falling into a comfortable silence, you know what you want to ask but uncertainty over how to do so respectfully makes you hesitate for a moment.

“Not to mention that he once almost beat me to death with a wooden chair.”

You ignore that, having learned that follow-up questions rarely led to any further information.

“The Joker, does he, like, can you- the toxin?”

You wince at how disjointed the question sounds but Crane doesn’t seem to mind as much as he shakes his head and spins back to his desk.

“If my toxin afflicts him then he shows no outward sign as such.”

Interesting.

“Then who’s the worst? Of all the costumed villains, which one is the most dangerous because the news stations and papers can never seem to agree. Lots of them say Joker but, y’know, you know them better than they do.”

Swirling two identical beakers between his fingers, Crane appears to consider the question for a moment as he pushes his wire-rimmed glasses back up his nose.

“Lazlo Valentin is a particularly disturbed individual. Most of my colleagues – Nygma, Dent, Ivy, etc – do not have a tendency to play with their food for long, mostly preferring to kill and move on with their plans. However, what Valentin does with his victims is cruel. Full body modifications with a complete removal of all mental individuality, a living puppet with no will and no purpose. A walking corpse with no joy, anger, or fear.”

Crane sniffed distastefully before continuing.

“A fate worse than death. Even those enthralled by Ivy quickly succumb to her toxins or are saved from them, but those dolls of Valentin’s are unsalvageable.”

You shudder at the thought, flexing your fingers against your hips. Professor Pyg always looked quite frightening in the arrest photos which littered the tabloids as his crazed eyes - always dilated and wild - shone from that horrible pig mask he donned as his blood-soaked heft was bundled into a police van.

“A couple of the girls I used to work with always thought the Riddler was handsome.” Forcing a slight tease into your tone, you slip your arm under your neck to prop your head up. “They liked his suits, I think. And they said he was cute.”

The derisive snort was all the response you needed as Crane refuted the very idea.

“I believe your friends would benefit from severe psychological interventions.” He offered dryly.

Laughing at that, you shift enough to stretch; raising your hands overhead until a satisfying pop sounds somewhere in your shoulders.

Glancing over, you just manage to catch Crane watching you from the corner of his eye.

“Easily distracted, Dr. Crane?” You ask, rolling back into your original position.

He chooses to disregard the tease – his attention focusing back on his toxin as his shoulders drop into a more relaxed position. The quiet is comfortable and you take the opportunity to plan out the remainer of your week, from work goals to nightly dinners. Your apartment had been left in some state. The constant fluctuation between your time there, at work, and your ongoing meetings with Crane had left little time for some much-needed deep cleaning and if you were going to be picking up bleach for this nasty basement then it seemed outrageous to not get your own shit in order.

A crash of something which sounds like smashing glass brings your attention back to Crane and your whole body flinches in place as it is immediately followed by a sharp bellowing noise as Crane throws himself back from his chair to stand with an almost inhumane speed.

“Hey! What’s wron-”

In lieu of an answer, Crane dashes towards you and the sudden movement causes a full-bodied recoil as you push yourself further into the couch. Your obvious fear makes no difference to him and you gasp as his hands wrap around your shoulders and pull you harshly to your feet. Something wet touches at your shoulder and you glance down to see a streak of red painting your skin.

Fresh blood.

His blood.

The wound on his wrist, sharp and clean and an obvious result of the glass which had smashed, doesn’t look too deep and your attention snaps back to his face as you go to ask if he needs help fixing it up.

However, your words die in your throat once more as you take in his expression and the genuine anger and urgency which lies within it.

“I’ve made a mistake. The toxin in that smashed beaker has laced the fresh cut. You have only a few minutes to leave before I succumb to its influence.” Grunting as he rolls his shoulders, Crane’s hands slip to your jaw and tense to hold your head in place roughly. “The dose is nowhere near fatal but the experimental elements will increase aggression until the fear takes full root. I would rather you weren’t the subject of my violence. Leave. Now.”

Listening to his explanation with a thudding heart, the coppery scent of his blood makes you feel almost nauseous as you panic in kind.

“I can’t leave- not like,” you gesture to your naked frame with wide eyes, “I can’t make it out like this. My stuff. My keys.”

“This strain blurs the line of fight and flight. If you do not leave my sight then there is a very real chance that you will be severely hurt, little mouse. A fact neither one of us will be particularly enthused about. You are not built to endure the violence this toxin will force upon you.”

Growling the words, Crane’s head darts around the basement as he rapidly seeks a solution – his hands growing tighter on your face until you have to whimper and pull away due to the discomfort.

“My chair.” He hisses out from between clenched teeth as he visibly forces himself to walk towards the dental chair. “Restrain me in my own chair and we will both be kept safe from harm. I have no idea if this strain with cause violence towards the self so this will work well.” The last sentence is spoken with more of an inward inflection as his brilliant mind works in quick overdrive.

You follow him with shaking limbs, adrenaline thrashing through your veins as you watch him drop into the dental chair – his shirt, slacks, and lab coat making his positioning uncomfortable. He takes a moment to strap his own legs in, his teeth biting at his lower lip as he powers through whatever the hell the toxin was beginning to wreak on his trembling frame. Unable to do much more than agree to his demands, you wait until he’s lying back to pull the thick strap over his chest and secure it before doing the same with the wrist restraints.

“If,” Crane grunts, struggling to speak coherently, “if it looks like my vitals are dropping too low then there is a syringe with adrenaline within the drawers. It may help.”

“Jonathan” your body moving on auto-pilot due to the panic and stress which is thumping within your head, “what do I do? You need to tell me what to do. What if-”

“I value you for more than just your body, witty girl. React to the situation as appropriate and do what seems right. But I would like you to leave me, I’d rather not be subject to your observations.”

The strain of his voice and body is palpable, every word taking an obvious effort as he tested his strength against the restraints which held him in place. His hair, the various strands already mussed from your earlier fuck, is pushed back from his face and you take a moment to press your fingers to his jaw in unspoken support as you take his advice to heart and beat a hasty retreat.

Still nude, you do as instructed and let instinct guide you.

Having left him to his heavy breathing, you immediately dart to the stairs and take them two at a time as you twist and lock the latches to the basement door – ensuring that no fresh company can make itself known. In doing so, you are also wilfully locking yourself down here too and that fact doesn’t slip by your thoughts while you dip your hand into your handbag and pull free the bottle of water that you had stashed in there before leaving your apartment.

Taking a gulp of the water, the warmth of the liquid is vaguely repulsive and you swallow it down with a grimace as you quickly throw on your abandoned panties and shirt - not bothering to button the fabric up properly as you attempted to give yourself at least some decency given the turn of events.

Peeking around the corner of the room as a sudden howl of anger makes you jerk in place; you take in Crane’s appearance with a soft inhale.

It's hard to see him like this.

His composure, so typically set in stone and utterly unshakeable, has been stripped away by his own mistake and the sheer scale of the emotion on display makes you feel as though you were bearing witness to something profane.

Something wrong.

Snarling like a wounded animal, Crane pulls at the thick restraints which hold him in place without care. The dental chair creaking dangerously, it does seem capable of holding him back but the knowledge does nothing to bring you any peace as you circle behind him silently.

"I'll kill you!" Crane snarls, his voice high and strained as he screams at nothing. "I'll kill- I'll rip you apart - you fucking bitch!"

Taken aback by the sheer hatred in his voice, your chest shudders as you clutch at your shirt.

"I did it once and I'll do it again…dig you even deeper…show you how little Johnny died well before you did."

It was impossible to not listen, to not steal the little titbits of information which his heightened state was allowing to slip free, and you stow his words away for later consideration.

I did it once and I’ll do it again.

Someone he had killed in the past? Maybe his first kill? Given the amount of hatred in his voice, it must have been a woman who seriously wronged him. Hell, maybe even his mother. Or a sister.

It’s new information but information which leaves you with more questions than it answers and you continue to stare at him as his rage-filled expression refuses to leave the ceiling – whatever demons existed in that space tormenting him more than your quiet presence ever could.

Eventually, after the seconds had long grown into minutes, the fight seems to leave him and his body goes limp against the chair. Panic swelling in your chest, you slowly approach him to check his vitals.

His chest is moving rapidly, heavy breaths making you relax slightly as you hope that exhaustion will make his experience a little easier. He had said something about aggression being the altered factor in the compound but it was still his fear toxin so a sinking feeling told you that the worst was still to come.

Crimson drips from the restraint which circles his right wrist and the sight of it makes you wince as you recall his earlier injury and how it has still not been treated. Given his relaxed stance, you touch around the skin gently, unable to see the extent of the damage hidden below.

Glancing uncertainly at his lined face, your fingers work quickly to loosen the restraint, unlatching it enough to free his hand as you turn his palm up to see the damage.

As though hit by an unseen electric force, life springs back into him in an instant and you scream in fright - not expecting his sudden movements to spark up again. In a flash, his hand flips the script to wrap around your own and his fingers wrench your pinky back with so much force that you feel the bone creak like an old floorboard before it slips out of place with a jerk. Roaring in pain as a white-hot agony spreads from your damaged finger, you lean down in a frantic effort to use your good hand to pull him off.

Again, it proves to be a mistake as his animalistic growling grows somehow more feral as he drops your hand and instead lashes out with his clawed fingers. He's lightning quick and you feel his sharpened nails digging into the sensitive skin of your throat before you can even register just how much you had messed up. The toxin having stripped him of his sensibilities, his face twisted into something awful and he bares his teeth like a beast as he claws into your neck.

"Jonathan, stop!" You choke out, scratching at his hand with your own fingers as you attempt to pull yourself free. It makes no difference to him, the words not registering in his mind, and the tears in your eyes are quick to blur your vision as you choke and panic. "Dr. Crane!"

Digging your thumb as harshly into his wrist wound as possible, he hisses as he releases you and you can't even take a moment to gather your breath as you throw your entire weight into forcing his hand back into the restraint you had foolishly allowed him free of. It takes a moment, despite his best efforts, and his anger only seems to increase as he finds himself trapped again - his unseeing eyes focusing back on the ceiling and whatever demons are tormenting him.

You run from him, leaving the dentist’s chair to instead get closer to his workstation. Hands shaking so terribly that you can barely open the drawers of his desk, you bring your thumb to your eyes as you wipe away the pained tears that refuse to stop flowing. Your pinky is sitting at an odd angle, the digit throbbing with pain with every slight movement, and your neck feels savaged and wet as small droplets of blood sit on the skin where his nails have dug deeply enough.

Pulling free some alcohol wipes, you tear them open with your teeth and rub them across your neck to clean the small wounds. It stings like hell and a sobbing inhale is all you can manage as you fix yourself up as best you can. The finger will require a doctor but you suspect that it is only dislocated and not truly broken.

Again, he had hurt you.

And again, you were staying to see the events through.

A small voice, one born of fairness given the circumstances, whispers that he wasn’t in his right mind and that he didn’t mean to hurt you in that moment. But with it came a voice of equal measure, one which echoes past events that were better left unspoken.

He didn’t mean it.

He never did and yet…

Shaking your head to knock the thoughts free, you refocus on the task at hand as you gently touch at your pinky with a soft wince.

“Do you want to hit me, Dr. Crane?”

“Right now? Yes.”

“Then why don’t you?”

“I don’t know. If it were anyone else-”

You had seen it then, the desire to hurt, to lash out and make himself feel better but he had stayed his hand despite your own attempts to push him into violence.

“I’m sorry.”

Startling at the sudden cry, you almost drop the alcohol wipe which is still clenched between your fingers. Where anger had laced his tones, the voice which now carried across the basement couldn’t have been more different as it contains an anxious desperation. Something entirely foreign to what you know of him. It does make you curious though and your feet move softly against the floor as you creep back around the other side of the basement and glance around the thin curtain which separates that area from the rest of the space.

His eyes are closed, the wire-rimmed glasses haven fallen from his face to lay across his chest, but you can see his eyes moving rapidly beneath the shut lids as they dart around, unseeing. The lines of his face are more pronounced than ever as his features twist with every whimpered word – forehead creasing and lips wrapping around the soft words which spill free.

"I'm sorry, great granny. Don't-don't send me to the church. Not the birds! Please."

A memory rose, unbidden in your mind, as you recall your hands rolling across the expansive skin of his back and the scarring which lay there. Some of the marks were white with age, small and scattered across his shoulders and upper back, and his words gave them a history that made your chest ache.

Despite the many documentaries and conspiracies which cropped up about many of Gotham's finest criminals, their choices and crimes making them a prime piece of media fodder, the details of many rogues were shaky at best when it came to their histories prior to their criminality.

Exceptions like Dent, whose rise and fall had been documented in the public eye for all to see, were rare and a lot of the mystery surrounding the various costumed villains who terrorised Gotham made them almost like folklore curiosities.

I did it once and I’ll do it again.

Had Jonathan killed his great granny?

He howls and your neck jerks, igniting discomfort in the fresh claw marks, as you approach him slowly. His eyes are still snapped shut, mouth twisted in distress as his head thrashes from side to side – each movement making his shock of hair grow steadily more unkempt and messy. A thick sheen of sweat coats his skin and you pull the cuff of your shift over your fingers as you attempt to wipe away the worst of it.

At the soft touch, Crane startles as though burned and his eyes are wild as they meet your own – the absence of clarity sending a thrill of anxiety through your chest. His lips move but no words can escape, only a stilted whimper which slips free as his head flinches away from your touch.

“Shh, Jonathan.” Shushing him with the softest possible voice you can muster, you allow your shirt to pull back to your wrist as you card your fingers through his damp hair. The restraints are holding as strong as ever and since his aggression has passed, you feel safe in trying to offer him even a little comfort. “There’s no one here but me and you.”

The worst of the toxin seeming to have passed, you grow bolder in your movements as you slip your free hand across his cheek – feeling the bones there pressing into your skin as you soothe him.

Something heavy curls in your stomach, not quite pity, but a sympathy which lies alongside the anxiety and discomfort that pounds within your head.

“Go to sleep and I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Surprisingly, the gentle words appear to work as whatever strength is keeping him alert seeps from him in a long exhale and his eyes stutter closed. His breathing still erratic as hell, you continue to stroke along his hair until you are convinced that he has passed out.

Once certain, you pull away and retire back to the couch; body slamming against the fabric with an exhausted sigh as you settle in to wait for him to wake up.

x-x-x-x-x

Two hours pass in a blink and the first sign of life from Crane is a hoarse coughing fit which makes your fingers flinch as they thumb through one of the many psychiatric journals which litter the basement. Now empty, the plastic bottle of water which you had been slowly sipping from lies by your side and you accidentally knock it to the floor as you jump from the couch as though electrocuted.

Padding your feet across the basement floor, you can see he is awake as you come closer but you pause at his side to allow him to make the first move. Tension sits heavy in the air, awkwardness and stress hanging between you like a weight.

Crane is a mess.

He looks awful and you can’t help the grimace which stretches your lips as you approach him with all the caution of a handler approaching a wounded lion.

“Are you okay?”

A basic ask and one that is met with emptiness as Crane flexes his hands.

“Let me out.”

Nodding quickly and ignoring the sharpness of his tone as it pierces your chest, your fingers move swiftly as they work through the various restraints which hold him in place. Starting with the ankle restraints, they all remove easily enough until you reach the strap which holds his injured wrist in place. The leather is stained with his blood, the wound having stopped bleeding at some point, and you shudder as you gently pull his wrist free – not wishing to do any more damage than what is already there.

No longer held in place, Crane’s body moves shakily as he pushes himself free of the chair. His expression is queasy and it doesn’t surprise you too much when his first port of call is to make a stilted dash for the nearby bathroom, his long legs visibly trembling with the effort of carrying his struggling body. After a moment, you hear the sound of retching and grimace at how viscerally it echoes across the virtually silent basement.

Uncertainty roils in your heart, a desire to follow and make sure he was okay battling it out with a vague understanding that any attempt to help him at this fragile moment would result in backlash. As such, you remain in place, carefully keeping your dislocated pinky free of the arm of the chair to limit the damage.

Eventually Crane reappears and you can see that he has take the time to make himself presentable. His clothing is neatly fixed into their familiar positions, shirt and pants smoothed out as the lab coat circles his thin frame like a blanket. The wire-rimmed glasses are perched back on his nose, pushed as close to his eyes as possible, and you can tell from the slight sheen of his skin that he has splashed water on his face.

But it does little to hide how obviously worn out he is.

“It would be better if you left. Now.” Crane states, the words coming out as plainly as though he were commenting on the outside weather.

“What?” Not quite sure you had heard him correctly; you give him the chance to repeat.

Despite the casualness of his words, you can see the irritation spark as his instructions go unheeded and he’s forced to make his point once more.

“Your services are not required. So, leave me.”

Stepping away from the dental chair with a swift motion, you don’t bother to hide the genuine confusion you feel as you watch him approach you with a tactical hesitation. “After all- after all that? That’s it? Just leave?”

You can see his struggle, the forced nonchalance barely holding in place as his fingers shake and his lips set into a harsh line as he stops before you – deliberately straightening to his full height to ensure that he towers over your shorter frame. He was angry for sure, but below the anger you could see the shame which really guided his words; the loss of control which always makes him dangerously volatile.

“Whatever you saw, whatever you heard, is meaningless. So, leave me to my work and I will decide when I want to see you next.”

Fire igniting in your soul at the thought of being dismissed like a child, you stand your ground as your partially opened shirt flutters around your thighs.

“No. Absolutely not! Not after all the shit I just had to go through for you.” Tilting your chin up at him with open defiance, you are too annoyed to really take in the anger which sits on his features. “I didn’t wait all this time to be kicked out lik-”

“I said, LEAVE!” Crane hollers, his voice raising heavily on the final word as he lashes out with a careless hand to push you away from him. Unfortunately, since you weren’t expecting the physical touch, his hand catches you off-guard and you trip over your own feet, falling backwards on your ass as your hands splay out to prevent your body from falling any further.

A bolt of pain, sharp and intense, lances across your injured hand as your pinky connects with the floor and you can’t hold back the howl of pain which rips free of your lips as you quickly pull your wrists forward to cradle your hands to your chest. Facing both the stress of the last few hours and the agony of your hand, there’s no fighting the tears which immediately begin to fall from your eyes and your sobs quickly grow stuttered and messy as you sit there like a pathetic beast, content to wallow in adrenaline-fuelled misery.

Not expecting you to fall, nor the intense reaction which followed, Crane pauses long enough to look down at you – truly look down at you – and even through the hail of tears you can see the genuine regret which passes across his pinched face.

“What happened to your hand?” Crane asks, his hands dropping to loop around your shoulders as he pulls you to your feet once more with a surprising gentleness. His voice is tight, resigned to the answer which he knows is coming.

“You.” Rubbing at your eyes with your good wrist, you can’t hold the truth from him. “When you were on the chair. It lo-looked like you were passing out and I wanted to check the bleeding in your- in your wrist.”

“Let me see.”

His voice softer than it has been in quite some time, you can’t help the flinch of your arm as he takes your other wrist in his hand – examining the damaged pinky with an unreadable expression.

“Hmm, no break. Possible fracture but most likely dislocated.” He mutters to himself, diagnosing the injury with a clinical precision before speaking more clearly as he held your watery eyes with his own. “I will need to reset the bone.”

Nodding even as your lips stutter out a thinly held sob, you know it’s going to hurt like hell and you try to brace for the discomfort as much as possible.

“This won’t be pleasant and I apologise for it. I would never intend to-” Crane cut himself off, perhaps sensing that his words were meaningless in the moment. “But I will fix it and give you some painkillers to manage the discomfort. Follow me.”

He guides you to his work bench and you move on autopilot, allowing him to open a bottle of unknown pills and drop two into your good hand; an offering which you take without hesitation as you swallow the pills dry, ignoring the horribly acrid taste they leave where they press against your tongue. As you do, Crane takes the opportunity to spread your injured hand out on the edge of the wooden table – ignoring the spilled mess which still litters the floor.

“I will need to relocate the bone. Might I suggest that you bite down on your shirt because it won’t be a particularly enjoyable experience.”

Following his advice, you bite down on the cuff of your shirt from your free hand. The fabric tastes of nothing and you choose to focus on the texture as you refuse to look at your injured hand while Crane gently locks his hand around the dislocated pinky, ready to fix his errant mistake.

Without warning or additional comforts, he wrenches the pinky forward before setting it back into place in one swift motion.

The hot pain which explodes from the area has you stamping your feet against the floor as you bite down harshly on the shirt in your mouth. But Crane is as efficient as ever and the intensity of the pain dies as quickly as it started and the dull, aching throb which follows is much more manageable as your bleary eyes attempt to flex the digit – a choice which sparks fresh pain but also a smidge of relief as the pinky twitches at your command.

Giving you a moment to compose yourself as the painkillers still need time to truly kick in, Crane’s attention is snatched up by your throat as you roll your head with a loud exhale to centre your thoughts.

“The marks on your neck?”

A nod.

His jaw flexes and you can feel the disappointment rolling from him in waves as his thin fingers extend in an unspoken question as they hover in the space before your neck. You accept his touch with a slight incline, allowing him to ghost his fingers over the fresh scratches which are no longer bleeding as your throat constricts beneath his digits.

He doesn’t need to ask, already knowing the answer, so he instead takes a step back from you – allowing you some space from him in a vague show of apology. Taking in his appearance, from the tightly pinched expression which has lost all of the earlier irritation which his shame had sparked, to the miniscule tremble which sits in his limbs as he forces himself to still as much as possible, you can feel how tired he is.

How tired you both are.

“You’re exhausted.”

“I-” He begins his retort but it dies in his throat, unable to deny the accusation. His gaze is dull, lacking its usual intensity, and something within it melts the anger which is swirling within your own thoughts.

Reaching out with your good hand, you grasp his hand within your own as you silently lead him over to the couch. Surprisingly, he allows it and you use that to your advantage as you gently push him down to sit on the old fabric.

“I’ll leave when I see you lying down.” You mutter, willing to meet him halfway. “You can’t work like this and it’s only going to result in another accident.”

“You’re right.”

Twisting on the couch, his long frame fills the space in an instant as his legs shift to hang over the arm. His agreement was unexpected and it brings a soft smile to the edge of your lips as you turn and your hands drop to close around your handbag, quickly rifling through it to check that you had everything you needed. Happy to uphold your end of the bargain and leave, you only pause when his voice catches you unawares – the weariness in his tone undeniable.

“You can stay.”

Not willing to pass on the opportunity, you nod at the offer.

You turn back to stand before the couch, looking down at him with a calm expectancy and he grunts as he pulls his upper body up, giving you enough space to slide into the space he had just vacated. Taking the offered seat, you recline comfortably and allow him to lie back once more – his head dropping into your lap with a muffled thud.

“I know you don’t want to talk,” you begin quietly, “and I’m not going to pretend that I didn’t see or hear anything.” At the words he stiffens against your thighs, but you press on regardless. “But I’m not going to ask and I’m okay with staying here until you’ve slept.”

Tracing nonsensical shapes along his hairline with your right hand as you attempt to soothe out the deep lines of his forehead, you inhale softly as his hand loops around your left wrist. Two firm fingers press against your pulse point, feeling the steady beat which thurms there, and the sensation seems to bring some peace to him as he relaxes further into your touch – exhaustion having robbed him of much of his typical stoicism and defensiveness.

“Would you like me to sing something?” You offer, thinking of the small beat-up old radio which sits at the furthest end of his work desk, a testament to his subtle enjoyment of music.

“Please,” he mutters in response, the words barely slipping free of his tight lips as his eyes drift closed, “my day has already been ruined and I think that tone deafness you indulge in may push me over the edge, witty girl.”

Not expecting the teasing insult, it nets him a soft chuckle as you pull at the hair which sits atop the crown of his head with a gentle tug and respond in kind with a similar mutter.

“C’mon, push back into me.” Jason says gruffly, having slowed his pace down to a few slow but effortlessly deep thrusts into your cunt from behind.

When he’d come back from patrol, you’d practically jumped on him, needy beyond belief thanks to a particularly nasty wet dream. With the dawn sun streaming in through the blinds, Jason had hurriedly sought to give you what you wanted.

The way the soft orange rays bathed his face simply made you more desperate, reflecting off the deep pools of blue in his eyes. After ridding you both of clothes, and Jason’s fingers having pumped into you deliciously, you’d pushed him down and sank your needy pussy on him. In the frenzy, he hadn’t put a condom on, figuring he’d just pull out. While not the best solution for a man as responsible as Jason prides himself on being, it’d have to do.

Now, having grown tired of your messy bounces and instead thrown you into doggy style, he still manages to tease. Making you throw your ass back on him, impaling you on him after he’d been fucking your brains out.

“Jay…”

“No no, you can do it. I was gonna cum and didn’t wanna pull out just yet.”

Immediately your cunt tightens around him and you let out a pitiful whine. Using the most of your core strength, you fuck yourself on him with as rough of a pace as you physically can. He groans, feeling his cock throb at your determination.

“Don’t want you to pull out.” You sniffle, looking back at him from over your shoulder.

“I have to baby, m’not wearing a condom.”

“Don’t care…”

You truly don’t xare, about that or the fact you sound like a petulant child. You need him, need him to cum deep inside of you, to milk him for everything he can possibly give you. So you say three incredibly dangerous words.

“Please breed me.”

Your lover lets out a strangled noise, straight from the back of his throat. It’s almost like a dog being kicked, as he grips your hips hard to still you. His breathing becomes ragged.

“Fuck princess, you can’t say stuff like that.”

“I can Jason…I want it. I want you to breed me.”

He knows he shouldn’t, but god he nearly blew his load right there and then at your words. Taking a few shaking breaths, he calms himself down enough to grab at your throat, hoisting you up so you back arches and he can look down at your face.

“Y’want me to put a baby in you? Is that right?”

Your moan tells him everything, as he drops your head unceremoniously before moving his hips again. This time there’s no holding back, no he forces your upper half into the mattress and starts to pound you. The thick sound of him slapping against your backside with each thrust fills the air, and you nearly choke on that and the wanton noises that keep tumbling from your parted lips.

You can barely breathe, barely think as he rams into you again and again, making more noise than you’ve ever heard him make before.

“Okay…okay princess, I’ll give y’what you want. I’ll give you a baby…”

Gripping your thighs, he pulls out before flipping you over like a rag-doll; landing on your back with a soft grunt, you look up at him with bated breath as he pushes your thighs up and entering you again.

“Gonna fuckin’ breed you, just like you asked. Gotta make sure it takes.”

He angles himself before he starts fucking you nice and deep, watching your eyes roll back as you swear you can feel him messing up your insides with his cock. Your cunt squeezes him like a vice, and he knows it won’t be much longer.

“Keep squeezin’ me just like that, gonna make me cum deep inside this sweet pussy.” He mumbles, not completely sure what he’s actually saying with how turned on he is. “Gonna keep you nice and full.”

With a cry, his words tip you over the edge as you start to cum all over him. At your cunt gushing, he moans loudly and digs his nails into the plush of your hips so hard it almost hurts.

Then he’s cumming, and you gasp and twitch at the sensation. His head falls into the crook of your neck as he gasps and moans, swearing he's seeing stars or some kind of angelic apparition.

It takes him ages to pull out again, but when he does, he quickly collects any cum that seeps out and pushes it back inside, ignoring your overstimulated whimpers. Gently he sets your thighs back down, huge hands kneading the slightly sore muscles as he catches his bearings.

He's the kind of guy to get off on noise, whether it's in person: you screaming his name as he can hear beneath your whimpers the squelch of your drenched cunt as he thrusts deep inside you. Or when you both are apart: phone pressed tight to his ear so he can hear your fingers rubbing tight circles on your sloppy clit, breathy and whiny as you tell him how much you miss him, how much you want him home and in your bed, touching you instead of having to touch yourself.

So when the topic of sex tapes and the like came up, you joking that he's gotta have made a sex tape at some point in his life, he smirks as he asks if you wanna try. But not a visual one. At your confusion, he seeks to show you what he means.

His phone lays just at the side of your shoulder, jolting with every movement of the mattress as Dick fucks you rhythmically. Thighs pressed against your chest, the speakers of the phone pick up all the whines and moans being pounded out of you as your boyfriend keeps thrusting over and over again. He moans too, never a quiet lover, feeling the heaven which is your pussy wrapped so tightly around him.

"Come on baby, tell me how it feels. It's good, huh? Tell me." he practically begs you, hair sticking to his forehead as he keeps moving, relishing in your verbal confirmation; the little whiny gasps of it's so good dick, as you slur your words a little when he hits a particularly good spot.

"Yeah that's it, that's my pretty girl. Takin' my cock like a champ, you always do."

He prays in that moment the phone is picking up the soft plap plap plap of his hips slamming into your ass, the wet noises emanating from your cunt joining them in a sinful cacophony. Just for added effect, he spanks your ass for the loud noise that rings out from his hand, as well as the small shriek of surprise that falls from your lips.

Turns out the recording is useful, as two weeks later he's in Gotham for a few days helping Bruce tie up some loose ends with some weapons caches belonging to Penguin, but the need for you grows after a couple of lonely nights in the manor without you there warming his bed. So he stuff his earphones in and presses the audio recording you both made, and the result is instant.

He's hard as a rock in his pants, and while his plan was to palm himself at the first few minutes of the audio, all it takes is a particularly delicious moan after a hard thrust from you to have him shoving his boxers down impatiently. Hand around his shaft, he starts to pump in time with the recording's pace, imagining you there with him as both of your moans and words fill his ears.

He cums with a long drawn out moan, spilling all over his chest, grateful he pulled his shirt up just in time. While he catches his breath, he turns the phone camera on and snaps a pic of the mess he just made, before opening up your message logs and pressing send, along with the caption

“You’re too perfect f’us sweetheart.” Harvey mumbles, as his large hands come to rest on your hips.

Being with them both for a while now, you can always tell who’s fronting at any given moment. While the voice was usually a giveaway, Two-Face preferring to almost growl out every little sound that escapes his throat, whereas Harvey just sounds like a deep baritone. But it isn’t just that, it’s the way he looks at you. Which eye twitches when you say something, which side of his mouth curls more when you flirt with him, or wear a revealing outfit.

Much like the one you have on now, the pretty pink babydoll dress barely covering the cute panties you’d slipped on when he’d texted he was coming to visit. Whenever that happened, he usually needed a softer touch, a calming session, or a rough fuck to take the edge off.

“Needed to see you.” He continues, hands groping at the plush of your hips in time with his words.

“Always wanna see you.” You giggle in response, smaller hands coming up to grip his broad shoulders. He groans in response, the tension leaving his body at the slight massage.

Emboldened, you begin to really knead your fingers, although being much softer on his scarred side to avoid any pain or discomfort on his end.

At least he’s letting you touch him there, given the nights where Harvey is in control, his jaw clicking whenever you lean against his scarred side or caress it gently. It makes him feel like a failure, a reminder of who he once was. When he was whole.

But you don’t mind, both of them occupying a space in your heart. So you seek to prove it, kissing up Harvey’s jaw while your hands keep easing the pressure and tension out as best you can.

He relaxes underneath you, and you’re just about to climb onto his lap before his hand starts to twitch, thumb feeling that familiar pocket of his trousers. Noticing, you pull away and look at him, before he groans.

“No…fine.” He mumbles, and you realise he isn’t talking to you.

“You need to toss your coin Harvey?” You ask softly, moving away for a moment to look at his face.

“Need to decide…” he starts, before pulling the coin from his pocket and feeling the weight of it in his fingers. “We both want you in different ways sweetheart.”

Blushing softly, you think you’re starting to understand as you nod. “Do you wanna be more…gentle?”

Harvey nods, hand moving to your thigh to grip the soft flesh. “He wants to fuck you.”

Shivering a little, you can’t deny the appeal of either one as he readies the coin. “It’s okay, whatever happens happens.”

He grunts softly at your words, before flicking the coin up. Watching it skim through the air sets your goosebumps off to claw at your skin, time almost slowing as it begins its decent. Quickly he grabs it, covering it with his palm as you both eagerly anticipate the result. He lifts his hand…only to see the scarred side of the coin staring back at you.

At your catch of breath, his head moves ever so slightly, so much so any other person might not have caught it. But you did. So you stare at him with doe eyes until he speaks.

“Guess I’m the lucky one.” Two-face growls, moving you roughly onto his lap. You squeak, feeling the way he moved you as if you weighed nothing at all.

Immediately he’s kissing and licking up your neck, tugging on your hair to expose more of you to his hungry gaze. His other goes under your dress, feeling the lacy material of your panties before giving a soft slap to your clothed cunt.

“Wearing next to fuckin’ nothing.” His tone almost sounds like he’s mad, but the way his fingers grope and cup your pussy shows you how much he loves it, how much he can’t get enough. “Harvey’s right, you shouldn’t be with us. Far too fuckin’ pretty.”

You whimper, shifting on his lap at the feeling of his digits, before he rips off the material to push two fingers immediately inside. At your gasp, he shushes you and fingers you messily.

“Quit y’whining.”

Nodding as best you can, you try and gain as much pleasure as you can from him prepping you before he decides he’s just too impatient. With a slight huff, he throws you off him and manoeuvres you so you’re bent over the sofa.

You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, so you go to take your dress off, but oh barely get it past your hips before he grips your wrist harshly. “No no no doll. I didn’t say you could do that.”

Before you can reply, you feel his cock head tapping against your clit, gathering up your slick before pushing in roughly, not giving you time to adjust. At your soft cry, he groans heavily, pulling your arms back to hold before starting to push in and out.

“Look at you, creamin’ around my dick. Wanted me to treat you like a whore all along huh?”

You whimper out a yes in between moans, his cock moving in and out at a brutal pace. Clearly he has a lot of steam to blow off, with you acting like the good stress reliever you are for him.

“Our pretty fuckin’ girl, always so dolled up for us. Bet you thought about this while putting on that short fuckin’ dress huh?” He grunts out, feeling the tightness of your walls wrapped around him.

“Yes…yes.” Is all you can say, your knuckles almost turning white from how hard you’re gripping the back of the sofa. Each thrust causes it to creak a little under your combined weight.

“Gonna corrupt your sweet ass for all of Gotham to see.”

His hand yanks your head back, gazing down on your sweet face, the mascara adorning your pretty eyelashes and the lip gloss on your kissable mouth. In that moment, all he wants to do is just ruin you. So he isn’t even surprised at himself when he spits on your cheek. And he certainly isn’t surprised when you moan like a paid whore.

“Dirty fuckin’ girl.” He grins, hips snapping against yours.

Feeling the spit drying on your face, you go to wipe it before he does it for you, rubbing it into your cheek and lips, smearing your lip gloss. The sight makes his cock throb inside of you, especially with how pretty those ruined lips look when he pushes his thumb between them.

You suck the digit and moan like it’s his dick, wanting to please him even now. He loves that about you, they both do. How eager you always are, how that innocent princess look hides such a depraved mind beneath.

Eventually, your cunt throbs with the sign of your impending orgasm, your fingers rubbing tight circles on your clit. Before you can alert him, the grip on your hair tightens to an almost painful degree.

“Gonna cum? Gonna cum at me fuckin’ you like a slut I picked up in the Bowery?”

At your desperate sobs of please and yes, he has the audacity to laugh at you before grunting out his permission. After a couple of deadly thrusts against your g spot, you’re cumming hard around him, whimpering pathetically.

But he isn’t done, no no he doesn’t even slow down. He keeps railing you, pushing as deep as he can into your cunt before ripping himself out and repeating. Your juices make a sinful noise with each thrust, the squelching reaching your ears and causing a burning flush to spread over your cheeks.

After what feels like a lifetime, he buries himself deep and cums, unloading the stress of the day practically straight into your womb. A guttural moan rips from his mouth, as he collapses onto you for a moment, coming down from the intensity.

As Jonathan heaves his way through the typical rain that covered Gotham city at this time of year, he realises he’s still smiling.

Gassing the imbeciles that make up the security team at Arkham asylum had been a gleeful experiment. He’d watched with the familiar glint in his eye how they’d grabbed at their own throats in terror, writhing on the floor as the horror filled their senses.

But he had to tear himself away, knowing this was his chance at escaping. So he’d slipped away from the asylum, keeping to the shadows so no eagle eyed night walker would notice the garish orange of the Arkham prisoner jumpsuits.

His first instinct was to go to a safehouse, get to work right away at enacting his revenge on the city for incarcerating him. But his feet seem to have a mind of their own, and as much as he hates to admit it, his heart does too. So he finds himself knocking harshly on your apartment front door.

On the other side, you're a startled wreck. It's 1am for gods sake, and someone is banging on your door. With a shaky voice you ask who it is, your breath catching as you do.

"...it's me..."

You'd recognize that voice anywhere, and with a furious conviction, you open the door and see your lover standing there. He stumbles in, running a hand through his slightly greasy hair before slamming the door behind him. His hands are on you immediately, pushing you against the wall as he breaths raspily.

"Missed you sweetheart...like you wouldn't believe."

His tone has your skin tingling with excitement as you reach out and gently touch his jawline, as if you confirm he's actually here. "How did you..."

"I'll tell you later." he remarks gruffly, before his lips attach to your neck and gently suck, like his first instinct was to remark you as his own. "Just missed you."

Before it can strike you just how vulnerable he's being, he captures your mouth in a searing kiss that effectively kills off any lingering thoughts you had. It's clumsy and messy, his need winning out over technique as his tongue traces your own.

He moves to place sloppy kisses down your neck, tugging the straps of your nightgown to access more skin. He grins as he feels the material in his fingers; he'd always told you how much he loved that nightgown on you, said it reminded him of a slasher victim in a bad horror film, one who'd provocatively search the house before being killed in a gruesome way.

The white lace makes you look so...vulnerable in his eyes, like a lost lamb willingly baring her neck to the wolf who wants to eat her. So he keeps tugging, until your breasts spill out over the fabric. He attaches his lips to them, sucking softly as you gasp and run fingers through his hair.

"Jonathan...bedroom." you say, knowing that in his state, he'd most likely end up fucking you right there in the hallway. He reluctantly detaches himself from your tit, tugging you hastily to your bedroom and pushing you down onto the mattress.

"You don't know what it was like in that damn place." he remarks, finally getting sick of your nightdress all together and roughly tugging until it hangs loosely around your ankles. "How infuriating it was. I had Nygma in the cell next to me ranting that nobody was matching wits with him, and Tetch in the other going on about wonderland or whatever bullshit."

He moves to your wet pussy, hole twitching slightly as he runs his long digits through your folds. Catching the wetness, he circles your clit in precise circles as he continues. "Couldn't even relieve myself without someone ruining the fantasy."

"What were you thinking about?" you ask, and the grin he gives you should frighten you...if you were anyone else.

"Oh dear...I was thinking of you dripping over my lap, high on my fear toxin as i delivered spank after spank over that pretty ass of yours."

You whimper at his words, just as he sinks two fingers inside your cunt. He crooks them, feeling your g spot and sighing at the familiar texture. "And about how delicious you'd look as I fucked you, so scared and brainless, clinging onto me for dear life."

He fingers you quickly, eager to prep you so he can be inside of you once again. He never used to be like this, so desperate for wanton physical contact. But you've changed him, wormed your way into his life and heart until he craves you, craves the reactions and noises you give him as you lie helplessly beneath him.

"A pity I used up all my toxin on the guards." he lies, in truth he has some left over in his overall pocket, but he keeps up the charade. "Oh what a lovely victim you always make."

He pulls his fingers out roughly, giving your swollen clit a nice spank for good measure before hastily stripping. You sit up to watch him, missing him just as much as he'd missed you. The dangerous man before you had been the subject of all of your salacious and desperate fantasies as you'd touched yourself the whole time he was in Arkham. Nobody was like him, nobody could give you the thrill that Jonathan could. And as he rubs his swollen cock along your folds, feeling the way you write, you know that you don't want anyone else.

He enters you, giving you the courtesy of going slowly as he deduces it'll have been a while since you've had something substantial filling you up like this. As he bottoms out with a guttural groan, your fingernails dig in to his shoulders, the pain delicious to Jonathan as he bucks his hips, driving his cock impossibly deep.

"Fuck...you minx." he mutters, starting to fuck you. Each thrust he ensures that he's reaching as far in as he can, wanting to feel every bit of you.

You moan softly with each thrust, telling him how much you missed him too, how lonely it's been without him. And each sentence has his heart-rate spiking in a way that feels dangerous. He never meant to form attachments, thinking it as weak, or a distraction from his work. But it's clear now more than ever that he can't let you go.

So he drives into you faster, burying his face in your neck and biting, leaving harsh hickeys all over your throat. "Mine...mine."

"All yours Jonathan."

He groans again at your words, feeling his dick throb with desire. He knows he won't last long, being apart from you for so long (and his age) meaning his stamina has taken a direct hit. But he savors the moment regardless, feeling you on your back beneath him, like you were meant to be.

"Not gonna last..." he warns, and you nod in understanding, locking your legs around him to ensure he cums inside.

With a couple more thrusts, he empties himself inside your cunt as it milks him for all he has. His moan is broken and desperate, but the relief is palpable in his tone as he relaxes. The tension in his shoulders seems to lift, as his breath heaves.

While you weren’t the most experienced cam girl out there, you did your best. And you had to say, you were pretty good.

Three nights a week you streamed yourself, setting the camera up facing your bed as you pleasured yourself in several unique ways for your audience’s pleasure. Whether it was using a vibrator your audience controlled via donations, or fucking yourself on a dildo while you moaned out the names of the several men (and occasional women) who paid. It wasn’t your main job, but it certainly gave you a secondary source of income.

Edward wasn’t typically a man who bothers himself with sites such as the one you post on. After all, indulging in sexual desire via his own hand seemed primitive, an impulse that weaker men have. But alas, his body sometimes needs a release, so he makes do. Online porn doesn’t particularly do it for him, too fake and sterile, not to mention the obscenely stupid noises.

So when he stumbled upon the cam girl website, he figured he’d give it a go, grumbling to himself at how annoying it was to have to deal with such base desires. He clicks through a few girls, finding some satisfaction in whatever way they touch themselves, before receiving a perfectly ordinary orgasm.

It’s only the next time he feels horny, finding the site again that he finds you. Something about you immediately draws his attention, your soft curves unique in the glow of your room. He watches closely as you circle your clit slowly with your finger, just teasing yourself as you read the messages from various men.

“You’re too sweet, thank you.” You say quietly, and Edward knows deep down he needs to hear your voice again, hand instinctively wrapping around his shaft.

He reads the comment you were referring to and scoffs. The imbecile couldn’t even spell gorgeous correctly, and you’re flattered? Clearly you weren’t used to actual compliments.

Although his attention is back on your body as you start your session properly, hand rubbing your clit as the other teases your twitching hole.

“So boys, what’ll it be tonight? I have a new dildo I wanted to try…or perhaps a vibe?”

You watch as the responses pour in, as well as a few donations. You giggle as a clear answer wins, and you grab the dildo. Lubing it up, you give a cheeky wink to the camera as you slowly sink down on it.

Edward quickly grabs the bottom of his shaft tightly, for once not wanting to cum too quickly. He stares at your cunt greedily taking in the toy, before you bounce up and down slowly.

“Oh…it fills me up so good.” You say quietly, moaning when it hits the right spot.

He’s drawn to the noises you make, how you aren’t constantly playing up the pleasure. It makes the moans that do escape your pretty red lips all the more sweet. Pumping himself once again, he wishes he could see your face properly without the masquerade mask you keep on.

As per the viewers requests, you either speed up or slow down depending on the donations. You bring yourself to orgasm once, but your audience want you to overstimulate yourself, so you lay on your side and thrust the dildo in and out of your pussy.

“Fuck, can you hear how wet I am?” You say provocatively, bringing the phone closer so everyone can hear the sloppy sounds of your cunt getting fucked.

That’s all it takes for Edward to cum ropes over his fist and stomach, panting at one of the most intense orgasms he’s been able to give himself. And much to his surprise (and annoyance), he stays to watch the end of the stream, watching you cum a second time before waving goodbye to everyone, blowing some kisses.

He’s hooked, checking your profile and making a mental note of when you stream. Over the next week, he catches most of your sessions, and by the third one he actually sends a donation.

“A-ah…thank you Edward, mmm that means I can turn this up to…o-oh my god…”

He actually shivers when you say his name, watching your eye roll back as the vibrator stimulates your clit and g spot at the same time. Realising he’s becoming almost addicted, he can’t bring himself to care as once again he’s cumming all over himself.

But it isn’t enough to watch you, he needs to see your face, to know who you are. So he hacks your profile, running a trace on your name and location. Oh good, you live in Gotham too…and that’s what your face looks like unobstructed. God you’re as pretty as he imagined. And your name is pretty too, everything about you. Even the fact you’re a college student, oh you get good grades by the look of things. Of course you’re smart, as if his head would be turned by someone dim.

Now, the pleasure he receives from your streams has intensified. He knows who you really are, and he still wants you. These other men wouldn’t want you, they just want a fantasy, an unreal version of you. But not Edward. No he can treat you right, give you money that these idiots can’t dream of, fuck you better than any of them could. He just needs to show you. That’s all.

He obviously would never tell you, in his mind that would be admitting weakness. But secretly, his chest tightens and his cock hardens in his slacks when you cuddle up to him as he's doing something.

Whether he's tinkering with some of his inventions in his workshop, or even doing the morning crossword (these fools really do need to make more challenging puzzles, this one only took him barely two minutes), if you paw at him for attention, moving to his side and touching him so sweetly, he'll love it.

But that doesn't mean he'll give in straight away. He'll make you work for it, giving you nondescript hums and training his eyes on whatever he's holding to avoid looking at you. But the small smirk that graces his lips will tell you all you need, that you must work harder if you want his attention on you.

You whimper softly, trying to make the sound as pathetic as possible for him as you tug gently at his shirt sleeve, watching the way his fingers titch involuntarily.

"Is there something you want, my dear?" he coos condescendingly, knowing damn well what you want as you look at him. "Hm, why should I give you some of my precious time?"

Leaning in, you kiss his neck sloppily, and he lets out a groan as he tilts his head to let you. Trying hard to remain stoic and uninterested, he attempts to fiddle with whatever he was doing. Your hand goes to his thigh, squeezing a little as you attempt to push your chest into his side.

His jaw is tense, feeling your fingers dance up to his crotch, teasingly brushing against it to feel how hard he is. Still, he doesn't budge. Doesn't move. Seemingly no matter how much teasing you throw at him, which he'd most likely attribute to his strong mental fortitude.

But when you decide to suck and bite softly, trying to leave a hickey, he moves his hand into you hair and pulls harshly. Gasping, you look at him as he finally looks back at you, cold brown eyes staring at yours.

"You little brat, trying to mark me. You know I'd never allow that." he snaps, but he knows in a way you've won, you've achieved his attention. And he can't have that.

That's why you're bent over his lap, his fingers playing with your pussy teasingly as you moan softly. But whenever he deems you having too much fun, he'll change what his fingers are doing, or give you a sharp spank to keep you on edge.

And on edge you are, dripping and twitching as he plays with you for ages. You have his attention sure, but maybe not quite the attention you were hoping for. Rubbing tight circles on your clit, he pulls away at the last second, running his nails along your thighs. Pushing his long fingers inside you, he'll finger you until you're on the verge of crying out, before roughly removing his fingers and pushing them in your mouth to clean them off. Even playing with your other hole, teasing it and acting like he's about to push his finger inside, before delivering a sharp smack to your hip.

"What's wrong sweetheart? You said you wanted my attention?" he'd smirk at his own twisted words, running his fingers along your drenched slit as you whimper in desperation.

If you beg him sweetly enough, he decides that you should get a reward (and definitely not because his dick is so hard it's aching and leaking in his boxers), so he has you sit on his lap after he's tugged his slacks down hastily. Sinking you down on his cock, you both let out moans of satisfaction as he grips your hips tightly.

"Show me. Show me how much you need me."

So you do, bouncing up and down like your life depends on it, gripping his shoulders for stability. The feeling of him this deep inside, filling you up so perfectly, it was worth all the teasing and the edging. But the edging catches up with you fast, clenching around him as your orgasm approaches.

"Oh poor girl, ready to cum so quickly. We've barely even gotten started. But I suppose i'm nice enough to let you."

He says it like you should be overwhelmingly grateful for his kindness, but his condescension doesn't matter when you're cumming all over his lap, twitching. God he loves seeing you cum, especially when it's directly attributed to his actions.

But he too needs release, so without warning or time for you to breathe, he has you bent over as he ruts into you from behind. Your cries of neediness and pleasure spur him on, cock twitching against your walls as he drives into you.

"Fuck, you just need me so bad don't you? All the damn time, you're insatiable. Not that i'm surprised, i'm the smartest man in Gotham after all." he manages to get out amongst his groans and labored breathing.

Eventually he buries himself inside you and fills you up, pulling out to observe his handiwork of your pussy trembling as his cum leaks out from your hole. He can't resist giving it a little slap, making you jump and whine more.

Tilting to the side, you look in the mirror at yourself. You this time last year would hardly have recognised the glamorous figure in front of your eyes, wearing a dress that was worth probably the same as a month’s rent. The satin material felt lovely on your skin, freshly showered and moisturised, just like Harvey liked.

You were sure it was going to be Harvey tonight, with the message he’d sent to your phone being full of flattering language as opposed to two-face’s blunt texts. Now that isn’t to say they couldn’t be romantic or sweet in their own way but…well they’re a lot more simple to read.

Hearing a car stop outside, you know it’s a driver Harvey has sent so have no problem strapping your heels on and getting in, enjoying the views of Gotham’s skyline at night as you’re driven to your destination.

And what a destination it was. He must have paid them off, you thought to yourself, as you get out of the vehicle to see one of your favourite restaurants completely empty, a warm glow emanating from the lights as you spot your lover through the window. He’s dressed well, suit clinging to his frame, hand twitching as he waits.

Dates with Harvey are different than two-face’s. You get the sense that Harvey is pretending, as he pulls out your chair for you, settling across the table as he fiddles with his cufflinks. His demeanour, the confident way he talks; it’s as if he’s Harvey, just Harvey again. Sometimes he hints at his life pre accident, while he’s lost in a conversation he lets slip something that causes his eye to twitch for a fraction of a second.

You suppose it’s difficult for him, his current occupation such a stark contrast to being a district attorney. But you try not to say anything, you just smile and change the subject, keeping him occupied mentally.

Two-face’s dates don’t dwell on those sorts of thoughts. Where he takes you is usually dark, loud. The iceberg lounge is a usual favourite, somewhere he can keep you clutched to his side in a pretty (and short) dress. He loves the eyes on the both of you, and his smirk widens when he hears the hushed tones of ‘how is he dating her?.’

His dates are more-so about showing you off, of displaying you. Of course, he doesn’t just do it for that particular reason. He likes taking you places like that as an exercise of trust. Taking you to bars and clubs where the seediest and most dangerous of Gotham’s underbelly reside, it shows that you trust him to keep you safe. And that he does; big hand gripping you in a way that makes you feel completely his, and completely cared for.

Harvey however treats you like a secret. Not a shameful one, but a precious one. He takes you to places like the one you’re in, beautiful and elegant. But most of all private. You watch as his fingers move to your hand, tracing circles over the back of your hand and then your palm. Almost like he’s testing that you’re still there, with him.

The dinner is sublime, as you expected. Three courses, all paid for by him of course, over a nice bottle of wine. You feel truly wined and dined at the end of it all, walking hand in hand to another car waiting. Like teenagers you giggle as he kisses your neck softly, your eyes fluttering as the streetlights cast shadows that fall across your lovers skin.

Both of them are always eager to have you; foreplay usually starts before you both are back in the familiarity of the home you share. Harvey seems to have more restraint, with fleeting touches and hushed whispers of promises that’ll be fulfilled when you’re both alone. Two-face on the other hand is always less…ashamed. His hand will oftentimes wander to your ass, squeezing and groping as you giggle and try to swat him away. However if you’re in a particularly dark area or booth, he’s been known to creep his fingers up your thighs, slipping beneath your flimsy panties and teasing your clit, all to watch your lips part as you attempt to not give the game away.

As Harvey gently pushes you through the doorway and against the wall, his kisses become more unrestrained and aggressive. Teeth nip and drag against your neck, hands grope everywhere they feel, a knee slots between your legs and pushes up, causing a delicious sensation against your clothed pussy. However he manages to pull away, gripping your wrist and leading you towards the bedroom, ignoring that twitch in his scarred eye to take you now now now.

Two-face usually doesn’t make it that far. The all consuming need for you overtakes him as he feels your gentle flesh beneath his palms. Oftentimes you’re pushed against the sofa, fingers digging into plush cushions as the fabric of your dress bunches around your hips.

But you know that’s what they both need. They need the distinction, and you’re happy to oblige them both. You let Harvey unwrap you like a gift, preening under his muttered praises of how delicious you look, how pretty and delicate and beautiful you are. The reverence in his voice always makes you flush, as his fingers stretch you open slowly, intimately. You let him place your legs over his shoulders, folding you as he sinks into your warmth slowly and carefully. No matter how many times, your eyes always flutter closed in bliss as his dick fills you up in such a delicious way. His groans always make you clench, as he makes love to you in a slow and purposeful way. Now that doesn’t mean he doesn’t lose himself, the pleasure meaning he snaps his hips faster, two-face’s voice in his head goading him to take you harder, to give you more. His hand wraps around your wrists, keeping you where he wants you as he brings you over the edge.

Just like you let two-face clumsily pulling your panties down, muttering how much of a fuckin’ tease you’d been all night (even though he was the one practically fingering you under the table). You let him get on his knees behind you and sinks his tongue into your pussy, the vibrations of his loud groans and mumbles of how good and sinful you taste making your clit throb. He’s messy with it, your juices sticking to his face. Perhaps if it wasn’t date night he’d finish you that way, the way Harvey is telling him to. But he can’t resist, tongue still working your folds as his fingers do away with his belt and pull his hard cock from his trousers. He still keeps you bent over the sofa as he sinks into you, allowing you a moment to adjust before he starts to fuck you like he’s been thinking about ever since he saw the tight dress clinging to your hips and thighs. His hands always seem harsh, but never punishing as they pull your hair and fondle your tits. The extra stimulation always makes you whine, and he loves the breathy noise when his fingers cruelly pinch your nipples until they harden. You hear him huff, not knowing he’s having a small argument with Harvey about whether or not to choke you as you take his dick, but eventually he settles for spreading your asscheeks to watch himself make a mess of your soaked pussy.