#lock-up

The Scarecrow was afraid of nothing. Jonathan Crane, however, knew better than that. Even if he no longer felt fear due to his history of sampling his own recipes, he could tell when fear was justified.

One of Jonathan’s rational fears was Batman. Batman was predictable; he had clear principles, never going too far when beating the shit out of him. The same wasn’t true about his other rational fear – Lyle Bolton – one of the chief orderlies at Arkham. He could never tell how far that man would go.

It was past lights out at Arkham Asylum and Jonathan was alone in his cell, listening to the heavy footsteps echoing through the corridors. Like decades ago when he was able to tell his dearest grandmother’s steps apart from all the ladies in the church, he could now tell Bolton apart from the other staff. His steps lacked symmetry, one leg heavier than the other. They were always too loud, as if he wanted to announce his arrival to the inmates.

Jonathan’s arms were wrapped around his chest in an attempt to trick his trembling body into thinking that he was safe. His body, not his mind – the mind already knew the reality of the situation: that no one was ever safe in Arkham.

As the sound grew closer, another pair of footsteps grew audible. Two people were coming his way: Bolton, with the heavy boots of an orderly, and another person with light steps, either a medical practitioner in their white slippers or a barefooted inmate.

They stopped at his door. Jonathan found himself holding his breath.

“Surely, we can talk about this–“ Riddler’s voice was abruptly cut off by something big – presumably his body – hitting the cell door so hard that the room trembled. Through the small window on the door, Jonathan could see Bolton’s ugly mug twisted into a smirk.

“No talking, Nygma, you’ll keep your mouth shut!”

Jonathan looked down, avoiding the possibility of locking his gaze with Bolton’s. The man may have been currently occupied with Riddler for now, but he made it no secret who his favorite inmate to torment was.

Jonathan used to hold power over Bolton – he used to be an authority in this place and tell Bolton off when it suited him, playfully triggering his fear of losing control. Now that he was an inmate, Bolton made Jonathan pay for it.

“Down!” Bolton shouted like he was commanding a dog, “On your knees, inmate.”

It wasn’t hard to imagine what was happening. Riddler let out a whimper as he fell to the ground. Through the small window, Jonathan could see Bolton turning to the side, likely to face him.“Now, lick my boots until they’re nice and shiny. That’s the only thing you scum are good for!”

Riddler must have been subjected to Bolton’s bullying for a long time; neither his usually enormous ego nor his OCD could stop him from following the command.

“That’s a good boy. I wonder what your scum friends would say if they saw you now. Should I open their cells and let them all see?”

“No, Sir,” Edward’s voice was hoarse, likely from previous screaming. “Please.”

“Now, that’s a tune I like,” Bolton let out a laugh. “Be a good boy like that and maybe I won’t have to tell my boys to keep you sedated.”

The staff of Arkham Asylum had a tendency to overdose Riddler with sedatives and sleeping pills to keep him from finding new creative ways to ruin their shift and/or escape. They did it even back when Jonathan was a doctor – he used to revel in Riddler’s fear about the brain damage that it might cause. Only doctors were supposed to be able to give such medication in order to prevent side effects. Bolton however, loved to make his own rules.

When Jonathan covered his ears, it was not out of cowardice, but reason; there was no reason to fight his flight response. It existed to keep him safe (if not sane). He turned away from the small window, arms anchored to the sides of his head. Listening to Riddler’s whimpers only brought him joy if he was the one causing them.

If he was lucky Bolton would finish fast and throw Riddler inside without sparing Jonathan a glance.

His rationality told him that he should remain quiet, but Jonathan – as most human beings – was highly emotional and craved the thrill of adrenaline and all the other funny hormones that came with fear. It wasn’t rationality that dictated his next actions, but masochism.

“You know, Lyle, it’s common for repressed homosexuals to hide their unorthodox behavior while they partake in exhibitionism with their lavender wives to show everyone how, oh so heterosexual they are.” Jonathan never thought of himself as an altruistic person and yet, he made sure that Riddler was the last thing on Bolton’s mind. “It makes me question, what are you trying to prove right now? Do you have performance issues at home, perhaps? Or do you visit your missus’ sons at night while she’s sleeping and none the wiser?”

It worked far too well. The doors of the cell slammed open and Bolton stormed in, grabbing Jonathan by his collar and lifting him off the bed.

“You think you’re clever, Crane?!” Bolton’s voice was like thunder. “You think you can provoke me?!”

The animal instincts inside of Jonathan told him to avoid the predator’s eyes, so he looked away. His gaze fell on Riddler instead as he stood at the door, whimpering like a child, beaten black and blue and cradling his inmate uniform in his hands.

“You think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing?! Eyes on me, Crane!” Jonathan spared Bolton a glance, confirming that he was still as ugly as ever. “You think you’re so smart, that you still make the rules here?”

“What? Did I hit a sour spot?” Jonathan had nowhere to back off now, so he chose to indulge no matter the cost. “What is it that made you snap? Was it the implied homosexuality, pedophilia, or both? It definitely wasn’t the rape – I know why they don’t let you in the women’s ward at night anymore.”

Bolton’s fist met Jonathan’s stomach, abruptly ending his speech. And there it was, the long-forgotten feeling of dread constricting in Jonathan’s chest while his brain flooded with simple commands: Defend yourself. Run.

“You think you're so clever, Crane,” Bolton growled, “You think I don’t know what your sick ass is doing? I bet you jerk off each time you get a beating.”

He was wrong. Jonathan lacked enough sexual appetite to do so every time. “Do you think about men masturbating often, Lyle?”

Bolton’s palm landed on Jonathan’s cheek hard enough to force his head to snap to the side. “It’s Sir to you, Crane.”

Jonathan took a note that Bolton was taking care to harm him in a way that wouldn’t leave visible marks. It seemed that the head of the asylum was up for a visit, because why else would Bolton be afraid to show his abuse?

Another hit landed in Jonathan’s stomach, bending his body forward and unbalancing him, making it easy for Bolton to turn him around and push him headfirst to the bed. He barely missed the frame as he fell.

He braced himself for another punch. A beat passed, then another, and nothing happened. Bolton had stepped back, disappointing Jonathan by teasing him just when he was about to give himself to the sweet embrace of fear.

“The fuck are you doing—“ Jonathan turned to the source of the sound to see Bolton dragging Riddler away from the door and to the ‘en suite’ area of the cell, (as the papers asking for government funding called it). “I did what you wanted–Crane is the—“

Jonathan rolled his eyes at Riddler’s whining. He should know better than that; the more pathetic the patient, the more Bolton loved to bully them. Jonathan watched as he cuffed (a still naked) Riddler to the sink and did something with—Bolton put Riddler’s glasses on his head, patting his cheek with a smirk.

“Watch what happens to the scum that thinks he’s better than everyone else.” Bolton sounded tough, yet his actions proved cowardice. He restrained Riddler because he was afraid that they might team up on him and end up humiliating him. Jonathan found that rather pathetic.

“You think your pitiful show of dominance scares me, Bolton?” The spark of fear inside of Jonathan was gone, leaving him nothing but disappointed – it was time to reignite it. “You don’t scare me, I am the Master of Fear.”

The last words were hissed right into Bolton’s face as he turned and stormed towards Jonathan to prove to his ego that he was the one in power.

“I’ll make you afraid.” He growled.

Jonathan ran his tongue by his upper incisors, as if to taste the words Bolton breathed into his face. “Try me.”

The fight was short, but Jonathan managed to score a few well placed hits before he was wrestled on the bed face down with Bolton pinning his arms behind his back.

“One of these days someone is going to report you, and you’ll lose this job too,” Jonathan laughed as Bolton cuffed him. “And then it will be only a matter of time until you end up on the streets, alongside the criminal scum you hate so much—aagh!”

Lighting ran through Jonathan’s body, immobilizing his muscles. He didn’t register the hum of the taser until it stopped and Bolton pulled it away from his upper thigh.

Jonathan was suddenly conscious of the cold sweat covering his skin, in contrast to the burning flesh where he had tased him. Bolton’s shadow stretched over him–terrifying as ever–and Jonathan was finally, finally afraid.

“Fag freak.” Bolton cursed as he tore down the bottom of Jonathan’s uniform, unceremoniously kicking his legs apart.

There it was. The court psychiatrist’s favorite of the fear responses: freeze. Jonathan found himself unable to fight back as Bolton pushed himself between his legs. His subconscious had never really learnt that he was no longer a waif, afraid of older bullies and sadistic adults, who would only let him go once he stopped fighting back.

If Jonathan had the breath to scream, he would have as Bolton pushed himself inside of him. The pain was different than the beatings he usually received. It quite literally stabbed with no figurativeness to the word. Years ago, Jonathan had received a stake to his lower abdomen – one of his victims had thought him a vampire – and that feeling was almost identical to being raped. From all the pain he had ever experienced, down to the humiliation of letting it happen.

“You like it, fag?” Bolton growled, hitting his back.

Jonathan utilized all his will to force himself to breathe. He didn’t want to pass out now that he finally felt that sweet embrace of fear. “Ah-”

He felt Bolton pull away just to thrust deeper inside him. He leaned over him, spilling curses as he moved inside of Jonathan. “Fucking–ugly faggot.”

With each thrust, he pushed Jonathan into the bed. The stench of antiseptic and musk of unwashed bodies that stuck to the sheets suddenly overwhelmed his senses. It felt like invisible hands clenched around him, forcing him to remain in place and endure the pain.

Here and there Bolton’s cock brushed by his prostate, and it only added to the overwhelming sensation. Jonathan could only gasp for breaths and lean into the feeling of fear. The fright didn’t last longer than Bolton did. Once his body got the memo that the worst was already happening to him, it slowly relaxed, giving Jonathan the control of his body back.

Bolton pulled out as he came, uttering another crude, homophobic slur as he spilled cum over the other man’s back.

Jonathan laughed under him. Despite the pain, he laughed – overwhelmed by the sudden wave of adrenaline his body provided for him to run as far away from the danger as possible.

“Sick freak.” Bolton cursed, stripping Jonathan of his cuffs.

Jonathan couldn’t give less of a shit what Bolton thought of him. As he came down from his high, he reached for his cock – already hard and begging for attention. He stroked himself, reveling in the lasting pain of his abused body.

He didn’t care to watch Bolton leave, only realizing he was gone when he was manhandled onto his back. He saw Riddler looking down at him, rather than Bolton’s ugly mug.

“You’re a sick freak, Jonathan,” Riddler mused, slowly lowering his hand until it met Jonathan’s own hand over his cock. “Need my assistance?”

Jonathan nodded, reaching up to stroke Riddler’s head before gripping his hair and pulling him down on his cock.

Riddler was good at what he was doing – likely a well-intentioned attempt to repay Jonathan for taking Bolton’s attention away from him. He ran his tongue over Jonathan’s cock, sucking him off with those big, green eyes staring up at him, tears forming in his eyes. Even when he was flushed red from crying, Riddler’s face was stupidly handsome.

Jonathan came silently, gasping for air as he pushed Edward’s head down on his cock, feeling him choke and tremble. It was so sweet that he kept him there as he came down from his high.

When he let go, Riddler shot up, bitching like a small dog behind a fence. “Jonathan! For fuck’s sake, the fuck did they put in your antipsychotics this time?”