Title: Crane
Disclaimer: Nothing mentioned in here is mine. Everyone can now breathe a sigh of relief.
Author's Note: What have I done? Due to language and content, this piece of fanfiction is NOT SUITABLE for youngsters. I apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. I also humbly beg for concrit.
The drug ring is busted, its members bound and gagged, tossed haphazardly against a concrete pillar, all unconscious, most sporting numerous other injuries. The Batman does not kill, but his goal is to discourage crime, and sometimes he has to be firmer than just a slap on the wrist.
Dr. Jonathan Crane, recent escapee of Arkham Asylum is running full-tilt toward an abandoned SUV in one final bid for freedom. Desperation lends him speed, makes him fast.
Unfortunately for him, the vigilante known as Batman is faster.
He grabs Crane, slams him up against a wall. "I've got you," he seethes, burning with righteous anger held barely in check.
"Yes, I would say that appears to be the case," Crane sounds rueful, but not repentant by a long shot. He squirms against the wall, in a futile attempt to break the Batman's iron grip.
"So," he pants, when his efforts fail, "What are you planning to do with me?"
"Nothing," the vigilante responds, "scum like you isn't worth the time."
"B-but you can't just leave me here," Crane protests. "What if I escape?" His voice drops to a sly whisper. "And where would you be then, hmm? Who are you, Batman? Who are you really? Who is the man behind the mask?"
It's petty talk, but something inside Bruce bristles at the tone. "Shut up," he snaps, smashing Crane's head back against the wall.
It doesn't produce the desired effect. "Or what?" the doctor drawls insolently. "You'll make me?"
With a roar, Bruce throws Crane bodily to the unforgiving ground. "Yes. I will."
Crane climbs slowly to his knees. Right now he's helpless against whatever the Batman does. "It seems I'm – ah – I'm at your mercy."
There's something in the way he says that line… "You wanted this," Bruce accuses, eyes narrowing.
"I did," Crane breathes, not bothering to deny it any longer.
"What did you think I was going to do?" Bruce's voice is laced with suspicion (and maybe curiosity: what is it that makes this man tick?). "Kill you? You're not worth the time."
"No… not kill me. But – I've been very bad. Maybe you should -" he breaks off, licks his lips, "Maybe you should teach me a lesson."
For the first time, Bruce is at a loss for words. He can't believe he heard that correctly, but Crane is still talking. "I'll be good," he says, trying to convince Bruce to… what? Punish him? Fuck him? While he speaks, Crane shuffles awkwardly toward Bruce on his knees.
"Fuck me."
Bruce knows his first reaction should be one of horror – would prefer it, almost, to this – but looking at Crane begging, pert, pink lips moist and slick and just absolutely begging for it, that sends blood rushing to a rather less scrupled part of his anatomy. Crane must sense that, somehow, because his next words do nothing to dissuade that notion. The Batman may be incorruptible, but Bruce Wayne… Bruce is a different matter.
"Fuck me," Crane says and his voice is shaky with need, "fuck my mouth, please, fuck me."
Bruce wonders how on earth he could ever justify this to anyone – to himself – but truth is, he's achingly hard and ready not to care. I'm putting him in his place, he thinks. Shutting him up, teaching him a lesson.
"On your knees," he growls, voice low and menacing. Something warm and dark unfurls inside him when Crane scrambles to obey. An intoxicating feeling thrums through his veins - he thinks it's called power. And it's irresistible.
He fists his hands in Crane's hair, shoves the madman down onto his knees. Blue eyes stare unblinkingly up at him, wide like the sky (the clear sky, so clean amidst corruption, oh irony), and Bruce finds himself fumbling to release his cock from the confines of the batsuit almost before he knows what he's doing.
When he's finally free, Crane takes him into his mouth like he was born to suck cock, moaning in pleasure like a whore, like a bitch in heat. He hums nonsensical words and half-formed sentences around Bruce's cock, sending shivers of pleasure straight to the vigilante's groin, god god god, hot wet slick, so good. Bruce is thrusting, bucking his hips as he fucks Crane's mouth unapologetically, and Crane takes it; he loves it, clenched fingers digging into Bruce's thighs as he takes the man's cock fully into his mouth. One hand strays toward the bulge in his own pants. Too late, he realizes his mistake.
"No," Bruce pulls away, panting but in control, and watches greedily as Crane moans at the loss of contact.
"Please," and Crane's begging shamelessly now, "please, I won't touch — oh god, please, just –"
"Do you want this?"
"Yes! Yes, you - aah - please --" Crane is almost incoherent now, biting his lower lip and straining not to touch himself.
"Then there's only one rule - you don't touch yourself until I say so. Do we understand each other?"
"Fuck, yes, anything, anything, oh pleasepleaseplease fuck--" His eyes bulge and sweat beads on his forehead as he whimpers with need.
"Good."
And with that, Bruce grabs fistfuls of Crane's hair and yanks his head forward roughly. Tears trail down Crane's cheeks at the satisfaction of contact, and he moans and writhes on his knees, mouth sliding along Bruce's length. For his part, Bruce feels nothing other than the searing pleasure, sees nothing other than the violent explosions behind his eyelids. Nothing now, nothing matters but the continuation of Crane's beautiful, salacious mouth on his cock, so hard he can't see straight, can't think (overrated anyway), nothing but sensation --
-- and then Crane does this with his tongue and fuck, Bruce is gone and his whole body shakes as he comes forcefully into Crane's mouth. He loses himself in the utter catharsis of it. Crane swallows like the cock-whore he is, and shudders in ecstasy. Blue eyes shining with lust, he licks his lips (damn those beautiful, cock-sucking lips), red and swollen from me, Bruce thinks, I did that. On his knees, Crane stares up at him, undaunted, a thin sheen of sweat cooling on his skin. His breathing is as erratic as Bruce's own, and through his trousers, Bruce can see that Crane is aroused.
"Now touch yourself," Bruce orders, watching as Crane shoves a hand down his trousers.
The doctor's lips part in an "oh" of pleasure. It doesn't take long as he jerks and thrusts wildly into his hand with the eagerness of a teenaged boy, and his eyes fly open as the brunt of his orgasm hits him.
Crane is still panting when the cops arrive, his hands tied roughly to a steel pipe. The ever-mysterious Batman has vanished once more into the night.
Overlooking the arrests from an adjacent rooftop, Bruce wonders idly what other uses he could find for Crane's mouth. Next time, he thinks.