Fear
A Joker X Scarecrow (Johnathan Crane) Slash.
By Zombie-Ta
Don't like it? Get the FUCK out.
BLAM
I'm back yet again. More smut in this one, I think. Maybe Crane-fap... Yeah, there's going to be that. Really I think there'll only be two more of these after this one. Chapters I mean. I should start doing something else. If you have any suggestions, that aren't Harry Potter, for a theme then make a comment.
By that I mean that if you happen to have a favorite story or show or something that you think you'd like me to write something for, I'll think about it. Hell. I'll most likely end up doing it.
Anyhow. If any of you really read these, I thank you. I can ramble on sometimes. Well whatever. Back to the usual disclaimer.
Disclaimers - There's going to be smut in this story as it goes on. In fact, there's going to be a whole lot of it. It's male on male, homosexual and very explicit.
I have taken liberties with the characters, as most writers do.
I don't own any of the characters in this story, Bob Kane and his wonderful team do. (also Christopher Nolan, apparently)
Let's all thank him for writing such a lovely world with such OBVIOUS gay under tones. Thanks Bob, you rock. (and Chris, too)
Fear
Chapter Five - In View
Crane was used to his mind playing games on him. For most of his life he'd had nightmares, the antagonists to his fidgeting sleep. After the problem with the Batman a few years ago, the nightmares had only gotten worse. Sometimes they were long and drawn out, things that seemed like entire lifetimes played out in his head between different levels of running scared. Others were short, quick and scaring, creepy things. Things with vast amounts of violence, the kind that sticks in your head like a splinter that digs under the nail and festers. His breath was quick and sweat had collected on a cold film all over his body, that reaction was the same every time he awoke after having a bad dream. Johnathan shivered and twitched uncontrollably, his skin seemed to be hyper sensitive to everything. His clothes were maddeningly tight, the blanket on his lower half was crushing his thin body under it's weight. It was oppressive, he had to be free of them.
Then he would have to face the only thing that differentiated this dream from all the others. Crane peeked under the covers again, letting his hot-cold skin meet the air with a welcoming sigh from his pores. He'd felt a familiar twisting in his lower stomach, like a hot snake uncoiling there, he resisted a slight gasp as he felt the suddenly rough cloth of his boxers rub against what lay there. His hand was moving slowly toward his crotch before he knew what he was really doing, the contact nearly made him see stars, he leaned his head back and bit the clotted cut on his lip, relishing the pain as it opened up again. His hand worked slowly, with a mind of it's own on the part of him that most called for touch, rubbing and tugging at the hardening, hot skin under the light blue plaid cotton underwear. The left hand of Johnathan Crane worked his shirt up over the doctor's pale midriff, gently stroking it's thumb across the man's slight chest, pausing at the neglected pink bumps before settling across his chest like a resting bird.
He'd never felt like this. Not since he'd been a teenager, not like he was hiding from someone and doing something naughty, something that was shameful. He should feel shameful, having some sort of sick wet dream about a man who violated him. A man who had killed countless people a freak, a psychopath... A monster. Crane felt his hand work himself past the band of his underwear, and shuttered at the feeling of skin on skin. Already he was leaking lubricant, his body fooled by his hand all to eagerly. Johnathan moved as if in a daze and removed his damp tee-shirt and shorts, feeling less human with no clothes. Perhaps he could get through this quickly and push it back to where he kept the bad things in his head at bay.
The air was cold compared to the warmth of his blankets, which he used now to prop one lanky leg up as he adopted a comfortable position. His thin fingered hand tangled into the blanket as he pulled at himself, toes curling nearly painfully. The sensation of his tugging, cool hand on the hot, hard thing that seemed to be controlling his mind for a moment was delicious, he felt his spine prickle and his mouth grow dry and wet alternately. The doctor made a long, slow growl, grinding his teeth together in a look of pain or anger. His eyes were closed, locked in the same look of furry or anguish that his mouth adopted. His strokes had grown violent, he felt the tendons in his arm stand out with the quick viciousness of his movements. Crane's other hand was knotted in the blanket, delicate fingers burrowing nails into the soft material.
Thoughts moved through his mind in that time while he lay there. Not real thoughts with words and patterns, rather images or tastes and smells. The Joker kneeling to meet the face of the man he had shot, the way he almost lovingly slapped at the dead's face... Like a father giving his son a playful pat on the back after a hard lost softball game. But it was fake, that pat, you could see it and feel it. Fake and treacherous. The taste of his father's cooking, spaghetti, heavy on tomatoes and garlic. The smell of gun smoke, sweat and soap on Joker's skin with lingering traces of blood like a garnish. Feeling skin on skin, feeling the burn and sting as Joker slapped him... Or was that his father? His back arched and he began to moan through his clamped teeth, the lean muscles on his arms standing out as his body seemed to crumple against it's self for a moment. The finial grunt from the clown, the feeling of him releasing... That ending spasm of muscle and bone... The very meat of the soul seemed to reverberate from that one sound.
"Uh!" His body went hard for a moment, stone sculpted at the moment when the human body is most animal, his back arched and his shaggy head pushed into the pillows. The only movement was the curling of his toes and the slowing strokes of his hand, his heart seemed to have stopped beating for a moment... The world ceased moving as he splattered ropes of thick white cum over his stomach and chest. His hand released the blankets and his stokes became slow and soft, squeezing the last of himself out of his shrinking member. Crane's head had fallen over to the side, his breathing came in quiet gusts, his face had flushed and he could feel a slight heat there.
The water was unpleasantly cold as it ran down the angles of his body ten minutes later. Crane scrubbed himself hard for the second time that day, his brain once more turning to the bleach under the bathroom sink. He had looked ill when he came into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror, the same mirror that he had broken in his dream. The skinny man gave a cautionary glance behind his shoulder, looking over the tiny darkness of his apartment. He looked into his eyes for a moment, leaning over the cool porcelain. Dark shadows had gathered under his eyes, which were wide and sacred looking. He was too pale and his lips were pink and feminine, paired with thick eyelashes he almost looked like a girl. Like a faggot, like everyone had been calling him for most of his life. Well maybe he was a faggot?
Crane opened the medicine cabinet with a strange angry speediness, shaking the pill bottles as the door slammed against the wall behind it. The ghostly blue eyes looked around at the uniform white bottles with permanent marker names in his own slashing scrawl. His lips traced the names of the drugs, his mind tick-tick-ticking away like clockwork, formulas, combinations and treatment moved by along with his symptoms beside them. He needed sleep, real sleep, he thought as his hands brushed past the rows of bottles like teeth. Finally his hand closed around a smaller container he looked at the name needlessly diazepam and midazolam mix, a bensodiazepine tranquilizer of his own concoction. He's been taking it for a few months when he was in med school... When the dreams had gotten bad. After he'd moved out.
Now less then five minutes later Crane was feeling them take effect. He turned off the cold water and ran a thin towel carelessly over his scrubbed pink body and slipped back on his boxer shorts, which he had grabbed before going to the bathroom and vomiting. He'd felt sick, yes, but also good but it was a dark kind of good... One that was perhaps a close cousin to the adrenaline that he felt as the Scarecrow, that dark horrible feeling of power and joy. But the pleasure he had just felt was not power, it was weakness. It wasn't Scarecrow that had came onto his creamy pale chest. It wasn't Scarecrow who had allowed himself to be taken advantage of... Again. Crane thought more and more sluggishly as he curled into his bed for the second time that night. It was early morning now and he would sleep through the day, he never even noticed that his glasses had been placed on the bedside table... Or the ghost of body heat in his bed as he drifted off to a drugged sleep.