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greenglowinspooks · 6 months

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(DCxDP) The obligations of a rogue versus those of a parent (pt. 2)

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Tw: N/A

Will be crossposted to AO3 eventually

(Pt. 1 here) - (Pt. 3 here)

(Masterlist/subscription post)

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It was a beautiful morning. Somehow, against all odds, the sun was shining through the thick smog perpetually covering Gotham.

And Danny hated it.

He was in pain, he was exhausted, he was grieving, and all he wanted to do was sleep for at least a week.

In an act of celestial mockery, the sun shone regardless.

After around twenty minutes of tossing and turning in bed, trying to get back to sleep, Danny gave up and pried himself out of bed.

He stumbled through the hallway and into the living room, staring openly at every splash of color he saw in the small apartment. He hadn’t forgotten what color looked like in the time he was in the lab, but it was comforting to see.

Someone cleared their throat. Danny whipped his head around, eyes falling on a scrawny, gangly man sitting down in a worn armchair, hunched over a laptop. He was looking at him with a dull, bored expression.

Right. Scarecrow.

His escape.

The chase.

His mom.

“You look a lot less terrifying without the mask,” Danny blurted out, slapping his hand over his mouth. “I didn’t mean that.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t call my normal appearance frightening,” Scarecrow hummed, focusing his attention back onto the laptop, “that’s what the costume is for, after all.”

“Oh.”

After a brief moment of excruciating silence, Scarecrow spoke.

“You any good with computers, Danny? Hacking, and all that?”

Danny jolted. Scarecrow needed his help with something! This was great! Now, he’d have more of a reason not to get rid of him!

“Oh, uh, yeah! Not as good as my friend Tucker, but I think I’m pretty good.”

“And you’re familiar with the GiW’s systems specifically,” Scarecrow continued, beckoning him over. Danny complied, shuffling over awkwardly. “Right?”

“Well, I guess? My friends and I got into their stuff a couple of times before they…”

“Wonderful,” Scarecrow said, standing up with a stretch. He shoved the laptop into Danny’s hands and gestured for him to sit down on the couch. “Then you can hack into their system and extract whatever files you can find.”

Danny stared at the man like he’d lost his mind. He looked back at him expectantly.

Danny sat down.

“Yeah, I-I can do that. Tuck and I built a back door into their system ages ago,” he said, checking the screen. It was clear that for all the skills that Scarecrow had, hacking was definitely not one of them. “But, uh, don’t you have someone else that usually does this sort of thing for you? Not that I’m complaining!”

Scarecrow scowled, and Danny felt his heart fall into his ass.

“Usually, I do,” Scarecrow huffed, “but I chose to leave my most recent job with the Penguin early, so now there’s no way that he or Eddie will help me with anything until I make it up to them somehow.”

“Oh,” Danny said.

He had no clue whatsoever who Eddie was.

Danny got to work quickly, hoping that if he ignored the gangly man, he would leave him be. Luckily, he did just that, leaving to go work on something in another room.

Danny checked the laptop’s security before continuing Scarecrow’s progress, making sure that the GiW wouldn’t be able to grab their location.

It was…threateningly good. Whoever Eddie was, he had somehow crammed the functionality of a top-of-the-line PC into a tiny, beat-up old laptop. It almost reminded Danny of Tucker and his terrifying competence with his PDA.

Tucker.

Amity park.

Home.

Danny snapped himself out of his thoughts, tabbing back into the application Scarecrow had up and began to work his magic.

He had near full access to the entire GiW database within half an hour.

Mumbling out a quick thank-you to Tucker, he called Scarecrow over to appraise his work.

“Fixed up some food for you while you worked,” the rogue said, handing him a bowl of oatmeal, taking the laptop into his lap as he did so, “didn’t know how well you could eat, considering you’re recovering from… surgery, so I decided to stay on the safe side.”

Danny had no clue what this guy’s deal was.

He definitely did not tear up at the first genuine thoughtfulness he encountered in weeks, and he did not look away as he ate so that Scarecrow couldn’t see his face.

At least Scarecrow was too focused on the laptop to notice or care.

Or, maybe, he was just mercifully ignoring him.

Either way, Danny ate slowly, not wanting to make himself sick. He allowed himself to absentmindedly look around the room for the first time, taking everything in.

It was strangely homey. The space was filled with warm browns and yellows, a few splashes of color on the wall in the form of (obviously gifted) paintings. There was a beat-up bookshelf against the wall, clearly second-hand, filled to the brim with psychology books. On every available surface there was a different colored candle, all at different stages of use, clearly collected over the course of years.

Danny knew that the man next to him was a crazed, murderous criminal, but his home was oddly reminiscent of Jazz.

He was not about to cry.

“Danny,” Scarecrow hummed, snapping him out of his spiraling, “can you explain this to me?”

He looked over. The rogue was pointing to a new report, seemingly posted only a few hours ago.

Nodding, he took the computer into his lap, pouring over the contents.

He read the report again.

And again.

Danny swore loudly, crumpling like a wet paper bag, head in his hands.

“What?”

“It’s…” he swore again, glancing back at the laptop, “they…since you became liminal from synthetic ectoplasm, when we’re within about 500 meters of one another, our ectoplasm signatures resonate, and they can’t track us with any of their technology.”

“How is that a bad thing?”

“If we’re not that close to each other, they can track us down from anywhere in the world.”

Scarecrow went dead quiet. After what felt like the single longest minute of Danny’s life, he let out a truly exasperated sigh, slumping over in his seat.

“Yeah, me too,” Danny mumbled, utterly miserable.

“…I’ll have to move my plans back a little,” Scarecrow sighed, “I can’t drag an injured child with me when I attack the Gotham GiW base, you’ll just get in the way.”

“Oh come on,” Danny whined, “I can take care of myself just fine. Besides, Batman brings kids with him to do dangerous stuff all the time, and he’s fine!”

“Might I remind you that the second Robin died violently,” Scarecrow snapped, “and that Batman most likely has more traumatic brain injuries than all of the Gotham rogues combined. That really isn’t the winning argument you think it is.”

Danny paused, trying to think up some way to win the argument. Then, he realized what he had ignored before.

“Wait, Scarecrow, you’re gonna attack the GiW?”

“That’s the plan,” he nodded, “and call me Dr. Crane. I’m only Scarecrow when I’m in the mask.”

But,” Danny sputtered, “Sca—uh, Dr. Crane—that’s insane! The weapons they’ve got- they’ll rip you apart!”

“Not my first time,” Crane said, making Danny wince. “Besides, I have plenty of experience avoiding gunfire. I’ll live.”

“You…” Danny was silent for a while, trying to think of something to say, “fine, but you have to take me with you wherever you go. As soon as they see either of us on their radars, they’ll hunt us down.”

Dr. Crane sighed.

“…Fine. I need some time to plan anyways. Now, you’re going to help me download these files, properly format them, and send them out.”

“…Why?”

“Well, some of the other rogues might appreciate the heads up, and I’d quite like them to be indebted to me. Besides, I still need to pay back the Penguin for ditching him, and he loves knowing things that other people don’t.”

Danny paused.

“That’s an awful idea, no offense. If any of the rogues know our weaknesses, they—”

“Danny, we’re censoring everything. The only things they need to know about are the GiW specifically, and any sort of laws surrounding them.”

Danny snorted.

“You care about laws now?”

“Yes, because if we get taken to Arkham, they’ll hand us off to the GiW the moment they ask, and it’ll be completely legal.”

Oh. Danny had honestly forgotten that Arkham was an option.

“…Ok. I’ll help you. Who are we telling?”

“I don’t think you really need to know,” Dr. Crane said, the faintest shadow of an amused look on his face, “but I’ll humor you for now. We’re sending the files out to the Penguin, Riddler, Poison Ivy via Harley Quinn, Two-Face, and Red Hood.”

Danny nodded. He could live with that.

“Alright, then let’s get to work.”

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#dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc #dpxdc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc fanfic #dp x dc fic #liminal scarecrow #scaredad scaredad scaredad #not pictured: scarecrow frantically googling to see what he can feed Danny without killing him #and also going through everything in his kitchen to find something that isn’t spoiled #he lives like a 20 year old bachelor in terms of food. just takeout and moldy bread in there #maybe a can of soup if he’s feeling adventurous #scarecrow: ah yes I am feeding him soft foods to keep my lead on the GiW alive. No sentimental reason whatsoever #danny who is about to start bawling his eyes out:#the boy had to battle resurrected food for years. he is NOT used to being fed actual edible things #danny: scarecrow could kill me at any moment. that’s why he’s feeding me and worrying about my health and safety #btw HUGE shoutout to the riddler for cramming an entire gaming pc into a 2007 microsoft computer #or some shit like that #and just giving it to scarecrow. for free. just bestie things

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acapelladitty · 13 days

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Whole Day Off: The Meal

Pairing: Jonathan Crane/Female Reader

Summary: After being invited out to attend a romantic dinner with the infamous Scarecrow, you find that his intentions are as complicated as ever as he enjoys your company. (6.3k words)

(tw for: outdoor sex, fingering, dirty talk, orgasm, mild voyeurism, cum marking, unprotected sex, mild sub/dom dynamic, possessive behaviour etc)

Whole Day Off Masterlist

Link to AO3 Series

Enjoying a dreamless sleep as your body recovers from your play, it’s no less shocking when Crane’s hands wrap around your upper arms and shake you awake with clear urgency pinching at his tone.

“Up now, little mouse. You need to get ready and move.”

“Wh-hello?” Groggily sitting up, you adjust to his presence before you with bleary features – eyes narrowed and mouth feeling dry as hell as you stretch your arms overhead. The residual aches from your earlier fuck are quick to make themselves known as you wince in discomfort.

“In a few moments, Waylon Jones, better known to most people as Killer Croc, will be visiting to drop-off some necessary equipment for my experiments. I have no time to hide you so you must play your part again as a victim and play it well.” His words are even despite the hurried tone and Crane’s hands clasp over your own as he pulls you to your feet.

Still disorientated from your broken sleep, it takes you a moment to follow his gaze but doing so forces your eyes to the dental chair and your throat tightens as you realise what he’s asking. You may have forgiven him for the mess with Sionis but you had not forgotten and the discomfort which roiled in your chest every time the dental chair caught your eye was undeniable.

At your feet, your clothes lie in a messy pile and you bend in place to snatch them up. Pulling on your long-abandoned shirt with trembling hands, you focus on Crane’s words as he explains the situation with his typical, reserved attitude.

“Jones works for me from time to time doing grunt work. He will be dropping off some electronics I require so I will ask that you remain in the chair until he has left. Your presence will not seem off if you perform accordingly.” Pausing as though considering something, he is nevertheless quick to carry on. “I understand that you have no desire to find yourself back in the chair so soon but I can promise you that this situation will be nothing like the previous.”

Padding across the floor, tracing the familiar walk to the dental chair with a zombie-like gait, you sit down on it gingerly – every nerve in your body tensed and desperate to bolt as Crane follows your footsteps to stand before you.

"Waylon Jones is not a creature built on cruelty, nothing like Sionis. More a victim of his circumstances than anything. He will pay you no mind."

Struggling to articulate the whirlwind of anxieties and questions which are fluttering through your mind, Crane seizes the opportunity to speak again.

"Do you trust me?"

The question of the hour.

Nodding even though the agreement doesn't fully ring true within your heart, you allow him to secure you into the chair. Watching him with a trembling mouth, you notice how loose the restraints around your limbs sit and the dread within your chest lightens slightly as you take the merciful act as a small, unspoken apology of the previous mistreatment.

Quick to fix you in place and beat a hasty retreat, you startle as Crane's fingers brush along your jaw - an odd look playing on his features for only a moment before he schools it away and walks back to his workbench.

Unsure what to make of that, you banish the thoughts to focus on the task at hand.

Heavy footsteps approach within minutes and the stairs seem to tremble under the weight as Waylon Jones descends into the basement.

Trapped, you can't help but feel an awe-filled fear as you watch the hulking man struggle to fit down the somewhat narrow staircase. At seven feet, he towered over Crane, a fact made worse by the sheer bulk of him as green muscle filled the space. His reptilian skin looked tough and pitted, chest and upper legs covered by clothing which was slightly torn and frayed around the edges.

Across his back lay a large sack and Waylon carefully deposited it to the ground. It was massive and you could tell that it was heavy from the quiet thud of contact it made with the hard flooring.

"Good evening, Waylon." Crane greeted coolly. "How was the acquisition?"

Opening his mouth to reply, sharp rows of stained teeth shone from Waylon's inhumane maw. "Easy. There was no one in the building so I just grabbed it and went." He growled, his voice vibrating across the room as you kept up a showman struggle against the dental chair.

"Even stole a few extra bits, just in case."

"Excellent. Your payment is in the usual place." Audibly pleased, Crane clapped his hands together as he surveyed the collection. "Your work is an impeccable as always, Mr. Jones."

As Crane speaks, something seems to catch Waylon off-guard and he goes still. His body tenses and his head almost seemed to swim in the air for a moment as he scents something out with long inhales. After a moment, his head snaps in your direction and a visceral thrill of pure fear shoots up your spine.

Padded feet move a few feet in your direction and you freeze in position, pressing your back against the dental chair as Waylon comes to a stop a few feet away. Whatever faux fear you had feigned is now fully replaced by a very real horror as you realise that Crane would be unable to do anything should this monster decide to take a piece from you.

But nothing of the sort happened.

Something almost like regret washes through Waylon’s face as he stares at you, his nose continuing to flare as he sniffs out the fear which is no doubt pouring from you in waves as phantom memories of Sionis and how much more terrible this could be nips at your anxieties.

Waylon's snout twitches again, this time with confusion in his features, and he leans in closer to give you a more definite sniff. This close, you can see much more of his animalistic qualities; the reptilian eyes a subtle yellow as they sit neatly atop his slight snout.

"Waylon," Crane's voice rings out, firm and full of harsh warning, "away from her. Now. My work is no concern of yours."

Waylon ignores him and his snout twitches as he picks up on whatever he had been suspicious of. With the confirmation comes a sudden burst of anger as his reptilian eyes narrow and his features darken as he whirls on Crane.

"And they call me the monster." Waylon snarls lowly. "You're fucking them too? Using them like that?"

Truly furious, it was a frightening sight as Waylon stands to his full height and raises a threatening hand - the claws gleaming in the dim light - to Crane's chest. Shocked by the turn of events, any words you have die in your chest as you watch Crane refuse to back down.

"Waylon-"

"Don't ask me to work for you no more. No more favours, no more help. We're done."

Moving quicker than a seven-foot reptile should be capable of, Waylon pushes at Crane's chest with enough force to knock him clean onto his ass as a mixed expression of fury and confusion flashed across his features. It’s violent and shocking, a show of aggression which only amplifies the fear in your heart as sweat breaks out along your panicking limbs.

Still moving, Waylon was quick to return to you - his hands pulling free the restraints quickly as your struggle became real, not wanting this hulking beast to grab at you.

Mistaking your panic, Waylon wraps his arm around your body and picks you up easily as though you were a bag of sugar. Your breath catches in your lungs as he places you gently over his shoulder and you can feel one massive hand pinning itself to your lower back to secure you in place.

"I'll take you outta here, Miss. You can go to the Thompson clinic and tell Leslie you need help. She's good people. She'll help."

Through the shock and panic, something finally clicks in your mind and you burst into action, a surge of strength pulsing through your veins.

"I'm OKAY!" You yell, beating your fists on Waylon's scaled back as you watch Crane righting himself to his feet - his own breath clearly knocked from his lungs. "I’m okay! P-put me down, please!"

Waylon seems hesitant, pausing at the foot of the stairs, but follows your demand as he is unable to ignore your outburst and carefully plucks you from his shoulder to place you on your feet.

He says nothing, nostrils flaring as he watches you fix your outfit with trembling hands.

"I'm okay." You repeat. "He's not like th-he didn't rape me." You add explicitly, heading off the misunderstanding at its core.

"You sure?" Waylon asks, his back relaxing slightly as he settled onto his heels. "You don't gotta be frightened, his gas don't work on me."

Interesting to know.

"I'm sure. I come here because we're," you pause - unsure how to explain the mess that was your fraught relationship as you catch eyes with Crane for a moment, "seeing each other." You finish lamely.

Moving to stand behind you, the agitation which rolls off Crane makes the hair on the back of your neck stand to attention and you can feel how unhappy he is with this turn of events.

"Waylon, people can't know about her." Crane's low voice brushes past your ear and you lean back into him in a show of solidarity. "Sionis had a similar run-in and he has already come too close. You know what kind of man he is and if he knew the truth then…"

It's a subtle manipulation but one you play into as you allow fear to swallow your features. Waylon nods quickly, understanding alighting in his expression as he glances between the two of you.

"Secrets safe with me, Doc.” Waylon straightened his back to his full height, his head almost brushing the ceiling as he assumes a more relaxed stance. “And you seem nice.” His reptilian head tilting in your direction, Waylon continues as his gaze flicks to Crane. “She's pretty and seems nice. Too nice for-"

Waylon cuts himself off, a guilty look blossoming on his features as he realises the insult that he almost gave without thought.

Crane finishes it for him.

"Too nice for me. You're not wrong, Mr. Jones."

x-x-x-x-x

With Waylon gone, Crane’s agitation seemed to ebb and flow as he paced the basement with a firm determination.

“Waylon is dependable and discrete. His knowledge won’t impact anything.”

Unsure if the statements were directed at you or more of an external monologue, you answer regardless as you finish slipping your feet into your shoes.

“He seems fine enough. The papers and news are always very cruel about him and the things he’s been accused of.” And it was true. A Killer Croc appearance on the news was irregular and often accompanied by alleged sightings which contained footage that put the Bigfoot evidence to shame in terms of how shoddy it was; anything to bolster the reports of cannibalism and cruelty. “He also knows how to treat a woman.”

Responding to the tease with a thoroughly sour look, Crane stops his movements long enough to pin you with a scowl.

“Am I to take that as a criticism?”

“Take it as you like.” You answer evenly.

“In that case, I will discard the invitation to dinner which was simmering within my thoughts.”

Now wait a minute. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” Crane nodded. “Did we not discuss sharing a meal? I know your apartment was suggested and offered; however, I do realise that such short notice wouldn’t be considered polite or feasible.”

Your underfed stomach making itself known at the very prospect of a decent meal, the subtle rumble perks your attention up as you pretend to consider the offer – a recollection of actually offering your own apartment lacking in your memory.

“It would be rude of me to decline such a generous offer, Dr. Crane.”

“A dinner then. Meet me at this address at 7pm and I will reserve the space.” Scrawling the information on a slip of paper that he snatched up from his work desk, Crane thrust it within your hands. “Get a cab. I’ll also arrange the return trip.”

Not feeling like you had much of a choice in the matter as you look at the address - the restaurant not too far away based on its postcode. Excited by the prospect, you give an eager nod as a girlish flutter afflicts your stomach; your mind already vaguely scoping out your wardrobe for something nice to wear.

“Sure.”

x-x-x-x-x

Nervously tugging at the edge of the tablecloth as your fingers dance along the tacky red and white plaid, the passing waiters occasionally flick their eyes towards your table as they hold off on making any approach until your other guest has seated himself. Having elected to throw on a simple black dress paired with some low heels, you had even made enough of an effort to put on a little makeup – your eyes enhanced by a smudge of eyeliner while a neutral red colour tinges your lips.

Catching a cab had been easy enough and you were five minutes early, a fact you had made the host aware of as you walked in and requested the table for Gruidae, following Crane’s earlier instructions to use the false name. He had made the booking, and the spot you were reserved was far from the bright lights which flooded the centre of the restaurant. It was a nice, intimate booth with comfortable room for two while allowing for a little privacy.

Speak of the devil.

A dark shape covered the table for only a moment as Crane walks past your elbow, stopping at the side of the booth as he pauses to take in your appearance – a choice while allows you do to the exact same as something fond curls in your chest at the sight of him.

Surprisingly, Crane also seems to have made an effort.

More used to seeing him in his lab coat and simple shirts, the deep brown suit which hangs off his body is quite stunning, if a little outdated. A grey shirt, one you don’t recognise, sits below the suit jacket and the ensemble fills him out nicely as it takes the edges away from his gaunt frame.

“Hi.”

“Good evening.” Crane replies evenly, seating himself across from you as he unbuttons his jacket. “That’s quite the dress, little mouse.”

Pressing your elbows together to enhance the low dip of your cleavage, you don’t miss the way his eyes drop to enjoy the view before darting back up to your face.

“This old thing?” You smile, careful not to catch the edge of the brand-new dress on the wooden leg of the table. “I wasn’t sure how intense the dress code was. Your suit is lovely, by the way, makes you look very handsome.”

He shrugs the compliment off with ease, a disbelieving casualness that speaks to how rarely anyone much say something positive about him.

“It’s cold out there and I doubt my typical attire would be appreciated.”

“The lab coat?”

“I was thinking more about my costume and mask, witty girl. A touch too recognisable to allow for a nice meal.”

Feeling slightly embarrassed but enjoying the teasing quality of the simple conversation, you let it slide as your waiter appears by the side of the table.

“Some drinks for the table?”

“Large glass of house red.” Crane answers without missing a beat, his gaze settling on you as he continues. “And?”

“Vodka and lemonade, with a splash of blackcurrant.”

“Excellent. I’ll get those through for you.”

As the waiter departs, his polished back shoes tapping along the tiled flooring, you notice Crane watching you with a question lurking in his gaze.

“Yeah?”

“I just wasn’t expecting you to order a hard spirit.” He confesses with a deadpan tone. “I was expecting something more muted. Or sensible.”

“I like vodka.” Feeling defensive, you drop your elbows from the table. “Mixes with anything and doesn’t cloud my judgement as much as wine.”

A fact which makes the slightest smirk touch at his lips. “Why the need for a clear head? Are you nervous, little mouse?”

“No.” You lie, butterflies fluttering within your chest. “I’m just not much of a risk taker.”

At that, he can’t hide his disbelief as a scoff quickly fizzles into a doubtful stare. “Is that so? And what would you call agreeing to attend a dinner with a wanted madman? A person who has mistreated and abused your lovely body in the most carnal of ways?”

Smiling politely at the waiter, his sudden reappearance causing Crane to drop his point as he accepted his glass of wine without thanks, you take a short sip of your drink as you fix Crane with a teasing look.

“I call that a free dinner.”

“And what gave you the impression I was paying for this outing?”

“I seem to recall you coming into a substantial amount of money recently from a mutual friend of ours. I assumed that some of that money would benefit me in some way. Since, well, you know…”

Trailing off, you offer him a sweet smile and Crane is unable to hide the amusement which floods his features as he finds himself manipulated into agreeing.

“In that case,” he sipped from his wine, “I suppose that it would be the polite thing to do.”

x-x-x-x-x

After another two rounds of drinks and a dinner which was admittedly quite delicious, your decision to wash away the creamy carbonara which now sat warmly in your stomach with a lemon and raspberry cheesecake – the tartness of the dessert cutting across your tongue beautifully – was one which you couldn’t hide your pleasure at.

Humming away contentedly as you cut another small piece with your fork, you allowed Crane to continue with his discussion. Maybe it was the wine or maybe it was the comfort of such a tasty meal, but the reserved nature which Crane always revelled in had mellowed and with it came a great opportunity to ask questions which you had always been too nervous to.

“And which of the other costumed villains do you have the least amount of time for?”

It also turned out that Crane was quite the opinionated man when it came to his thoughts on others. A trait which you would have easily describes as ‘bitchy’ had it been applied to any other person.

“Joker is the least dependable to associate with but a necessity if one wishes to remain aware of the more dangerous plots occurring across the city.” Crane scowled, his spindly finger tapping his glass as a subtle flush sat high on his cheeks. “Dent fears me in a primal way and his fear manifests as aggression which makes any interaction a risk as he is very vocal in his desire to blow a hole in my chest with his magnum. Recent events have also placed Sionis low on my list.”

Pleased with that, you tilt your head and give him a small smile, ignoring the little voice in your head that was determined to remind you of his guilt in that manner. The restaurant around you was quiet with only a few other tables filled with various pairs and one small family tucked away in one of the corner booths. All people with their own lives and absolutely no awareness of the monster who sat amongst them nor the woman who he held within his grip.

“If you are finished, I will settle the bill and meet you by the front doors.”

Glancing down at the almost empty plate, you can’t face the last few bites and so you give him a quick nod, standing from your chair as you drain the last of your drink – the ice clinking against your teeth.

Moving to walk past him, you pause long enough to run your hand across his shoulder as your head drops to his cheek.

“Thank you for dinner.” You mutter, pressing a soft kiss against his jaw, the stubble there grating against your lips.

His response is a non-committal grunt and you fight the urge to roll your eyes as you pull your jacket on and head towards the front door of the restaurant. Stepping out into the cold night, you shudder at the sudden chill as your eyes take in the surroundings.

Above you, the moon hangs against the blackened sky in a lovely crescent shape. The streets are dead, only a few shambling bodies of finished workers and drunks from the bar two blocks over stumbling their ways home. Feeling pleasantly warmed due to the vodka stirring your insides, it still isn’t enough to combat the cold air and you cross your arms to your chest since you are unable to do much about the chill accosting your bare legs.

Crane joins you quickly enough, the scent of red wine on his breath as he passes you closely. Curious as to how he plans to get you home, you voice your concerns.

“Are we getting a cab?”

Standing to his full height, Crane tilts his head down at you and his features are as stoic as ever but a slight playfulness seems to be touching at his eyes.

“On such a night? No. I think we can manage the short walk to the warehouse. It should take around ten minutes.”

Taking his arm within your own, a bold movement which causes him to cock a brow, you allow him to lead you on the correct path as you mutter beneath your breath.

“What was that, little mouse?”

Crane’s elbow digs into your side as he awaits an answer and you glance to the side as you meet his gaze head-on.

“Cheapskate.”

His response is a measured huff, somewhere between annoyance and amusement, but he doesn’t deny the claim as his long legs march across the sidewalk forcing you to keep pace.

It really is a beautiful night and your thoughts are jumbled as you walk in a companionable silence. Dinner had been lovely, not just the food, but to get to watch the infamous Scarecrow in a much more relaxed and intimate setting was interesting. He was as brash as ever, his twisted morality making his answers to questions honest and refreshing as much as they were, at times, concerning.

Even his body language was more relaxed as he wined and dined.

The tension which littered his every word and action appeared lessened, his lips quicker to quirk into genuine amusement as he enjoyed your discussions. Your life, much less interesting than his, had taken up less of your shared time as a wicked curiosity controlled your own tongue – forcing you to ask questions about a world you had no interest in visiting.

So lost in your own thoughts, when Crane eventually tugs at your arm to grab your attention it comes as a genuine shock and you gasp in surprise.

“I have been considering your denial that you engage in risk taking behaviours.” He says, his head twisting to either side as he examins the empty street around you both. “It interests me.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Curious to why he had stopped, you follow his gaze to see the same emptiness filling the space. Apartments surround you, some with lights on and most without, and to your right is an alleyway which leads to the emergency fire exits of two separate apartment blocks.

“I think it’s a claim we need to further examine.” Thin hands shift to drop to your waist, snaking their way within your jacket to grip at your dress where it covers your hips. It’s a rough touch, one which makes your cheeks flush as you feel the air between you thicken as he stands before you, blocking out anything which isn’t him.

“You say that like I’m not walking back to your basement with you.” You counter, your own hands coming to a rest atop his forearms, fingers stroking along the thick material of his suit. “A place where i’ve been tied up and abused more times that I’d like to count.”

“I wasn’t thinking of waiting that long.”

In a flash of movement, his hands grow even tighter around your hips as he pulls you into the darkened alleyway to your right – the only illumination coming from the crescent moon which hangs in the sky and the neon flashing of a nearby pharmacy sign. So caught off guard by the sudden change of position, you issue a short yelp as his hands push you roughly against the wall, the harsh brick pressing against your back as his much larger body caged your own.

Anxiety clawing at your chest as your eyes struggle to accustom themselves to the darkness, Crane’s enveloping presence also sparks heat in your groin; your cunt clenching pitifully as warmth floods your lower stomach. His touch is always electric and here, in this filthy alleyway where anyone could be watching, it feels even more alive.

Bearing down against you, the scent of his cologne is strong and his leg moves to fill the space between your thighs. His groin hot against your hip, you can feel the growing hardness there as he assails you. Sighing as his hand rides up your dress, you spread your legs apart to allow him easier access as his fingers ghost across your thigh.

“Dr. Crane?” You interrupt, tone forcing itself to be as empty as his own, if a little strained as your heart flutters.

“Yes?”

“Your hand is up my dress.”

“And how does that make you feel, little mouse.” Playing the game, Crane’s piercing eyes pin you into place in a way his hands never could.

“It’s hot.” You groan, shifting your weight so that his hand is forced to move across your panties; the fabric there already feeling wet as he thumbs it lightly. “It makes me feel wanted, but I’m scared that we’ll get caught and someone will see us.”

“Scared, witty girl? Oh, I doubt that.” Crane chuckles, his voice low and dangerous. “We haven’t played with your true fears in too long. This here, what you are experiencing, is a mild anxiety nothing more, but I may have a cure.”

“A cure? What- oh.” Your question is killed off by the sudden pressure of his fingers as he slips them past your panties to sink two digits into your cunt, the flush of pleasure making your grip of his arms tighten as you press down on his hand.

“Responsive as ever.” He mutters, fingers gently curling within you as he pumps them slowly, taking his time to feel out every slight flutter and clench of your walls as he teases you. “I think that fucking a known supervillain in a filthy alleyway is a perfect method of exposure therapy to overcome that pesky anxiety.”

Shuddering into his chest as you press your head forward, your right hand trembles as it fumbles messily with his fly – desperate to please him as his fingers slipped free of your cunt to stroke smoothly along your slit.

It takes only a moment for you to free him, snaking his cock through the opened fly as it juts free proudly, the length twitching in your grasp as you match your movements to his own – the alcohol in your veins making you bold while your head spins.

He doesn’t make a sound but his lips part slightly as you stroke your hand across his length, its weight familiar and heavy in your palm as the velvety skin responds to your attention by growing stiffer with every passing moment. You both continue like this for a few minutes, the silence only punctuated by deep breaths and restrained grunts, your own control much less practised than Crane’s as you use his chest for support.

“The Scarecrow demands payment, witty girl. He had fed you, watered you, and allows you to walk safely through these evening shadows safely.” Growling the demand into your ear, his lips tickle your skin and you can’t help but give a childish giggle in response before gathering yourself as you tighten your grip on his cock.

“And what does he want from me?” You moan as Crane’s middle finger rubs delicately across the hood of your clit, gently stimulating the nub below. “I don’t have any money to offer him and I’m too weak and helpless to survive any of his wicked experiments.”

“Lies.” Crane accuses, breaking character for only a moment before regaining his composure. “But the Scarecrow has a different fate in store for you. You who spreads your legs so easily for a monster that you would let him fuck you in this decrepit alleyway if he asked.”

“God, yes, I would. Please-please ask him to fuck me.” You stutter out, rolling your thumb across the sensitive line between his cockhead and shaft – a motion which you know drives him wild.

It gets the desire result and your breath catches in your lungs as his hand pulls free of your panties to instead grip your shoulders, forcing you to turn around as face the wall as he maintains a rough presence against your back.

Flipped in position, the cool brick of the wall is rough against your face and you bring your forearm up to act as a barrier as you feel his hands pulling up the hem of your jacket and dress, exposing your underwear and ass to the night breeze.

“I’m going to fuck you right here and now, little mouse.” Fingers squeezing your ass roughly, Crane grinds the tip of his cock against your cunt as he croons the words into your ears. “And if anyone sees us then all they will see is the great Scarecrow and his willing mistress, a foolish little mouse who lets a monster use her for his own pleasure.”

His words going straight to your cunt, your thighs rub together for only a moment before being forced apart by his hand as he guides his cock to your aching hole.

His mistress.

His dear one.

Sentimental musings quickly put to bed as he wraps his arm around your waist, thin fingers delving within your cleavage to grope roughly at your left tit as he sinks his cock within you in one sharp thrust; your cunt so wet and willing that he meets almost no resistance as he buries himself fully.

Body aching with need, you meet his savage thrusts with enthusiasm, pushing your ass against him as he ruts within you – his thin body pressing against your back and making you feel every inch of his presence as he consumes you, inside and out. Groaning and mewling, the noises reverberate in the alleyway until Crane’s fingers press into your mouth, two digits pressing down on your tongue to mute you as much as possible.

His free hand also snakes its way around your body as his long limbs allow him to access the front of your sex, a cruel finger quickly resuming his torment of your clit as you buck and writhe against him.

Of the things that you liked about him, his quick study and commitment to retaining your every reaction is certainly up there and your legs feel unstable as he manipulates the sensitive hood and skin surrounding your clit without touching the nub itself.

Unable to speak due to the fingers in your mouth, you bite down on the digits roughly and bask in the pained growl which issues into your ear as he retracts them. He responds in kind though, his breath hot on your neck for a moment before blunted teeth sink into your skin in a rough bite, his tongue massaging the mark as you arch your back into him.

“Dr. Crane!” You moan, the words punctuated by a shuddering breath as his cock continues to glance off your cervix in a deliciously uncomfortable way. “Jonathan, please, I-”

“I think I like it when you say my first name, witty girl.” His groin flush against your ass as he remains buried to the hilt within you, Crane’s breathing was stilted and punctuated by soft pants of exertion. “I should hear you beg with it more often.”

A statement which makes your cunt spasm as the heat and merciless pressure of his cock finally snaps the tight band of arousal which had been steadily building within your groin, your release hitting with a guttural groan as you bury your mouth within your forearm to mask the sound. Pleasure cascades through you as your cunt is filled and pulses around him.

Determined to reach his own end, Crane revels in the way which your cunt wraps around his cock, every spasm and clench of your orgasm pulling him deeper as it milks him for what it’s worth. His hand, mercifully, drops from your clit and instead returns to your chest, his fingers pinching viciously at your nipple as he uses your body for leverage.

You recognise the tell-tale warnings of his release before it hits. His breathing grows even more erratic as his thrusts grow sloppier, hands increasing their grip as if to pin you in place and leave you unable to escape while he marks you as his own. With an animalistic grunt that almost matches your own, his mouth presses against your neck as he buries his cock as deeply as possible within you.

Heat floods your cunt as you realise that, in the whirlwind of the moment, neither of you had bothered with any protection and the realisation makes you groan as you feel the fullness of his release coating your walls. Your birth control would take care of any peskiness but the sensation of him filling you in such a primal way makes your cunt spasm anew as you grind against him.

It’s not until he pulls out a few moments later that you relax your body, almost falling backwards into him as you feel him tucking his softening cock away. Your jacket and dress are still ruched up around your waist but you’re content to remain like this as you feel him shift your panties back into position. His fingers brush your sensitive hole and you shudder in place as you feel the wet discomfort of your mixed release as it leaks free of you to quickly stain the fabric – your thighs feeling just as damp due to his earlier teasing.

Your head feels light as Crane spins you in place, twisting you so that your back is now pressing against the cool brick of the wall. His face is flushed, the sharp features mellowed by his satisfaction but his eyes remain as piercing as ever, the irises appearing darker due to the dilation of his pupils.

“You’re going to walk home like this.” Crane purrs, his hand cupping your sex through the panties, smearing the mess there further with his fingers. “As a reminder of who you belong to and just how far the Scarecrow will go to teach his little mouse how to overcome her petty anxieties.”

The sticky mess between your legs is uncomfortable but hot as hell and you nod dumbly in agreement, the inhibition of the vodka mixing with the recently-fucked bliss to make you painfully compliant as you keep a soft hold of his shoulders for balance.

His hand pulls free from under your dress and he quickly fixes the rest of the material for you, tugging at the base to even out the hemline before adjusting the neckline to ensure that your chest was covered. Letting him do as he wished, you instead focus your attention on his expression, drinking in the familiar haze which settles across his features when he’s also freshly fucked and clearly pleased.

“Thank you for dinner.” You hum out once again, voice sated and almost drowsy as you allow him to take the lead and link his arm within your own – his auburn hair in a state of disarray due to the breeze and the sweat which sits on his hairline. “It was nice.”

His head turns to you as he fixes you with an unreadable expression.

“Think nothing of it. I feel it was somewhat overdue and owed.” He comments, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the shiver which consumes your upper body at the chilly evening. With a smooth movement, his hands slip within his pockets to pull free a pair of thin, dark gloves; his fingers quick to pass them to you silently as he presses you to place them on.

Thankful for the small gesture, you smile up at him as your thighs stick together uncomfortably with every small step. You pull the gloves on, the material clearly too big for you but effective nonetheless as it kept the cold from your fingers.

In the frigid night, the moon hanging high against the bleak sky, you tuck your body as closely to Crane’s as you reasonably can as you seek out something unspoken which you doubt he is capable of giving. He allows it though, his arm linked within your own acting as an anchor more than anything but his thoughts are his own as he mindlessly leads the way back to his warehouse hideout.

Bringing your free hand to your chin, you inhale deeply and find satisfaction in the fact that the thin leather of the gloves holds a muskiness which you recognise as something uniquely him and you allow that small comfort to warm your thoughts as you ignore the pleasant ache and fatigue which makes your body feel heavier than it should.

Still, not the worst dinner you had ever sat through.

#jonathan crane #scarecrow #jonathan crane x reader #scarecrow x reader #jonathan crane smut #jonathan crane x you #scarecrow x you #dc comics #batman villain #nolan scarecrow #comic scarecrow #cillian murphy smut

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mindstriker · 3 months

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i really wish more people would get into Scarecrow as a character outside of the "hot" iteration of him cillian murphy played in Batman Begins because honestly he's such a nothing character there. he's really just Ra'as' 5-minute-screentime-having lackey, but he's magnetic because come on. it's cillian murphy.

i just want to grab people by the hand and gently guide them over to all the other delightful interpretations of him. look, guys. he's from georgia. he has religious trauma of the evangelical-adjacent variety so heinous it would make catholic guilt look like the greener grass on the other side of the fence. he once drugged batman just to follow him around on patrol while he hallucinated all night to psychoanalyze him and attempt to convince him to retire. he also once made him chamomile tea. he may or may not have changed his own last name to crane in reference to the fact that he was bullied in school by being compared to ichabod crane. because he was built like a skellington. sometimes he just has a gun and uses this in place of his typical fear toxin gimmick. in one iteration he gets fired from being a university professor for firing a gun in the classroom to prove a point. he generally tends to condescend towards everyone, but seems to get along with fucking harley quinn of all people specifically despite the fact that you'd think her positive attitude would give him a hernia. he's an absolutely batshit individual. he's shockingly self-aware and chooses to be terrible despite being aware of how terrible he is. he thinks he's batman's therapist. please i am begg in g y ou i know his glittery blue eyes and submissive attitude in batman begins are appealing but please there's so much to love here i beg of you look at him

#is this me being needlessly bitchy about the fandom tag for jonathan crane being 99% nolanverse? mayhaps.#nonetheless: i stand by my statement. the scrunglier versions of him deserve love #am i going insane over this because i'm currently writing fanfiction? yes #blame it on the 3k words of my batman au #this is me yelling #batman rogues #jonathan crane #scarecrow dc

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sunlightmurdock · 6 months

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Like This Forever | 0.1 | J. Seresin

masterlist | next chapter

You’re thinking of the past, right as the future is about to change forever.

Warnings: accidental pregnancy, childhood friends to lovers, country singer!Jake, smut, pining, blissful ignorance, other warnings to follow. wc: 3k (18+ minors do not interact)

A U G U S T 1 9 7 4 / F E B R U A R Y 1 9 9 1

Driftwood — small town southwestern Texas, situated in Lockheart County. Springs, stony hills, and steep canyons. It’s good land, occupying a tiny patch of earth in the middle of the Edwards Plateu. That’s what they all say: good land, good soil. Large acreages of wheat for miles around, grown annually for harvest and winter through spring livestock grazing. The remaining two-thirds of the region is rangeland devoted to cattle ranching. Ranches in this region often seem older than the landscape itself. Lockheart County’s livestock industry is nationally appreciated, it was, even back then. Ranches here are huge, they’ve been there for generations. The town of Driftwood, itself, sits in a valley. It holds on to the people who settle there just like it holds onto the weight of that thick, summer heat all through the day. So hot that even the trees bend and furl like they’re seeking shade too.

Back then, Driftwood was even smaller than it is now. Post Office, Church, two schools, a fleet of locally owned stores on Main Street and a few other buildings for the fathers who weren’t ranchers or ranch hands to work.

On that day in early August, most of Driftwood’s thousand person population were nestled amongst the pews of St. Augustine’s Church, just outside of town. It’s a mile and a half from Main Street, and a mile and a half from the furthest fence on the Seresin Ranch. Their house is a sprawling thing that Bill’s grandfather had built — they haven’t got that kind of money now, and they didn’t on that morning in August. They’ve got three boys, who were squirming around the front pew, melting into the aged wood below them in their smart white button ups. They’ve got another boy too, standing behind Pastor James, holding a processional candle.

Jake’s their youngest. He was nine back then. Small for his age, especially when you stood him next to his brothers and their broad shoulders and long legs. His hair was beyond blond, lightened from the sun. His cheeks dusted with brown freckles and his eyes always narrowed into a type of John Wayne kind of squint. Jake loved John Wayne back then. He loved the cowboys on his bed sheets, and the fact he could see the cattle from his bedroom window. All he wanted back then was a pistol on his hip and a one-way ticket to El Dorado.

Mary-Lynn Seresin grew up in Driftwood, just like her husband had. She had known Bill since she was a little girl, and she had always known that she would marry him one day. Her nails were polished pink that day, sitting pretty atop the procession card as she fans herself with it. Two pews behind, you could still see a droplet of sweat bead from her neat blonde hairline and trail into the collar of her blue polka-dotted Sunday dress.

On that particular Sunday, the fans had packed up and stopped working. So, all six hundred of you who could make it out to St. Augustine’s we’re trapped in there — not just with Pastor James’ storytelling, but with the thick heat pressing down on the entire valley feeling like it had all been shut in this one room with the rest of you.

At the front, Jake Seresin’s cheeks were red, his hair was beading with sweat and his scarecrow, twig-like arms were trembling around the cross. He struggled with its weight and you had watched his green eyes flash out towards the crowd, briefly landing on his mother. Mary-Lynn gave him a proud nod. Bill was staring at the stagnant ceiling fans above their heads. You, were staring right at Jake.

Eight years old yourself, just eight weeks younger than Jake is, you have known that little grass-stain your entire life. In fact, Mary-Lynn and your mother found out that they were expecting just days apart. They had been in the same high school grade as girls, had married men who were good friends, and back then your mother had worked in the town’s hair salon five days a week. They grew very close through their pregnancies. Your mother was the first one to send flowers when Mary-Lynn went into labour a month and a half early.

Jake’s John-Wayne-Squint deepened through the heavy air, watching you like you were both about to draw pistols and settle this like men — right in the middle of Pastor James’ final verse. Your pigtails and your white Sunday dress weren’t fooling him. His robes and the heavy cross in his hand weren’t fooling you. Clearly following his brother’s gaze, Daniel Seresin turns and peers at you over his shoulder. He’s the closest in age to Jake, but he’s still five years older. Thirteen then and too grown up for childish squabbles like those, he just turned back to the front and shook his head.

The first three of the Seresin boys were all born within three consecutive years. Matthew, Noah and Daniel. They’re each tall like their mother, blonde like her too, and have inherited their father’s linebacker shoulders. Noah was fourteen and about to be a freshman in high school. After he fixed the chain on your bike at the beginning of summer, you were full-blown head-over-heels in love with him back then. You thought you were anyway.

Jake, however, had been in your class since Kindergarten and you had been forced to share your toys with him for even longer than that.

His arms trembled before you and your mouth had twitched. Neither one of you was listening to the service. It was almost over. Just a few more minutes until Pastor James wrapped up and the people of Driftwood and poured out of this sauna and out into the dry, morning sun.

Quickly, you shot a look at your mother sitting at your side. She was listening intently, staring right ahead with her neatly steamed clothes and her hair-sprayed hair. You’ll always remember the heavy smell of her rose-scented perfume. Every time you inhale it, you’re sitting at the foot of her bed, watching her fix her face in her vanity. Then, you looked to your father on the other side of you. Exactly the same. Pleased, you turn your attention back to the youngest Seresin boy.

Scrunching your nose, you had sat forwards just slightly and stuck your tongue out at him. Quite the diss back then. Jake’s green eyes had widened, sweat beading down his back under his white shirt and his service robes.

Driftwood is a safe place. It’s a fantastic town to raise children. The schools aren’t overcrowded and cars don’t speed through the centre of town. Country roads are a different story. But no one bats an eyelid, especially not back then, when their children are out of sight.

Mary-Lynn was busily detailing the events of her dinner party that coming Saturday to a group of women that are invited. She’s quite the hostess still. Your mother stood amongst them. Neither one of them were concerned about where their children were in the slightest. Until, that is, the sounds of muffled screaming filled their ears. The mothers of Driftwood rush to the commotion in their kitten heels and pretty dresses. Your mother was the first around the corner. She would recognise the sound of her baby’s screaming anywhere. But you weren’t the one in trouble. As usual, you had been causing it.

Your white dress grass-stained and muddy, dirt under your fingernails and covering your formerly white, frilled socks. You were kneeling. You haven’t yet noticed the crowd of women rushing in your direction. You’ve got Mary-Lynn Seresin’s youngest son pressed into the dirt, kneeling on his back and twisting his arm uncomfortably behind him.

“Say Uncle!” You demanded.

“You’re so dead! Get off!” Jake struggled under you, screaming with all the force that his growing lungs would allow. His voice must have been audible across the entire valley with how he was hollering. Freckled cheek pressed into the dirt, his white shirt was destroyed and he was in the middle of ruining his shoes with how he was scrambling for purchase in the dried dirt.

Quickly, your mother had grabbed you under your arms and hauled you off of the boy, spinning you to face her.

“What do you think you’re doing young lady?”

“He started it! — He said my dress was ugly!”

“It is ugly, you look like a girl!” Jake huffed from behind you as he had stumbled onto his feet and taken a look down at his church clothes. Slowly, he had lifted his gaze to look at his mother. Sullen and worried looking, he began to pout. It wasn’t working. Mary-Lynn had raised three boys by then, she knew when they were trying to play innocent.

The thing about growing up so close together, is that approaching double digits was a confusing time. It was around that age that your mother began to put her foot down when it came to all of those tom-boy activities. Girls might roughhouse and come home with holes in their jeans and mud on their faces, but young ladies didn’t. The dress was her idea.

Jake’s comment had been passing, just a whisper as his family had headed into church ahead of yours, but he was right — you did look like a girl. Back then, that wasn’t a compliment coming from him. So, you had cornered him outside and pummeled him into the dirt. Fair is fair.

“Mary-Lynn, I am so sorry about her — send me the dry-cleaning bill. I’m sorry, we should go.” Your mother had sighed in a hurry, frowning down at your ruined clothes, then looking towards Jake’s. You’ll always remember the smile on Mary-Lynn’s face after. Not pity, because she knew you were in a lot of trouble for this. Just fondness. She had gently patted your mother’s forearm and shaken her head.

“Let’s finish our chat. They’re already filthy. Let them play.”

Looking up at her, you hadn’t understood why she was siding with you back then. You had just almost broken her son’s arm for sport. As you grew, Mary-Lynn Seresin was always on your side. In her kitten heels and dresses, she remembered being a dirt-covered little girl once too. No one was telling her son that it was time yet, to be a man. There’s no harm in letting you be young a little longer.

Your mother had looked uncertain, but people in Driftwood always looked to Mary-Lynn for advice. She had somehow managed to keep four boys in line perfectly, her parenting expertise was studied by those around her. Finally, she had given you a brief nod.

You remember spinning on the delicate almost-heel of your church shoes, rounding on Jake, ready to brawl. You have no clue where the stick came from, but he was armed when you had turned around — but Jake always fought fair. He tossed you a stick of your own and took aim. Green eyes narrowed, he was trying to look down his freckled nose at you, but you were taller then.

“She’s gonna marry that boy someday.” Mary-Lynn Seresin had huffed with a wistful smile, watching the mud-caked children tear off through the field once again. This time, with sticks in hands and violent intent plastered across their dirty faces.

You’re not eight anymore. Jake’s not nine. This time of the year, you both happen to be twenty-six. You aren’t trying to kill him with a stick anymore either. You’re sitting at your favourite bar in Driftwood — there are four now — watching your best friend up on stage. He’s always confident. He has been since he hit that growth spurt when he was twelve. Since then, Jake has been unstoppable. But on stage is when he really shines.

The Dark Star feels like an old bar. It’s packed every Friday night. It smells like malt and smoke and Jake’s been playing here every Saturday since he was seventeen. This is the last time that it will ever be like this, and you don’t even know it yet. Jake’s in the middle of an original. People around here know him, they know his music. They might not get all the words right, but he always gets people singing.

Jake isn’t small for his age now. He grew into his nose, and he inherited those big shoulders, his skin’s tanned from his days out at the ranch. He’s strong and funny and kind. Sometimes it catches you off guard, when you turn your head and find a man in place of the little boy you once knew.

You’re in a booth, talking numbers. It turns out that you had inherited your mother’s knack for business strategy, and Jake’s way with words had rubbed off on you long ago.

You don’t look like the little girl Jake had once known either. If he was concerned about you looking like a girl before, then you can only imagine how dismayed he must be when he looks at you now. Breasts and everything.

“It’s more than potential, Stu — you saw how crazy people were for him when he was opening for The Ashford Band.” You tell him, fingers curled around a brown glass bottle. This is already settled, the deal is already done. You knew from the second that he walked in that you had Stu Adler suckered.

This is a deal that you’ve been mulling over for a couple of months now. Getting Jake on his first headline tour. His debut album came out last week and it’s doing well, but the record label is tiny and the publicity deal is even smaller. Jake’s making pennies compared to other people in his genre, but you’re about to change all of that.

“Six months is a long time on the road. It’s a different lifestyle,” Stu’s dishwater grey eyes flicker briefly up from the plunging neckline of your top to meet your gaze. He’s an older man, with a once successful career in Los Angeles. Now, he spends his time scrounging small towns for talent. He’s just a stepping stone in your plans for Jake. “You’re sure he can handle it?”

Stretching your legs out, you scoff incredulously at the accusation as Jake’s last song dwindles behind you. The beer bottle is cool against your lips. Stu swallows, watching your lips purse around the rim to drink. You know he’d die for the chance to get his wrinkly, old dick in your mouth — it’s why Jake’s about to get the best deal of his life.

“Jake? — Of course.”

“Can you?” Stu asks. The light on you for once makes you cringe. Even so, your poker face doesn’t falter. Calmly staring across the table at him, a small smile on your face. “Y’know, he’s going to need a manager that I can rely on. I.e. — one that he won’t dump, sweetheart.”

This only makes your smile grow. “Jake is like a brother to me. You don’t have to worry about a thing.”

It’s that lie that secures the deal. Six months, a hundred and sixty dates across the US. Mostly small venues, but it’s his first headline tour — and it’s all because of you. Because of that one little white lie. Letting Stu think that he’s got a chance with you. Letting him think that you’ve never fucked Jake.

You have. Twice, already by this point. Once, after senior prom. Your date was an asshole and his was cruel. You’d parked his truck out in the west pasture of the Seresin ranch and got a little too drunk under the stars, and wound up with your legs hiked up over his shoulders. The second time was Thanksgiving two years ago. Your family joined his. All of his brothers have fiancés or wives now. Sharing Jake’s bed in his childhood home that night, neither one of you was drunk. You were just lonely, and maybe bored.

Tonight, there are a couple of different factors at play. Sure, by the time that you and Jake collapse down onto that red, velvet couch in the Dark Star’s ‘dressing room’, you’ve had plenty to drink. You’re not quite as lonely as you were that thanksgiving, though.

You turn your head and he’s grinning at the ceiling, chest heaving from the energetic final song. His arms stretch along the backs of the couch, his eyes closed for a moment. You watch him silently.

“You’re incredible.” Jake’s half-cut on an unhealthy mix of tequila and vodka, but smiling, eyes still shut, chin still pointed towards the sky. He gives his head a small shake. “A hundred and sixty dates.”

A smile plasters itself across your lips. As drunk as you are, it’s nice to be complimented for your hard work. “Yeah, we’ll see if you still think I’m so incredible when you’re living off of burgers and beer and still have eighty shows to go.”

The smell of cigarettes lives within the fibre of this room. Part of the furniture, nestled amongst the cracks in the red painted walls. There’s the couch that you’re sitting on, and an illuminated vanity against the far wall, and then a coat stand. It’s not much of a dressing room, but it’s fine.

You just wish it would stop spinning.

“I mean it.” His fingers rest atop your denim clad thigh, patting platonically. You hear him sigh from beside you. He squeezes at the supple skin under his hand. “Thank you.”

“Jake… since when do you have manners?” You ask him. Both of you are sitting with your eyes shut on this old, probably dirty, velvet couch. It’s five in the morning. The two of you might have gone a little overboard with celebrating. Wayne Mayhew, the owner of the Dark Star might have threatened to kick you both out of his bar if you didn’t finally get off of his damn stage ten minutes ago.

But there’s a high buzzing between the two of you that feels electric. Wordlessly, you know Jake feels it too. That this is the last night. Here, in this shitty hometown bar. Everything is about to change. After this tour, nothing will ever be the same again — for either of you.

Jake’s thumb trails back and forth in just one small pattern, reminding you that it’s there on your thigh.

It’s been on your mind all day, for no reason at all. That Sunday in August in 1974. Your ruined church dress and the fat bruise on Jake’s cheek the next day when you had seen him at the market. The start of it all.

Those late night drives and all the evenings you studied together. Jake’s football games and his band practices — back when he had thought he wanted to be in a band. Him drying your tears and making you laugh. Growing up together, talking for hours and hours about all of the possibilities. This was everything Jake had ever wanted, and he’s thanking you.

Your eyelids weigh double what they normally do — heavy as you blink open your eyes and turn your head. This time, he’s looking across at you. The tips of his fingers brush the inseam of your blue, low-rise jeans. His face is calm, he isn’t saying anything and he’s far from doing anything either.

Scrunching your nose, you poke your tongue out at him. Across the couch, Jake lifts his brows. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s got stubble now. Stubble, and chest hair and an Adam’s apple. But that look, that glint in his eye that’s just daring you to try him has always been the same.

Jake’s fingers twitch, pressing into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. Dim lighting, fifteen year old red paint on each of the four walls, and that perpetual cigarette smell — it’s hardly a romantic fantasy. And this is far from a good idea.

But it’s Jake. Confident, loud Jake who gets shy when he’s around someone he really likes. Funny, smart-mouthed Jake who under it all is a great listener. Goofy, habitual Jake who has the nighttime routines of a fifty year old housewife.

Strong-willed, handsome, Jake, your best friend — who’s looking at you like you’re his next meal.

…

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