Rumplestiltskin 9/10
Title: The Chemicals Between Us
Series: Rumplestiltskin 9/10
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: One more to go.
Warnings: I haven’t written smut in a while. I hope it’s still okay.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan had had better days in his life, but waking up - and if he had been tired of waking up before, now he was desperately grateful - straightjacketed and back in the padded room in the Batcave actually ranked rather well. Someone had stuck a pillow under his head and dragged a blanket over him and yes, his shoulders, back, stomach and sides were sore from lying down in a straightjacket for an unknown quantity of hours, but he was still himself and he was still alive. The door to the cell was open. Jonathan didn’t bother himself with thinking of escape. There was so little point.
“Jonathan?” Bruce Wayne was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He looked like hell.
“Oh,” Jonathan said. He carefully maneuvered himself upright but didn’t bother standing. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Yes,” he said finally and then; “How did I get here?” Jonathan thought about asking how Bruce had escaped from the Joker and decided he didn’t care. He just didn’t have enough energy to deal with more than one thing at a time.
Bruce shrugged. “You had a fit,” he said, which didn’t answer the question but seemed a fair enough thing to say.
Jonathan stretched as best he could. Someone had cleaned him up, bandaged him in a few places and rubbed ointment into his bruises. He was hungry and tired but the situation was manageable. “Psychogenic non-epileptic seizure. I’m not surprised.” Bruce was looking at him pityingly and Jonathan wanted to hit him. Jonathan settled for leaning back against the wall, which was still stained with his own dried blood, and ignored Bruce.
“Now what?”
Jonathan didn’t know why Bruce was in the cell with him, or why he wanted to talk, but he wasn’t a doctor anymore and he wasn’t getting paid to delve into Bruce’s issues. “Now I sit here, not talking to you if at all possible, and go - how shall I put this so a lay person will understand? - bug-fuck crazy.”
Bruce rested his chin on his knees. “What about the cure?” He, in turn, seemed bound and determined to ignore Jonathan’s unsubtle requests for solitude.
“What cure?” Jonathan asked bitterly. “If you’re worried about what will become of the good citizens of Gotham, I wouldn’t. Anyone who hasn’t had an antidote by now is going to be too far gone to save.”
“Except for you.”
Jonathan snorted. “Of course.” He had a sneaking suspicion that his reaction to the gas might have been set apart from most everyone else’s because he’d been exposed in small amounts over time and because he wasn’t sane to begin with. None of the truly insane patients ever reacted normally to the drugs. The thought was neither comforting nor alarming.
Bruce sighed and Jonathan bit down on the urge to yell at him. He imagined he’d be doing a lot of that when his mind finally snapped and it didn’t seem sensible to use up all his irritation and anger before the time came. They sat in the cell together, Bruce just watching Jonathan until Jonathan’s skin crawled with the attention.
“What?” Jonathan finally snapped.
“Do you think you could find the cure for yourself?” Bruce asked slowly, like he’d been thinking about it for a while but was having trouble. He was rather seriously concussed, Jonathan conceded.
Jonathan hoped that when he did lose his mind he would have a panic induced heart-attack early on. He decided not to eat anything, it might even the odds of his dying quickly. “Perhaps,” he said. “There are a few more variations I can try before the answer becomes no.”
Bruce nodded as though Jonathan had said something momentous. “Do you want something to eat first?” He uncurled from his corner and came over to Jonathan. Jonathan was ashamed when he flinched away and Bruce dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said and sat down again, this time next to Jonathan.
“I’m not,” Jonathan said and turned so Bruce could get to the buckles on the back of the jacket. “And I find your apologies tiring so you needn’t waste your time.” He stretched properly when Bruce unbuckled him, quietly folding the jacket. Bruce looked awkward and unsure and it made Jonathan feel much better. It also made him want to provoke Bruce, push him down further. Jonathan leaned over and kissed Bruce then stood up, brushing at his pants as though he could smooth out the wrinkles. As schemes went, it wasn’t a very good one, or a very subtle one, but Bruce seemed utterly blindsided by it and the overall plan had the advantage of being very close to everything Jonathan could hope for at this time of his life.
“Jonathan,” Bruce said and then stopped. He got to his feet slowly, using the wall for support. Jonathan pushed his advantage, crowding in, pressing Bruce up against the padding and kissed him again.
“We’re going to go up to your caravan,” Jonathan said, slipping his hands up under Bruce’s soft t-shirt, digging his fingers into the muscle of Bruce’s stomach and chest. “And I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going back to the lab and trying one more time.” Bruce swallowed hard. His hands were shaking when he reached up to brush Jonathan’s hair off his face and his left pupil was blown. Jonathan smiled and stood on his toes so he could mouth over the bruises on Bruce’s temple and cheek. “I assume, of course, that you have another caravan.”
“This is a bad idea,” Bruce said, but it almost sounded like a question and he kissed Jonathan right after.
Jonathan pulled away and didn’t look back to see if Bruce was following him. “Of course it is,” he said, picking his way carefully across the batcave. “But if I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going to do it on my own terms and those terms include fucking you, and a shower before I experiment on myself.” He glanced back and bared his teeth at Bruce in a nasty smile. “I promise not to hit you again,” he said.
Bruce put his hand around Jonathan’s wrist when they were outside, but Jonathan wasn’t trying to escape and Bruce let him lead so Jonathan didn’t mention it. Even if the Scarecrow could fight Batman, Jonathan Crane couldn’t fight Bruce Wayne and expect to win. He didn’t need to. Bruce went, let Jonathan shove him onto the bed and crawl over him, dragging the t-shirt over his head and dragging his nails over Bruce’s chest, biting at the bruises on his jaw. It was the curse of Jonathan’s life that he was not the same size as Bruce or Ra’s and that he could be held down, or he could be beaten so easily and he didn’t want Bruce to simply allow him to do as he pleased. He got up, stripping off his shirt and socks and went to Bruce’s wardrobe. It wasn’t ideal but Jonathan picked out two sturdy-looking ties and went back to the bed, leaving his trousers on the floor.
“I don’t think so,” Bruce said, and Jonathan sneered at him.
“Try not to be an idiot,” Jonathan said. He tied Bruce’s wrists to the headboard and Bruce looked utterly lost and bewildered. Jonathan wondered if he was afraid. He hoped so. Jonathan stripped Bruce and paused, sitting back on his heels, to simply take in the view for a moment. They were both bruised to hell and back but it certainly didn’t spoil the view and the knowledge that he’d put some of those bruises onto Bruce’s body actually made it a little sweeter.
Bruce tugged on the ties, hard enough to rattle the wall of the caravan until Jonathan put a hand on Bruce’s chest and said, “Shhh,” and, surprisingly, Bruce did as he was told.
Bruce watched, hesitantly, as Jonathan reached for the same cold gel that they had used before, in the same little drawer in this mirror image caravan. Jonathan would have preferred a little more time to just enjoy everything because all things weighed against each other, Bruce was still an incredibly attractive man and Jonathan suspected he was rather going to enjoy himself, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. He warmed the gel between his palms then tapped Bruce’s knees with a knuckle. Bruce took the hint and pulled his leg up. He pushed a finger into Bruce, thumb smoothing gently over the delicate skin of his perineum and Bruce’s leg jerked, banging against Jonathan’s side.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again. Jonathan shifted up so he could kiss Bruce to shut him up and pushed another finger in to make Bruce groan into his mouth. His eyes were shut so Jonathan bit him to make him open them again and twisted his fingers to make Bruce stop thinking about talking. It didn’t work either. “I do care, you know?”
Jonathan flinched. “Shut up,” he hissed. “God, just shut up.” He gave himself a couple of strokes, smearing the gel over his erection and wasn’t gentle about pulling his fingers out, or about pushing Bruce’s legs apart and leaning over him, one hand fisted in Bruce’s hair, the other balancing on his grip on Bruce’s bicep and pushing his cock into Bruce’s body.
Bruce’s hands clenched around the loop of the ties and he let out a pained grunt. He opened his mouth to say something else and Jonathan let go of Bruce’s hair and put his hand over Bruce’s mouth, slowly moving his hips. They might not have had time for many preliminaries or for anything to come after, but Jonathan was determined that the actual fucking would go at his own pace. So little else in his life did. Bruce’s legs hooked around his back, and Jonathan slid forwards, startling a groan out of them both. He traded his previous hold for putting both hands flat on the mattress and pushing into Bruce as hard as he could.
There was a loud crack as Bruce pulled on one of the ties hard enough to break the cheap headboard but he didn’t push Jonathan away, he caught hold of the back of Jonathan’s neck and brought him down for a kiss. “I didn’t tell you before,” Bruce said, against Jonathan’s mouth. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t enjoy watching the way you hurt.”
Jonathan’s stomach bottomed out. “Shut up,” he begged.
Bruce bit down on Jonathan’s bottom lip and licked delicately at the blood that seeped out of all the cracks. “I like watching you break and I like breaking you.” His thumb rubbed over the bruises around Jonathan’s throat and Jonathan couldn’t catch his breath. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t enjoy making you like it when it’s pretty, same as you do when it’s ugly as everything else.”
Jonathan tipped forward, resting his head against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce ran his fingers into Jonathan’s hair, and he couldn’t pet away the headache that was starting to build behind Jonathan’s eyes, but it felt nice. “Jonathan…”
Jonathan pulled away, sitting down next to Bruce and pulled the duvet up over himself, leaving Bruce to sit up and untie his own wrist from the headboard. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and didn’t bother to shrug Bruce off when he put an arm over his shoulders.
“You were right,” Jonathan said bitterly. “This was a bad idea.”
Bruce smiled at him with his million-dollar charm and his concussion that made him stupid and so easy to manipulate and Jonathan wanted to believe the lie. “I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I was enjoying it.”
Jonathan choked out an incredulous laugh and put his hands over his face so he didn’t have to look at Bruce. It made it a little easier. “Good,” he said and then wished he hadn’t. He was losing track of what his own intentions were and when Bruce tugged his hands away from his face and kissed him, slick and gentle, Jonathan wanted it, and then didn’t and hung in his own indecisiveness, letting himself be kissed. “Just put me back in the jacket and back in the safebox,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“What about the cure?” Bruce asked, as though it was that easy.
Jonathan continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “When I snap…I don’t want to live like that and I believe that’s your modus operandi, protecting citizens of Gotham from whatever preys on them.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Bruce said dismissively. “You still have time. You’re coherent now.”
“One of us has to be.” Jonathan, for lack of a better idea, curled into Bruce. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, their knees banged together and Jonathan was too angular and Bruce was too solid but he liked the pressure of Bruce’s arm around his shoulders and the muscle against his cheek and side. It was comforting, and infuriating because of it, but Jonathan was too tired to be angry.
Bruce pulled away and Jonathan decided he’d had enough and just crumpled onto the mattress and curled up into a ball. Bruce got out of the bed and pulled on his jeans and shirt. “Get up.”
“Why?”
“Get up or I’ll get you up,” Bruce threatened, and then did as he’d said, pulling Jonathan out of the bed, and shoving his clothes at him. When Jonathan made no effort to move, Bruce grabbed his chin, hard, and made Jonathan look at him. “Get dressed. We’re going to the lab.”
Jonathan mustered a half-hearted sneer. He was sticky and still half hard but doing anything other than just going back to sleep until he lost his mind again only made him more tired. “Make me,” he said, and didn’t flinch.
Bruce hesitated for one long second then he let go of Jonathan’s chin, picked up his shirt and set it over his shoulders before gently taking one of his arms and feeding it through the sleeve. Jonathan wondered if the hesitation had been that second between violence or pity and decided he’d rather have had the violence. He shoved at Bruce, who didn’t move at all, causing Jonathan to stumble backwards.
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, not bothering to button his shirt. “I don’t want to do it,” he said.
“What?”
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. It,” Jonathan repeated. “I won’t kill myself for your edification.”
Bruce brushed a lock of hair out of Jonathan’s face. “No, but you’ll do it on the off-chance that you’re just as smart as you thought.” He did up the first button on Jonathan’s shirt and smiled a little to himself when Jonathan swatted his hand away and did up the rest on his own. “You came up with the basic ideas when you were completely gone.”
“And then I turned myself into the Scarecrow,” Jonathan snapped.
Bruce shrugged. “I can beat him back out of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jonathan managed a proper sneer that time. “Actually, I wasn’t finished my thought. First I turned myself into the Scarecrow, then I nearly poisoned myself, twice, and now I’m tired. You win, I’m broken.”
“I know.” Bruce leaned back against the kitchen cabinet and regarded Jonathan thoughtfully. “How do you think you got here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know what happened to you,” Bruce clarified. “I held you while you fitted.”
Jonathan looked away. “I see.” That Bruce had seen him brought so low made him grind his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. “Well…”
Bruce tipped his head to one side. “I promised to look after you.” Jonathan had no recollection of any sort of pledge and he hated himself a little bit more for wishing Bruce had given it.
“Fuck you,” Jonathan said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t want your pity.”
Bruce shrugged again. “Whichever way you’d prefer,” he said.
Jonathan had a moment to be confused before Bruce was moving, away from the counter, one hand twisting Jonathan’s arm up behind his back, the other on the back of his neck, pushing him forwards and out of the caravan. Jonathan squirmed unhappily but let himself be manhandled. Bruce could only push him so far before Jonathan had to actually mix chemicals of his own impetus. What he wasn’t expecting was for Bruce to kick the door of the caravan shut behind them and then let go.
Jonathan straightened up, frowning, and set his clothing to rights, rubbing his arm. Bruce gestured at the wide open space of the Wayne Manor grounds. “Go on then,” Bruce said.
“What?” Jonathan asked.
“Either you come with me and work on your own cure or you leave and tear yourself apart on your own terms. I’ll help you; I won’t be your executioner.” Bruce leaned back against the door of the trailer and Jonathan realized that Bruce was unsteady on his feet, probably dizzy.
Jonathan took an uncertain step away from Bruce. “Why?” he asked, taking a half step back and hesitating.
“Because I help people, Jonathan, and you’re not good people, but you’re people.” Bruce grinned at him. “And I told you, I care about you.”
Jonathan cringed. “What happens if I can find the cure?”
“Arkham.”
“Do you know what they’ll do to me there?” Jonathan demanded.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Nothing worse than what you did you your patients, I’d guess.”
*~*~*~*
It took Jonathan the better part of four days to make the next batch of antidote and the dizziness, halos, hallucinations, nausea etc. came and went as they pleased, slowing progress. Bruce had the good courtesy to leave him alone except for dragging him back to the padded room to sleep and up to the caravan to eat. It was actually the best care that Jonathan had had in years, since even alone before he went mad he had been prone to forgetting to eat and sleep when working. He complained, of course, since it wouldn’t do to show his captor too much appreciation, and sleeping in a straightjacket wasn’t getting any more comfortable, but it was nice, in a twisted sort of way.
The final solution was a noxious-smelling potion that honest-to-god smoked in the beaker and glowed fluorescent lime. Jonathan wasn’t sure how he felt about drinking something that looked radioactive and spent an hour just staring at it. He wasn’t doing anything other than that when Bruce came down to check on him.
Bruce’s bruising had gone from purple to a hideous green, yellowed at the edges and his concussion seemed much better. He settled down into the chair next to Jonathan, looking unfairly put together in pressed trousers and a shirt that had a tie, and cufflinks and wasn’t three days in the wearing and too big to boot. Jonathan pushed his hair - too long now, desperately needing a trim - out of his eyes and flicked a ragged, dirty fingernail at the beaker, pinging against it softly in the quiet rustling of the batcave.
“Is that it?” Bruce asked, peering at the solution. Jonathan didn’t bother to warn him about the smell; Bruce figured it out soon enough when he got his nose right next to it.
Jonathan fidgeted with his right cuff. It was chemical stained and frayed from his worrying at it and it hung down over his fingertips. He rolled it back up over his elbow and shrugged. His own bruising was still a reddish purple, fading slowly. “I suppose so. I’ve been wrong before.” His knee kept jiggling up and down without his say so but Jonathan was too full of nervous energy to do anything other than squirm in his chair and stare at the beaker.
He wasn’t expecting Bruce to put one annoyingly large hand on his knee to still it, or for him to slide that hand a little higher, not demanding, not indecent, just resting mid-thigh. “Probably best to just get it over with,” Bruce said and he sounded almost sympathetic.
Jonathan had a few choice things to say to that, but he bit his tongue, wished Bruce wasn’t watching so he could hold his nose, and drank the beaker down until nothing was left but a ring of pale green foam at the bottom. It tasted slimy and Jonathan nearly choked it back up again. By a massive force of will he clamped a hand over his mouth and made it settle. By the time he had stopped gagging it was too late to point out that Bruce had his hand resting heavy and warm at the back of Jonathan’s neck, rubbing gently. He settled for shifting his shoulders but Bruce didn’t seem inclined to move.
“Now what?” Bruce asked and Jonathan shuffled just a little closer so their legs pressed together from hip to knee.
“We wait patiently and see what part of my mind I lose next,” Jonathan said, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thought vaguely about throwing up or at least spitting to rid himself of the taste, but it didn’t seem like the dignified thing to do. “You might want to put me in the straightjacket.”
Bruce tilted his head and kissed the corner of Jonathan’s mouth. “If I need to,” he said. Jonathan decided that if neither of them mentioned it, it would be okay for him to rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder.
He didn’t realize how tired he was until he dozed off, Bruce’s hand petting through his hair. Jonathan jerked awake again only a few minutes later. “Did it work?” Bruce asked, voice a low rumble through Jonathan’s cheek and the delicate skin of his temple.
Jonathan sat up with an embarrassed cough and surreptitiously wiped at his mouth to make sure he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. He hadn’t, thank God. “I don’t think it’s done anything yet.” He didn’t feel any different. Not better, not worse.
They waited until Jonathan’s muscles all locked at once and he nearly jerked right out of his chair. Only Bruce’s arm around him stopped him from toppling right over onto the stone floor. Above them the sound of construction rumbled on and it suddenly seemed too loud to Jonathan. His teeth ground together so hard he could feel it in the hinges of his jaw and in the back of his head, flashing pain down his molars into his neck. There was a scream knotted up in his throat, caught there with bile and the slick taste of the solution.
Bruce eased him down to the floor, keeping one hand tucked behind Jonathan’s head so he wouldn’t concuss himself if he started to convulse. Jonathan didn’t. As quickly as his muscles had locked they relaxed and Jonathan blacked out, abruptly tasting spun sugar in his mouth and smelling something like strawberry jam on warm, buttered toast.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan came to around twenty minutes after he had passed out. Bruce had considered putting him in the straightjacket while he was unconscious, but it seemed a little unnecessary. Scarecrow or not, Jonathan was unarmed and while that hadn’t stopped him the last time, he seemed far more resigned to his captivity. That, and Bruce could always beat the shit out of him if he tried anything.
“How’s…” Bruce couldn’t think of a good word to encompass everything that was wrong with Jonathan, so he just waved his hand in an illustrative fashion.
Jonathan held his hands out in front of him and they were steady. He looked up at Bruce and cocked his head to one side, a little exaggerated. It was a gesture that Bruce had only ever seen on the Scarecrow but the frown - a little cynical, a little petulant - that creased up his nose, was all Jonathan. Bruce had never quite gone in for the idea that someone could have crazy eyes or that the eyes were any sort of window to anything other than pigment, but Jonathan looked more focused at the very least. It was a little intimidating to be on the receiving end of such a shrewd look.
All things considered, Bruce wasn’t expecting it precisely, but he was ready for it when Jonathan pushed the blankets aside and came for him. He caught hold of Jonathan’s wrists and used his own momentum to spin them and slam Jonathan back into the counter. Jonathan head-butted him in the nose, sending Bruce staggering back, eyes watering. It gave Jonathan the opening to grab him by the shirt-front and push him over a chair, sending them both crashing to the floor. He grabbed onto Jonathan’s throat and when Jonathan leaned down and kissed him, he was surprised enough that he tightened his grip rather than loosening it and was rewarded with a knee to the solar plexus and Jonathan biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin.
“I suppose,” Jonathan said, gasping, when Bruce got his own knee up and shoved Jonathan off him, knocking Jonathan’s side into the leg of the bed. “That I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to want to kill someone and fuck them at the same time.” He clawed Bruce’s shirt open as Bruce dragged him to his feet and shoved him up against the wall of the caravan, knocking a bland rural landscape painting askew.
Bruce dug his fingers into Jonathan’s thighs, lifting him up slightly, so he didn’t have to stoop to bite bruises into Jonathan’s throat. Jonathan squirmed, hooking one leg around his hips, nails raising welts and little cuts on Bruce’s chest and shoulders.
“Not the Scarecrow?” Bruce demanded, letting go with one hand so he could pull Jonathan’s head back further by the hair.
Jonathan pushed off from the wall, knocking them both down again, his arm sliding across the countertop, knocking appliances off onto the floor, Bruce’s shoulder catching on the closet door, breaking one of the hinges. “Do I sound like the Scarecrow to you?” Jonathan asked, crawling on top of him, which gave Bruce the advantage he needed to hook his fingers into Jonathan’s trousers and shove them down his hips. His skin was already red with what were going to be some really spectacular bruises and Bruce grinned despite himself.
“I can’t tell,” Bruce said and thumped his own head back against the floor when Jonathan didn’t bother with buttons and zippers and just shoved his hand down the front of Bruce’s slacks.
Jonathan’s wrist got in the way when Bruce undid his own trousers so he knocked Jonathan off again, pushing him into the desk. Bruce shoved his slacks and boxers down his hips and pinned Jonathan to the floor, the safety plug of a knocked over lamp digging into his calf and a broken plastic cup cutting into Jonathan’s back. Jonathan arched up into him. He had a split lip again and half the buttons on his shirt had been ripped off. He looked three-quarters crazy and entirely together. Bruce knocked the whole bedside table over reaching for the gel.
“It’s an alter ego, Bruce,” Jonathan said, digging a heel into Bruce’s back as he lifted his hips obligingly. His teeth left the side of Bruce’s jaw stinging and sore by the time Bruce had slicked his own cock and Bruce tangled his gel-slick hand into Jonathan’s hair and pinned his head to the floor before pushing into him.
Bruce shoved his hips forward hard enough that Jonathan scraped a few inches forward across the carpet and Bruce could already feel a burn starting in his knees as he bent Jonathan’s leg further up and did it again. “It wasn’t before,” he said, voice rough and muffled in the curve of Jonathan’s shoulder as he laid new bruises down there too.
Jonathan’s fingers dug painfully into Bruce’s bicep and the back of his neck. “It is now,” he said and then made an involuntary groan when Bruce rocked back onto his heels, pulling Jonathan with him until Jonathan was straddling him then back down still further until he was on his back, Jonathan bloody and beautiful above him.
“Good,” Bruce said and Jonathan ground down onto him, hands braced on Bruce’s chest, muscles in his thighs standing out as he lifted himself up so only the head of Bruce’s dick was in him. Bruce lifted his hips and pushed down on Jonathan’s hips and Jonathan’s head tipped forward on his neck. Bruce pulled on the back of Jonathan's shirt, straining the last few buttons, forcing Jonathan back. "Like this," he said, so he could see Jonathan stretched out over him and could count the marks he'd put onto him; so he could watch the flush on Jonathan's face and chest and see his cock curve up towards his stomach, not rubbing against anything except Jonathan's own stomach.
Jonathan leaned back, biting his own lip and shuddered at the change of angle, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and neck, legs starting to shake a little. Bruce pushed into him, one hand tight around one of Jonathan’s wrists, and Jonathan shuddered again and came. He tipped forward again, elbow digging into Bruce’s side, belly slick against Bruce’s skin and Bruce kissed him to taste Jonathan’s sweat and the blood from his lip. With Jonathan Crane, together and sane as he might ever be, tight around him and shaking and fucked out above him Bruce groaned into Jonathan’s mouth and came.
Jonathan slid off him slowly, wincing, but there was a smug grin on the edges of his smile and Bruce wanted to fuck him again until the expression was gone, but he was sore and the caravan was a disaster and, Christ, he could only hope the construction crew didn’t come to see what the hell had happened to him.
“This is…” Jonathan waved an expressive hand at the destruction of the trailer. “I suppose the medical term for it is ‘a touch disturbed.’”
Bruce dragged the blanket and a pillow down off the bed. “We should do this again.” He shifted and winced. “Maybe with more sex and less throwing each other into shit.”
“Mmm.” Jonathan tucked his head into the curve of Bruce’s shoulder. “I liked that part.”
“Of course you did,” Bruce said. He prodded at one of Jonathan’s bruises until Jonathan hissed and swatted his hand away.
“Sadist,” Jonathan said contentedly.
Bruce chuckled and prodded the bruise again. “Hypocrite.”
TBC.
Series: Rumplestiltskin 9/10
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: One more to go.
Warnings: I haven’t written smut in a while. I hope it’s still okay.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan had had better days in his life, but waking up - and if he had been tired of waking up before, now he was desperately grateful - straightjacketed and back in the padded room in the Batcave actually ranked rather well. Someone had stuck a pillow under his head and dragged a blanket over him and yes, his shoulders, back, stomach and sides were sore from lying down in a straightjacket for an unknown quantity of hours, but he was still himself and he was still alive. The door to the cell was open. Jonathan didn’t bother himself with thinking of escape. There was so little point.
“Jonathan?” Bruce Wayne was sitting in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest. He looked like hell.
“Oh,” Jonathan said. He carefully maneuvered himself upright but didn’t bother standing. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. “Yes,” he said finally and then; “How did I get here?” Jonathan thought about asking how Bruce had escaped from the Joker and decided he didn’t care. He just didn’t have enough energy to deal with more than one thing at a time.
Bruce shrugged. “You had a fit,” he said, which didn’t answer the question but seemed a fair enough thing to say.
Jonathan stretched as best he could. Someone had cleaned him up, bandaged him in a few places and rubbed ointment into his bruises. He was hungry and tired but the situation was manageable. “Psychogenic non-epileptic seizure. I’m not surprised.” Bruce was looking at him pityingly and Jonathan wanted to hit him. Jonathan settled for leaning back against the wall, which was still stained with his own dried blood, and ignored Bruce.
“Now what?”
Jonathan didn’t know why Bruce was in the cell with him, or why he wanted to talk, but he wasn’t a doctor anymore and he wasn’t getting paid to delve into Bruce’s issues. “Now I sit here, not talking to you if at all possible, and go - how shall I put this so a lay person will understand? - bug-fuck crazy.”
Bruce rested his chin on his knees. “What about the cure?” He, in turn, seemed bound and determined to ignore Jonathan’s unsubtle requests for solitude.
“What cure?” Jonathan asked bitterly. “If you’re worried about what will become of the good citizens of Gotham, I wouldn’t. Anyone who hasn’t had an antidote by now is going to be too far gone to save.”
“Except for you.”
Jonathan snorted. “Of course.” He had a sneaking suspicion that his reaction to the gas might have been set apart from most everyone else’s because he’d been exposed in small amounts over time and because he wasn’t sane to begin with. None of the truly insane patients ever reacted normally to the drugs. The thought was neither comforting nor alarming.
Bruce sighed and Jonathan bit down on the urge to yell at him. He imagined he’d be doing a lot of that when his mind finally snapped and it didn’t seem sensible to use up all his irritation and anger before the time came. They sat in the cell together, Bruce just watching Jonathan until Jonathan’s skin crawled with the attention.
“What?” Jonathan finally snapped.
“Do you think you could find the cure for yourself?” Bruce asked slowly, like he’d been thinking about it for a while but was having trouble. He was rather seriously concussed, Jonathan conceded.
Jonathan hoped that when he did lose his mind he would have a panic induced heart-attack early on. He decided not to eat anything, it might even the odds of his dying quickly. “Perhaps,” he said. “There are a few more variations I can try before the answer becomes no.”
Bruce nodded as though Jonathan had said something momentous. “Do you want something to eat first?” He uncurled from his corner and came over to Jonathan. Jonathan was ashamed when he flinched away and Bruce dropped his hand. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said and sat down again, this time next to Jonathan.
“I’m not,” Jonathan said and turned so Bruce could get to the buckles on the back of the jacket. “And I find your apologies tiring so you needn’t waste your time.” He stretched properly when Bruce unbuckled him, quietly folding the jacket. Bruce looked awkward and unsure and it made Jonathan feel much better. It also made him want to provoke Bruce, push him down further. Jonathan leaned over and kissed Bruce then stood up, brushing at his pants as though he could smooth out the wrinkles. As schemes went, it wasn’t a very good one, or a very subtle one, but Bruce seemed utterly blindsided by it and the overall plan had the advantage of being very close to everything Jonathan could hope for at this time of his life.
“Jonathan,” Bruce said and then stopped. He got to his feet slowly, using the wall for support. Jonathan pushed his advantage, crowding in, pressing Bruce up against the padding and kissed him again.
“We’re going to go up to your caravan,” Jonathan said, slipping his hands up under Bruce’s soft t-shirt, digging his fingers into the muscle of Bruce’s stomach and chest. “And I’m going to fuck you, and then I’m going back to the lab and trying one more time.” Bruce swallowed hard. His hands were shaking when he reached up to brush Jonathan’s hair off his face and his left pupil was blown. Jonathan smiled and stood on his toes so he could mouth over the bruises on Bruce’s temple and cheek. “I assume, of course, that you have another caravan.”
“This is a bad idea,” Bruce said, but it almost sounded like a question and he kissed Jonathan right after.
Jonathan pulled away and didn’t look back to see if Bruce was following him. “Of course it is,” he said, picking his way carefully across the batcave. “But if I’m going to lose my mind, I’m going to do it on my own terms and those terms include fucking you, and a shower before I experiment on myself.” He glanced back and bared his teeth at Bruce in a nasty smile. “I promise not to hit you again,” he said.
Bruce put his hand around Jonathan’s wrist when they were outside, but Jonathan wasn’t trying to escape and Bruce let him lead so Jonathan didn’t mention it. Even if the Scarecrow could fight Batman, Jonathan Crane couldn’t fight Bruce Wayne and expect to win. He didn’t need to. Bruce went, let Jonathan shove him onto the bed and crawl over him, dragging the t-shirt over his head and dragging his nails over Bruce’s chest, biting at the bruises on his jaw. It was the curse of Jonathan’s life that he was not the same size as Bruce or Ra’s and that he could be held down, or he could be beaten so easily and he didn’t want Bruce to simply allow him to do as he pleased. He got up, stripping off his shirt and socks and went to Bruce’s wardrobe. It wasn’t ideal but Jonathan picked out two sturdy-looking ties and went back to the bed, leaving his trousers on the floor.
“I don’t think so,” Bruce said, and Jonathan sneered at him.
“Try not to be an idiot,” Jonathan said. He tied Bruce’s wrists to the headboard and Bruce looked utterly lost and bewildered. Jonathan wondered if he was afraid. He hoped so. Jonathan stripped Bruce and paused, sitting back on his heels, to simply take in the view for a moment. They were both bruised to hell and back but it certainly didn’t spoil the view and the knowledge that he’d put some of those bruises onto Bruce’s body actually made it a little sweeter.
Bruce tugged on the ties, hard enough to rattle the wall of the caravan until Jonathan put a hand on Bruce’s chest and said, “Shhh,” and, surprisingly, Bruce did as he was told.
Bruce watched, hesitantly, as Jonathan reached for the same cold gel that they had used before, in the same little drawer in this mirror image caravan. Jonathan would have preferred a little more time to just enjoy everything because all things weighed against each other, Bruce was still an incredibly attractive man and Jonathan suspected he was rather going to enjoy himself, but he didn’t have the luxury of time. He warmed the gel between his palms then tapped Bruce’s knees with a knuckle. Bruce took the hint and pulled his leg up. He pushed a finger into Bruce, thumb smoothing gently over the delicate skin of his perineum and Bruce’s leg jerked, banging against Jonathan’s side.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce said again. Jonathan shifted up so he could kiss Bruce to shut him up and pushed another finger in to make Bruce groan into his mouth. His eyes were shut so Jonathan bit him to make him open them again and twisted his fingers to make Bruce stop thinking about talking. It didn’t work either. “I do care, you know?”
Jonathan flinched. “Shut up,” he hissed. “God, just shut up.” He gave himself a couple of strokes, smearing the gel over his erection and wasn’t gentle about pulling his fingers out, or about pushing Bruce’s legs apart and leaning over him, one hand fisted in Bruce’s hair, the other balancing on his grip on Bruce’s bicep and pushing his cock into Bruce’s body.
Bruce’s hands clenched around the loop of the ties and he let out a pained grunt. He opened his mouth to say something else and Jonathan let go of Bruce’s hair and put his hand over Bruce’s mouth, slowly moving his hips. They might not have had time for many preliminaries or for anything to come after, but Jonathan was determined that the actual fucking would go at his own pace. So little else in his life did. Bruce’s legs hooked around his back, and Jonathan slid forwards, startling a groan out of them both. He traded his previous hold for putting both hands flat on the mattress and pushing into Bruce as hard as he could.
There was a loud crack as Bruce pulled on one of the ties hard enough to break the cheap headboard but he didn’t push Jonathan away, he caught hold of the back of Jonathan’s neck and brought him down for a kiss. “I didn’t tell you before,” Bruce said, against Jonathan’s mouth. “If I didn’t care I wouldn’t enjoy watching the way you hurt.”
Jonathan’s stomach bottomed out. “Shut up,” he begged.
Bruce bit down on Jonathan’s bottom lip and licked delicately at the blood that seeped out of all the cracks. “I like watching you break and I like breaking you.” His thumb rubbed over the bruises around Jonathan’s throat and Jonathan couldn’t catch his breath. “If I didn’t care, I wouldn’t enjoy making you like it when it’s pretty, same as you do when it’s ugly as everything else.”
Jonathan tipped forward, resting his head against Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce ran his fingers into Jonathan’s hair, and he couldn’t pet away the headache that was starting to build behind Jonathan’s eyes, but it felt nice. “Jonathan…”
Jonathan pulled away, sitting down next to Bruce and pulled the duvet up over himself, leaving Bruce to sit up and untie his own wrist from the headboard. He scrubbed at his face tiredly and didn’t bother to shrug Bruce off when he put an arm over his shoulders.
“You were right,” Jonathan said bitterly. “This was a bad idea.”
Bruce smiled at him with his million-dollar charm and his concussion that made him stupid and so easy to manipulate and Jonathan wanted to believe the lie. “I don’t know,” Bruce said, “I was enjoying it.”
Jonathan choked out an incredulous laugh and put his hands over his face so he didn’t have to look at Bruce. It made it a little easier. “Good,” he said and then wished he hadn’t. He was losing track of what his own intentions were and when Bruce tugged his hands away from his face and kissed him, slick and gentle, Jonathan wanted it, and then didn’t and hung in his own indecisiveness, letting himself be kissed. “Just put me back in the jacket and back in the safebox,” he said. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”
“What about the cure?” Bruce asked, as though it was that easy.
Jonathan continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “When I snap…I don’t want to live like that and I believe that’s your modus operandi, protecting citizens of Gotham from whatever preys on them.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” Bruce said dismissively. “You still have time. You’re coherent now.”
“One of us has to be.” Jonathan, for lack of a better idea, curled into Bruce. It wasn’t entirely comfortable, their knees banged together and Jonathan was too angular and Bruce was too solid but he liked the pressure of Bruce’s arm around his shoulders and the muscle against his cheek and side. It was comforting, and infuriating because of it, but Jonathan was too tired to be angry.
Bruce pulled away and Jonathan decided he’d had enough and just crumpled onto the mattress and curled up into a ball. Bruce got out of the bed and pulled on his jeans and shirt. “Get up.”
“Why?”
“Get up or I’ll get you up,” Bruce threatened, and then did as he’d said, pulling Jonathan out of the bed, and shoving his clothes at him. When Jonathan made no effort to move, Bruce grabbed his chin, hard, and made Jonathan look at him. “Get dressed. We’re going to the lab.”
Jonathan mustered a half-hearted sneer. He was sticky and still half hard but doing anything other than just going back to sleep until he lost his mind again only made him more tired. “Make me,” he said, and didn’t flinch.
Bruce hesitated for one long second then he let go of Jonathan’s chin, picked up his shirt and set it over his shoulders before gently taking one of his arms and feeding it through the sleeve. Jonathan wondered if the hesitation had been that second between violence or pity and decided he’d rather have had the violence. He shoved at Bruce, who didn’t move at all, causing Jonathan to stumble backwards.
Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed and dressed himself, not bothering to button his shirt. “I don’t want to do it,” he said.
“What?”
“I. Don’t. Want. To. Do. It,” Jonathan repeated. “I won’t kill myself for your edification.”
Bruce brushed a lock of hair out of Jonathan’s face. “No, but you’ll do it on the off-chance that you’re just as smart as you thought.” He did up the first button on Jonathan’s shirt and smiled a little to himself when Jonathan swatted his hand away and did up the rest on his own. “You came up with the basic ideas when you were completely gone.”
“And then I turned myself into the Scarecrow,” Jonathan snapped.
Bruce shrugged. “I can beat him back out of you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
Jonathan managed a proper sneer that time. “Actually, I wasn’t finished my thought. First I turned myself into the Scarecrow, then I nearly poisoned myself, twice, and now I’m tired. You win, I’m broken.”
“I know.” Bruce leaned back against the kitchen cabinet and regarded Jonathan thoughtfully. “How do you think you got here?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I know what happened to you,” Bruce clarified. “I held you while you fitted.”
Jonathan looked away. “I see.” That Bruce had seen him brought so low made him grind his teeth so hard that his jaw ached. “Well…”
Bruce tipped his head to one side. “I promised to look after you.” Jonathan had no recollection of any sort of pledge and he hated himself a little bit more for wishing Bruce had given it.
“Fuck you,” Jonathan said, almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t want your pity.”
Bruce shrugged again. “Whichever way you’d prefer,” he said.
Jonathan had a moment to be confused before Bruce was moving, away from the counter, one hand twisting Jonathan’s arm up behind his back, the other on the back of his neck, pushing him forwards and out of the caravan. Jonathan squirmed unhappily but let himself be manhandled. Bruce could only push him so far before Jonathan had to actually mix chemicals of his own impetus. What he wasn’t expecting was for Bruce to kick the door of the caravan shut behind them and then let go.
Jonathan straightened up, frowning, and set his clothing to rights, rubbing his arm. Bruce gestured at the wide open space of the Wayne Manor grounds. “Go on then,” Bruce said.
“What?” Jonathan asked.
“Either you come with me and work on your own cure or you leave and tear yourself apart on your own terms. I’ll help you; I won’t be your executioner.” Bruce leaned back against the door of the trailer and Jonathan realized that Bruce was unsteady on his feet, probably dizzy.
Jonathan took an uncertain step away from Bruce. “Why?” he asked, taking a half step back and hesitating.
“Because I help people, Jonathan, and you’re not good people, but you’re people.” Bruce grinned at him. “And I told you, I care about you.”
Jonathan cringed. “What happens if I can find the cure?”
“Arkham.”
“Do you know what they’ll do to me there?” Jonathan demanded.
Bruce rolled his eyes. “Nothing worse than what you did you your patients, I’d guess.”
*~*~*~*
It took Jonathan the better part of four days to make the next batch of antidote and the dizziness, halos, hallucinations, nausea etc. came and went as they pleased, slowing progress. Bruce had the good courtesy to leave him alone except for dragging him back to the padded room to sleep and up to the caravan to eat. It was actually the best care that Jonathan had had in years, since even alone before he went mad he had been prone to forgetting to eat and sleep when working. He complained, of course, since it wouldn’t do to show his captor too much appreciation, and sleeping in a straightjacket wasn’t getting any more comfortable, but it was nice, in a twisted sort of way.
The final solution was a noxious-smelling potion that honest-to-god smoked in the beaker and glowed fluorescent lime. Jonathan wasn’t sure how he felt about drinking something that looked radioactive and spent an hour just staring at it. He wasn’t doing anything other than that when Bruce came down to check on him.
Bruce’s bruising had gone from purple to a hideous green, yellowed at the edges and his concussion seemed much better. He settled down into the chair next to Jonathan, looking unfairly put together in pressed trousers and a shirt that had a tie, and cufflinks and wasn’t three days in the wearing and too big to boot. Jonathan pushed his hair - too long now, desperately needing a trim - out of his eyes and flicked a ragged, dirty fingernail at the beaker, pinging against it softly in the quiet rustling of the batcave.
“Is that it?” Bruce asked, peering at the solution. Jonathan didn’t bother to warn him about the smell; Bruce figured it out soon enough when he got his nose right next to it.
Jonathan fidgeted with his right cuff. It was chemical stained and frayed from his worrying at it and it hung down over his fingertips. He rolled it back up over his elbow and shrugged. His own bruising was still a reddish purple, fading slowly. “I suppose so. I’ve been wrong before.” His knee kept jiggling up and down without his say so but Jonathan was too full of nervous energy to do anything other than squirm in his chair and stare at the beaker.
He wasn’t expecting Bruce to put one annoyingly large hand on his knee to still it, or for him to slide that hand a little higher, not demanding, not indecent, just resting mid-thigh. “Probably best to just get it over with,” Bruce said and he sounded almost sympathetic.
Jonathan had a few choice things to say to that, but he bit his tongue, wished Bruce wasn’t watching so he could hold his nose, and drank the beaker down until nothing was left but a ring of pale green foam at the bottom. It tasted slimy and Jonathan nearly choked it back up again. By a massive force of will he clamped a hand over his mouth and made it settle. By the time he had stopped gagging it was too late to point out that Bruce had his hand resting heavy and warm at the back of Jonathan’s neck, rubbing gently. He settled for shifting his shoulders but Bruce didn’t seem inclined to move.
“Now what?” Bruce asked and Jonathan shuffled just a little closer so their legs pressed together from hip to knee.
“We wait patiently and see what part of my mind I lose next,” Jonathan said, picking at the hem of his shirt. He thought vaguely about throwing up or at least spitting to rid himself of the taste, but it didn’t seem like the dignified thing to do. “You might want to put me in the straightjacket.”
Bruce tilted his head and kissed the corner of Jonathan’s mouth. “If I need to,” he said. Jonathan decided that if neither of them mentioned it, it would be okay for him to rest his head against Bruce’s shoulder.
He didn’t realize how tired he was until he dozed off, Bruce’s hand petting through his hair. Jonathan jerked awake again only a few minutes later. “Did it work?” Bruce asked, voice a low rumble through Jonathan’s cheek and the delicate skin of his temple.
Jonathan sat up with an embarrassed cough and surreptitiously wiped at his mouth to make sure he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. He hadn’t, thank God. “I don’t think it’s done anything yet.” He didn’t feel any different. Not better, not worse.
They waited until Jonathan’s muscles all locked at once and he nearly jerked right out of his chair. Only Bruce’s arm around him stopped him from toppling right over onto the stone floor. Above them the sound of construction rumbled on and it suddenly seemed too loud to Jonathan. His teeth ground together so hard he could feel it in the hinges of his jaw and in the back of his head, flashing pain down his molars into his neck. There was a scream knotted up in his throat, caught there with bile and the slick taste of the solution.
Bruce eased him down to the floor, keeping one hand tucked behind Jonathan’s head so he wouldn’t concuss himself if he started to convulse. Jonathan didn’t. As quickly as his muscles had locked they relaxed and Jonathan blacked out, abruptly tasting spun sugar in his mouth and smelling something like strawberry jam on warm, buttered toast.
*~*~*~*
Jonathan came to around twenty minutes after he had passed out. Bruce had considered putting him in the straightjacket while he was unconscious, but it seemed a little unnecessary. Scarecrow or not, Jonathan was unarmed and while that hadn’t stopped him the last time, he seemed far more resigned to his captivity. That, and Bruce could always beat the shit out of him if he tried anything.
“How’s…” Bruce couldn’t think of a good word to encompass everything that was wrong with Jonathan, so he just waved his hand in an illustrative fashion.
Jonathan held his hands out in front of him and they were steady. He looked up at Bruce and cocked his head to one side, a little exaggerated. It was a gesture that Bruce had only ever seen on the Scarecrow but the frown - a little cynical, a little petulant - that creased up his nose, was all Jonathan. Bruce had never quite gone in for the idea that someone could have crazy eyes or that the eyes were any sort of window to anything other than pigment, but Jonathan looked more focused at the very least. It was a little intimidating to be on the receiving end of such a shrewd look.
All things considered, Bruce wasn’t expecting it precisely, but he was ready for it when Jonathan pushed the blankets aside and came for him. He caught hold of Jonathan’s wrists and used his own momentum to spin them and slam Jonathan back into the counter. Jonathan head-butted him in the nose, sending Bruce staggering back, eyes watering. It gave Jonathan the opening to grab him by the shirt-front and push him over a chair, sending them both crashing to the floor. He grabbed onto Jonathan’s throat and when Jonathan leaned down and kissed him, he was surprised enough that he tightened his grip rather than loosening it and was rewarded with a knee to the solar plexus and Jonathan biting down on his lip hard enough to break the skin.
“I suppose,” Jonathan said, gasping, when Bruce got his own knee up and shoved Jonathan off him, knocking Jonathan’s side into the leg of the bed. “That I don’t have to tell you what it’s like to want to kill someone and fuck them at the same time.” He clawed Bruce’s shirt open as Bruce dragged him to his feet and shoved him up against the wall of the caravan, knocking a bland rural landscape painting askew.
Bruce dug his fingers into Jonathan’s thighs, lifting him up slightly, so he didn’t have to stoop to bite bruises into Jonathan’s throat. Jonathan squirmed, hooking one leg around his hips, nails raising welts and little cuts on Bruce’s chest and shoulders.
“Not the Scarecrow?” Bruce demanded, letting go with one hand so he could pull Jonathan’s head back further by the hair.
Jonathan pushed off from the wall, knocking them both down again, his arm sliding across the countertop, knocking appliances off onto the floor, Bruce’s shoulder catching on the closet door, breaking one of the hinges. “Do I sound like the Scarecrow to you?” Jonathan asked, crawling on top of him, which gave Bruce the advantage he needed to hook his fingers into Jonathan’s trousers and shove them down his hips. His skin was already red with what were going to be some really spectacular bruises and Bruce grinned despite himself.
“I can’t tell,” Bruce said and thumped his own head back against the floor when Jonathan didn’t bother with buttons and zippers and just shoved his hand down the front of Bruce’s slacks.
Jonathan’s wrist got in the way when Bruce undid his own trousers so he knocked Jonathan off again, pushing him into the desk. Bruce shoved his slacks and boxers down his hips and pinned Jonathan to the floor, the safety plug of a knocked over lamp digging into his calf and a broken plastic cup cutting into Jonathan’s back. Jonathan arched up into him. He had a split lip again and half the buttons on his shirt had been ripped off. He looked three-quarters crazy and entirely together. Bruce knocked the whole bedside table over reaching for the gel.
“It’s an alter ego, Bruce,” Jonathan said, digging a heel into Bruce’s back as he lifted his hips obligingly. His teeth left the side of Bruce’s jaw stinging and sore by the time Bruce had slicked his own cock and Bruce tangled his gel-slick hand into Jonathan’s hair and pinned his head to the floor before pushing into him.
Bruce shoved his hips forward hard enough that Jonathan scraped a few inches forward across the carpet and Bruce could already feel a burn starting in his knees as he bent Jonathan’s leg further up and did it again. “It wasn’t before,” he said, voice rough and muffled in the curve of Jonathan’s shoulder as he laid new bruises down there too.
Jonathan’s fingers dug painfully into Bruce’s bicep and the back of his neck. “It is now,” he said and then made an involuntary groan when Bruce rocked back onto his heels, pulling Jonathan with him until Jonathan was straddling him then back down still further until he was on his back, Jonathan bloody and beautiful above him.
“Good,” Bruce said and Jonathan ground down onto him, hands braced on Bruce’s chest, muscles in his thighs standing out as he lifted himself up so only the head of Bruce’s dick was in him. Bruce lifted his hips and pushed down on Jonathan’s hips and Jonathan’s head tipped forward on his neck. Bruce pulled on the back of Jonathan's shirt, straining the last few buttons, forcing Jonathan back. "Like this," he said, so he could see Jonathan stretched out over him and could count the marks he'd put onto him; so he could watch the flush on Jonathan's face and chest and see his cock curve up towards his stomach, not rubbing against anything except Jonathan's own stomach.
Jonathan leaned back, biting his own lip and shuddered at the change of angle, sweat sticking his hair to his forehead and neck, legs starting to shake a little. Bruce pushed into him, one hand tight around one of Jonathan’s wrists, and Jonathan shuddered again and came. He tipped forward again, elbow digging into Bruce’s side, belly slick against Bruce’s skin and Bruce kissed him to taste Jonathan’s sweat and the blood from his lip. With Jonathan Crane, together and sane as he might ever be, tight around him and shaking and fucked out above him Bruce groaned into Jonathan’s mouth and came.
Jonathan slid off him slowly, wincing, but there was a smug grin on the edges of his smile and Bruce wanted to fuck him again until the expression was gone, but he was sore and the caravan was a disaster and, Christ, he could only hope the construction crew didn’t come to see what the hell had happened to him.
“This is…” Jonathan waved an expressive hand at the destruction of the trailer. “I suppose the medical term for it is ‘a touch disturbed.’”
Bruce dragged the blanket and a pillow down off the bed. “We should do this again.” He shifted and winced. “Maybe with more sex and less throwing each other into shit.”
“Mmm.” Jonathan tucked his head into the curve of Bruce’s shoulder. “I liked that part.”
“Of course you did,” Bruce said. He prodded at one of Jonathan’s bruises until Jonathan hissed and swatted his hand away.
“Sadist,” Jonathan said contentedly.
Bruce chuckled and prodded the bruise again. “Hypocrite.”
TBC.