A Colony of Bats, A Murder of Crows

Chapter 2: A Murder of Crows

There are crows flying behind Crane’s eyes. They grab at him, scratching his skin, bleeding him raw with their ice-cold beaks and their iron sharp claws. He closes his eyes against their onslaught. The world is swimming before him, disintegrating, transforming into horrid shapes that barely resemble reality and he knows, knows that this is not true but there’s nothing he can do about it. Nothing to do to preserve what little is left of his sanity.

Something grabs him from behind, shoves him against a wall, pushes him so hard he can feel the bruises forming on his skin. He can’t move his arm; an impossibly tight hand is crushing it behind his back, pulverizing his bones. A sharp cry flies from his mouth. He twists his head around urgently, striving to see behind him. He does see and he wishes so badly he had not tried, for the face looming above him is not human. It is a huge, black beast come to swallow him whole. The crows multiply, descending on him in a sweeping vortex, their mad cawing flooding his ears. His fear is screaming and invading every fiber of his soul. His voice is trapped in his mouth, struggling to get out but he can’t set it loose, can’t do anything but listen to his heart beat like a sledgehammer as he tries so badly to get himself free. His arms are wrenched violently around his torso, tight in the straightjacket’s grip and he can’t get free, try as he might. Suddenly, a sharp pull throws him to the floor. Pain shatters across his face and his bound arms; for a moment he can’t breathe. Rough hands turn him onto his back. He wants to close his eyes, wants to turn around and hide in some small corner of his mind where he will be safe, but he can’t. There is no safe, there is no then, there is only now and this consuming fear that he’d tried so hard to control, this enveloping flame that is burning all that once was Dr. Jonathan Crane and leaving only this scared shell, naked and helpless in the dark. Something is breaking inside him, splitting him open little by little. He can’t make it stop, can’t, never.

Suddenly, the world shifts again and with it the creature above him. He gapes as he recognizes the man before him, but no, it is not him, not the spoiled playboy who's never had to work a day in his life. It is the giant, black bat that turned him into this. He trembles, taking a shaky breath. He speaks slowly, his lips wrapping around the words, molding them with his tongue.

"The bat man."

A crazy laugh escapes him. The man, the bat, flinches, and cruelly tight hands dig into his shoulders, half-lifting him off the ground.

"What did you just say?"

Still grinning like a Jack-O-Lantern, Jonathan responds with a touch of recklessness.

"You’re the bat man."

A fist slams into his face, wrenching his head to the side. Pain flares across his left cheek. There’s blood on the inside of his cheek from where he bit into his flesh but he just smiles on, undaunted by this little show of force. Not now, when he has this wonderful discovery in his hands.

"The bat man rapping at my chamber door."

"Shut up," Wayne, Batman BatmanBatmanBatman demands in his dangerous growl that makes Jonathan shiver.

"The prince of Gotham is the bat man."

Wayne punches him again. Jonathan’s vision swims, scatters among the broken pieces of his mind. For a second, he is lost and the floor is the only thing holding him up. No time at all before he's pulled forward and Wayne's face is so close Jonathan thinks he might scream.

"I said, 'Shut the fuck up.'"

Wayne's eyes, as dark and ominous as the night he comes from, flash with a fierce intensity that would make any sane man tremble with terror and run for the hills. But Jonathan is not a sane man. He does tremble, and it is with terror, but he wouldn’t go anywhere even if he could. He doesn’t want to run. He doesn’t struggle, doesn’t do anything but stare into those piercing brown eyes that want to cleave him in two. His fear has not diminished; it is as sharp and consuming as before, but now it has new meaning. It is pleasure and pain and pure fear of the bat invading his senses. His own cloying presence is choking him, eating at him, and he knows he should be intimidated, but he doesn’t care. He wants Wayne closer, close enough to burn, to taste, to fuck. He wants to crush them together like the straightjacket is crushing his arms.

He looks into the reflection of his worst fears, and says one single word.

"No."

Wayne stiffens above him. Soon his face twists with such rage that Jonathan expects to be beaten until there’s no more blood left to spill. The terror beating in his veins turns into anticipation, and anticipation turns into desire. He feels himself grow hard. Wayne notices quickly enough and for the first time confusion comes into his eyes. He looks down at Jonathan’s erection in tacit disbelief. Scooting a little bit forward, Jonathan lifts his hips and rubs himself against Batman’s leg. His head slams on the ground as Wayne suddenly drops him.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Such anger, such delicious indignation. Yet with his practiced psychiatrist's ear, Jonathan hears the uncertainty lying beneath the bravado.

"I thought you wanted me to stay quiet, Bruce."

Wayne glares at him with all the fury of an irritated lion. Inside him, his frightened self shrinks into a fetal ball, whimpering. Suddenly, Wayne twists his hand in his hair and pulls his head back viciously, arching his neck painfully.

"Don’t call me that."

Through his newly blurring vision and the pain on his scalp, Jonathan fixes his eyes on Wayne’s.

"What’s the matter? You don’t like your name?"

Wayne moves in closer, so close that Jonathan can smell the lust beneath the expensive cologne.

"I don’t like hearing it from your mouth."

Jonathan grins.

"What would you rather, bat man?"

Jonathan braces himself, waiting for the next blow. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Wayne pulls his head up and smashes their mouths together. It’s not a kiss, can’t be called that, but a furious attack that demands Jonathan’s immediate surrender. His arms bound, head held in an unforgiving grip, he is already a captive. He is always a captive. Of Batman, of Scarecrow, of the schoolyard bullies who broke his mind as surely as they broke his body. But despite the broken bones and the seductive voices dancing in his head, he has never surrendered himself to them, has never let them reduce him to a mere puppet on their string. Yet now, in the grip of this new whirlwind, with the Bat Man claiming and taking all he has to give, he’s not sure he can say the same. Still, he did not begin this to simply lie still and let Wayne take what he wants. He moves his lips beneath Wayne’s suffocating ones, paying back every bite and angry swipe of tongue and he feels their mouths bleeding into each other but he doesn’t stop. He only feels the pain on his torn flesh when Wayne lets go of his mouth, leaving him sore and dizzy -- and harder than before.

Wayne lets go of his head. Jonathan barely feels him move before Wayne is pulling at his feet, yanking off his shoes and socks. Soon his trousers are gone too, and Jonathan is naked from the waist down, shivering on the cold concrete. His legs are brusquely pushed apart, and his left leg is placed on Wayne’s shoulder, bent so far that it lays nearly next to his face. Jonathan wraps his right leg securely around Wayne’s waist. It’s uncomfortable, but it is just background noise when Wayne falls on him and enters him in one smooth thrust. His eyes close and his mouth opens in a soundless gasp. It’s like all sound is stuck in his throat and it can’t get out. He forces himself to inhale, exhale, one breath after another slowly. He needs to calm his shaking body, get accustomed to the large cock inside him. So big, and it’s been so long since the last time he’s done this. And why is Wayne not moving?

He opens his eyes, looks up at Wayne’s face, at the odd light in his eyes, different somehow, but right now Jonathan doesn’t really care. He tightens his leg on Wayne’s back, tugs him forward and almost whimpers at the feel of his cock moving just a little further inside.

"Come on, then," he manages to gasp out.

Wayne doesn’t waste any time in complying. He pulls out of him almost completely and slams back in, and Jonathan sees actual stars behind his eyes. Wayne seems to be done with taking it slow, because he is moving in and out of him so fast and furiously that Jonathan has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. He strains against the straightjacket, wishing he could break the damn thing to use his arms. Using his leg as leverage, he lifts himself into Wayne’s thrusts as much as he can. It’s clumsy, and Wayne is much too strong for him to be able to control anything, but he won’t simply lie there moaning like a whore. And he is moaning, can’t help it, thick, hoarse sounds that stick to his tongue as he bites his lip. His cock rubs harshly against Wayne’s torso but the man ignores it completely. Jonathan won’t scream, he won’t beg, won’t let the Bat have that satisfaction. He tastes the blood in his mouth -- his, Batman’s, it doesn’t matter now. It is hot and pulsing and angry. Pain, pleasure, and some mad place in between that’s not supposed to exist, but it’s thrumming through him like wildfire. The fire he’d ignited in Batman’s flesh. Pretty flames of orange heat dancing before his eyes. Burning him to ashes scattered by the wind. And there is nothing left of the man who was Jonathan Crane or the wild-eyed Scarecrow, just a scared little boy waiting for the bullies to come out and pummel bruises into his flesh. Batman is there in his dark cloak of avenging glory. And he watches as Jonathan is torn apart.

A sudden jab at his prostate wrenches a cry from his mouth. Wayne has lifted his hips and is thrusting straight onto that spot over and over and Jonathan can’t stop screaming now. The world shrinks into this moment, this now, this completely overwhelming sensation that has claimed him. He is being torn open from the inside as from the outside. Batman takes him, all of him, and Jonathan can’t do anything but feel, because in some twisted part of him this is what he wants: this surrender, this violation, this moment’s pleasure that means so many things that have nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the black winged creature fucking him.

Sharp teeth pierce his flesh as Wayne bites his neck, marking him, and Jonathan doesn’t know how to feel about that anymore. Pain, pleasure and fear is all one single equation that can’t be divorced from itself.

Wayne stiffens suddenly, coming as fiercely as his thrusts. His full weight falls on Jonathan. Apart from the panting breath warming his neck, all is still. But Jonathan is still hard and Wayne is doing nothing but lie there like a log now that he’s had his pleasure. Jonathan moves beneath his dead weight, struggling pointlessly against his bonds; there’s no way he can break free of them. Wayne presses his hips down on the floor, arresting his frantic movements. Jonathan nearly shouts in frustration, desperation clawing inside him.

"Damn you, Batman, make me come already or let me go so I can do it myself."

Wayne finally lifts his head and gives him a long, hard stare, devil eyes in a human face.

"Ask again."

Jonathan shakes his head, refusing to contemplate such an infuriating question.

"I won’t beg." He tastes the desperation in his voice and he knows he won’t last long like this.

Wayne leans in real close, invading his whole field of vision, his eyes hard as steel and his voice thundering with the certainty of one who knows he will get his way.

"Yes, you will."

As abruptly as he entered, Wayne pulls out and moves away, depriving him of even the heat of his body. He bites his lip, refusing to breathe a word. Lifting his leg, he tries clumsily to stroke his erection, but Wayne grabs his thighs and pushes them flat on the ground. Jonathan struggles against him, kicking his feet, pulling sideways, but it’s pointless. Wayne is too strong. Jonathan closes his eyes, tries to control his erratic breathing, counts them -- one, two, three -- and his breath catches on a quiet sob.

"Please." He says it so softly that he feels it more than hears it.

"What was that?" Wayne asks, sounding so infuriatingly smug.

"Please jack me off already, please."

The last please has barely left his mouth before Wayne finally wraps his hand around him. He’s going so agonizingly slowly, but it feels so good, and he’s crying out again -- loud, mewling cries -- but he doesn’t care anymore. The pride that belonged to Dr. Crane is gone now. It feels too good, too fucking good, after too fucking long. He thrusts his hips shamelessly into Wayne’s hand as much as he can with the restraining hand on his hip. He can’t last long, not after so much teasing, and he comes in quick, short spasms. He collapses on the floor; it feels oddly soft now. Eyes half-closing, he sees the world float around him. Fireflies in the dusk.

Something jostles his feet and he feels fabric move up his legs. Wayne is dressing him as if he were some invalid.

"Lift your hips," Wayne demands. His voice is flat, business-like, as if he hadn’t just fucked Jonathan into the floor.

"I can do that myself," he says, without opening his eyes.

"Well, I’m not about to let you loose just so you can do it yourself, so lift your hips."

Jonathan looks up at him. The black winged creature has left his vision for now, but he is not fooled. It is there, behind Wayne’s normal looking brown eyes. Turning his head to the side, he obliges Wayne’s request. Wayne finishes pulling on his boxers, followed by his trousers. He doesn’t pay attention as Wayne puts on his shoes, barely notices them slipping on his feet. He’s staring at the wall next to him, which is vaguely illuminated by what little light makes it into the alley. A dark drawing adorns the dirty concrete, curved lines forming a design he can’t make out. The lines swim in his consciousness, alternating and rearranging themselves over and over into all sorts of fanciful shapes, forming and reforming in his mind. A long shadow stretches into leathery wings and he trembles to the very bones of his soul. It seeks to engulf him, swallow him whole and slowly tear him apart until there is nothing left. He’s falling down the spiral again -- down, down, down -- losing himself to the depthless void, and he doesn’t know how to get himself out.

There’s a hand on his cheek turning his head away from the taunting lines, but the dark is all around, and as he gazes up at Wayne’s still human face, he realizes that he is already lost. The demon in his mind is here in front of him. Swallowing him alive.

Wayne touches his cut lip, startling him. His thumb wanders over the hurt skin slowly. Jonathan ignores the small pain it causes, choosing to remain focused on the dark eyes watching him curiously, as if they are trying to figure out something. A long minute stretches away in the silence. Wayne’s hand leaves his face; Jonathan immediately misses its warmth. Wayne places his hands on his shoulders and pulls him upright.

"Get up."

Jonathan obeys the quiet command, bending his legs and sitting up with Wayne’s help. He keeps looking at him, at his set jaw and the tense lines on his face. At the man, for all that it is simply appearance. The world doesn’t remain steady; it shifts back into the shadows for seconds at a time, and quickly changes back again. Wayne pulls him to his feet, wraps an arm around his waist, sharp fingers digging into his flesh, and drags him down the alley. He won’t try to run; there’s no point in it. He’s a small, cowed figure in the Bat Man’s demon hands. No hope of springing free, no hope of escape from this madness. Never. He trips, falls into Wayne’s big, warm body, so warm in all this cold, and if he doesn’t look too closely, he almost feels comforted.

They arrive at Wayne’s car, a sleek, fancy vehicle, of course. He notices the model: Murcielago. How fitting. A door opens and he is shoved inside. The seatbelt scratches his throat as it draws tight over his arms. Hard fingers turn his head around, forcing him to look up at Wayne. His eyes are stone, unmovable, impenetrable, just like his voice when he speaks.

"I know I’m not going to need any more restraints, am I?"

Jonathan holds his stare, not wavering under the cold fire in Wayne's eyes. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, doesn’t do anything but stare back. He feels a rush of pleasure when he sees a shadow of doubt (just a shadow, but it is enough) come into Wayne's eyes. The hand slides away. The door slams shut and for the brief moment that Jonathan is alone, he closes his eyes and breathes a deep, relieved sigh.

Wayne gets into the car, and the engine roars to life. They drive down the street toward some destination that Jonathan can only guess at.

"Where are you taking me?" he asks.

"The cave," Wayne says simply.

It takes Jonathan a moment, but he gets it soon enough. A dark, wet cave filled with bats. Bats flying, screeching, swarming everywhere. The Bat Cave -- he whispers it softly. A laugh twittering on the edge of hysteria builds in his throat.

"Are you going to keep me?"

There’s no answer. Just as well, he doesn’t need to hear one; he knows what it is. The Bat Man wants him for a pet, someone to take out his dark impulses on, someone to beat, to fuck, to sate the beast beating within him. Nothing but a toy for the Bat Man’s pleasure. An acrid taste climbs up his throat. Anger twists in his stomach at his weakness, his total inability to do anything about it. The crows are coming again, black feathers brushing his face. But there’s something else this time, something flickering in his consciousness. A smile perches on the corner of his mouth. The crows stop, stare at him with their obsidian eyes, but they don’t come any closer. He looks at Wayne, the Bat Man who converted him into this, and he sees the man stripped of his Kevlar and his expensive suits, baring the pulsing heart of his dark soul. He sees the fear the man carries within, the despair just waiting to take hold. Looking at his jailer, the Scarecrow smiles.