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Intimidation Game

Arkham Knight Scarecrow x Female Reader

word count || 1656

Summary || In the months following the events of Arkham Asylum, Jonathan attends to his deserted inamorata.

!Mature content! - cw || kinda corny, p in v, crying, scarecrow is a mauled old man, not beta read.

“Do my deformities fail to disgust you?” a distant question makes a shiver in the cold — the vulnerability of it is confusing, but not without a hint of unwitting pity. she did not want to feel bad for him, much rather would she have loved to celebrate his life and somehow brush the burden of his appearance off his ever sinking shoulders. 

“No,” it's an honest answer to an equally honest question; it doesn’t bother her. He didn’t move to spare her a glance, sitting in her chair as she watched him through lashes and a cloud of smoke. She wished for his happiness — wished she could give him it back, afraid she would never be enough. Seeing him now was like seeing a soldier post war — a sunken shell past all memories except death. She felt for him. Her burning heart could not have felt any heavier at the thought of him, despite it all, still insatiably in love. 

“You impress me, Jon,” she sniffles, hand rubbing against her nose with either newfound emotion or seasonal allergies — whichever one she couldn’t decipher. “You’ve never failed to do so, all this time; you’re a man of great satisfaction.” She smiles at him with tender admiration, yet he never fails to keep his gaze ahead, almost afraid.

Her silence is met with his camaraderie. Where she fell short in understanding him, he paved the rest of the way. He pats the thigh of his leg, dirty hands meeting the rough of his trousers. She doesn’t hesitate – not so much as a waver in movement as she dives to him, anchoring herself to his body, a will to his command. He had failed to realize how frigid the apartment was until he met her warmth.

Cheek to teeth, he squeezed her jaw until it uproared a dull ache, watching how her muscle and flesh contorted with his fingers. “Are you not afraid?”

Her watering eyes averted from the string holding his mouth to the gray of the window, down to the duct-taped nightstand – the one where he used to shed that gaudy fear gauntlet of his; prior to the attack, back when he felt more human. Now, however, he draped his gauntlet brandished arm over her legs, tapping the steel needles against the skin of her thigh. Had his trust been lost for everyone during that attack, including her? She smiled, cautious of the memories and what they may exude in him. 

“No,” His hand left her jaw, tracing her neck before falling slack. She leaned into his chest, hands in her lap politely with a twitching mouth. “Should I be?” 

There is a tenseness the needles bore by his arm leave in their wake, goosebumps of not quite fear, but an emotion relatively foreign but similar in taste. The adrenaline of his attention – past years of being in love with one man, an unrecognizable intimate, yet a familiar sensation. She missed him, and so she confessed – as she had time and time before since their reunion. Hopefully, she knelt in bed past dark and begged that he felt the same, but the pit in her abdomen claimed otherwise. Still, in this moment, in this room, he looked at her as if no time had ever passed between them. As her eyes moved around the proximity of his stitched and torn face, she only wished it could have happened earlier.

“I never underestimated your importance,” his blinks were slow, cat-like. With the good of his one eye, he followed the tension of her body under his gauntlet. “You can take it off.” 

The fingers twitch at the cold feeling of the steel, interlocking and bracing against the curve. Two buckles fell separate, itching to tug the armor off to see his arm once more. Just as before, though grunting in the process, he reached across to place the gauntlet on the nightstand. Hand free of weights, he hesitantly ran it down the back of her head, stopping and bracing against the back of her neck, pulling her in and encapsulating her. 

He remained steady in his stance, even upon the collar of his jacket becoming wet. Through his lack of lips, he ran his mouth against her forehead in simulation of a kiss, nights they had shared prior relevant in his mind. He had become so vastly different, yet he was never able to give her up. Her head became burrowed in his neck, lips passing over the scarred skin. 

“Come here,” She lifted to meet his eyes, per his request, “Kiss me.”  To no fault of his own, he was mostly tongue and teeth. Accepted perfectly, she pushed into him, timid hands curling on his shoulders. The bed hissed as their bodies fell – old sheets with broken springs, the same bed they had used to share which then had been a vessel of doom; now, a sacred place of his teeth on her. 

He made no mention of her tears, nor the sniffles or the sobs; joyful shock, hands stuck to his body as he rolled her on her back. They shook with a fever she couldn’t shake, despite the comfort his caresses brought her. Lying beneath the tower of his body, she wrapped her leg around his waist, bodies meeting in the middle with desperate friction. 

“Sh, sh, sh,” His hands were a stark contrast to the silk of her cheek, rough to soft. She was beyond words, no form of communication past whines and movement, which he was all for compliance in. Legs tightened against his waist, the sudden grind against him causing a low groan. Her head rolled on to the mattress, arms tangling behind his neck in a feeble call for attention. The thumb on his hand grazes against her bottom lip, bitten against the tight force of her teeth, pulling it out to bite it himself. 

“Talk to me,” he whispers, barely detectable in the hot, breathy air. Cracked hands wipe against her flushed cheeks, cleaning her face from the mixture of dry and wet tears. Given his lack of lips, he nibbles against the flesh of her cheeks in his form of kissing, gentle and condoling – grieve from his past absence eating him alive. 

“Keep going,” she breathes, whimpering in impatience and desperation. “Please.” She pulls his face against hers, kissing the rags of his new, redefined face. He listened intently as she continued, but against his skin, her voice became nothing more than mumbles of incoherent pleas. 

“Does it not scare you…” he sits up, legs straddling hers, “the power I have over you?” He unbuttons the length of her shirt, pulls her out of it to breathe her in. She stares blankly at him, unblinking in sudden perplexity. 

“Has it ever scared you?” Her arm outreached, grazing against his face and holding on, gently caressing the skin left. Jonathan’s body leans down against her, the new comfort of warm, bare skin causing a swarm of emotions; it had felt like decades since he had last pressed her in such a way, to no fault but his own. 

Neither had any room left for discussion as he bit down her stomach, shuffling her skirt off and to the floor. Fleeting, near trembling hands reached to undo his belt and discard his pants, all the while mumbling of how badly her yearn for him was. 

“Are you sure?” His hesitance still held mass in his brain, questioning her ability to truly want him after all past events – how could he allow himself in such a position of vulnerability? 

She nodded, clouded eyes that sustained the heaviness of begging tears. “Please, Jon.” He succumbed to her, as he always had. 

The weight of his head suddenly became heavy as he entangled himself in her, burrowing a home inside her neck with a gaping mouth. Echos of moans and whines flooded the room, cries peaking hysteria, a haring symphony of understood devotion – unspoken but conscious. Bottoming into the woman created a distant, familiar emotion that spun backwards in time, but compared nothing to the present. 

The Scarecrow’s gaping mouth loomed over hers, strings taut against his woven face, drool pooling over his tongue. As he listened to the mantra of his name, beseeching him to continue, he allowed for his tongue to probe her neck. Pulsing bodies rutted into each other, once sensual, but inevitably animalistic in lust. His hips stammered in their thrust, each push becoming more rigid in his blind pleasure, which had come embarrassingly face due to his celibacy. The warmth of intimacy inundated her body from the inside out, twitching in place with hammering hips. Legs becoming numb from the carnal of pleasures, she submitted to the rapture of her organ in a fit of whines. 

Jonathan’s head falls pillowed on her chest, where her arms raise to cradle him. The heat of their bodies dared not to leave their entanglement, despite the time in passing. His physical exhaustion was nearly tangible. Despite the eulogies that dared at her lips, she spoke no words in regard to his presence, only softly sifting through his hair with her trembling fingers, still in aftershock. 

“Thank you.” 

Half a whisper and completely tender – an oddity that came unexpected from a man who bore half a face, but a sacred beacon of light for her; he had changed, yes, but he was as soft as ever. The self-proclaimed Master of Fear coiled his arms around her waist, turning them on their sides in one tousled entity.

She chuckled, rocking him slightly from the heave in her chest. It was anything but mocking of his gratitude, but rather a verbal acknowledgment of their shared sentiment. She could hardly wish for more. Months of agony suddenly became worth it; he was home, with time to spare, and made no notion of leaving – at least not soon. 

The calm before the storm.

“Thank you too, Jon.”