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Someone’s been snooping around.
It’s not evident at first, but the more he looks, the more things are out of place. His drawers have the slightest gap. His suitcase isn’t snug against the desk. The folders are crooked. Jonathan could ask to see the security footage if it weren’t for the cobwebs obscuring the lens, something he keeps reminding himself to clean but always forgets. He might be able to see a figure, but it’s too much to go through. Besides, the people here are already wary of him. They’d probably wave him off for something so mundane.
It’s a temporary office at city hall while Jonathan sorts things out. Day and night he’s been up researching, collecting information for the court to see how many nutheads run through Gotham. It’s a madhouse out there; the streets have always been dangerous, but they’ve been dirtier these past few years. Despite his professional advice and expert opinions to send these men to Arkham, his personal haven, some people can’t handle facts. People tend to stick their noses in places that don’t concern them. The most stubborn ones, unfortunately. Rachel Dawes, for example—a renowned assistant DA who, past her pretty smile and charm, is much smarter than she looks. And annoying. Unlike the rest of this cesspool, money cannot sway her, nor fear. Jonathan might even applaud her for her spirit. But spirit is what gets people killed here. Better to be malleable and follow the status quo. Take the money, stay quiet, and move on with your life.
Though, Jonathan admits it’s easier said than done. He hasn’t necessarily been in that position. Carmine Falcone can threaten all he wants, but he cannot touch the head of the snake. Even the sheer hint of Jonathan’s boss sends a chill down Falcone’s spine, the way his eyes grow the tiniest wider, and his body stiffens. Call Jonathan a coward, but what’s the point of having connections if you don’t utilize them?
Nearly all of city hall is vacant besides his office and yours. There’s no reason for you to be overworking yourself, but being labeled as Dawe’s understudy must be exhausting. You’re both equally skilled and qualified, you more than her in Jonthan’s opinion. But she is the one who becomes assistant DA, and you’re backed into a corner following her footsteps, her protege.
As he expects, you’re nestled in your little nook of an office, bookshelves covering each corner, stacks of case files on the floor. He doesn’t even knock when he comes in, simply swings the door and invites himself. Not that you pay enough attention to care. Usually, you’re preoccupied with something, but one long look at your desk shows you’ve been reading the same file over and over. You nearly had him fooled; now he knows it wasn’t Ms. Dawes rummaging through his things.
You and Dawes have both stuck your noses into his affairs. It’s the one thing that seemingly settled your silent feud and momentarily unites you. You both have spirit, the righteous calling to uncover the city’s corruption, starting with the people who run it. You both haven’t gotten far, though you know there’s more than meets the eye. Jonathan could’ve been more subtle with it—sending every one of Falcone’s men to Arkham back to back wasn’t the smartest choice, but Jonathan needs them. They’re dispensable to Falcone, indispensable to Crane. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
Like Dawes, you’re pesky. Stubborn. Money can’t buy you, and you’re lucky your entire family lives on the other side of the country. You truly have nothing to lose besides your life, but Jonathan would rather not dirty his hands. That’s a job for Falcone, and it hasn’t reached that extent yet. If he can pluck the bud before it blooms, everyone can walk away scot free, or with a slap on the wrist at most.
There aren’t many options left to throw you off his trail, options that won’t hurt you. Not that he cares, but like he said, he doesn’t want to dirty his hands. That can be left for Ms. Dawes. He can try to offset you, make you think there was nothing suspicious about Jonathan Crane in the first place. He is a doctor after all—he knows the inner workings of the mind. But with how much people already try to do that, it’ll be hard to get into that pretty head of yours. He could go with option two. Get under your skin. Under your clothes.
He thinks about it from time to time. When the nights are hot and he needs an outlet, pictures of it infiltrate his mind. He lies in bed, staring at the ceiling, imagining how it would feel. It’s nothing particularly arousing. It plays out in his head like any one of his other schemes, a means to finish the job he started without obstacles. Like fear, lust is a weapon. It can break and mend and drive the soundest of minds to insanity as it yearns for a taste of pleasure. Jonathan won’t push you too far, just enough you’ll forget about his shady dealings, maybe even convince Ms. Dawes there’s nothing to worry about and take her off his hands.
Now, he could carry this out with her instead and leave you to the sharks. But she’s too hardheaded. It’d be much more difficult to complete, and it might blow his cover all together. Not that he’s singling you out, he tells himself. Just…more convenient.
In order to do that, he has to talk to you first. Build rapport, show his hands and convince you he’s not an enemy. Witty as you are, you’ve beat him to the punches.
“Dr. Crane.” You look up with a polite, but plastic, smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” There isn’t one bit of fear or nervousness to your face.
“Nothing important. I was hoping to get your advice on something.”
“Advice? Hopefully it’s not about your next court appearance, because you know that’s off limits.” You’ve risen from your seat and circled your desk, leaning back on your palms.
“Oh, it’s nothing like that. It’s more…personal.”
“Personal?”
“Yes. It’s about a woman.”
Your tongue pokes through your cheek in amusement, arms crossed over your chest. “A woman? I didn’t realize you had much of a social life, Dr. Crane.”
A personal jab that he doesn’t take to heart. It’s clear you have no true interest in his issues (his made up ones), but you continue to string him along, unintentionally following his path. Curiosity is a natural part of human nature—even in the presence of the man you despise, you still want to know what happens outside of his professional hours.
“It’s surprising, I’m aware. And please, call me Jonathan.”
“Jonathan. Do I happen to know this woman?”
“Perhaps. She’s quite popular around here. Resolute, stays true to her values. She truly seeks the good in others no matter how terrible things have become.”
“Sounds familiar.” You’ve begun to pick at your nails, glancing down at the ground. “Does she happen to work here? Specifically the DA’s office?”
“Close, but not quite. I’d like to take her out to dinner, but I have no clue what to say or do.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Jonathan. Every woman has her own set of tastes. No one is alike, and since I don’t know who you’re talking about, I won’t be of much use.”
Your smile has dropped, but your mannerisms are more animated. You’re being coy, trying to draw the words from him. Slowly taking the reins.
“I guess it was a bad idea trying to be subtle. I’d like to take you out to dinner, if I may.”
The smile returns to your face, paired with raised brows. It’s not out of pleasure—disbelief and the tiniest hint of disdain is what it is—but there’s a softness to your eyes. This has surely doubled your suspicions. Jonathan Crane suddenly asking you on a date just as you’ve reached your hand below the surface, cracking the shell he hides behind. You’re reaching blindly, having no concrete evidence of any wrongdoings, but you’re getting there. If he tried to pull this act on Ms. Dawes, she’d likely turn him down harshly, call him out for his inappropriate behavior especially since she’s Finch’s girl. Unlike her, you, once again, have nothing to lose. No cards to use against you. You might even be thinking this is a good opportunity to deepen your search and discover what he’s hidden.
“I applaud your efforts,” you say. “You know my office hours. Where were you thinking? There’s that new Thai place around the corner.”
“My place.”
The lack of shame to him makes your stomach churn the slightest bit. He’s taking you straight to the lion’s den.
“I’ve been trying out some new recipes. Not Thai, Mediterranean. I may not be a professional chef, but I think my cooking is decent.”
“I guess I’ll have to see it for myself.”
“Will seven-thirty on Friday work for you? I can come by to pick you up-”
“No thanks, I’m capable of driving myself. I’ll be there, not a minute late.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Same to you, Jonathan.”
It starts to itch. The black pepper in his nose, and the inescapable thought of sleeping with you tonight. He’s not backing out—it’s an essential component of his plan. Even one night of pleasure can shape the mind if he does it right. Lovemaking is what he’s getting at, minus the love aspect. Passionate enough that you grow attached, but not too much that you fall into the delusion there’s something more. But first, he has to deal with the scallops about to burn on the stove, and the stains in his white button-up. In the four minutes left he has before the long hand on the click hits six, he rushes to change, ditches his glasses, and sweeps his hair back with wet hands.
He opens the door before you knock. You’ve arrived just as you said, not a minute late. He takes in your appearance as he steps aside to let you in. You look more like the owner of his apartment than he does, oozing quiet luxury and superiority. You’ve come to this date for business, not pleasure. It doesn’t worry Jonathan. He’s sure he’ll break that facade by tomorrow morning, or the end of the night if he plays his cards right.
He brings the food to the sofa and sets it on the glass coffee table. It’s more comfortable than the kitchen where you’re forced to sit face to face, feet apart. It’s too much like an interview, something you’ve both gone through more times than you can count. Here, you can loosen up. Plus, it faces the glass windows that make up the wall behind his bed. Jonathan purposefully drew the curtains back, revealing Gotham in all its glory, a starting point for conversation.
“Impressive place. It’s hard to find something this nice in Gotham nowadays.”
“Agreed. I’m very lucky.”
You pluck a hors d’oeuvre from the plate and pop it in your mouth. The tip of your finger catches in your lip, tongue darting out to catch the crumb. You purposefully avoid Jonathan’s searing gaze, covered by an expression too collected for the occasion. Teasing, are you? Almost as if you’re unfolding his schemes for him, or you are here for pleasure.
Dinner is left untouched on the table as you walk over to the window, peering across the horizon of the city. There goes hours of cooking. No matter; you’ve fallen headfirst into his trap, entranced by the deliberate cleanliness and richness of his apartment. He dimmed the lights prior to your arrival, made sure the shadows fell in the right place, stuffed his knick-knacks in the closet. The darkness is comfortable; in mere seconds, he can make it suffocating, unbearable. One push of a button and your reality falls apart. He shakes it to the back of his head. That’s not what you’re here for. He has others to experiment on.
Jonathan trails behind you, hovers close to your neck your perfume wafts to his nose. You gently rock back and forth on your feet, arms wrapped around your waist, keeping your eyes away from his.
“I never expected to be the receiver of your affections,” you begin, finally looking at him with the corner of your lips raised. “I feel like there’s more to it.”
He smiles back and swallows the lump in his throat. If all else fails, he’ll do it. Hopefully he can stop your screams before they wake the entire complex.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing. I guess I’m not used to this. I haven’t been on a proper date in God knows how long.”
“I hope tonight isn’t a disappointment, then. I admit I haven’t done this in a while, either.”
“It’s going well.” You’re glancing at his lips. “Wouldn’t you agree, Jonathan?”
His head tilts towards yours until you taste him. Too early, he wants to say to himself, but you show no signs of stopping. He’s slow, purposefully pulling away early, making you chase after him. His hand settles on your waist while yours clasp the back of his neck, raking through the hair above his nape. You don’t stop even when he hoists your thigh up and lowers you into his bed, caging you in his arms. A soft moan escapes as he moves towards the foot of the bed, nose brushing against the fabric covering your naval, breath fanning just below. He hikes up the hem of your dress, nudges your thighs apart with steady hands until he’s staring straight into your clothed cunt.
“So this is what you’ve been thinking about.” Your voice is surprisingly steady, still teasing. “That’s dirty, Doctor.”
“Is it a crime to find a woman attractive?” He kisses your inner thigh, not taking his eyes off you. He reaches to pull your panties off, but you’ve beat him, dragging them down your legs.
“Not at all,” you laugh. Your dresses rises higher, past your abdomen and breasts until you’re left in only your bra. “Forgive me for being so shameless, but I guess we had the same idea all along.”
Jonathan should’ve touched himself before. It might’ve made this easier. Each time he thought about it was pleasant, though not powerful enough he felt the need to exert himself to your image. Hell, he barely looked your way before you dug yourself into his affairs. This is for business, he reminds himself. It’s a task. But now that you’re here in front of him, physically present, and he can see how wet you’ve become for him, his pants have become a little tight. Each movement against the bed makes him bite down on his tongue to stay quiet.
His tongue glides slowly against you, earning a soft sigh of approval. His finger bury in your flesh, keeping you flush against his mouth as he works, finding the spots that make you shiver. His pants are even tighter. There’s surely a dark patch where he’s been rocking against the bed, muffling his groans in your center. He pauses for a moment, sucks in a deep breath, and puts two of his fingers in his mouth. As you push yourself to your elbows, his fingers are inside you.
“F-Fuck,” you pant. “Don’t stop.”
Jonathan hums against your clit, pressing his fingers in the spot inside that has you writhing in sudden pleasure. He continues to lick at you, groaning when you tug at his hair and cry his name. With his free hand, he holds down your trembling thigh, locking you in place no matter how badly your body wants to reject him in your euphoria. You’re painfully sweet on his tongue, both satisfying his hunger while igniting it all at once. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this insatiable in his life.
He raises his head once you’ve calmed down, licks your cum from his mouth, including what’s on his fingers. He’s crawling above you, unable to keep his lips away from yours. His head feels light, lungs cramped from how much he’s panting, but the moans that come from you, your tongue on his, makes up for the pain. He lets you claw at his shirt, practically tearing the threads apart until you touch the bare skin of his heaving chest. He doesn’t realize his back is on the mattress, or the fact you’re straddling him until he feels the warmth above the tent in his pants and the grind of your hips. When he opens his eyes, you’re looking down on him, tugging at his belt and zipper.
He’s hypnotized by your movements, shaking when your hand wraps around his cock and starts to pump. It’s much better than he’s imagined. Hotter, tighter than his own hand could ever do. His sucks a breath through his teeth when your thumb drags over his slit.
The harsh, keening sound is a pleasant surprise when you start to move, taking him in entirely. Your warm hands plant themselves on his chest, lightly scratching the skin. Your bra is off, bodies bared to one another in all their entirety. His thumb grazes over your lips, merely because he needs to touch you, but then it dips into the wetness of your mouth, resting on your tongue as you suck. He kisses you—tries to—while you cup his face in your hands, moaning against the shell of his ear.
“Jonathan,” you whine. Begging. “Jonathan.”
He’s thrown you back on the bed, pinned you down as he thrusts. Your body jolts with each movement, head thrown back as he kisses the exposed skin of your neck, nipping. You claw at his back, sure to leave red trails, and the idea of being marked riles him more. You can barely form a solid word with how hard he’s fucking you, unleashing every sinful imagination he’s stored in his mind, desires running free. He’s close, and so are you. Just a bit more—he wants you to finish before him, make you remember how good it feels to be filled by him. By now, he couldn’t give two shits about his initial plan.
Fuck everyone for being intrusive, but bless them for leading him to heaven. The last place he’s going—damned to hell for his crimes and indulging in sin.
“I-I’m gonna cum,” you whisper. “Fuck, Jonathan-”
“Hold on, sweetheart,” he says against your mouth. “I’m- hah- shit-”
Jonathan’s hips stutter. The warmth starts to swarm your cunt, buried deep in your core. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pull him close until he nearly feels your heartbeat in your chest. It’s quiet besides your breathing and the occasional groan when he twitches inside. Neither of you move for a while. Then, he pushes himself up to his palms and stares at your skin, glistening with sweat.
The euphoria washes away, replaced by a shot of horror. The job is finished. But he’s opened up another door—the one to you. The denial he had hidden cracks through the surface to the point he feels ill. Angered himself by how stupid he was to believe he could contain it. He could never do this with anyone else, spend hours looking at recipes, tidying himself and his home, fuck somebody like this.
You were supposed to be his pawn. Now he’s yours, completely wrapped around your finger. Already dreaming of the next time he’ll be this close, experience this much pleasure. Tomorrow, or next week, or in thirty minutes.
The shock leaves when you kiss Jonathan’s cheek. A tender show of affection. There’s something else now. Not entirely pleasant, but it’s new, and he welcomes it even if it ruins everything he’s ever built. Comfort. Security. Forthcoming love.
You ruined him.