Work Text:
[Gotham City]
[June 14th]
The lithe, goggle-clad figure stepped towards The Scarecrow, giving him a prompt reminder of the whip attached to her thigh. In her other hand was a briefcase, clutched even tighter than the weapon held in the other.
Crane found himself straightening unintentionally and without second-thought. Her own green eyes did not once leave his hand as the briefcase he was also holding came out from behind his back. He decided to keep his words short, finding that his time was better spent on toxin production.
Still, it would do little for him to admit that he could have never attempted such a sneaky heist. The elusive Catwoman was in assistance to other rogues when she saw fit, the thrill perhaps more than she could resist Crane had surmised.
Finally, he said to her, "The required amount you have requested, oh capricious cat! Fifteen-thousand for the desired transmitter and additional equipment is a respectable price. And I assure you," he allowed himself to utter. "'Time spent with a cat is never wasted."
Amidst an unimpressed look, she stepped forward, deciding to not acknowledge the satchel he was holding out. Crane tentatively brought it back to his side, only then understanding she was not intending to take the handbag. To her, this was nearly an offense of scratch-worthy nature.
“Jonathan, it isn’t that simple,” the feline-inclined individual vocalized. She looked him over and spoke directly, his reddened eyes narrowing through his hood at what she took as feigned arrogance. Though she had yet to encounter him without his mask, Selina oftentimes chose to use his first name. It seemed to irritate him in a way, though he held a calm composure for now as he listened to her words.
Scarecrow strongly resented the usage of this name right now and allowed a huffed noise to escape.
Catwoman continued, "That was the base price; it's ten-thousand beyond that; you know I saw your little playmates just over there in the corner waiting to drive Miss. Daisy."
What he felt was mortifying in nature, though he did not allow it to show; in fact, it was nearly impossible under his mask. He only stepped forward, in a moton that gave her no reason to move upon. Through nearly clenched teeth did The Scarecrow speak.
“Well then, if we shall resort to such debase terms, I believe our conversation here has ended for the time being."
Turning towards the alleyway, it was with ill-mannered steps did The Scarecrow move with. What screams he would hear later this evening from the lucky individuals in the makeshift warehouse he was currently residing in helped him keep what composure he felt he was losing. He had been including the allotted compensation! That minx and trickster only wanted more money for her greedy claws he inferred.
Ten-thousand extra dollars!
Upon his arrival back to the car, Crane demanded the other suitcase from one of his henchmen. He mentally counted the money and snatched it from the briefcase. His funds had found themselves dwindling lest he push upon other ventures. He wanted to spend each moment he could perfecting his toxin and exposing it to as many subjects as he possibly could. Nor were his treasured books cheap by any means!
All this and more he pondered on as he without care thrust the money into her extended hand, the sharpened tips of his own glove felt upon hers for but a moment.
He didn't know why, but he began to mutter something about not having intended to waste her time as some form of an ill-fit remark, though was stopped as he began to articulate those thoughts.
“Sure, that fool at the bar, or whatever other catastrophes you want to tell me about. I know what you're going to say, so spare me any further quotes or ill-fitted comments.”
Selina half-way turned before removing the whip from her side. “You know that I don’t follow agendas. Be sure to not end up face-first in the sandbox."
She allotted herself a grin; she would certainly have the last word and entertain his thoughts before moving on with the remainder of her evening. “ I am the Cat who walks by herself, and all places are alike to me.”
With those parting words did she made such a leap that it seemed almost inhuman in nature, running up towards the edge of the building at a remarkable speed. He stared for a few uninterrupted seconds before taking his eyes away, feeling the warmth in his face rising. It was difficult to tear ones' eyes away from her as she made her leaps, wondering if, like The Bat, there was indeed something simply inhuman about them. In a huffed manner did he hurriedly walk over to the vehicle.
Without so much as a knock, he opened up the car door, sending quite the shock to all in it who had not seen him advancing.
Get out!" he barked in a vicious tone to the lackey in the driver's seat, who gave such a jolt that he had to place his hand over his chest. Even after hearing his boss, the man was hesitant, fearing that he was going to simply execute him on the spot for whatever apparent mood he was in; an action Scarecrow was known to take. That was half a second too long, for Crane dug his hands into the side of his bag with his gun and continued with the same ominous tone.
"I am not repeating myself again! OUT!"
The man swiftly apologized and did as commanded, quickly exiting the vehicle and moving over towards the other side as quickly as he could. Crane placed himself into the driver's seat in a manner that showed evident displeasure, straw falling onto the floorboard as he removed both his mask and hat. He reached over to the passenger's side where he had been residing and grabbed for his overcoat. He arranged it over his costume in a prompt manner, alongside a small flat cap. With unintelligible muttering did he start up the car and began to reverse.
Though he was amped up over the insult, he could sense the look of unease from his men; although he had been allotted parol, he had not been given his license back. Being caught driving could very well result in an encounter that could have easily been avoided by someone else driving. However, it did little to mention this to him. Instead, his lackeys sat in silence as he drove them through the outskirts of Gotham.
He could drive if he wanted and he would, Jonathan immediately told himself. What common sense had been in his mind regarding this up until now had been simply a matter of security. Now, he was damn determined to make the drive back to the old warehouse nearly twenty-five miles out from the dock.
What an affront coming from a woman who dresses as an undersized panther, he thinks to himself.
This would surely be the very last time he worked with her. Although deep down, he simply knew this was not true.
Back at the compound, Jonathan was still fuming over the comments by this Catwoman. He had already settled in for the evening, his attention going back towards the humiliation he felt he had faced. His thoughts went to wondering if the feisty feline knew just who she was toying with. With no victims to experiment on and a shortage of lackeys, he decided to retire for the evening with his notes and books. With various ancient texts to somewhat satisfy him for the time being, it wasn’t as difficult as he’d imagined tearing such ideas from his mind.
Then, there it was. A large portion of ancient texts that discussed Baast, presented in the most elegant of ways.
It was difficult to forget his rage after a few seconds into reading this.
A cat diety! Ha! She's no better than that lunatic who dresses as a Bat, Crane thought to himself.
Nobody knew the identity of the woman he admittedly found striking, their interactions to him proving a wit about her that perhaps the ancients would have found satisfactory.
Jonathan remembered previously catching a glimpse of her hair in its almost full nature. Shinier than the wing of a raven, so dark and clearly cropped to fit her elegant and perfect oval face. It was no wonder, he imagined, that all of Gotham was talking about this unmasked cat burglar.
From her confidence he assumed came from a tragic past to skills of the highest mark did Crane also find attractive. Surely Miss. Isley was a natural beauty, with his fellow rogue Harvey Dent known to be favored still among several for his rough look, yes.
To The Scarecrow, however, there was one rogue that he found exceedingly lovely; and it was the one who teased him the most, who seemed to enjoy their actions as a way to press close to him, only to draw back with a sardonic comment. A woman who reached nearly him in height in her full get-up, so alluring in nature and mysterious it eluded him.
For someone such as this, he wondered: What kept this Catwoman awake at night?
After mulling over the thought for several minutes and thinking about their interactions, Jonathan wished he hadn’t thought of this. It took a fair amount to turn him on, and fear from someone who fit his profile in an erotic way was certainly one of the concepts that did it for him. Perhaps it was the wonderment of what fear she might hold, along with the fact she was viewed as one of the most stunning presences in Gotham right now.
Or just how willingly she might give herself, he wonders, for a fair exchange. The fact she chose to interact with him on several occasions now only gave him more confidence in that area. It was a sense of self-confidence and vanity that allowed Crane to think this way.
Deep down he was unquestionably aware few women ever looked at him, let alone one of her beauty. Furthermore, it wasn't the idea of overtaking her unwillingly that appealed to him, no. The lank man told himself he would enjoy frightening her and finding out just what made this catspaw thief so passionate about donning a mask. She would end up thanking him, he surmised.
Truly, to be the only individual in Gotham to know who The Catwoman was! The goal was tempting, to find uncharted depths of terror from someone Gotham held in its finest regards somehow.
Crane attempted to put these thoughts out of his mind, forgoing his books for a moment to turn towards his notes. It did little to help ease his growing arousal. He refused to touch himself or even attempt to acknowledge it for a minute.
It seemed nearly disrespectful in nature to him if truth be told. He certainly did not want to seem like one of those men; after all, he was more than his desires. And what he desired right now, was to hear the shrieks and cries of a Gotham sensation. At the end of fear, he found there could be.....pleasure. If she was such a thrill-seeker, Crane surmised perhaps she would enjoy the experience.
For what was fear but the desire to escape reality? What was her reality she wanted to escape?
And a succinct amount of fantasy for the time being never hurt anyone, he thought as he began to find his hands resting on his slight thigh.
He was frustrated with his readings and found it difficult to put this out of his mind. The faint sound of his lackeys playing cards could be heard just outside his locked door. He drew a silent breath before continuing to read his texts. He was slightly throbbing now, hardly able to not notice it. His blood felt tight in his body, the rushed feeling followed by a drowsy one soon to follow if he went through with what his body was currently wanting. He would have pushed such concepts out of his head, though the thought of those sharp claws digging into him from the sheer terror, the thought of that graceful face and body that resembled closer to a statue of Isis than anything else... ..he didn't want to stop thinking on her.
If he was going to do this, the least he could do was continue reading, he surmised. It wasn't difficult to imagine just what she would look like, coming to him in all her lovely glory. Although if truth be told, he didn't even need her out of costume to feel exceptional desire. He commonly thought little on nudity or base revels such as that; in fact, she seemed far more vulnerable in costume.
He sat motionless for a bit, though quickly adjusted himself when it called for. It wasn't out of the realm of possibility she might return such affections, he told himself. After all, they seemed to have such masked personalities in common, alongside a disdain for Gotham riffraff. It was high-thinking Crane knew, although he was more than aware of just how his past record had suggested otherwise.
What might surprise most if Crane really thought on it, he found, was that he rarely thought of actual sex in that sense. He knew it seemed typical fear got him off, but it wasn't just the fear. It was the way someone responded. He certainly wasn't getting hard for just any experiment, he scoffed.
This Catwoman was one of the few exceptions.
Above all else, he viewed her as a physical beauty in such a way that he found it eerie. He certainly wouldn't take her fear without giving back pleasure. In fact, it was with utmost delight did he find himself thinking of her crying to him, begging him for release of her terrors. With her razor type wit and haunting eyes, she would make such a robust specimen.
It had been several weeks since he had found any need to pleasure himself in those regards. He couldn't control the breath he took, feeling equal amounts of arousal and frustration. While it was often a joking point for almost all of the rogues, Jonathan Crane believed that even a semi-willing partner could perhaps be of use to him in more intimate ways a couple of times a week if he had the time and needed the relaxation. What they would be subjected to perhaps even he wouldn't know; though a few doses of toxin here or there was certainly worth the pleasure and understanding one could find.
It wasn't that he lacked a drive necessarily, simply the resources and current desire. Though when it struck him, however, he found that it was such a one-minded energy that both logic and passion intertwined. It wasn't long before he was able to put the sounds outside his door away from his mind and more sensual ones into his. He didn't want to needlessly gas her, yet found it erotic in nature to think on how she would react to his concoctions of fear.
This wild panther might view herself as free, Crane thought. But the sordid doctor and former professor knew all too well that Gotham was its own cage; soon, this Catwoman would be locked up by The Bat as they all had. It was only a matter of time. His own self-acclaimed logic on the situation was out the door. He was now considering grandiose ideas, allowing his mind to wander for what he knew would only be moments.
Slowly, he began to stroke himself through his pants. His cloth pajamas were loose enough and he was aroused to a certain point that it would only take minutes to find his release, if not sooner. Once he had worked himself up into this frenzy, it was nearly too easy to find relief at times if he was being quite candid.
Jonathan straightened up on the edge of his chair, reading the ancient texts regarding Bastet so thoroughly he couldn't help but wonder; was he in the presence of such a goddess? Perhaps he lived in some reality where he was indeed the god of Fear, and she herself an embodiment of Bast herself.
It might have sounded absurd to him if he truly thought on it, though found that was another case for another time.
Now, even imagining the way her nails could dig into him from sheer panic, his own blood drawn from her need to clasp onto him, was sending Crane. A damp spot had formed on his pants already, evident in his own arousal thinking on the matter. He felt invincible; he felt as if he were the only one at this moment who could help her understand the cruel ways of the world.
One thought only made throb even more; The Scarecrow doesn't want her saved.
This thought only enticed him more. His cock was now well-tented in his pants. He found that his light stroking and rubbing through them had already proven teasing and build-up enough. For now, he was ready to live out his climax before retiring from his work for several hours. It was base, but he took some spit from his hand and mixed it with the already forming pre-cum that had built up. He muttered something about wanting to be done under his breath before shifting his focus to the texts. He didn't need to look down to understand just what motions he needed to find relief.
Lank fingers wrapped around his length in a firm fashion, almost not even daring to squeeze. He could feel the small droplets of pre-fluid force its way out of him as he made upward motions. It felt almost too good, finding himself unable to focus on his own texts even. He could hear his breath now, hyper-aware of his own surroundings. He was at least of adequate size, the slender individual mused for a second. Not that he felt such matters were of great importance, though he always found the jabs of his sexual prowess quite ill-informed. He was perhaps no Adonis he mused, though knew enough regarding the body and the pure, unadulterated releases of terror.
It wasn't them that this Catwoman chose to work with; it wasn't them that seemed to attract the attention of Gotham, he instantly considered.
Somehow his thoughts turned to his own capability, increasing the pressure on his cock with his fingers, still not moving any faster than he was. He felt some form of tension leave him as he imagined just the impact his own devices of fear would have on her. His toxin was a way for someone to remember him; forever. He felt his legs become restless, the nerves in his body clearly more focused on certain areas right now. He felt the tell-tale sign he was close by the build-up in his thighs and stomach; it was always a clenching type of orgasm, one where he could feel the rush and flow leave his body.
The height of a wonderful sensation hit him again, his cock almost jerking in his hands as he made more active movements than usual. Crane wonders if she collected antique texts from ancient Egyptian eras gone by. How he would be impressed with her collection, how easily this goddess could so take him however she wanted!
Her, draped in only the finest of thousands-year-old jewelry from Queens gone by.
There was an increasing pool of pre-cum he could feel, no doubt a result of his own ignoble thoughts.
Gods, Crane told himself; she could have been a pharaoh with the wit and beauty he was allowed to see. Never since Cleopatra or Meritneith had society been graced with such beauty and poise. She was Sobekneferu, she was Sekhmet incarnate. If he was truly a god of fear in this hellscape of a city, what was it to him that a demigoddess walked among them? He thought of that all-too-perfect oval face and dark skin, her eyes flecked with green and commanding. The fact he had heard the jealousy of her from a dryad such as Ivy.....who was she, again?
He was almost there; in a few strokes, he could tell that he would be rewarded for his thoughts and drift off to sleep. Moving his hand to his already pulsating tip, he shifted his angular hips in such a way that he only grasped himself more firmly. His breathing went from practically hitched to shallow in a moment.
It was fortunate for Crane at that second he didn't know her real name; Selina. How the words of her name would have played in his mind, that honeyed sound of a sobriquet that meant "heaven and moon", all too-fitting.
If he could ask her anything while subjecting her to his toxin, it would be this: What do the gods think of us, such beings that have laid claim to their mastery?
"Oh my dear, most winsome Bast," Jonathan mutters into whatever oblivion was listening to him. "How have you evaded us for so long?"
He was so fucking close. Long strokes at medium speed, shifting his hand to make turning motions around the head of his cock. His senses were becoming changeable and he needed release. He was almost there, more than he could have ever anticipated from such thoughts.
Suddenly, Crane heard the mellow rasp of an all-too-familiar voice. In fact, it almost sounded like a snort. He halted suddenly and tucked himself back in, allowing a deep intake of breath before he turned around. He could feel the ache of not finishing, though the shock had proven far more of an experience than anything else.
Her.
She was here; he had been on enough overdoses of his own toxin to know he wasn't hallucinating.
“This isn’t quite what I was expecting to find you doing in your free time, you know. And if you're referring to me, just know I'm not even close to being that kinda girl. Do they pay you to do this?”
Her voice was passive in nature as if she were doing no more than looking at a nail. Which Selina often did when talking, as if to show serious disinterest. In fact, she was looking around his area now.
"I can't say I like the decor. A little drab. I'm surprised you have no wicker furniture, you know."
Jonathan quickly situated himself and through reddened cheeks did he turn fully in the worn-out desk chair only half-way. He nearly hissed in response. Selina could detect a slight hint of embarrassment in his voice.
“You would consider yourself more mindful next time."
It brought a smile to Selinas' face. He was ashamed.
"Isn't embarrassment a form of panic? It doesn't matter, you know."
She is agile yet lethargic as she moved towards his collection of books.
"Hmmph. I see where your money goes now. Quite the surprise. I thought the files in Arkham were too kind on your book collection. You're like a fourth-grade book fair, you know."
At this he stood, clearly taking the insult and interruption personally.
"Have you come here to torment me further? I refuse to play into your cat’s cradle game, feline.”
Normally Selina would have found herself bothered at such a tone, though given his situation, she was more than aware he was attempting to hide his discomfort. She had only been there several seconds before announcing her arrival. Though to her, it had seemed like far too long already given the ire and furrowed brows he was displaying.
He was in no more than ratty pajamas and an oversized T-shirt that matched his icy-blue gaze somehow. He wasn’t quite the unattractive man as she had believed dressed and relaxed this way. His Arkham and GPD photos had given him a far more manic and aged look, though even in person he was still far beyond his years in lines, eyes gaunt and sharp as if they never missed an observation. His hair was still unkempt, though looked far less disheveled when not just out of a mask and oversized hat.
It took Selina back a moment;
In a more lowered tone did she speak.
“I’m only here because you forgot the key.”
Scarecrow straightened his crooked body, covered and clearly not in the mood anymore. He looked at her in an almost clinically detached way before speaking. It an instant did he go from his previous state to academic.
Scarecrow spoke through still bared teeth.
“If you had looked closer with that self-titled perfect vision of yours, you could have surely told the difference between the fifth stack of bills. Did you think I would be so careless? My, for someone who has decided to employ my services for say several times now, you do seem to have a distrust of me.”
Despite there being a fair amount of space between them, Selina swiftly imagined just how far her whip could reach. A clawed glove rested on her side as she pulled out the handle, revealing only a small portion.
He didn’t move, save for his eyes that followed her clawed tips.
“If you have issues with how I run my services, you can perhaps call others who are even more inept than you, Crane.”
“When we are doing business, it is Scarecrow,” he quickly added to her sentence, annoyance evident. “I haven’t once insulted you, if I might add. You do often choose to use your words like venom, yes?”
At this he stood to his full height. He was twisted and lank even more so outside his costume, nearly seeming to sway as he approached her. Selina didn’t step back, thinking better of it. He seemed oddly brave for a man with no weapon, her holding all the power. He stopped only midway between them.
“As Hemingway said, ‘A cat has absolute emotional honesty: human beings, for one reason or another, may hide their feelings, but a cat does not."
He let out a chuckle that sounded like a death rattle of sorts; it was enough that Selina glanced towards the utter quietness that had come from behind the closed door. She found it uneasy in a way as he approached. He was towering, gangly, and clearly unafraid of what consequence he would have to approach her as such.
"Ah, is there some lonely, bitter piece of you? That is evident to anyone who even remotely takes a closer look past your beauty and wit. Beyond all that I suppose is nothing more than, why..” he let out a snort mid-sentence as if the words were almost too cartoonish for him to utter. "A scaredy-cat.”
His voice was no longer that of the calm and academic individual he presented to the world, but that of a darker and more sinister nature. It was more than evident what thoughts were racing through him.
Something in Selina hardened. It wasn’t fear or anything of the sort, but as if she finally heard what she felt at times said out loud.
“Cat have your tongue, my dear?”
It took only one look at that smarmy, wicked grin before Crane found himself on the other end of her claws. How she got to him so instantly he didn’t know.
“Alright then, Jonathan,” her voice began, as sleek and sharp as the claws that were near breaking the skin. “If I wanted to be called my dear by some sleazeball in bad slacks, I’d go to any Gotham alley. Which is where you don’t want to find yourself if you ever try and cross me.”
His face hardened in nature, eyes narrowing at the insult of being anything like ordinary Gothamites
“My, my, such sweet words. Unless you choose to give me a fair reason, there’s no need for you to worry, Bast.”
His eyes widened at the words he had used; he hadn't meant to call her that; it simply just came out.
Though taken aback, Catwoman let out a light huff and only straightened her posture.
She didn’t release her grip. Instead, she dug into him just so slight and precise it only prickled the first layer of skin, though his uneasiness was evident. In an instant, a sharp tip from her thumb broke into his shirt, digging into him in a way that clearly pained him. Crane didn’t give her the satisfaction of a sound, though could tell that he was surely bleeding, even if it was a small pinpoint. It had only been a trivial touch, her gloves evidently made of such effective and sharp material even the most frivolous touch could cause damage. She released him, sending his body back a good inch from her shove.
“These can cut more than just glass, just in case you forgot.”
“Is this all you wanted?” Crane began, annoyed tone evident through clenched teeth and eyes almost burning into hers.
Very few ever chose to give her such a look. Though the moment his icy eyes met her own dark gaze, there was a slight moment of silence after.
“I’ve told you where the key is. If you would pardon me, I have other matters to attend to. Undertakings that are far beyond any of your comprehension in their importance. Don't you have nine lives to spend somewhere else?”
Jonathan figured that people threw themselves at Catwoman all the time; if anything, he was more than surprised she didn’t just leave upon seeing him. He tried to put what he had been doing behind him, instead opting to turn towards a small set of chemical beakers on another desk. Selina wouldn't say she had the best retort at the moment. He had clearly been thinking of at least her to some degree given the clues. Normally she would have taken great irritation to his words. Though the image of what he had been doing in the near dark had been almost ludicrous given his shock and embarrassment.
She held in laughter at the thought of it. Selina wouldn't say she had a natural sense on others to a perfect degree, yet could read him at the moment. He kept turned from her, clearly attempting to look as if he were shuffling notes. Not one to admit her fault, she turned around before speaking.
"Don’t flatter yourself for me indulging personally in your already existing pity.”
Crane certainly could have replied to this, though only let out a sigh.
"Again, if this is all you are indeed seeking, I sugge-"
He turned around, the feeling as if no one was there more than evident. In a somehow even swifter motion than The Bat, she was gone. How she had gotten into the room Crane would never know. He was clearly out of the mood, instead choosing to focus on the scanty amount of fear toxin he had, attempting to mix it and add further elements to the compound.
It wasn't easy at first to ignore the stickiness that had built up along with his own spit he never wiped off; though it was far easier than managing burlap during the scorching months in Gotham. He allowed a quote to leave him before adjusting his glasses and continuing on with his notes. A smirk of sorts graced his lips before he spoke into the empty room. He could still feel where her sharp claws had been.
"When I play with my cat, who knows if I am not a pastime to her, more than she is to me?"