Whole Day Off: The Lounge
Pairing: Scarecrow/Reader
Summary: After being invited to a night out at the Iceberg Lounge with colleagues, events take a turn when your drunken fun is interrupted by the Riddler as he takes it upon himself to introduce you to a very familiar 'friend' of his. (5.1k)
(tw for: alcohol/drunkenness, vague intimidation, drunken sex, nipple play, unprotected sex, mutual orgasm)
Fic Masterlist /// Link to AO3
Whole Day Off Masterlist
Hands firmly planted on your hips; you stare at the selection of dresses which are laying out before you on your bedspread with a look of pure concentration. Wearing only underwear, dark panties pairing with their matching push-up bra, you immediately rule out the white dress as you can’t be bothered to change your underwear to match it. That leaves the black dress, its bustline wickedly low, and the red dress which has a slit up the side of the left leg which is borderline scandalous if you move in even the slightest direction.
It was a work night out. Arranged by your boss in a wild attempt to make the smattering of new starts feel more at home with everyone else in the team. The urge to make everyone friendly by forcing drunken nonsense, you could understand. The choice to do that by booking a booth within the infamous Iceberg Lounge, you could not.
But it wasn’t your call to make and, as you sigh and pick up the black dress, a determination to enjoy the night regardless of the wild location choice settles in your chest.
Jonathan had been quiet all week and the scant texts which had flown between you speaking of how busy your various schedules are. So busy in fact, that you had found yourself flicking over to the news channels more often than not just to make sure that a certain familiar face wasn’t popping up as part of a recent manhunt for some crime which you were better off not knowing about.
Having chosen your outfit for the evening, the silky black dress material feeling lovely as you run it between your fingers and allow it to slip across your body, you eye up your scant jewellery collection before settling on a simple silver chain and matching stud earrings. The necklace hangs perfectly, stopping just at the dip of your collarbone and teasing the deep bust of the dress as it clings to your chest.
Feeling bold, you decide to wear a little more make-up than you typically enjoy. With a little bit of concentration, you only stop when a dark liner frames your eyes as you ensure that you keep your hands steady - wanting the lines to stay thin and sharp enough to accentuate your eye shape without looking too much. Pairing that with a wash of lipstick, the colour a nice, slightly deeper berry which generally suits most people, you look in the mirror and guiltily admire yourself for a moment.
You look good, and excitement flares within you at the night out to come.
x-x-x-x-x
The Iceberg Lounge is surprisingly lovely on the inside and you pause as the bouncer silently ushers your group past the doors to fully take the various displays in. An expensive-looking water feature sits towards the far end of the main hall, the sides of it decorated by staircases which wind up to the second floor where more business-leaning areas and offices appear to be set up. The seating around the main hall is very carefully laid out, each booth and table close enough to ensure maximum guest intake while allowing for a little bit of privacy from others.
One of your newer colleagues, her dress a stunning electric blue which sits so perfectly tight against her pencil thin body that you can’t help the flare of envy which singes your lungs every time you glance too long at her, guides you to the pre-booked booth and you all shuffle into the seats with various smiles of excitement.
Your eyes drift out to scan the dancefloor and the various parties who have clubbed together to fill the space. Some seating lay out towards the middle, the booths bathed in a soft, shifting light which emitted from the various neon signs which littered the room, but some were tucked away into the darkness, providing a privacy which you were sure was necessary for an environment like this – especially given the owner.
Jonathan spoke highly of the Penguin.
When conversation shifted to include the infamous Oswald Cobblepot, there was a begrudging respect which settled in Jonathan’s tone and one which didn’t go unnoticed. He had once said that the Penguin was a valuable ally to have and one which he was always hesitant to really piss off as Cobblepot possessed connections which made navigating the underworld and criminal landscape that little bit easier.
And he was a man who was known to be helpful to his friends.
The Iceberg Lounge was apparently Cobblepot’s baby, a borderline safe haven for many costumed criminals to conduct business and let loose in an establishment which offered both opportunity and understanding that a police presence would not be required. Anyone who misbehaved in the Penguin’s roost was taking their life into their own hands and the unspoken warning could be felt in the brutal-looking security guards who wore dark clothing to blend into the shadows of the room.
“Drinks?” Someone, Alex from accounting you think, calls over the loud music of the band which plays at the helm of the dancefloor and you call back with a clear desire for a simple vodka and coke.
This was the sort of place which the rogues which you had already met would convene and that thought is enough to spark a sudden hesitation in your actions as your eyes dart around the room with a sudden nervousness. Roman Sionis, a man you would rather avoid under any circumstance, could be hidden away here somewhere, no doubt scouting for some poor woman to torment for an evening. Hell, even Jervis Tetch could be here, your close encounter with him one which still burned within your memory.
But then, these walls could also house could Waylon Jones, his apparent kindness never too far from your thoughts when you consider the Gotham criminal world which you are growing ever so painfully more aware of.
A drink is set in front of you and you smile up at Alex as you mouth a thanks in her direction before picking up the glass and taking a small sip. The vodka hits like an old friend, exciting and familiar all in one, and you take another hearty, anxious gulp before settling it back down to the oddly clean wood of the booth.
Both the conversation and drinks flow as you find yourself thoroughly enjoying the experience, the tasteful Cuban music of the band setting a lovely pulsing rhythm to the air which makes you feel loose and less tense than you have in days. The gossip is even sweeter and you join in the chorus of gasps which fill your table as one of the girls from another department confesses to a wild sex-based scandal which rocked her previous job.
Eventually though, discussion turns to demands for some dancing and you politely decline the offer as you shrug into your glass with soft apology and watch the rest of the girls disappear towards the dancefloor.
You were not nearly drunk enough to get any enjoyment out of making a fool of yourself in front of so many people.
Watching your coworkers disappear into the throng of people who were dancing, it isn’t until someone slips within your booth that you pull you attention back to see which of them have thought better of it and scarpered back to safety. However, your eyes squint in the dim light of the room as you don’t immediately recognise the man sitting almost opposite you.
“Good evening.”
The voice feels familiar somehow but, now three vodkas down, you can’t quite place it.
“Hi.” You offer politely, keeping your hand wrapped around your drink as you pull it towards you slightly in automatic defence.
“I have to ask why you’re all alone. Surely a lovely thing like yourself knows how to dance?”
“No way. Dancing is for folks who know how to do it or have drunk at least four more vodkas than I currently have.” You laugh, pointing at your drink with a single finger as you lift your hand from it for a moment, “I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself like that.”
“A shame. But then, perhaps not if it means I get to enjoy your company with less of a crowd stepping all over my expensive shoes.”
Keeping your eyes on the dancefloor, you fall into a moment of silence as you consider how to politely decline the attentions of this man as thoughts of Jonathan flitter through your mind. You would hate for this guy to end up on the wrong end of a needle just for trying to be a bit too friendly.
Tilting your head to the side a little, you take in what little of his features you can make out. His voice is lovely and smooth, the sort of voice which you swore you had heard on the radio before and his suit is nicely fitted and made of some dark colour which is difficult to detect in the limited light.
It is only when the lights of the dancefloor shift and expand to catch the bulk of his face that you realise, with a jolt of horrified recognition, who is sitting before you.
Edward Nygma.
The Riddler.
“Oh my god.”
Something almost like irritation flits across his handsome features as he realises the discovery of your attention and brings his hand to his hair, carefully glossing over the subtle coif to ensure not a strand was sitting out of place.
“Ah, enlightenment! Don’t worry, dear, I’m not here in any professional capacity but I am always delighted to meet a fan.”
“A fan?”
“Maybe not of the intricacies of my work, but everyone appreciates a good villain. The fascination with the dangers of crime and wickedness, it’s a riddle which many a great author has explored over time.”
Fear grips you, a sense of exposure making your chest feel tight as you wonder if he actually knows who you are in relation to one of his colleagues and is playing with you like a cat prepping to devour a canary.
“Why are you here?” You ask bluntly, hating how suddenly pitched your voice sounds.
Edward takes the change in stride, clearly unbothered by the shift in tone.
“My good friend Oswald imports a very special brand of gin which is to my personal preference and allows me to drink it at a reduced rate which-”
“No, sorry. I didn’t mean here as in the Lounge. I meant here as in,” you interrupt and gesture to the booth with an open hand, “here. With me.”
“Surely, with a dress that deliciously draped across such an inviting bustline, a pretty thing like yourself doesn’t have to wonder how she has managed to attract the attention of a hot-blooded man who simple wishes to say hello. Or, a man who wishes to scope out a potential partner for a dear friend who-”
“Edward.” A cold voice joins the discussion and, in that moment, you swear all the devils of hell are conspiring to personally ruin your life as you glance up at the rigid body of Jonathan Crane, his expression devoid of any warmth as he looms over the edge of your booth.
x-x-x-x-x
“I hate them all.”
Edward’s words were loose, casual, and Jonathan had to grunt his agreement as they both stared out at the wash of patrons who filled the Iceberg Lounge.
“Tourists. That’s what they are.” Edward continued, sipping his gin.
“They come here hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the infamous costumed criminals which haunt the streets of Gotham but their brains are too underdeveloped to comprehend that those same glimpses go both ways.”
“It does make things easier at times. So, we should probably allow them their curiosities.” Humming, Jonathan matched Edward’s sip with one of his own.
The night was unplanned, a casual text resulting in both men choosing to meet at the Lounge for a drink and a loose discussion of possible business which would suit both in the coming months. Edward, as always, was dressed well with a deep green suit that fitted his lithe body perfectly. Jonathan was comfortable in a simple light tan shirt and dark pants, something subtle since he was in no mood for trouble.
However, should trouble wish to find him then the toxin vials which lined his pockets would be more than adequate to put such foolishness to bed.
Jonathan sniffed his distaste as he caught Edward’s sharp gaze, “If you were to pick up some fresh supplies, where are you looking?”
“Interesting question.” Edward mused, his eyes roving across the various patrons of the Lounge before settling somewhere near the main bar. “That group there,” he inclined, “those frat boys with the ill-fitting pants? They would be perfect for a little ongoing game which I am cooking up for our mutual rodent friend.”
His eyes surveying the group, Jonathan could see the appeal in using them as game fodder. Something in the way which they stood was deceptively predatory, their closed ranks only opening up when something pretty dared to inch too close to them.
“What about you?” Edward followed up, “Any ingredients for your next escapade littering these hallowed halls?”
Gaze dipping around the room, Jonathan’s eyes ghosted over various couples and groups before they fell to a booth on the far side and he swore he felt the air evacuate his lungs as he took in the seated form of his witty girl, her face stretched into a wide smile as she laughed at something a blonde woman to her side whispered in her ear.
Noticing the pause, Edward followed his eyeline with an expert precision, “Oh, Jonathan Crane you saucy old crow. If you would rather chase tail than engage in a friendly game with a beloved colleague then please do not let me stand in your way.”
“Don’t be a fool. I was scanning the room to play this asinine game I am already regretting putting into motion.” Jonathan denied, tone flat.
“If you are too afraid to make a move then I will speak to her for you. I’m sure I can butter her up with some of the ol’ Nygma charm and then you can swoop in and undo most of my work. Perhaps, if you’re lucky, she’ll be one of those charming little things who possesses some kind of rare fetish for men with height.”
Edward stood fluidly and Jonathan felt the insane urge to snatch at his shoulder and pull him harshly back to his seat. However, such a move would lead to more questions that he was willing to answer and so he sat ramrod still instead.
“Then again,” Edward threw over his shoulder as he walked from their booth, his voice steady as it carried back to Jonathan, “if she’s not interested in a living scarecrow then I may have to attempt to keep her for myself. That dress is quite scandalous and it’s been a while since I’ve dipped my wick with something new.”
Jonathan watched Edward go with a fury in his lungs. His knuckles were white beneath the table as he gripped at his own pants with curled hands. He would need to play this carefully, exposure to Edward was not the end of the world since the fool could be depended on to some extent, but he could not stand to watch it unfold. Edward was a fox, charming his way into the houses of hens who didn’t know much better until he had drained them of what he needed from them and moved on.
His witty girl would not fall for it, that much he knew, but even the thought of Edward laying a single simpering hand on her filled him with a heated jealousy which he would never confess to.
Pushing up from his seat after a minute of careful consideration, Jonathan walked firmly towards their booth, weaving through sweaty dancers, to arrive just in time to hear Edward compliment the dress which hugged his witty girl like it was made for her.
Forcing his voice to be calm, a deep breath steadied him as Jonathan spoke.
“Edward.”
x-x-x-x-x
“Ah, there’s my dearest friend.” Edward beams as he gestures up to Jonathan with a vague hand wave, “Please, let me introduce you to-”
“Dr. Jonathan Crane.” Stating his name without preamble, there is something in the tension which sits along Jonathan’s shoulders which makes you understand immediately what he is trying to do by choosing to fully introduce himself.
“Dr. Jonath-oh my god, you’re the Scarecrow.”
“Your reputation proceeds you, old crow.” Edward interjects with a wink, “But don’t worry, dear, he’s really just a stuffy old man at heart. One with the stamina of a man half his age, I hear. You have nothing to worry about.”
If only he knew, you muse as a feeling of light-headedness clouds your thoughts. The sheer absurdity of the events at play making you wonder if you’d actually passed out before leaving home and this was you being punished in some wicked limbo designed to torture you personally.
“That said, maybe don’t accept a drink from him.” Edward continues,
“Old habits die hard. But on that note, do you want to join us at our own private booth? I can see your friends preparing to leave the dancefloor and I would rather continue this fun discussion with some level of privacy.”
“Are you going to hurt me?”
“What? No. We are just feeling,” Edward glances at Jonathan with a smile teasing at his lips, “chatty. My friend here would love to buy you a drink.”
Feeling that his offer was more of a demand than anything else, you nod politely as a wave of relief surges through your chest at the thought of your coworkers not discovering you sitting in their booth with a pair of wanted criminals crowding you like a fresh piece of meat.
“Okay, but please don’t hurt me.”
Standing on shaky legs, you allow both men to lead you to their booth – its position in a much more hidden away area of the Lounge. You had barely sat, your heart hammering in your chest, when a waitress appears from nowhere to take a drink order.
“Usual gin for me, a whisky for my tall friend, and,” Edward pauses to look at you once more, “what are you drinking, dear?”
“Vodka and coke. Make it a double, please.” You reply, make a good effort to hide the fear from your tone. It seemingly works, or perhaps the waitress knows better than to read into anything which happens within the Lounge, and she walks off to put the order through with the bar.
Edward is the one to break the silence as he pulls his thin leg over his knee and taps his fingers against his suit pants, “This song has quite the interesting beat. You two should take advantage of it and share a dance.”
“No.”
“No.”
You answer at the same time as Jonathan, and Edward’s eyebrow quirks at the immediate joint refusal.
“Wow. Okay, point taken. At least offer the lady a compliment on her pretty dress, Jonathan. Were you raised in a barn?”
The look Jonathan shoots him is pure venom but Edward only twists his lips into a playful smirk.
“And there is my cue to leave.” Making eye contact with someone across the room, Edward stands swiftly from the booth, “Our darling friend Miss Kyle has finally chosen to grace the Lounge with her presence and I am in need of her skills for a little job I have on the books. So, with that,” bending to pick up your hand, Edward kissed the back of it with a roguish flourish, “adieu.”
Turning back to Jonathan, Edward offers him a wink before sauntering off – his body easily weaving through the dancefloor as he jauntily makes his way towards his next target.
Silence falls at the booth and it is the kind of silence which makes your lungs feel heavy in your chest as you wait through every agonising moment for someone to break the tension.
“This was my fault. I noticed you from across the room and spent a moment too long in giving you my attention. Unfortunately, that charlatan bastard is deceptively observant.” Jonathan speaks after a solid moment, tapping the edge of his drink with a long finger. “I think he assumed that my interest was taken in by that lovely dress. The awful show to follow was his best effort at attempting to interfere with my personal affairs.”
His confession makes you feel a little better, the knowledge that you were actually innocent in this little debacle soothing much of the tension which sat heavily across your shoulders.
“The Riddler as a wing man. Who would have thought…”
Despite his obvious irritation, Jonathan twitches his lips at that.
“So desperate for attention that he has trained himself to flirt in a way which he believes potential partners find irresistible.”
“Well,” you drag the word out, unable to resist winding him up slightly as the vodka lowers your inhibitions, “I mean, you never kiss my hand like that. Maybe I do like it.”
“Are you teasing me, witty girl?” Jonathan asks, his hand dropping below the booth to press into your knee. His hand is cool and the touch sends a shiver through your body. “Would you truly like to meet the Scarecrow before the night is through?”
“If that is your way of inviting yourself back to my apartment then I suppose I couldn’t say no.” You push your knee into his hand, confident of the table hiding such an intimate gesture as you casually invite him for a little drunken fun.
Jonathan grunts, “We cannot leave together. You leave now and I will follow in a few minutes. Make a show of storming from this table and that should throw off any potential suspicion. Wait for me at the front door to your apartment.”
Standing quickly, you school your features into pure irritation as you grab at your purse and do exactly as told – storming away from the table and firing off a text to Alex to let her know that you were heading home early due to a headache. Arousal mixes with the alcohol which thrums through your veins and you ready yourself for a fun end to a surprisingly not-too-bad evening.
x-x-x-x-x
With the pressure of both bodies pushing into the wood, the door to your apartment slams open with such force that you wince even as Jonathan presses his head into the dip of your neck – his tongue hot and demanding as he licks a line across your pulse point. Hands are everywhere, your hands sliding up within his shirt to run along his thin stomach while his fingers pull at the straps of your dress to slip them free of your shoulders.
Your feet never stopping, both bodies strip the other as soft huffs and low grunts of need fly between you. The dress is abandoned somewhere in the living along with Jonathan’s shirt and it’s only when you reach your bedroom that you finally pull away long enough to speak.
“I don’t normally pick up strange men in bars.” You tease, fingers fumbling with his fly to begin removing his pants. Jonathan is quick to help, the stench of whisky hot on his breath, and his pants fall to the floor, leaving him in his boxers and you in your bra and panties.
“It seems a night of poor decisions all around. Our drinks arrived after you left, so I was forced to drink my whisky, a gin and your double vodka before I departed to meet you here.”
“No one forced you to do that. Greedy man.” You giggle, the breath whooshing from your lungs as Jonathan pushes you down to the bed before dropping to pin you to the sheets.
“Foolish girl.” He snaps back, hands messily delving into your bra to pull your tits free as his head drops to wrap his lips around your right nipple. His hands shift to his boxers as he sucks at your tit, slipping them off without pulling his head free and you match his energy by hooking your fingers within your panties and shuffling them down past your ass.
The sex which follows is unusually gentle, Jonathan’s thrusting much slower and deeper than usual as he appears to savour the heat of your cunt around his cock – every clench desperately trying to keep him within you. The vodka and whisky combos which rattle in your respective veins makes everything a little sloppier than usual, hands trembling and inhibitions lowered as some vague part of you acknowledges Jonathan’s willing state of undress with mild surprise.
Before long, you feel the heat of his arousal as it floods your soaked cunt, the sensation making you gasp as his long fingers drop to rub wickedly at your clit – determined to push you over the edge as quickly as possible. He succeeds, of course he does, and your nails carve little crescent-shaped divots into his forearms as you grip him tightly and ride your orgasm out.
He pulls out quickly, the mess of your mixed arousals feeling cool and sticky against your thighs as you spread your knees slightly, trying to minimise the discomfort. Jonathan lays by your side, his body quickly shifting to something more comfortable as he slips between the sheets.
The alcohol which hangs on your shared breath is heavy in the air, mixing with the familiar scent of sex as you stretch your legs out – careful not to touch Jonathan’s legs in case the sudden post-coital touch spooks him from the quiet moment. His body covered by the thin blanket which often sits atop your sheets, only the top of his chest remains exposed and you glance at his chest hair, stealing little furtive looks when you think he won’t catch you.
The quiet is open and familiar as you both gently catch your breath.
Jonathan moves first, his hand capturing your own as he brings your fingers to his lips and you shudder as you feel the cracked, dry skin there glossing over your knuckles.
You pretend not to have noticed it but something warm and painfully fond fluctuates in your chest as you realise that he kissed atop the exact area where Edward had kissed earlier in the night. Clearly marking the territory as his own once again as he wipes the memory of another’s lips away.
It’s almost romantic, in a possessive way.
“Do you think I would have ever went with him?” You ask, playing a dangerous game by reminding him of his more jealous traits.
“No.” Jonathan mutters quietly, “I think you know better than to allow a snake like that into your bed.”
“No snakes, only crows. Just one Scarecrow. My Scarecrow.” You sigh out, not thinking too much about the claim as you casually make it.
Jonathan tenses at the words but you barely notice as you bask in the glorious post-coital bliss which was only made all the sweeter by the vodka which was only making the very edges of the room swim.
“God, you make me feel so boneless that it’s almost weird.” You groan, carefully stretching out your delightfully fucked-out body once more, “I kind of love it.
“Do you love me?”
The question stops you dead, your heart stopping and your limbs going rigid. Unsure you had actually heard him correctly; you freeze in position as you allow your brain to process the question properly – to make sure it wasn’t some audio fuck-up which would lead you down a weird path for mishearing.
“Do I love you?” You ask, voice squeaky even to your own ears.
“Yes.”
Drunken lips speak truth, but no amount of vodka in the world would have allowed you to answer that question with a simple agreement or denial.
“Maybe I love parts of you. The parts I get to see that no one else does. It’s complicated.” You sputter the words in open panic, “There are huge parts of your life that I can’t accept so it’s not as easy as- I can’t answer that question, Jonathan. Don’t ask me to answer that when you know that it will change nothing. I mean,” growing defensive you throw the question back at him with surprising force, “do you even love me?”
Silence reigns once more, this one significantly more tense, but you push past it as you sigh up at the ceiling.
“Love is little more than a chemical response within the body and deserves little more consideration than rage or anxiety. But,” Jonathan pauses, his words slurring due to the alcohol and the post-coital bliss, “I will confess to a fondness which forces some element of consideration.”
“I’m too drunk for this conversation.”
Jonathan says nothing to that but something in his silence feels like agreement even as his hand snakes it way atop your chest as you settle back and prepare to allow the heaviness in your eyes to claim you fully for the night.
Your heartbeat.
He was a creature of habit, it seems.
x-x-x-x-x
Awaking alone in your bed, the disappointment presses heavily into your chest for a moment as you glance at the empty half of your sheets. A selfish part of you had hoped to awaken and find Jonathan still here, his face calm and open in the early morning light which flittered through your cheap blinds.
But no.
Alone.
You pull yourself from your bed, the touch of a hangover which is threatening your peace making your mouth feel dry as hell. Trudging through to the kitchen, you stop dead as you take in the small white note which sits perfectly in the middle of the small table which passed as your main dinner table.
I have work to attend and saw no point in awaking you. I will meet you tomorrow as planned. - J.
J.
A choice which feels odd but you suppose that writing out Jonathan Crane or Scarecrow would lead to a paper trail which would be almost impossible to explain without having to endure some serious explanations. Staring at the note, his penmanship is surprisingly nice but as soon as that asinine thought passes you immediately flash back to that hell of a question which he had sprung on you so unexpectedly.
Do you love me?
Even now, the question fills and guts you in equal measure – an enquiry which would require an honesty which would force you to look at both your own moral conscience and the very core of the principles which you have always considered yourself to have.
Do you love me?
What the hell had inspired that?
