Edward was dizzy and lost in the rush of it all. Giving up control in the bedroom was almost always a surreal experience. Forcing himself to lie in whatever position was humbly requested of him, with his legs wide open, hearing Jonathan's whispered words of approval as he stroked Edward's cheeks and petted his hair like a child adored above all others.

"You're perfect like this," he would hear, as his long and drawn body would make itself as comfortable as it could between those legs and against Edward's chest. Usually the smell of cheap bourbon could be detected when Jonathan's face nuzzled its way into the crook of his neck. The only time Jonathan Crane ever felt daring enough to top was during the long nights of full moons where he would spoil himself on liquor and come at Edward like an animal the young brunette had never seen.

But Edward could not say no. To be crushed under the little weight the ex-professor had was a rare treat. To see him so undone from lust and liquor, it was the Scarecrow unleashed but in a way that would not (mentally) harm him. Jonathan would become selfish and forgetful of his length. He would work carelessly into Edward, his eyes closed and hands awkwardly grabbing at the sheets and flesh beneath him.

Somewhere in the middle of the sweat and the heat, managing to be heard under the exertion of it all came the words Edward craved and Jonathan would deny he ever uttered: "I love you."

And then Edward was lost, in the dizzy rush of it all. He was aware of when Jonathan came; the unfiltered heat inside him, the pressure of Jonathan pushing up against him as hard as he could. Holding there until he was through and falling into some boneless mess.

"I love you," he said again, so drunk and fucked out. Edward utterly adored his Scarecrow in this state. His Scarecrow, he would think, testing misfortune by staring down the full-moon through the window of their hideaway.

They would wake in some lazy mid hour later; two or three o'clock, Jonathan's limp dick still inside Edward. Slipping out without effort as he rose to get them some coffee.

"You like cream?" Jonathan asked, quickly pulling up some pajama bottoms. Lucky for him and his height they were his.

"As always," Edward moaned from the ache of having to work as a contortionist to accommodate Jonathan's height bearing down on him, "and Jonathan."

"Yes?" The Scarecrow turned, holding his tired self against the doorway.

Edward said nothing. He did not need to. Jonathan had said everything the night before.