I wrote this while listening to "Fuck You Like An Animal" by Nine Inch Nails. If you want to get in the mood of the story, listen to that song or "Fuck Me Like You Hate Me" by Seether. Both are amazing songs. Hope you guys enjoy this!
It was never tender.
Tender disgusted them.
When fingertips traced across trembling flesh, it was met with snapping teeth, snarls ripped from throats, nails digging into skin. If they were tender… If they were sweet… It became something else entirely. This, like it was, was fucking. Brutal, hard, violent, ripping at each other's clothes and skin and insides until the pain turned into pleasure and they couldn't tell what was blood and what was their own come in the darkness of alleys or rooftops.
They weren't even sure they could call it sex.
So they didn't.
They didn't have sex, they fucked. It was rutting like animals, nothing more. It was as much a part of their relationship as any of it. The clown would cause mischief, take lives, destroy buildings… The Bat would chase him down, beat him to a pulp, and whoever came out more conscious, more alive, would be the one on top, forcing themselves deep inside the other. Sometimes it was the Bat. He would beat the Joker into the ground, his enemy spitting up groans and blood until his mouth was occupied by something much thicker and harder… He'd choke for air, grasp at his arch-nemesis until he finally relented, sucking hard on him until he came, guttural moans a soundtrack to the disgusting, vile act.
Other times it was the Joker who would be top dog.
The Bat always went home those nights bleeding, bruised and hating himself, but his cock limp and satisfied at the same time. A knife pressed to his throat, or into his tongue… Maybe tracing the skin of his balls, teasing the tight hole behind them. The Joker never did the same thing twice, making the anticipation just as terrifying and painful as the raunchy acts themselves. He'd look in the mirror and see dried blood and semen cached across the cheeks of his ass, the shaft of his soft member, the word JOKER slashed in the skin there. A marking. A branding. Ownership.
And the next night it would happen again.
Neither could place how exactly it had began. It was now as natural as anything. If they went a day without screwing the other, the withdrawal would set in, and as hard as Batman tried to deny this horrid craving for this disgusting psychopath, he could never hold off for long and soon his shower wall was splattered with a load of his come, his cock looking bruised and swollen and purple as he fisted it, humping his hips into his hands.
Across the city, the Joker would stumble into an abandoned hotel room, an old warehouse, an empty garage, barely have the time to undo his belt and reach down inside his slacks before he was against the wall, knees up and spread, three fingers deep in his anus as his sticky fist stroked his own aching rod.
Sometimes they would speak, sometimes they would not.
Words like, 'you fucking maniac, you disgusting psycho, I hate you, I hate you,' would leave the Bat's gritted teeth, while the Joker laughed into a puddle of his own blood or lapped at torn flesh on the Bat, new wounds for him to enjoy. On some nights, they would leave without speaking a single word. Sometimes, the Bat would even shove the Joker to the ground after he pulled out, the Bat's come staining the Joker's ass, and he'd send another kick into his abdomen before disappearing into the shadows.
It was not sex, it was fucking.
Their disgusting hormones made them crave each other, perverse and rotten, and though neither one of them would ever admit to it, they both knew they could never, ever live without it. They had eaten from the tree of knowledge, they were sentenced to death, and now they could not stop themselves. They were going to hell already, why not go out satisfied and soft rather than horny and hard?
They were addicted and like an addict, they hated it but would never stop.
It was too ingrained in their souls, the very moment they set sights on the other, blood flowed to that spot between their legs and they were desperate to start the foreplay, the punches, the kicks, the curses just so they could get inside each other. Often times, Batman would return to the cave with sticky come splattered across his suit and many nights the Joker would have to wash his suit to remove the stains, but not before stripping himself of his clothes and lapping at what remained on the fabric, his eyes rolling back into his head and his cock hardening once again as he tasted the Bat he hated so much.
It was depraved.
It was ornery.
It was vulgar.
It was never tender.
Tender disgusted them.