"Aw, Brucie... that looked like it hurt," I breathed. My chest heaved, aching, loving it. "I'm so sorry, baby... sort of."
My cackle was loud – I even surprised myself with it – and his body shook beneath me, seeing my anger escalate. He really was scared of me. Imagine that. The little bat, afraid of me. If he was scared then, he had no idea what was coming to him next. I'd kept the lion in the box for far too long. There was no way I could hold it in any longer.
Why should I? True, he was the glorified Prince of Gotham. He got everything his little heart desired. He snapped his fingers and the whole goddam staff of Wayne Enterprises was at his feet with fucking margaritas and shoe polish. Whatever the hell he wanted. It was his turn to give. After all, I'd been patient, hadn't I? I'd waited it out. I'd given him his chance. It was his turn to give, whether he wanted to or not.
My knee slammed up between his naked thighs. He was so wet that if I hadn't known better I would have guessed that he'd spilled his seed all over the place. But, no... just a little shower water. In all fairness, I hadn't even let him dry off before I trust him so mercilessly against the wall in his bathroom.
The motion wasn't a gentle one not tantalizing, sweet, and tempting. No. I was done with that. I was done playing games for him. I was the mother fucking Joker for Christ sake. He was going to do whatever the fuck I wanted him to, when I wanted him to, how I wanted to. I had no reason to wait for him anymore. If he was going to play hard to get, I was going to play harder.
Bruce screamed, and I savored it. I let the taste of it wash around in my mouth before I swallowed. I let it burn all the way down. I let it light me on fire. When he screamed, I pressed closer, my hips grinding into his. "Come on, Brucie," I taunted. "Just a little louder. Let daddy hear you cower for me."
His next cry was one of mental anguish, not of physical agony, and that one was even sweeter than the last. I felt his moans of pain egging me on as the muscles in my body tensed and contracted like bear traps. I was so, so ready for him. I could taste him in my mouth before I'd even touched him. "Oh, Brucie," I continued, my hips grinding harder against his and pressing him harder into the broken shards of glass beneath him. "What's the matter, Brucie? Don't want Mommy to hear her little angel moan for the big, bad villain?"
I paused, hearing my words. Was I being to hash? Was that too rash? Too cruel? Too personal? And then I saw it. That sparkling little tear, trickling down his cheek. How heroic. One rogue tear. What a fucking cliche was. What a fucking pile of pathetic weakness. How could I have fallen for someone so weak? So childish. So innocent. ...Or maybe not...
"Fuck me, Bruce," I cooed, my lips close to his ear. I dragged my tongue along the side of it. He quivered like a good boy should, and in sync with the rest of his body, his little fists rattled weakly against my chest. I'd never seen him tremble so badly, and to feel the sense of power growing inside me made me tremble too. I was drunk with it. I even stumbled a little as I pulled him off the pile of shards.
He winced, and I trembled some more. "Oh, Bruce... those noises you make are so..." I cackled "...Delicious."
The tears poured faster as I rocked my body into his. "Let me make you mine, Bruce. Forget about Mommy and Daddy for five fucking minutes and FUCK ME!"
"J-Jack..." he sobbed. "Jacky,...s-s-stop..."
My pulse was throbbing, shaking everything in my view. I was so blind with rage I could hardly see him. But I saw enough. Enough to make me angry, anyway. "You want this to stop? Do you? You want me to stop TAUNTING to you, Bruce? Then give me what I want! Oh, Bruce... it's so easy." By the way he yelled when I grabbed his wrist, I imagine I'd been holding it hard enough to nearly break it. I pressed his palm between my legs, moving his hand a little to show him how. After all, he was innocent. Wasn't he...?
The prince pulled away from me – hard, for the first time. "Fuck me, Bruce." I leaned in again, holding him against my torso with my hands pressed against his lower back. I could feel the tiniest shards still stuck, pressing in harder the tighter I held him. "Fuck me, Bruce, and this all ends."
And that was when my hero really started to scream. No words, then. Just hysterics. No glorious, seductive one-liners. No pleading. No begging. No sarcasm. No Spanish. No intelligence. Just pure, aggravated insanity. He was wild with it. Every thrash pushed me further towards the edge. He wasn't intending to, but he was pressing against me harder and harder the more furiously he tried to escape my grasp. So hard, in fact, that I even caught myself releasing a few frustrated grunts of pleasure.
Only when his head started to frantically jerk from side to side did I actually snap out of it and regain my composure. I wasn't going to lose it. Not to him. Not just yet. The more he refused, the more I felt my body aching for him. The more he whimpered "don't", the more I wanted to hear him begging for it. But he wasn't moving. And, of course not. He was my immovable object, after all.
"No?" I asked him, laughing and shoving him back down onto the glass. "Are you suuure, Brucie? Are you sure you don't want me?"
His hysterical screaming morphed into hysterical sobs, and his little fists began to claw at my chest. He was silently begging me for mercy, but it only pushed me harder. My hands slid over him – his chest, his abs, his thighs. He moaned and sobbed and screamed – all at the same time. All for me. But he still refused to give in. My bat really was a mighty one. He was strong, but I would break him.
I slammed his wrists down, pressing into his wrists hard with my thumbs and digging into his arm with my nails. "No? So... what is it, Bruce? I'm not Zachie? I'm not your sweet little first? Or am I just not fucking ROUGH enough for you?" I slammed his wrists down and watched him bleed all over the beige carpet. Watching him leak blood on my hands was even harder to endure. I thought I was going to explode on his thighs right there, but I held myself back. I gained my control. At least long enough to slam him down one more time. The look of stupid confusion plastered on his face was fucking priceless.
"What, you think I didn't read your fucking journal, Brucie? I'm the Joker. It's my business to know people. Oh, and Brucie... don't think I don't know. Don't think I don't know how you felt. You may not have written it down with your shaky little bat claws, but I know. I know what he did to you. So what is it, Brucie? Huh? I'm not good enough? I'm not... I don't know... wicked enough? What is it, you asshole! Spit it out! Why won't you fuck me?"
His sobs were blinding him, and his breathing grew quick. His chest heaved against mine, his body moving against my own. His scent overpowered me. Bruce... If it had been a cologne I would have bought every vile in stock. He drove me positively mad with desire. With envy...
"Oh, Brucie, shh... shh... don't worry, Tiger. We'll do it your way."
When his eyes flickered with shock and horror, mine flickered back. "Oh, and this time... Mommy and Daddy get to watch. You can look on from Hell, too, you know."
He howled with sorrow at my words. I knew I was cutting him deep, and I hadn't even pulled out my razor. Yet.
I lifted the angel into my arms, him kicking and screaming all the while. Wayne Enterprises was surprisingly empty, and I figured it would be safe to take the elevator. He sobbed all the way down, and when the thing lurched to a stop, he threw up on the floor. I just laughed, watching him shake – I mean really shake – with terror in my arms as his eyes rolled back into his head. Every few minutes he would choke on his own tears and cough onto my shoulder or neck. I felt the heat of his sorrow and spit touching me as we descended the back stairs out of the building.
When he continued to cry, I covered his mouth with one hand, my strong arm still holding him up. "Hush, little bat. Don't make a sound, or I may have to end your sweet little not-so-virgin life right here and now." He whimpered into my hand until we reached our destination.
"St. Agnes' Church. How perfect, right, Brucie? Patron saint of the innocent? The virgin? The raped?" I spit the words, casting venom into his heart with every bitter sound as I shoved the heavy wooden doors open. The church was huge and gothic. Truly, it was gorgeous. Stain glass and all. Your typical scary Catholic dungeon. "If I'm to understand correctly, you were baptized and confirmed in this church. And by Zachie's father, no less. Am I right?"
He didn't answer me. The doors slammed shut. It was just as I'd hope; vacant but open. I carried him all the way to the altar and placed him down gently, bleeding and limp, on the stairs. "You wanted to be like Christ, didn't you? You wanted to be play the saint. You wanted to be the hero. You wanted to be God's little servant. That's why you didn't tell, isn't it? You thought it was your cross to bear. Your burden to carry."
I knelt in front of him and jerked him closer, my hands bruising his jaw and I held his face closer to mine. "Tell me the truth, Brucie. You thought you deserved it." His body had gone strangely rigid when I sat him up. The church seemed to have a strange effect on him. "How long's it been, Brucie? If I had to guess I'd say the last time you were in here was when your father died. Isn't that right?"
Bruce looked as if he was about to vomit. I felt my insides tense with excitement. He was so perfect. So ripe. So ready. He didn't answer me, though, so I grabbed his wrists and dragged him up the stairs. I didn't bother to carry him. Oh, no. that would have been far, far too easy.
I only lifted him – roughly, that time – into my arms as I draped him over the altar. "Time to play saint, my bat. Are you ready?"
He coughed but didn't move – too weak to thrash. His back was bleeding all over the pure white cloth covering the altar. It was the most beautiful, erotic sight I'd ever seen. I'd never felt so in tune with everything. So lucid. So intoxicated.
I ran my hands over his thighs and his body shuddered in response to me. "I wish I could give you one last shot, Brucie. I really do. I think if I asked you again, you'd comply. But you've had your chance. So many chances, Bruce. But I just wasn't fucking good enough. Was I? Was I?"
He just stared at me. Dreamy, teary, and stupid. I backhanded him and watched his world start vibrating. His eyes were wide now. He was finally paying attention. "Good. That's better. Now... GET UP!" I tore him from the table and heard his hips crack and his leg crunch as it hit the floor the wrong way. His screams echoed even louder in the gothic church than in the vast, open rooms of his penthouse. Watching his frail little body crash down onto the floor like a doll made my insides squirm. He was mine. Bruce Wayne, Prince of Gotham, was mine.
"Are you ready to meet your maker, Bruce? Are you ready for that transformation you never got? That conversation with Christ that never came? Are you ready to be canonized in the eyes of your pretty little savior, now, Brucie?" He was horrified at last. That would teach him to fuck with me. I wasn't his fucking toy, and it was clear by the look in his eyes that he understood that then. He felt my power grow as I threw another punch, this time bruising him hard just under his left eye.
"Tell me, Bruce. Do you want to be a saint?"
He stared, silent. This time, though, he was thinking. I watched his whole religious life flash before his eyes. Adolescent hope and wonder transformed into adult agnosticism and disbelief. His eyes filled with tears, and they washed his face clean of the blood wounds I'd left. Bathed in the holy water of Christ. What a joke. It was sickening.
But I didn't need an answer. I knew him like I knew myself. I knew him like I knew ever victim I'd ever destroyed – only, better. I knew him well enough to know, at least, what he wanted. What he really, really wanted. And what Bruce Anthony Wayne wanted more than life itself was to believe that everything he'd gone through – everything anyone ever had to go through – wasn't for nothing. He wanted to believe that there was a reason for suffering. And I was going to show him that there wasn't one.
"All right, Bruce, are you ready? Are you ready to become a saint?" He shuddered, silent but still crying. He shook so much that he rattled the candle stands on the stage. "I want to teach you a word, Bruce, and I want you to remember it. Stigmata." I jerked him off the floor and stared into his eyes. "The marks of Christ, Brucie. The sign of a saint. There are five, you know. Tonight... we're going to make you a saint."
My cackling echoed louder than his sobs. Louder than my own insanity that was ringing bells inside my head. I dragged him to the cross – large, wooden, and full-sized. I'd come prepared.
"Do you know the story of The Passion, Brucie? I bet Zachie used to tell it to you after he fucked your brains out, just to give you nightmares." The look in his eyes showed his shock and recognition. I grinned. "Oh, yes... What did they do first, Brucie? Do you remember? Poor, poor Jesus... What was it those terrible soldiers did to him? Oh, yes... now I remember..."
I took the wreath of thorns from the floor and held it up to him. "They crowned him. King of the Jews. How fitting, huh, Brucie? My little Prince..." My voice softened slightly, and my hand faltered as it reached up to touch his cheek. It was hot and wet from his tears, but there was still no denying just how soft and luscious his skin truly was. "It's a shame I have to do this. But you've given me no choice. And you do want to go to Heaven, don't you, my little saint?" I paused and stared into his eyes. He'd stopped crying, at least for the time being.
"You're lucky, Bruce," I told him as I pressed the crown of thorns over his head. "I'm going to make you a saint tonight." At first, he only winced, feeling the pricking against his forehead. It wasn't far down, enough, though, and I wanted it to be authentic. For his sake – we couldn't very well make him a saint without going through the proper motions – I pressed the thorns, each at least an inch long, into his skull. He screamed and collapsed against me, feeling the blood, hot and angry, drip down his face. In the candle light, he really did look like a saint, and I held him up as he cried. "Shhh.. Brucie, hush. It's all going to be worth it," I laughed bitterly.
"Do you remember what they did to him next?" I asked. I didn't wait for him to answer, because I knew he was finally paying close attention. "They whipped him, Brucie." My hand reached confidently for the whip, and I shoved him onto the floor of the church. One moment I was holding him up; the next, I was tearing it down. It was almost too much fun to bear. My arm cocked back, over and over again, and every time he screamed louder. He was howling like a child, shaking and collapsed on the floor.
The whip – made up of a serious of thin leather strips with shards of glass and rocks tied to the end – dug into the skin of his back over and over, until a sea of blood poured down his back and the screaming ceased. When I finally calmed the whip and set it down on the alter, there were chunks of his saintly flesh caught between the leather and the shards of glass. My eyes were wild and intoxicated with the sight of his blood.
I turned him over, but he looked right through me. His eyes were glassy, and just before he started to lean back as if he might pass out, they rolled back into his head as he shut his eyes, shutting the tears in.
"I have a feeling you know what they did to him next."
I put my hands on his shoulders and felt him shiver at my touch. There was a moment where I saw the disbelief pass over his eyes as he looked at me. It was like he thought he was dreaming. Maybe he had dreams like this all the time. It wouldn't have surprised me, really. When he said nothing, I sighed and lifted him up.
"I wish you'd just fucked me, Bruce. But no... you had to be a saint. You had to be God's little soldier, didn't you? Well, Brucie, my angel... you've always wanted to know what it would feel like to be close to God." There was a sickening pause – I was almost scaring myself at that point – before I continued. "You're about to find out."
He curled up in a ball on the steps as I moved away from him, but he watched me all the while. Too scared to move, too scared to rebel, too scared to react. He couldn't even run from me. Was it the fear or the love keeping him near me? He wouldn't have gotten away if he'd tried, though. He was too far into it to back out.
With careful and confident ease, I lowered the cross so that it was laying on the floor behind the altar. I watched him quiver out of the corner of my eye. When I grabbed his arm and dragged him over, he began to panic, but only when I pinned him down did his chest actually start to heave again. The harder my hips pressed into his, the harder and faster he breathed. The direct reaction was enough to push me over the edge, but I waited. I took a breath, and I waited. I had to finish him. I had to finish what I'd started, once and for all.
"So, tell me. Is this how he fucked you? Arms strapped down, leaving you helpless and squirming?" I pressed his wrists hard into the heavy wood and ground my hips into his. He moaned and started to scream. He really got going once I strapped his arms down, and if I thought that was loud... I was in for a surprise when I pulled out the hammer and nails.
"Jack! JACK! Jesus... STOP! Don't... Oh, God... please, don't..."
I cackled. Finally! Words! The prince was speaking! "Oh, batty... you're too late. You're too fucking late. All I wanted was you, Brucie. But no. You couldn't fucking give me that, could you? No... Now it's too late for you. But, do go on. Pray."
He stared, sobbed, and said nothing. Of course. "PRAY, GODDAMIT! Pray right now as if your fucking life depended on it." Still, nothing. "No? Have it your way, my saint..."
I drove the first nail in hard; I was a little unsure. I'd never actually nailed anyone to a cross before. No, that was just plain cruel. But Brucie always had been my little saint. It was only right of him to suffer like his savior had. The second went in much more smoothly, seeing as I was egged on by the wailing that reverberated over and over again off the high ceilings of the church. I drove it in harder, faster, cackling with every sob and scream that escaped his bloody lips. His face was covered from the blood of the thorns, and he was all too ready to pray then.
"How about now, Brucie? Ready yet?"
He was. "I... Our... Our father..."
"NO, DAMMIT! Not that one. NOT THAT ONE."
He whimpered, but continued. "Hail M-Mary, full of grace..." with every shaking tremble of his body, his wrists pulled harder against the steel. I could tell it was the first time he'd prayed in a long time, and I could tell that he meant it. He kept going until the very end of the prayer when I held up the last nail. He screamed and thrashed, his wrists tearing at the metal and soaking his arms with blood. "Jack.. Jack, please..."
"Finish it." He stared. "I said FINISH IT."
"P-Pray for us sinner... n-now... now... and at the hour of our death..."
I pressed my hips into his once more. "Well? Is this how he fucked you or not? I want to know. I wouldn't want to do it wrong, Brucie." His sobs and screams drove me further past the point of no return, and when I saw his face growing red with the agony of it all, I knew he was ready. My hand slipped between his legs, and I finally touched my prize. For a man I'd been all over for months, you would have thought I would have felt it by then. But no. It was virgin to me, and touching his skin there sent shivers down my spine. His wailing only further heightened the sensation.
The softer I touched him though, the softer his wailing became. I understood. "He wasn't gentle, was he? Don't worry, Brucie... I will be."
He continued to sob, but quietly, and when I moved in closer to him, our bodies pressing together, the heat passing between us, he whimpered my name. "Jack..." His jagged, panting breath in my ear the whole time, I fucked him with my hand while blood poured over his body, mixing with the sweat I was drawing from him as well. Even his tears were thrown into the mix. I had all but one of his bodily fluids, and I got that one next – warm and sticky, all over my hands. His hips bucked up against mine, and he whimpered for me again, shaking and crying the whole time.
He could hardly understand the intoxicating bled of pleasure and pain, and I was more than happy to snap him back into reality. He stopped me, though, with one soft word.
"Jack." He was sweaty with pain and with ecstasy. "Jack... tell me how you got your scars. I mean... h-how... how you really got them..."
I backhanded him, my face growing red under the make up I was already sweating off. His insolence was too much. I didn't even taunt him as I drove the third nail in, closing his legs and pinning his feet, at last, to the cross.
"One more, Brucie," I soothed him through his screams. "This one you have to do on your own."
When I looked up, though, he had taken care of this already. His eyes, as he sobbed, shed tears of blood, and they poured down his face and neck. His whole body shook as he screamed. He knew he was dying.
"Jack." He tried once more, and I had to look away. It was so much more real when he said my name. Only when I finally glanced back at him did I realize that what he could have been mine for real. Not his body, but his heart. I could have been different. He could have made me a better man. But I was just another sinner. Just another villain. Just another guy trying to get his kicks, one way or another.
I just... do things.
"Jack." His voice was soft, finally fading out from all his screaming. His eyes were glazed over from the pain, but he was still looking at me. He knew I was going to leave him there. "Just kiss me one more time, Jacky... One more time..."
All five steps of the stigmata were complete on his body, but all of the sudden, I felt all of them on me, instead. I shivered and moved close to him. "Bruce..." My voice was squeaky and shocked. I hated the way it sounded. But the moment of recognition passed over me, and I felt my stomach sink. It was real. It was really me. It was really him. It was really done. "Brucie..." My own eyes welled up, and before I even said another word, he heard the sob in my throat being swallowed.
"Jacky... one more time... please... I love you... Don't let me die without you..."
I nodded, too horrified to speak yet, and leaned in to press my lips against my saviors. He looked at a cross and saw Jesus Christ. I looked at the cross and saw only my angel, Bruce Anthony Wayne. As I kissed him, the reality of what I had done crashed over me. He sputtered and coughed, spitting up a bit of blood, but I wiped it away faster than he could have noticed it. "I love you too," I finally sobbed, squeezing his hand. His fingers twitch, but that time, he didn't grab back.
"Tell me, Jack... Tell me the story..."
Melting beside him, I caved in for my saint, and began. "W-Well... w-when I was a boy..."
Even when I felt his hand fall limp in my grasp, I continued on. I only stopped when the story was finished, and – giving my saint one last, holy kiss – I stood and stumbled to the corner where I found the can of kerosene. After dousing everything I could – saving myself for last – I lit the match and knelt beside my prince, waiting. For the first time, I prayed. I prayed and I sobbed and I screamed until I fell unconscious by his side.
What happens when an unstoppable force meets and immovable object?
They destroy each other.