They did this almost every evening. Jonathan would come in from work, come upstairs to the bedroom living room, and not say a word. He wouldn't get a chance. The Joker would have his hands in Jonathan's shirt, clumps of material wrinkling in his fists, and their lips would be pressed together. Jonathan loved the rough scars on the Joker's cheeks, rubbing against his own as the Joker devoured him, and the unusual texture of the face paint his lover wore. Jonathan could taste it too; almost plastic, oily as it mixed with the rich taste of the Joker's desire. He would feel the Joker's knee between his thighs, pushing them apart, and the hands would rip off his shirt, as soft spider like fingers would caress his chest, tracing the faint muscle line, before sliding below his waistband. Jonathan would get more demanding now, quickly undoing the Joker's shirt, with little pants or whimpering noises as his own desire surfaced, and straying from his lips bite at his lover's neck, finding the dark spot that made the Joker tense if he licked it right. Jonathan loved to kiss the Joker's chest and stomach, sometimes drawing purple bruises.
It didn't always lead to sex. The Joker often wanted it to, and he would snap his grip on control completely, when Jonathan ceased to mean anything to him, he often wanted to lose himself to the craziness that living was, being human. It was better than killing, and just as forbidden. Jonathan could take it or leave it. He didn't mind, and he got some small pleasure if the Joker touched the right spot deep inside him, but more often it was uncomfortable, sometimes especially painful, and gave the Joker much more satisfaction. Almost every night the Joker would go out and wreak havoc on Gotham, and Jonathan would maybe masturbate in the bathroom, but go to bed alone. Night was when Jonathan was left to his thoughts and memories. Personal demons would come to haunt him; memories of abuse and incarceration, and a faint sadness at the role reversal in Arkham Asylum. Memories of childhood, maybe he would recall times his father hit him. Jonathan could remember being hurt since he was old enough to walk. His father would use his full strength against the small boy, more so as Jonathan got older; old enough to question. Remember going to school, bullied for his glasses, his skinny frame. Covering up the bruises so he wasn't given more for having parents that didn't love him. Sometimes Jonathan would remember his teenage years. The nights locked in his room, disgusted at himself for not fighting back, sneaking looks at the forbidden posters ripped from girl magazines of the latest movie hunks. The scarlet blushes and confusion when he didn't start lusting after the girls; instead sneaking looks at the other boys. The day it all came out, the terrible incident after Games in the shower. They caught his eyes lingering too long, saw his guilty arousal he hated himself for. The whole class set upon him with shouts of "Kill the faggot!" and "Crane's a queer! Got a boner over me!" Jonathan still heard the running water of the generic showers, echoing shouts reverberating off the tiled walls in the ink of the nights in their empty bed. He would remember most the way they left him; semi conscious, bleeding from numerous cuts all over his body, the water on the floor turning pink, still hard. What Jonathan would recall most was being vulnerable, naked; forever a misfit.
If the memories were too vivid, Jonathan would feel cold sweat under his arms, on his forehead and around his groin. He would see the room blur as his clear blue eyes would fill with regretful tears, at the memory, at the way he fucked up his life. Jonathan seldom succumbed and let the fall, usually brushing them away impatiently instead. He would eventually fall into a dreamless sleep, and unconsciously wait for his lover's return.
The Joker would tumble through the door in the early hours of the morning. He never made much noise, he was actually quite considerate for his lover; padding catlike up the stairs, but Jonathan would always be awake. He would watch with sleep appreciation as the Joker stripped to his underwear and slipped beneath the covers. He would always slide one arm underneath Jonathan, and spread his long, soft fingers over Jonathan's stomach, and drape one arm around Jonathan's chest; pulling the smaller man as close as he could to his own body. "Miss me?" he would murmur into Jonathan's ear, before kissing his neck gently. Jonathan would close his eyes and sigh, stroking the Joker's arms and laying his head back against his lover. They didn't need words. In the strange trance before sleep they felt each other, clarified when nothing else mattered. This was what Jonathan needed. To be loved by somebody. To be needed as well. When the Joker pulled him close, all the memories, all the regret didn't matter. It was just the past.