TW: Kidnapping, death of minor character, male/male rape, violence, sadism, gun violence, cruelty, possessive behavior, obsessive Behavior, delusional thoughts, sexual fantasy, emotional/psychological abuse, maladaptive daydreaming, torture, asphyxiation.
There are days where Batman's anger is so fierce that his hand is not enough to quell the burning of his desire.
The Joker focuses on every little detail of their dance of death, his desperate punches and powerful kicks.
Fury furrows his Bat's brow and each punch feels like it's electrically charged with the intent to hurt.
Sometimes he thinks, no, he knows, he sees the flickering and wavering of a flame inside those icy eyes.
They've become close enough to each other that he could swim in them if he wanted to, which he very much did.
Although, when he starts to become breathless, that's where the real fun begins, each sigh and grunt goes straight to his dick, setting it alight.
He wishes he could tie him up, grind down on him and reach sweet relief after every battle.
He became so riled up and excited during their battles that he could still feel the hero's kevlar encassed thigh pressed against himself, could still see his shadow above him.
The only possibility that he could sometimes left a wet spot on his armour from his own precum soaking through his slacks never ceased to finish him off.
And yet he always managed to mask it, exaggerating his panting as if he were exhausted by the fight and not his painful arousal.
As long as he kept Batsy's eyes on him, none of it mattered, as long as each movement, each smell imprinted itself on his suit he could keep on going.
If only to worship it later.
This happened once in Arkham, touching himself furiously to frantic images weaving in and out of his mind that he's sure would make even a porn director blush like a naive school girl.
Each touch of his fingers spurred on by his colourful imagination.
Too many nights and days he had fantasized about fucking him, he still does, even (eh, especially, he must confess) in the middle of a fight.
One of his latest and most favourite fantasy involves his trusted pocket knife.
He would use it to tear off the kevlar that protects Batman's second most private part, save for his face.
Then he'd grab and squeeze his throat as he penetrated himself deep inside him with the fury of a animal in heat, he could practically taste the armour on his tongue and feel it on his, for once, bare hands.
The best part would be his hero's face, mouth gaping and gasping for air and flushed red against black.
But, who knows what his Bat would do...
Whether he'd silently accept his fate like a martyr, senses overwhelmed and too stimulated by shock to put up a fight.
Or if he'd use everything in his power to writhe in attempt to slip away, convulsing with disgust.
Or, there was this very small possibility, that he'd shamefully enjoy it.
Writhing for an entirely different reason, an attempt to get him deeper and thriving off his greatest nemesis dominating him.
A Batman that was in pain, a Batman that was destroyed and furious, a Batman that wanted him, it all drove him crazy with lust and pulled him deeper into the dangerous slope of infatuation.
The downside was the frustraion, despite being crazy, he was well aware he would never get to live out these fantasies.
Sometimes the desperation would make him scream.
Oh, the concept, just the idea that he could make him react like that electrified him to keep going.
To make the Batman desire him and much as he did.
When the need for Batman became too much, he always had surrounding people to take it out on.
Picking them was always a task in itself, he couldn't expect the perfection that only Batman could possess, but anything similar; a slight in the body, the curve of muscle.
If it was similar to Batman, then it would do.
There wouldn't be a second time, he does get bored easily after all.
"Please, don't kill me! Please!"
Now, begging usually excited him until he was a giggling mess, now it made him want to tear out his own ears.
This man had been whimpering and sobbing ever since he first pointed his gun at him in the Cul-De-Sac.
The crying only got louder when he dragged him through the streets and he couldn't help from grimancing in annoyance.
The man had dark eyes, black as petroleum and certainly no match for his Bat's sapphire eyes filled with hidden pain and barely contained rage.
His voice didn't really match either, sounding not unlike a school boy who had just been caught smoking, in spite of that he had already wasted so much time chasing him that he would just have to do.
Plus, his blood was still boiling from his earlier encounter with Batman, so what did he have to lose.
"Shut. Up. Another whine and I'll make a nice little hole in the middle of your forehead."
He growled as he pointed his trusty silver knife at the trembling man.
A mocking smile distorted his face, a uncertain mix of cruelty and frustration and strangely enough, presumptuous superiority.
This, at last, seems to shut up the man, no longer pleading with his voice but his eyes instead.
Begging him not to anything to him.
Or at least, not too much. Hah!
Even if it doesn't fully meet his expectations, it's always exhilarating to see how the sheep hang from his lips, how they swirl in terror as soon as they recognise his face, his telltale makeup and mask.
He lowered his weapon only when he was convinced that the man was too terrified to move.
He was paralyzed.
Good.
If he attempted to move, he'd kill him on the spot.
His patience had already wore paper thin and he had no intention of running after him.
He double checked that the door at his side was locked.
It was.
Okay, now for the fun part.
He pulled open the bedside table drawer and rumaged around.
He could hear the mans rapid breaths and panicked wheezing beside him.
Eventually, he found what he was looking for, throwing various objects he stole from a shop in open fire.
It certainly dragged the attention of the Dark Knight, he came swooping down before he even had the chance to kill anyone.
Slowly, he unbottoned his cuffs and shrugged out of his purple jacket, blatantly ignoring the fearful whimpers.
The snap of a grappling hook draws his attention just behind his back, the wind howling as Batman's mighty form zips through Gotham City.
He makes sure his eyes never leave him, far too impatient to drink in the sight of his nemesis.
He stood tall with fiery eyes and fists clenched with hatred.
His silhouette was remarkable and terrifying and unspeakably beautiful.
"Put this on, now!"
The man doesn't react immediately, hands too shakey to open the tiny zipper on the bag.
He manages to get it open, fumbles around before glancing at him in confusion.
He quickly realises that he's not going to explain himself, shouldn't have to.
He doesn't deserve an explanation.
He should move on before he finds himself in Heaven or Hell or whatever it was he believed in.
He dressed himself in the suit with his eyes closed as if trying to mentally disappear.
"Where are the kids?" Batman demanded, his voice straining over his wrath.
He himself struggled to keep the moan threatening to come out down.
He daren't interrupt the moment.
He shows off his sincerest grin and bares his bloody knife, adoring the way he knows Batman is arching his brow under the mask.
"Hard to say Batsssss!, After that big bang I'm sure you can find the pieces of them laying around here! Ha-ha-ha!"
As soon as the shirt comes off, he instantly looks away.
His chest was covered in thick, dark and wiry hair.
No.
No, no, no, no, no, no.
His Batman had no body hair.
The tightness of the suit beneath the Kevlar would make it unbearably uncomfortable.
He would consistently be clean shaven.
He knows it.
When he turns back to look at him the suit fits perfectly, stretching around the bulging muscle despite the poor quality of the fabric.
He could he look past it, it looked almost identical to what Batman wore under his amor and that's all that mattered.
He could feel himself getting hard already, his soulmate flickering in his mind.
The eyes that peek out like little lights through the holes in the mask follow the movement of the knife, the awareneness that the liquid soaking it belongs to a child, or just a person really spring him into action, charging towards him like an enraged bull with the aura of power soaks his very being.
The animal snarl that leaves his lips is raw and terrifying, a pure sound of menace.
There it is, there it is!
His body tingles as that gutteral sound washes over his body and dominates his every sense with authority.
He quickly unzips his slacks to free his quickly hardening cock and sighs in relief.
The man, unable to restrain himself from the imminient and unstoppable assault, begins to sob as silently as he can, his lips trembling from the effort of it.
But what tears are visable quickly fade into the dark fabric and he uses his non busy hand to point the gun at the pathetic sight.
"On the ground, on your back."
The Joker says in a tone that means he doesn't intend to repeat himself.
He muffles his sobs and slides into position, practically banging his head off of the cold floor.
The space is big and empty, this room usually being used for henchmen initiation and new orders.
His original plan was to do this is his bedroom since the matress would be far better for his knees in the long run, but that wouldn't quite match the illusion he had in mind.
The victim rapidly screws his eyes shut and remains motionless, well, mostly motionless, he's still shaking uncontrollably.
He doesn't wait a second longer.
The Joker, without haste, straddles his wide chest, knees settling close to the collarbones.
With a slight of his hand he slams the barrely of the gun against his mouth, making a satisfying sound as it clashes against his gritted teeth.
The metallic smell of fresh blood mixed with sweat and Batman's cowl staring back at him sends chills up his spine.
He could already feel the precum soaking his underwear and the growl runs through his mind again.
He takes the first punch straight to the jaw, it should hurt, yet he only feels the peace of serenity.
"Yes big boy! Hit me with everything you got! Oh, but it wouldn't bring those brats back would it? Or rather, piece them back together! Ahahahaha!"
He hears his own voices shrillness, his head among the clouds in the sheer joy he feels to be taking the brunt of that anger.
The Batman leaps at him, taking his apparent suggestion of putting more force into his punches.
Each one leaving a fiery sting in his cheek and white pelts swim behind his eyes.
He continues to grin up at the hunk of muscle above him, feeling far more aroused than physically hurt and he can't focus on anything else.
"Open that beautiful mouth of yours, Batsy."
He recieves no response, the man beneath him is stuck in time.
The only movement is the tears running down his cheeks and the growing bloodshot in his eyes.
He isn't sure if he actually spoke, if he did, then this man deserved punishment for not responding, even as he's attempting to force the mans lips open with the tip of his gun. He violently slams the barrel against his jaw, satisfied with the crunch that is produced.
The scream that follows resonates within the room, and so he quickly shoves the gun back in to shut him up.
With his other hand he speeds up, delighted in the friction and the gun sliding deep into the mans mouth slick with spit.
He feels the smile bloom on his face. He glues his gaze to those reddened lips and avoids his trivial brown eyes as much as he could.
His pleas and groans are lost on him as he fantasises that it's the Bats mouth, warm and inviting and delicious, pretends its his dark blood that starting to drip down the gun instead of this stranger he took from the streets...
The Knight of Gotham has completely straddled him, leaning low to make sure he remembers each blow.
They slot together perfectly and rub with each twitch of movement.
He can't hide what he feels anymore and his eyes roll back, backseating as the pleasure rockets up his spine.
A bone snaps in his cheek and he can't bring himself to care in this moment, bringing his hand up to his hip and pulling them flush together.
He almost chokes on his own saliva it's piling up so much in his mouth, he grinds against Batman even as he continues to punch him into oblivion.
"You will be glued to your bed in Arkham for more than five months this time, I assure you."
His voice mometarily stuns him, it was more of a hiss, a growl of a blood thirsty beast than a man.
Oh yes.
Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.
"And t-the-then, I'll run away ah-again!"
He answers him in a sharp tone, regardless of the trembling that courses through his whole body.
He dodged two punches that would have rendered him unconcious.
He didn't want the fun to end, not yet.
Without taking the gun out of the mans mouth, much less stopping it at all, he raises his hips frantically, sliding over him and laying down.
The gun is coated in apple red blood, he can barely see the metal surface anymore.
He imagines what it would feel like to be inside Batman's mouth, thrusting deep and making him gag.
"Batman..."
This time he knows he said that aloud, the echo is loud and clear, although he forgets to breath when he hears that growl reverberate in his mind again.
The hard muscle pressed against his, rather frail body, drives him wild.
To think that he could have the big bad bat underneath him squirming and crying out.
If he drugged him to the point of being barely conscious, baring himself to the mercy that only he could provide.
So that he could love him, adore him, violate him, contaminate, profane, and destroy him.
Kill him, if he wanted.
"Tell me, what does it feel like? To be reduced to mush"
He whispers it quiet, he doesn't want an answer.
Doesn't need one.
His voice is a rough, gloomy pitch, sending the man into a further panic.
Like a snake, he slips between his toned thighs and tears the cheap fabric of the costume, his muffled cries become even more distraught and irritating him anew.
Tsk, he should be flattered, should feel honoured to be used by the Clown Prince of Crime, Gothams most famous and well known criminals.
However, now is definitely not the time to dwell on his lack of gratitude.
He runs his tongue along his tear soaked chin before suckling it with force, brandishing a mark similar to a bruise he would give Batman.
He doesn't respond, so instead he dips two fingers into his mouth, leaving the gun beside his head as a warning.
The taste of blood brings a shiver of ecstacy, mixed with the sweat and tears that soaked through the mask, he was on cloud nine.
He practically trips over himself to grab the pistol that slipped from his pocket, not missing the look that phases through those azure eyes.
He'd noticed it, every time he pulled out a firearm actually it was no default hatred.
There was definitely a source.
Something rooted so deep inside him, a trauma that matured his soul too early.
A veil of sadness that adds to the mask, a certain vulnerability that drives him crazy and he wants more.
More, more, more.
He rejoices in it, the sight of him wavering in the orgy of fleeting emotions; he could imagine using these weapons against him in a different context, on him, inside of him.
He wonderes what he would do, if he would sob in the memories of trauma or rage in the face of it.
"Don't make Uncle Joker pierce your hand, you rude Bat!"
He doesn't want to end up in Arkham again so soon, but the cough and sputter of blood and backing away of Batman lets him know the time is almost up for him.
"You belong to me, you know that, don't you Batsy?"
His mind is clouded with lust and he presses two moistened fingers to the man's hole, he flinches and clenches to avoid him which only makes it more painful.
With that, he lets himself sink into the man, much to his demise.
He lets out a strangled scream which he dutifully ignores, because his Bat would never scream like that.
He's amazed Batman doesn't feel his erection, or perhaps he does, just chooses to ignore it, chooses to ignore how excited his is.
He desperately wants to get friction by rubbing against Batman, lifts his hips towards the strong mystery cloaked in the scent of night and justice.
Though he doesn't get to.
"Shoot him, Mistah J!"
Harley's shrill voice shatters the fragile moment and he could have killed her for ruining his perfect moment.
He witnesses her hammer appear behind his darling ready to strike.
However, he rolls out of the way, nearly smacking him in the head instead.
The sudden lack of weight above him makes him feel empty, cruelly seduced and abandoned on the ground.
And it is at that exact moment that something crosses his mind, unable to fantasize when the Bat is so close to him.
He figure the Batman in the same position as before, on top of him, while he would keep both gloved hands on his clothed hips, occasionally sliding them on his carved buttocks, fondling and distancing them from each other in a surprisingly soft way.
The black costume would be torn where his backside is, just enough so that he can welcome the clown's dick inside him, who with the same enthusiasm with which he beat him, undertakes to give him pleasure with his muscled and god-alike body.
He would watch Bats' lost-in-pleasure expression as he dive up and down on him, totally mesmered by it, he could easily see that all his life and never get tired.
He can almost physically feel his penis moving in and out of his warm duct, suddenly receiving a incredibly hot kiss to which he return violently, their mouths melted in a obscenely, make him forgot how to breath, make him diving more deeply in his darling ...
That simple fact distracts his mind for a moment, interrupting him.
He screws his eyes shut and keeps his hands on the mans hips, thumbing the fabric in a surprisingly soft way.
The black costume is ripped open making thrusting much easier.
He kisses the man in a mess of spit, teeth, and tongue, moving in and out the body with fever.
He would never tire of this sight, totally mesmerised by it, he forgot how to breath diving deeper.
He trembles as he watches Harley take on Batman, his hand is unstable as it reaches between his thighs and grabbing his crotch to minimise the effects of an erection so painful it throbs.
Standing still is proved to be a difficult task, especially when every grunt Batman makes ricochets in his mind.
The urge to just unzip his fly and pump himself dry is almost impossible to ignore, but Harley is intent on getting him out of here.
He contemplates and he admires from afar as he begins a mad dash out of the building, and he wishes the footsteps above him were Batman chasing after him instead of his henchwoman, seeking him out to beat him into the ground.
When he is far enough to hear only the sound of traffic, he raises his hands to his face and laughs.
He laughs until his ribs hurt.
Because he is alone now.
Alone.
The man beneath him remains still as a statue as if he were nothing but a flesh doll.
He fucks him roughly as if he were one too.
He cackles with all the breath that he can muster and takes every frustration out and into the victim.
He's close, he can feel it, and he grabs and claws the mans throat, imagining it's Batmans eyes that stare back at him.
Orgasm is getting close by now and he quickly bring both hands to the man's neck, squeezing his throat so angrily that his long nails, for once freed from the gloves, sink into his sweated and covered in goosebumps skin.
As if waking up from a nightmare, the victim desperately clinging to his grip in an attempt to free himself and be able to breathe, fighting for his life.
But the Joker is about to come and he squeeze,
He squeeze,
He squeeze,
He squeeze,
Trembling hands fly to the nails cutting the flesh of his throat, his face turns purple in the process.
He continues to squeeze with everything that plagues him, because he has Batman beneath him, the mighty Gotham Knight at his mercy and he will do whatever the fuck he wants to him.
He hates him, he hates him with every cell in his body, but he loves him with every breath he takes.
He explodes within him, riding the shockwaves of knowing he could take his life right now if he wanted, and he'd only be able to beg with those eyes of his.
He is in control.
He belongs to him.
He is his and his only.
His.
His.
His.
His!
He licks into the man's mouth and tastes the hot iron of copper and groans.
The ass clenched around him is beginning to board on painful.
The kiss is sloppy, messy and dominant, just like him.
Just like his Bat.
His arms shake with the effort of holding the man down.
His thrasing eventually begins to slow until it stops at a halt completely.
He blinks open his eyes, his mind clear now from the pleasure only a few seconds ago.
What he discovers below him is a man.
Just a man.
A man with no life flowing behind those dead eyes, his mouth permanately hung open, his face slick with tears and lipstick.
He removed his hand from his throat and slips out of him, watching the semen and blood dribble out of him.
This man is not Batman.
He is just an insignificant being, one of many, who died thinking of his family and children most likely, probably wondered why, why him.
A man with his defects and his secrets, like any living being, banal in his good as well as in his evil.
With no reason to exist and no purpose worthy of importance, someone he will forget after tonight.
A walking condom that now that he used he'll throw away.
He slowly slides the mask off, uncovering the lilac face and sweaty hair of a nobody.
He can feel his face twist into a grimance as disgust fills him, to think that he expected to see Batman.
He takes his time, he's exhausted and disappointed by the human wreck that remains motionless on the floor.
He watches him like a vulture.
Who knows what you'll do Batman.
What will he think when Commissioner Gordan calls him up with another body ravanged and stripped of life and flanked by cops that don't understand why.
Cops that will have nightmares for weeks of the tormented men who died ungracefully dressed as the giant bat lying like a used banana peel.
He wishes to invade that brilliant mind of his so intensely.
He's laughing before he realises it, still holding onto the sweaty rip-off mask.
Tears prick his eyes involuntarily and he reduces himself to clinging onto the wall.
Something lodged uncomfortably in his chest.
He can practically see him now, carrying that victim as if it were the Virgin Mary, a hilarious parody of Michelangelo's 'La Pieta' that sparks jealousy in him.
If he could just steal that role, steal that embrace, that compassion and attention.
He wipes the tears with the palm of his hand, the image fades from his eyes and he is alone again.
Without his Bat.
Oh, Bruce,
If only you knew.