CHAPTER 2WO: MY OBSESSION
**Disclaimer in first chapter. My Obsession belongs to Skillet. Not me.**
**(::. .I enjoyed writing this chapter in my algebra and chemistry classes. I increased my agility skills by rapidly switching to the proper notes for whichever class I was in, purely out of fear of being caught writing violent rape between two men, by my roaming teachers. Of all the people to get caught writing vicious rape by… As if my chemistry teacher doesn't hate me enough as it is….::)**
⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂
You're my only infatuation,
Don't leave me stranded
In my obsession.
My purpose, my possession;
Live and die in my obsession.
My obsession.
Am I a lunatic?
I'm going crazy,
For just a word from,
For just a touch from you.
And I'm exploding like chemicals,
I'm going crazy, can't get enough!
And I'm exploding like chemicals,
I'm going crazy, can't get enough!
⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂⁂
Bruce Wayne, in the eyes of the public, was a mildly attractive man. Okay so he was hot, and he was rich. And money made you prettier, a well known fact. It was also a well known fact that having a split personality, sorry—an "alter ego,"—made you far uglier then money could ever make you pretty. Same with some secrets, depending on what they are of course. Bruce Wayne's secret was the oh so minor fact that he was Gotham City's personal Knight in Leather Rat—er, Bat Suit, and the nanosecond he ceased being useful the authorities would lock him up just like the many times they attempted locking the Joker up. From what the Joker knew, only two people knew of his beloved Batsy's secret; the little butler slave… guy and, the Joker licked his lips, him.
The clown felt like the teenage boy he once was when he'd figured out that he could use his cock for something other than taking a piss. And what a great month that had turned out to be! He'd also come to the conclusion that his fingers felt most pleasant when placed elsewhere as well, ahem. He'd stopped altogether however, when his father, in a drunken daze, burst into his room and saw his son with his hand around his dick and three fingers shoved up his ass. That ended well.
Back on topic though, the Joker shook himself out of his thoughts of his unpleasant childhood. Knowing his—his Batsy's dirty little secret made him giddy with excitement, in ways that both tightened his pants and made his henchmen very uneasy and, dare he say, afraid. He giggled maniacally, doing a "come hither" gesture with his pointer finger,
"C'me 'ere Rod,"
The muscular man visibly gulped, timidly coming to stand in front of the purple clad clown seated in what looked to be a thrown. His arms, both now limp, rested on the large chair he was slouching in, hands dangling above his thighs. Legs spread, with an intimidating leer in his eyes that was accompanied by the evil little smirk that plastered his face, bringing up only one scarred cheek more then the other.
"S—sir?"
Mockingly, in an almost teasing or playful way, the Joker paused with his lips pursed as he pretended to take a few seconds to think about what he wanted the puppet to do next. Making another "come hither" motion followed by him pointing downwards once, twice, and leaned forward. Rod shook and dropped to his knees, slowly leaning forward so that they were staring behind the other; Rod staring down the back of the oversized chair, the Joker staring through his lip-biting henchmen, cheek to scarred cheek.
"Bend over."
Turning about face and falling with two slaps as his hands met solid concrete, Rod clenched his eyes shut. He should've listened to his mother and gone to law school… The temperature and Rod's shaking seemed to freeze at the feel of said man's boss's bumped hips against his ass and a chilled blade against the back of his neck. The knife, almost gently brought down, caught his shirt and slowly tore through it until it flapped open and slid down to his hands.
"Take it off," the whispered voice was accompanied by a rough hand caressing his abdomen. Rod painstakingly slid each hand out of the ruined shirt, barely taking his hands off the floor in fear of triggering his boss's horrifically unpredictable temper. The hips were now rocking lazily, hand sliding down and unbuttoning his pants. The hips moved away and his pants were cut from the top of his ass down his left sleeve. The Joker cut his other pant leg open. He tore the article of clothing away from the body underneath him who nearly fell from the force of them being yanked out from under his knees.
The clatter of the knife falling and hitting the floor, moving about until it settled, was followed by calloused hands sliding up Rod's thighs. Up and down, up and down, they repeated the rubbing motions several times until they slid up the boxer-shorts and grabbed two handfuls of ass. The squeezes terrified Rod. Why was he being so… not harmful? Even one of the hands that was removed to push his head to the floor was almost gentle. The other hand was taken away and the rocking of hips returned in their place.
"Take 'em off," he whispered,
"Take 'em off!"
He sounded needy, desperate even. As the other flunkies stared in horror at both Rod and their deranged psychopathic employer, Rod removed his boxers and sobbed at the whimper let out by the Joker. It sounded so full of pure, unadulterated want.
"MABBIT!" the clown roared, picking up the knife and continuing to rock his hips against Rod's now bared ass. The beckoned henchman made his way through the disturbed crowd in fear of the man. When he reached the pair he stood awkwardly, avoiding eye-contact—avoiding looking at them at all.
"Shirt," the grease-painted man grunted. Hastily pulling it off, he nearly bit off his tongue to hold back the scream as the Joker's knife gashed his lower abdomen by about two inches. Try as he may, the scream was let out as two of the Jokers fingers plunged themselves to the second knuckle as the knife clitter-clattered to the floor in between them. The fingers twisted and turned, stretching and pulling at the mangled flesh before a third entered the now heavily bleeding hole. His other hand ceased stroking, petting, and squeezing Rod's rear in favor of undoing his pants and bringing his leaking member out.
Mabbit was praying he would pass out—preferably sooner rather than later. It wasn't his lucky day however, and the Joker took his fingers out to slowly begin stretching Rod's hole out. With the Joker's free hand, he slammed it onto the open wound. Blood spilled out more freely, coating the clown's hand quickly as he still took his time preparing Rod, who had been whimpering this whole time. He felt the splatter of drops of blood hitting his back. He saw it when his eyes flashed open momentarily as the Joker's patient fingers took their time and occasionally brushed his prostate. He was morbidly ashamed with himself as those fingers stumbling upon his prostate began to harden his own member. As he heard the slap of the Joker's hand against the red and wet skin of Mabbit, those disgusting fingers chose that moment to put a great amount of pressure on his prostate. He moaned. Loudly. And he sobbed even louder as he heard himself do it. The Joker disgusted him. Hell, he disgusted himself.
Mabbit took note of the disgrace on Rod's face and, hoping it would get them out of the situation they were in, he foolishly opened his mouth,
"I—guh… I'm not ngh—c—clean!"
The Joker froze completely, sans the three fingers still gradually working Rod open. An ugly snarl pulled his lips back, revealing slightly yellowing teeth.
"Oh yeah? So ya norm'lly jus' fuck ol' Roddy h're with a condom? That' wha' yer sayin'? Cuz on tha surveillance feed ya nev'r seem ta be puttin' one on. Wanna revise tha' s'ntence, Mabbit?"
"I—I'm cle—gah! Cle—CLEAN sir!" Mabbit whimpered out close to sobbing.
Harshly slapping the wound again and watching the puppet collapse with a yell, the Joker spread the blood over his cock. As he entered he took his time and released a broken moan. He pumped his hips, little by little picking up his pace and buried his face into Rod's neck. Nibbling and sucking his neck, the Joker ignored Mabbit as he crawled away and was helped off to a hospital presumably.
The Joker eventually sobbed his release into Rod's neck. As traumatized as Rod felt; laying there on the cold solid ground, his lover's blood and his boss's semen leaking from his entrance, down his legs and onto the floor, drying like the tears streaming down his face; he didn't feel nearly as bad for himself as he did for whoever the hell Bruce was.
⁂
The next day was August 23, 2010. Rodney Precid was found on the ledge of an apartment complex roof with a fully loaded and cocked gun pressed to his temple. Tears were streaming from his empty eyes like his lovers' blood had flowed from his stomach. He'd been placed in a shortly-lived medical coma, but had died shortly after. Being both traumatized by the raping he'd gone through last night and losing the love of his life, Rodney was going to end his own. James Gordon and his squad were standing at the roof's opened door not 13 feet away from the trembling man.
"Please step away from the ledge and put the gun on the ground!" Gordon spoke slowly, wanting to ease the man's nerves.
"No! I have to do this—I need to!"
"For what reason?"
"The Joker!" Gordon was shocked into silence briefly, the question on his tongue falling out before he could stop it. The man's answer was cried out and barely legible between the gasped out sobs,
"He… rape" hiccup "not…" sob "Bruce—he…" the man was reduced to a bumbling mess once more.
"Bruce?" Gordon questioned,
"Bruce Wayne?"
The sob turned into a snort,
"Bruce Wayne is weak. If the Joker wanted him he'd have him already! I don't know who! He never told us anything, just ordered us around! He—"
"You worked for him? Sir, where is his hideout? We can find him and punish him for what he did to you, we can help you if you help us! Together we could make Gotham a safer, better place for every—"
He was cut off by a broken chuckle that was sounding as if it were bordering on becoming a cackle.
"It's your professionalism…" he paused, the pain, anger, and sorrow leaving his eyes. He looked how he felt and sounded; empty. Broken.
"Sir?" Gordon's confusion got in the way of said mentioned professionalism. The man pressed the gun's barrel to his lips and brought himself to turn around and look at the commissioner.
"It's your professionalism," he repeated, "that I admire."
The moment the last syllable left his lungs was the moment the bullet left the gun. With a hole puncturing his nape Rodney Precid, had he not been dead already, would have fell to his death judging by the splatter he'd left on the ground below.
The Gotham City Police Department spent the rest of the morning cleaning up the mess and half of the evening trying to determine just how many citizens in Gotham had the name Bruce. They knew it was common. There was Bruce Dorl, Bruce Monun, Bruce Steen, Marvin Bruse, Alicia Bruse, and probably much more with either the first or last name Bruce, spelling varied. Bruce Wayne could be counted out, but that barely made anything any easier. All they had was a name, a name; no face, no last (perhaps first) name, and most importantly and crucially—no motive.