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keravnous · 14 days ago

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COME AND KENNEDY ME ; ledger!joker/fem!reader (18+ smut)

listen to the playlist here

You are a young and up-and-coming journalist at The Gotham Times, when a unique opportunity presents itself. But who could have guessed that your interview with Gotham's most famous criminal would have such grave consequences?

word count: 25k

warnings: fem!reader, dubcon/non-con, manipulation, psychopathy; partially set at Arkham Asylum and thus: canonically dated depictions of mental illnesses/insufficient and harmful treatment; (imagery of) blood and violence, murder, imagery and discussion of anarchism and social injustice, nihilism; heavily undernegotiated kinks: unprotected sex (don't do this at home), age gap (reader is in her 20s, joker is in his mid 30s), power play and power dynamics, choking, spanking, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, name calling, corruption kink, knife kink, name carving, bruises and cuts, unsanitary treatment of wounds, rough sex, phone cameras/taping, pain play, sadism/masochism if you blink, teensy-tiny bit of forced anal fingering, multiple orgasms; you're a journalist, set between batman begins and the dark knight; features a cameo of Carl from Joker (2019) bc I love love love Brian Tyree Henry

a big ty to you nialler, for letting me yap to you days on days on end about this fic; this is for mel who didn't know I was writing this and holds such a deep deep adoration for Gotham and the Joker soo, yeah girlie this one's for you <3

Next stop: Arkham East. Exit to the Elizabeth Arkham Asylum -Thank you for travelling with Gotham City Railway! the automated voice chirps, as the trolley comes to a squeaking halt. The dented and tagged silver doors stutter open.

Cold air that smells faintly of autumn - rain and fallen leaves - caresses your face in a cool breeze, as you set your feet onto the dirty concrete of the train station. Behind you, the train chimes once as it takes off slowly - clattering and groaning - leaving you by yourself.

Your hand is still wrapped around today’s issue of The Gotham Times that you had taken when you left the editorial office earlier. Looking down upon it, the headline glares at you in thick, black letters - Bruce Wayne to Lose Fortune on Wall Street .

A small smile curls around your lips. Looks like he finally got what was coming for him. Throwing the paper into the nearest bin, you walk along the completely deserted El-train station, until you eventually descend the stairway and cross the street. After a short stroll you come close to the hospital.

You have never been here before, but it looks as looming and ominous as people usually make it out to be. The building raises and raises and raises into the concrete-grey sky in an equally washed out white. The windows are secured with two layers of thick iron bars, and you can hear electricity cackling over the metal. Moving through the open yard - where, next to a memorandum, an information plaque guides you left to the reception and visitor's area – a cold breeze makes you shiver.

Inside, you’re greeted by a chipped and faded wall paint, dry heater-warmth and the empty faces of relatives in the waiting area. At the reception desk, a young man (whose name tag introduces him as Carl) takes your personal information, and your press-card. He seems nice but overworked: in the very distinctive way employees in a chronically understaffed department, that only ever offers jobs on minimum wage, look.

A cheerful service announcement, crackling over speakers, informs the visitors that Everybody knows the stories of the so-called Supervillains that have been treated here. But that is only half the story; our low security wings are for normal but troubled individuals who seek a safe haven for recovery. We offer a wide range of medical, surgical, diagnostic and wellness programs in our state-of-the-art facilities. The staff at Arkham Asylum is happy to help you on all matters of the brain!

You look through the leaflets and brochures on the reception desk, learning that Arkham Asylum offers internships, while Carl registers you and informs a psychiatrist of your arrival. You pocket one flyer for your article.

"Your papers, please", Carl eventually says, typing away on an outdated thick, block-like white keyboard.

"Papers?", you echo, confused.

"Yes, like, your ID?"

Oh, you mouth, nodding, trying to silence the nagging question of why your press-pass won't suffice. Wordlessly sliding it over the counter, he takes it from you and exchanges it with a clipboard.

"Please fill in your personal information and sign the last page", Carl says mechanically. Skimming through the pages you fill in the blanks: Name, age, gender, address, workplace address, nearest living relative and phone number of said nearest living relative --, what?

You turn the page and come face to face with an insurance policy. It reads: The Elizabeth Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane does not and under no circumstances assume liability for any damage caused to you in this facility. This includes but is not limited to serious bodily harm, minor bodily harm, permanent damage, physical limitations and loss of life. In case of a complaint, please contact

You realize the clerk is looking at you. "Does everybody get to sign this?", you ask, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably.

"No", he says.

You know what this means.

"Does this, like, happen often?"

"What?"

"Death. Do visitors die?"

Carl shrugs. Great. That probably means Yes.

You remind yourself, and quite desperately: This is good for your career. You got incredibly lucky that the doctor called you. Maybe, there will be a promotionawaiting you in the end. A higher salary. You could move out of your shitty apartment in Crown's Point.

Don't be such a pussy.

You take a deep breath - and sign the policy. It is not like you have much of a choice. If you screw this up in any way, shape or form you might as well just ask The Riddler if he could kill you himself. Might be better than your boss tearing you a new one.

The keyboard clacks again and you slide the clipboard over the counter. Carl takes it, gives his monitor another look. When his gaze lands back upon you, something in his facial expression has changed. He looks genuinely worried. "I have to inform you, that you are not allowed to take any sharp objects with you. That includes - uh - pencils."

"I brought a dictaphone."

"Alright, I'll call Doctor Quinzel then and let her know you're ready."

Doctor Harleen Quinzel, MD, turns out to be a woman around your age, with bright eyes and a friendly smile. She seems genuinely happy to finally meet you in person, after having spoken to you on the phone a few times. She leads you through narrow, sparsely lit corridors with high ceilings, and through heavy security doors that include various verification processes. It feels like being dragged through a maze and you turn around more than once, trying to remember the way back out.

After passing through multiple metal-enforced doors and by guards armed with automatic machine-guns, you come to halt in front of yet another reception desk. This time barred behind thick, reinforced glass. A woman, glasses deep on the tip of her nose, looks up. "Yes, Doctor?"

"The journalist has arrived. Here to see", she makes a small pause, nearly undetectable, "Patient 11940."

The woman raises an eyebrow and sighs, gives you a quick once over. She seems hesitant - unsure as she looks back at Dr Quinzel - and eventually, because just like you she does not have much of a choice, says: "I'll let you through."

Behind the door, a female officer awaits you and gives you a pat-down after ushering you through a metal detector. She takes your personal belongings from you and stores them in a metal box right next to the door of the visitation room, where a guard with a locked and loaded submachine gun stands. The only things you are taking with you are your dictaphone and a page you have torn out of your journal.

"There is a button inside, on the right side of the booth. If you want to get out, please, do not hesitate to push it", Doctor Quinzel's mouth smiles a friendly smile, but her eyes do not. She opens the door - "You have one hour” – that falls into the lock heavily behind you.

You got this.

Your footsteps echo off the grey walls as you enter the visitation room. It is mostly lit by the glowing emergency exit sign above the door you just came through. A window on your side of the room lets some of Gotham's finest gloomy light through, illuminating the grey plastic chair in front of the dirty glass pane - stained with dust and unidentifiable liquids - in a straight line of pale, feeble light.

The room is split in half by a trusty standard issue of prison non-contact visit appliances. Sitting down on the chair, an uncomfortable and hard shell, you look at the counter in front of you. On the right side you find a red button, a real fucking panic button, that immediately catches your attention.

You hope you won't need this one. In the middle of the desk a small drawer is embedded into the metal plated wood, like the ones they have at the bank teller's of Gotham National. You test it, discovering, that it allows you to pass items from one side to the other.

The image of him passing a ticking time-bomb to your side and holding the drawer shut flashes before your minds-eye. You physically shake away the image by shaking your head - once twice - before switching on the dictaphone and placing it inside the shute, levelling it in the middle underneath the glass so it will be able to catch both voices.

You can feel your heart pounding heavily in your chest, your stomach turning with nausea. The door on the other side opens, accompanied by a sharp alarm that pulls you out of your thoughts abruptly.

The man emerging, flanked by two heavily armed and armoured guards, is tall and lanky, but muscular, nonetheless. He is wearing a hideous white and orange striped jumpsuit, that reminds you more of a prison than a psych-ward - the colour clashes with his outgrown green hair. The print on the front gives him away as a prisoner of the Intensive Treatment Department, Maximum Security.

They sit him down, shackle his hands to the table and he lifts his head, looks at you.

Patient 11940. The Joker.

They even let him paint his face. How nice.

Before you can help it, your memory comes back to you in violent flashes. You were in your first semester at Gotham University when he wreaked havoc upon the city, and they closed your university down during the height of his reign. His painted face had been everywhere, plastered on television and the front pages of the newspapers. People barely went out if they didn’t have to, and you vividly remember the anxiety you had felt every single time when leaving your tiny flat. It took you a long long time to feel safe in the walls of your apartment and the buzzing clubs of Gotham's vibrant nightlife again after they eventually locked him up.

It all comes back to you, the gruesome images, and terror crawls up your spine. Blood and gore splayed over the pavements, people dangling from skyscrapers, hospitals laying in ruins. The fear suddenly paralyzes you, your mouth running dry.

He leans forward and you jerk back in your chair, metal scraping over the dirty concrete floor. He licks his lips, eyes flickering over your form as he gives you a quick once over. "Well, hel-lo, princess."

A weak impression of a smile flickers over your face as you try not to stare at him – but it is difficult to focus on anything but his ghostly white face and the mocking grin. Your anxiety is a thick lump in your throat that refrains you from taking deep breaths, not allowing you to speak. Your chest heaves and heaves and heaves, your hands breaking out a cold sweat, heart hammering away in your chest.

You think of the hostages. The masked men posing as the Batman, killed for their courage (or was it foolishness, believing the city to be capable of change?). The policemen. You think of the way he had killed them all. The videos of the abuse they endured flickering over your television. You wonder how he would kill you.

Tilting his head, the Joker's eyebrows twitch confusedly. Looks at you, while you are just sitting there, silently. A minute passes by. And another. "Aren't you going to uh", he raises his hands, chains and handcuffs clinking as he gestures vaguely, "Say anythin-g?" Pops the g. Grins. The pasty make-up around his lips crinkles, shows the scars beneath.

They draw your gaze in, and you swallow. You wonder if he did that to himself.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

Focus. Breathe. Jesus, don’t fuck this up.

Nodding, before clearing your throat and grabbing your notes, you look down on the sheet of paper in front of you, "Yeah, yeah, sure”. Your hands are shaking. He tilts his head, chains clinking as he lays his forearms down onto the counter infront of him to learn forward. His voice is deep, sultry and velvety, as he speaks again.

"Am I your first?", he nearly whispers, licks the insides of his cheeks like he is swirling Listerine in his mouth, wiggles his eyebrows, "They say the first one is oh so special."

Your gaze shoots up, heat dropping from your shoulders down your back at the innuendo. It swirls with the anxiety in your stomach and crawls back up, sends your head into a spin.

"I will try to make it", the Joker pauses theatrically, "memorable for you."

The Joker's gaze gleams, twinkles, and a smug, provocative smile dances around his lips, his scars bending and twitching with it. His make-up is chipped at his forehead, gives away a tiny bit of tanned skin and

And that is when it hits you. Makes you feel oddly light in the face of your sure demise. He's a man. Just a man. Flesh and bone. Human.

It helps that there is reinforced glass between you. And a panic button. Armed guards just outside the door. You’re safe from him here. Nothing can happen to you.

You got this.

And you are sure as shit not going to let him win. He might be a psychopath - or whatever the fuck they diagnosed him with - but you are going to get him to speak. To answer. You are going to get what you need from him and then you will leave, never looking back. You got this.

In a few weeks’ time you will come to miss your naivete. You do not know it yet, but he will have you bent and broken in ways priorly unknown to you; and you will look back, missing the feeling, the playing pretend that he will not - cannot - hurt you. But you do not know this yet. Thus, you swallow against the dryness in your throat, take a deep breath to steady your shaky fingers.

Just a man. Just a man. Just a man.

You look at him. Straight in the eyes. Taking another breath. First question.

You got this.

"You have been in custody for -", you put on your best and steadiest facade of a professional, "Three and a half years. During the trial and your subsequent psychological evaluation, you refused to state your name. Has that changed?"

He tilts his head to one side and kisses his teeth, disappointedly. "That all you got, sugar?"

"Please, just answer the question", stern tone of your voice taking you a little by surprise. In a childish attempt to not give yourself away and let him see your own surprise, you take to looking at your notes.

Thus, you do not notice how his eyes narrow for a second, jaw twitching. You do not realize the danger you are in and that you have just signed away your fate; in a few months from now, when nuclear destruction looms, you will look back and suddenly realize. Realize this is one of your many many mistakes (taking the call from Doctor Quinzel being your first one) - but on your bruised knees with spit dripping down your chin onto your bare chest, and his cum plastered on your face you will not be able to critically evaluate your choices any longer.

"No", the Joker says, plainly. Well, seems like he won't give it to you then, either. Fair enough. You can hear him smack his lips, but you are still keeping your eyes trained on the paper in front of you - deciding to give him the cold, professional shoulder that your boss always uses on sources, and not falling for his provocations - skimming through your notes.

"Alright. Tell me", you say, gaze flicking over the numerous crimes the Joker had been convicted of, trying your hardest supressing your fight-or-flight, "Why did you do the things you did?"

A long moment passes with him staying quiet. Watching you through the glass.

"Why do you think I did it?" And that has your gaze snapping back up to him.

"You're crazy.”

He leans back, in his chair, hands flat on the surface in front of him - face full of contempt and full of bored superiority - as he looks down onto his hands; smack his lips with disappointment. Stays quiet for a looong moment, before his gaze falls on you once more, heavy. Curious.

"You wanna know what I think, sugar?", raising his brows a bit, playfully, seizes you up and down with a quick flick of his dark eyes.

"I think, we are not so different - you and I", gestures between the two of you with his hand, points at you lazily and licks his lips.

“What are you talking about?”, you hiss.

And he laughs at that - so violently, it shakes his whole frame, throws him forward first and then backwards a little - leaves him breathless when he finally says: "Oh oh oh, you uh you really haven't accepted it, huh? That you’re the bad guy, too?"

“Stop it”, you can feel your jaw tense, anger boiling in your stomach.

"Sweetheart", flashes his teeth at you, greasy red paint stuck to them, like they are covered in specks of blood – his voice sounding a lot like he's scolding a child, "You are not reporting the truth."

"I said Stop it."

The Joker giggles as he leans forward, his facial expression not mirroring the sound that leaves his throat. "You chase it. In a world that lies to itself. every. day.", he flicks his hands through the air, the chain between his handcuffs clinking, "But what you sell is uh, it's - it's fear."

Blinks at you, lets his hands sink back onto the counter. The chain clatters.

Bile claws at your throat, anger forming a tight know inside your stomach. He has no right. This motherfucker has no right to compare his mass-murdering, arrogant and sick self to you. You try to safe this town, to safe the people by letting them know what is really going on. He, oh he – fuck – he, what a --

"Shut up", your voice quivers with both - rage and fear; but as soon as the words slip over your lips you want to take them back, clutch your hands over your mouth, claw them back from the air shove them into your throat and swallow them down down down.

But he just scoots around in his chair a bit, rolls his shoulders from side to side, like he is trying to get comfortable. Then his tongue darts out, licks his lips.

"Don't be like that, sugar. I know just how you feel. It's terrifying to see the truth, isn't it?"

It’s not like you haven’t thought about it. Every single time your boss or the editors have handed back your article, demanding for a heavier, more polarizing headline so the magazine sells more copies. Economics of attention. You remember the disturbing number of times, you were asked to rewrite entire articles, use more graphic pictures, ditch a source. Working as a journalist is not what you went to university for.

Some days, sitting at the office, you wish you could bash your head in by simply thrashing it against the desk repeatedly, make a real mess out of the office – just out of sheer frustration.

"It feels like going mad sometimes, doesn't it? To watch them. They're so dumb, aren't they?", looks up to the corner of his side of the room like a cat seeing something a human cannot, his hand gesturing freely in a circular motion, "These people out there. Thinking that They. Are. Just. So. Smart. While not thinking at all - they just cling to their uh little rules. Believing that it will safe them."

"Y'see", he leans forward, chains clattering against the desk, "Gotham's the uh cancer." He gestures vaguely.

"I'm not so sure", you quip quietly but --

But suddenly, all the small examples of someone in your life doing a good deed, and not acting completely and utterly selfish when push came to shove suddenly feel - insufficient. Because they were never truly grand tales of altruism or selflessness. Never truly kindness.

It is all hollow. Depraved and meaningless.

"It has spread", he tilts his head, "Our oh so precious Civilization is uh, well rotting." Looks back at you, lips tilted in an awkward smile.

You look at him, your mouth going dry. He is not wrong. You think about the house you live in - rent is high, but there is mold in the stairwell, the yard is always dirty, and when it rains more often than not the water leaks into your walls. You think of the hand-full of fresh vegetables you can afford to buy, barely enough to nourish you, but sometimes it is all you can afford. And your salary is high, compared to those of the other people living in your apartment complex.

"This city is sick, sugar. Y’see, I’m just the fever."

"And your cure is -?", your voice sounds foreign in your ears, small and pressed.

And he gestures indifferently, smacks his lips, runs his tongue over the insides of his cheeks. "You tell me, beautiful."

You already know the answer. You have witnessed it. And you desperately want to prove him wrong - you really want to. Tell him a hundred things that one could try, could do to right all the wrongs plaguing this city. Combating child poverty? Wayne Foundation tried by constructing orphanages and shelters, but they are crumbling under the weight of increasing need. Combating crime? The police tried and succumbed to rotting away with corruption before relying on a masked vigilante, who in return caused crazed criminals like Scarecrow to run rampant. Combating the political disillusion of the citizens? Harvey Dent tried and died for it by the hands of the Dark Knight - no one else attempted it again after.

Hopelessness settles in, weighs you down like ice-cold water after being tossed in a dark and deep lake, frozen with no light inside. Words etch from your throat, before you can stop them.

"I wonder sometimes -", you look down upon your hands, clinging to the thin sheet of paper, then look back up at him. The white of his eyes huge in contrast to the dark paint surrounding them, like glowing ghostly orbs in a skull's empty cavities. "If real, genuine - well,change is possible."

"What do you mean, beautiful?", he keeps his gaze trained on you and you feel like he really listens. You scoot closer, the metal bars of your chair scraping over the stained concrete floor.

"I just--", you stumble around your words, "I'm so -." A sigh leaves your lips as you suddenly feel the weight of the world descending on your shoulders. It drags you down and your chest deflates as you let go of a breath you weren't aware of holding. "It's just so brutal out there. And no one's ever doing anything. I am wondering if, -- It's just -- sometimes I wonder if they will truly ever, like deserve it?", you lean forward, your nose close to the glass, "Change, I mean. I see all this injustice. People fucking starve, because they have to chose between food and rent. And then I hear these same people talk. See how they vote. Watch how they treat each other, and I can't help but wonder: Do they deserve change?"

And his lips curl up up up - a hyena's grin, all teeth and flesh and blood-red paint. But all you see are understanding eyes, dark pits that you're starting to lose yourself in.

"Does that make you sad, sugar?", and he tilts his chin down, looks at you through his thick, dark lashes, raises his hand like he is wants to touch you. Your own fingertips touch the bottom of the glass, right where it meets the table.

"Yeah", you say, voice small and quiet.

That's when the Joker smiles, scars pulling up up up in a spiteful grin, but all you can see are his eyes, dark brown and warm pulling you in.

And when he starts talking again, his baritone drowns all out the noise and pulls you in in in, until your forehead nearly touches the glass. The more he talks, the more you realize that he actually has a nice voice, beneath the cackling and the tone stumbling and wrapping over syllables.

Eventually, the door behind you unlocks - a heavy sound, that has you jolting back in your chair - a surprised No, I am not done yet leaving your lips but the guard insists that your visitation is over.

You turn around once more in the door frame, watching how the guards on the other side of the reinforced glass unshackle The Joker from the table and get him to his feet. He tilts his head, wiggles his fingers at you in a playful wave.

Outside the room, you expected to find Doctor Quinzel waiting for you, but she is nowhere to be seen. A guard escorts you out of the institution instead.

The air outside the asylum is cold and the sky is as grey as ever. Walking back to the train station you cannot help it: Somehow, the world seems a little bit bleaker than usual.

The weekend comes and goes, with you holed up in your tiny flat with its stained walls and leaky windows. His deep, coarse voice fills your apartment as you run the recording back and back and back to craft the article out of the interview.

Eventually, you only run it back to run your fingers through the folds of your cunt.

A week later you sit at your desk, in your crammy cubicle on the main editorial floor of The Gotham Times. The air is heavy with cigarette smoke and the ever-present smell of drying print. Your colleagues are on the phone with family members or sources; some are typing away on their keyboards furiously. You learned how to block out the noise months ago, but today it bores into your skull like a chainsaw.

You should be finishing up on an article about the newest art presentation at the Gotham Museum of Contemporary Art (tickets selling at a cheap 30 bucks each; Come on, dear working class, go and have a look at High Art that does not change your miserable lives one bit for an exorbitant fee that we will use to pay our chairmen ridiculously high bonusses), but you cannot bring yourself to care. It just does not matter. Your life seems oddly dull lately, and you stare holes into the room for minutes on minutes, eyes tracing the low-quality paint of the walls, the dried-out and long dead house plants next to the mostly always malfunctioning coffee machine. Time goes by slowly, like stale chewing gum - all tenacious and dry - and

And then the double-glass doors to the floor's hallway burst open. One of your colleagues storms in, eyes wide and cheeks red.

The beehive surrounding you comes to an abrupt halt, as he regains his breath, before coughing out: "There's been a mass-breakout at Arkham Asylum."

The anxiety of your colleagues - rising at both: sick criminals breaking from a high security ward and the next scoop lingering just around the corner - is palpable in the room.

"How public is it?", one of your colleagues stands up, phone already in hand, its beige cable dangling obnoxiously mid-air.

"Not at all, not yet - they are trying to keep it down. I -- I just had my source on the inside call me", and that is when all hell around you breaks loose. Think about throwing a bloody piece of meat - just one - into a pen of a dozen hungry dogs and then think about how they will react. You just sit there, unmoving and silent, as your coworkers rush to their phones. Cups fly, people yell, someone cries out in pain. And you, you just sit there, face blank and indifferent.

To you, it all feels strangely pointless. A few weeks ago, you would have bent over backwards for another opportunity like that but right now? Right now, you just sit there, zoning out hoping for peace and quiet to settle in soon enough.

"What the fuck is going on out here, you fuckheads?", your boss's voice cuts through the air loudly, like the bark of a feral Rottweiler. He even looks a little like one too, with his face red and nose showing signs of cocaine abuse.

The hive freezes. On the other side of the room a stack of papers whacks to the ground, files flying everywhere.

"Someone at Arkham Asylum just told Derek they had a mass break out", your colleague, Liza, says, brushing her fingers through the mess her hair has become during the past 80 seconds.

"Fucking --", he rubs his face with one hand, fingers yellow from smoking cigarettes like a chimney, "Who was over there last week to talk to the freak?"

Slowly, very very slowly multiple pairs of eyes flick over to you and you, equally as slowly - due to a mixture of intimidation and Not giving a Fuck - raise your hand.

Your boss looks at you. A little surprised.

"You?", he asks, surprise now very much audible. You simply shrug.

He looks around, at the fresh remainders of chaos that broke out seconds ago - ravaged the open space like a tsunami and his eyes land back upon you, the only person still sitting, still looking somewhat representable.

"Alright, Rookie", your boss flicks his coffee mug, some of the dark-black liquid spilling over the pristine white rim, dripping onto the wooden floor, "I want you up there at the Asylum, first thing in the fucking morning. Talk to that therapist you spoke to last week - and, for fucks sake, don't fall asleep again." He turns around, muttering something to himself about She better not embarrass us in front of clinic management, and you sigh.

You do not bother to correct him - it was Liza who had fallen at sleep in the conference room when you had the Luthor Industries whistleblower over, not you; but you just cannot bring yourself to care and simply nod instead. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, and you take note of the fact that only a very small portion of colleagues congratulate you on your scoop.

The sun is starting to set as you leave the office. After taking the sub to Midtown and shopping some groceries. The El Train is as packed as always during rush-hour and you feel like a sardine in a very sweaty can - only to be greeted by plundered shelves and a miserable, low-quality produce selection in the supermarket fifteen minutes later. Outside, a slight drizzle has settled in underneath the grey sky, like the city has caught a cold once more. A sickly, struggling poor little thing - trying its hardest not to decay underneath the heavy weight of its weakly condition. And you feel just as cranky as the city does, limbs all heavy and tired, exhaustion settling in like a thick fog. Like your self is slipping away from you, descending into the dirty mist surrounding the city.

Gotham is eating itself.

Gotham is the cancer.

It is going to swallow to you up whole next.

You trudge through the dirty streets, grey sky illuminated by the colourful advertisements and posters. You walk by some that would've sparked your interest just two weeks ago, advertising a thrilling clubbing experience at the Iceberg Lounge, as you first notice it.

The feeling.

It is strange, - a blistering cold that does not feel like it stems from the rain. It takes two more blocks and one angry junkie for The Feeling to settle in fully. It had appeared first in the subway from the office to the city, with a strange sensation crawling up up up your spine and nestling in the nape of your neck, had lingered at the supermarket with a slight unease in the back of your head.

And now, it returns in full swing - hairs on your arms standing up straight like little toy soldiers, a cold creeping up and down your body - a primal urge amidst the distant noise of honking cars, the usual number of sirens and stressed businessmen rushing by.

It is more than unnerving. It frightens you. Nearly makes you jolt, as you realize what exactly it is,

You are being watched.

Turning around in the middle of the walkway you are faced with nothing but the buzz if the city. You let your gaze wander, trying to memorize all the people surrounding you. It is impossible - some of them are rushing by beneath, opened umbrellas, entering or exiting buildings in a hurry or bumping into you, cursing you out or yelling into their phones.

You are the only person glued to the spot, right there on 5th street with Gotham pulsing lively, simply floating by. You turn around your axis - bicycles, taxis, stressed mums with strollers, expensive suits, homeless people, glowing advertisements, laughing teenagers, drug addicts fetching the next dose - it all becomes a blur. The usual, ordinary hum of the city beneath all the dirt and the shiny nightlife that slowly comes to life like creaking wheels of a stuttering machine.

However, the feeling remains, a primal tingling of your senses, and you stagger backwards ("Watch where you’re fucking going, bitch"), trying to get rid of it with a quick shaking of your head. You must be losing it.

You blame it on the incredibly strong coffee at the office that often gave you cold sweats and a sore stomach in the past, and thus, you shake of the unease as you hurry up the stairs to catch the train to your apartment. The trains are emptier now and you spend the ride looking at the advertisements, messily glued to the angular walls of the wagon. Ghost in Grey with Basil Karlo will arrive in cinemas later this month. In the back of the carriage, someone weeps. No one bats an eye, and neither do you.

Sighing, you eventually let the door of your apartment fall shut; locking it behind you, the door chain snapping in place. You feel safer that way. Throwing the keys into the small bowl - pottery, hand-painted by your friend as a Christmas present (she had moved to Metropolis a long time ago and sent this in a small, beat-up package) - that sits on the tiny desk next to your apartment door, you fall against the thin wood with a heavy thud.

You close your eyes, taking deep breaths. Once. Twice. And a third one.

You are home. Gotham and its insanity are locked out just outside of your apartment, running rampant out of sight and out of earshot and you relish in the complete and utter silence of your place for a few more breaths. It is calming. It is peaceful.

Your body feels weary and heavy as you eventually pick up the paper bags and carry them over to your small kitchenette, setting them down on the freestanding kitchen unit extending into the room which you have lovingly (and in longing of a higher wage) dubbed The Isle. This is where you mostly have breakfast, since your flat is too small to fit a whole dinner table. Mechanically, you start with taking your shoes off along with your jacket - dropping them into their respective places by the door - before returning to the kitchen to unpack the groceries. You just put the jug of milk away and started to rinse the apples in the sink as -- thud.

A sound that didn’t seem like it came from the neighbour's flat but rather

oh, oh no.

Your breathing goes flat, then stills completely as you hold it in, in a fully futile attempt to be quiet as a mouse. Besides the thundering of your heartbeat the flow of water from the tap is all you can hear, but it sounds muffled and far away as adrenaline spikes and spikes and spikes in your body, triggering your fight or flight. Your body opts for a secret, third choice, and decides to fully freeze instead.

Thud. Thud thud.

Someone is inside your fucking apartment. There is another fucking person inside of your motherfucking apartment. You can hear the footsteps so clearly, they sound like earthquakes rattling the building or bombs going off.

The same cold, unnerving feeling that you felt during the afternoon now creeps up your spine once more and you look around frantically for a knife or a pan or maybe you are lucky and a loaded gun found its way onto your kitchen counter - but it is hardly effective to only search with your eyes, hands still wet and aching from the increasingly cool water, all the while clutching to an apple.

At least you could throw that one. You consider how much time that would buy you. A second? Two? Depends on the hit, you assume.

Thud. Thud.

The steps draw closer and then the floorboards of your living room, that opens up into your small kitchen, squeaak.

There's no way to make it to the door, unlocking the chain and the lock in time to escape, even if you manage to slip past the intruder. You want to scream, but your mouth is too dry and your muscles are too tense as fear paralyzes your body. You have heard stories like these - for fucks sake, your colleagues write about shit like this. Young woman, home alone, robbed abused beaten. Killed. It is what this city runs on, the pure and only fuel in its gears: pick up the weapon or become the target.

You think about screaming. You think about running. But the primal parts of your brain remind you, that depending on the threat, you might actually be able to fight. And thus, clutching the apple like an anchor and shutting the tap off, you turn around.

You come face to face with a man standing next to the kitchen isle. Curly hair frames his strong face, and he just looks at you and looks at you and looks at you - while your apple drips water onto the floor; before he raises a hand, chain on his dark jeans jingling with the sudden movement, wiggles his fingers at you.

It takes you an embarrassingly long moment to recognize him. Well, in your defence: He does look differently. For one, he is not wearing that hideous Arkham Asylum-Standard Orange anymore but a modern dark green, which suits his complexion considerably better. Speaking of which --

He is tall. Taller than he looked at visitation. And he is not wearing any make-up. At all. His face is bare, a soft tan tone with dark circles under his eyes. He looks surprisingly, terrifyingly human in your small flat, illuminated by the warm and small light sources.

You do not know what you expected. No, wrong - you had clear expectations, but they weren't like

Like this.

You thought his face would be mutilated beyond recognition underneath the thick paint, an ugly swirl of meat and flesh, like people said Harvey Dent must have looked like after the Batman had been done with him. But the man standing in front you does not look like he has just escaped a horror cabinet (or a clinic, if one wants or dares to count Arkham Asylum as an actual medical hospital, instead of a torturous prison). His face does bare some pretty features. His eyes seem softer without the dark paint surrounding them, dark brown that sparkle like molten honey in the warm light of your kitchen, and he has quite a strong jaw with prominent cheekbones. His cheeks have a rosy tint to them, despite him looking like he hasn’t slept in days.

He looks like the type of man you would sit next to on the subway. Like someone you would not mind approaching you in a café. He looks like the type of man you want to spend a second glace on. Despite the Glasgow scars, contorting the lower half of his face into a sadistic mockery of a smile.

Nevertheless, you feel hot and stalked beneath his gaze, like he is going to lash forward any second and rip you apart, feast on your intestines like the Hyena he is. You know he is dangerous. And, he has found a way into your flat.

Looking at you, he slooowly drops his hand and tilts his head. And when you do not move, not even an inch, not even a muscle, his lips start to move instead.

"Hel-lo, sugar", he grins, flashes his teeth, licks the corner of his mouth.

"Oh my god", is all you manage to finally breathe out, words leaving your mouth like spillways, your blood running cold.

"Mh", he makes a small sound, like he is considering something, before deadpanning, "Not quite. Bu-t, I do appreciate the uh sentiment."

Your frontal lobe tingles with anxiety, as you are glued to the spot. Your mouth feels dry and like cotton, as you draw in a breath hectically.

"What do you want?", you say, hand clutching the apple tighter, voice shaky from the scream you are holding back.

He toys around with the few things standing around on the bar counter, rearranges them absentmindedly. "I was just checking in on your uh article", he lifts the candleholder up, weighs it in his hands, "It wasn't in the paper yet, our-"

Looks at you, voice dancing around the syllables freely, tastes the word on his tongue, smacks it,

"Our little cha-t."

"It's at the editors." You can feel shakes rippling at the edges of your body as anxiety rushes and pumps through your veins.

And his lips quip into a smile as he takes a step forward, looking more like he sways into your direction, the Cuban heels of his boots clicking against the wooden floor.

"Will they make big changes?"

"I don't think so", you say, sounding more like question than a statement.

"Good", he says, and you wonder why he cares.

Watching him holding the candle holder like a big fat club, you feel panic running through your veins. "Y-you need to leave", you say, trying to sound resolute and sure of yourself.

He chuckles, looks up at your through his lashes, taking another step forward.

"No", he says, playfully and sounding truly amused.

"Someone must have seen you", you try, "They must have called the police."

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. "What? For me?", then he grins, shakes his head and a cold crawls up your spine at the way he says: "I do no-t think so."

Then, he makes a noise like he has forgotten about something, lets the candle-holder clatter to the floor carelessly before he reaches back to the back-pocket of his dark jeans and pulls a black object to the front. He twirls it in his hand expertly, makes it snappp open and a silvery blade shoot from the black handle.

Fuck. The apple in your hand joins the candlestick on the floor, breaks in half, seeds and flesh flying everywhere.

He is going to kill you.

You flinch away from him, panic filling your every move and a sharp ringing noise in your ears.

"Scream, sugar, and I slice you up into so many little pieces, it will take them we-eks to find you."

Oh God, he is going to fucking kill you. The Joker is in your flat. Your home. And he is going to kill you.

You say the only thing you can think of, vision zeroing in on the knife: "Please, don't."

You look like you are about to cry. He wishes you would. You already turn him on so much, with your needlessly stone-faced resistance in the face of imminent danger. How you are trying so desperately to be strong. Just like you tried to remain a professional and hardened journalist last week at the asylum. Seeing you cry would make it perfect.

But he has time. You will get there.

He comes closer and closer, with deliberate strides of his long legs, twirls the blade in his hand. "Oh, I am not going to kill you", he sounds amused, and a little offended at your unimagitiveness, "It is going to be sooo much worse."

You can smell him. His scent is thick and looming; musk, grease, burned wood and gasoline. And a hint of cigarettes. Your inner journalist says: Smoker? and your inner cavewoman says: Run.

The latter wins, as your eyes wander to the window on the left instantaneously, that is just a few inches above the fire exit stairs. Maybe, if you were quick enough -

"Oh, nu-uh, doll. Do no-t even think about it", he snickers, "I'd have you gutted like a fish before you'd even reach the window."

A desperate sound escapes your throat and then he closes the distance between the two of you, crowds you against the counter. Your body jerks to the side, in a futile attempt to escape him, but he is too tall, too strong and thus, your body remains snugly pressed against the hard surface. Caged by him. It digs into your lower back unpleasantly, but you barely notice the dull pain over the thundering of your heart.

The cool blade rests against your throat. The metal feels like it is burning, etching its way into the tissues of your skin, and your body stills. You do not dare to breathe.

"Don't fret", his lips curl up up up, amplified by the scars, "I just wanna talk, given how much we both enjoyed our last conversation, hm?" Clicking his tongue, he tilts his head to the side.

Towering over you and crowding you against the kitchen counter, he looks down upon you. The scars on his face are prominent, drawing in your gaze. You gulp. Your mouth feels dry and your brain frantically searches for ways to get Help.

"Looks like someone's afraid of little ol' me", he shakes his head, eyes darting over your face, and then he grins like a cheshire cat, knowingly, "Oh oh oh, I really wouldn’t uh scream, if I were you, sweetheart."

You say nothing, his words barely reaching your brain - suffocated in a thick wave of panic settling in as his tone and the knife pressing against your throat - as you watch his tongue licking the left corner of his mouth.

"Your neighbour wouldn't like that, would she?", what.

Your eyes grow wide in horror as you realize. You remember climbing up the stairs just a few minutes ago, every step heavy as if you were carrying the world's weight on your shoulders. Unopened letters on her doormat. No sound of her children yelling behind the closed door.

"No", you say, voice small and defeated. She is a single mother. Her children need her. You shake off the thought that maybe her children are dead already. A shiver climbs up your spine, ice cold, but you suppress a shiver given the sharp blade pressing against your thundering aorta.

He tilts his head, eyelids fluttering in mock thoughtfulness as he looks up at the ceiling. "I wonder where she went."

"No, please -- please", and he tuts, looks back at you.

"Sh sh sh", presses the blade right below your jaw and your head tilts back with it, trying to flee the impending hurt, death. His other hand grabs your head at the crook of your neck - hard - and holds your head in place.

And your thoughts race, while your breath goes flat, heavy. This is your fault. You should have never followed the invitation of the asylum. You should have stayed away. You will have her killed. You will have yourself killed.

It is your fault.

His deadly hands keep you in place, as he leans in. "Do you want to safe her?"

"Let her go, she has nothing to do with -"

"You have something I want. And you are uh going to give it to me, do you understand?"

You make a desperate, small voice in the back of your throat. Unsure. Afraid. You cannot move, cannot think - all that exists on your mind is the knife, and his hands accounting for dozens of deaths holding you in place.

"Do you understand, sugar?"

You stare at him, mind racing, your brain cooking up images of her tied to a chair and --

His hand grabs your chin forcefully, so hard you yelp, and throws your head back, makes it collide with the hanging cabinet behind you. Pain blooms at the back of your skull and shoots to the front, makes your vision black out for a split second.

You choke out a strangled and pained scream, sacking backward and into yourself a little as but his grip on your chin is so strong, and his arms so strong, that he pulls you back up - repeats the assault. Your head hits against the cabinet once more, the sound of your skull meeting the cheap wood echoes in your head as the world in front of your eyes turns upside down and then pitch-black. You feel fuzzy and blink, sucking in desperate breaths as the world around you is turning turning turning slipping in and out of blackness, before your vision anchors on his face, looming above you. Tears fill your eyes, hot and stinging, as pain dances through your skull - from the back of your head to your jaw and back - zig-zaging so heavily that you feel like vomiting.

"I said", scolding, exasperated, "Do you understand?"

"Don't --", you sob, in agony and pain, "Please, don't hurt her, please." And when it does not seem to get through to him and his grip on your head tightens once more, you add, head spinning: "I-- I'll do whatever you want."

The corners of his scared mouth turn up and into a smile that bares teeth, as his gaze sets upon you with sick arousal gleaming in his eyes at your crying, your hurt sounds.

Oh, he is going to enjoy this. He is going to enjoy breaking you. This will probably be the most fun thing he is going to do all week, except of skinning that one guard at Arkham alive and plugging the other’s eyes out with his bare hands, but still - you will be a lot of fun.

He hooks his index finger beneath your chin, tilts your head up until you have nothing else to set your eyes on than him, before sweetly whispering: "Look a-t me, sugar."

Your eyes are huge with fear and a little glossy, distant with pain and the fuzziness that usually comes with blows to the head. His hand cups your jaw gently, rests his forehead against yours.

The gesture reminds you of a lover’s. Soft, sweet, caring. Gentle; in the way his thumb brushes over your soft skin and his gaze lands upon you. The pain, raging inside your head and his careful touch gives you whiplash, swaying against him, hands darting out helplessly and clinging to his arms; muscular and warm beneath the fabric of his hoodie. You clutch the fabric, holding on to it – to him.

“Oh, you sweet sweet thing”, his lips brush over yours, as whispers to you sickly sweet: “You need me to take of you, hm?”

You can feel him pressing against you, his heat radiating through his clothes – warm hands, his warm chest pressing against you and so does his hard, huge cock; jeans straining with its size as he presses the bulge in his pants against your lower belly. You gasp.

"Mh mh mh", he makes, a noise akin of approval, while he thrusts his hips forward, rocks into your soft belly. His dick feels huge already, half-hard, and hot and heavy through his pants. You cannot help yourself; your mouth waters, and lust pools in your loins. Oh, aren't you just fucked. Looking up at him, your eyelids flutter.

"I knew you'd want it", he whispers, all cigarette smoke, "You are - after all – nothing but a uh needy girl, aren't you?" Licks his lips.

And you now know better, you now know that if he asks you something you better reply. Thus, you nod Uh-huh, biting your lip as the praise runs through the crevasses of your brain; fires up your nerve-endings, triggering your want to please please please.

He has such beautiful eyes. Dark and strangely warm, a soft brown. You bet they looks like molten honey or fluid amber in the sunshine. You feel yourself getting lost in them, their cunning gaze that bores deep deep into your soul and you realize that you feel seen.

The knife is long forgotten as you feel yourself getting lost in his intense gaze, mesmerized by the look in his eyes, like he is looking through you. Like he knows you. Warmth pools in your stomach, spreads out to your loins sickly-sweet. No man has ever looked at you like he does.

Your head hurts. Terribly so, blood hammering against your skull and you wonder if you might have a concussion but a small, small voice in the back of your head tells you that you had it coming. For he sees you. Knows you. And it simply is your fault that he had to hurt you.

The tip of his nose brushes against yours as he lowers his gaze - all long and dark lashes - lips brushing over yours feather-lightly, as his eyes wander down your body.

The sudden loss of his closeness has you shivering - but one of his hands runs up up up your body slowly, feels you up, grabs your waist and bunching up the material of your blouse. And then, without saying much, he twirls the blade in his hand so that the handle rests against his palm securely, grabs the lapels of your blouse with both hands and tears. Rips the buttons clean off as he tugs at the fabric forcefully. You can hear seams and threads ripping and buttons ricocheting off the floor tiles, before the soft cotton sinks to the ground lazily.

The fabric rests on the kitchen floor in a pathetic little pile, torn and mangled. And you should be fuming with rage and grief - this was one of the very few proper and high-quality pieces of clothing you own, one of the very few things that make you look like a true professional and you sure as shit saved up quite a while for it - but you are strangely indifferent about it. Instead, your vision zeroes in on his hands grabbing and cupping your tits; large and slender, strong hands squeezing your breasts through the lace of your bra, the edge of the knife - blade pressing flatly against the left cup of your bra - gleaming dangerously in the low lights of your kitchen.

You feel its sharp coldness through the fabric of your underwear, but instead of a fresh wave of anxiety it sends a shiver down your spine, one that pools warmly in your loins and has your panties clinging to your wet cunt.

Hooking the blade under the strap of your bra, he quickly cuts through the fabric and flicks it expertly, snaps the other strap as well - only to take the knife to the lace on the side below your armpits and slice through it as well, tossing the torn fabric behind himself. And you just do not care anymore - the cool metal feels exhilarating on your hot skin, the tingles it erupts wandering down down down your body, making your loins clench with want.

And you can hear him breathe, a little too heavy and a little too quick, as his thumbs brush over your nipples. You are so pretty. You will be beautiful once he has marked you up. He really, really wants to take his knife to your tits and slice slice slice, cut you up and cut one off, but he knows something better is in store, waiting just for him, and thus he swallows the rummaging desire to mutilate you. Even though he momentarily deeply regrets leaving his peeler at the safe house -, he dives in, hands on your tits, lips on your throat. Places open mouthed-kisses to the smooth skin, his tongue darting out and licking your salty sweat away, moves down down down over collar-bone - pushes your right tit up with his hand and flicks his tongue over your hard nipple, before closing his lips around it.

Hips bucking you gasp, the way his rough wet tongue flicks over your nipple before his lips close around it to suck, and you watch him, greasy green hair falling onto the smooth skin of your collarbone and cascading down between your chest as he leans down a bit.

You wish you could touch him. But the knife, that presses cooly against your left tit, where his thumb squeezes the bottom of it occasionally with the way his large hand cups your breast, refrains you from it. Instead, your knuckles turn white as you cling to the kitchen counter, while he takes his teeth to you nipple, already hardened under his touch like glass, scrapes them over the sensitive flesh, nibbles gently.

Your eyelids fall shut as you gasp and whine with the sensation pooling in your stomach, pleasure shooting back and forth between your tits and your cunt and you cannot help yourself; your hips roll upward, meeting his firm frame, rutting against the leg that has made his way between your parted ones.

Moaning freely, your feel him biting down carefully into the flesh of your right tit, rather playful really, and a fresh wave of wetness floods your pussy at that.

You wonder if you make his dick leak. You want to, you really do. The mental image sends your head into a tailspin and you moan sweetly, just as his tongue rubs over your nipple.

Moving your hips, you rut against his thigh, desperate for any sort of friction. You mewl, as he eventually lets go off your tit - the air hitting your sticky, saliva drenched skin cooly, licks his lips and straightens back up. Your hips continue to roll against his body, your cunt rubbing over his rock-heard, huge boner that presses hotly through his jeans.

To him you are pathetic. But he also values how much you let your instincts take over and he can feel his cock twitching with it, and thus, he decides to be generous. It will be more fun this way anyway.

Let's go off your nipple with an obscene pop, and straightens back up. You mewl in protest as he retracts his leg, crowds you with his imposing frame instead; long legs caging you in, muscular thighs pressing against your hips as he places his boots left and right from your own feet. His lips, scars, and chin are wet with saliva and the air hits your wet tit cooly, but he does not bat an eye as his gaze bores into yours, shoves his right hand down your body.

There they are again. These eyes. Regarding you so so knowingly, like he really sees you. And you are certain he does.

He runs his deadly, deadly hand over your abdomen and slips it in your panties, dips it between your legs - runs two fingers across your folds, spreads your slick. "There ya go", he murmurs to himself as your eyelids flutter, nudges your clit with his index finger. Your heart misses a beat, before stuttering back alive in an erratic rhythm, all fast paced and heavy thuds.

His touch is electrifying, makes your head swim and skin breaking out a sweat. Your hole clenches around nothing as he starts to rub your clit oh so slowly in wide, languid circles. Eyelids fluttering, you bite down on your lip, trying your hardest not to make any noise, not to grant him the satisfaction. But your body betrays you nevertheless: While his touch makes you sick - fills your gut with a retching aversion that claws and bites its bilious way up your throat - your cunt seems to think otherwise and thus, instead of turning away you lean in; body rocking forward, meeting the motion of his finger with equally slow thrusts of your hips.

And he can see it, too. The way your shoulders dip, your jaw goes just a little slack and your eyes start to gleam. There she is: The little slut he had been promised you would be. He will make you remember what you are deep down, behind the façade, and he will make it stay, make it his.

"D'you wanna take this off?", his lips dance over the shell of your ear, his voice nothing but a gravelly whisper as he tugs at the waistband of your pants, the handle of the blade brushing against your skin while his fingers brush over your hole.

And the way he touches you feels so so good. Like he has been doing this for years, night after night, knows your body better than you know it yourself. The way he touches you has a thick, suffocating heat wafting through your body, licking at your skin and making you break out a sweat of desperation. And thus, you nod, hands moving to your hips and pulling the fabric down hastily. He gives you some room, gaze darting down between your bodies, taking in your half-naked body and how his hand vanishes in your lace panties; kicks your pants to the side once they drop to the floor discarded. Your hand moves to your panties next, but the sound he makes deep in his throat has it recoiling immediately.

His fingers breach your tight entrance, push into your hole. And you whine, hips bucking as his thumb strokes your clit, fingers slooowly pushing inside you. "Sugar", his voice sounds strained, as he huffs; and then his tongue licks a fat, wet stripe over your cheek, from jaw to temple - his breath hot and damp on your skin, and the whole thing has your knees bucking, brain going crazed with degradation and lust - before his lips cling to your ear, "Aren't you just so tight? I'll never fit in, doll."

You figured. But you do not care; the knife long forgotten, body taken by a sizzling lust you cling to his forearm, eyelids fluttering. "P-please", you breathe, and his finger sinks deeper, until it bottoms out. His digits are slender and long and fit inside of you perfectly, like your cunt is just another one of his leather gloves. He curls his finger just enough to give it more room, and brush alongside where he suspects your spot. Your knees buck as a groan slips past your lips.

"Y'like this?", he murmurs, nudges your ear with the tip of his nose and he is so so close, engulfing you in cigarette smoke and gasoline, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing it oh so slowly.

"Uh-huh", you huff, your brain desperately trying to remind you of Who he is.

Pulling his finger out of you, he quickly presses back in with two of them, hums lowly as he pushes past your tight entrance into your hole with more ease this time. The way you moan and gasp has him grinning, lips latching onto your throat once more for he is nothing more but a depraved animal trying to tear you apart with his teeth, tasting the rushing pulse beneath your soft skin. He cannot wait to taste your blood.

Licking over the soft, hot tissue he looks up at you - your head thrown back a little and eyes closed, a traitorous rose tint to your cheeks. You look just like you did, just as pretty, when you touched yourself in the dim lights of your bedroom. Of course, he has seen it. Knows what you did. How you came around your vibrator, whining and shaking. But he must hear you say it, too. Fuck with you a little; bring the fear back because your sweet sweet moans are already starting to bore him.

Licking his lips, he breathes against your throat, skin wet with his saliva. Draws one, two deep breaths, hums.

"Did you touch yourself, doll? Hm, couldcha not keep your hands to yourself?", sucks your skin into his mouth, scars scraping over your throat, before he lets go off it with a wet pop, "Couldn't uh hold back, thinking 'bout me, huh?"

Shit. Fuck. Shit.

Your mind goes blank, trying to process what je just said. What. How. When.

Oh my God.

It's absolutely impossible. He was locked up. How could he possibly, how how how --

Part of your racing mind verbalizes itself, between gasps as his fingers rub along your walls just right: "H-how", all high-pitched and breathy, but he just tuts at that, shuts you up with a flick of his thumb that has you moaning.

"Sh sh sh", the pads of his fingers rub along your spongy walls, "I've seen you do it. It's alright, sugar. I'm here now." And he sounds surprisingly sweet saying it, like a blanket wrapping you in, calming the storm of your thoughts down to a breeze.

However, shame burns high on your cheeks at the memory. You remember how you had plunged your favourite toy into your cunt, bent over on your bed, sirens howling outside and you had been screaming with pleasure. After, you had been mortified, unable to look at yourself in the bathroom mirror as you cleaned yourself and the toy in the sink.

"What did you had me do to you?", he hums, licks over the shell of your ear, nibbles on your earlobe, his breath hot on your cheek. You moan, strangled, as his fingers brush over your spot once more, his thumb circling your clit faster now - and, fuck it, he feels so good you need him, you need him now.

Arousal rushes through your body in thick, hit waves; your spine ablaze, loins tingling and clenching with want, a shiver running down your limbs, hairs on your arms standing up.

"C'mon sugar, you can tell me", he whispers, the grin tugging at his lips audible, your cunt squelching as his fingers speed up and Yeah, you can, it's just him just him just him

"Y-you had me bent over."

He freezes.

Fingers plunged into your hot, seeping cunt and thumb on your clit unmoving. And you whine impatiently, your hips stuttering forward, but he does not budge. Your eyes flutter open, looking at him, his green hair cascading over your shoulder and your chest; his breath fanning over your neck, steady and slow. For a long long moment all you can hear is his steady breathing and the constant ringing in your ears, and you feel suffocated by his body being so so close to yours but you need more - need him to take it all, need him inside of you.

But he just

He just laughs. A bellowing sound, a little sharp and high-pitched, that sounds like it is tearing at his throat, stealing his breath away.

"Wouldcha listen to that", he murmurs, an amused tilt to his voice that is all raspy now, clicks his tongue. His body moves against yours, as he straightens back up, presses himself against you as best as he can with his hand plunged into your cunt, and you can feel his hard cock pressing against your waist nonetheless. A grin so wide that it might tear his scars back open once more tugs at his lips, his gaze wandering over your face: pupils blown wide, eyes dark and watery, cheeks flushed. Oh, he's got you now. "D'ya still want me to do that t'you?"

And you fucking do. You can feel him spreading the inside of you wide already, an itch inside your hole that longs for him to stuff you up until you cry and wail, knees buckling. Your pussy clenches around nothing, fresh wetness flooding your folds. "Uh-huh", you make, a little lost in his dark dark eyes, heat on your skin like sweaty thick blanket, "Y-yeah, please."

You want to touch yourself - so, so badly. Your skin crawls and itches with lust all over, and you would die to run your hands over your tits, your waist, feel yourself up, and squeeze. It feels like you are going insane with need, want.

Oh oh oh, he's got you now. He cannot fight the excited little flip his stomach twirls into, his hands shake a little with it, too.

His knees trap your thighs between them, the heat of his body radiating and making you sweat. Slowly, oh so slowly, he pulls his fingers from your seeping cunt and the he reaches past your head, fingers glistening - and you think he is going to grab you by the neck, slam his lips into yours and devour you - but he opens up the cabinet next to your head instead. Humming to himself, grabs the salt purposefully - like he has been here a hundred times, cooked meals a hundred times - places it next to you on the counter. Before you can form a question, he smacks his lips, mutters "Y'know, I've been wondering for a while now what you need so much cinnamon for", rummages through your spices, before throwing the door shut decidedly. There's a quiet clicking noise somewhere in the vicinity as he moves a bit, but all you can do is stare at him.

"Alright, babygirl", he leans in, his face so so so close it feels like you are drowning in his fucking eyes, before his nose nudges your cheek and his tongue licks over your lips, "Let's get to it." He grins wolfishly, and then something cold touches your lower belly, a few inches over your hipbone.

"Wh-what", you make, your head spinning, as you look down and --

No.

No no no no

The words - all protest, all desire of survival - gets stuck in your throat, as the tip of the knife presses against your smooth skin; he looks at you intently, as he digs it in. Breaks the skin. You suck in a sharp breath, a small, pained whine escaping your lips. He is going to gut you. Like a fucking fish.

You half expect him to bury the knife up to the hilt in your belly in one swift motion and then drag it across your stomach, until your innards sack out wetly onto the kitchen floor. A part of you wishes he would do just that, end it quickly, rather than being subjected to whatever else he has planned. The other part of you is glad when he just flicks it in a tight but superficial curve instead. It still hurts like hell, and you howl.

The part of you that wishes to life, screams. Pathetic, helpless noises get torn from your throat as your jaw drops, eyes wide in agony.

The part of you that wishes to die, for whatever he is going to do to you to be over quickly, freezes. Your limbs feel stiff, numb and oddly detached from your body. Your brain realizes, as shock floods your system, that it cannot reach your body. You cannot move. It feels like lucid dreaming, but worse, pinned to the spot by his warm warm body and the cold blade, that has your belly erupting in stinging, searingly icy pain.

He will kill you. You will die.

You stare down at the knife, and your torn skin. Blood trickles from the cut. It's deep enough for the flesh to bulge at the seams, looking like it is rolling up to get away from the blade.

It's all you can do: watch. And wail.

He chuckles at that, a distorted, rough sound.

"C'mon, sugar, why aren't you fighting back, hm?", the blade drags through your skin slowly, breaks and tears it, draws blood as he carves the lower curve of an S.

You want to. You want him to stop. You can feel your heartbeat hammering away in your chest, dark spots dancing across your vision as you watch thin trails of blood trailing from the wound. But there is nothing you can do, body frozen in place, nothing to do against his strength and the blade in your stomach.

You realize that you're crying. So does he.

"Oooh", you can hear the laugh forming in his throat, dry but bubbly, "You really don't like this, hm? You must realllly hate me, right now."

You do. But there is something else, too. Your body is not only experiencing the certainty of a potentially fatal dread, but also hyperaware - mostly of his body heat. His warm, large hand holding gripping your waist until it bruises, his lean but muscular thighs caging your legs. And then there also is the hard length of his cock, pressing flatly against your groin.

You remember how he had touched you, just minutes ago. You realize you are still wet. Freshly so, with the friction of his huge, hard dick pressing against your body.

The pain mingles with your arousal dangerously, gives you whiplash, sobbing while your loins clench; a familiar pull in your lower stomach that has pressure building right after.

And he just grins, dangling the bloody knife in front of your face, holding it with his thumb and his index finger. "Take it, sugar", he grins, licks his lips, "Kill - me."

Your vision zeroes in on the silvery blade, wet with your red red red blood. Reflecting the dim lights of your kitchen, it dances in front of your face, and it would be easy for you to snatch it. But your head is so so fuzzy, the skin of your stomach burns and stings and your loins are on fire - and the worst thing is: your panties are wet.

"No?", he cackles, "Nooo? Oh, c'mon, don't be a bore. Take it. Hurt me. I know you want to."

You do. Maybe.

You certainly can't; he's too strong, too fast, too malicious. There is nothing in your pitifully small arsenal that you could throw against him to defeat him. Nothing.

But maybe, just maybe, you do not want to defeat him.

Maybe, just maybe, the pain feels - well - nice. It is something fundamentally different. It breaks the rhythm. Radical change to the routine of getting up, getting ready, making breakfast, going to work, working, going home, cooking, going to bed only to Get up again, get ready again, go to work again. It drowns out everything. And ultimately, it makes you feel alive.

Every nerve in your body is ablaze, your mind wide awake, the numbness of your limbs making way for a strange tingly sensation of your clenched muscles going slack. Your cunt begs to be touched.

You can feel ever single breath you take burning in your lungs - no, more than that; you can feel the oxygen rushing through your veins, your heart pounding heavily, your eyes burning as they zero in on the bleeding cuts.

That is when it slips from your mouth. A soft, sweet moan, as his knife cuts through your skin. It is so so small, nearly inaudible; breathless and horny. This must be freeing yourself from it all.

He is freeing you.

Looking up at him you blink, his face in and out of focus through your lashes thick with tears, and you blink them away. He looks up, too.

Oh, he is going to have so much fun with you. He will make you crawl back for more, after breaking you time and time again. He will plunge you deep deep deep into his chaos, engulf you with it, inject it into your veins and make you his. And then he will parade you around, his personal little plaything - maybe, just maybe if you are gone far enough, he will take you with him. Make you - his pretty little toy - get on his knees for him when he pushes a bullet through someone's skull; force his cock down your throat and come all over your face when he blasts a poor fool's brain all over some clean tiles. And it gets his dick fucking hard, straining his jeans - the mere thought of reducing your rational brain to seeping pudding. Turn you into his cock-sleeve, the one who can take a beating as well as a bullet wound.

But for now, he has to make do with what he has; even though anticipation makes his blood boil freely, all tingly and thrumming. And he hates you for it.

Hates you for how you make him feel. Hates you for the way that you make him wait.

He wants to snap your neck. He wants to gut you, see you going down in a bloodbath. Take a look at your innards. Skin you alive. Set you ablaze. Hang you from Gotham's tallest building.

But he also wants to touch you. Hear more of those desperate sounds, turn that pathetic shrieking and crying into a string of moans. He wants to take more from you than just your life. And he hates you for it. He wishes he could just kill you, but he needs you for something else first.

Oh, he hates you so so much.

Thus, he spits in your face - all growling and hard eyes as he leans in, a cruel smile deforming his scarred mouth, hits you across your wet cheek - before lowering the blade once more, slashing over your stomach, deep enough to draw more blood but not deep enough to cause serious injury, paints the looong body of the T. You moan with all of it, the pain, the degradation, the arousal that pools and pools and pools aways in your belly, shoots through your body up and down your spine, making your legs buck. Your face is wet with tears, rolling down your face hotly and through his saliva, smudging your make-up. Your whole body broke out a sweat long ago, that you start to feel now, skin clammy and sticky. He then allows himself to rush a little, finishes the T with a flick of his wrist. Your body shakes and he licks his lips.

"Ain't that just pret-ty?", he murmurs, drags his thumb through the cuts - and your limbs thrashes at the sharp pain, flinching and muscles contracting wildly. It tears an excited giggle from his throat and he looks up at you.

"Have a look at it, doll", but you shake shake shake your head, tears streaming down your face with sweet sweet sobs falling from your lips, your whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. And as much as it gets his dick hard, pressing impatiently against his jeans and leaking into his boxers, he also feels a red-hot seeping wave of anger rising inside of him. It demands you to obey.

"Look. at. it", he growls, sounding nearly inhuman, and grabs your chin - his fingers still holding the blade that presses wetly against your cheek - as he forces your gaze down. Through teary eyes, you can see your bloodied stomach, the skin around the edges red and irritated. The blood flows freely, greedily sucked up by your slightly shoved-down panties.

You feel like you are going to pass out. The pain is amplified by your brain realizing, assessing and processing the damage done to your body, and you sob.

"Pretty, aren't you?", he hums into your ear, licks over its shell, "And did you already guess the uh best part, sugar?"

You cannot respond in any way, dumbstruck by the pain burning away in your body, the sight of your mutilated abdomen. "You get to keep it", he sounds so so happy, tosses the blade into the sink, before grabbing the salt shaker - his other hand grabbing your hips with such force, you just know that it will bruise.

"Do scream for me, doll, this will sting badly", and then he pours the salt on the cuts.

Your body goes numb for a second as your brain completely blacks out at the plethora of stimuli your nerves are experiencing. Then, it hurts.

So so much. Your own scream barely reaches your ears, your brain firing and firing impulses over its transmitters, your lower body twitching to get away from the pain - but his hold on your waist is so strong, you only wiggle a little, lower back hitting the kitchen counter repeatedly. Your throat hurts from yelling in agony, and you register fresh wallows of tears flowing down your face as you sob and sob and sob. Your vision is blurry as you watch unmoving how the salt dissipates into the bloody cuts, turns red quickly, and your brain rattles in your skull as it produces visuals to the danger - you can practically see how the small crystals penetrate your skin, tearing it further at the edges and drying out the wound so quickly, that it will never truly heal, scars forming instead.

He, apparently, does not deem it enough it yet, and pours the remainder of the shaker's contents on your belly. Another sharp scream gets torn from your throat, but it is quickly swallowed by a pathetic sobbing noise, as your body dances on the edges of fainting, all lights flickering about to going out at once.

He tuts, and then his other hand, sticky with your blood, grabs your chin. "Sugar, stay.with.me", he sing-songs, your eyelids flutter as he taps your cheek in quick succession, "It's nothing to faint over, doll. I could do uh so much worse."

But you can barely stand, hands clawing at the counter uselessly as your knees give in a little, has you sacking against it. A noise leaves his throat - something between amusement and annoyance - and he grabs you by the waist, hooks one arm around you, and pulls you against him.

Your brain short-circuits.

His warmth is oddly soothing - the contact with a steady surface, one you can sink against, feels nice and grounding. Your racing heartbeat calms down after a few breaths and you barely register how he turns you around in his arms, manhandles you until your back rests against his chest. The cotton of his hoodie is soft and smells of cigarettes and gasoline, and you close your eyes as his arm wraps around your middle, presses you against him. Pain still courses through your body, sharply erupting from your belly, but the warmth around you drowns it out a little. His heartbeat is steady and powerful, hammers away beneath your shoulder blade. And then you can feel it, digging into your lower back, right above your ass.

Huge, heavy, and hot, rock hard - his dick, its heat pulsating through the denim of his jeans.

And your body, torn and used, reacts in a way you would have not thought possible just a few moments ago.

Your hips buck, rutting back into him, lower back arching until you can feel your wet cunt rubbing over his denim, the rough fabric soaking up your slick greedily. And you moan, head sacking forward a little, the pain in the lower half of your body - amplified by the way your hips tilt and rut and tear at the wound - mingles with the sharp stinging and sore sensation of your pussy rubbing over his jeans, sets your loins on fire.

And he laughs, a rough noise. "Do you want my cock, doll?", he grabs your tit, sounds condescending when he says: "After everything I have done to you?"

Your head sacks forward in a defeated, weak nod, nothing more on your mind than getting off.

"Yeah?", you can hear the grin on his face, before he playfully drags out: "Yeeeah? You wan'it?"

An incomprehensible chant of pleas leaves your lips and that is when his hand connects with your ass sharply, once, twice; before he shoves you down, face first onto the counter. Your cheek and temple connect with the flat surface forcefully, as the palm of his hand presses you down. The pain in your head is unbearable, and so is the dizziness that comes with it, that swallows the pounding ache and leaves a fuzzy feeling behind. Your back and the torn skin on your lower abdomen protest with the stretch and the arch of your hips, as he kicks your legs apart.

Runs his large hand over your ass, and then it comes down on both cheeks in quick succession. Your hips buck wildly, moans slipping from your lips and he tugs at your lace panties - tears them off your form, shoves them in the back pocket of his jeans - before you can hear him rustling with something behind you; and then his hoodie falls to the floor with a heavy thud. You can see the black fabric pooling in the corner of your eye, and you would love to turn around, get a good look at him.

His free hand dives between his legs, guides his cock between your spread legs. It is rock-hard and hot against your wet folds, and you mewl, arching your back.

"All that got you wet, huh?", he rubs the length of his dick along your cunt, his large hand pressing your upper back down onto the counter. His body radiates heat, and you whine at the feeling of his huge dick running through your folds, already feeling so so much bigger than your pussy. "It's alright, doll", his hand rubs large circles over your left ass-cheek, gives it a good squeeze, before his hand comes down roughly, "No need to be uh ashamed."

And the joke's on you, because you are not. Not any longer. All that remains in your body is a burning lust, a twitching, tingling sensation in your abdomen, that runs into your thighs and up your spine.

The thick mushroom head of his dick brushes past your hole and he angles his hips, pushes. The tip of it slips in and he lets go off your ass, reaches between your legs and guides the head of his cock in further, presses and pushes. He stretches your tight, small hole so much already as he splits you open with his tip and your mouth falls open at the stinging and burning sensation, the heat his dick radiates - your own slick guiding him in comparably cool.

He is huge. You'd be able to describe what his dick looks like just by how he forces himself inside of you, your tight cunt clawing at him, indifferent about the way you mewl and beg for him to go slowly, the way your body strains against his hand pinning your down. But he is stronger than you, simply holds you in place.

"This is what'cha asked for, sugar", he raps, voice dripping with acid, "Don't fight it now, you're about to get it."

Jesus fucking Christ, you have never been fuller in your entire life. Your walls flutter around him, hole clenching and bile rises in your stomach as you feel your hole burning like he is going to tear you apart - a sharp, panicky whine leaves your mouth.

"Psh psh psh", he makes, pats your left ass cheek condescendingly, "No need to fret. I saw it, y'know?" Smacks his lips before rolling his hips back agonizingly slooowly, leaves a breathless Oh on your lips. "I saw it in you. Didn't even need to see you uh, touching y'self. Couldn't hide the way you were watching me, sugar - not from me, nu-uh. Like you were daring me to come over and uh help you out of your lit-tle misery", he groans as he bottoms out once more, followed by a shaky breath as his balls hit your cunt, "And here I am."

Your hands claw at the counter both: uselessly and aimlessly, as he starts to move inside of you, the hand on your back pressing you into an arch that hurts deliciously; the sharp, nauseating pain radiating from the torn skin of your lower belly bolting through your body. Your legs shake with it, already.

He goes slow at first; savours the feeling of your hot and tight walls around his cock as he pushes in and out in and out, the way your wetness pools around the thick base of his dick. Listens to your soft whines, feels the muscles in your back relaxing.

His strokes are measured and languid at first, as he rolls his hips into you, and you could get lost in the tenderness of it all: the calloused hand stroking your left ass-cheek, the pain in your back subsiding and the warm weight of his hand practically grounding you, while his cock brushes along your walls. Every single stroke feels purposeful, as he draws them out - glides into you fully, bottoms out and then deliberately pulls back out, makes you feel every little inch of his cock one by one. You can hear him breathing heavily, and it dawns on you - through the thick haze of lust, numbed pain and dizziness - that he has gotten lost. Lost in the way you feel around him.

The realization does something funny to your tummy, that flips excitedly, sends a traitorous thrum up up up your spine to your brain, that tingles and then fresh wetness pools between your legs, drenches your cunt, has your legs giving in and gliding apart a little further, inviting him in.

That's when he groans, a silent and breathless Fuck leaves his mouth, and his hands abandon your body, land on the counter next to your chest. He towers over you now, muscles in his back strained and dancing with every single roll of his hips into your cunt, dyed hair falling into his face like a streaky, green curtain.

"Dumb slut", he mutters, more to himself really and he gives himself just a second to relish in the way you arch yourself back into him, carving your body to fit his, before he speeds his thrusts up.

And shit, does he fuck you.

Ruts his dick into you like a caveman, grunting and breathing audibly; making you moan and twitch with the sheer speed and the feeling of his cock rubbing along your walls relentlessly. The sounds of his hips meeting your ass crack off the walls like thunder, mingling with your desperate, high-pitched noises, the sounds of your nails scraping at the counter uselessly.

"Look at you, sugar", his cock drags along your tight walls, and you arch your back further, mewling without restraint, shame, "Letting me touch you like that," chuckles, cut short by a groan tearing from his throat, "You're disgusting. No better than these people out there, huh?"

And you shake your head, eyelids fluttering and knees bucking a little as he speeds up, the thick head of his dick rubbing along your spongy walls, brushing over your spot over and over again.

"You're pathetic", his voice is ragged, raw as his strength fucks you into the counter; your sliced skin rubbing over the cold surface painfully, tearing and bleeding, your hipbones connecting with the sharp edge forcefully. You will be bruised in the morning, but the way he is so so deep inside of you makes up for it. Each and every single one of his thrusts rams your body forward, fucks up against the spot that has you screaming out in pleasure, eyes rolling back into your skull. And he feels needy with it, too. Like he really, really enjoys this. Oddly, so do you.

And you don't want him to stop. Ever.

The kitchen smells of sex and blood, musky and sweaty and of iron, while Gotham's incessant rain knocks against the window - barely audible through the lewd noises of his skin hitting yours wetly, your sweet sweet moans and his groaning.

"Don't--", you sob, arching yourself into him even more, "Please don't stop-"

You're ablaze. Throwing yourself over the edge, plunging into his ice-cold waters. Already sputtering gallons of blood, making yourself sick for him. And who is he, to refuse the last wish of a dying woman? Your demise will be most exciting.

Thus, he grunts - his jaw twitching and teeth grinding, over the strain he puts on the muscles in his lower back - pounds his dick into you.

"Fuck, fuck fuck fuck", your voice breaks, all whiny and desperate because it simply cannot be enough, as you start to fuck yourself back onto his dick, shoving yourself towards his relentless thrusts. The skin on your stomach protests, streaks of blood forming between your body and the counter as you scrape and scrape and scrape the wound over the cold wood, spreading red all over it.

And what a sight you are. He wishes he could bottle it up, frame it, keep it close. He wants to kill you, make this the last he ever sees, remembers of you. Something churns away in his chest, a pressing feeling erupting in his stomach that has his jaw clench and his fingers itch to feel you.

"C'mere, doll", he rasps and does not let a second pass before he hooks one arm around your waist and pulls you back onto your feet. Your naked back hits his firm chest, your skin rubbing against his stained, white jersey wife-beater. You can feel his muscles ripple against your frame as he manhandles you; the veins on his lower arm prominent as he snakes it around your body.

And he smiles. Really smiles to himself, smug and full of contempt as your tight cunt squeezes around him, your back arches for him. All this crying, all this pleading - only for your pussy to pull him in like his, for your body to beg him to fuck your lights out.

Your body rocks forward with the force of his thrusts, and one of your hands darts out aimlessly, lands on the cabinet with a loud smack instead, in a desperate attempt to keep yourself upright. Your body aches and pain shoots in waves from your stomach, but you can't help yourself: you moan, throwing your head back a little. His breath ghosts over your neck, the shell of your ear, and then one of his hands lets go off your hips; slender, long fingers snake up your body and close in around your throat, right beneath your chin.

The sudden asphyxiation has your hips bucking, and he manhandles your body by your throat to pull you back upright, your lower back arched as his dick continues to fuck into you.

You can't breathe.

"You belong-", a groan escapes his throat, cuts him short with his dick twitching inside of you, "Belong to me now, sugar." His tongue ghosts over your the crook of your neck - as your chest begins to heave with panic at the loss of air - lips latching onto the soft skin there; scars rubbing against your neck as he sucks and sucks and sucks, curly hair falling onto your shoulder. You barely register the slight stinging sensation, your chest heaving desperately.

You can't breathe. You can't fucking breathe. This is it, he is going to kill you now. End your suffering, your pain.

Finally.

Choke you out, use your body for his own amusement and then he is going to discard you in a pool of acid.

Oh God, oh fuck. No no no no no

Panic settles in once more - but he fucks it straight out of you with every single one of his thrusts, your body and brain both so overstimulated and overwhelmed that they buckle and break, cunt clenching and then squirting against his pelvis, his balls that slap against your ass relentlessly getting drenched in your juices. Like he is satisfied, like he got what he wanted, he loosens the grip on your throat just enough for your aorta to open up again.

Sucking in lungsful of air greedily - your head spinning as oxygen floods and floods your blood - your hands cling to his wrist, clutching at it uselessly. Like that is going to stop him.

He grins against your smooth skin, his scars scraping against your neck - before he presses his fingers down, onto your windpipe once more. Just for fun.

Your legs buck with anxiety, shaking and nearly giving out completely as he cuts off the flow of air, but the grip on your throat is as tight as a vice as he holds you upright with it. Coughing, you strain your neck in a futile attempt to suck in some air, get some relief and space on your windpipe. The effort proves to be fruitless, as dark spots dance across your vision; you sputter, retching dryly as your stomach starts to turn and turn, mouth running bone-dry.

And he can feel your heartbeat picking up speed quickly, until it thunders against his palm, and he wishes he could see your pupils dilate and your lips growing blue.

Starting to twitch violently, your upper body bucks and your feet start to thrash against his shins - and that is when he let's go off your throat once more, and relief floods your limbs just as he hits your spot again. The adrenaline in your veins, combined with the fresh oxygen, is running havoc through your brain, fires up your receptors on all cylinders; euphoria thrums in your body, crawls up and down your spine hotly, tears a high-pitched needy moan from your vocal cords.

"That's it, sugar, hm?", his tongue licks licks licks over your thrumming pulse beneath the sweaty salty skin of your throat, "Feels good, doesn't it?"

It does. Your body sings with the way his dick rams into you, even deeper now as your cunt flutters around him, sucks him in. The thick mushroom head hits your cervix, rubs along your spot with every single thrust.

You cry out between moans and gasps as he fucks into you, pulls you down onto his dick with one hand at your throat, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist; practically feels your limbs going a little slack under his vice-like grip. "P-please", you whine, the thick tip of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly and you really, really need it - you really need to cum. It's all too much - his cock too long, too fat, too deep - but far too little and you have long surrendered running from him, running from the pleasure he builds inside of you and so you beg and beg, sweet sweet pleas falling from your lips. "Please, it-it's too much, I--", you feel like you are going to faint with your whole body feeling like it has been set ablaze, burning-hot and sweaty and you mewl. You can hear him grunt as he rolls his hips into you, and then --

Then a moan slips from his lips, so guttural and wild that your cunt clenches around him at the sound, and you cannot help it, your body does not belong to you any longer, as you look over your shoulder at the sound.

He does not look like The Joker any longer. Instead, his brows are furrowed with pleasure, eyelids heavy and cheeks a little flushed. His mouth is parted, drawing in ragged breaths all strung out. The thought hits you like a freight train and is both, exhilarating and frightening, dizziness inducing: He looks human.

You should be appalled by him. He has cut you up, marked you like the fucking bark of a tree. He has killed dozens of people, wilfully and as a part of his schemes, his fucking games. But your memory of his crimes and the pain he had inflicted on you earlier becomes blurry quickly, gets replaced by the cunning gaze of his dark dark eyes, his razor-sharp wit. How he looks at you like he knows you.

You move before you can think about it, your hand reaching back, burying itself in his greasy curls, tugging at them. His jaw goes slack, mouth falling open a little and you can feel his cock twitching inside of you as you add more force, pulling his hair and his head sacks forward a little, lips clashing against yours, teeth and all.

He kisses like he fights. Dirty and messy, eyes set on the prize and always pushing pushing pushing, with the way his tongue presses into your mouth. And that, that gets you fucking going, sends your mind into overdrive - the strange intimacy of his kiss, the way he nearly feels like a lover against your lips - lust taking over your body so holistically, that your limbs go light with it, a fluttering and exhilarating feeling filling your stomach. His lips part from yours - and like he can feel the thrumming in your body taking over his own - he whispers against your mouth, gaze boring into yours: "Enjoying yourself, aren't ya?"

"Uh-huh", you make, and he grins Good; licks over your lips, before he dives in once more, assaults your mouth and smacks his against it. He is more passionate this time, practically unhinges his jaw, like he tries to eat you alive, and you moan into his mouth, while his hand wanders down your body, brushes over your hips and dips between your legs. Two fingers lay on your clit and then he rubs it, hard and fast, and you feel like you are exploding around his cock.

Tacky, high-pitched moans slips from your lips against his and he swallows them all as you clench around him, milking his cock as your orgasm rocks your body against him and he holds your quivering form close while pumping his dick into you and fucking you through it until he, too, comes; feels his balls tensing up and then growls, his head sacking forward a little, smearing your combined spit down your chin and he moans into the crook of your neck instead as he pumps you full of his cum. You stay like this for a while, his warm body pressing to your back and both of your breathing slow and worn-out, laborious and content - until your legs start to shake and he pulls out of you, drags his cum out of you, that trickles down the insides of your thighs.

You do not know why he carries you to your small bedroom. Maybe, it is because he wants to return just a little bit of your initial kindness; a small reward for you pointing him your way in the first place. Wants to thank the Lamb for dragging itself to the Wolf's den.

Maybe, he thinks, it is easier to get into your head like this. Maybe, just maybe, his dick gets a little hard at the way you cling to his arms, and sigh as he lays you down. Like you need him. Like he has already successfully pried your skull open, took a good ol' dig around your brains and left them scrambled and mangled and ready to be formed anew, like fresh clay.

It is when you grab his wrist, mewling - no, moaning, that he freezes. You look tired, worn, your eyes glossy and dopey with your pretty, pretty all lips red and swollen. But there is a want there, too, that makes his blood boil.

Oh, you're easy. Too easy.

Watches how your legs part eagerly, cunt glistening with cum and fresh wetness pooling between your folds. Dried blood on your stomach and he wants to lick lick lick it off. And he decides, because he always had bad impulse control and never been one to deny his free will, to do just that. Because he loves loves loves how you already come apart the edges, and he cannot wait to hold the shambles of you in his hands, really tear you apart and play around with what is going to be left of you. He pulls the white top over his head, and your mouth goes dry.

Time slows down as you watch him climbing on the bed and kneeling between your legs, grabbing your waist and pulling you closer. His arms are muscular and tan, black ink curling around his shoulders, the edges of his biceps, his sculpted chest and his stomach. There are tattoos everywhere and they bend and dance with every single one of his movements and just thinking about that he looked like this while he fucked you in the kitchen minutes ago has your head swimming, fresh wetness pooling between your thighs.

Looking at your stomach, perfect perfect soft and bruised skin, he cannot help himself. His hand strokes your sides, before he bends down, puts his mouth onto your belly; licks and kisses the soft skin and you sigh, burying a hand in his stiff, unwashed curls as he licks away the blood. It stings like Hell as he drags his tongue over the cuts, the dried salt dissolving and mixing with his saliva, like acid in your wounds.

You groan, inhaling sharply and squeezing your eyes shut with the burning pain as he drags and drags and drags his tongue through the wounds, tastes your blood and your agony. And then

Then he closes his lips around the mangled skin and kisses. Kisses the torn parts of your belly, thumb stroking your hipbone close by as he makes out with the hurt, he inflicted on you. Your eyelids flutter open with the sudden rush of wetness that floods your folds, as the pain subsides and gets replaced with a heavy, wanton clench of your abdomen. Your gaze wanders down to him and gets caught immediately by his dark dark eyes, looking up at you, curls falling onto your soft skin, tickling you softly. This is what he must look like if he ever ate you out, and your hole clenches around nothing at the thought of his tongue flicking and lips sucking your pussy like he eats away at the wounds he inflicted upon you.

His mouth wanders up a little, still close in proximity to the bleeding, seething cut and then he sucks. Sucks on your skin, marking you up and you yelp, legs kicking a little, tugging at his hair. But he is relentless, buries his teeth in your belly, crushing the epidermis. Warm scarlet trickles into his mouth lazily and you moan. Moan like a whore and he grins as he sucks at the bitemarks, tastes your fresh, warm blood. He sucks it riiight out of the torn bitemark and your hips buck, as the pain shoots down between your legs. "You like that, hm", he whispers against your skin, no cackling, no grinning, just dark eyes peering up at you.

You left rhyme and reason behind a while ago and thus you nod frantically, breathing weakly, voice coarse with lust, "Yeah, fuck yes."

"Let me see, sugar", his index-finger sneaks between your legs, and runs along your folds agonizingly slowly, feeling up your slick. He leans back a little to get a good long look at your pussy, all wet and leaking with his milky cum, pulls back the tiny hood of your clit with one hand, spreads your slick around with the other. And you groan like a porn star, all breathy and high-pitched.

And there it is again, the predator's grin. He tuts at you, playfully and sadistically pouting at you. "You poor poor thin-g", and then his lips land your stomach once more, kissing and sucking on an unbruised patch of skin right above the cuts, while his finger keeps stroking your cunt lazily, spreading your wetness and occasionally brushing over your clit.

And this time you moan freely, throwing your head back into the pillows; arching your back a little as he bites down once more, breaking through the skin. "Oh God", you breathe, your body feeling like it's on fire, head spinning and dizziness settling in with the tingling in your lower belly and loins, "Please, just--"

You feel like you are going to fucking explode if he does not touch you more, plunge his cock into you again and fuck you until you cannot talk, breathe, think. He lets go of your belly with a smack of his mouth.

"You want more, sugar, hm?", he licks his lips, red red red, even without the greasy lipstick, clicks his tongue and you nod like a woman possessed, fingers clawing at his skull weakly feeling his greasy hair between your fingers.

And he usually would bite your hand off for that. Grab it and tear at the tendons, crack your bones until they break and then bite and hack until it comes off. He always enjoys a little fight, loves it when they claw and bite and cry back - only for him to let them starve off of hope agonizingly slowly and eventually cut their throats like it means nothing - but he won't be touched like that. All sweet and wanton and intimate. But he also enjoys how you feel around him, how your body reacts to him and how your brain seems powerless against him and it is just so much fun to see you squirm.

He cannot wait for it any longer. His blood sings with it, runs hot and makes his heart thrum deliciously with anticipation. He deems you ready, the way your dark glossy eyes plead at him.

Your hands fall to the sides uselessly as he sits back up on his knees. "How about a deal then, doll?"

"Huh?", you make weakly, hips rolling into his finger, but he retracts it, whacks it in front of your face.

"Y'see", he looks up to the ceiling, eyes wandering from left to right as if he is reaching for his next words in thin air, "I have this uh friend. You let me show this to him" he gestures vaguely to your bleeding stomach, "And I will make you come, hm?"

Whatever. You nod - breathing out Yeah, alright - and his eyes widen a little at that, eyebrows shooting up and then he laughs, a raw sound that sounds like it might be actually suffocating him.

"What a good, good girl you are, sugar", he shakes his head in disbelief, reaches back to the back pocket of his jeans and pulls -

Oh. Oh no.

Pulls a phone out of it. It is an early model of a camera phone and if your mind were to still work properly, you would probably conclude that it must be a burner.

"Smile, sweetheart", the screen comes alive, illuminates his face, get replaced quickly by the flashlight of the camera phone flickering on, filling the room with a pale hue. He grabs your chin, grins, and points the camera at your face. Your make-up is smudged, dried mascara running down the sweat-caked and cracked foundation of your cheeks. His thumb strokes your lower lip, drags across your cheek in a way that mirrors his Glasgow Grin, before darting back over your mouth, pressing between your lips. Your jaw goes slack willingly, the fog in your brain so thick and heavy still, that you hum around his finger, pressing the tongue against its pad. He tastes of blood and sweat and your eyelids flutter as you look up at him, sucking on his thumb. His tongue darts out, licks the corner of his mouth, gaze glued to your lips.

"Hel-lo, Batsy", his voice sounds coarse, but it still springs and dances in the back of his throat and the sound makes your head spring, rubbing your thighs together, "Remember her?"

You barely register what he is saying, as he retracts his thumb from your mouth, your tongue following obediently, lips parting as you whine. He rubs your own saliva over your cheek, before his hand comes down quick, smacks you across the face. Your eyes fall shut as you cannot help yourself but moan, hips bucking upward.

"Bet you do", he grabs your face once more, but you are already too far gone, eyelids heavy and breath coming out in short huffs and pants, the wetness between your legs leaking onto your sheets, "Look at her, Bruce. Did she look that good when you had her? Did she?"

Bruce. If you were not so far gone - mind clouded with a thick haze of arousal and pain - your brain would most likely short-circuit with the revelation. With memories. Memories of you attending a Wayne Enterprises fundraiser years after having met Bruce in college; both of you reigniting the countless flings you have had in the dorms that one night. His sweetly whispered promises of getting you out of that shithole of a flat, of a life, only to disappoint you by suddenly disappearing shortly after. But your brain won't let you. Instead, you are fully at the mercy of the man kneeling above you, holding the phone and your body in his hands - a whimpering, wet mess.

Thus, his words waft through the air without impact as they barely reach your brain, your body simply thrumming with excitement just as much as his voice does.

"Let me uh show you something", he shifts on your body, the glowing and cold light of the flash leaving your face and wanders down down down, illuminates your body instead. The red marks and cuts on your belly gleam aggressively and bright in the light, that reflects off of the fresh drops of blood on your skin.

"Do you like it? She sure did", and then he giggles, the phone in his hand shaking a little with it as the laugh rattles his frame. His face grows stern as quick as the laughter bloomed, as he clears his throat, points the phone at your face once more. "Shall we show Brucie just. how. much. you enjoyed yourself, sugar?"

He does not wait for an answer, even though your mewling moan is a dead give-away anyways, reaches for his boxers with his free hand.

His dick is already hard again, fat and throbbing, an angry red as he pulls the waistband of his shorts down, his trousers still open - belt-buckle and wallet chain dangling freely.

Giving himself a few firm strokes, hair falling into his forehead, he angles his hip and presses the thick, hot and already slightly wet tip of his cock against the bleeding cuts and bitemarks on your abdomen. He rubs the head through the drops of blood forming lazily around the torn edges of your skin and his half-dried saliva lubricating the area around it, slicks his dick up with the liquids.

You hiss and mewl as his precum seeps out of his dick and into the letters, feet kicking a little and cunt pulsating traitorously, while he watches his tip getting coated in a tangy orange-red.

"Would'ya look at that", he groans, coats his cock with your blood, "What a good good slut she is, isn't she, Brucie?"

The rubbing motion on and in the wounds sting and burns like hell - the most prominent pill of pain in a blister full of agony - but the feeling subsides quickly as you watch the head of his dick, flush and hard and glistening, and saliva pools in your mouth, lips darting open.

"Looks like she uh really wants it, doesn't she?", he pans the phone towards your face, your dark and glossy eyes trained on his cock, lips opened, ready to suck, "We'll show him how well you suck my cock next time, doll. For now, Bats, I want you to see just how nice and wet she gets for me."

He lets go off his dick, his now free hand grabbing your leg and shoving your thighs apart. And he can smell your arousal, nearly knocks him out with the force of it. Your pussy is so so wet with your own juices and his cum, a small stain beneath your spread legs, the light of the flash dancing on the slick of your folds. His hand dives in, index and middle finger spreading your outer labia apart. "Look at tha-t", and he can feel his dick twitch, slapping obscenely against his abdomen, "Y'see that, Bats?" You couldn't care less about him pointing a camera at your wet cunt, all you have eyes and brains for is his cock, and your hands grab the sheets.

"Please", you whine, "Please, just--"

"Oh", his gaze shoots up to you and so does the phone, as he tilts it in your direction, "You want me to fuck you again, sugar?"

And you nod, a coarse string of pleas escaping your mouth. He grins at that. "Yes?", his voice has a playful tilt to it as he mockingly apes you, "Yeees?" And then bursts out in a short giggle, leans over you and grabs a fistful of your hair, a sharp sting dancing over your scalp, while his thumb caresses your temple.

"Then, why don't you tell me, hm, doll?", he pulls at your hair once, your neck straining as your head falls back into the pillow, and then runs the palm of his hand flat down your cheek, confusingly gentle, before giving you a light tap - once, twice; not hard enough to hurt, but forceful enough to be degrading.

Shame burns high on your cheek, red shining through your ruined make-up as you look up at him through the blinding light of the flash shining in your face. "P-please just", your breath hitches in your throat, "Please, just fuck me."

And then he licks lips, deliberately, slowly, with relish. "Good girl, hm", he hums, voice coarse, thumb brushing over your lips - soft like a kiss - before he leans back and shifts his weight fully onto his knees once more.

"Watch this, little Bat", he grabs his dick, precum and your blood glistening on his tip in the flash of the phone, runs it through your folds and slaps your cunt with it - once twice just for good measure - before pressing the thick head against your hole.

You can feel it flutter against his cock and your legs fall apart further, welcoming him in. Keeping the phone trained in on how his cock slowly slowly sinks into you, spreads your cunt around it tightly, he watches it through the screen, feeling your heat engulfing him. "See that, Batsy? How she pulls me in", your gasps are filling the air, with the weight of his dick - he is already filling you out so so much, even though he isn't even half in yet -, "Look at that."

The stretch is nothing short of delicious, even better than before, as he sinks deeper and deeper. The way his thick cock rubs along your spongy walls, pushes them apart to make room for himself burns and burns and burns, but it feels so so good and your eyelids flutter as his tip brushes past your spot. Throwing your head back, you pull your knees up and to your body, and you can feel him immediately sinking deeper. "What a good slut, hm, Brucie", he groans, his free hand grabbing your hips and the touch has your gaze flying back to him.

And does the sight smack all air out of your lungs at once, your cunt clenching around him weakly as it turns all soggy and sloppy, squirt running down your folds and pooling around the girthy length of his cock, making him sink in deeper. He looks like he crawled straight out of a porn (the one's you watch in the clandestine silence in the dead of night on your laptop - of muscular, lean men cruelly drilling into women, after they tied them up, making them cry with desperation and pain), right onto your bed and between your legs.

The flashlight illuminates mostly his crotch, barely trimmed pubic hair curling around the thick, thick base of his dick - glistening wetly with your slick - and spreads upward, over his defined adonis belt, soft hair dusted over his belly. Black ink curls under the tan skin, shiny with sweat and his muscles ripple firmly, laboriously, as he pushes inside you, rolls his hips forward. His curly hair falls into his forehead as he watches his dick stretching you out to the brim through the small phone screen, chest heaving with deep, quick breaths. Mouth agape slightly, the scars pulling his expression into a satisfied grin, cheeks glistening with sweat and a light pink tint - the strong jaw tensing, brows furrowed.

To you, he is beautiful. You wish you could touch him. Run your hands through his hair, over his neck, shoulders and arms, cling to his back. But he feels so far gone, separated by the phone, as he stuffs his dick into you.

He really does slip in easier this time, your walls still plush and slick with your own wetness and the remainders of his cum and your hole squelches around him, a soft groan escaping his lips as he buries himself fully in your cunt. And from this position he can see it, the slight bulge of your belly, the way your pussy is split around his cock, and he has to halt for a moment, steady himself. Then, he rolls his hips back, only to thrust forward in one fluid motion. Watches the bulge vanish and then return in its full glory.

And you - oh you - you gasp, mouth a perfect little o as you feel him filling you completely, so much heavier than earlier in this position. Your walls still burn with the friction and the strain, but it feels so so good, your back tingling and your mind zeroing in on chasing that heat in your abdomen.

Your legs fall to the sides and his hole splits open for him, and this time he grunts as his cock slips in easily, nestles itself into your snug pussy.

"O-oh", you whine sharply as he brushes along your walls perfectly, seemingly slipping inside of you forever and ever, until his thick mushroom head hits your cervix once more. Immediately, your cunt spasms around his dick and squirts again, liquid running down your folds and onto his cock. "Oh, oh God", you breathe out, eyes trained on where he splits you open on his dick, thick bush of pubic hair curling wetly with your juices.

"Don'tcha want me to stop, sugar?", he sounds cruel, a little breathless, and you should - you really should, but you don’t - instead, you weakly shake your head.

"You're just a little slut, aren'tcha?", he leans in, all dark eyes and sharp incisors between knotted skin, "Y'really need it that badly? Brucie not good enough?"

"Nu-huh", you make, feeling your limbs growing numb and light as he continues to fuck into you oh so slowly, tip of his cock hitting your cervix. And that's when it washes over you: it starts in your fingers and crawls through your whole body, bright and warm, as your mind goes blank and your body limp. It feels like floating, the sole thing you can feel is his cock slipping in and out of your hole that clenches wantonly around him.

He watches, as your eyelids grow heavy and your hands let go off the bedsheet, arms now resting uselessly at your sides. Grins, licks the insides of his cheeks. There you are. Finally.

"Gotta go, Bats, got a reeeal needy hole to take care of", he grunts, runs his cock through your folds, before he shoves himself back inside, bottoms out. You cry out in a high-pitched moan, throwing your head back.

The phone does a little ping sound and then he tosses it to side carelessly, where it bounces off the mattress and falls to the ground clattering, and then he grabs your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into your flesh. His grip is so so strong as he pulls you up, manhandles you onto his strong thighs and into his lap, presses you against his chest - sinking back onto his calves in the process. The dim, colourful lights of Gotham's bustling night life is now the only remaining light source that floods your room, and it illuminates his skin, his face - in soft red and pink and orange colours, dances over the sweaty skin making the green of his hair gleam eerily.

The sole sound filling the cool, dark room is the noise of your cojoined breaths, ragged and exhausted, as you both feel his dick filling you to the brim; hole still slick with his cum and your own, fresh wetness.

"Such a pretty little doll", he whispers, voice coarse as he looks up at you.

Pretty.

He thinks you are pretty. Through the thick haze of lust, you can feel your heart skipping a beat, mind a little fuzzy with the praise.

Pretty pretty pretty

His cock presses against your cervix and you feel like you are going to burst. You want to answer him - tell him how beautiful he is to you, how delightfully he hurts you and how much you relish in the pain cursing through your whole body - but you simply cannot, unable to form a coherent sentence.

His slender fingers wrap around on your waist and neck as he holds you close, in a choke-hold grip of his strong arms that feels all-engulfing like you he can pull you six-feet under and down to Hell just like that. And you mirror him, a sharp pull inside of your chest that tugs you closer to him, arms wrapping around his chest - your hands flat on his back, as you cling to him. Like he's your saviour.

And he fucks you like it, too. Like he cannot be inside you deep enough. Pistoning his hips into you, he hoists you up to meet his thrusts and your head sacks forward against his forehead with a shaky, exhausted moan as his dick brushes along your walls, hits your spot and then prods against your cervix. The dull pain feels nice, truly nice, has your blood running hot and rampant through your body; lust cursing through your loins and up up up your spine to your brain, tingles alluringly before rushing back down to flood your cunt. Your pussy squelches around him obscenely, his unkempt pubic hair and the trail on his adonis belt rub against your clit, making you mewl and gasp.

"Just a little more, sugar", he grunts looking up at you, as he ruts into your abused and sore hole and you cannot think, cannot breathe, cannot do anything despite sacking against him and taking it all, your mind long lost in the thick fog of pleasure, "Y'got it, just a bit longer."

You do not think that you have it in you. Exhaustion and overstimulation make your head spin, jaw slack and breathing shallow and rapid. But you want to be good for him; partially because you are terrified of what would happen if you didn't. But another part of you, undoubtedly the larger, longs for his soft touch, his voice calm and eager; like he had been earlier, It's alright, sugar. I'm here now.

Giving in to him your head sinks down onto his shoulder. Your lower back protests at the pressure it adds to his thrusts and the way he manhandles you to meet them like a fleshlight, and Jesus fucking Christ, you cannot think anymore. Your body does not belong to you anymore, reduced to an archaic state of true animalistic desires; pain and pleasure mingling inside of you, making you feel like you are burning bright.

He loves it. Loves the way you let him ruin you. Loves, that you love it.

Loves it so much that he comes to you hate you for it, wishing you would struggle more. But he has torn you open, broken you enough already, and he knows that what is to come is so so much better than beating and abusing you into submission. He will leave that to yourself.

Bouncing you on his dick, he lowers his head to meet the crook of your neck and inhales your scent - sweat and lingering remains of your cheap perfume - and his dick twitches inside of you.

You turn him on so much. Your desperation: today and last week, at Arkham. How you looked at him like you held all the cards, like you were in power. As if you had anything to match his mind with, to maintain your agency. You were doomed the second the foolish doctor made her first call to your meaningless, corrupt newspaper. You are nothing. He knows you feel it, too - deep deep down - quivering and wailing in his arms tonight, body amped up for survival only to be plunged deep into painful pleasure.

He never holds them close. Never. He usually gets rid of them right after, enjoys the way his blade cuts and tears, slices and dices - but he enjoys your sounds, and the way your pussy clenches and cries around him, sucks him in so so much more.

And he decides that he needs more of this; more of the sweet and steady gasps slipping from your lips. No, scratch that. He needs to hear you scream.

You can hear him grunt into your hair, sticking to your sweaty neck, and then the hand on your waist moves down down down, grabs your ass. You gasp at the way his cock slips in even deeper as he pulls your cheeks apart. He looks down onto your crack, the way your ass bounces as he thrusts you down on his dick and then spits down onto his hand - spreads his saliva over his fingers with his thumb, before he dips his hand between your cheeks, runs his fingers over your puckering asshole.

You jolt, but the grip on your ass - the way his arms keep you caged against him - is too strong and you cannot get away from him. No one has ever touched you back there. "N-no", you stammer, pathetic moans falling from your lips as the tip of his cock repeatedly brushes over your spot and knocks against your cervix. You are so so wet, you can feel your juices running down your upper thighs and smearing along his as well.

He does not seem to listen to your exhausted pleas; instead, his finger presses against the tight, tight ring of muscles and you cry out as he breaches it. With his spit barely providing sufficient lubrication, he presses in roughly and dryly, has you squirming against him, your legs kicking out a little with painful discomfort.

"P-please, don't", you sob, your hands pushing against his arms in a weak show of protest, but he is not listening. Does not even notice your hopeless attempts of pushing him away. Instead he mutters something inaudible to himself; his stomach clenching and balls tensing with the way he can feel both your tight, little holes around his finger and his cock.

You are so hot against and around him, it makes him clench his teeth, jaw tensing so much his head starts to hurt and he wants so to inflict it all upon you - make you suffer, wail, and die.

Shoving his index finger in further, you howl, sobbing against his shoulders at the sudden and overwhelming intrusion. You notice that your cheeks are wet. Thick, hot streams of tears roll down your face, and onto his strong shoulder. Your hands are clawing at his back, nails tearing and ripping at his skin and drawing blood in long, red streaks. It makes him growl and, like he is trying to get back at you, he pushes past the tight ring of muscles. And you feel so incredibly fucking full already - his finger already feels huge in your tiny hole - but then he presses it against your walls, feeling the way his cock rams into you.

That's when your cunt spasms around his cock - your brain short-circuiting with pain and pleasure - squirt drenching his pubic hair like a broken hose, splashing against his lower abdomen, staining his jeans and dripping down onto the mattress. You gasp, as the dull pain in your ass subsides and gets replaced with a burning desire. It crawls up your spine and pools in your stomach, pure and utter euphoria cursing through your veins as it lights up the endings of your nerves, your skin feeling hot and feverishly.

Slowly, slowly moving his finger inside of you, you moan; tears still falling from your eyes. You do not feel the sharp pang of pain and your body does not belong to you any longer either. Instead, you feel like drowning in way too many stimuli and there is nothing but a thick fog that settles over everything. The only prominent feeling is the coil inside of your lower stomach, tensing up and chasing relief; with your hamstrings practically liquified from sitting in his lap and your muscles tensing, your throat raw and sore from screaming.

And thus, all that leaves your mouth when he retracts his index-finger and roughly pushes it back in together with his middle-finger - ripping the skin of hole apart, little pecks of blood pooling at his knuckles - is a pornographic and fucked-out whine, your legs parting further as you sink deeper on his lap, a spread eagle that he manoeuvres up and down up and down on his dick, while his fingers assault your asshole. You feel full, the pads of his digits rubbing along your walls, feeling his own cock abusing your cunt.

Oh, this is it. This is exactly what you are supposed to be like for him, this is your purpose. And he deserves this. He really does; with the way you led him on all these weeks, you dumb little thing you could outrun him, beat him at his own game.

And now you - you stupid, foolish little girl - dare to look up at him through teary eyes, your mascara running down your cheeks darkly. And he nearly, nearly pities you. But you'll have to take it. There's no way for you out of this now - he knows that this is what you wanted, needed.

And that is when his dark eyes gleam back at you with something so so sinister that it shakes you to your core; but to you - fucked out of your mind and too far gone for your own good - it resembles your own lust more than anything and you get lost in it, too. Get lost in the way he looks down upon you, jaw twitching as he bounces you on his cock, two fingers plugging up your arsehole.

"Fuckin' slut", he mutters, licks his lips and your eyes roll back, jaw still slack. Feeling saliva pooling on your bottom lip, you sigh and then it drips and drips and drips onto his shoulder and his chest. His cock twitches inside of you and you hear him grunt Imma make you scream and that he does, as he starts to move his fingers inside of you, fucks your ass fast and rough.

Your body moves like a ragdoll with the way he violates you, your spit running down both your sweaty bodies. You feel so so full and it is all too much, your body numb and your head all mushy, and then he buries his mouth against the crook of your neck - bites down.

The world around you goes silent, the only thing remaining is the thundering of your heartbeat and the way your pussy tightens around him. The last thing you feel is a burning, cold-hot pain blooming at your neck and hot ropes of his cum filling you up, like an endless stream, before your mind goes blank and your vision goes dark.

It is way past midnight when you come to. The mattress is soft beneath your body that aches beyond comparison and you groan. Stretching your arm you reach into the chilly air, only to find the mattress empty and cold besides you. Your sheets smell of sex and pain and pleasure. You inhale deeply, burying your face in the pillow. It smells like him, and shame and lust wash over your body in hot waves.

You do not know how long you stay like this, spread out on your dirty, blood-stained and sweat-drenched sheets like a dead starfish. Eventually, you crave water, mouth dry and head aching badly, nausea bubbling in your stomach; you roll around, opening your eyes carefully, before you get to your feet groaning and huffing. The skin on your lower belly stings as it stretches with every step you take, but you do not dare to look down.

In a week from now a thick scab will lay on it, the skin around it bulging thickly as it scars. In the silent dead of night, you will pick at it, make the letters bleed as you plunge your toys deep into your cunt.

Your flat is cold, dark and silent. You wonder where he went. If you didn't feel his dried cum on your pussy and thighs and the cuts on your body, you wouldn't be too surprised if it all had been just a dream - conjured up by your brain by long hours, little sleep and too much caffeine. You shuffle down the hallway, your vision unsteady and blurry, darting out with your hands for any sort of leverage, scraping along the hard walls.

Making it to the living room, you are greeted with the sight of Gotham's city light flickering and gleaming frantically outside of your window, painting the floor and walls of your living room in a ghostly, colourful hue.

There is a disturbingly upbeat hum coming from the kitchen. Warmth, just as well as dread, fills your gut and you stagger closer.

The Joker is standing at your opened kitchen window, nursing a cigarette. Outside, rain trickles down from rooftops and streetlights in a lazy drizzle. He looks at you, as you tap into the kitchen, bare feet on cold wooden floors. You yawn, your whole body aching and worn, your cunt sore.

And he lets his face give him away, the pang of amusement he feels as you cling to your furniture in a desperate attempt to keep yourself on your feet.

"Look at you", he muses, grins, and takes another drag from his cigarette, "Looks like someone rather oh. so. enjoyed. themselves." Clicks his tongue.

You shoot him a glance, still a little out of it and he swims in your vision - a blurry mosaic, its pieces setting themselves together as quickly as they dissipated - and he breaks out in cackling laughter that dies down quickly, as he nearly chokes on it, clears his throat.

"Oh, don't you worry sugar, I will be back." And,

And he sounds normal saying that. Earnest. No twirling of syllables or phonetics, no sing-songy voice. Just - him. A barritone, deep and oddly soothing.

And for some strange reason - one that you would not necessarily dare to pry into - the sudden surge of fear, that initially crawled up your back, gets replaced a tingling warmth in your belly that shoots down down down between your thighs, makes you fucking wet.

You grip the edge of the kitchen isle's counter to steady yourself. You feel like dying, even though you know you won't, not yet - nothing, no one is going to save you. "Yeah?", you breathe, sounding strangely hopeful, your heart beating in your chest like a buck-wild bronco.

The feeling inside your stomach is nothing short of acidic, traitorous and gnawing. It flutters, like moths, and nausea bubbles with it, raises up up up to your throat. With it, your heartbeat accelerates. If you didn't know any better, you'd say it feels like that one time you went out with that one guy.

And his eyes gleam with accomplishment as he looks at you, gaze darting over your face. Then looks out of the window once more.

"There's something coming", he says, sounding a bit absent, as he takes another drag from his cigarette, smoking curling from the stunted corners of his mouth into the cool air. Outside, sirens howl, people laugh, and a gunshot goes off that has you flinching, but he pays it no mind.

Truth is, he has no idea why he is just about to tell you who he met with underneath Gotham a few days ago. Maybe, he muses while watching the ashes sizzling away, it is because he does not want to give up his newfound toy yet. You were so much more fun than he had previously expected - he rarely ever enjoyed pumping his load into someone quite as much as he enjoyed filling you to the brim with it. Feeling you up and hearing you whimper and moan, coming apart under his touch. Maybe he just doesn't want to lose the best prospect to becoming his personal, pretty cum-dumpster, yet. Or - maybe - he is just finally losing it for real.

You, however, have a sinking feeling in your gut, nothing short of a premonition. The way he says it sounds foreboding.

"I will come for you then - to pick you up", he says, calmly, presses the stump of his cigarette out on your windowsill, before he shoves one of his ridiculously long legs out of the window and onto the rail of the fire-exit. "Until then - don't do something I wouldn't do, sugar", he says licking his lips and fucking winks at you, before climbing out of the window and onto the stairs, vanishing in the night.

The only thing he leaves behind is the sharp smell of tobacco lingering in the cool air, pain coursing through your body in shockwaves and a traitorous ache between your thighs.

#joker x reader #joker smut #ledger!joker x reader #ledger!joker #ledger!joker smut #heath ledger #the dark knight rises #the dark knight joker #my writing #smut #the joker #dc joker

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