Fic: Chance in Hell, Part 2!
Title: Chance in Hell, Part 2
Author: ehmaz
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Bateman/Joker
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Warnings: [graphic murder, blood play, asphyxiation, organic towels]
Summary: ~4k words. I really liked the dynamic between the Joker and Patrick in the original story so I really wanted to explore it some more. Hope you like. :)
Part 1
Patrick Bateman watched the video tape over and over again. He couldn't see all of what he and the Joker had done, but the view of the girl was in-focus and completely on screen. He replayed the segment of the Joker stabbing her probably a hundred times. His prick hurt from jerking-off so many times in the two weeks since the warehouse incident.
However, Patrick found himself listless and bored. Work was grating on his nerves like never before. The other men at work still confused him with others and most days he got little done and interacted with them less and less. They didn't know the real Patrick Bateman, not like the Joker did. No one could see that Patrick wasn't just another cog in the office wheel, interchangeable with the other men in each office and cubicle, they never realized how special Patrick was. They didn't understand that the same power the Joker used to hold the city in his grip was the same kind of power that coursed through Patrick's veins.
And it did, now more than ever. He could feel it thumping underneath his Kenneth Cole wristwatch. He could feel the need and the compulsion coursing along his skin like an itch just under his Armani suit. Patrick ached deep in his soul and work was grating on his nerves. Finally by Thursday, two weeks after the Joker had found him in the warehouse, he couldn't take it anymore.
He left the office early, just after lunch. He slipped on his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses as he headed into the hot sun beating down on the pavement. With a quick click of his car remote, the alarm was unset and the doors unlocked. Another press of his thumb and the convertible top slowly rolled itself back like a flap of skin.
Patrick had tried to satiate himself the usual way, but to no avail. Two days after he'd had... whatever that had been with the Joker, Patrick had picked up a prostitute down in the Narrows and used electric cords and an iron on her. It was good -- for a day. Then the need was back. That undying hunger that made him break out in sweats and unable to concentrate was back. The days following that he had filled notebook after notebook with drawings and scribbles of everything he could think of to maim and torture.
That didn't help at all. It was like licking a salt block when starving to death. Patrick was worried that murder was becoming that way too: just something to do to pass the time. He knew what he wanted -- what he needed -- what he craved with every pulse of his heart and every bead of sweat on his body.
The Joker.
That damned clown with his disgusting teeth and paint-stained coat haunted Patrick's every waking thought, and every vivid dream. The city's populace sat glued to their T.V.s for scraps of information on the chaotic criminal, scared to go out at night, afraid to let their children go to school. Patrick watched for any glimpse of him too: roamed the streets at night looking for him, wandered the back alleys of potential bomb targets for a sign. He had no idea where to look or how to let the Joker know he needed more... more... of whatever it had been that happened in the warehouse two weeks ago.
Patrick hardly watched where he was driving as he sped along random streets, the wind unsettling his carefully slicked-back hair. He felt like he was coming unwound from inside. Just as he was becoming lost in his life, he suddenly realized he was lost in the shadowed streets in the industrial block of town.
He slowed and pulled over, turning off the engine. Pat looked around, his jaw flexing angrily as he gripped the steering wheel. The need was impossible to ignore. He had to do something, despite it being broad daylight, despite not wearing any protective clothing or having a safe place to do it in.
All impulse and no thought, Patrick got out of his car noisily and went back to the trunk. He quickly unlocked it and pulled a tire-iron out before shutting it again as hard as he could. His dark eyes scanned the narrow street, but it was empty. Undeterred, Patrick walked quickly down the sidewalk to the nearest alleyway and he paused at hearing a noise. He stilled and listened until he could discern that the sound was coming from the other end of the blocked-off alley. Hoping the source was human and not some stray cat, Patrick gripped the metal rod tighter in his hand and stalked down the pavement loudly.
Passing a stack of rotten crates, Patrick came upon a filthy old woman in so many layers of dirty rags it was hard to tell where she began and her clothes ended. The woman looked up with cloudy blue eyes and huddled in on herself, bringing up a grimy hand to pull gray dreadlocks out of her face. Patrick's lips pulled back in disgust and he resisted the urge to cover his nose from the smell.
"You're vile," he said quietly.
The woman hugged herself tighter and continued looking at him with her huge round eyes. Patrick decided this was hardly a thrill but more of a mercy killing as he brought the tire-iron up high and quick as lightning ended the vagrant's life, her small skull split nearly in two.
"Hey, what's going on down there?" interrupted a man's voice.
When Patrick looked up, he realized he had blood splatters on his sunglasses. He frowned slightly before taking notice of the man walking towards him: it was another homeless waste. Deciding to make this more interesting, Patrick shrugged and motioned with his crimson-soaked weapon to the lump still hidden from the other man's view.
"This person's hurt."
The guy looked over Patrick's expensive clothes warily before peeking around the crates. Patrick wanted to laugh; humans really were too curious for their own good. The homeless guy's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards quickly, obviously realizing what Patrick had done. Full lips, lightly sprayed with red, curved into a delightful smile before they turned into a grimace with the effort of their owner swinging the tire-iron as swiftly as he could.
Patrick continued beating the man until he stopped moving. He threw the tire-iron away from him, panting heavily with the exertion of his efforts. He stripped off his suit jacket and tossed it aside too before loosening his tie, the whole time keeping his eyes trained on the broken body at his feet. Patrick finally closed his eyes and tipped his head back, feeling the familiar rush of chemicals in his body, making him feel lighter than air and as powerful as a god.
You don't have some godly power over them.
The feeling passed quickly and Pat hung his head. His white shirt was sweat and blood soaked and then, anticlimactically, all he wanted was to go home and take a shower.
After collecting the impromptu weapon and his jacket, Patrick removed his glasses and slowly made his way back to his car. He tossed both in the trunk before getting in behind the wheel and starting the ignition. He glanced briefly at the shadowed alleyway before pulling out and heading towards home.
Twenty minutes later he emerged sullenly from his shower. He dried off quickly and wrapped one organic natural fiber towel around his waist, grabbing a second to dab at his hair while walking back into his living room and towards the kitchen. He was hungry.
A sharp, appreciative whistle stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked up quickly to find the Joker grinning at him from his own couch.
"You know what I like about you, Patrick?" The Joker asked, looking highly amused. He was wearing the same purple suit Patrick remembered so well from the warehouse. Pat's stomach tensed and he turned fully towards the man over whom he'd been obsessed.
"You may look like a schemer but you're not really, you just do what you want, when you want to. You're good at being... un-pre-dictable." The Joker's pink tongue darted out before he motioned to Patrick with one shiny purple glove. "I like that."
Patrick felt himself take a step back as the Joker suddenly stood from the couch. Patrick wrapped the towel hanging from his fingertips around his neck instead and held onto both ends. "What are you doing here?" he asked as calmly as he could. Inside, it felt like his heartbeat could hold the tempo for a spirited tango.
"Being as we're so well... acquainted, I didn't really think I needed a reason to stop by," the clown answered, flashing another grin before his face turned predatory. He took another step towards Patrick. "Although I did consider your little mess downtown as an invitation." The Joker took another step and was now within arm's distance of Patrick, he reached out slowly and removed Pat's hands from the ends of the towel and slowly slid it off, tossing it back over his shoulder on to the floor.
"But it wasn't enough, was it?" Joker asked quietly, looking up at Pat with wide eyes. They looked so dark, almost black, and were glinting with madness.
Patrick felt all the blood draining south and he switched his weight from one foot to the other. When he finally managed to find his voice it croaked, "It-it was." The Joker's eyebrows raised questioningly and Patrick blinked several times. "I mean, it was an invitation. But no, it wasn't enough. Nothing..." he trailed off, unable to say what he'd finally concluded after nearly two weeks of feeling impotent with rage and bloodlust. Nothing would ever be enough again, not without the Joker.
The Joker chuckled softly but it turned into a hysterical giggle right before he reached forward and grabbed Patrick by the shoulders, dragging him forwards and bringing his mouth down to Pat's shoulder. The Joker spread his stained teeth wide before biting down on the strong muscle there. Patrick groaned loudly but didn't try to pull away. He gripped the Joker's purple trench coat hard enough his knuckles turned white and tried to keep his legs steady as the Joker's teeth slowly worked their way through the first layer of skin, and then another, until blood started to draw out of the blunt cuts.
"Fuck," Patrick murmured, involuntary tears pooling in his eyes from the intense pain. Every muscle in his body was tensed and he grasped at the Joker's coat blindly. When the Joker finally pulled his mouth away, Patrick sighed with relief but winced immediately. He glanced down to see small rivulets of blood running down his chest from the shoulder wound. Pat looked up to see Joker grinning at him, blood mixed in with red greasepaint all over his mouth.
Without thinking, Pat reached forward and grasped the back of the Joker's neck, pulling him forward and pressing their mouths together. He kissed him bruisingly hard for a moment before pulling back enough he could lap at the blood on Joker's lower lip. When he heard himself moan, Pat pulled back with embarrassment.
"Like that, huh? I like when you take the initiative," said the Joker, looking over Patrick's flushed face and chest.
"You do, do you?" asked Patrick with a faint smirk. It was amazing to him how during the day his face was nothing but a mask. Underneath his conditioned skin and flawless tan was nothingness, blankness, emptiness. He had no fear, no happiness and no worries. Two minutes with the Joker and he was feeling elated and nervous at the same time, the mask breaking away to reveal the humanity that Patrick was amazed to feel inside himself.
Had he ever felt it before? He wasn't sure.
With quick movements of his broad hands, Patrick slid the Joker's trench coat and jacket off, then roughly tugged open the vest and tossed it to the floor too. The Joker stood passively, watching Patrick's face while he was stripped of his tie and shirt. When Pat's fingers finally shoved the Joker's pin-striped pants down, Patrick looked up and smirked.
"Polka-dot boxers?" he asked with a lop-sided grin.
The Joker laughed and toed off his shoes and socks before squirming out of his pants and boxers. He grabbed Patrick's hand like a little kid at recess and led him into the kitchen. While the Joker looked over the decorative knives mounted on the back wall of the kitchen, Patrick looked over the Joker's body. He had never considered himself to be bisexual but he had to admit the view was a pleasant one, despite the myriad of scars and bruising -- from the Batman, he supposed.
When the Joker selected a small fillet knife that seemed to fit his needs, he patted Patrick on the ass and walked unabashedly to the bedroom. "Come along then," he said airily before his mouth twisted into a sinister grin. He held up the knife and with an angry, harsh voice hissed, "It's time to play."
Patrick barely had time to relish the same frisson of fear he'd felt two weeks ago before the Joker had tugged at the expensive towel still around his waist. Patrick was tugged through the door and, unbalanced, was easy for the Joker to push onto the wide bed.
The Joker immediately straddled Patrick's thighs and roughly tugged the towel away, causing uncomfortable rubbing against Patrick's sensitive prick. He grunted and tried to turn over onto his stomach but the Joker slapped the back of his head with a mad laugh and suddenly Patrick felt the towel slipped around his throat.
Before he knew what was happening, the towel was being tightened and he grasped at it desperately. He took a quick gulp of precious air before his air passage was cut off completely. The Joker tightened the towel another cinch before bringing the knife down to very lightly cut down the middle of Patrick's right shoulder-blade. It was shallow enough that, while it did hurt, it was very secondary to the loss of air caused by the towel.
It's not about control.
His body convulsed underneath the heavy weight of the Joker. One part of Pat's mind was aware that more cuts were being made, but Patrick was feeling decidedly light-headed, and staticy-explosions of light were going off behind his eyelids which he couldn't seem to open. Just as he was starting to not feel anything at all, the towel was removed and thrown off the bed. A rush of precious air filled his lungs, and Patrick shuddered convulsively, whimpering at the sharp stinging that surfaced to the front of his mind now that he had oxygen.
"Your skin is sooo soft." The Joker sounded intrigued, and Pat felt one hand caressing his back. The Joker's fingers were spreading the blood around in random patterns. He felt the Joker's weight shift and then a long tongue was lapping at his sensitive wounds, causing a fully different kind of shudder to wrack Patrick's over-sensitized body. He moaned loudly, unable to help himself, and arched his back towards the attentive tongue.
Patrick turned his head slightly, wincing at the abrasions he was sure were forming on his neck from the strangulation. He remembered what the Joker had said about him taking initiative, so he went with his impulse to unsettle the clown and roll on top of him.
Feeling all that firm, warm, naked skin underneath him caused him to gasp and he looked down at the other man with something like surprise. The Joker winked before grasping Patrick's forearms and trying to push him off. Patrick was determined to take control though, and shoved the Joker harshly back onto the bed. The two men grasped at each others arms wildly, causing small knicks with the fillet knife that Patrick finally managed to wrestle out of the Joker's grasp.
He grinned triumphantly before bringing it down towards the Joker's neck. The clown was having none if it and with a growl punched Patrick square in the jaw, causing new stars to burst behind his eyelids. The Joker heaved with all his might and Patrick was shoved clear off the bed and landed hard on the floor, the wind knocked out of his sore lungs.
"Nice try! Close, but no cigar, I'm--" The Joker started to say but was cut off as Patrick growled and flung himself back onto the bed, his fist landing once in the Joker's stomach, and then low on his side. The Joker let out a strangled scream and curled up on himself, his white face paint smearing on Patrick's bedspread. "That's..." the Joker stopped to cough, "That's more like it."
Patrick grinned again as he held up the towel he had retrieved from the floor. He grabbed one of the Joker's arms, twisting it painfully behind the man's back. The Joker squirmed and got out of Patrick's grasp, but only momentarily, and Patrick somehow managed to tie the clown's wrists together securely. He laid down half on top of the Joker and both men lay there panting for a few moments. Patrick glanced down at his throbbing erection and his eyes rolled upwards to take in the expanse of naked flesh before him.
Oh, he'd take the initiative alright. Gripping the knife more loosely, Patrick moved fully on top of the other man. The Joker was still breathing hard and his eyes were closed. He had a blank expression on his face that Pat couldn't interpret.
Gently, Patrick smoothed away the ends of the Joker's lank, greasy hair. He combed it to the side out of the way. With great care, he pressed the blade of the fillet knife to the tender flesh there, and watched with unblinking rapture as the skin depressed and then slowly, slowly gave way, opening up to him, revealing its red secrets.
The Joker moaned loudly, his eyebrows furrowing.
Patrick closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. This was so good. He slowly reopened his eyes and dragged the blade down between the Joker's prominent shoulder blades, watching the trail of blood form sweetly in its wake. When the man beneath him bit his lower lip and moaned again, Patrick's attention was riveted. He had the sudden urge to taste that lip himself again.
Holding the knife aloft, Patrick let several drops of cooling blood drip down onto the Joker's mouth. The Joker's eyes slowly opened and looked completely black they were so fully dilated. Patrick laid down on top of him and settled his leaking prick between the other man's ass cheeks. He tossed the knife off the side of the bed and moved his arms around the bound clown to hug him lightly.
When Patrick leaned down to lap the droplets of blood away, the Joker's tongue came out to play with his, and both men sighed appreciatively. Pat scooted up to make it easier, being as he was draped over the man's tied arms, and they continued sliding their tongues together, enjoying the mingled blood and saliva. After a few moments the Joker's eyes fluttered open again and he craned his head around as much as he could, looking over Patrick's face with a blank expression.
Patrick narrowed his eyes wickedly and thrust his hips, causing his cock to slide along the Joker's increasingly-sticky crease. The Joker grunted and Patrick wondered if beneath the white make-up was a flush. He liked to think there was.
Taking only long enough away from the warm body to grab some lotion from the adjoining bathroom, Patrick hurried back to the bed. He kneeled to one side of the bound man and squeezed a generous portion out directly over the Joker's pink entrance. The man tensed and the pucker squeezed shut, causing a chuff of laughter from Patrick.
"You hardly blink at a knife cutting down your back but squeal at some cold lotion?" Patrick asked with a playful tone.
The Joker gave a genuine laugh and Patrick smiled faintly before stroking the lotion along the tight hole.
"Get to it," Joker hissed, squirming to get up on his knees. Patrick assisted him but did not remove the towel -- he knew neither of them wanted that. He used the lotion remaining on his fingers to slick his length before kneeling behind the Joker. Patrick gripped the man's thighs and lined himself up before shoving forward with a grunt, piercing through the sensitive guardian muscles.
The Joker's eyes scrunched closed and he groaned in pain. Patrick reached up, his hand caressing the tied wrists and hands firmly before moving on to get a hand full of green hair. He held the strands tightly and used it to push the Joker's painted face roughly into the bed while sliding the rest of the way inside.
Patrick could hardly believe how tight it felt, how hot, how good. He had raped a few hookers anally before but he'd never bothered with any kind of lubricant and the feeling was entirely different. Pat thought the Joker would feel better regardless, but didn't dwell on the thought or why he had it.
Instead, he began fucking the Joker thoroughly, keeping his eyes open just enough to take in every movement of muscle and skin in front of him. The Joker's expressions flickered between pain, pleasure, and intensity every few thrusts. He picked up his pace and started giving a roll of his hips each time.
It's about losing control.
When the Joker began making a high-pitched "uh" after each thrust, Patrick felt his control slipping. He gently rubbed the Joker's oily head before sliding both hands to the strong shoulders. He lifted the clown's upper half up and held him tightly against his muscled chest as he thrust with long, quick strokes. The Joker's head lolled to the side and Patrick couldn't help the groaning coming from deep in his own throat each upward stroke now.
He ran both hands down the Joker's body until he found the clown's prick with one and his balls with the other. He rubbed both, and the Joker arched his back, his grunts becoming strangled and nearly continuous.
With no warning, the Joker suddenly hunched forward and shuddered, releasing streams of thick fluid all over Patrick's hands. Strong muscles clenched around Pat's cock and a surprised gasp followed his own orgasm deep inside the other man's body.
They both stayed there kneeling, breathing harshly. Patrick softly untied the towel and laid the clown down on his soft bed before lying behind him. The Joker's eyes were still closed, but when Pat began rubbing the heavily bruised wrists, the Joker's head snapped around and he stared hard at Patrick.
"I gave you my name," Patrick said, rather than answer the questioning gaze directed at him.
The Joker chose not to respond and instead turned his head forward again and nestled into the expensive bedspread.
Undeterred, Patrick massaged the other man's arms slowly but firmly, aiding the circulation in returning to the abused limbs. "Can you give me yours?" He waited for what seemed several minutes, just listening to the Joker's labored breathing. Patrick pulled a pillow closer for them to share and settled both their heads on it, ready to fall asleep when the clown answered quietly, much to his surprise.
"Jack... I think."
"You think? You can't remember?"
"Sometimes... sometimes I remember it, sometimes I remember it as something else." The Joker paused and settled back against Patrick. After a long pause, he added, "If I'm going to have a name, I prefer it to be multiple choice." The Joker gave an almost-laugh and Patrick kissed the shallow knife-cut on the back of his neck.
Onward to Part 3!
Author's Note: The part where Patrick is beating a man to death with a tire-iron was inspired by the comic books when Joker beats Jason Todd, the second Robin, with a crowbar. He doesn't kill Justin with the crowbar, he later blows him up (along with Jason's mother) in a warehouse just as Batman arrives, sort of like Rachel Dawes in the movie.
The ending is a rewriting of the Joker's line, "Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... if I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!" from The Killing Joke.
Author: ehmaz
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Bateman/Joker
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters.
Warnings: [graphic murder, blood play, asphyxiation, organic towels]
Summary: ~4k words. I really liked the dynamic between the Joker and Patrick in the original story so I really wanted to explore it some more. Hope you like. :)
Part 1
Patrick Bateman watched the video tape over and over again. He couldn't see all of what he and the Joker had done, but the view of the girl was in-focus and completely on screen. He replayed the segment of the Joker stabbing her probably a hundred times. His prick hurt from jerking-off so many times in the two weeks since the warehouse incident.
However, Patrick found himself listless and bored. Work was grating on his nerves like never before. The other men at work still confused him with others and most days he got little done and interacted with them less and less. They didn't know the real Patrick Bateman, not like the Joker did. No one could see that Patrick wasn't just another cog in the office wheel, interchangeable with the other men in each office and cubicle, they never realized how special Patrick was. They didn't understand that the same power the Joker used to hold the city in his grip was the same kind of power that coursed through Patrick's veins.
And it did, now more than ever. He could feel it thumping underneath his Kenneth Cole wristwatch. He could feel the need and the compulsion coursing along his skin like an itch just under his Armani suit. Patrick ached deep in his soul and work was grating on his nerves. Finally by Thursday, two weeks after the Joker had found him in the warehouse, he couldn't take it anymore.
He left the office early, just after lunch. He slipped on his Dolce & Gabanna sunglasses as he headed into the hot sun beating down on the pavement. With a quick click of his car remote, the alarm was unset and the doors unlocked. Another press of his thumb and the convertible top slowly rolled itself back like a flap of skin.
Patrick had tried to satiate himself the usual way, but to no avail. Two days after he'd had... whatever that had been with the Joker, Patrick had picked up a prostitute down in the Narrows and used electric cords and an iron on her. It was good -- for a day. Then the need was back. That undying hunger that made him break out in sweats and unable to concentrate was back. The days following that he had filled notebook after notebook with drawings and scribbles of everything he could think of to maim and torture.
That didn't help at all. It was like licking a salt block when starving to death. Patrick was worried that murder was becoming that way too: just something to do to pass the time. He knew what he wanted -- what he needed -- what he craved with every pulse of his heart and every bead of sweat on his body.
The Joker.
That damned clown with his disgusting teeth and paint-stained coat haunted Patrick's every waking thought, and every vivid dream. The city's populace sat glued to their T.V.s for scraps of information on the chaotic criminal, scared to go out at night, afraid to let their children go to school. Patrick watched for any glimpse of him too: roamed the streets at night looking for him, wandered the back alleys of potential bomb targets for a sign. He had no idea where to look or how to let the Joker know he needed more... more... of whatever it had been that happened in the warehouse two weeks ago.
Patrick hardly watched where he was driving as he sped along random streets, the wind unsettling his carefully slicked-back hair. He felt like he was coming unwound from inside. Just as he was becoming lost in his life, he suddenly realized he was lost in the shadowed streets in the industrial block of town.
He slowed and pulled over, turning off the engine. Pat looked around, his jaw flexing angrily as he gripped the steering wheel. The need was impossible to ignore. He had to do something, despite it being broad daylight, despite not wearing any protective clothing or having a safe place to do it in.
All impulse and no thought, Patrick got out of his car noisily and went back to the trunk. He quickly unlocked it and pulled a tire-iron out before shutting it again as hard as he could. His dark eyes scanned the narrow street, but it was empty. Undeterred, Patrick walked quickly down the sidewalk to the nearest alleyway and he paused at hearing a noise. He stilled and listened until he could discern that the sound was coming from the other end of the blocked-off alley. Hoping the source was human and not some stray cat, Patrick gripped the metal rod tighter in his hand and stalked down the pavement loudly.
Passing a stack of rotten crates, Patrick came upon a filthy old woman in so many layers of dirty rags it was hard to tell where she began and her clothes ended. The woman looked up with cloudy blue eyes and huddled in on herself, bringing up a grimy hand to pull gray dreadlocks out of her face. Patrick's lips pulled back in disgust and he resisted the urge to cover his nose from the smell.
"You're vile," he said quietly.
The woman hugged herself tighter and continued looking at him with her huge round eyes. Patrick decided this was hardly a thrill but more of a mercy killing as he brought the tire-iron up high and quick as lightning ended the vagrant's life, her small skull split nearly in two.
"Hey, what's going on down there?" interrupted a man's voice.
When Patrick looked up, he realized he had blood splatters on his sunglasses. He frowned slightly before taking notice of the man walking towards him: it was another homeless waste. Deciding to make this more interesting, Patrick shrugged and motioned with his crimson-soaked weapon to the lump still hidden from the other man's view.
"This person's hurt."
The guy looked over Patrick's expensive clothes warily before peeking around the crates. Patrick wanted to laugh; humans really were too curious for their own good. The homeless guy's eyes widened and he stumbled backwards quickly, obviously realizing what Patrick had done. Full lips, lightly sprayed with red, curved into a delightful smile before they turned into a grimace with the effort of their owner swinging the tire-iron as swiftly as he could.
Patrick continued beating the man until he stopped moving. He threw the tire-iron away from him, panting heavily with the exertion of his efforts. He stripped off his suit jacket and tossed it aside too before loosening his tie, the whole time keeping his eyes trained on the broken body at his feet. Patrick finally closed his eyes and tipped his head back, feeling the familiar rush of chemicals in his body, making him feel lighter than air and as powerful as a god.
You don't have some godly power over them.
The feeling passed quickly and Pat hung his head. His white shirt was sweat and blood soaked and then, anticlimactically, all he wanted was to go home and take a shower.
After collecting the impromptu weapon and his jacket, Patrick removed his glasses and slowly made his way back to his car. He tossed both in the trunk before getting in behind the wheel and starting the ignition. He glanced briefly at the shadowed alleyway before pulling out and heading towards home.
Twenty minutes later he emerged sullenly from his shower. He dried off quickly and wrapped one organic natural fiber towel around his waist, grabbing a second to dab at his hair while walking back into his living room and towards the kitchen. He was hungry.
A sharp, appreciative whistle stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked up quickly to find the Joker grinning at him from his own couch.
"You know what I like about you, Patrick?" The Joker asked, looking highly amused. He was wearing the same purple suit Patrick remembered so well from the warehouse. Pat's stomach tensed and he turned fully towards the man over whom he'd been obsessed.
"You may look like a schemer but you're not really, you just do what you want, when you want to. You're good at being... un-pre-dictable." The Joker's pink tongue darted out before he motioned to Patrick with one shiny purple glove. "I like that."
Patrick felt himself take a step back as the Joker suddenly stood from the couch. Patrick wrapped the towel hanging from his fingertips around his neck instead and held onto both ends. "What are you doing here?" he asked as calmly as he could. Inside, it felt like his heartbeat could hold the tempo for a spirited tango.
"Being as we're so well... acquainted, I didn't really think I needed a reason to stop by," the clown answered, flashing another grin before his face turned predatory. He took another step towards Patrick. "Although I did consider your little mess downtown as an invitation." The Joker took another step and was now within arm's distance of Patrick, he reached out slowly and removed Pat's hands from the ends of the towel and slowly slid it off, tossing it back over his shoulder on to the floor.
"But it wasn't enough, was it?" Joker asked quietly, looking up at Pat with wide eyes. They looked so dark, almost black, and were glinting with madness.
Patrick felt all the blood draining south and he switched his weight from one foot to the other. When he finally managed to find his voice it croaked, "It-it was." The Joker's eyebrows raised questioningly and Patrick blinked several times. "I mean, it was an invitation. But no, it wasn't enough. Nothing..." he trailed off, unable to say what he'd finally concluded after nearly two weeks of feeling impotent with rage and bloodlust. Nothing would ever be enough again, not without the Joker.
The Joker chuckled softly but it turned into a hysterical giggle right before he reached forward and grabbed Patrick by the shoulders, dragging him forwards and bringing his mouth down to Pat's shoulder. The Joker spread his stained teeth wide before biting down on the strong muscle there. Patrick groaned loudly but didn't try to pull away. He gripped the Joker's purple trench coat hard enough his knuckles turned white and tried to keep his legs steady as the Joker's teeth slowly worked their way through the first layer of skin, and then another, until blood started to draw out of the blunt cuts.
"Fuck," Patrick murmured, involuntary tears pooling in his eyes from the intense pain. Every muscle in his body was tensed and he grasped at the Joker's coat blindly. When the Joker finally pulled his mouth away, Patrick sighed with relief but winced immediately. He glanced down to see small rivulets of blood running down his chest from the shoulder wound. Pat looked up to see Joker grinning at him, blood mixed in with red greasepaint all over his mouth.
Without thinking, Pat reached forward and grasped the back of the Joker's neck, pulling him forward and pressing their mouths together. He kissed him bruisingly hard for a moment before pulling back enough he could lap at the blood on Joker's lower lip. When he heard himself moan, Pat pulled back with embarrassment.
"Like that, huh? I like when you take the initiative," said the Joker, looking over Patrick's flushed face and chest.
"You do, do you?" asked Patrick with a faint smirk. It was amazing to him how during the day his face was nothing but a mask. Underneath his conditioned skin and flawless tan was nothingness, blankness, emptiness. He had no fear, no happiness and no worries. Two minutes with the Joker and he was feeling elated and nervous at the same time, the mask breaking away to reveal the humanity that Patrick was amazed to feel inside himself.
Had he ever felt it before? He wasn't sure.
With quick movements of his broad hands, Patrick slid the Joker's trench coat and jacket off, then roughly tugged open the vest and tossed it to the floor too. The Joker stood passively, watching Patrick's face while he was stripped of his tie and shirt. When Pat's fingers finally shoved the Joker's pin-striped pants down, Patrick looked up and smirked.
"Polka-dot boxers?" he asked with a lop-sided grin.
The Joker laughed and toed off his shoes and socks before squirming out of his pants and boxers. He grabbed Patrick's hand like a little kid at recess and led him into the kitchen. While the Joker looked over the decorative knives mounted on the back wall of the kitchen, Patrick looked over the Joker's body. He had never considered himself to be bisexual but he had to admit the view was a pleasant one, despite the myriad of scars and bruising -- from the Batman, he supposed.
When the Joker selected a small fillet knife that seemed to fit his needs, he patted Patrick on the ass and walked unabashedly to the bedroom. "Come along then," he said airily before his mouth twisted into a sinister grin. He held up the knife and with an angry, harsh voice hissed, "It's time to play."
Patrick barely had time to relish the same frisson of fear he'd felt two weeks ago before the Joker had tugged at the expensive towel still around his waist. Patrick was tugged through the door and, unbalanced, was easy for the Joker to push onto the wide bed.
The Joker immediately straddled Patrick's thighs and roughly tugged the towel away, causing uncomfortable rubbing against Patrick's sensitive prick. He grunted and tried to turn over onto his stomach but the Joker slapped the back of his head with a mad laugh and suddenly Patrick felt the towel slipped around his throat.
Before he knew what was happening, the towel was being tightened and he grasped at it desperately. He took a quick gulp of precious air before his air passage was cut off completely. The Joker tightened the towel another cinch before bringing the knife down to very lightly cut down the middle of Patrick's right shoulder-blade. It was shallow enough that, while it did hurt, it was very secondary to the loss of air caused by the towel.
It's not about control.
His body convulsed underneath the heavy weight of the Joker. One part of Pat's mind was aware that more cuts were being made, but Patrick was feeling decidedly light-headed, and staticy-explosions of light were going off behind his eyelids which he couldn't seem to open. Just as he was starting to not feel anything at all, the towel was removed and thrown off the bed. A rush of precious air filled his lungs, and Patrick shuddered convulsively, whimpering at the sharp stinging that surfaced to the front of his mind now that he had oxygen.
"Your skin is sooo soft." The Joker sounded intrigued, and Pat felt one hand caressing his back. The Joker's fingers were spreading the blood around in random patterns. He felt the Joker's weight shift and then a long tongue was lapping at his sensitive wounds, causing a fully different kind of shudder to wrack Patrick's over-sensitized body. He moaned loudly, unable to help himself, and arched his back towards the attentive tongue.
Patrick turned his head slightly, wincing at the abrasions he was sure were forming on his neck from the strangulation. He remembered what the Joker had said about him taking initiative, so he went with his impulse to unsettle the clown and roll on top of him.
Feeling all that firm, warm, naked skin underneath him caused him to gasp and he looked down at the other man with something like surprise. The Joker winked before grasping Patrick's forearms and trying to push him off. Patrick was determined to take control though, and shoved the Joker harshly back onto the bed. The two men grasped at each others arms wildly, causing small knicks with the fillet knife that Patrick finally managed to wrestle out of the Joker's grasp.
He grinned triumphantly before bringing it down towards the Joker's neck. The clown was having none if it and with a growl punched Patrick square in the jaw, causing new stars to burst behind his eyelids. The Joker heaved with all his might and Patrick was shoved clear off the bed and landed hard on the floor, the wind knocked out of his sore lungs.
"Nice try! Close, but no cigar, I'm--" The Joker started to say but was cut off as Patrick growled and flung himself back onto the bed, his fist landing once in the Joker's stomach, and then low on his side. The Joker let out a strangled scream and curled up on himself, his white face paint smearing on Patrick's bedspread. "That's..." the Joker stopped to cough, "That's more like it."
Patrick grinned again as he held up the towel he had retrieved from the floor. He grabbed one of the Joker's arms, twisting it painfully behind the man's back. The Joker squirmed and got out of Patrick's grasp, but only momentarily, and Patrick somehow managed to tie the clown's wrists together securely. He laid down half on top of the Joker and both men lay there panting for a few moments. Patrick glanced down at his throbbing erection and his eyes rolled upwards to take in the expanse of naked flesh before him.
Oh, he'd take the initiative alright. Gripping the knife more loosely, Patrick moved fully on top of the other man. The Joker was still breathing hard and his eyes were closed. He had a blank expression on his face that Pat couldn't interpret.
Gently, Patrick smoothed away the ends of the Joker's lank, greasy hair. He combed it to the side out of the way. With great care, he pressed the blade of the fillet knife to the tender flesh there, and watched with unblinking rapture as the skin depressed and then slowly, slowly gave way, opening up to him, revealing its red secrets.
The Joker moaned loudly, his eyebrows furrowing.
Patrick closed his eyes and took a steadying breath. This was so good. He slowly reopened his eyes and dragged the blade down between the Joker's prominent shoulder blades, watching the trail of blood form sweetly in its wake. When the man beneath him bit his lower lip and moaned again, Patrick's attention was riveted. He had the sudden urge to taste that lip himself again.
Holding the knife aloft, Patrick let several drops of cooling blood drip down onto the Joker's mouth. The Joker's eyes slowly opened and looked completely black they were so fully dilated. Patrick laid down on top of him and settled his leaking prick between the other man's ass cheeks. He tossed the knife off the side of the bed and moved his arms around the bound clown to hug him lightly.
When Patrick leaned down to lap the droplets of blood away, the Joker's tongue came out to play with his, and both men sighed appreciatively. Pat scooted up to make it easier, being as he was draped over the man's tied arms, and they continued sliding their tongues together, enjoying the mingled blood and saliva. After a few moments the Joker's eyes fluttered open again and he craned his head around as much as he could, looking over Patrick's face with a blank expression.
Patrick narrowed his eyes wickedly and thrust his hips, causing his cock to slide along the Joker's increasingly-sticky crease. The Joker grunted and Patrick wondered if beneath the white make-up was a flush. He liked to think there was.
Taking only long enough away from the warm body to grab some lotion from the adjoining bathroom, Patrick hurried back to the bed. He kneeled to one side of the bound man and squeezed a generous portion out directly over the Joker's pink entrance. The man tensed and the pucker squeezed shut, causing a chuff of laughter from Patrick.
"You hardly blink at a knife cutting down your back but squeal at some cold lotion?" Patrick asked with a playful tone.
The Joker gave a genuine laugh and Patrick smiled faintly before stroking the lotion along the tight hole.
"Get to it," Joker hissed, squirming to get up on his knees. Patrick assisted him but did not remove the towel -- he knew neither of them wanted that. He used the lotion remaining on his fingers to slick his length before kneeling behind the Joker. Patrick gripped the man's thighs and lined himself up before shoving forward with a grunt, piercing through the sensitive guardian muscles.
The Joker's eyes scrunched closed and he groaned in pain. Patrick reached up, his hand caressing the tied wrists and hands firmly before moving on to get a hand full of green hair. He held the strands tightly and used it to push the Joker's painted face roughly into the bed while sliding the rest of the way inside.
Patrick could hardly believe how tight it felt, how hot, how good. He had raped a few hookers anally before but he'd never bothered with any kind of lubricant and the feeling was entirely different. Pat thought the Joker would feel better regardless, but didn't dwell on the thought or why he had it.
Instead, he began fucking the Joker thoroughly, keeping his eyes open just enough to take in every movement of muscle and skin in front of him. The Joker's expressions flickered between pain, pleasure, and intensity every few thrusts. He picked up his pace and started giving a roll of his hips each time.
It's about losing control.
When the Joker began making a high-pitched "uh" after each thrust, Patrick felt his control slipping. He gently rubbed the Joker's oily head before sliding both hands to the strong shoulders. He lifted the clown's upper half up and held him tightly against his muscled chest as he thrust with long, quick strokes. The Joker's head lolled to the side and Patrick couldn't help the groaning coming from deep in his own throat each upward stroke now.
He ran both hands down the Joker's body until he found the clown's prick with one and his balls with the other. He rubbed both, and the Joker arched his back, his grunts becoming strangled and nearly continuous.
With no warning, the Joker suddenly hunched forward and shuddered, releasing streams of thick fluid all over Patrick's hands. Strong muscles clenched around Pat's cock and a surprised gasp followed his own orgasm deep inside the other man's body.
They both stayed there kneeling, breathing harshly. Patrick softly untied the towel and laid the clown down on his soft bed before lying behind him. The Joker's eyes were still closed, but when Pat began rubbing the heavily bruised wrists, the Joker's head snapped around and he stared hard at Patrick.
"I gave you my name," Patrick said, rather than answer the questioning gaze directed at him.
The Joker chose not to respond and instead turned his head forward again and nestled into the expensive bedspread.
Undeterred, Patrick massaged the other man's arms slowly but firmly, aiding the circulation in returning to the abused limbs. "Can you give me yours?" He waited for what seemed several minutes, just listening to the Joker's labored breathing. Patrick pulled a pillow closer for them to share and settled both their heads on it, ready to fall asleep when the clown answered quietly, much to his surprise.
"Jack... I think."
"You think? You can't remember?"
"Sometimes... sometimes I remember it, sometimes I remember it as something else." The Joker paused and settled back against Patrick. After a long pause, he added, "If I'm going to have a name, I prefer it to be multiple choice." The Joker gave an almost-laugh and Patrick kissed the shallow knife-cut on the back of his neck.
Onward to Part 3!
Author's Note: The part where Patrick is beating a man to death with a tire-iron was inspired by the comic books when Joker beats Jason Todd, the second Robin, with a crowbar. He doesn't kill Justin with the crowbar, he later blows him up (along with Jason's mother) in a warehouse just as Batman arrives, sort of like Rachel Dawes in the movie.
The ending is a rewriting of the Joker's line, "Sometimes I remember it one way, sometimes another... if I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!" from The Killing Joke.