Work Text:
You know you should have come home earlier. It isn’t the first time your boss voices a small random request that, in reality, entails more than he initially envisions in his head - just fifteen minutes, but suddenly the clock slips, and you realize you’ve been filling out the paperwork for an hour now. Granted, he stays late too; that doesn’t make you any less tired, unfortunately. You’re not feeling particularly excited about arriving home today either, finding it cold, empty, devoid of any presence.
The fatigue is pulling at your eyes, but you’re not ready to give up on your evening just yet, there’s absolutely no way you’re letting this weariness lure you into the bed - you think that a shower will help rush it away, but it’s ineffective - the repetitiveness of it is putting you to sleep, cool water biting at your cheeks provides only a short-lived kick, its quick zap failing to evoke any lasting reaction from your body. But you keep working through it slowly, paying no mind to how the flow splits at your shoulder and runs down your front, your back, the droplets collapse and fracture upon contact, cascade into the bathtub, speckle one side of your face. Any attempts to deflect the worrisome thoughts invading your mind prove to be futile - J has been gone for too damn long, and the dead weight of perturbation is gradually sinking into your chest.
He vanished in the middle of the night - you presume, after receiving some unfavorable news in the form of a message on his cheap, beaten-up burner phone, the sound stirring both of you out of sleep, your bodies shifting, bed frame creaking lightly. Before he swiftly got up and dressed, you managed to recognize irritation in the raised eyebrows when the phone weakly illuminated his face; patchy, almost wiped off greasepaint, making you frown - he probably got it all over your hair and pillow again.
You never asked what happened - unless you wanted to relive the argument that erupted over seemingly nothing three months ago; that, undoubtedly, was the ugliest fight you two had. It started with what you considered to be an innocent question and ended with him poking you where it hurt the most, you landing a heavy slap on his cheek and him storming out of the apartment after contemplating something malevolent and sinister with a knife leveled at your throat. He came back only several weeks later.
You turn the faucet, the splashing stops, you dry yourself off with a towel that is supposed to be white but now has a stroke of dull, washed out red across it because someone used it to wipe his painted face and thought your reaction would be absolutely hilarious upon the discovery. You snort, smiling. When you wrap the towel around yourself - your makeshift dress just to ride on the after-shower freshness for a while longer - you realize that the weariness has not left you yet. You figure fueling up your system with a hearty dinner, and a glass of tart wine will finally liven you up - so you pad to the kitchen, stretching your arms and neck on the way, driving out the ache hiding in your strained muscles.
That’s where your plan comes to a halt - until you finally spot a couple of eggs that managed to escape you when you first opened the fridge. You’re certainly out of anything edible now, and you make a mental note to pay a visit to the grocery store tomorrow after running other tedious but unavoidable errands - the thought alone is killing your desire to continue with the task at hand. This is going to be your long-awaited day off you’ve been daydreaming about every so often at work, and now the prospect of dedicating all that precious time to something as unexciting as that shatters the anticipation completely.
One thing at a time, you think, let’s make this evening count.
When you reach to pick the pan from the upper shelf, you hear the door to your apartment open, and your heart skips a beat. You cannot resist the wide smile that curls on your face. It’s like your brain is infused with joy now, you’re overwrought, and it doesn’t matter if he’s in high spirits, annoyed or exhausted - you’re already battling between throwing yourself at him, attacking his neck, and dropping the towel, waiting for him to introduce you to the best part of today’s evening. You let the towel fall on the floor as he walks into the kitchen.
You are not prepared for that look on his face - as soon as he appears in the room, his glare locks you in place. His features are tense, and you’re clueless, praying that you’ve misread the fury flashing in his dark eyes, that there’s something else you can’t discern, something that will calm you. He heads towards you, and it’s a wrathful stride, the one that incinerates the playful bravado and has you nearly falling to your knees, begging him to think his decision over.
He’s going to kill you, finally, get rid of you, because he’s bored and you’re too much of a hassle - you’re sure of it because as soon as he gets close enough, his hand shoots up to squeeze your neck as tightly as possible. You see dark spots floating in front of you, your lungs pushing the trapped air out, you almost go limp, drowning in dread. There’s no resistance when he draws back a little to give your nude frame a once-over, and it’s a petrifying cocktail of feelings you experience - embarrassment, terror, arousal - the latter mortifies you, but you cannot ponder it right now; tears catch onto your lashes.
He doesn’t say anything and whirls you around, ignoring your protests, bends you over the counter, catching your hands as you make no effort to resist him.
“J?!” You almost shout when he brings them behind your back to fix the wrists in his firm grip. This is most definitely not the way you pictured your last moments, and although he’s had you spread in more obscene positions, right now, this is the most exposed and vulnerable you’ve ever felt.
“J, please! What did I do?!” You want to beg him to break the silence he’s been maintaining since he showed up, but fear overcomes you once again, a thin layer of sweat coats your forehead, legs tremble, and it’s as if your brain short circuits - you think you hear a zipper being pulled down, repulsed that this hallucination results in you inevitably thinking about sex. He spits in his hand - it evades you, drumming in your ears muffling the world around, you bite on your lip as your tears drip down onto the counter.
The sudden, rapidly increasing pressure against your cunt jolts all the thoughts out of your head at once. You’re not ready for this just yet, but he gives you no time to think or plead, his already wet cock meeting some resistance at the entrance until it pops inside, and what is supposed to be a smooth glide turns into a forceful push, your walls clenching down on the intrusion, body protesting at the hard drag of him inside you.
“J, wait—”
He growls at that and pushes even harder — you think you’re going to faint.
“Shut up and take it like the good little slut you are.”
He presses his hips flush against your ass, and it knocks the air out of your lungs, you squeeze your eyes shut, expecting an unpleasant, sharp sensation to flare up inside your pussy, but it never does. It hurts quite a bit at first, but you find the burning stretch delicious, the feeling starting to muddle your thoughts and tangle your tongue. Your body refuses to relax and melt into it, and he gives you no chance to adjust properly, pulling himself out completely so he can slam his cock right back in. You barely make any sound, choosing to concentrate on the intensity of the force he’s exerting on you, hoping to accommodate it, but the clasp on your wrists grows tighter, almost agonizingly so, and that earns him a yelp. He’s satisfied because you’re panting and whimpering now, and after a few thrusts, your ears start catching wet, obscene sounds as they fill the room and make J snicker wickedly.
“Can’t help but enjoy being fucked like a whore, huh?”
You barely manage to make out what he says, trying to hear past the pulsating resonance of your heartbeat. When you gather all the strength you have left to come up with a witty retort, he drives his hard cock in your cunt almost violently, driving your body further up the kitchen counter, your hip bones hitting its edge and bruising, making you reward him with a choked moan and teary sheen in your eyes that he cannot see but knows is there. A tingle spreads in your hands before they go numb, and you want to beg him to release them, but he fucks into you so vigorously, it renders your mind blank, your lips falling agape and your legs giving out.
He grunts loudly, you know he’s drinking in your reaction, he’s pleased with it, but it’s not even nearly enough to slake the lascivious desire and uncontrollable frenzy that is devouring him alive. You don’t know what happened and why he is so furious, but you notice your body giving in to the sensations, to the rough pounding, to the relentless ramming of his cock, each thrust making you care less and less. It doesn’t matter because your pussy is fluttering and clamping around him every time the tip grazes the spot that makes your vision blur and your clit burn. You love it.
He replaces his grip on your hands with a hold on your hips and, before you can upright yourself, he almost crushes you with the weight of his chest, his mouth beside your ear. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you note how laboured his breathing is and how his low groans vibrate through your entire being, you want to tell him how much you love his hot touch on your skin, but you discover it’s impossible to close your lips, they won’t comply and help you form the words, so you keep moaning, not allowing yourself to hold back those high-pitched whines he loves so much, hoping that he recognizes and appreciates the effort at least a little bit.
Each searing puff scalds your cheek, fans down your neck and rouses the fire building up in your core. It’s when you feel its flames licking at the back of your throat that something snaps, and a rush of pleasure washes over you, your feet kicking at his legs helplessly. He nuzzles his nose in your hair, hisses as the contractions start to impede his ability to move within you, his cock nearly popping out of your sopping pussy. He denies you the opportunity to savor the aftertaste of your orgasm, and your stomach coils up again when he wraps one of his hands around your throat to straighten you up and brings his fingers to your clit, to rub it in a circling motion, overwhelming you until each pass turns into an electrifying brush and each jerk of his hips becomes a punch of dopamine right into your brain.
“Ah— J! Oh m-my God!” You cry out and thank him, not sure for what exactly - that he’s making you feel this divine or that he didn’t consider sticking his cock in your ass - your heart would certainly give out.
“Oh, I’m your god, alright,” he says back with a snarl, his voice strained and guttural, and when you search for any trace of amusement in it but detect none, it covers your skin with goosebumps. It finally dawns on you - he’s using your body to release all his frustration and anger that has been boiling in him for, most likely, days. You can’t help but admit that it thrills you.
Something cold kisses the valley between your breasts, and you want to glance down, but you’re merely a toy in his hands - his fingers digging into your neck, preventing you from moving your head, limiting the amount of air entering and leaving your lungs, fogging your head. You brace yourself and focus on the push and pull, how his clothed chest feels against your bare back and how your heart leaps at the feeling of his slick with sweat and greasepaint forehead pressing against your temple, at him raggedly inhaling the vague smell of flowery soap on you, his groans hitting your ears and making you moan, adding to the symphony of lewd noises saturating the air around you.
His knife follows an invisible path down to your stomach, drawing out a bloody trail, splitting the surface. Pain comes to you with a delay - and at first, it’s as if that thin line glows, as if some sort of energy leaks out of it until the warmth fades away, and a sting strikes every disturbed nerve there.
“M-more!” You whimper and ache for him to keep gliding the sharp edge, to dig deeper so he can call you a good girl for wanting to take it further, despite knowing how reckless he gets when he truly indulges himself when the lust overpowers every last bit of rationality. Cruel laughter rumbles in his chest, he watches you flinch as he drops the knife, the blade meeting the counter with a clang.
“No, no, no, no,” his voice drops, he slows down the thrusts, suppressing the huffs and groans as they threaten to make their way between the syllables, “I thin-k, you’re getting the wrong idea here, doll.”
You make the mistake of not listening - rolling your hips, spurring him to quicken the pace, but he retaliates and drives his cock so far up your pussy, he bumps right against the cervix, the pain shooting through you is so sharp and piercing, an abrupt, choked-off cry scrapes your throat, your body stiffens.
“This,“ he gestures vaguely, and his next words are more of a venomous insult than explanation, “is not about, uh, you.”
He starts fucking you again, albeit his pace remains to be just as slow, measured, torturous, almost gentle - it offsets the weak ache that reverberates with each stroke until it subsides into uncomfortable tenderness and then retreats completely. When the moans and whines rise up your throat, you swallow them back down - he knows you’re trying your best to stay silent while he speaks, that it’s a great struggle to keep your mouth shut, but it’s not enough to convince him to ease up on you, even a little bit. He winds your hair around his fist, tilting your head sideways, so he can gain better access to your neck, lower his head, place light kisses to soothe you, trick you into thinking this fleeting glimpse of his softer side is the real him, that you can trust him not to seize the sensitive skin with his teeth just to hear you stifle a yelp and watch you parade around the marks he left later.
“You see, babygirl, the last few days haven’t been exactly fun. It’s one thing when some, uh, idiot messes up a little, easy-to-fix task, and it’s a completely different thing when this moron almost fucks up your entire plan. So imagine my frustration when tha-t happened, and your tight little cunt wasn’t around.”
“I’m, mmf- I’m sorry!” Pleas tumble out of your mouth, the sincerity in the increasingly desperate inflection of your voice only encouraging him more, taunting the animal inside him, and he allows it to affect him - his cock throbs, he bares his yellowed teeth in a wide grin, using his grip on your hair to angle your face up towards him, exposing you to the carnivorous glint flickering in his irises.
“Aw, you’re trying so hard for me, aren’t ya?” He asks, feigning a sympathetic pout, his eyebrows drawn up, his grip on your hair tightening - you feel each individual strand asking for mercy. “Let’s see you try harder.”
He takes full control - and you’re limber, pliant, leaning forward, balancing on one foot, bending the other leg at the knee, resting it on the edge of the counter, as his hands maneuver and guide you, mould and indent you to his liking. When he slides back in, it’s no longer a scratch - the new angle allows him to press the tip right against your G-spot, and he uses the opportunity without hesitation. The pleasure envelopes you, numbs and paralyzes your tongue, breaking what’s left of your somewhat coherent thoughts into unintelligible babbling. You’re so lost in the feeling of him, of his strong arm curving around your midsection, crushing your expanding ribcage, keeping you in place, you cannot register anything else, only every next assault on the spot that feeds the fire within. He slows down, but you don’t have it in you to protest.
“Now, babygirl,” he brings his mouth to your ear, but you don’t know for sure - it’s as if his voice is surrounding you, you can’t pinpoint where it’s coming from, but you hold onto it, hoping it will guide you back to the surface. He notices you’re struggling and sighs, asks you a question that you cannot grasp the meaning of, it doesn’t make sense to you.
“C’mon, doll, come back to me,” he says as his voice takes on a gentler cadence, he kisses behind your ear briefly. He sounds sincere, like he really wants to help you recover from this incessant surge of pleasure that confuses your thoughts - you know better than to trust his newfound tenderness, but right now, it’s the only thing holding you together. You gasp and pant, words dissolving into barely audible moans, and the slower pace turns out to be something akin to torture - arriving and receding waves, the anticipation of each one breaking you more and more.
“I need you to, uh, focus,” he breathes, and you finally manage to catch the huffs and groans he’s trying to suppress, his calloused palms feverishly smoothing over your abdomen, your breasts, your sternum, his lips brushing the curl of your ear before moving down to your neck, marking it with wet kisses, intensifying the flutter in the pit of your stomach.
“Please—” you exclaim, fighting the urge to push your hips back on him.
“Sh, sh, sh. You know how it works - you gotta ask nice-ly,” he murmurs softly through a smirk. “Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
You nod frantically, but the teasingly slow pace has you hopeless. The likelihood of him settling for just your moans is slim - it’s clear as day he’s not planning on withdrawing the demand he so thinly veiled as a simple request.
“C’mon, doll, the magi-c words, just like we practiced.”
You wade through the delirium that swallows you whole, and it’s an arduous endeavor before the first sound escapes your lips.
“I—”
He drives harder into you, and the word softens into a shuddering exhale, his scars graze the skin on your shoulder - he’s grinning.
“Fuck— I love— I love your cock!”
“Mhm, yes, you do.”
It seems to douse his irritation for a short while, dilute the belittlement thick on his tongue.
“I— God— J— I need to cum, p-please!” You cry out, and it’s an honest plea - but he’s unmoved.
“Nuh-uh, not how it goes, doll.”
You take a moment to level out your breathing, but when his hand inches down your stomach and he begins caressing your clit, it undoes all your hard work - every rise of your chest, every inhale is coaxing the flames out of the glowing embers residing in your core. You don’t remember what you’re supposed to say, not when you’re like this, completely out of it, and it turns into a guessing game until it no longer entertains him.
“I— I love it when you f-fuck me!”
“Getting impatient here.”
“I’m your sl—”
His next thrust cuts you off, forcing a startled whimper out of you, a pitiful little noise that trills into a meek sob and J inevitably picks up on the smidgen of gratitude you tuck in there. He really does deserve more than that, you both know it, but this is all you are able to muster up right now - that and the torrent of moans that start to annoy him.
“I’m your slut! I’m your slut!”
“And?”
You’re on the verge of tears, but he’s not letting up, thriving on the way your body responds to his movements, to his nails biting into your hips, to the fierce embrace it leans into despite the abuse it endures.
“I belong to y-you—.”
The stammering, the defeat and exhaustion you put into that simple answer - all of it wells up some kind of carnal excitement within him, and it picks up in sync with the pace, evolves into rigorous fucking that once again blunts your mind.
“Good girl,” he rasps out, a low moan slips past his lips, and it’s genuine happiness and relief that you feel when he utters those lovely words - words that hold too much power over you. Your stomach flips when he swipes his tongue at the corner of your mouth, lapping up the drool, and licks a stripe up your cheek to collect the tears you didn’t know you were spilling.
He pushes himself flush over and over with short, shallow thrusts, and a groan follows when your knee slides off the counter, and he doubles over, pinning you down with his chest. You curse as the cluster of tension that built up in the sore muscle unravels and travels right to the bone, the pain threatening to take you out of the moment, but the promise of relief mutes the rest of it, works like a cure. You’re way too loud - and even Joker concedes, slapping his hand over your mouth, overwhelmed, a litany of pleas almost bringing him over the edge - and as much as he wants to claim your pulsing cunt with his cum, he would be just as delighted to see all of it running down your face. And just as the image materializes itself in his mind, you burst out a sharp cry, your pussy contracts, and it takes everything for him not to immediately spill inside you. You whine when he withdraws and pulls out swiftly, and bereft of the erratic back-and-forth of his cock, you’re left to savor the electrifying ripples radiating from your quivering walls on your own.
When post-orgasmic bliss softens your features, he finds his bearings and clasps your shoulder tightly. He doesn’t say anything, only guiding, and you sink to your knees before him, dropping your mouth open as if on command. That alone entitles you to a fervid endearment, but the sight breeds some kind of twisted rapacity in him, and he acts on it, grabbing a generous handful of your hair at the crown, yanking with ardor. When your back meets the counter, it’s only a matter of seconds before he buries his entire length in your mouth. You thrash, gag, and that inspires him to push further, trap you between the counter and his hips, and it’s with unbridled lust that he watches your eyes water, blood tinge your face red. He pauses and steadies himself, gripping the edge, trying to stop the heaving when you look up at him, begging silently for his clemency, but his hard cock remains still in the narrow passage of your throat, blocks the airway, until he decides to offer you a momentary reprieve, sliding out just a little so you can gasp for air around his girth. There’s a strain coming on - you weren’t given enough time to adjust your jaw - but he ignores how you claw at his thighs and proceeds to force himself back in.
It’s truly delectable - to have you abandon the struggle and surrender, ever so exhausted, with no choice but to accept what he’s eager to give you. He looks disheveled and no more composed than you were several minutes ago - and you secretly take pride in it, the mere thought of affecting him to the degree where he’s completely caught up in the chase of relief, mesmerized with how his cock disappears between your swollen lips, with old greasepaint running down his face, blending together, intoxicates you. You feel the saliva pool in your mouth, easing the unrelenting friction and pouring down your chin, his steady strokes starting to resemble shaky jerks, your stomach jumping as he hits the back of your throat continuously, but you make an effort to tune it out.
He grunts, brimming with pleasure, drives himself into your mouth again and pulls out - you’re gulping air as it singes your insides, violent coughs erupt from your already sore throat; you feel like a plaything at his disposal, a doll he treats as he pleases when he draws your attention back to him with a hold on your hair. He gives his cock a few quick strokes, and the anticipation strangles your faint moans into shallow breaths. He aims at your face as you sit still, wearing a lustful smile for him to admire, but when his eyes finally flick to yours, he wipes it with a heavy slap on your cheek.
“Tongue out,” he orders, and you obey without a hint of hesitation.
The stinging pierces the skin, takes the shape of his handprint and somehow, it feels heavier than usual - the nearing orgasm, no doubt, adding to the strength of the blow. You come to realize you can handle even more.
You flinch when a hot jet of cum hits your face, some of it landing on your tongue - you’re tempted to taste it, but you can’t move, can’t take your eyes off of him. He’s hissing, grunting, allowing you to hear his low moans, as if ground through the teeth, and you take it in all in as he keeps your head fixed in place, working his cock. Mixing with saliva, it drips from your tongue on the floor as he finishes covering your face, and when the last spurt sticks to your hairline and the final groan leaves his mouth, he lets go of his cock, using his hand to support himself against the counter, loom over you.
You wait for him to say something, but he stays silent, looking down at your glistening face, examining his work. You gladly take the opportunity - once your tongue retreats back into your mouth, you swallow visibly, and a moan vibrates behind your sealed lips - he rewards you with a self-satisfied smirk.