FIC: Reasons
Reasons
(or My Black Attack Dog Is Named Bruce And I Teach Her To Do Tricks)
by eggblue
Notes: Batman/Robin, Batman/Joker stuff from 1999. DC own characters and stuff, so don’t sue, etc.
Summary: What do heroes and villains fantasize about during the lonely nights?
*
The room was pitch dark, and cool. It was very early in the morning, or very late at night. He couldn’t sleep, just as the night before, and the night before that. He couldn’t afford this. There were many things that he couldn’t afford, ever. But he had to get some sleep tonight. There were responsibilities and actions and consequences to those actions, and he had to be ready. Meditation didn’t help when he was this tired. He needed to relax. Relax and sleep and wake up tomorrow with a clear head. He stared at the ceiling which wasn’t a ceiling anymore, but just a dull darkness. It reminded him.
His boyhood heroes with black masks and swords, or rocket ships that sparked like firecrackers. Laser guns and blonde men with bulging muscles, moving on the screen at the picture show. The joy it brought back was immediate, with such memories... it was too hard to think about stopping, about rejecting the memories and the dreams as fancy and foolishness.
This was it, wasn’t it? People were always telling him that, but he wouldn’t listen. It was funny, having to be reminded to live. They didn’t see it, though. He lived, he breathed, every day, as much as he could bear it. His heroes did it, and so could he. The others just doubted him because they could afford to. He couldn’t doubt himself, didn’t they know that? He wished that he could show them somehow, show them the joy that did exist, he knew it existed, it had to exist somewhere, that’s what he was here for.
The heroes at the picture show knew it too. Every time a cliffhanger ended with them saving the day, a girl in their arms, a man on a horse riding off alone into the black-and-white sunset, a vanquished villain left tied up and subdued.
His heart beat faster. Selena dressed in black velvet, wrapped around her skin like chocolate over cream. Her green eyes flashed at him over dark glasses and lips that glistened, even in the moonlight. She was so beautiful at night, he imagined she even tasted like cream. He was at her feet in front of her, their heavy costumes rubbing together, his hands on the backs of her thighs and her back against the wall. He tested his theory with his tongue, his lips, the only exposed skin on his entire body. If she wasn’t careful, she might have put her claws through his skull, holding onto his cowl like a life preserver. She even purred for him, but not like a cat. She purred like a woman, and he pulled her closer.
Another blonde in his bed, drunk on expensive champagne and high society, clawing at his sweaty back. He couldn’t remember her name just now. Not like he ever saw her again, but he prided himself on his memory. Then that brunette in the back of the limo, with those legs that went on forever. Her dress was red, he remembered the zipper in the back that caught on her slip. He couldn’t remember much else. But that redhead, he remembered her. Or at least those warm hands that knew exactly what they were doing. That felt better.
He landed on the mat hard, and then his opponent landed on top of him. *This* he remembered. The contact of skin sliding on skin, the match between wills and bodies, of teachers and students in turn, and breathless pushing and shoving and kicking and falling. It was Tim! Tim was a great student, the best. He was a friend, wasn’t he? A good kid.
He had a good friend once. He was laughing with Harvey, hugging him and smiling, talking about women and work and the city, the way the city used to be. But things break sometimes, and that was sad. Harv deserved more. This city can do that though, can’t it? Like a living graveyard sometimes, trying to dig itself out of a hole that sunk and grew and decayed. It grew fear like a disease. ‘I shall become a bat.’ To fight to embrace to find a reason where none might exist. But it was proving something, in the power and the fear and the threat.
Superman begged him for help, weakened by Kryptonite and a foolish sense of infallibility. Sure he’ll help you, Supes. How did you get yourself into this mess? And Superman knew that he was smarter, and meaner, and better than he was himself, and it felt *good* to know. Like that yellow-eyed brat made to stand still, calling him “Sir, yes, sir” and the way the others looked at him too.
Not as good as other nights. He imagined the Joker in his hands, powerless. He hit him and kicked him until he saw blood, and then he didn’t stop. Oh it felt good. And no one was there, no Harley, no Gordon, no Robin. Just his own body like a coiled weapon, and that tall white monster like a rag doll at his feet. And there weren’t any consequences, or Arkham or death. Just the pain he could inflict and a sense of justice like heat in his bones. So sweet and pure.
Like holding a gun. And he was ten. He knew then what to do and how to move, and he moved so fast, the man didn’t know what hit him. There was only one death, and it was clean and it fit, like a piece in a puzzle that was always left undone. In his hands was judgment, in his hands was power. All that he had was saved by his hands, his hands wrapped around the gun in a white grip and teeth clenched so tight that his scream of rage couldn’t break through for the pain and fury. His mother’s pearls around her neck like a rosary.
Bullets rained onto his chest like small silver cannonballs, but he didn’t feel a thing. He walked like a ghost or a god, and then the bullets stopped and they ran. He smiled a smile for them, the only human part that they could see, but it didn’t look human. The knowledge of vulnerability covered him like a shield, and the blood in his veins felt like liquid steel. It would be done now, for good. It could be over.
He was a man now, fighting a beast. The beast called his name out, the name that he forgot belonged to him, and they stood face to face. It was so clear who was stronger, who would win. Why hadn’t he known it before? This beast was nothing, and he would bring him to his knees so fast there wouldn’t even be time for a fight. It was over before it started, the beast calling out his name for mercy instead of a threat this time. It was so clear, so clear who would win. It was nothing, nothing at all.
Gordon. And then one move of his hand. He knew it all along. They stood bare in front of each other, like men, instead of what they were used to being. There was nothing left but forgiveness and a handshake and no words to speak. Or would he rather it be different altogether? Holding Barbara up by the waist, her legs wrapped around him, her father miles and miles away. He was kissing her and touching her and moving in her... like it was with that blonde whose name he couldn’t remember. But she felt everything and he felt it with her together against the wall in the dark of the manor and she didn’t look at him with pity or disgust and he could look her in the eyes and she didn’t turn away.
Another day at the manor, eating breakfast. The door slammed and it was so bright outside like the summertime beating against the glass wanting to be let in. He came back. He just walked in the door as if he’d never left, and would never leave again. There were no more questions as to why or when, it was over. The door opened and he walked in and the sunlight really did enter the house. The other man smiled at him and it took his breath away. Dick came home.
Everything was more insistent now. “What does Batman dream about?” He asked him the question, but the boy didn’t let him answer. They kissed, or rather the boy kissed him, hard and deep. It was a ridiculous kiss, full-on open-mouth and breathless, reckless, just like he had been, just like he was. Jason’s lips, and that mouth... Jason didn’t have to question his desires like he had too. He had always been so free, unlike himself, who refused to give in, just a little bit. If he could have just let go...
Oh God, this was it, as it had been all along. It had to be. Why didn’t he see it before? But he was so tired and the night gets so desperate sometimes, and the thought hit him head on like a two-ton truck, like dynamite, like a bullet. Jason broke the kiss.
“Come on, tell me. I bet I know what it is.” He leaned in on him with his arms around his neck, his mouth inches from the other man’s face, his un-dyed hair curling around his forehead. The man he spoke to couldn’t move or answer yet, he felt paralyzed in his dream like he was frozen in his waking mind, but the feeling was too strong to stop.
“I bet that you think about being invincible, a hero, a great protector. And I’m there too, and Dick. Everyone just falls at our feet, nothing can stop us. Even if we die, it still doesn’t end.” Jason started to move their bodies together, flesh on flesh. The man beneath him had to close his eyes and roll back his head, in a sign of forced resignation. He spoke with words that resounded in pain, like they were forced out of him at gunpoint.
“But none of it is real, Jason. You know this. Not unless we start over again.” He took hold of his head and forced him to open his eyes. They looked sad, but not angry, not like the boy’s, who spoke with his anger, and wore it like a badge.
“This can’t last forever. We’re all dead here anyways, *you* know this. You were the first.” He shook his head as if shaking off a memory, and then he continued. “It doesn’t matter about starting over, just do it now.”
He looked as if he would scream, the war within him felt that strong. Every word the boy said brought him more pleasure than he could stand, even while his lungs seemed like they were collapsing in his ribcage. Jason trailed kisses down his chest, sloppy and insistent all at once. He felt dizzy and completely done with, like his life had ceased to exist some minutes ago and no one had bothered to tell him.
Oh God, but he wanted Jason so much. If just imagining his body on a cold night like this one could make it all worth it, when the loneliness was more desperate than the pain. He placed his hand on Jason’s leg to bring him back up, but he couldn’t control his movements, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to anymore. His leg, just as he remembered it. The hard lines and smoothed curves of skin and sinew against the bones, the way his body looked so hard, and then the shape of a relaxed ankle or shoulder, like youth and grace and stubbornness. It pulled him like a magnet towards its center.
Jason took him in his mouth, and he had to cry out loud. It was all shot and gone now, he couldn’t help himself. Never, in his whole life, and this feeling, dragged him under, like a weight of nothingness.
“Jason, please...” The boy used his sloppy mouth and reckless lips in every way he could, making the man in the chair dig his fingers into the leather armrests to keep from completely losing control for good. Jason stopped for a moment, breathless.
“Come on, do it, show it to me.” He couldn’t speak or move for what the boy did next, he could do nothing but struggle to keep control, not wanting to see what lay beyond the moment where he was right now.
“No, Jason, oh God I can’t, just... stop...” But he didn’t stop. He grabbed Jason by the shoulders and pushed him backwards, using all of his remaining willpower. Even after he did it, he still couldn’t believe that he had. He just wasn’t that strong, he couldn’t be.
Jason lay on his back, sprawled on his elbows, looking up with a shocked expression, his eyes and lips opened and wet. Looking down at him, the other man completely lost his reserve. He fell onto Jason’s body like he was clinging onto dear life itself. He held onto the taut muscles, alive and warm and shaking, and kissed him relentlessly. He drove their flesh together unconsciously, as if their bodies spoke in a language all their own. When he finally came, almost delirious with the reality and pleasure of it all, he didn’t even hear himself scream what turned out to be an apology, “I’m so sorry oh God I’m so sorry please God Jason I’m sorry please no...”
The impact when it hit him almost blew him away. He felt himself back in his bed again, alone in the dark with sweat-soaked and sticky sheets. He remembered that he wasn’t completely alone in the house, and buried his face in the pillow to muffle the screams that wouldn’t go away, and forgot the fantasies altogether in the sympathy of sleep until tomorrow.
***
Another place in the city ruled by another consciousness...
He looked at his skin in the mirror. It did not look like the skin on his face as he recognized it. It was pale skin, and rubbery. If he squinted real hard he thought that he could see tiny blue lines running beneath the surface and behind his eyes. He stared at those eyes.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...
Powder like white ghosts shadowed his shoulders. He relished the smell of it, fresh and tickling. White powder for white skin and a white mind. It covered his skin as much as powder can, but his was still there underneath. Thin skin, and old. Skin that did not belong on a body anymore. And his eyes yellowed and absinthe-green. Like a dead cat. He shook his head and let his hair go wild.
Life is but a dream.
He was preparing himself for his lover. He had a very special lover, dark and handsome and proud. Loving him was a prison, he knew, but it was a delicious one to be trapped in. Oh how he loved playing the whore! Deep down inside that was what he was: a whore to a bat.
“Daddy! Baby’s coming to play! Da-deeeee!”
He scampered into the bare, dark room. His lover did not raise his head or even move. Perhaps that was because of the awkwardness of the situation. Or perhaps it was because of the chains cutting into his limbs and pinning him face-down on the table. He scampered naked towards the center of the room to where his unconscious lover was.
The dancing man looked like a featherless bird. The huge man lying on the table wore a black mask that covered his head with little holes for eyes. But he wore a cape as well pulled over his shoulders and head so that all he could see when consciousness started to come around was a suffocating darkness. He could not see the dancing birdman, but he knew that he was there. The tied-up man could hear the echoing laughter. He could not break his chains and consciousness was eluding him again.
The green-haired man did not care. The green-haired man had a hard-on. Well, not really. His own penis hung limp and flaccid between bony thighs, long dead. His hard-on was in the shape of a pink polka-dotted dildo, cartoonishly large. It jutted out from his middle, straps taut around body hips. He was so thin and the dildo so thick and long that it appeared to weigh him down.
He moved closer to the man on the table, rubbing his cold and fleshless fingers over the bulky muscle and taut ass. He rubbed the skin roughly, slapping it intermittently just to prove that it was there, in front of him, and unmoving. The prisoner wore nothing except for that cape and cowl. His captor liked the game that they played, and he didn’t want to spoil it.
His captor, the captor, my captor, o captor, my captor...
*I* am the captor, the hero, the jack of all trades. Oh, wait. Was I speaking in the third person again? The doctors said that was a form of detachment from re-a-li-ty. They never figured out my secret. I love secrets! I love laughter! I think that the funniest thing is the look on someone’s face when I am killing them. The way their eyes bulge out and they laugh uncontrollably and they piss in their pants and beg for mercy and I never listen to them like I ever would but they don’t know me they think that I don’t exist like the bat does not exist but I know that the bat exists because if he did not exist then I would not exist and it would all be inside my own mind which is what they put me in Arkham for except what they don’t know is that the real Arkham is out here in the city the city is dying decay deadly death and I belong in this city she is a mother that never turns her back because she hates us too and we are all punished and you just have to laugh with her because she is laughing at us and the bat does not know this but I know this that is why he hates her but she still loves him because she is a whore like we all are whores and slaves and who is our master in the dance like I like to dance row row row your boat gently down the stream...
“MERRILY MERRILY MERRILY MERRILY....”
And he jumps! My bat my bat my bat on the table. No, not my bat. He is dressed up but he is not real. This is practice me alone with a guy who is my bat but is not my bat but I can pretend that he is real which is funny if you really think about it because he does not know what is going on even more than I do not know but I am the one with the dildo and he is the one in chains and I can picture my real bat’s face when he finds the man who is not my bat and he knows I was here but he is too late too late too late and I’m having too much fun to sleep before sunrise comes to the end the end the end...
The End
(or My Black Attack Dog Is Named Bruce And I Teach Her To Do Tricks)
by eggblue
Notes: Batman/Robin, Batman/Joker stuff from 1999. DC own characters and stuff, so don’t sue, etc.
Summary: What do heroes and villains fantasize about during the lonely nights?
*
The room was pitch dark, and cool. It was very early in the morning, or very late at night. He couldn’t sleep, just as the night before, and the night before that. He couldn’t afford this. There were many things that he couldn’t afford, ever. But he had to get some sleep tonight. There were responsibilities and actions and consequences to those actions, and he had to be ready. Meditation didn’t help when he was this tired. He needed to relax. Relax and sleep and wake up tomorrow with a clear head. He stared at the ceiling which wasn’t a ceiling anymore, but just a dull darkness. It reminded him.
His boyhood heroes with black masks and swords, or rocket ships that sparked like firecrackers. Laser guns and blonde men with bulging muscles, moving on the screen at the picture show. The joy it brought back was immediate, with such memories... it was too hard to think about stopping, about rejecting the memories and the dreams as fancy and foolishness.
This was it, wasn’t it? People were always telling him that, but he wouldn’t listen. It was funny, having to be reminded to live. They didn’t see it, though. He lived, he breathed, every day, as much as he could bear it. His heroes did it, and so could he. The others just doubted him because they could afford to. He couldn’t doubt himself, didn’t they know that? He wished that he could show them somehow, show them the joy that did exist, he knew it existed, it had to exist somewhere, that’s what he was here for.
The heroes at the picture show knew it too. Every time a cliffhanger ended with them saving the day, a girl in their arms, a man on a horse riding off alone into the black-and-white sunset, a vanquished villain left tied up and subdued.
His heart beat faster. Selena dressed in black velvet, wrapped around her skin like chocolate over cream. Her green eyes flashed at him over dark glasses and lips that glistened, even in the moonlight. She was so beautiful at night, he imagined she even tasted like cream. He was at her feet in front of her, their heavy costumes rubbing together, his hands on the backs of her thighs and her back against the wall. He tested his theory with his tongue, his lips, the only exposed skin on his entire body. If she wasn’t careful, she might have put her claws through his skull, holding onto his cowl like a life preserver. She even purred for him, but not like a cat. She purred like a woman, and he pulled her closer.
Another blonde in his bed, drunk on expensive champagne and high society, clawing at his sweaty back. He couldn’t remember her name just now. Not like he ever saw her again, but he prided himself on his memory. Then that brunette in the back of the limo, with those legs that went on forever. Her dress was red, he remembered the zipper in the back that caught on her slip. He couldn’t remember much else. But that redhead, he remembered her. Or at least those warm hands that knew exactly what they were doing. That felt better.
He landed on the mat hard, and then his opponent landed on top of him. *This* he remembered. The contact of skin sliding on skin, the match between wills and bodies, of teachers and students in turn, and breathless pushing and shoving and kicking and falling. It was Tim! Tim was a great student, the best. He was a friend, wasn’t he? A good kid.
He had a good friend once. He was laughing with Harvey, hugging him and smiling, talking about women and work and the city, the way the city used to be. But things break sometimes, and that was sad. Harv deserved more. This city can do that though, can’t it? Like a living graveyard sometimes, trying to dig itself out of a hole that sunk and grew and decayed. It grew fear like a disease. ‘I shall become a bat.’ To fight to embrace to find a reason where none might exist. But it was proving something, in the power and the fear and the threat.
Superman begged him for help, weakened by Kryptonite and a foolish sense of infallibility. Sure he’ll help you, Supes. How did you get yourself into this mess? And Superman knew that he was smarter, and meaner, and better than he was himself, and it felt *good* to know. Like that yellow-eyed brat made to stand still, calling him “Sir, yes, sir” and the way the others looked at him too.
Not as good as other nights. He imagined the Joker in his hands, powerless. He hit him and kicked him until he saw blood, and then he didn’t stop. Oh it felt good. And no one was there, no Harley, no Gordon, no Robin. Just his own body like a coiled weapon, and that tall white monster like a rag doll at his feet. And there weren’t any consequences, or Arkham or death. Just the pain he could inflict and a sense of justice like heat in his bones. So sweet and pure.
Like holding a gun. And he was ten. He knew then what to do and how to move, and he moved so fast, the man didn’t know what hit him. There was only one death, and it was clean and it fit, like a piece in a puzzle that was always left undone. In his hands was judgment, in his hands was power. All that he had was saved by his hands, his hands wrapped around the gun in a white grip and teeth clenched so tight that his scream of rage couldn’t break through for the pain and fury. His mother’s pearls around her neck like a rosary.
Bullets rained onto his chest like small silver cannonballs, but he didn’t feel a thing. He walked like a ghost or a god, and then the bullets stopped and they ran. He smiled a smile for them, the only human part that they could see, but it didn’t look human. The knowledge of vulnerability covered him like a shield, and the blood in his veins felt like liquid steel. It would be done now, for good. It could be over.
He was a man now, fighting a beast. The beast called his name out, the name that he forgot belonged to him, and they stood face to face. It was so clear who was stronger, who would win. Why hadn’t he known it before? This beast was nothing, and he would bring him to his knees so fast there wouldn’t even be time for a fight. It was over before it started, the beast calling out his name for mercy instead of a threat this time. It was so clear, so clear who would win. It was nothing, nothing at all.
Gordon. And then one move of his hand. He knew it all along. They stood bare in front of each other, like men, instead of what they were used to being. There was nothing left but forgiveness and a handshake and no words to speak. Or would he rather it be different altogether? Holding Barbara up by the waist, her legs wrapped around him, her father miles and miles away. He was kissing her and touching her and moving in her... like it was with that blonde whose name he couldn’t remember. But she felt everything and he felt it with her together against the wall in the dark of the manor and she didn’t look at him with pity or disgust and he could look her in the eyes and she didn’t turn away.
Another day at the manor, eating breakfast. The door slammed and it was so bright outside like the summertime beating against the glass wanting to be let in. He came back. He just walked in the door as if he’d never left, and would never leave again. There were no more questions as to why or when, it was over. The door opened and he walked in and the sunlight really did enter the house. The other man smiled at him and it took his breath away. Dick came home.
Everything was more insistent now. “What does Batman dream about?” He asked him the question, but the boy didn’t let him answer. They kissed, or rather the boy kissed him, hard and deep. It was a ridiculous kiss, full-on open-mouth and breathless, reckless, just like he had been, just like he was. Jason’s lips, and that mouth... Jason didn’t have to question his desires like he had too. He had always been so free, unlike himself, who refused to give in, just a little bit. If he could have just let go...
Oh God, this was it, as it had been all along. It had to be. Why didn’t he see it before? But he was so tired and the night gets so desperate sometimes, and the thought hit him head on like a two-ton truck, like dynamite, like a bullet. Jason broke the kiss.
“Come on, tell me. I bet I know what it is.” He leaned in on him with his arms around his neck, his mouth inches from the other man’s face, his un-dyed hair curling around his forehead. The man he spoke to couldn’t move or answer yet, he felt paralyzed in his dream like he was frozen in his waking mind, but the feeling was too strong to stop.
“I bet that you think about being invincible, a hero, a great protector. And I’m there too, and Dick. Everyone just falls at our feet, nothing can stop us. Even if we die, it still doesn’t end.” Jason started to move their bodies together, flesh on flesh. The man beneath him had to close his eyes and roll back his head, in a sign of forced resignation. He spoke with words that resounded in pain, like they were forced out of him at gunpoint.
“But none of it is real, Jason. You know this. Not unless we start over again.” He took hold of his head and forced him to open his eyes. They looked sad, but not angry, not like the boy’s, who spoke with his anger, and wore it like a badge.
“This can’t last forever. We’re all dead here anyways, *you* know this. You were the first.” He shook his head as if shaking off a memory, and then he continued. “It doesn’t matter about starting over, just do it now.”
He looked as if he would scream, the war within him felt that strong. Every word the boy said brought him more pleasure than he could stand, even while his lungs seemed like they were collapsing in his ribcage. Jason trailed kisses down his chest, sloppy and insistent all at once. He felt dizzy and completely done with, like his life had ceased to exist some minutes ago and no one had bothered to tell him.
Oh God, but he wanted Jason so much. If just imagining his body on a cold night like this one could make it all worth it, when the loneliness was more desperate than the pain. He placed his hand on Jason’s leg to bring him back up, but he couldn’t control his movements, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to anymore. His leg, just as he remembered it. The hard lines and smoothed curves of skin and sinew against the bones, the way his body looked so hard, and then the shape of a relaxed ankle or shoulder, like youth and grace and stubbornness. It pulled him like a magnet towards its center.
Jason took him in his mouth, and he had to cry out loud. It was all shot and gone now, he couldn’t help himself. Never, in his whole life, and this feeling, dragged him under, like a weight of nothingness.
“Jason, please...” The boy used his sloppy mouth and reckless lips in every way he could, making the man in the chair dig his fingers into the leather armrests to keep from completely losing control for good. Jason stopped for a moment, breathless.
“Come on, do it, show it to me.” He couldn’t speak or move for what the boy did next, he could do nothing but struggle to keep control, not wanting to see what lay beyond the moment where he was right now.
“No, Jason, oh God I can’t, just... stop...” But he didn’t stop. He grabbed Jason by the shoulders and pushed him backwards, using all of his remaining willpower. Even after he did it, he still couldn’t believe that he had. He just wasn’t that strong, he couldn’t be.
Jason lay on his back, sprawled on his elbows, looking up with a shocked expression, his eyes and lips opened and wet. Looking down at him, the other man completely lost his reserve. He fell onto Jason’s body like he was clinging onto dear life itself. He held onto the taut muscles, alive and warm and shaking, and kissed him relentlessly. He drove their flesh together unconsciously, as if their bodies spoke in a language all their own. When he finally came, almost delirious with the reality and pleasure of it all, he didn’t even hear himself scream what turned out to be an apology, “I’m so sorry oh God I’m so sorry please God Jason I’m sorry please no...”
The impact when it hit him almost blew him away. He felt himself back in his bed again, alone in the dark with sweat-soaked and sticky sheets. He remembered that he wasn’t completely alone in the house, and buried his face in the pillow to muffle the screams that wouldn’t go away, and forgot the fantasies altogether in the sympathy of sleep until tomorrow.
***
Another place in the city ruled by another consciousness...
He looked at his skin in the mirror. It did not look like the skin on his face as he recognized it. It was pale skin, and rubbery. If he squinted real hard he thought that he could see tiny blue lines running beneath the surface and behind his eyes. He stared at those eyes.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily...
Powder like white ghosts shadowed his shoulders. He relished the smell of it, fresh and tickling. White powder for white skin and a white mind. It covered his skin as much as powder can, but his was still there underneath. Thin skin, and old. Skin that did not belong on a body anymore. And his eyes yellowed and absinthe-green. Like a dead cat. He shook his head and let his hair go wild.
Life is but a dream.
He was preparing himself for his lover. He had a very special lover, dark and handsome and proud. Loving him was a prison, he knew, but it was a delicious one to be trapped in. Oh how he loved playing the whore! Deep down inside that was what he was: a whore to a bat.
“Daddy! Baby’s coming to play! Da-deeeee!”
He scampered into the bare, dark room. His lover did not raise his head or even move. Perhaps that was because of the awkwardness of the situation. Or perhaps it was because of the chains cutting into his limbs and pinning him face-down on the table. He scampered naked towards the center of the room to where his unconscious lover was.
The dancing man looked like a featherless bird. The huge man lying on the table wore a black mask that covered his head with little holes for eyes. But he wore a cape as well pulled over his shoulders and head so that all he could see when consciousness started to come around was a suffocating darkness. He could not see the dancing birdman, but he knew that he was there. The tied-up man could hear the echoing laughter. He could not break his chains and consciousness was eluding him again.
The green-haired man did not care. The green-haired man had a hard-on. Well, not really. His own penis hung limp and flaccid between bony thighs, long dead. His hard-on was in the shape of a pink polka-dotted dildo, cartoonishly large. It jutted out from his middle, straps taut around body hips. He was so thin and the dildo so thick and long that it appeared to weigh him down.
He moved closer to the man on the table, rubbing his cold and fleshless fingers over the bulky muscle and taut ass. He rubbed the skin roughly, slapping it intermittently just to prove that it was there, in front of him, and unmoving. The prisoner wore nothing except for that cape and cowl. His captor liked the game that they played, and he didn’t want to spoil it.
His captor, the captor, my captor, o captor, my captor...
*I* am the captor, the hero, the jack of all trades. Oh, wait. Was I speaking in the third person again? The doctors said that was a form of detachment from re-a-li-ty. They never figured out my secret. I love secrets! I love laughter! I think that the funniest thing is the look on someone’s face when I am killing them. The way their eyes bulge out and they laugh uncontrollably and they piss in their pants and beg for mercy and I never listen to them like I ever would but they don’t know me they think that I don’t exist like the bat does not exist but I know that the bat exists because if he did not exist then I would not exist and it would all be inside my own mind which is what they put me in Arkham for except what they don’t know is that the real Arkham is out here in the city the city is dying decay deadly death and I belong in this city she is a mother that never turns her back because she hates us too and we are all punished and you just have to laugh with her because she is laughing at us and the bat does not know this but I know this that is why he hates her but she still loves him because she is a whore like we all are whores and slaves and who is our master in the dance like I like to dance row row row your boat gently down the stream...
“MERRILY MERRILY MERRILY MERRILY....”
And he jumps! My bat my bat my bat on the table. No, not my bat. He is dressed up but he is not real. This is practice me alone with a guy who is my bat but is not my bat but I can pretend that he is real which is funny if you really think about it because he does not know what is going on even more than I do not know but I am the one with the dildo and he is the one in chains and I can picture my real bat’s face when he finds the man who is not my bat and he knows I was here but he is too late too late too late and I’m having too much fun to sleep before sunrise comes to the end the end the end...
The End