Warnings: mildly dubious consent, explicit sexual content, general kinky shenanigans
Summary:Â You thought it could just stay a dream - thereâs no way heâd come back. Surely, the Clown Prince of Crime has better things to do than coming back for the glove he left behind.Â
A big thank you to all my beautiful friends on the clown fuckerâs discord - this oneâs for you! @princessledgerâ, @theharlequinofhateâ, @escapismprisonâ, @misfitgirlwritesâ, @jasminesideâ, @prettyxlittlexpsychoxprincess, @fanguy-kunâ đđđ€Ą
Why does it feel like Iâm going to do something stupid?Â
Itâs probably because you are.Â
Tentatively, you peek from around the corner. The Joker didnât close the bathroom door and youâre not sure what to expectâdead bodies in the bathtub, bags of blood that heâs drinking from like some kind of goddamn vampire, painting his nailsâbut it certainly wasnât this.Â
You rub your eyes, thinking you must be hallucinatingâyou know what that feels likeâwhatâs happening is in the same realm of surreal that dominated that Halloween night.Â
A shirtless Jokerâs standing at your bathroom counter, makeup-less and straight razor in hand, carefully following the contours of his jaw. He skates and glides around the thick, pink scars with more care than you thought someone like him would. Even seeing themâand his faceâwithout the makeup retains the dreamlike quality that you canât shake. His skin is tan and small tattoos cover parts of his arms and backâwhich are either burned or covered in scars as thick as the ones on his faceâand his torsoâs lean with wiry muscle. Your face goes hot when you realize youâre staring, but your eyes donât draw away.Â
Heâs completely focused on the task, but youâre sure he saw you come up and lean against the doorframe from the sidelong flick of his eyes. No thoughts enter your mind, and you focus just as intensely on him as he is on dragging the razor across his face. Hair wet and dripping, the green dye growing out, sharp cheekbones and doing something so⊠mundaneâitâs different than what youâve seen before, even more so than what you saw on the news. Not garish or even terrifying, his face almost becomes mesmerizing.Â
Thatâs itâyouâre losing it. Itâs official.Â
âAre you just gonna stand there all day, sweetheart?â he asks, quirking an eyebrow and slowly turning toward you, smirking when he looks you up and down.Â
You flush like some twelve-year-old girl but still canât bring yourself to look away. âU-UmâŠâ
With a jerk of his chin, he motions you to come closer. Itâs like your bodyâs back under the control of the shadows again, but you know itâs not. You want to come closer, you want to see more of the man that managed to turn an entire city upside down. You might not be hallucinating, but youâre still bowing to his influence, and it doesnât feel so bad right now. Â
Yep. Iâm crazyâIâve lost it.Â
Stopping when thereâs a foot of space between you, itâs under the weight of his gaze that you feel like youâre floating againâlike you did when he put you in bed last night.Â
âCâmere,â he says, throwing the razor into the sink with a flick of his wrist. You obey, squeaking when he picks you up and drops you on the counter.Â
Moving until heâs standing between your legs, the bare skin of your thighs resting against his sides, he doesnât let you look away. His eyes are black and endless, and the line of his mouth is serious despite how the scars curl into that permanent grin. When you saw the flickers of it the first time, they scared you, but now youâre wrapped up in the enigma that is the man in front of you, unable to make yourself feel fear. Spots of his cheeks are covered in white islands where he missed the shaving cream, and you canât help but think of the last time you were in this positionâhim between your legs and wanting him to be closer.
âNot very good at this,â he says, and you donât know what heâs referring to until he starts pointing at his face, tilting his head around to give you a better look and almost dancing in place, his body moving almost like that of a snake. Pushing the razor into your hand, he leans in close. âNeed you to, ah⊠finish the job for me, doll.âÂ
He⊠he canât be serious.Â
This is the second time heâs shoved something sharp into your hand, asked you to use it on him. Isnât he worried, concerned at all that you just might go for his throat? Youâre not suggestable anymore, your headâs clear.Â
Your eyes search his face, looking for his expression to switch and then finding yourself bleeding out on the floor, but he still hasnât done anything when he could have a long time ago. You sense no animosity, nothing other than barely suppressed mirth and curiosity coming from him.Â
Why is this something he enjoys doing?Â
Youâre not sure if youâll know the answer to that either, and you shake your head, readjusting your grip on the razor. Slowly touching his neck, the pads of your fingers brush along his skin before your palm rests against his pulse. Itâs electric, a thrum that makes your body vibrate.Â
âGotta pay attention,â he says, tapping a finger on your collarbone and dragging it along until he makes a small circle on your shoulder, making you shiver and almost fall into the sink. âDonât want to, ah, ruin my dashing good looks, do we?âÂ
Heâs smiling playfully, his eyebrow giving a small pump as he moves closer to you, the right scar spiralling inward. You nod, trying to keep your hand from shaking.
âDonât be nervous,â he says, his voice a low murmur, and youâre surprised that you find it soothing.Â
Some wires got crossed in your brain, holy hell.Â
Nodding again, confused as to why heâs asking you to do this of all things when the only experience you have with razors is the ones you use to shave your legs. He never looks away, the expression of playfulness stays, and you wonder why heâs here, why heâs being⊠well, like this.Â
Does it matter? Does it change whatâs happening now?Â
It doesnât, and so you slowly perform the task, feeling the bumps in the scar tissue, the ruined and marred skin, the thick lines from poorly-healed sutures on one side and the lines, raised and smooth, on the other. Careful to make sure the sharp edge doesnât skip and slice his already marked face, you find yourself liking the feeling of his skin against yours, memorizing the grooves and dips.Â
Youâre carefulâsurprisingly soâand you find it odd that you donât really want to hurt him, even though you have plenty of opportunity. You could slash his throat and bolt, but your desire to do anything like that has almost completely ebbed away despite the anger you still feel in the pit of your stomach.Â
Your fingers rest on his cheeks even after youâve finished. Itâs smooth and then rippled where the scars split his face, and his eyelids droop, his head leaning into your touch and throat emitting what almost sounds like a purr. The heatâs still in you, that constant pulse, the blood rushing in your ears. You remember what it was like when he shoved the knife in your hands and pressed it against his chest, how he thrusted harder for it when he was inside you.Â
The gouge is there, angry and red and still healing, and goes further down his sternum than you originally thought. Your eyes linger on it, taking in the damage that creates a map of violence across his body. He drinks in your expression, the smirk disappearing when he focuses on your lips.Â
Your fingers trace back up, feeling the dull beating of his heart and sharp edges of his jaw, drawing inward until they touch his bottom lip, the wishbone scar nearly splitting it. Itâs then that your eyes meet.Â
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