Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Bruce noticed the Joker’s hips, he had been flat on his back on cold concrete, the clown standing over him with a gun pointed at his head, his other hand gripping a knife like a lover.

The second, he had the clown pinned against an ally wall, and those hips and ground into him obscenely after he had punched the man’s jaw.

The third time, they were plastered over his personal cell phone while he sat in his office in broad daylight.

Bruce had been tapping his fingers on the desk as he read a dull report, replaying the night before. The Joker had tripped the alarm in a jewelry store, and when Bruce had arrived as Batman, he’d been inside with four of his thugs. The clown masked men had been raiding the store, but the Joker had been sitting on a glass display case, kicking his feet and grinning when Bruce had burst in- waiting. For him.

The way they danced and tangled was obscene, in more ways then one. Punches and kicks and the Joker’s damned knives everywhere, cutting fabric, slicing skin. Bruce had a nice cut on his bicep to remind himself the man was a god with a knife. He was sure the Joker had some glorious purple bruises along his ribs, too. He’d pummeled him against the case until it shattered beneath them.

And then the Joker had wrapped an arm and a leg around Bruce and tugged him close, teased him with his coy flirtatious words, and Bruce had damnably been drawn in. Ever since that night he’d first noticed him, noticed the curves of his body, he’d been falling. To what end, he didn’t know.

Until his phone flashed at him.

Tapping his fingers and trying to ignore it and focus on the report, all the while the Joker’s mad smile circling his head, the flashing light grew too irritating.

He slid his finger along the screen to unlock it, didn’t recognize the number the message was from. Without much thought, he opened the message, and that was when Bruce’s world began to truly crack.

Shocking curved hips appeared on the screen, clad in fitter purple pants, their button left open. The frame wore no shirt, only a checkered green and gold vest, left open, showing a strip of pale chest and a flat, milky stomach, slim but lined with lean muscle beneath. Stronger than it locked.

And showing from beneath the vest were purple and yellow bruises, all along the ribs. Bruce wouldn’t have needed to see the bruises as proof, but it only solidified in his mind whose body was he looking at. The picture cut off before the shoulders and on mid-thigh, but he knew.

His phone blinked again, and a new message opened, this one text.

‘Quite the love marks, Batsy. Come play with me again xoxo’

Bruce shoved the phone away, staring at it. He knew the Joker knew who he was- was the only criminal in Gotham smart enough to put it together. The second night he’d noticed the man’s body, pressed against that wall, the clown had leaned in and whispered, “Hit me again Bruce,” into his ear, his tongue tracing up along Bruce’s jaw.

He’s punched him so hard he thought he had cracked his skull.

He never found out how the Joker knew, but he wasn’t sure it mattered. He knew who he was, and quite obviously he wasn’t about to waste time tormenting him even in his “private” life.

Bruce should get the number blocked, delete the texts, and move on. Instead he reached for the phone, slid his finger over the screen, and just stared at that milky skin, those blossoming bruises, and felt the heat in his body rushing dangerously south.

He tried to get the image out of his system. He’d meant to forgo going out as the Bat that night in order to keep up appearances, to show up to dinner with a gorgeous blonde model, then took her home to clear his mind. He thought fucking her senseless would help, but it only served to remind him how bored he was with the girls in his bedroom. When she kissed her mouth was too soft and yielding, too easy. Her hands were feathers, and she tasted minty and sharp. It was dull.

He closed his eyes, saw a scarlet mouth, a grin that enticed, milky skin almost too white to be alive. He saw that pale skin leading down a flat stomach, those hips- not a woman’s hips, but defined more than he’d have thought.

He came after her, she oblivious to the images in his head spurring him on.

Past midnight, he was out in the shadows. The Batsuit was tight, constraining, but what he needed. He’d wanted to slam his head against a wall after the girl had left. Had he really thought about The Joker, of all people, while fucking a damn model?

He contemplated checking himself into Arkham for a night or two.

Instead he opted for his suit and the night air. The night was docile enough- he’d scared a mugger off and stepped out of the shadows for a moment, just enough to make a few kids eyeing a woman walking to her car scatter. But nothing explosive.

Until he heard that infernal, enticing giggling. He had been in an ally, crouching on the ground, watching a few known low level mob members in the distance. At the sound his head jerked up, and he saw him, standing on the roof, illuminated in an eerie blue by the moon.

“Hiiii,” he teased, waving a hand, before turning and scampering off. He knew Bruce would follow.

The vigilante didn’t try to prove him wrong. He stood and bolted to the fire escape, jumping up and pulling himself up the railing, before running up the steps and climbing onto the roof.

The Joker was waiting for him, twirling his pocket watch and grinning.

“I was starting to think you weren’t, ah, coming out to play, Batsy.” He licked his lips. “Or should I say, Bruce?”

“Fuck off.” Bruce gritted his teeth. He hadn’t meant to let the rage fly from his lips, but it did. “It isn’t enough to have me chase you around the city at night? You’ve got to cling to me during the day too?” He strode forward, fists clenched. “Just what are you trying to do, Joker?”

“Me?” he asked, stuffing the watch away and putting his hands up defensively. “Why, all I’m trying to do is you, Bats.”

He grinned, and Bruce lunged. He punched his gut, up towards his ribs. The Joker stumbled back, clutching, laughing, an odd expression of glee in his eyes, on the corners of his lips.

“Aw, Bats,” he said, “careful, you left me so sore last time.” He cackled, and Burce punched him again, until he fell down to his knees. He clutched at Bruce’s legs, leaning his forehead against his thigh, choking on his breath, but still laughing, ever giggling.

“I’m going to put you back in Arkham, where you belong,” Bruce said, and the Joker just grinned.

“But if you do that, we c-an’t have any fuuun.” He pouted, and that crimson lower lip was suddenly enticing. For a moment, Bruce wondered what it’d be like between his teeth.

That one thought got him harder than the girl earlier had all night.

The Joker must have seen something in his eyes, a twitch in his mouth, because he was grinning then, gripping Bruce’s thighs like iron. He leaned forward, kissing one inner thigh. Even though the suit meant Bruce didn’t feel it, his heart raced up his throat regardless.

“Play my game, Batsy,” the Joker said, his fingers flexing, “you won’t be so-rry.”

Bruce hesitated, thought back to those colorful bruising marking milky skin, those hips and what they’d look like spread for him, of the legs below, and those wild eyes.

And then he wanted to punch himself. He leaned down and grabbed the Joker by the collar, hoisting him up.

“The game is done,” Bruce said, “back to Arkham with you.”

The Joker pouted again for a moment, before bringing his knee up right into Bruce’s gut. He stumbled back, released him, and his arm smashed down against the crock of Bruce’s neck. He stumbled down to one knee, got a kick to the guy just to be safe, before the Joker began stepping backwards.

“Oh, it’s faaaar from done, dar-ling,” he purred. “I’ve got plen-ty more cards up my sleeve.”

He gave a mocking bow, turned, and was gone before Bruce could even stand.

Bruce woke up bruised, just as the Joker had. Even the shower hurt, but he almost liked it. Watching the colors spread let him imagine how they looked on the clown. A thought that reminded him of those fingers on his thighs, that pouty lip-

And the crimson lip mark he had found on the thigh of his suit. He shivered, turned the water to a frigged cold, and told himself he was exhausted, wasn’t thinking clearly.

By the time he was settled in his office, he could almost believe it. Until he was phone was blinking again. This time there was no picture, just text from a different unknown number.

‘Playing hard to get, Bats? How delightful! Xoxo’

Bruce gritted his teeth. He wished he could reach through the phone, strangle the Joker with those damn x’s and o’s, let him choke on them-

But just long enough that the man would like it.

Frustrated at his own thought, Bruce grabbed his phone, shoved it in a pocket, and stormed out of his office. Too exhausted for this, he needed to rest. A day’s sleep, and he’d be fine. Maybe he’d even stay in that night too. The Joker had behaved for the most part aside of this harassment, hopefully he could hold for a night.

He crawled into bed in the middle of the day and slept, not caring. The sky had clouded over and thunder rumbled, rain sloshed on the streets and down windows. But Bruce slept, dreamed of pale legs entangled with his and a pouty red mouth on his neck, his stomach, wrapped around his aching cock.

The vibrations of his phone on his night stand woke him, his lips parted in a gasped breath as his hips pushed up, as if past those lips. Disoriented, Bruce rubbed his eyes, felt the throb between his legs, and realized with a sickening groan what was going on.

He’d been dreaming of the Joker. He’d been dreaming of the goddamned Joker and squirming around like a teenage girl- and now he had one of the worst hard-ons he’d dealt with in a long time.

Blindly reaching for his phone that was still doing that inferno buzzing, he unlocked it and pressed it to his ear with a mumbled, “hello?”

“Hi there dar-ling, whatcha wearin’?”

Bruce grimaced. Not the voice he wanted to hear. Not that sing-song voice that was always laced with a giggle, that managed to slip low and guttural when he got a punch to the gut.

Bruce’s cock throbbed. Not that voice.

“Do you have nothing better to do than to harass me night and day?”

“Aw, honey, I’m hur-t. I miss you is all.” A small giggle fit followed.

“Then come on out, I’ll give you plenty of company.”

“OhohOH, and with who? Not you, of course, but with those loonies in, ah, Arkham? Thanks sugar, but I’d per-fer your company to their’s.”

“Then give me a few hours of fucking sleep,” Bruce drawled out, “and I’ll come keep you company personally later, while we wait for the cops to pick you up.”

A snort of laughter, before the voice cut back in, “You don’t seem to be sleeping very peacefully, Brucie doll.”

Bruce sat up at that, looking around. Could the Joker see him, or was he just bluffing? He hadn’t thought to comb through his room or bathroom to make sure there was no one there- considering Gotham didn’t know who Batman was, the crazies had yet to pay him a personal visit-

Well, all of Gotham save the Joker didn’t know who Batman was.

“Re-lax,” the Joker said, “I’m not in your room, silly.” Bruce sighed in relief. “But I can see you, and dar-ling, I’ve to got say,” his voice lost it’s musical note then, grew serious and deep and made Bruce shiver, “you seem to be a little lonely.” Bruce didn’t say anything, felt his pulse speed up. “After all, that’s a pretty big bed for just you.”

“Knock it off,” Bruce warned. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but save it for when the suit is on. I’m hanging up.”

“Oh nonononono, don’t go and do that,” the Joker said, all giggles again. “We’re just talk-ing Brucie. You’re the one that’s all hot and bothered.” Bruce bit his lip without thinking, laid back and tried to sink under the blanket, as if he needed to escape the Joker’s eyes. Eyes he knew were there, but couldn’t see.

“You’re sick.”

“And you’re hard.” Bruce’s silence made the Joker giggle. “Sooooo it’s good I’m si-ck then, because I can help.”

Oh, no. Oh yes. The Joker chuckled now, and Bruce heard him shifting around on the other end, then a moment of silence, before he heard a sharp intake of breath, a soft mewl of some pained pleasure.

He throbbed, and Bruce squeezed his eyes shut. “What are you doing?” What am I thinking?

“Just reminding myself how rough you play, Batsy.” He sighed, oddly soft coming from a man crackling with such raw energy. “I like these bruises.”

Bruce could see it in his head- the Joker laying back, shirt open, fingers pressing into white flesh, over those purple flowers, the pain making his hips shift and grind into the air.

Why was it so simple to see?

“I’m hanging up,” Bruce said again, even as his hand rested on his belly, fingers flexing, before slipping down a bit further to toy with the waist of his pants. The Joker groaned, a chuckle laced in with the enticing sound.

“You’re no-t.” Another gasp, ending in a low, strangled sound that made Bruce groan himself. “You don’t want to, Bats.”

Bruce didn’t want to. Every little sound the Joker made was like an electric shock to his body. He wanted more. He wanted to hear him crying out, whimpering, begging. He wanted to make him beg.

At some point, Bruce’s hand had slipped into his pants, was resting around his cock, moving in slow, teasing strokes. He didn’t realize until the Joker spoke again.

“I wish I could see you better, Brucie. I bet you’re such an, ah, im-pec-able sight when you come.”

Bruce pushed up into his hand and moaned, heard a string of giggles, before an excited, hushed voice whispered, “Do it again, Batsy.”

Bruce did. He closed his eyes and drove into his hand, strokes knowing exactly where he needed pressure, where to focus. He felt like iron, tentative to stroke fast enough to bring on that mind shattering bliss- that much of his sanity clung to him, tried to remind him of who was listening, of who was somehow watching.

“Faster Batsy, comeoncomeoncomeon,” the Joker urged, and goddamn, Bruce listened. He moaned loudly, as if someone else had been touching him, heard the Joker gasp, try to giggle but he too groaned. “Who are you fucking, Batsy?” he asked, voice going low and serious. Had the words been different, it would have been terrifying. “Is it that blonde from last night?”

Bruce felt his stomach tightening.

“Is it one of your past flings, Batsy bab-y?” Bruce wanted to tell him no, but his mouth didn’t work. His cock felt like it was on fire, aching and burning and weeping onto his fingers, but dammit he couldn’t let go, not until the Joker spoke again.

“Or is it me?”

Bruce lost it. He cried out, arched up, spilled onto the soft fabric of his pants and along his fingers and knuckles, gasping for breath as the Joker giggled on the other end, as stars burst behind his eyelids.

“Oh Bats,” he said, “you can’t tell me now that you don’t want to play.” Bruce didn’t respond, was too busy trying to remember to breathe. He knew the Joker was smirking, he could feel it in his bones. “For being such a good sport, you deserve a trea-t.”

And then the line went dead. Bruce tossed the phone onto the pillow next to him, wiped his hand on the inside of his pants- he’d have to get up and change now- and lay there.

He was fairly sure he had to have dreamed it, imagined the whole thing. It was just too weird. No one in reality had such power over him with simply a few sounds. No one set him ablaze like that.

His phone was buzzing, he realized. He reached for it, squinting as it lit up bright in the dark. A picture opened, and he nearly dropped the phone on his face. Down a lean muscled stomach, patterned with scars, a hand was reaching into a pair of purple pants, open and pushed so low on those hips it was shocking they were there. He could see a dusting of blonde curls, and the base of the Joker’s cock- just enough to make his breathing escalate.

‘My turn’ was all the message said, and Bruce was reaching for himself again, not caring how twisted this made him.

Two nights later, he donned the suit and set out into the blackness of the city. He wasn’t searching for crime- though if he found it, he knew he’d clean up any messes- he was searching for a set of wild eyes and rosy lips.

He was hunting for the Joker.

Through alleys, over rooftops, he wondered how best to get the man’s attention, when he realized all he had to do was be, and the madman would find him.

Sure enough, after being cast in shadows on a roof, in a crouch watching the city, he heard the click of the man’s heels along the concrete roof. He didn’t turn around- for a moment Bruce was too afraid to actually see the Joker. He could hear those groans in his head, see that scared stomach and those tight blonde curls down below, and he was hard in his suit and loving it and hating it and wanting it.

The shoes stopped behind him, then the rustling of clothing, and then hands on his shoulders, sweeping over them, down his chest, as the Joker pressed his own chest to Bruce’s back. He was on his knees, peering over the vigilante’s shoulder at the city.

His hands seemed content to flex and curl against the Kevlar, and Bruce looked down to watch them. Purple gloves kept the pale skin from view, but he knew it in his head. He could feel the Joker breathe, chest moving against his back, the air hot moving on Bruce’s neck. Still he didn’t try to look. He knew the man wasn’t about to kill him-

That’d end the game far too quickly.

The Joker pressed closer, hands reaching for Bruce’s stomach. His legs were beginning to ache from being in this position for so long, waiting, but he didn’t want to move. There was something peaceful about having the bundle of nerves that was the Joker so calm and placid against him. As if he was in the eye of the storm. He could enjoy peace for a few moments before the winds picked up and he was swept away.

Still not speaking, the Joker slid back, gripping Bruce’s shoulder, turning him roughly. Bruce allowed it, lost his balance and fell on his bottom facing the man now, legs splayed.

In the moonlight, the Joker was beyond terrifying, and yet ethereal. His red lips seemed a deep purple, his hair going from green to a pale sea foam almost, his white painted face almost blue. But those eyes stayed acid, bleached emerald, dancing to a new beat. One that hammered in Bruce’s chest.

The Joker leaned in, stayed eye level as he shifted around, slipped his legs over Bruce’s and pressed them together, his arms winding around Bruce’s neck. He was barely breathing, too afraid a single word would drive the madman away, would shatter the trance he seemed to be in.

He hadn’t laughed once. He hadn’t said a single word. Bruce wasn’t sure he cared.

The Joker lifted himself up a little, to look down at Bruce, examine what he could of his face in that mask. His gloved fingers ran over it, before they clenched Bruce’s head and pulled it up, mouths smashing together in a feverish, clumsy kiss. He tasted like paint, like the rain that fell a few nights ago, like something sweet like faded candy.

Bruce wrapped his arms around the man’s waist, held him close, tried to keep him steady. Someone was shaking, but Bruce wasn’t sure who. He clutched at the coat, felt the Joker’s teeth on his lower lip as the man tried to climb up him, to stay above him, while Bruce clutched at him and weighed him down to earth.

The vigilante yielded, opened his mouth, met the Joker’s tongue with his own. Bruce had always been a passionate kisser, but the Joker seemed to be out doing even him- his teeth were everywhere, his lips encasing, his tongue demanding. It was enough to make Bruce’s head spin, as if the man could be everywhere at once, could drown him before Bruce even realized his head was under.

Holding Bruce’s face, he pulled back a moment to stare, one of Bruce’s hands reaching up along his back for the Joker’s shoulder. Those green eyes were wide, as if they hadn’t expected Bruce to yield, and his chest was moving rapidly, as if the Joker was coming just as undone as Bruce.

Then Bruce closed the gap, kissed him, and the Joker fell into it. They clutched at each other as if death was prying his cold fingers between them, but the pace slowed, turned almost lazy. Bruce got the chance to explore the shape of the Joker’s lips, the cavity of his mouth- those rough, puckered scars along the insides of his cheek.

When they broke again, breath rushing in excited bursts, Bruce wanted to hear him. “Joker,” he breathed, a hoarse whisper, laced in so many things. He lost, in that moment he knew, he lost whatever game they were playing and he didn’t care. Bruce wanted more- and in the dead of night, in the suit, it seemed right.

The Joker was staring though, eyes wide and frantic and full of something strange. He pushed back, squirmed out of Bruce’s arms, managed to stand, though he was shaking, Bruce realized. He stared down at the vigilante, and then as quickly as he came, he was gone, rushing into the shadows, leaving Bruce to reach up and touch his lips, smeared with paint, and wonder what he had done.

He hated himself in the morning, but he licked his lips and loved the taste, remembered the feel, and decided a little self hate was good for any man. He was even smiling when he got into his office, sitting down to resume the paperwork he had been neglecting lately- even though the company could run possibly even more smoothly without him.

Bruce drummed his fingers on the desk, deciding he’d go out that night, try to get the Joker to come out again. He wasn’t sure why the man had left in such haste, but assumed it had to be part of whatever game it was they were playing now. If it meant it lasted longer, Bruce wouldn’t be too upset.

As he’d hoped, his phone started buzzing by mid-day. It was a new number, and Bruce- without opening anything- knew it would be him. He wondered if the Joker had robbed an electronic store and stolen all their phones without Bruce somehow knowing.

It was a text, simply reading, ‘Stay in tonight’. Bruce raised an eyebrow, before responding for once. ‘Why?’

He waited, impatient, before he got, ‘I make the rules. Play by them, Batsy xoxo’

Bruce couldn’t help it. He grinned, and knew there was a reason.

He ended up staying later than he meant, being pulled into a meeting just as he had tried to escape home. When he finally got there, he pulled his jacket off and was loosening his tie as he stepped into the parlor.

“Master Wayne,” he heard Alfred calling from the other room. He walked out, saw he had been filing through the mail, but had left something aside on the glass coffee table. Bruce stooped down to pick it up. A disc, with the scrawled word “Batsy” on it in frantic, erratic writing. And a Joker card taped to it.

He pulled it off, flipped it over. In the same frantic writing it said, ‘Put yourself to bed with this, Batsy.’

He wanted to run to his bedroom, lock himself in like a child, and see what wonders awaited him. Instead he slipped it under his jacket, and played it off to Alfred as nothing.

He left it under his jacket on his bed, then had dinner, watched the news with Alfred for a bit, talked about this, that, and the nothings in-between. Then, when the older man was retiring, Bruce walked calmly into his room, closed the door, and began to quiver slightly.

It could be anything. It could be blank- that would be very Joker like- it could be a threat- he could have hostages somewhere-

Or it could be everything Bruce was hoping for.

He opened his laptop on his desk, set the disc next to it, then went about undressing, trying to pace himself. Self control, it was something he obviously needed to practice.

Once he had changed, he sat down in the chair and popped the disk in, one hand waiting on the keyboard, the other stroking the huddled joker figure on the card, as if his own Joker could feel the touches through the thick paper.

The disc had one file- a video, and blood rushing hot like magma, thick and heading straight for his groin, Bruce played it.

Just a window, sunny outside. Early morning, Bruce guessed. It was closed, but he could hear rustling around the camera, until a half naked blur of motion lay down in front of it, leaning that painted face into it to speak. Bruce mentally considering buying the man a good camera- so he could get sharper details should the Joker ever use it in a hostage situation. Yes, of course.

“Hi Brucie,” he said, smiling. The grin was lazy, sleepy, and those green curls were tussled as if he had just woken up. It made him oddly...cute. “Sorry I had to, ah, run last night, but I wasn’t ready for our game to end. Should have known you’d go a little too fast on the first date, dar-ling.”

It was a lie. Bruce saw something in those eyes. Maybe it was because the Joker must have just recently gotten up, but they seemed less guarded. He’d think on it later.

“I want to play again,” the Joker was saying, leaning back, propped up under the window on a few pillows. The bruises on his ribs were still there, lilacs and buttercups on milky cream. He was still smiling as one of his hands trailed along the bruises, pressing in a bit. He moaned- Bruce’s hands slipped into his own pants.

“You left me in such an, ah, state last night,” the Joker said, that hand trailing down his stomach, tracing over one scar that Bruce wanted to taste, before reaching his own pants, dangerously low on those hips. The fingers slipped beneath the waistband, rested there for a second. “It’s pain-ful, Batsy, what you do to me.”

Bruce sucked in a breath. Please he begged, just do it.

The Joker’s lips twitched in a smile, and then his hand was gone, grasping his cock under that thin layer of clothing and stroking, making him tip his head back. Bruce bit his lip, exhaled the held breath, wished he could reach through the screen, through time, ravage that pale neck- take the place of that hand.

Another few strokes, and the Joker’s other hand was there as he wriggled around, pulling on the waistband, and his erection sprung free. He let out a happy hiss when the air it him, before he resumed his strokes, in earnest now, those hips moving, chest rising and falling a rapid shallow breaths.

Bruce’s head was reeling, his balls aching. He barely knew it was his own hand touching him, he could easily pretend it was that pale, scarred hand he saw moving so skillfully on the screen.

The Joker’s head tipped back up, and he stared through heavy lids right at the camera as those pants lips parted and he moaned, not a wordless babble but a very distinct, “Bats,” and then shot white hot streams onto his own hand, his stomach.

Bruce came wordlessly, breathlessly, with him. A few extra strokes, and the Joker was stretching out, one long leg kicking the camera away, and then the footage died and ended.

Batman was out that night. There was not a chance in hell he wouldn’t be, even if the Joker had told him to stay in. He knew the clown wanted him to only stay long enough to see the video- then he’d want him out to play. Bruce had watched the video again, and again, wanted to memorize those eyes and that face and every delicious inch of skin and body the Joker had showed him. And then he wanted to know where he was. That window hadn’t given away much, just that he was on some upper floor. He hadn’t gotten many clues as to which part of Gotham- but he had to assume that the Joker wouldn’t be able to just prance around any old streets unnoticed.

Bruce decided on the less satisfactory parts of town, knowing full well he could simply sit still and the Joker would find him. The man seemed to always know where he was. But he wanted to hunt him, to know him. He was curious, burned with it, so much curiosity in such thin skin.

When from the shadows he saw the Joker pacing an alley, he grinned. He seemed unaware that Bruce was so close, which was odd, and it’d be so easy to slip up behind him, grasp that slim waist and pull him close-

Thought Bruce know with surprise, he might subdue him quickly, get him off the streets. But that knowledge was in the back of his head, tucked away. Besides, the man was behaving. He seemed too distracted by Bruce to bother with torturing the rest of the city.

Part of Gotham’s very own shadows, Bruce moved smoothly, boots nearly silent on the pavement. The Joker’s heels were louder, an erratic rhythm as he’d speed up and slow down. When his back was to Bruce he lunged, reaching for the Joker to pull him back against him. The moment his fingers grasped his jacket, though, the Joker spun, facing Bruce and pulled in close. A cold blade pressed against Bruce’s neck, almost slicing the fabric of his suit.

“Careful Bats,” he said, “never take a lady unawares.” He cracks a grin, a joke, but his eyes are serious. Bruce swallows, doesn’t release his hold on the Joker, but says one word he never thought he’d speak to the madman.

“Sorry.”

The Joker’s grin falters for a moment, his mouth dropping to a line, the hand holding the knife against Bruce easing away. It drops a moment later- Bruce hears it on the cracked pavement.

And then the Joker has his arms around Bruce’s neck, kissing him slowly, though he can feel the twitch in the man’s lips- the desire to be frantic and erratic and hurried. Bruce wraps his arms around the man’s waist, keeps him close as they turn and seem to walk, both unsure who is guiding who out of the alley. The Joker is pressed to the wall, and one of his hands is groping along it, until it catches on a handle and pulls it down, an old metal door creaking open. He pulls away from Bruce, shoving him so he’s free, nearly dragging him inside.

Once the door is shut Bruce is pinned to it, the Joker kissing him now, edging closer to his frantic desires, his teeth nipping at Bruce’s lower lip, tongue then tracing the sensitive flesh. Bruce groans, grabs the Joker’s hips and presses against them.

The cold, damp building didn’t seem the right place for this, but Bruce wasn’t sure he had another option. He certainly wasn’t going to stop the Joker and invite him back to the Penthouse, or try to explain the whole thing to someone at a hotel. Besides, Bruce doesn’t want the man’s lips to stop. He doesn’t want him to walk away as he did before. He wants the game to end, he wants to get this out of his system, as much as he wants it.

The Joker seems to sense his hesitation, breaks the kiss off, and looks around, hesitating as well. A moment passed, a breath, and then, “Follow me.”

The Joker took Bruce’s hand, turned, and was guiding him through the darkness. Bruce felt like a teenager, being dragged along to a hiding place where mommy and daddy wouldn’t find him messing with their little girl-

Or in this case, where Gotham wouldn’t find him messing with their most hated criminal.

They were going up some old stairs, up three flights. The building was cold, could chill Bruce to the bone, but the clown didn’t even seem to notice. When their feet hit level floor, Bruce was guided down an old dusty hallway- the floors old and creaky, the click of the Joker’s heels echoing hypnotically. A door was thrown open, and Bruce was shoved in, locked inside with the clown, facing a big window opening up to the dark Gotham skyline.

Below it was a bed, messy, piled high with old, thread bare blankets. A video camera was sitting on an old wooden chair, and Bruce knew where he was.

Suddenly he was just that much harder.

The Joker turned in front of the bed, let his jacket slip off his shoulders and cocked his head, eyeing Bruce.

“Whatcha thinking about, sugar?” His fingers had opened his vest, were undoing the bow under his collar. Bruce was watching them, nimble even when gloved, skilled. The Joker winked at it when he tossed the strip of fabric away, took a step towards the frozen vigilante. “If you wanna play, you’re going to have to meet the, ah, dress code, Bats.”

He reached out, ran gloved hands over Kevlar clad chest, tsked, and Bruce reached about, fumbling. A button on his shoulder, and his cape pooled on the floor around him. The Joker’s scarred lips twitched into a smile.

“Ah, that’s a good boy.” He ran his fingers along Bruce’s side, the vigilante’s fingers following, running along hidden buttons, and the armor loosened on his chest, split to expose the zipper to the fabric. The Joker’s eyes grew wild and wide, his prize nearly within reach, the wrapping paper falling off piece by piece.

Bruce tore one gauntlet off, let it drop. With his bare, free hand, he reached out and fisted in the clown’s hair, pulled him in for a kiss. The curls were oddly soft, tangled but delicate. The Joker obliged his rushed kiss, opening his mouth and letting him invade, fingers itching, twitching against the suit, fluttering here, there, and everywhere, unstill. Bruce wrapped his free arm around his waist, holding him still until he broke for breath, panting lightly against a scarred lip.

Leaning up to nuzzle his neck, one of the Joker’s hands finally found the zipper to the fabric of the suit. He began guiding it down, revealing inch after inch of tight skin, laced with his own set of scars. The clown licked his painted lips, wanted to taste. He kissed the exposed center of Bruce’s throat, down to the spot between his collar bones- leaving faint red smudges where his lips praised and tormented. Bruce let him, tipped his head back, felt the Joker’s nail brush him as the zipper went lower, past his navel.

He pushed the suit open, captured one of Bruce’s nipples in his teeth, made the vigilante gasp, groan as teeth worried it, before a tongue soothed the ache. The Joker’s other hand was fluttering around his navel- wanting to go lower, but his goal still protected by thick armor and cloth.

“Offoffoff,” he hissed, pulling the suit further open, threatening to rip the strong fabric- a stark reminder to Bruce that the Joker was always stronger than his lithe frame looked. It could be easy to forget.

Bruce obeyed, fumbling, tearing his remaining gauntlet off, before he began to chuck pieces of armor off to the floor. His belt dropped, loud and heavy with all his gadgets. The Joker half watched, undressing himself in a fury, a few buttons tearing on his shirt as he tossed it, his own pants open as Bruce peeled the skin of the suit off his torso completely.

He had to bend down to undo his boots, and the Joker laughed, turning and sauntering away, his remaining clothing hitting the floor right before he reached the bed. He jumped onto it, laying on his side, a flash of moving milky cream, and stretched out, watching Bruce fumble with the suit.

“What do you do if you have to piss?” he asked, laughing, and Bruce glared at him, frustrated now that the teasing touches were gone and he was left to fend for himself. The Joker rolled his eyes and flopped onto his back, body hidden by the rumpled blankets. “If you ever get yourself, ah, free, I’ll be waiting sugar.”

Bruce yanked his boots off, though he considered pulling the suit back into place and leaving the clown there, as the man’s attention suddenly seemed lacking, as if he had grown bored already. But he disrobed regardless, suddenly dead set on having the man. He strode over, pulling the cowl off last, his shaking his head so his short hair fell into place. He dropped the mask, stood naked before the Joker, and the clown looked at him from the corner of his eye.

He tried to seem unfazed, to only give a smirk and look away- but Bruce felt the eyes linger an extra moment, saw a hunger deep in the faded emeralds. The Joker was toying with him- and it made him smirk. He could play, too.

“Not bad,” he said, stretching again, tangling his legs in the blankets. “But can you use that body, Batsy? It’d be a shame for you to be nothing more than a mere show.”

Taunting me too, Joker? Bruce smiled, and moved smooth and slick, climbing over the Joker, pinning his naked body into the blankets, gyrating his hips in just thre right way as he leaned down and breathed into the man’s ear,

“Is that a challenge?”

“Mmm, yeah Bats,” he said, one arm reaching up, hooking around his shoulders, nails sharp,tracing little patterns into his skin. He pushed his hips up, felt Bruce’s excitement through the thin blankets, and giggled. “It’s, ah, most cer-tain-ly a challenge.”

He grinned, and Bruce pressed him further into the bed, leaning down to kiss him. This was a challenge Bruce could rise to, so to speak. He’d spent years perfecting his playboy persona- but he’d never have thought he’d get to use those tricks and charms as Batman-

And that’s who he was, even without the suit. With the Joker, he couldn’t be Bruce... could he?

He could flirt like him, though.

The Joker tried to control the kiss, all frantic and fiery, but Bruce fought back. Where the Joker tried to move erratically, fast, Bruce pressed into his mouth deeply, moved his lips slow, heavy and teasing, until he was drowning the man beneath him, until he had control. The arm around his shoulders tightened as the Joker whimpered for more, and Bruce mentally counted one small victory.

He let himself rest fully on the man, entrapping him, legs tangling together, the blankets between them, a mix of textures and sensations that were an overload for the lithe man. He wriggled around, but Bruce kept him firmly in place, trailing kisses along his jaw, one line of those scars. The man’s eyes rolled a bit, and Bruce felt his cock noticeably twitch. Ah, so they were a sensitive spot. Bruce had hoped.

His tongue flicked against the rough skin, one hand roaming along the man’s side, locating his hip and stroking the skin. The Joker’s hips pushed up, with enough force to move Burce slightly, begging for friction, for attention- for anything, really. Bruce knew he’d give it to him, but not just yet. He wanted him so beyond teased, coming undone at the seams before Bruce ever truly touched him.

The Joker had controlled this game until now, it was time for Bruce to lead.

He slide to the side, his lips trailing down the man’s neck, licking and sucking on pale skin, listening to him purr. He had a scar along his collarbone- a broken collar bone once, perhaps? Bruce had never done that-

He had to wonder who else the Joker danced with.

He kissed that scar, dragged his hot tongue along it, felt nails running along his back. “Ah, Bats,” the clown gasped, tipping his head back as that mouth traveled down lower, taking revenge for the Joker’s earlier teasing on one of his pale nipples. The hand on Bruce’s back froze and dug in, breaking skin. Bruce hissed and bit harder- the Joker cried out, ending in a fit of giggles.

Bruce’s hand was tracing along his navel, from one long scar to smaller ones, all puckered and rough and tempting. The man below him was like a puzzle, with all these ragged edges that just seemed to fit together- or were cut to fit, by someone who gave up after too long.

“You’re a, ah, tease, Bats,” the Joker was saying, his other nipple under the same assault now. “Are you this thorough with all your other lady friends?” Bruce looked up at him as he traced the long scar along his navel with his tongue, noticing that his ribs still had a light lilac flush to them- the bruises still healing.

“I think you’re a little different,” he said. “Besides,” he reached down, finally wrapped his hand around the Joker’s cock, achingly hard and weeping already from Bruce’s teasing, “You’re no lady.”

The Joker laughed, the sound dissolving into a gasp, a moan, and then giggles again. “Ah, Bats, I guess I’m not very, ah, lady like.” Bruce smirked, watched the man’s face as he stroked slowly, the part in those scarred lips, the way the eyes darkened to something dangerous and lustful. Bruce’s own erection was painful at this point- he needed someone to touch him, or he might simply explode. But he denied himself- not just yet. Now, and the Joker would have control back. He needed it to seem as if he held the game firmly in his hands.

He slipped fully between the man’s long, pale legs, unsure for a moment what he was doing. He’d never...been with another man before, didn’t know what he should be doing, or how. He touched the man the way he’d touch himself, a firm grip, a lingering stroke towards the head, and judging by the way the Joker’s hips tried to move with him, by the rapid breaths and little sounds he was making, Bruce was doing it right.

“Bats,” he gasped, hands twitching in the blankets, “just, ah-“ another moan as Bruce’s fingers dug into his thigh, threatening to bruise, “fuck me already.”

Bruce froze, his hand stilling. Suddenly, he felt like he had lead in his stomach. Fuck him? Did he really mean that? Surely what Bruce was doing was all the man had wanted- was all Bruce had truly wanted.

Wasn’t it?

The Joker propped himself up on his elbows, saw Bruce’s face, and began laughing. Angry, Bruce gritted his teeth, growling, “what?” into the dusty dark, dim streetlight coming in from the skylines, through that big window above them.

“Oh Bats,” he said, sitting up properly, “your face. It’s just prince-less.” He reached out as Bruce sat up, traced his thumb over that lower lip. “You act like the whole world doesn’t ask you to fuck them.” He grinned, Bruce’s cheeks tinged. “I’m sure all those pretty little things you take home with you ask.” His hand reached back, sinking into Bruce’s short hair, tugging gently. “Ah, but what does asking matter? You fuck all of us up the ass anyway- and don’t even stay the night with us in those little cells you think we call ho-me.”

He leaned closer, pulling Bruce’s head further back. For a moment the playboy hated his lack of a suit. Until then, he hadn’t felt threatened- he felt oddly comfortable so exposed with the clown. But now he was severely questioning himself.

“Do you need your mask to fuck me, Batman?” The Joker was sneering, his fingers causing a prickling fire in Bruce’s scalp. Batman, not Batsy, Bats, Bruce, but Batman. The man very rarely let the whole name fall from his lips. Bruce was terrified.

The Joker leaned in, lips on his neck, smudging paint along skin with his kisses, free hand delving down and grasping Bruce. The terror had flagged his erection- he was only half hard now- but that hand breathed life into him with only a few strokes. He was aching all over again as the man stroked him with a knowing hand, as lips and teeth and tongue did wonders to the skin of his neck and shoulder.

Bruce’s hair was freed from the Joker’s grasp, that hand trailing down his body, the madman leaning up, trailing lips and tongue along his jawline, to his ear. He nibbled at Bruce’s earlobe, felt Bruce’s breath coming ragged, shuddering out of his body. He was so close-

“Don’t forget who I am, Brucie,” he whispered, tightening his grip, his other hand digging into Bruce’s side with such force that short nails broke skin. He bit his earlobe again, and Bruce lost himself- came as that hand continued to stroke him- shuddered and groaned and whined and reached out, holding onto the lithe man as the orgasm rode through his body in white hot waves.

Bruce slumped back and the Joker pulled away, flopping down onto the bed on his side, legs tangling in with the blankets. It took the vigilante a moment to regain his breath, before his eyes roamed up those pale legs- along one curved hip. He reached out, traced fingers along the skin, and the Joker actually pulled away- a sullen look on his face.

“Fly back to your cave, Batsy,” he hissed, “before your mask turns back into a pumpkin.”

Bruce froze, fingers just barely touching skin. “But,” he started, but the words died in his throat. But what? Why not leave while he could. He’d slipped, he’d forgotten through out this new game that the Joker was still dangerous- and it could have cost him, had the man’s temper flared more than it did. Sure, Bruce could over power the man physically, but he was naked- quite literally, and without his armor, if the clown had a knife (which Bruce was sure he had plenty hidden around the room), he’d be as good as flayed alive.

Then why not leave? What else was Bruce looking for? If fucking the man froze him in confusion and terror, what was left?

Him. He’s still left. He...he hasn’t...

“What about you?” Bruce finally asked, and without looking, the Joker laughed. Laughed at him. When he didn’t actually speak, Bruce gritted his teeth and lay down behind the man, wrapping an arm around his waist and grasping at his sex. The Joker- shocked, for once- tried to pull away, but Bruce tangled his legs in with the clown’s, pushing against him and partially pinning him as he teased. The Joker’s anger hadn’t calmed his erection completely, and Bruce’s hand brought him new life.

The Joker groaned, low and delicious to Bruce’s ears, pressing back against him as Bruce stroked. He bit on his scarred lip, deliberately pressed his ass into Bruce’s lap, friction and soft skin and temptation that Bruce didn’t even register- he was too set on making the Joker tremble and quake and come for him. He fisted his free hand in the man’s hair, yanked his head back with such force that he cried out, in that moment coming completely undone, muscles convulsing as Bruce’s hand milked him dry. The vigilante bit his exposed neck with force just as the high was ending, causing another sharp cry- a lasting shiver as it nearly renewed the feeling.

Then he released the clown- untangled from him. The Joker rolled onto his stomach, turning to look at Bruce through green curls- eyes a mixture of desire and anger, shock and terror and rage.

“Get. Out.” The words were bullets, laced with a stinging venom. Bruce stared at him for a moment, confused. The way he had cried out, pressed to him, the vigilante was sure the anger had died. Instead, it seemed to have grown. When he didn’t move the Joker pushed himself up, draping against the worn out pillows, his glare never once loosening. “The game’s done, Bats. Go put your face on and get. The. Fuck. Out.”

Bruce moved then. He knew that voice, the thunder before the sky cracked up and insanity laced the sky with lightning. It was hard to put the suit on alone, and under that intense green gaze, but he managed- albeit slower than he, and openly the Joker, would have liked.

He was fastening his belt when the Joker got out of bed, grabbing his cowl from the floor. He walked over, naked and glorious and terrifying, handing it to Bruce. As he slipped it on, the lithe man leaned in, kissed his lips almost softly, whispered against them,

“Thanks for playing, Bats.”

There was nothing heart felt about the words- they were sad and disappointed, entwined with anger. But the kiss- it had been soft and Bruce wanted to kiss him again, tip his head back and explore that mouth. To do so would be death, he felt it in the air.

Instead, Batman turned and stalked out, more confused than when he had decided to hunt the clown down in the first place.

Bruce had no one to confide in about his confusion. He couldn’t go to Alfred- not with this. He was left alone to brood. What had gone wrong? One moment the Joker was willing and lovely, wanting, and the next he was venom in Bruce’s veins, threatening and delirious with anger. What had Bruce done?

He hoped for the buzzing of his phone- another surprise disc in the mail- a Joker card with lipstick stains. He hoped for what he had originally called harassment, but it didn’t come. Two days and nights of silence, and then the chaos started.

Bruce had spent the day in his playboy mask, whisking around Gotham with a young up and coming actress, putting on a show for the paparazzi. She was a sweet thing, with honey hair and brown doe eyes and a soft, smooth laugh. She held his hand- she waved at everyone. A sweet girl.

When Bruce got the call from Gordon- on a line he had set up specifically for the Commissioner only- that there was a situation that evening, he hadn’t expected the mess he was walking into. A high end jewelry store had been held up, it could have just been a few punk kids too big for their own egos.

What Bruce found, however, was chaos. A perimeter had been set up, and when Batman found the commissioner in the shadows, the man was pacing, agitated.

“He’s got hostages in there,” he was saying, “claims the whole building is rigged and ready to go. With enough explosives he’ll blow well beyond our perimeter.”

“Who?” Bruce asked, and the last name he wanted to hear graced his ears.

“The Joker.”

Batman broke in through a window in a back office. There was one thug in there, with a gaudy clown mask. A quick punch to the stomach, face, and a good knocking on the wall with his head left him crumpled, unconscious on the floor. Bruce took the gun he had and emptied the shells, tossing it off into the dark.

A swift kick and the office door was open, and he was faced with a room full of eyes all staring at him. Hostages in the center, looking wide eyed and terrified, clowns around them, all with different, god-awful masks.

But no Joker.

“Let them go,” Batman growled, and one of the men turned his gun on Bruce, aimed, pulled the trigger. In the last second it was knocked up, and the blast missed Bruce’s head by a few inches, tearing into the intricately painted wall.

“I said don’t kill him, idiots!” In a moment the man’s neck was open, and he fell to the floor. The Joker was looking at Bruce, head tilted just a bit, a sick grin on his face. “That’s my job.”

Bruce scowled. “Joker,” he said, before his voice caught in his throat. It was hard to think that the man standing there, bloody knife in hand, had been naked and writhing against Bruce only a few nights ago. That his painted mouth was hungry and soft and perfect.

“Good of you to show up, Bats,” he said, tossing the knife up and catching it, a few drops of blood falling onto the sleeve of his purple jacket. “I was worried you’d stand me up, and I might have to throw a tantrum. And you know what I’m like when I’m, ah, up-set.”

“Let the hostages ago,” Bruce said, “if it’s me you want- I’m here.”

“Ah-ah-ah, it’s not that easy Batsy darling.” He tossed the knife again, caught it, flipped the blade down and shoved it into his pocket. “But as an, ah, reward for not being too late for our little date, I guess I can let a few go.”

A flick of his wrist, and two clowns were leading a woman and a teenage girl away, towards the door, shoving them out. Bruce watched as they ran, didn’t take his eyes off them until they reached the waiting police.

That was a mistake.

The Joker was on him in a flash, landing a punch to his armored stomach. Despite being lean, the man had some power behind him, and Bruce stumbled back a step before the clown gave the face he had kissed only days ago a swift punch, splitting Bruce’s lip. Blood leaked against his teeth, metallic and salty and sharp.

“Let’s talk, Bats,” he said, cracking his knuckles, gloved fingers twitching.

“About what?” Bruce asked, wiping the blood from his mouth.

“Oh, the latest chick flicks, the weather, the special on salmon down at the grocery store.” His voice was teasing and high pitched, but dropped dangerously low when he glared and finished, “Or about you and me.”

There was no denying what he meant. Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Alright, we can talk. Not here. Let them go, we can-“

“Go somewhere private? Ah, Bats, you think I’m that naive? I’ll admit, I let myself go a bit, but puppy love does that.”

Love? Bruce didn’t like the use of the word, even if it was meant as a joke.

“No, Bats, I think we’ll stay right here. How about we open up those windows with a little gunfire and let everyone out there know how you like me best- naked, my hand around your cock?” He was sneering, but there was true rage, anger in those eyes. It seethed and danced and burned, and Bruce was terrified- Batman was even unnerved.

The few remaining hostages looked at each other, confused, and even the Joker’s thugs seemed a bit uncomfortable.

“Joker-“

“C’mon Batsy, afraid of what Gotham might think if they know you were willing to shack up with little ole me.” He pressed his hands to his chest, twirled, grinned, before throwing them out. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Bats. After all, you couldn’t fuck me.”

There it was. The venom in his words, the anger, the hatred. It all still boiled down to that- to Bruce balking when the Joker begged for his body in the one way Bruce hadn’t been quite ready to give. Part of him, buried down, wanted to fuck the man senseless- but Bruce held on to the notion that just a few touches would get the man out of his system- he didn’t need to go so low. Besides, it would be too much- Bruce had never found himself attracted to men before. There was just something about the Joker...

“Enough,” Batman growled, closing the gap and reaching for the Joker. He hoisted him up, ready to turn him, smash him into a wall, but the man cackled and clung to Bruce’s wrists.

“Care-ful, wouldn’t want one of my men to get trigger happy.” Bruce gritted his teeth, remembered the hostages.

“Let them go, and we can talk where ever you want,” he said. “No tricks- from either of us.”

The Joker tightened his grip on Bruce’s wrists, and the vigilante dropped him. He smoothed the wrinkles from his clothes, turned, walked over to the hostages, hands behind his back.

“Everyone out,” he finally said, “all of you.” The masked thugs looked at him, and he glared- they moved faster than the hostages. He let them all file out- all except one, who he grabbed by the shoulder, yanked back against his chest. “Except you, sweetheart.”

He turned, and Bruce recognized those brown doe eyes, that pink set of glossed lips and honey hair. His date, from earlier.

“Let her go.” His fists tightened- the Joker noticed. He noticed every little twitch.

“I think she’ll stay.” His mouth was set in a tight line as he walked towards Bruce, one hand sinking into the girl’s hair to keep her near. “What’s so special about her, Batsy, that you can fuck her- and not me?”

“Please, let me go,” she moaned, reaching for the hand tangled in her hair, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, I never fu-“

“SHUT UP.” He shoved her away, with such force towards the wall that when her head connected, she slumped down, barely conscious. He turned to Bruce, glaring up through his curls. “I don’t like your new girlfriend, Brucie. Not. One. Bit.”

For a moment Bruce’s heart stopped when he heard his name- but he knew that the girl wouldn’t remember.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Bruce said, easing towards the man. With no one else in the building, and the girl discarded, he should be lunging, clawing and tearing and punching at the man. Instead he moved with a caution, a smoothness, as if he was afraid the Joker would just leave.

Part of him was.

“I’ve seen her with you,” he said, “It’s on the, ah, news, Batsy. You seem just soo happy together.” Bruce couldn’t understand his hang up on her, why she mattered. If he wanted to hurt Bruce personally, he could have gone after Alfred, or anyone else-

He’s jealous. It hit Bruce like a brick to the face. The man was actually jealous.

“You’re jealous,” Bruce said, taking another step closer, still unbelieving. But the way those eyes narrowed told him all he needed to know. The Joker opened his mouth to speak, but Bruce grabbed his arm, pulled him closer. The clown stumbled, fell into Bruce’s Kevlar padded chest, let one arm lock around his thin waist. “Why?”

“Maybe I just wanted a good fuck and thought that’d be you.” He narrowed his eyes, tried to twist away, but Bruce held him tighter. “You disappointed though- couldn’t do it. What’s so special about her that you can get it up?” He sneered now when he realized he couldn’t escape, let one hand reach down and press to Bruce’s crotch, even though he knew through the armor he couldn’t feel it.

“Nothing,” Bruce said, “because I didn’t fuck her. I’ve got an image to keep up- otherwise I wouldn’t be out with all these girls. She’s sweet though- she doesn’t deserve what you’re putting her through.”

“We don’t deserve any of this,” the Joker said, “and we deserve all of it. She does, somehow.”

“You don’t make sense.”

“No,” the Joker whispered, leaving Bruce’s crotch, hand moving to grip his hip, “with you, I don’t, Bats.”

Bruce felt something tugging in his chest, something he couldn’t explain. He fisted a hand in those green curls and pulled the Joker closer, kissing his painted lips heatedly, letting his tongue push inside to caress teeth and scars. The Joker melted against him, far too easily, gripping at armor, clawing for contact, for support.

Bruce wanted to explore that mouth for hours, but he kept the kiss brief. When he broke, he felt himself taking what breath remained in the clown’s lungs, saw something in those eyes he recognized. Something he’d seen before, somewhere-

They danced, twitched, and Bruce knew then. He’d seen it on a roof top, after that first kiss, but then he hadn’t been able to place it, to figure out what it was. Excitement, need, desire, terror and fear and confusion- his mind breaking, trying to restitch.

The look of someone realizing they were in love.

Bruce stared at him, thought he could see a tinge of pink rising under that ghastly white paint. He’d never once seen the Joker blush.

“It wasn’t just sex you wanted,” Bruce whispered, and suddenly the clown was thrashing, trying to pull away.

“Let me go-“

“You... you actually wanted...me.”

The words left Bruce’s mouth feeling bloody- he didn’t realize his lips was bleeding again form the kiss. Neither moved, they barely breathed, until finally the Joker leaned in, licked at Bruce’s split lip, trembling unlike himself.

“Don’t ask me to explain it,” he muttered, mouth heavy in the rich taste of blood and Bruce’s sweet mouth. And Bruce didn’t.

“Let her go,” he said, eyes darting over to the girl. “Let her go, so we can really talk.”

“She walks, and your cop friends will be, ah, all over me Bats.”

“I’ll make sure they aren’t.” He may not be able to get a true explanation out of the Joker, but he needed something, and not here. He didn’t want to be in the suit for this.

He wanted to be Bruce, not Batman.

“I’ll take her out the front,” Bruce said, reaching a gloved hand to the clown’s face, stroking a paint covered scar. “Give her to the cops, they’ll get her to a hospital. You’re good at disappearing, you’ll have plenty of time. Then I’ll find you.”

“You’d better,” the Joker whispered, lids heavy as his scars were teased. “Or next time, I really will rig the building with bombs.”

That answered Bruce’s silent question, and he breathed a sigh of relief. One last movement of thumb over pucker skin, and he stepped back, untangling from the man. He scooped up the woman, cradled her gently, could feel the Joker’s eyes.

“Don’t be jealous,” he tried to tease, looking back at him, smiling. Of all the things to do, he smiled. “I’ll carry you later, if you really want.”

The Joker laughed then, shaking his head. He watched Bruce leave, before making his own escape.

The woman was coming to as Bruce carried her. She really was pretty, he mused- a soft, childish kind of pretty, not over done. If his life was different, she might have been one to hold onto- if he didn’t need Batman.

If Batman didn’t need the Joker- if Bruce didn’t have a soft spot somewhere in him for those pouting, scarred lips.

Bruce handed her to an officer, gave Gordon the look and shook his head- the universal sign that the Joker was gone- and told him there were no explosives. His men could go in if need be- there would be one unconscious thug left, and one dead.

And then Bruce slipped into the shadows.

He knew where to go, which streets to take, the right old building. Up the stairs, past the dust in the air, an unlocked door, and the man was waiting, sitting in the only chair in the room- old wood- spinning a knife on his desk. When Bruce came in he actually dropped the knife, stood up. He’d lost his coat, it was draped over the back of the chair.

Bruce was to him in two long strides, grasping his face, kissing him. He hadn’t meant to- he’d tried to plan mentally what he’d say, how he’d act. He’s come in calmly, he’d demand- no, he’d ask first- for answers, for truth. He’d get the Joker to tell him exactly what was going on in his crazy head-

So he could figure out what was going on in his.

But the moment Bruce saw him, all his thoughts dissipated. That mouth called to him, and he lost himself in it, tipping the Joker’s head back, fingers in hair, on scars, the Joker’s trying to cling to the edges of his armor. There was blood and saltiness and a sweetness that always laced the man’s tongue. It made Bruce giddy, his insides hot and slithering into a coil, want and need a blur of just lust, entangled with a desire to coax something from the Joker- some sort of true confession, explanation- anything.

He tore open the Joker’s shirt, one hand pushing it and his vest off his shoulders, the other working frantically on his own suit. The madman helped, hands fluttering everywhere, tossing his own clothing, chucking parts of the suit around the room. They didn’t untangle like last time to disrobe, it became a haphazard twister, bits and pieces being thrown everywhere.

When Bruce reached for his cowl, the clown tried to stop him, though.

“Leave it,” he breathed, “or you’ll lose your nerve. Besides, we all know it’s the real you.”

Bruce hesitated, then a second later tore it off, throwing it away.

“I won’t lose my nerve,” he promised- though he wasn’t so sure. Trying to push the fear from his mind, he kissed the Joker again, the madman’s hands playing in his soft hair was Bruce finished popping off various portions of his suit.

When the two were naked- painted smeared from the Joker’s lips along their faces, Bruce cooped him up, cradling him as he had the woman earlier. Shocked, the Joker was stiff for a moment, before he eased into it, wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck and kicked one of his long, pale legs out.

“Oh Batman, whisk me away!” He giggled, tossed his head back, and Bruce actually laughed. He was still laughing when he tossed him playfully onto the bed, when he crawled over him, staring right into those green eyes.

The laughter subsided in both, and the room grew quiet. Bruce knew it was insane, to be naked, laughing with his arch enemy- the man who had just held hostages and been willing to kill a girl because he’d gone on a date with her- but he was alright with the insanity. Madness was contagious, he was sure, and he’d caught it. He’d caught it the first time he noticed those hips, had succumbed the first time he tasted those painted lips.

He kissed the man, dominating him, exploring him, hands everywhere, tracing scars, scratching, pinching skin, until they claimed his sex and stroked with a fervor that had the Joker writhing beneath him. Bruce released his cock in favor of grinding against him, his own erection bumping and rubbing deliciously, making the madman’s eyes roll.

“Bru-ce,” he groaned, the words strangled in his tight throat. He tangled his arms around the man, whimpered against Bruce’s fingers as they reached up, traced his lips. His tongue shot out, licked one, pulled it into his mouth and rolled over the shape. Bruce smirked- imagined that mouth elsewhere- happy too that the Joker was helping him in his own predicament.

When the Joker released his finger Bruce leaned in and kissed him, still gyrating against him as he slipped his hand down- stopping only when it slipped between the Joker’s thighs- thighs that opened without a whispered command, knowing and wanting and needing what Bruce had, what terrified him and excited him. Bruce felt part of him resisting, but he slipped his finger between flesh, pressed against a ring of tight hot muscle, and pressing his tongue deeper into the Joker’s scarred mouth, he pressed the saliva slick finger inside. The Joker groaned into his mouth, vibrated the slick flesh. Bruce felt frozen inside him, one barrier broken inside his mind- countless more left to shatter.

“Am I hurting you?” he whispered, and the Joker reached down and grasped his wrist, made him move his finger gently- in, out, back in again.

“No, Bats,” he breathed, though his body burned slightly. He knew it would pass. Blindly, he stretched his arm out, feeling around along the old, dusty bedside stand. He knocked a knife off that had been laying there- the clatter on the floor making Bruce jump, his nerves on edge.

“What are you doing?”

The Joker- reluctantly- squirmed away from Bruce, and body free, turned and rummaged through the nightstand, tossing another knife to the floor and a few unmarked joker cards, before coming back with a small bottle. Bruce raised an amused eyebrow- the last thing he expected the Joker to be prepared for was sex.

“Have company often?” he asked, jokingly, and the Joker shrugged one pale, lean muscled shoulder.

“You’d be, ah, shocked.” He winked, and Bruce felt something tighten in his gut- hot and red and pulsing. Jealousy. He snatched the bottle away, mind racing through thoughts without a moment to breathe as he slicked his fingers.

Who else had the Joker brought here? Who did the Joker fuck before Bruce came along- or even while Bruce was around? Men? Women? Did he have anyone special- could he have anyone special? Did they go willingly- did he hire someone?

Too many thoughts, all quaking and trembling beneath one- one need, one burning desire Bruce felt in his gut-

To put them all to shame.

Leaving the bottle of lubricant tangled in the blankets, Bruce pulled the Joker close again, his hand slipping between his legs, beneath him, one slick finger pressing inside again. A sigh escaped those scarred lips- the burning sensation gone, and the lithe man gave a quiet plea for more. Bruce- his abandon growing as he pushed down thoughts of what he was doing, but instead focused on doing it with such passion that no one could ever hope to match- slipped a second digit inside, guiding that tight ring of muscles open as his scissored his fingers. He heard the Joker gasp, watched him arch a bit- felt a shot of pure acidic fire travel to his groin.

“Again,” the painted man breathed, and Bruce obliged, pressing in deeper before moving his fingers. This time he got a small cry as the pads of his fingertips brushed against a fiery spot. His breath caught and he leaned over the man, pressing a third finger inside him, mouth claiming his neck as he writhed around. “Fu-ck,” the madman was groaning, trying to tangle his legs with Bruce without hindering his fingers blessed movements, his body being stretched so deliciously.

Bruce let his lips crawl up along the Joker’s jawline, found his lips and licked them, sucked on the scarred lower one until the man was mewling. Bruce realized that with every trust and twist of his fingers, his cock was pulsing, needing to replace them, to dive into that body. Even if his mind may have had reservations, his body was more than willing, it seemed.

But he wanted to hear the Joker ask for it- no, beg for it- first. The Bat down inside him wanted to see the man so broken with need, so at his complete mercy.

“Bats,” he gasped out, that spot being struck again, his own cock aching and weeping with need.

“What do you want?” Bruce murmured, mouth finding his ear, tongue tracing along the shell of it before he suckled on his earlobe. Bruce pressed as deeply as he could this time, curling his fingers up and dragging them along that spot, making the man cry out in a sharp, keening voice.

“You,” he breathed, and for a moment Bruce thought he may cry from the torture. He curled his fingers again, and his unspoken need for more was heard. “Youyouyou Batsy. Fuck, just shove your- AH!” He cried out again when Bruce hit it, one finger, then the other, then the other dragging over it in long succession. “Your cock i-in me, Brucie baby.”

Bruce lost himself then- shattered into a thousand pieces. He pulled his fingers from that body, scrambling for the bottle to slick his sex up, before he was holding those thighs open and pressing against it- hesitating for a moment, before he heard a rush of breath-

“Do it!”

Bruce gripped him with bruising force as he pushed past that tight ring of muscle, into smooth hot silk and a blinding pleasure that had him gasping.

He’d never been with another man- he’d never thought of it, not until this exquisite disaster began their courtship. And despite having a reputation as a playboy, Bruce had kept things rather mundane and simple in the bedroom with his lovers. But in that moment, he was sure he’d never fuck another cunt in his life.

“Ah, that’s it Bruc-ie,” the Joker forced out, his breath gone as he was filled to the core. Bruce was still gripping him so hard, not moving, that for a moment the clown thought he may have gone into shock. Truth be told, Bruce was afraid to move for two reasons. He feared tearing the clown in half with his need-

And he feared with one stroke he’d be spent, that body too much for his fraying senses.

“C’mon Bats,” the Joker breathed, wrapping his legs around that muscled waist. The movement sent sparks between them, and Bruce pulled back, thrust deep inside that body, made the Joker cry out. “Yess, that’s a good Bat. Just. Like. That.”

Bruce reached for the man’s waist, held him as they coupled, watched his head toss and eyes roll and lips part- wanted to split him in half and caress his very core until he came crying in his arms.

It was a horrifyingly beautiful thought.

The Joker was reaching for him as Bruce moved faster, thrust deeper, was crying out and moaning as that tender spot was touched again and again and again. He grasped his biceps, held on, until Bruce was pulling him up, falling back onto the bed so the Joker was straddling his laps. He thrust up into him and watched how he’d bounce, his neck extended and head tipped back, curls falling around him like an erotic green halo.

Bruce kissed that neck, the Joker’s hands finding his shoulders, bracing himself on them as he tried to take control of the rhythm, drove himself down harder, all words a jumble of cries and pleas and curses. Bruce reached between them, finally wrapped his hand around the Joker’s neglected cock- hard as steel and slick from his excitement.

Bruce tried to time his hand with the Joker’s rhythm, but the man was erratic and fast and wild, and he simply couldn’t- something the Joker loved more than he’d admit. He wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck and found his mouth, kissing him with a furious force- pushing tongue into mouth, captivating, as Bruce squeezed his cock just hard enough and drove so deep into, assaulting his core with such ferocity that the Joker came undone. He cried against those lips, eyes squeezing shut as his muscles clenched and rolled over Bruce’s manhood, rhythmic where the man otherwise had none- his cock spurting hot white desire onto Bruce’s hand and their stomachs.

Bruce drank down his cries, let the pleasure flow over him, roll him tight in its arms. He thrust so deep he was sure he’d get lost inside the clown’s body, came hot and needy inside his silken walls, one arm wrapping around him to hold him tight.

They came down from the high together, locked tight and panting and clawing at each other’s skin with shaking fingertips. Their lips stayed sealed, tongues tangled lazily as pale scarred hands slipped into short dark hair, stroked and tugged and tangled. His whole body was trembling, but neither knew who it really was. The Joker’s remaining paint had run- his eyes having betrayed him and cast tears of abandon, of need down those scarred cheeks.

Finally, breath coming in steadier gasps, the Joker leaned back just enough to grin at Bruce, his eyes still hazy, almost sleepy. “Not so bad, huh, Batsy?”

Bruce squeezed him with the arm wrapped around him, the other stroking sweat slicked skin along his abdomen- alone one long, raised scar.

“I’d have to say you might be in my top ten,” the Joker continued, his grin turning to a playful smirk. Bruce’s mouth fell into a tight line.

Had he not measured up to whatever mysteries had come for the Joker in the dark?

He was laughing then, untangling from Bruce, finally rising off his softening sex. The loss of that heat made Bruce want to whimper- but he held it in. The Joker lay back on the bed, disheveled and gorgeous and a wreck, hair wild.

“Why so serious, Bats?” he asked, stretching out and laughing. “I was joking sugar. You’re the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

Bruce felt his muscles relax, and he lay down next to the man, draping an arm over his waist lazily as the air settled over them. Neither spoke in that moment, too much to say, too little breath. Instead Bruce enjoyed the silence, the cooling skin, the scars, the way the Joker’s eyes darted about as he seemed to memorize the ceiling.

He knew he’d have to leave soon. He knew rightfully he should have punished the madman for that night’s stunt- innocent lives put at risk. But he couldn’t, not after that. Not now. Maybe in the morning, maybe in a week. Maybe in a lifetime.

Bruce’s departure was lackluster, quiet. The two just seemed to know in silence when the time was right. The suit took time to put on alone, and the Joker was content to watch, though sad to see delicious skin disappear. He was still laying in the bed, naked, when Bruce left without a word.

The next day, Bruce knew he had to make an appearance. He knew he had to be at the office, because his little doe-eyed date had been released from the hospital that morning, and she;d want comfort. So he sat in his office, staring at papers he’d read a good five times, when she burst through his doors, babbling and terrified still.

Bruce still was fond of her, she was still a sweet thing- but seeing her reminded him that the Joker had gone unpunished for his crimes. Hell, he’d been rewarded.

Bruce sat her down, got her some coffee, let her talk through her fear, the shock of it all. How the Joker had seemed to have some vendetta against her.

“He’s a psychopath,” Bruce offered, “one who seems a bit unsteady in his gender identity and sexuality- to say the least. Maybe he was just jealous of a pretty girl.”

Lay on the charm to calm her down, and get her home- away from you.

It took Bruce an hour, but when she finally seemed calm, he had a car sent for to take her home. He suggested she keep a low profile for a little while- but she did him one better.

“I’m leaving Gotham,” she said at the door, giving him a sad smile. “I’m sorry Bruce- it’s not you, obviously. I just...I don’t want to die in some sick war between the underworld’s star crossed lovers, as it seems. I’m heading home to stay with my parents for a bit, before I fly to Hollywood for an audition.”

“I understand,” Bruce said- more than she understood. Star crossed lovers? Perhaps, in some sick, unhealthy way.

He had barely closed the door when his cell phone was flashing on his desk. He walked back over, didn’t recognize the number, but answered, knowing who it had to be.

“You know, after last night, I thought you might take the hint to, ah, not see her, dar-ling.”

“I didn’t invite her,” Bruce said, sitting down and leaning back, rubbing his temples. “She just showed up, Joker. I calmed her down and sent her off- I won’t be seeing her again.”

There was a low chuckle. “Ah, goodgoodgood Bats. I know you’d hate to see me jealous again, sugar.”

“Look, last night-“

“I was very naught-y,” the Joker filled in, giggling. “I shouldn’t have threatened those poor people, right Bats? I was a bad boy, wasn’t I?” The not-so-subtle joy in his voice made it painfully obvious he was enjoying what the words implied. “Is the big bad Bat going to punish me?”

“Maybe I will,” Bruce said, smirking, playing along. It was hard not to, when the man’s sing-song voice brought back images of that pale skin, those legs, and the feel of such a tight heat that Bruce was beginning to grow uncomfortable in his pants.

“Oh, goody,” the Joker squealed, “it’s a da-te, Batsy. Will you pick me up at nine? I do have to put on my face, after all. You just can’t rush a girl with these things.”

Bruce chuckled. He didn’t respond, just hung up as the man began giggling, and decided it was time to play rough.

When night fell, he called the number the Joker had called him on earlier- hoping he hadn’t tossed the phone yet. He needed it for his plan.

When the man did, Bruce breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’m sending Alfred to pick you up,” Bruce said as he paced along the smooth floor of the batcave, his boots echoing. “If you so much as breath on him, our date will turn into a nightmare.”

“Oh fine Bats, you’re not fun.” There was a giggle. “I’ll be good to your little butler. But it’d be nicer to have you come get me, sugar. This night better be worth the ex-plos-ions I could be causing all on my own.”

Bruce smirked. “It’ll be worth it.” He hung up then, tossed his cellphone onto one of the counters below his many monitors, silently joyous that the night may go as he planned.

It hadn’t been easy for Bruce to get Alfred to agree to this. He hadn’t asked- he’d begged, pleaded, told Alfred he only had to help in the very beginning. And while the man disapproved- highly and vocally, he played along, picking the Joker up as if he was one of Bruce’s dates, listening to his chatter and giggle, and drive him back-

But not to the penthouse, per say. When the car stopped and Alfred got out to open the man’s door, the Joker was greeted with a spray of gas to his face, and knocked out before he could find the breath to giggle. Alfred carried him to the entrance to the batcave, and found Bruce in one dark corner, suit on, rigging something from the ceiling.

“Your company, Master Wayne,” he said, the Joker thrown over one shoulder and limp. Bruce walked over, took the lithe body from him, cradled him like a princess- like he had before. Alfred raised one thin eyebrow, but said nothing about it. “Will that be all?”

“Yes Alfred,” Bruce said, setting the Joker down on a couch he had brought down into the cave specifically for this. “Thank you- you don’t need to come down here again tonight.”

“As you say, Master Wayne.” Alfred took one last look, before turning and leaving the batcave for the night.

When the Joker came to, there was an ache in his shoulders as if his arms were being pulled from his sockets. He blinked, vision blurry, and let his head roll from side to side, curls cascading into sight.

“You’re awake.”

The voice was gruff and guttural, and for a moment he was confused. Where was he? Who was speaking- it wasn’t the voice his mind thought to hear, but he didn’t know who or what-

And then the world flew back into his mind like a sandstorm of truth. He opened his eyes, saw the blur of black in the dim lights.

“Bats,” he said, licking his lips. “What, ah, are we doing, love?” He tried to move, realized his arms were pulled together above his head, his feet stepped into some odd indents in the floor- as if captives were held her often. “I do hope I didn’t miss any of the, ah, fun.”

Batman stared back at him from behind that big black mask. He hadn’t expected the Bat- he expected Bruce. Pretty and somewhat tentative Bruce, a good plaything. A good fuck buddy.

Batman changed the whole dance.

He walked up to the Joker, ran his gloved hand down his clothed chest. The Joker tried to push towards the hand, painfully aware of just how excited he was- the throb in his shoulders only adding to it.

“You need to be punished for what you did,” Batman said, walking around him, letting his eyes rove over that body- one he had committed as best he could to memory from one night. “For the terror you caused last night.”

“Oh yes,” the Joker breathed, hips gyrating slightly without a thought. “I was oh-so naught-y Bats- it’d be so wrong if you didn’t punish me.”

Batman grinned, behind the Joker, running his hands down his sides. He walked back around him as the Joker said, “But, ah, this punishment would probably work better with a few less barriers, sugar.” He licked his lips. “How about you let me down and I get out of these, ah, pesky clothes. I promise to be good. I’m a man of my word.”

He grinned, and Bruce smirked, before a hand darted to his belt, and the sound of fabric slicing filled the silent room. The Joker felt the air more than he saw the fabric- the light was so dim, it was hard to even see the Bat in front of him.

Bruce reached up, dragged the batarang along his arms, down his sides, slicing through his coat, peeling pieces of it away.

“You can stay right where you are,” he breathed, leaning in as he dragged it through his vest and shirt, opening up to his pale chest. His free gloved hand ran over it, tweaked one pale nipple and brought color to it. The Joker bit his scarred lip, gave a little cry that dissolved into giggles.

“Oh Bats, you are just a de-light.” Batman grinned, cut away the rest of his shirt and vest, left him partially naked hanging there. He let his tongue swirl around the other nipple, his hand reached down to cup the Joker’s excitement through those thin pants. The man was pushing into his touch, groaning at the assault, until he felt the solid sharp feel of the batarang against the crotch of his pants.

He grinned, but didn’t move as the flat of it was pressed against him, Bruce’s other hand tracing along his thigh. No matter how much he had been taken off guard, the Joker didn’t think Bruce- or even Batman- would cause him too much harm. He’d shown too much interest in the change of their dance to go back to the way things were. He’d shown too much interest in the Joker.

Batman turned the batarang and cut through fabric, slicing every barrier to the Joker’s straining sex, which popped free, hard and reddening and weeping in the near dark. Bruce grasped it in one gauntletted hand, stroked, and the Joker tossed his head back, pushing towards that hand- purposefully straining against his binds so his shoulders burned.

“Fu-ck,” he gasped, biting his lips so hard it bled into his mouth- the metallic taste making his cock twitch, so near the edge already. “C’monc’monc’mon Bats, why don’t you-“ the words dissolved as that hand twisted around the head, squeezing, making the Joker lose his breath. “Have a taste,” he finished when he could breath again, pulling on his binds and straining towards Batman.

Bruce smirked, crouched down. He dragged the batarang along those legs, along the hip, before his lips connected with the head, tongue sweeping out, tasting salt and desire. He swallowed him down as he clawed away clothing, leaving shreds to cling to the Joker’s legs- the batarang clanging to the floor, forgotten, as that hand snaked around the Joker and kneaded his ass.

“Mmm, Bats,” he panted, head tipped back, eyes nearly rolling into his head. “C-careful- gonna, ah, explode if you keep this up.”

Bruce took him in one more time, before he stood up, leaving the man to groan and strain. He leaned in, tracing his thumb over the Joker’s lower lip, smearing pant onto his glove, before he walked around the man, to trace down his spine.

Then, with a sudden crack, that gloved hand connected with the tender flesh of his ass, and the Joker yelped. Before he could move it happened again, the sound resonating through out the batcave. He strained to look back at Batman, but he couldn’t see him.

“Is this my, ah, punishment, sugar?” The pain came again, and the Joker bit his cheek, onto those scars, intensifying it. His cock jumped with desire.

“It’s only the beginning.” Another slap, the skin turning a rosy pink, and then Bruce had stepped back into the shadows. The Joker could hear his boots as they moved, but he couldn’t see anything. The skin of his ass stung, his cheeks and lip hurt from all the biting he’d done, and his cock was screaming for release- he’d been so close already, his balls ached with the need to empty, onto a hand, into a mouth, he didn’t care what.

It was agonizing. It was euphoric. His Bat was terrible at making punishment unenjoyable.

He was almost silent in those boots- the Joker had barely heard him coming, and before he could even think, he felt a slick, now naked, finger pressing between his stinging cheeks and into his body. The sudden intrusion had him hissing, letting a cry slip out when a second digit was added before he was used to the first.

The hand that gripped his hip was still gloved, a contrast that reminded him it wasn’t little Bruce playing this game- he’d let his Bat out to play.

He almost came at the reminder.

A third was added as those fingers pumped in and out of him, adding a slight burn, an ache, and then in an instant they were gone. The Joker waited on bated breath, hoping, daring to pray that he was right about what was to come next.

When Batman’s cock shoved into him with bruising brute force, the Joker cried out so loudly it was a wonder Alfred didn’t hear.

He pulled on the restraints, tried to shove himself back against that body, to get that sweet angle, but he couldn’t. The intrusion stretched him deliciously, but it left him tormented. He wanted to spread his legs, to wrap them around that well muscled waist, lift with each thrust.

Most of all, he wanted something to move around his cock.

“Bats,” he cried, pulling painfully on his arms. “C’mon Batsy- gimme something.”

He got a grunt in response, that gloved hand reaching up, covering his mouth. The Joker groaned against it, felt it tighten, felt his head spin. Bruce drove in harder, found that spot, and the painted man was seeing stars, huffing against that hand and groaning and whimpering, body wracked with so much need it hurt to even breathe.

Still, Bruce never once touched him. His naked hand gripped onto pink, stinging flesh as he leaned forward, dug his teeth into the Joker’s shoulder as he came, his hand still clamped over that painted mouth.

When he finally pulled away, the Joker gasped for a clear breath, head spinning. He let it fall down, eyes closed, shoulders ablaze, body aching and wanting and yet not receiving.

He stayed unmoving until Bruce returned from the shadows, still in his suit, hands fully gloved, manhood tucked back away. When Batman stopped in front of him, the Joker giggled, opening his eyes and looking through his curls.

“I under-estimated you, Bats. I didn’t think you, ah,” he licked his lips, “had it in ya to try to punish me.” He grinned. “Now how about you let me down, and we, ah, finish this.”

“No.” It was deep, commanding, and that smile faltered a little. “I think I might leave you here all night.”

The Joker lurched forward, pulling painfully on his arms, growling at him, teeth bared.

“Let me the fuck down,” he growled, voice deep and husky and utterly terrifying. “Don’t leave me like this, Bats.”

“You deserve it.”

“No, I deserve your mouth on my cock, sugar.” He grinned, but it was pained. “I deserve your fingers back inside me. I deserve to fucking get off, Bats, not to be left hanging here all night like some toy.”

“Isn’t that all you are?” He reached out, grabbed the man by the face, leaned in close. “Isn’t that all I am? Toys to each other.”

“Oh, hell,” he said, pulling back. “Take the fucking mask off, Brucie baby, I’m sick of the big bad Bat.” Bruce hesitated, but then reached up, pulled the mask off, tossing it into the dark. His hair was disheveled, but he stared back at the madman, completely serious.

“I thought you liked Batman.”

“I do. And I like the man beneath him, too.” He sighed, let his tongue trace his lips unconsciously. “Would I really get so, ah, upset if someone else was playing with my toy?”

“Yes-“

“No!” It was loud, the voice booming, and Bruce nearly took a step back. “Only my favorite, Bats. I’d give this whole city over to the burner if it meant I got to keep you, sugar.” He strained, leaned as close to his Bat as he could. “And that makes you more than a toy, Brucie.”

Bruce didn’t speak, didn’t move for a moment, before he took one small, slow step. Almost touching the man, he asked, “Then what am I, Joker?”

“Mine.” One word, pure, simple yet complicating. When Bruce didn’t respond, the painted man continued. “My world, my terror, my pure joy. You’re all of it, Batsy dar-ling. I can’t think of anything more I like than you. And I, ah, wouldn’t want to. In my world there’s just you and me, Bats, doing this forever.”

Bruce felt something tight in his chest, in his gut. Something warm, soaking into him, stemming from those green eyes. He stepped closer, reached his hands into those curls, kissed that painted mouth, dove deep and gave in and became everything that mouth had dared to speak. World. Terror. Joy.

Batman was gone for the night as the scarred lips took control, told him how to move, Bruce knew. Batman was gone for quite a while. Bruce was back, broken and aching and wanting and so confused.

He wasn’t just a toy. He was something. And truthfully, what kind of world would he be in without the Joker? Did he want to imagine it?

He realized he didn’t.

He broke the kiss long enough to reach down, undo the bindings on the Joker’s feet and ankles, before he reached up and released his arms. The lithe man stumbled, and Bruce caught up, scooping him up and carrying him into the black of the batcave, to the couch he had moved down here for the night. He’d meant to sleep on it, to watch the Joker all night in his misery- as a rest between when he used the man as he so chose.

That idea was broken.

He laid him down on it, one hand grasping between them for the erection that had never gone away, that still ached. He tore his gauntlet off with his teeth, sucked on his fingers, then slipped them inside him, making the Joker arch and hiss and mewl, a string of yesyesyes on his lips. It didn’t take long, a few curls of Bruce’s fingers, a few pumps of his fist, and the man was positively crying, sobbing and arching and releasing onto his stomach all the need that had pent up.

Bruce released him, withdrew, kissed him, licked at tears- tasted salt and paint as the man came down from his delirious high.

Bruce settled onto the couch, and the Joker settled over him, head in his lap, trembling from the delicious abuse. Bruce stroked his hair, lovingly, and wondered what to do with him.

“If that’s my punishment for just a minor slight,” the Joker whispered, “what happens when I, ah, actually cause some damage?” He grinned, even though Bruce couldn’t see it.

“You won’t enjoy that punishment,” he said. “I could let what you did go, because no one died.”

“Ahahah, someone did, Bats.” Bruce grimaced- of course, the thug whose throat the Joker had slit. Yet, that he slipped Bruce’s mind until now.

“If you want me around, you’ll behave,” Bruce said. The Joker stilled, before rolling onto his back and looking up in the dark- only able to make out Bruce’s outline.

“So you’re mine, if I behave?” The voice was oddly smooth and slow, serious and quiet. Bruce hesitated, tried to think of an answer, any, other than what his lips were about to give.

“Yes.”

The Joker smiled, softly, and rolled back onto his side, groggy. “Guess I’ll have to pick up a, ah, hobby then, to take up all the spare time I’m going to have.”

“You’ll stop...stop all the mayhem, then?”

“For you, cupcake? I said I’d give the city up. You really don’t, ah, listen very well, Bats.”

Bruce ran his hand along the man’s shoulder and arm, wondering how true those words were. If he really did “behave”, what would that mean for him? What would Bruce do with a retired Joker? He couldn’t very well just openly- what, date?- the Clown Prince of Crime. Could he? Surely not.

He leaned back into the couch, continuing to stroke skin, deciding he didn’t need to know that moment. For all he knew, the Joker would go on a murdering spree the very next day. He hoped he wouldn’t- after all, Bruce would never just wish death on so many innocents- but part of him liked the idea. Part of him liked the idea of coming home to the pretty man- maybe get him to get rid of some of that ghastly paint. Part of him liked the twisted idea of normalcy.

Whatever affection the Joker had, it was obviously viral, and Bruce realized he’d caught it- caught it bad.