Dark Knight -- "Holding Up the Mirror" -- Batman/Joker
Title: “Holding Up the Mirror”
Pairing: Batman/Joker
Rated NC-17
Word count: 2400
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: fighting, rough sex, masturbation
Notes/Summary: Nolanverse, basically. Based around a prompt suggested by he_will_save_me (which I'll name at the end of the story so as not to spoil it beforehand). The Joker provokes Batman into revealing his darker side.
The door splintered open on the second kick, and Batman crashed into the room. Standing hunched-shouldered in the middle of the otherwise-abandoned building, the Joker showed an air of having been waiting for him. The casualness of his demeanor only served to fuel Batman’s wish for some extra-swift justice. The Joker threw aside a roll of duct tape and a coil of something -- rope? cable? -- which echoed in the high-ceilinged room. At one time, this place had been the home of one of the local television news stations. Now it stood empty and useless, a casualty of the domination from national channels and Gotham’s own GCN. For tonight, though, its central location in the city and its large studio space were just the sort which the Joker favored for staging confrontations. Not wasting a second, Batman stormed up to the fiend and punched him hard across jaw.
The Joker nearly spun on the spot from the force, yet barely raised a hand to check his injured face. His hooded eyes flashed with a familiar dangerous stare. The smile that was not a smile spread wider nonetheless. “'Hello’ to you too,” he drawled.
“Let them go,” Batman insisted, poised to strike again.
“Do what?”
“Let the hostages go.”
The Joker spoke with an infuriating lack of urgency. “You think I carry them on my person, maybe? Nothing up my sleeve.” He checked. “No, they’re of much more use to me where they are,” he said, eyebrows lowering.
Batman found himself unable to unclench his fists. No matter, that. He would undoubtedly be needing them any minute. “If they’re not here, why did you bring me?”
“Because I’m here.”
If this was a stunt for his benefit, Batman was far from impressed. These attention-seeking games intended to corrupt the world and infuriate Batman were enough to send the dark knight Arkham-bound himself. Being lured out alone because the Joker was in the mood for a scrap was the thin end of the wedge. “What do you want?”
That unnatural smile split again.
“What do I want? I want to press your buttons. I want you to work for it. I want to smash some of that nobility off of your face. I want to be what you need me to be -- a challenge.”
Batman hadn’t expected not to work for it, but he didn’t appreciate being called out on a rescue mission in order to be an object for the Joker’s amusement. The face-smashing notion was a tempting one, though; beating the hell out of the bastard sounded like an appealing idea any day of the week. There was no more satisfying opponent than the Joker for a bit of a fistfight, if he could ever admit it to himself. But every minute that victims spent in the clutches of the madman would only worsen their situation. He’d just have to make it as quick as possible.
Cape billowing as he stalked forward, Batman watched his rival’s expression melt into one of almost erotic anticipation. The Joker grinned and kicked his leg out amongst the many snaking cables which covered the floor. A cord looped around his ankle pulled taut, tripping Batman and sending the Joker into a riot of merciless laughter. He fell upon the bat, knife drawn. With a quick jab, Batman disarmed him and rolled them both over, settling in to sit astride the Joker. He was trying to pin him down when the Joker worked a leg around Batman’s, wrenching his knee at a painful angle, enough to slip free. Before he could get far, Batman caught hold of him from behind, slinging an arm around his waist. Barely hindered, the Joker still struggled to his feet with improbable strength, practically carrying Batman.
As soon as they pulled themselves upright, Batman drew the Joker’s arms back, gripping his wrists as best he could in one hand. The other hand reached around to wrap tightly at the base of the Joker’s throat. Once Batman had a pinning hold, the Joker stopped struggling, though by no means did he relax. Given his insane adrenaline bursts, it was probable he could shake off this restraint too. He made no move to, however, merely wriggling a bit, his breathing harsh and erratic.
Letting go of the Joker’s neck, Batman patted then dove into the Joker’s pockets, pulling out knives and tossing them out of reach. The Joker’s chest rumbled against his, vibrating with a pleased little grunt every time Batman’s hand slid in. He determinedly tried to ignore the Joker’s vulgar insinuation as much as he tried not to notice the tight muscles of those thighs, or how the knives burned hot from body heat even through his gloves.
The Joker strained in Batman’s grasp, testing the boundaries of it. He made a great show of flexing his body, not an inch of which Batman missed, being pressed so tightly to it. Soon the struggling turned to a simple shifting in Batman’s arms -- a loaded reminder of the Joker’s promise to force against him forever. An aggression welled in him in response to this manipulation. Despite being on top, so to speak, he couldn’t feel that he held an advantage. Even the room turned against him, going completely quiet except for the creak of his armor and the sliding of the Joker’s shirt against it.
Breaking the stillness with a backward-aimed kick, the Joker lashed out, sending them both doubling forward at Batman’s attempt to avoid the hit. Bent over the Joker, Batman switched to a grip across his collarbones, hauling him back up to regain their balance. He couldn’t shake off the awareness of their bodies, the suggestive position, or the Joker’s satisfied chuckle every time they slammed together. The Joker kicked again, and this time they stumbled across the room.
Renewing his hold, Batman rushed them forward, their feet shuffling through more wires and cardboard boxes, knocking them out of the way as they moved toward the only piece of proper furniture in the room -- a long sturdy table which had probably been part of the news desk. They crashed into it with a scraping clunk, the Joker’s thighs connecting sharply with the edge. Batman shoved the Joker’s head down, pressing his face onto the tabletop, smudging it with white make-up as they landed.
He held the Joker’s hands against the small of his back, savoring the perfectly brutal position of power. Again, something seemed off. The Joker seemed to be waiting -- allowing this. Batman vaguely wondered why. Yet he couldn’t step away, captivated by this need to keep holding him down. Stilling the Joker meant stilling himself as well. It was best that neither of them moved until he decided what to do. He stifled a moan when the Joker’s rear end rose up against Batman’s pelvis, deciding for him.
He bumped forward sharply, delivering a warning snap from his hips -- an instinctual reaction which Batman had no time to worry about. Though unable to feel more than a slight pressure through his suit, the other man’s movement was too inflammatory for his body to ignore. It responded and his mind followed, eyes falling shut. The Joker kept pulsing back, sliding against his foe, daring him to attack.
Battlefields with the Joker were constantly being made on new ground. This just meant an adjustment in tactics, Batman tried to reassure himself.
With an efficient tug, Batman pulled the sections of his suit apart at the waist, and undid the seal from midline down the thigh. Equally quickly, he yanked at the Joker’s trousers, snapping off the clip of his suspenders and working them down past his hips without unbuttoning them.
Spitting once, twice, on his hand to gather saliva, Batman quickly spread it on his cock. He splayed his fingers on the Joker’s ass, parting him with his thumbs.
It took several thrusts before he was buried completely, the Joker yelling out maniacally the whole time. It felt blindingly good -- so terribly terribly hot inside of him, the tightness gripping and quivering around him. His hips drove forward of their own accord, following the sensation he hadn’t known would be so pleasurable.
The Joker let out a constant stream of guttural noises, none of which Batman could tell was pleasure or pain. It was all the same to that madman. The realization that he couldn’t hurt him only made Batman that much angrier, encouraging him to thrust with a more punishing force. He wanted to hurt him, wanted to rip out his core the way the Joker had done to him. At least he could hear those throaty screams and pretend that they were hurt, fear, and anguish -- that he was tearing him apart and doing him lasting damage. A pain like that, they could truly share -- one reserved for shaping creatures of darkness. The more punishing Batman’s intent became, the less the screams sounded like pain. In fact, at some unknown point they seemed to have changed into outright hysterical laughter. Perhaps the Joker’s old insanity was taking hold of him again. That would be something, at least -- to snap his mind.
The Joker’s hips arched against the table edge in a way that had to be uncomfortable, at the very least. Batman didn’t know whether the Joker was hard or not, perhaps rubbing off against the table. And he didn’t want to check. That would be too intimate -- too much like sex, which this was decidedly not. It was just another struggle between them, wasn’t it? Just taunting and violent physicality and a desire to triumph over the other. In any case, the Joker’s response was not that of a victim, the way he willingly spread his legs and braced his feet alongside Batman’s own. The way he breathed, puffing and sighing. The way his tongue lingered on his lower lip before pulling back in.
The Joker’s hands, pinned together behind his back, had turned a throbbing purple under Batman’s grip. His hair was beginning to cling to his temples, and was curling up at the base of his neck. The sweat made him slippery, alive and burning. It fired Batman’s senses to press against so much skin -- wrists and hips and the scarred small of the Joker’s back. A flush of rushing blood alerted the dark knight that he was nearing his finish.
Perhaps the Joker noticed it to, for he started to struggle again.
At last, his hands broke free, which Batman failed to correct. His orgasm was far more distracting, and he let the convulsion build. The Joker stretched forward across the table, hands scrabbling frantically. Instead of gathering him up again, Batman reached down, pressing hard with all his body weight through his hands upon the Joker’s hips. His cock gave a last lurch and he came with a feral growl, all of his animosity pulsing and pouring out.
Batman hadn’t quite opened his eyes again yet, still fuzzy with recovery from his rattling climax. The Joker was saying something. He was talking loudly and not making sense. “This is your Batman,” he announced. “Fucking the criminals of Gotham just like they fuck the city.” Batman looked down at the Joker, who then looked up at him from the corner of his eye. It glinted with private joke, then looked away again. Collecting himself, he noticed that the Joker now held a remote. He’d not been scrambling to escape; he’d been reaching across the table for a t.v. remote control. He pressed it. A wall of television monitors lit up, each one with their image on it.
“Take a good look, ladies and gentlemen, at what your Batman gets out of crime fighting!”
A wave of nausea and a piercing bolt of horror hit Batman as he realized they were broadcasting live. A dozen copies of them looked out of the screens -- Batmans clinging to the slumped-over Jokers -- GCN banner and headline scrawling at the bottom. Batman felt the Joker’s body shaking around him, this time with powerful laughter. Numb with rage and shame and confusion, Batman pulled out.
The Joker made no move to get up, but stayed where he was, bent over the table, half-dressed and rumpled. He was still proclaiming Batman’s true nature to the viewing audience, but Batman had stopped being able to hear. He backed off into the shadows, damning the Joker to hell forever. “Live from Gotham City --” the Joker shouted, “The real Batman!”
Following the angle of the Joker’s gaze, Batman finally located the small video camera sitting on a crate and threw a batarang to knock it over. The pirated lines ended their transmission.
“See something you didn’t like?” the Joker called. “That’s the trouble with television these days -- there’s a definite shortage of heroes you can believe in.”
The Joker finally got to his feet, silhouetted before the bank of static-snow monitors. His thumbs hooked into his waistband, tugging his trousers back up. They tented out obviously, doing nothing to conceal an achingly hard erection.
The police would be here any second, Batman noted, not to mention the mental health workers. He wondered which one of them would be carted off where. He wondered which one would deserve it more.
Still staring toward Batman, who was lost in the dark side of the room, the Joker slid his hand down his pants. “There’s no accounting for taste, though,” he continued, giving himself a squeeze. “Many people enjoy a character with flaws.”
Just leave, Batman thought. Run. He glanced down the hallway. The sirens were audible now.
“Tell you what,” the Joker said, jerking himself enthusiastically. “Why not let the viewers decide if they want to see any more of the Batman? Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaa!”
The Joker’s mad laughter rang out around them, growing harsher and more hysterical as he gasped for breath to feed it. Batman broke a blacked-out window and swung a leg over the sill. He took one last look at the lunatic standing doubled-over with laughter and masturbating. Diving out of the window three seconds later, he missed the wild expression of release which contorted the Joker’s face as he came. But the cry that went with it echoed out into the streets, and rang in Batman’s ears for much longer.
--end
[he_will_save_me mentioned the delicious plotbunny of the Joker broadcasting something smutty over GCN. I thought that was a brilliant idea, so I had to go with it :)
Pairing: Batman/Joker
Rated NC-17
Word count: 2400
Disclaimer: not my characters
Warnings: fighting, rough sex, masturbation
Notes/Summary: Nolanverse, basically. Based around a prompt suggested by he_will_save_me (which I'll name at the end of the story so as not to spoil it beforehand). The Joker provokes Batman into revealing his darker side.
The door splintered open on the second kick, and Batman crashed into the room. Standing hunched-shouldered in the middle of the otherwise-abandoned building, the Joker showed an air of having been waiting for him. The casualness of his demeanor only served to fuel Batman’s wish for some extra-swift justice. The Joker threw aside a roll of duct tape and a coil of something -- rope? cable? -- which echoed in the high-ceilinged room. At one time, this place had been the home of one of the local television news stations. Now it stood empty and useless, a casualty of the domination from national channels and Gotham’s own GCN. For tonight, though, its central location in the city and its large studio space were just the sort which the Joker favored for staging confrontations. Not wasting a second, Batman stormed up to the fiend and punched him hard across jaw.
The Joker nearly spun on the spot from the force, yet barely raised a hand to check his injured face. His hooded eyes flashed with a familiar dangerous stare. The smile that was not a smile spread wider nonetheless. “'Hello’ to you too,” he drawled.
“Let them go,” Batman insisted, poised to strike again.
“Do what?”
“Let the hostages go.”
The Joker spoke with an infuriating lack of urgency. “You think I carry them on my person, maybe? Nothing up my sleeve.” He checked. “No, they’re of much more use to me where they are,” he said, eyebrows lowering.
Batman found himself unable to unclench his fists. No matter, that. He would undoubtedly be needing them any minute. “If they’re not here, why did you bring me?”
“Because I’m here.”
If this was a stunt for his benefit, Batman was far from impressed. These attention-seeking games intended to corrupt the world and infuriate Batman were enough to send the dark knight Arkham-bound himself. Being lured out alone because the Joker was in the mood for a scrap was the thin end of the wedge. “What do you want?”
That unnatural smile split again.
“What do I want? I want to press your buttons. I want you to work for it. I want to smash some of that nobility off of your face. I want to be what you need me to be -- a challenge.”
Batman hadn’t expected not to work for it, but he didn’t appreciate being called out on a rescue mission in order to be an object for the Joker’s amusement. The face-smashing notion was a tempting one, though; beating the hell out of the bastard sounded like an appealing idea any day of the week. There was no more satisfying opponent than the Joker for a bit of a fistfight, if he could ever admit it to himself. But every minute that victims spent in the clutches of the madman would only worsen their situation. He’d just have to make it as quick as possible.
Cape billowing as he stalked forward, Batman watched his rival’s expression melt into one of almost erotic anticipation. The Joker grinned and kicked his leg out amongst the many snaking cables which covered the floor. A cord looped around his ankle pulled taut, tripping Batman and sending the Joker into a riot of merciless laughter. He fell upon the bat, knife drawn. With a quick jab, Batman disarmed him and rolled them both over, settling in to sit astride the Joker. He was trying to pin him down when the Joker worked a leg around Batman’s, wrenching his knee at a painful angle, enough to slip free. Before he could get far, Batman caught hold of him from behind, slinging an arm around his waist. Barely hindered, the Joker still struggled to his feet with improbable strength, practically carrying Batman.
As soon as they pulled themselves upright, Batman drew the Joker’s arms back, gripping his wrists as best he could in one hand. The other hand reached around to wrap tightly at the base of the Joker’s throat. Once Batman had a pinning hold, the Joker stopped struggling, though by no means did he relax. Given his insane adrenaline bursts, it was probable he could shake off this restraint too. He made no move to, however, merely wriggling a bit, his breathing harsh and erratic.
Letting go of the Joker’s neck, Batman patted then dove into the Joker’s pockets, pulling out knives and tossing them out of reach. The Joker’s chest rumbled against his, vibrating with a pleased little grunt every time Batman’s hand slid in. He determinedly tried to ignore the Joker’s vulgar insinuation as much as he tried not to notice the tight muscles of those thighs, or how the knives burned hot from body heat even through his gloves.
The Joker strained in Batman’s grasp, testing the boundaries of it. He made a great show of flexing his body, not an inch of which Batman missed, being pressed so tightly to it. Soon the struggling turned to a simple shifting in Batman’s arms -- a loaded reminder of the Joker’s promise to force against him forever. An aggression welled in him in response to this manipulation. Despite being on top, so to speak, he couldn’t feel that he held an advantage. Even the room turned against him, going completely quiet except for the creak of his armor and the sliding of the Joker’s shirt against it.
Breaking the stillness with a backward-aimed kick, the Joker lashed out, sending them both doubling forward at Batman’s attempt to avoid the hit. Bent over the Joker, Batman switched to a grip across his collarbones, hauling him back up to regain their balance. He couldn’t shake off the awareness of their bodies, the suggestive position, or the Joker’s satisfied chuckle every time they slammed together. The Joker kicked again, and this time they stumbled across the room.
Renewing his hold, Batman rushed them forward, their feet shuffling through more wires and cardboard boxes, knocking them out of the way as they moved toward the only piece of proper furniture in the room -- a long sturdy table which had probably been part of the news desk. They crashed into it with a scraping clunk, the Joker’s thighs connecting sharply with the edge. Batman shoved the Joker’s head down, pressing his face onto the tabletop, smudging it with white make-up as they landed.
He held the Joker’s hands against the small of his back, savoring the perfectly brutal position of power. Again, something seemed off. The Joker seemed to be waiting -- allowing this. Batman vaguely wondered why. Yet he couldn’t step away, captivated by this need to keep holding him down. Stilling the Joker meant stilling himself as well. It was best that neither of them moved until he decided what to do. He stifled a moan when the Joker’s rear end rose up against Batman’s pelvis, deciding for him.
He bumped forward sharply, delivering a warning snap from his hips -- an instinctual reaction which Batman had no time to worry about. Though unable to feel more than a slight pressure through his suit, the other man’s movement was too inflammatory for his body to ignore. It responded and his mind followed, eyes falling shut. The Joker kept pulsing back, sliding against his foe, daring him to attack.
Battlefields with the Joker were constantly being made on new ground. This just meant an adjustment in tactics, Batman tried to reassure himself.
With an efficient tug, Batman pulled the sections of his suit apart at the waist, and undid the seal from midline down the thigh. Equally quickly, he yanked at the Joker’s trousers, snapping off the clip of his suspenders and working them down past his hips without unbuttoning them.
Spitting once, twice, on his hand to gather saliva, Batman quickly spread it on his cock. He splayed his fingers on the Joker’s ass, parting him with his thumbs.
It took several thrusts before he was buried completely, the Joker yelling out maniacally the whole time. It felt blindingly good -- so terribly terribly hot inside of him, the tightness gripping and quivering around him. His hips drove forward of their own accord, following the sensation he hadn’t known would be so pleasurable.
The Joker let out a constant stream of guttural noises, none of which Batman could tell was pleasure or pain. It was all the same to that madman. The realization that he couldn’t hurt him only made Batman that much angrier, encouraging him to thrust with a more punishing force. He wanted to hurt him, wanted to rip out his core the way the Joker had done to him. At least he could hear those throaty screams and pretend that they were hurt, fear, and anguish -- that he was tearing him apart and doing him lasting damage. A pain like that, they could truly share -- one reserved for shaping creatures of darkness. The more punishing Batman’s intent became, the less the screams sounded like pain. In fact, at some unknown point they seemed to have changed into outright hysterical laughter. Perhaps the Joker’s old insanity was taking hold of him again. That would be something, at least -- to snap his mind.
The Joker’s hips arched against the table edge in a way that had to be uncomfortable, at the very least. Batman didn’t know whether the Joker was hard or not, perhaps rubbing off against the table. And he didn’t want to check. That would be too intimate -- too much like sex, which this was decidedly not. It was just another struggle between them, wasn’t it? Just taunting and violent physicality and a desire to triumph over the other. In any case, the Joker’s response was not that of a victim, the way he willingly spread his legs and braced his feet alongside Batman’s own. The way he breathed, puffing and sighing. The way his tongue lingered on his lower lip before pulling back in.
The Joker’s hands, pinned together behind his back, had turned a throbbing purple under Batman’s grip. His hair was beginning to cling to his temples, and was curling up at the base of his neck. The sweat made him slippery, alive and burning. It fired Batman’s senses to press against so much skin -- wrists and hips and the scarred small of the Joker’s back. A flush of rushing blood alerted the dark knight that he was nearing his finish.
Perhaps the Joker noticed it to, for he started to struggle again.
At last, his hands broke free, which Batman failed to correct. His orgasm was far more distracting, and he let the convulsion build. The Joker stretched forward across the table, hands scrabbling frantically. Instead of gathering him up again, Batman reached down, pressing hard with all his body weight through his hands upon the Joker’s hips. His cock gave a last lurch and he came with a feral growl, all of his animosity pulsing and pouring out.
Batman hadn’t quite opened his eyes again yet, still fuzzy with recovery from his rattling climax. The Joker was saying something. He was talking loudly and not making sense. “This is your Batman,” he announced. “Fucking the criminals of Gotham just like they fuck the city.” Batman looked down at the Joker, who then looked up at him from the corner of his eye. It glinted with private joke, then looked away again. Collecting himself, he noticed that the Joker now held a remote. He’d not been scrambling to escape; he’d been reaching across the table for a t.v. remote control. He pressed it. A wall of television monitors lit up, each one with their image on it.
“Take a good look, ladies and gentlemen, at what your Batman gets out of crime fighting!”
A wave of nausea and a piercing bolt of horror hit Batman as he realized they were broadcasting live. A dozen copies of them looked out of the screens -- Batmans clinging to the slumped-over Jokers -- GCN banner and headline scrawling at the bottom. Batman felt the Joker’s body shaking around him, this time with powerful laughter. Numb with rage and shame and confusion, Batman pulled out.
The Joker made no move to get up, but stayed where he was, bent over the table, half-dressed and rumpled. He was still proclaiming Batman’s true nature to the viewing audience, but Batman had stopped being able to hear. He backed off into the shadows, damning the Joker to hell forever. “Live from Gotham City --” the Joker shouted, “The real Batman!”
Following the angle of the Joker’s gaze, Batman finally located the small video camera sitting on a crate and threw a batarang to knock it over. The pirated lines ended their transmission.
“See something you didn’t like?” the Joker called. “That’s the trouble with television these days -- there’s a definite shortage of heroes you can believe in.”
The Joker finally got to his feet, silhouetted before the bank of static-snow monitors. His thumbs hooked into his waistband, tugging his trousers back up. They tented out obviously, doing nothing to conceal an achingly hard erection.
The police would be here any second, Batman noted, not to mention the mental health workers. He wondered which one of them would be carted off where. He wondered which one would deserve it more.
Still staring toward Batman, who was lost in the dark side of the room, the Joker slid his hand down his pants. “There’s no accounting for taste, though,” he continued, giving himself a squeeze. “Many people enjoy a character with flaws.”
Just leave, Batman thought. Run. He glanced down the hallway. The sirens were audible now.
“Tell you what,” the Joker said, jerking himself enthusiastically. “Why not let the viewers decide if they want to see any more of the Batman? Ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaa!”
The Joker’s mad laughter rang out around them, growing harsher and more hysterical as he gasped for breath to feed it. Batman broke a blacked-out window and swung a leg over the sill. He took one last look at the lunatic standing doubled-over with laughter and masturbating. Diving out of the window three seconds later, he missed the wild expression of release which contorted the Joker’s face as he came. But the cry that went with it echoed out into the streets, and rang in Batman’s ears for much longer.
--end
[he_will_save_me mentioned the delicious plotbunny of the Joker broadcasting something smutty over GCN. I thought that was a brilliant idea, so I had to go with it :)