Team Knight - Round 4 - Fanfic: 'Gotham Afterhours'
Title: Gotham Afterhours
Author: cardboard_doll
Word Count: about 1329
Prompt: Role reversal
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: If I owned them I would be more than a poor art student. :[
A/N: It's been a while, but I was DESPERATE to post something before I leave for Egypt tomorrow [whoo!], so, writer's block be damned, here it is! I'm thinking of writing a PWP sequel, but I may just let you use your imagination. *shrug*
The moon was full.
An ageless silvery orb hanging high above the darkened streets of Gotham, like some monstrous eye belonging to a nameless god, watching- judging. Or perhaps more like a silver coin, unblemished side up. Whatever the case, it was beautiful.
Fat cumulus clouds lay closer to the ground, so close in fact that the taller skyscrapers pierced their bases and rose into their bellies. These clouds were gentle, playful; lazily chugging across the night sky. However, the further east one's eye traveled, the thicker and more ominous the clouds became, melding to arcus, promising rain.
A lone figure stood atop a shadowed building, the only thing separating him from a messy end being an inch long expanse of concrete.
The bat's suit was hot, and he wished so very much to take that suffocating cowl off- feel the wind's cool fingers on his sweaty skin. But that would mean game over, and he hated to lose, especially with the stakes so high.
Instead, he reached to the utility belt, fingers scuttling along the uneven surface that he hadn't had time to familiarize himself with beforehand. Precious seconds ticked away as he fumbled with the belt, searching for... for... Bingo! His face lit with triumph as he located the circular button, that he knew to be grey, and pushed it.
It was slightly startling at first when the deceptively airy cape stiffened, snapping his arms into a 'T' with his body.
His hesitation was momentary, before sticking a leg out and stepping casually off the edge. Immediately he fell, the wind that he had so longed for before now became the enemy, slapping and clawing at the exposed half of his face like some deranged cat beast.
Cat beast?
Cat man.
The corner of his mouth twitched upward.
There was a moment- a split second, really -where it occurred to him that something must have gone terribly wrong. Even then, at about halfway down the building, his fall had yet to stabilize- the makeshift wings weren't catching wind. There was no fear, only a mild sense of disappointment.
So this is how it ends? How... anticlimactic. I had better land on someone, at the very least.
Not a minute after he had foretold and grudgingly accepted his fate, he felt the change. There was an uncomfortable pressure under his armpits as the wind, instead of shoving him vertically, started pushing him horizontally.
The man had to bite his lip to stifle a bout of laughter, not wanting to make any unnecessary noise. (After all, who would know better than he just how sharp a rodent's hearing is.)
Gliding high over the city, it looked almost... Pretty- tall buildings and bright lights obscuring the rot within. An attractive shell for a diseased soul. Like those models you see so often in magazines: perfectly porcelain girls wrapped up in silk and bows, any mother's dream, look into their eyes and see the empty decay.
Adrenaline was causing his pulse to race, he recognized the area, his goal was close.
The pre-determined vantage point was a building about five meters ahead. As he glided over it, he roughly pushed the wings down, barely having enough strength to cause the collapse, and did the old 'tuck and roll' onto the rooftop.
Gravel flew as he landed, but he felt nothing underneath the tough kevlar.
Heart beating at a manic pace now, he scrambled gracelessly to his feet, almost falling several times as he raced to the building ledge and peered over. The street was empty, but he knew that wouldn't be the case for long, so he waited. Minutes passed, and he used the cowl's built-in binoculars to zoom in on the street corner, perspiration once again beginning to build on his brow as he began to grow inpatient.
The thought of abandonment had only just reared its ugly head, as a shadowed figure rounded the corner, holding a bag in one hand. The shadow, unmistakably male, kept close to the wall, moving closer to where the masked man sat overhead.
Wait for it... wait for it...
His fingers twitched in excitement, he would not allow himself to blow it. Not after those months of careful planning, considering every angle, all those tiny, tedious details, and- NOW!
“HALT SCUMBAG!” he boomed, grabbing the grappling hook on the belt and shooting the ledge in front of him. With a dramatic flourish, for the second time that night the man sent himself plummeting off a building, and, for the second time, something went wrong. As he fell, the wire of the grapple looped around his leg, holding tight and spinning him round and round until he was bound, hanging a few feet from his intended prey.
The other man stood still, stunned, for a moment, before walking over, his face a study in grim seriousness. He stopped only when their faces were mere inches apart.
“You lose, Joker,” he spoke, before kissing the scarred mouth in front of him, and promptly bursting into laughter as he removed the cowl. Amused green eyes glared up at him.
“Schaunfreude bats? I never would have thought you the type,” Joker spat, not nearly as bitter as he sounded. “Now hurry up and cut me down before all my blood rushes to the, uh, wrong head.”
Bruce's mouth pressed into a thin line, and to anyone except Joker, and possibly Alfred, he would appear angry. The man in front of him knew the billionaire was trying to suppress a laugh. He did comply, however, loosing a blade from the utility belt without looking, and severing the cord, sending Joker to the ground- hard.
From his new position, the blond had a better view of the bag in Bruce's hand.
“A beige bag with a dollar sign, really?”
The brunet looked down as though just noticing the bag that they both knew to be filled with blank bills.
“Yeah? So? I suppose I just don't have your... flair.” he teased, knowing full well Joker would take it as a compliment. He wasn't disappointed- the smugness in the other man's voice spoke volumes.
“Yeah, my flair for anything,” the madman retorted, eying both of their outfits critically, clearly disapproving of all the black.
Bruce exhaled loudly through his nose.
“Style aside, I still won the game, so...” he began, getting to his knees and laying another, more sensual kiss on Joker's lips. A kiss full of heat and promises. There was a light smacking sound as their mouths parted, and both men had a slight glaze over their eyes.
“.. You're mine.”
Joker felt his face flush with desire, though he was confident Bruce wouldn't notice, seeing as most of his blood was focused on other areas, {he had no idea how the bat could get anything done, tight kevlar was so... restricting.), and the ache in his head was only making matters worse.
Bruce rose back up, bringing Joker with him, hands under his armpits.
As soon as they were standing, Joker looped his arms around the broader shoulders of his bat and kissed him back. Their tongues met and passed as Bruce's hands ran up and down the other's body, settling comfortably- one on the small of his back, the other cupping the curve of his ass. Joker growled, rutting against the taller man, both trying to rub forward and back at the same time, trying to get some sort of feeling to register through the thick armour. To no avail though, and Bruce had just begun to unbuckle the suit's lower half when a flash of thunder, a rumble of lightning and a spatter of rain ruined the moment.
Bruce pulled away, breath heavy, resting his forehead against Joker's.
“We had better move this inside, or you'll drip all over the carpet.”
“Oh I, uh, think I'll be doing that anyway.”
“Oh shut up.”