Team Knight- Round 10- fanfic
Title: Arkham Lustration
Author: newbluemoon
Prompt: Batman: You'll be in a padded cell forever.
The Joker: Maybe we can share one.
--The Dark Knight
Word Count: 4023
Rating: Heavy R/NC-17
Summary: Bruce has been incarcerated in Arkham for over a year and has become a listless, empty shell of a man. That is, until he sees Joker for the first time.
Disclaimer: Bruce's ass is glad I'm not the owner of these characters, but Joker's peen is very upset about this fact. Alas, they're DCs and WBs.
Warnings: None too graphic sex.
Author's Note: Wow, so I wrote a fic for a Knight vs Anarchy prompt for once. Last time was like January. XD I wrote this on a whim because I can't get on my laptop to post the next chapter of Intervals and I was bored, so this is the outcome. Bruce goes a little dark in this fic, mostly because I like dark Bruce, but he doesn't kill, don't worry kiddos. :p I think Arkham has a lot more power than people give it credit for and being in there for a long time is bound to corrupt your awareness of certain things. I believe asylums, especially this one, have a tendency to inspire madness, not cure it.
* * *
Bruce vaguely remembered a rasping voice somewhere towards the dusty corners of the back of his mind informing him that he had been in Arkham for eighty seven days, fifteen hours and thirty two minutes. It had sounded weary, even its ever present lull of hilarity subsiding and wilting under the dull lights of the asylum. It had been the last time he could recall having any awareness of the passings of time in the festering prison he was contained in for his own safety and those around him. He wasn't allowed to see daylight, not someone as dangerous as the Batman. No, he was kept in the dank, polluted sewers of the basement levels, never meeting with the soft caress of the sallow sunlight of Gotham city perforating through the gridded rust of the grimy windows. The oh-so-amusing guards hissed at him in their jolly tones that he should be pleased- a nocturnal creature such as himself naturally would flourish in such an environment. To begin with he would glare and snarl at them, forcing the ones with remnants of fear of the infamous night stalking creature back, relishing in the look of horror on their pasty faces, but time went on and days merged into each other as only they could in Arkham. Time became a novelty and then a distant, cherished memory and the guards became increasingly confident as the vigilante was drained day by day by the strategic legal torture of the mental institute. The 'treatments' sucking out the beat that drove on his heart, doctors leeching off his brain, probing and studying as though he was some alien creature they couldn't wait to dissect and float in little tubes.
And so, he was dying inside his sustained shell, treated well enough to not sink into the warmth offered by the freezing hands of the reaper, his carers noticing a little more every day, earning the confidence to beat him without the fear of colliding with the wrath of the Batman. But any traces of great crime fighter had been gutted from his failing body, all that remained was the sludge of his fluttering flashes of the glory of fighting for an ungrateful decay of a city, the bitter, sorrowful taste of betrayal lying like phlegm in his mouth. The police had bloomed behind the shield of his cape, of his name, but they had spread like weed over him, consuming him and poisoning his being. Turning on him as their nettles swiped at his flesh, thorns dug into the marrow and maw inside, the pollution bellowing at him what a disgrace he was as they threw him aside and into a maggot chew toy of a cell, cursing him with having to admit that the mercurial words that had snaked from an inhuman tongue were the words of foresight and he was right.
But, it was months before he first caught sight of a wisp of faded green while he was escorted back from an icy, thirty second blast of a shower. He had craned his neck, his eyes hungry for a little more proof that he wasn't alone in this tumultuous, impossible pit, but the green was gone and he was merely met with an aggressive shove and a barking command to keep moving. The working parts of his brain told him that the directors must've had them separated for good reason. But everything about him that had already been severed and freed from binaries and restrictions screeched at him in foreign, violent emotions that to meet with the madman, hell to even see him, would give him something to remind him of the flavour of sanity. That maybe there was something within the vomit haired man that he could cling onto because the futile disturbing reality was, the Joker was Bruce's last link to his outside life. And it was from then onwards he spent every second his brain wasn't oozing with the odious concoctions of chemicals they stuffed into his body figuring out ways of contacting the maniac, places they could meet, methods of speaking. It was also around this period the broken hero lost all semblance of time, his only focus was on the Joker, aching to feel merely a drop of the might and volcanic rush of his rotting alter ego upon coming face to face with his foe once more.
If was months, maybe a year, before he saw the clown next. For Bruce's docile behaviour, he was granted access to the main cafeteria instead of being force fed the vile liquid mush he knew they spiked with a variety of potions, using his mind and body as a lab rat. He had sat alone, averting his eyes from those of his fellow inmates and the sneers of bored guards, quietly consuming the sludge in front of him before deciding starving wasn't so bad after all and rising from his seat to dispose of his plate. And it was that second he looked up and piercing forest eyes slammed into him, clearing his frazzled mind instantly as they penetrated his skull. The buzz of the dining room became dulled and numb, static dispersing from his rattled brain as the two enemies stared wide eyed at each other, both shocked and fascinated. Joker looked upon the pale image of Bruce Wayne, a shadow of his other half- face gaunt, muscles withered and flesh blotched. The billionaire gazed back at the bare face of a scarred, handsome young man he had never seen in such a guise, but instantly recognising the features and jade curls. The madman's eyes were still sharp, though diluted with a lucid gleam- effects of sedatives and drugs, no doubt. Things slowed around them, their vision funnelled directly to the other man and they felt the claws of hateful anger dig into their skin. But not anger with their enemy. No, but metallic, bloodied ire driven by the sight of their counterpart in such a state. Bruising, thunderous aggression towards the institution that had worn away parts of each of them and warped them into a sickly reflection of the demi-gods they once were. The two stepped forward, compelled to touch, to make sure, before bellowing shouts sliced through their shared quiet and burly hands seized each of them, dragging them away, forcing them down into the guts of the asylum, pushing them to acknowledge that this was not allowed and would never be tolerated. Batman and Joker were not to meet within the walls of Arkham Asylum.
But this chance meeting, this opportunity of understanding spurred Bruce on. He fought back against the bile inducing drugs, wrestled with his nausea and began to once again struggle against the tyranny of the staff. His thoughts became tinted with the edge of unspoken compromise as he became fully conscious of the fact he had lost everything, but only because he had given everything without pause or question. And now he was trapped, strangled by the hand of 'justice' that was once his own weapon. He was witness to the beating and abuse at the hands of a corrupt system, subjected to callous treachery under the orders of the law, even the honest commissioner forgetting to fight this time. He had been cast out for trying with every fibre of his body to save the fermenting carcass of his city, but now he saw the disease ridden tide had been winning their battle the entire time. He heard the nasal words that crawled out of a marred mouth echoing in his skull and for the first time, he felt himself agreeing, because how could he not? He wasn't just presented with the evidence, he was the evidence. A leper, he had said. Nothing about his experience could've indicated otherwise. The cannibals within the walls of this hospital wanted to tear him apart and play with his intestines, and the clown may as well have been a mystic because it was all true.
Everything that he saw as beastly scourge and foaming insanity puked out of a hurricane of anarchy now gleamed with insight and Bruce couldn't help but nod his head. Alfred and his parents weren't here, they could never have known this side. Bruce never knew this side, but he lived it now and no matter how hard his brain matter pulsed and everything just about him fought against his conclusions, his heart pounded with undeniable realisations. And perhaps insanity had begun seeping into his brain, taking control of his functions, maybe the infestation had bitten into his meat, but the haze and lightness was gone from his head for the first time in maybe more than a year and his chest didn't hurt as much when he breathed. Living somehow didn't take as much effort and all his energy went straight into the bones of plotting revenge. He wanted out, and he wanted the Joker with him.
* * *
It had taken a lot of heated conversations with Alfred and a lot of cash but nothing touched by syringe of the slimy malfeasance of the asylum was impervious to the scent of the green temptress, least of all their heavy pockets. And so the doctors had discreetly nodded, silent as they counted their coins, and soon Joker would be moved to Bruce's cell at the request of the young billionaire. He had been gnawing at his fingers for an impossible amount of time, lightning sparking in his veins as he felt the beginnings of fiery combustion take hold of his innards, waiting for the clown to stride into his grey, grey room.
Finally, the metal door squawked and the rusty hinges protested at their unprovoked exertion, and meaty arms shoved in a doll-like creature, letting him crumple to the floor like used paper before severing the reunited pair off from the distant universe once more. Bruce blinked in a sickly shock, watching the barely there rise and fall of the orange-covered chest with careful, doe-like eyes as Joker's own dilutes jade orbs twitched around the room in knotted paralysis, heavily medicated and unaware of his change of scenery. After another well placed surge of stomach lining, Bruce shrugged himself off the bed and moved to the doped up man's side, his fingers tracing pulse points to reinforce his knowledge of life within the crusted lining of the green haired man. He was met with the pleading drumming of a curious blood flow from beneath the bruised skin on the clown's neck and didn't even bother to self justify his relief, opting instead to slide his hands under the Joker's arms as he lifted him over to the spare cot next to his own.
He watched the clown sleep for maybe a day, going by the vibrant chorus of different screeches and howling coming from the bowels of the asylum- when they quietened, when a new set of vocal cords set about tormenting sleeping inmates. Joker barely moved in his slumber- whether this was due to the sedatives or not, Bruce couldn't tell. But there was nothing in his face to tell of the brilliant genius he held, nor the obdurate death that brewed so regularly in his expressions- he looked...whole. At one. And he was completely still, none of the agitated over active movements of his waking hours lurking in his bones and whenever he did move, it was subtle and fluid. The brunet ran his fingers through the green, honey tinted locks, admiring the man lying beneath him. His only chance.
What kind of world birthed him that this was everything his existence was limited to? A grave of a hospital room shared with his worst enemy who was there only at his insistent fracturing of flimsy rules. And here he was in the state Bruce had woken up from so many times himself, and the former playboy felt the snarls of a forgotten Bat inside him, fury directed not at the criminal, but revisioned and channelled at the insects caging them. The coiling pressure within him augmented with white vehemence and he struck out in daunting loathing, his curled fist impacting the stone walls, slathering rich blood across the lethal grey. He sucked air into his chest cavity and left the unconscious man to lay himself down, shedding his under shirt and granted permission for the small triumphant grin to pull at his lips. His skin sang, welcoming the fledgling erosion of the artificially erected walls, cheering on the release of the Batman in the presence of his former greatest enemy as his strained, red eyes dug into the ceiling, imagining it burning and dissolving in cancerous fumes of a vendetta. Wanting the flames to branch out at devour the entire city.
Some time later, he was awoken from a rare dreamless slumber by a deft hand running over his bare chest, curious finger tips sliding over his nipples and breast plate with an artist's touch. He peeled his eyes, staring up at the earth, Joker looking right back at him, calm and seemingly unfazed by his new surroundings, new company. Bruce sat up, the hands slipping off him with the movement and felt his body swarm with undisclosed sensation, luxuriating in the warmth of the muscular body crouched over him. Sapphire was drawn into emerald as they two men zoned in on each other, blocking out the cacophony of the false realities engulfing them. Joker tilted his head towards Bruce, their flesh contacting as their foreheads brushed together and mouths shared the same breaths as eyes closed in mourning of a life they once held accompanied by rancour-kissed veneration. Their fingers laced together blindly, folding and uniting the two vessels in unspoken bonds.
“We're getting out of here” Bruce asserted in a whispered, arcanely ominous tone, brushing his lips along the Joker's cheek, just below the vicious gash blemishing the smooth flesh. An unskilled, clumsy mouth pressed against his own, years of denied callings bursting from blackened seams as the murderer kissed the saviour in an honest throbbing moment. Bruce met the efforts with his own lazy movements, unthinking and natural, surprising himself with the clarity of his thoughts, the absence of hesitation. The raw, pulsating of his dismembered soul somehow ameliorating. The feather touch of the rough lips on his own chapped mouth, the slippery tongue tasting his , the strong hand wrapped around his, it was like plaster filling him inside and for one single second, he was sure the black in front of his eyelids became drunk with glittering beams and it was that instant he actually believed his words for the first time.
Bruce knew his former self would be recoiling in disgust and boiling hatred at this hideous, malignant form of pouted affection, but that was before. This Bruce could only moan quietly and lean further into his own desolation, faintly wondering if this was death or salvation he was tasting. But the majority of his thoughts were firmly locked on to the glowing truth that not once since his rushed trial and firm imprisonment had he felt this free.
They would escape this cesspool. Together.
* * *
It wasn't long after that Bruce stopped attending therapy, hissing out charcoal threats to the doctors should they try and make him go, fighting off the men armed with cowardly needles with regained motivation. It took many broken limbs and a lot of spilt sanguine fluids, but they eventually got the message. The allied foes took to reminding the staff just who they were with relish, both taken by delight when fear began to shine like dynamite on their faces once more. The lost minds that regularly flocked around the clown quickly learned to view Bruce in much the same light, eager to please him just as they were the green haired man. The control felt good. The old Bruce could never admit the acidic selfishness, the burrowing, flesh eating desires he harboured, but possessing power and manipulating his authority gave him a venomous rush like nothing else. And mixed with the drunken purpose he had created on its refined pedestal, he was already soaring above the city once more. The-almost-take over was efficient and not met with too much rebuttal or counter attack. Bruce knew the secrets of the belly of this beast and hung them out for dear old Jeremiah to cower before, fearing closure should the pretty little billionaire leak his unorthodox methods and practises to the hounding press. Declared insane or not, Bruce Wayne wielded power in the outside world, people still cared what the young heir thought and friends in high places, fake as they were, meant investigation would be inevitable. And that wasn't something Dr Arkham was prepared to risk. And with this skilled strategy, the two had risen in the murky depths of the hospital, allowed to breathe, allowed to play. Destined to rule.
* * *
Upon moving in with the billionaire, Joker instantly drew the brunet into a work out routine, keen to see his Bat in his true form once again, quietly observing the glistening, flexing muscles as he exercised in their cell, watching the sweat licked thick locks sticking to the wide, strained trunk of his neck. It was in these moments latent parts of the madman's body twitched in interest, the residual plasm of their battles lingering in his insides.
Bruce caught his own eager eyes gliding over Joker's body as they changed, trailing the scars on the muscular back with interest, mazed impulses gripping him leaving him little time for restraint, but always catching himself before his tongue strayed a little too far on the mouth he was kissing. The seeds of the old Bat still cursed and frothed at him to not break this last rule. But Bruce was quickly learning, rules truly were made to be broken.
When they had finally fallen into each other, it was as ferociously natural as that first languid kiss, their bodies blending together in effortless ease and agonising vibrations of harrowing absolution, both of them experiencing a wholeness they had never conceived of. Moans and snarls and sobs of a savage range saturated the room, sweat and salt blanketing the cold walls and inhuman cries topping everything off as they moved in unison, bonded with deadly passion. They were lost in each other, willingly digesting themselves in their lover's body, delirious in their pleasure. Pulsating arousals ground down and mouths bit and licked entire expanses of flesh, lapping at honeyed blood dribbling down on moistened skin, scratching claws slicing a curved back with gentle promises of faint necrosis, whispers and names chocked out in reverence. Liquid flames doused their convulsing bodies, gasoline drenched kisses igniting them, each fresh, gutting electric shock of kleptomaniac, breath hungry ecstasy pierced the very centre of their defaced minds. Taken each other in hand and body was brutally simple, tasting the essence of the other was the pulp of their want, and it was with disturbing levels of worship they noted how inexplicably perfect the maps of their twined bodies curved together in seamless perfection, even as they desperately moved. Bruce couldn't remember sex being anything close to this, and he knew at the edges of his singed psyche that completing another person could only mean an ending as overwhelming as this. Joker knew this was what he had been saying all along, but it was muffled revelry he bit I told you so,. When he first came to understand the Batman had been captured and tied down like a zoo animal, he had been abhorrently sick with the wild curling bane, but now he felt the massacring floods of disrupted gratefulness at his words coming true. He felt Bruce's hand on his aching cock and red explosions hooked into his blackened sight and oh god, he never knew this would be found in sharing that proverbial cell. When they finally culminated in abandon and the seal stapled into their cores as they split open in horrific, paralysing pleasure, Bruce's thoughts were echoed by hushed confessions from a psychotic mouth into precious flesh.
The frenzied fucking continued every night, most mornings and every few afternoons. There wasn't a crippled fibre in either of their forms that didn't have the drive to bleed out for the other if it was needed, nothing about either of them wanted to be separate from the warmth the other man offered. And it was one day as Joker's throbbing cock was moving deep within Bruce and the clown was gasping into his mouth as the ex-vigilante keened and bucked up against him, slamming their slick bodies together, that the brunet realised the idiocy that had prevented this for meandering, creeping years. He could scarcely believe it had been his own stupidity, his own doing that had meant it took a place like Arkham for a union between them to fully build. He burned with a flavour of self hatred which Joker immediately soothed with the knowing tease of a wet muscle flicking weaknesses on his Bat's body. The billionaire internally whispered his thanks to the fanged heart of the stained asylum. The jaundiced contusion of a hospital had provided his tattered soul with a cleansing, a wake up call if you will. His body and mind opened up for Joker to slither into and he smiled, content and relentlessly happy. As only the insane could be.
* * *
Be it by design or fate, precisely three years after the super nova premier meeting of two deities on a playing card game field, faces paled all over Gotham city. Repugnant biliousness and stabbing fear filled the sewer streets as the crime flooded mucus oozed with quivering anticipation and the resident scum held its breath. The Batman and the Joker had exited the Asylum, a treasure trail of hollowed corpses and red running water behind them, the former's hands still clear of any lives, of course. Nervous crimson clouds and edgy winds gathered above in the sexed skies, the gates opened wide, the insides shrinking back as the skeletons arouse to claim their birthrights. Two equally maddened grins spread out, greeting with a kiss of carnage, a death lock race in a suddenly oh-so-sorry town. Voices sang out in giddy humour. Children dropped to the floor. Death fiddled in the air. The city begged forgiveness, cried for Batman to save them. Crazed eyes locked, hands melded together and they greeted the doomed city.
Honey, we're home.