The Dark Knight - "Game On" - Joker/Bruce
Title: "Game On"
Pairing: Joker/Bruce Wayne
Rated: NC-17
warnings: dubious consent, mutual masturbation, masturbation, slight use of knives
notes/summary: Nolanverse. Set after the fundraiser party. After saving Rachel, Bruce goes back upstairs and the Joker's still there.
By the time Bruce had shed the bat suit and returned to his penthouse, he wasn’t surprised to find that the guests had gone. The place was a mess with more than the usual post-party shambles, and a quick turn around the room convinced him that fortunately the clown thugs had gone too. All the same, the place felt far from safe. It seemed foreign and hollow, as if he hadn’t yet moved in. Alfred was seeing Rachel safely home, and the caterers and event staff had apparently fled. But there was something he was missing. And there was a presence.
Dent! Spurred by a spark of panic, Bruce dashed to the closet in which he had secured Harvey Dent. The doors stood open wide; the closet empty.
Bruce lowered his arms slowly, noting a change in the air.
“They took him,” came a high, mocking voice which made Bruce spin around.
His blood pounded in his chest as the Joker stepped around the corner and stood facing Bruce, staring and twisting slowly on the spot. Bristling at the sight of this criminal madman, Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. The Joker waited, as smug and cold as ever, sullying the room with his mere presence. If he has Dent... Bruce suppressed the urge to swoop down upon him and break both his arms. “Who took him?” he asked, not sure if he was ready for the answer.
“Policemen,” the Joker shrugged. “A whole mob of them swarmed in after the Batman’s swashbuckling efforts. You know what? They were the third wave of party-crashers in one evening. Some of them even made it back out in one piece.” He gestured vaguely and looked askance, indicating the floor by the sofa where several uniformed patrolmen lay dead.
Bruce’s blood boiled. “Get out!” he yelled, storming forward. “Get the hell out of my house.”
The Joker was unmoved by the fevered outburst. “You’re Bruce Wayne then,” he said, more of a statement than a question. “This is your place. I was beginning to think no one would own up to it.” He gazed around at the apartment casually and judgmentally. “I don’t like it at all, but I can see how someone like you might. It’s everything I expected you would be -- artificial...functional...boring.” He leaned in close on the last word. Bruce glared back as the Joker turned toward the windows. “Gotta admire the view, though. And the drop.”
At that, Bruce lunged, grabbing the Joker’s lapels and pulling him up sharply. The man was heavier than he looked, a stubbornly solid force. Their bodies crashed together with weight and heat and the swing of the Joker’s chain tapping against Bruce’s leg -- none of which he had been able to feel earlier while distanced inside the bat suit. Suddenly it felt terribly unsafe facing him this way. Without the protection of armor, this confrontation was set on different ground, and Bruce would have to guard his tactics.
The Joker merely laughed and hung in Bruce’s grip. “You probably think I ruined your party. Ha-ha! Sorry, but it had to be done.” His tongue flicked out and across his lower lip as his laughter subsided into giggles. It moved like something animal, disturbing Bruce on a nameless level, though distracting him curiously. “Not to worry, though,” the Joker continued, with a nod of mock reassurance. “It wasn’t you I needed. Just Harvey Dent.” He showed all his yellowed teeth and cocked his head quizzically. “I don’t suppose you know where he’ll be tomorrow night?”
Bruce renewed his grip and gave the Joker a shake.
The painted mask transformed into a snarl, the man’s voice changing to match it. Low and dangerous, he rumbled. “I think it’s time for you to take your hands off of me…before I lose my sense of humor. Your growling watchdog routine is very amusing, but you reeeeally don’t want to push me.”
He dug his hands into Bruce’s fists, curling his fingers into them, prying them loose. Keeping a warning glare darkly fixed on Bruce, he relaxed from his tip-toe stance and smoothed down his jacket.
Bruce silently calculated all the methods of subduing the intruder. No weapons were immediately at hand, but it wouldn’t take more than a few steps to reach something. He couldn’t count on Alfred’s return for at least another twenty minutes, so it was unlikely he could use that as a distraction. Bruce trusted his own fighting skills, but would rather they remain reserved for Batman, their full extent secret to anyone unaware of his identity. It would be more dangerous to misjudge this criminal. One never knew with lunatics -- and armed lunatics required special handling. He kept his tone flat. “Stop threatening my friends, and stop threatening me.”
The Joker snorted, studying Bruce with a most invasive leer. Just being looked at by the man felt like an assault. The sickening smile spread again. “You know, you’re a bit of a surprise, Mr. Bruce Wayne, philanthropist and billionaire playboy -- if that is indeed a real job title. Those people at your Harvey Dent appreciation party all turned to sniveling, shaking, useless little masses when I asked to meet the man of the hour. You, on the other hand, resort to physical intimidation. How very savage of you,” he rumbled.
“Maybe I think it’s the only way to get through to you,” Bruce said.
“Maybe I incite it in you,” the Joker countered. His scars pushed outward as he sucked his teeth, exaggerating his disfigurement as they stretched. “Could it be that you’re jealous?”
“What?” Bruce blurted.
“Sure. Look at your orderly -- if…flashy -- little life. Three-piece suits, board meetings, gala luncheons. Meaningless ostentation. Regular timetables.”
“I live well.”
“You live cautiously,” Joker countered. “You do exactly what people in your position do. You conform. You follow the rules.”
Rules which protect the world from monsters like you, Bruce thought.
“Yet you keep your head when confronted with an alternative -- namely, me. Lemme tell you, I don’t see much of that in this city.” As the Joker paced past Bruce and through the room, Bruce followed his movements carefully. The clown’s fingers twitched and clenched constantly, but as long as his hands remained empty, Bruce could stay less edgy. He’d by no means recovered from the Joker’s earlier assault on Batman.
“You,” the Joker announced, “need to learn to lighten up.”
“I find it hard to take it casually when a murdering bastard terrorizes my friends, tells me how to live my life, and refuses to leave my house.”
The Joker looked genuinely amused by what Bruce said. He spread his arms, exploding, “Ha ha ha ha ha! I rest my case.”
The Joker came to a halt behind Bruce, looming so far over his shoulder that Bruce expected he’d find white paint on his suit the next time he checked a mirror. “Look at you,” the Joker said, lifting and dropping a fluttering hand around Bruce. “All pressed and…strangled by our own clothing.” He slid a finger beneath the knot of Bruce’s tie, flipping it untucked from his vest. “Not surprising to see that you move in Dent’s circles. People like you, so tightly-wound, your clothes are the only thing keeping you from unraveling. Powerless without your power suits.”
Bruce scoffed inwardly at the Joker’s hypocrisy -- the man’s own bright suit was hardly uncalculated -- but admitted to himself that if he were wearing his other suit, he’d be showing the Joker proof enough of his capacity for unrestrained behavior.
The Joker narrowed his eyes briefly, as if deciding on something. Then, throwing off his long purple coat with a whip-crack, he grabbed two chairs from a nearby table and slammed them down face to face. He returned to Bruce. He pulled in a deep breath and held it for a moment before he spoke. “I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Bruce Wayne. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, because I can see you have potential beyond your sad station. Here’s what you need to learn. Destruction. Confusion. Mayhem. There’s no better way of getting your rocks off. If you can understand that, then…” He trailed off, the thought unspoken. That tongue flicked again, punctuating his upward leer from a down-turned face. He nodded, eyes roving a path down Bruce’s body. “It’s probably even better than a good…hard…fuck.”
On that word, Bruce’s hand smacked hard as it caught the Joker’s wrist, seizing it and twisting his forearm before he could reach Bruce’s crotch.
Every warning alarm was sounding off in Bruce’s brain. He’d let this go too far and wasn’t quite sure how it happened. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in the Joker’s accusations about his suit. Only it wasn’t a pin stripe that held Bruce together, but titanium-dipped Kevlar plates. And the mask. For a brief moment he envied the Joker, who was operating at full power beneath a mask of his own. He should have thrown the maniac out bodily five minutes ago. He was too unpredictable to have around. Too demanding. Too close for comfort.
But in Bruce’s peripheral vision, the Joker’s other hand rose up slowly, revealing the knife it wielded. “Ah, ah, ah,” he warned softly, making sure Bruce got a good look at it before laying it flat beneath his chin. “That is not the correct response.”
Bruce debated his next move, not wishing to be cut but not prepared to be violated either. He wondered vaguely why he hadn’t swung a lightning-fast chop to the neck and swept the madman’s legs out from under him…long before it had come to this. It wasn’t that the fight had gone out of him, but the urge for a clash had twisted, calling for a whole new set of rules.
The tension eased in Bruce’s arms, and the Joker pulled himself free, though still directing with his knife. “Sit. On the chair,” the Joker instructed calmly, and Bruce moved to obey. It was much trickier facing this rival without his mask and armor. Without Batman. Batman would have done things completely differently from the decisions Bruce seemed to be making.
He perched on the edge of the seat, careful not to show any of the uncertainty which was building. Focusing on his hatred, he kept his face defiant and fearless. He looked up at the Joker, who in turn was now beaming with a predatory glee…
…and something else. Something wild and free. Something like madness.
“Let it go,” the Joker whispered. “Everything you knew. Smash it up.” He snapped up Bruce’s hand and pushed it against the front of the Joker’s trousers. As Bruce strained to pull away, the Joker pressed harder in the struggle. “No, no,” he said, repositioning Bruce’s hand as it strayed aside, encountering his pocket. “That’s a knife.” He moved Bruce’s fingers a few inches. “And that isn’t.”
Bruce stared down at his own knee, refusing to meet the Joker’s eyes or to watch the way he was being used. He tried to shut his mind to the heat and firmness of the man, to the way he ground into his hand, lewd and malicious. He tried desperately not to concentrate on the unthinkable insanity of having noticed the impressive size of that shape.
So lost was Bruce in his reactions that he didn’t notice the Joker’s hips had stopped pulsing. He stood waiting, hand wrapped around Bruce’s wrist, pressed close, as if he was fisting his own cock. A passive hand was not as good as an active one, and Bruce was missing his cue. “Go on,” the Joker demanded.
Bruce slid his hand in a way that Batman would never have done.
The room went very quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic drag of skin over fabric. Bruce rubbed firmly but without enthusiasm, his last meager token of defiance. His fingers curled over the outline of the Joker’s length. The cock twitched and strained under his palm, so familiar yet so unsettling. The world really had gone mad.
A long hissing breath escaped the Joker’s wide mouth. He swayed slightly and increased his grip on Bruce’s wrist. Still holding a knife in his other hand, he shifted it to unfasten his trousers. Predictably, Bruce resisted, but the Joker held fast. Neither man seemed willing to make a move without putting up a bit of a fight. He chuckled lightly as he sat down in the opposite chair, pushing the other man’s knees apart with his own. Resting his hand on Bruce’s leg, he held the knife under his splayed fingers, which curled and latched onto Bruce’s thigh. The knife lay as a warning and a threat in one, a reminder of the thin edge that the pair of them were riding. Dingy green curls fell across the Joker’s face, catching white paint on them as they dragged through. He looked down, watching hungrily as Bruce reached in to pull him out.
Actual contact with smooth hard flesh sent Bruce’s thoughts into a bit of a rush. Most of his brain was still screaming that he was at knifepoint, but the other part of it was set on its path. If this Joker wanted to lose control to Bruce Wayne, Bruce was going to damn well going to drive him there. His hand closed around the Joker’s erection and gave a squeeze. The green hair swung back again as the Joker’s head lolled slightly. He stared at Bruce from within the black pits of his eyes.
A contradictory sense of power swept over Bruce as he watched the Joker’s unabashed display of pleasure. Though the Joker was taking wantonly, it was Bruce who was driving his arousal. His hips rocked up into the half-hearted strokes, urging Bruce on. Tugging Bruce’s wrist impatiently, he demanded more.
He snapped with frustration into irritating laughter. “Is that the way you do yourself?” he scoffed. “It’s enough to keep me hard, but not much more fun than riding over speed bumps. Come on, Bruce. You -- mnnh!” The Joker yelled out as Bruce gave a deep, twisting stroke in an answer to the challenge. He worked the length, pushing far down to his balls and sliding up to the head, following the arcing curve of flesh.
The Joker’s panting breaths were loud and rushing. His mouth hung open, lips wet and redder than ever. If only he weren’t clutching a knife, he’d look almost submissive -- submissive not to Bruce, but to the confusion and chaos of arousal.
But the situation was not yet out of control enough for the Joker. “Your turn,” he huffed. “You have two hands. Use one on yourself.” Bruce must have looked shocked because when he looked up, the Joker snickered dismissively. “It’s just a game. Didn’t I tell you?” Despite his tone, that sounded somehow even more threatening.
Reluctantly, Bruce played along, covertly slipping a hand deep into his boxers rather than drawing himself out. He rubbed tentatively, surprised to feel a rush of blood. Whether due to nervousness or a strange, sick empathy, his hands both soon fell into the same motion. As if a mirror image, his hands slid over their shafts. At the thought that he and the Joker were sharing the same pleasure, burning in his palms, Bruce got hard embarrassingly fast.
It was an abandon he’d never felt before, to be so open before someone he wanted to defeat. Beyond that, it felt outrageously empowering to hold two cocks. He groaned aloud, startling himself with the sound and feeling a twitch from the other man. The Joker’s cock dripped with slippery pre-come, which Bruce swirled his thumb through, easing the friction. The Joker gasped.
Bruce finally looked over at the Joker’s lap and the purple-red cock standing in the folds of fabric. Veins stood out on it, the same as they did on his forehead as the Joker leaned back, keening. “Ah, a-ha. Ah, a-ha.” Something about the low noises drove Bruce not to care about anything but the build, and the tightening in his groin.
And when the Joker dropped his knife and reached for Bruce’s cock, Bruce Wayne almost screamed out.
The Joker stroked him with a pace all his own, rhythmless and erratic. Short, rapid tugs zinged right to Bruce’s core. The unpredictability of being in the passenger seat thrilled Bruce with the same excitement as a fistfight. It had to be the situation, and not the man, which made Bruce sweat and throb. It had to be the knife tip jabbing into his thigh which elevated every sensation. It had to be the taunting laugh assaulting his ears which spurred him to roll his fingers, to slide deeper -- anything to in order to shut it up. It had to be his own raging arousal which made him oblige the other man’s demands to go Faster! … for More!
He could never have contained that moan, he told himself later.
Sitting necessarily close in order to reach each other, their faces had drawn closer and closer. Bruce felt the humid puff of the Joker’s breath on his own lips. They shared that inch of space between them with an aggressive intimacy. Bruce closed the gap, sliding his tongue over the Joker’s lower lip and into his mouth. He felt those red lips pull into a triumphant smile, and when his tongue met the other, his excitement peaked, and he felt the inevitable build. Bruce swelled, tensed, and came hard. Holding his breath as the Joker’s hand pulled each spasm out of him, he spent himself all over his legs and the Joker’s shirt. The breath ultimately escaped as a shout as his orgasm continued to wrack his body.
The Joker wasted no time taking over at his own cock, and Bruce watched wide-eyed as he jerked off with an abusive stride. His skin flushed under his make-up and he clenched his teeth, straining as he released, pouring over his fingers and onto the floor.
Bruce leaned over, forehead in his hands while he collected his breath. On his leg, a small wound bled where the knife had punctured. The ringing in his ears was slow to clear, but his sense of self-control quickly returned. A rational voice alerted him to wonder what the Joker would be wanting now. When he looked up, the Joker was gone. Bruce jumped. Before he could turn his head, an arm came around his neck and plumes of smoky gas engulfed his face. The laughing gas canister hissed over the sound of the Joker’s cackle. Bruce choked and gagged at the noxious fumes which burned his throat as he tried to twist out of the lock. Only managing to pull himself halfway standing, he stumbled back. Everything was suddenly very blurry and very very funny. It felt better to just smile and relax. Just lay down and laugh himself silly...about everything and nothing. His own laughs echoed somewhere in the distance as he blacked into unconsciousness.
When he awoke it was on his own sofa, a hovering Alfred attending to him. His head spun as he sat up.
“Are you all right, sir?” the butler asked.
The events of the evening reeled back in his mind. “I think so, Alfred.” Though he really had to wonder.
“What happened?”
“The Joker,” Bruce said simply.
“Apparently so, sir,” Alfred said, holding up a joker playing card. “It was on your chest when I found you.”
The gassed amusement had worn off, but some new part of Bruce welcomed the challenge of the message on the card: "Game on!"
Pairing: Joker/Bruce Wayne
Rated: NC-17
warnings: dubious consent, mutual masturbation, masturbation, slight use of knives
notes/summary: Nolanverse. Set after the fundraiser party. After saving Rachel, Bruce goes back upstairs and the Joker's still there.
By the time Bruce had shed the bat suit and returned to his penthouse, he wasn’t surprised to find that the guests had gone. The place was a mess with more than the usual post-party shambles, and a quick turn around the room convinced him that fortunately the clown thugs had gone too. All the same, the place felt far from safe. It seemed foreign and hollow, as if he hadn’t yet moved in. Alfred was seeing Rachel safely home, and the caterers and event staff had apparently fled. But there was something he was missing. And there was a presence.
Dent! Spurred by a spark of panic, Bruce dashed to the closet in which he had secured Harvey Dent. The doors stood open wide; the closet empty.
Bruce lowered his arms slowly, noting a change in the air.
“They took him,” came a high, mocking voice which made Bruce spin around.
His blood pounded in his chest as the Joker stepped around the corner and stood facing Bruce, staring and twisting slowly on the spot. Bristling at the sight of this criminal madman, Bruce’s shoulders stiffened. The Joker waited, as smug and cold as ever, sullying the room with his mere presence. If he has Dent... Bruce suppressed the urge to swoop down upon him and break both his arms. “Who took him?” he asked, not sure if he was ready for the answer.
“Policemen,” the Joker shrugged. “A whole mob of them swarmed in after the Batman’s swashbuckling efforts. You know what? They were the third wave of party-crashers in one evening. Some of them even made it back out in one piece.” He gestured vaguely and looked askance, indicating the floor by the sofa where several uniformed patrolmen lay dead.
Bruce’s blood boiled. “Get out!” he yelled, storming forward. “Get the hell out of my house.”
The Joker was unmoved by the fevered outburst. “You’re Bruce Wayne then,” he said, more of a statement than a question. “This is your place. I was beginning to think no one would own up to it.” He gazed around at the apartment casually and judgmentally. “I don’t like it at all, but I can see how someone like you might. It’s everything I expected you would be -- artificial...functional...boring.” He leaned in close on the last word. Bruce glared back as the Joker turned toward the windows. “Gotta admire the view, though. And the drop.”
At that, Bruce lunged, grabbing the Joker’s lapels and pulling him up sharply. The man was heavier than he looked, a stubbornly solid force. Their bodies crashed together with weight and heat and the swing of the Joker’s chain tapping against Bruce’s leg -- none of which he had been able to feel earlier while distanced inside the bat suit. Suddenly it felt terribly unsafe facing him this way. Without the protection of armor, this confrontation was set on different ground, and Bruce would have to guard his tactics.
The Joker merely laughed and hung in Bruce’s grip. “You probably think I ruined your party. Ha-ha! Sorry, but it had to be done.” His tongue flicked out and across his lower lip as his laughter subsided into giggles. It moved like something animal, disturbing Bruce on a nameless level, though distracting him curiously. “Not to worry, though,” the Joker continued, with a nod of mock reassurance. “It wasn’t you I needed. Just Harvey Dent.” He showed all his yellowed teeth and cocked his head quizzically. “I don’t suppose you know where he’ll be tomorrow night?”
Bruce renewed his grip and gave the Joker a shake.
The painted mask transformed into a snarl, the man’s voice changing to match it. Low and dangerous, he rumbled. “I think it’s time for you to take your hands off of me…before I lose my sense of humor. Your growling watchdog routine is very amusing, but you reeeeally don’t want to push me.”
He dug his hands into Bruce’s fists, curling his fingers into them, prying them loose. Keeping a warning glare darkly fixed on Bruce, he relaxed from his tip-toe stance and smoothed down his jacket.
Bruce silently calculated all the methods of subduing the intruder. No weapons were immediately at hand, but it wouldn’t take more than a few steps to reach something. He couldn’t count on Alfred’s return for at least another twenty minutes, so it was unlikely he could use that as a distraction. Bruce trusted his own fighting skills, but would rather they remain reserved for Batman, their full extent secret to anyone unaware of his identity. It would be more dangerous to misjudge this criminal. One never knew with lunatics -- and armed lunatics required special handling. He kept his tone flat. “Stop threatening my friends, and stop threatening me.”
The Joker snorted, studying Bruce with a most invasive leer. Just being looked at by the man felt like an assault. The sickening smile spread again. “You know, you’re a bit of a surprise, Mr. Bruce Wayne, philanthropist and billionaire playboy -- if that is indeed a real job title. Those people at your Harvey Dent appreciation party all turned to sniveling, shaking, useless little masses when I asked to meet the man of the hour. You, on the other hand, resort to physical intimidation. How very savage of you,” he rumbled.
“Maybe I think it’s the only way to get through to you,” Bruce said.
“Maybe I incite it in you,” the Joker countered. His scars pushed outward as he sucked his teeth, exaggerating his disfigurement as they stretched. “Could it be that you’re jealous?”
“What?” Bruce blurted.
“Sure. Look at your orderly -- if…flashy -- little life. Three-piece suits, board meetings, gala luncheons. Meaningless ostentation. Regular timetables.”
“I live well.”
“You live cautiously,” Joker countered. “You do exactly what people in your position do. You conform. You follow the rules.”
Rules which protect the world from monsters like you, Bruce thought.
“Yet you keep your head when confronted with an alternative -- namely, me. Lemme tell you, I don’t see much of that in this city.” As the Joker paced past Bruce and through the room, Bruce followed his movements carefully. The clown’s fingers twitched and clenched constantly, but as long as his hands remained empty, Bruce could stay less edgy. He’d by no means recovered from the Joker’s earlier assault on Batman.
“You,” the Joker announced, “need to learn to lighten up.”
“I find it hard to take it casually when a murdering bastard terrorizes my friends, tells me how to live my life, and refuses to leave my house.”
The Joker looked genuinely amused by what Bruce said. He spread his arms, exploding, “Ha ha ha ha ha! I rest my case.”
The Joker came to a halt behind Bruce, looming so far over his shoulder that Bruce expected he’d find white paint on his suit the next time he checked a mirror. “Look at you,” the Joker said, lifting and dropping a fluttering hand around Bruce. “All pressed and…strangled by our own clothing.” He slid a finger beneath the knot of Bruce’s tie, flipping it untucked from his vest. “Not surprising to see that you move in Dent’s circles. People like you, so tightly-wound, your clothes are the only thing keeping you from unraveling. Powerless without your power suits.”
Bruce scoffed inwardly at the Joker’s hypocrisy -- the man’s own bright suit was hardly uncalculated -- but admitted to himself that if he were wearing his other suit, he’d be showing the Joker proof enough of his capacity for unrestrained behavior.
The Joker narrowed his eyes briefly, as if deciding on something. Then, throwing off his long purple coat with a whip-crack, he grabbed two chairs from a nearby table and slammed them down face to face. He returned to Bruce. He pulled in a deep breath and held it for a moment before he spoke. “I’m going to tell you something, Mr. Bruce Wayne. I’m gonna let you in on a little secret, because I can see you have potential beyond your sad station. Here’s what you need to learn. Destruction. Confusion. Mayhem. There’s no better way of getting your rocks off. If you can understand that, then…” He trailed off, the thought unspoken. That tongue flicked again, punctuating his upward leer from a down-turned face. He nodded, eyes roving a path down Bruce’s body. “It’s probably even better than a good…hard…fuck.”
On that word, Bruce’s hand smacked hard as it caught the Joker’s wrist, seizing it and twisting his forearm before he could reach Bruce’s crotch.
Every warning alarm was sounding off in Bruce’s brain. He’d let this go too far and wasn’t quite sure how it happened. Perhaps there was a kernel of truth in the Joker’s accusations about his suit. Only it wasn’t a pin stripe that held Bruce together, but titanium-dipped Kevlar plates. And the mask. For a brief moment he envied the Joker, who was operating at full power beneath a mask of his own. He should have thrown the maniac out bodily five minutes ago. He was too unpredictable to have around. Too demanding. Too close for comfort.
But in Bruce’s peripheral vision, the Joker’s other hand rose up slowly, revealing the knife it wielded. “Ah, ah, ah,” he warned softly, making sure Bruce got a good look at it before laying it flat beneath his chin. “That is not the correct response.”
Bruce debated his next move, not wishing to be cut but not prepared to be violated either. He wondered vaguely why he hadn’t swung a lightning-fast chop to the neck and swept the madman’s legs out from under him…long before it had come to this. It wasn’t that the fight had gone out of him, but the urge for a clash had twisted, calling for a whole new set of rules.
The tension eased in Bruce’s arms, and the Joker pulled himself free, though still directing with his knife. “Sit. On the chair,” the Joker instructed calmly, and Bruce moved to obey. It was much trickier facing this rival without his mask and armor. Without Batman. Batman would have done things completely differently from the decisions Bruce seemed to be making.
He perched on the edge of the seat, careful not to show any of the uncertainty which was building. Focusing on his hatred, he kept his face defiant and fearless. He looked up at the Joker, who in turn was now beaming with a predatory glee…
…and something else. Something wild and free. Something like madness.
“Let it go,” the Joker whispered. “Everything you knew. Smash it up.” He snapped up Bruce’s hand and pushed it against the front of the Joker’s trousers. As Bruce strained to pull away, the Joker pressed harder in the struggle. “No, no,” he said, repositioning Bruce’s hand as it strayed aside, encountering his pocket. “That’s a knife.” He moved Bruce’s fingers a few inches. “And that isn’t.”
Bruce stared down at his own knee, refusing to meet the Joker’s eyes or to watch the way he was being used. He tried to shut his mind to the heat and firmness of the man, to the way he ground into his hand, lewd and malicious. He tried desperately not to concentrate on the unthinkable insanity of having noticed the impressive size of that shape.
So lost was Bruce in his reactions that he didn’t notice the Joker’s hips had stopped pulsing. He stood waiting, hand wrapped around Bruce’s wrist, pressed close, as if he was fisting his own cock. A passive hand was not as good as an active one, and Bruce was missing his cue. “Go on,” the Joker demanded.
Bruce slid his hand in a way that Batman would never have done.
The room went very quiet, the only sound being the rhythmic drag of skin over fabric. Bruce rubbed firmly but without enthusiasm, his last meager token of defiance. His fingers curled over the outline of the Joker’s length. The cock twitched and strained under his palm, so familiar yet so unsettling. The world really had gone mad.
A long hissing breath escaped the Joker’s wide mouth. He swayed slightly and increased his grip on Bruce’s wrist. Still holding a knife in his other hand, he shifted it to unfasten his trousers. Predictably, Bruce resisted, but the Joker held fast. Neither man seemed willing to make a move without putting up a bit of a fight. He chuckled lightly as he sat down in the opposite chair, pushing the other man’s knees apart with his own. Resting his hand on Bruce’s leg, he held the knife under his splayed fingers, which curled and latched onto Bruce’s thigh. The knife lay as a warning and a threat in one, a reminder of the thin edge that the pair of them were riding. Dingy green curls fell across the Joker’s face, catching white paint on them as they dragged through. He looked down, watching hungrily as Bruce reached in to pull him out.
Actual contact with smooth hard flesh sent Bruce’s thoughts into a bit of a rush. Most of his brain was still screaming that he was at knifepoint, but the other part of it was set on its path. If this Joker wanted to lose control to Bruce Wayne, Bruce was going to damn well going to drive him there. His hand closed around the Joker’s erection and gave a squeeze. The green hair swung back again as the Joker’s head lolled slightly. He stared at Bruce from within the black pits of his eyes.
A contradictory sense of power swept over Bruce as he watched the Joker’s unabashed display of pleasure. Though the Joker was taking wantonly, it was Bruce who was driving his arousal. His hips rocked up into the half-hearted strokes, urging Bruce on. Tugging Bruce’s wrist impatiently, he demanded more.
He snapped with frustration into irritating laughter. “Is that the way you do yourself?” he scoffed. “It’s enough to keep me hard, but not much more fun than riding over speed bumps. Come on, Bruce. You -- mnnh!” The Joker yelled out as Bruce gave a deep, twisting stroke in an answer to the challenge. He worked the length, pushing far down to his balls and sliding up to the head, following the arcing curve of flesh.
The Joker’s panting breaths were loud and rushing. His mouth hung open, lips wet and redder than ever. If only he weren’t clutching a knife, he’d look almost submissive -- submissive not to Bruce, but to the confusion and chaos of arousal.
But the situation was not yet out of control enough for the Joker. “Your turn,” he huffed. “You have two hands. Use one on yourself.” Bruce must have looked shocked because when he looked up, the Joker snickered dismissively. “It’s just a game. Didn’t I tell you?” Despite his tone, that sounded somehow even more threatening.
Reluctantly, Bruce played along, covertly slipping a hand deep into his boxers rather than drawing himself out. He rubbed tentatively, surprised to feel a rush of blood. Whether due to nervousness or a strange, sick empathy, his hands both soon fell into the same motion. As if a mirror image, his hands slid over their shafts. At the thought that he and the Joker were sharing the same pleasure, burning in his palms, Bruce got hard embarrassingly fast.
It was an abandon he’d never felt before, to be so open before someone he wanted to defeat. Beyond that, it felt outrageously empowering to hold two cocks. He groaned aloud, startling himself with the sound and feeling a twitch from the other man. The Joker’s cock dripped with slippery pre-come, which Bruce swirled his thumb through, easing the friction. The Joker gasped.
Bruce finally looked over at the Joker’s lap and the purple-red cock standing in the folds of fabric. Veins stood out on it, the same as they did on his forehead as the Joker leaned back, keening. “Ah, a-ha. Ah, a-ha.” Something about the low noises drove Bruce not to care about anything but the build, and the tightening in his groin.
And when the Joker dropped his knife and reached for Bruce’s cock, Bruce Wayne almost screamed out.
The Joker stroked him with a pace all his own, rhythmless and erratic. Short, rapid tugs zinged right to Bruce’s core. The unpredictability of being in the passenger seat thrilled Bruce with the same excitement as a fistfight. It had to be the situation, and not the man, which made Bruce sweat and throb. It had to be the knife tip jabbing into his thigh which elevated every sensation. It had to be the taunting laugh assaulting his ears which spurred him to roll his fingers, to slide deeper -- anything to in order to shut it up. It had to be his own raging arousal which made him oblige the other man’s demands to go Faster! … for More!
He could never have contained that moan, he told himself later.
Sitting necessarily close in order to reach each other, their faces had drawn closer and closer. Bruce felt the humid puff of the Joker’s breath on his own lips. They shared that inch of space between them with an aggressive intimacy. Bruce closed the gap, sliding his tongue over the Joker’s lower lip and into his mouth. He felt those red lips pull into a triumphant smile, and when his tongue met the other, his excitement peaked, and he felt the inevitable build. Bruce swelled, tensed, and came hard. Holding his breath as the Joker’s hand pulled each spasm out of him, he spent himself all over his legs and the Joker’s shirt. The breath ultimately escaped as a shout as his orgasm continued to wrack his body.
The Joker wasted no time taking over at his own cock, and Bruce watched wide-eyed as he jerked off with an abusive stride. His skin flushed under his make-up and he clenched his teeth, straining as he released, pouring over his fingers and onto the floor.
Bruce leaned over, forehead in his hands while he collected his breath. On his leg, a small wound bled where the knife had punctured. The ringing in his ears was slow to clear, but his sense of self-control quickly returned. A rational voice alerted him to wonder what the Joker would be wanting now. When he looked up, the Joker was gone. Bruce jumped. Before he could turn his head, an arm came around his neck and plumes of smoky gas engulfed his face. The laughing gas canister hissed over the sound of the Joker’s cackle. Bruce choked and gagged at the noxious fumes which burned his throat as he tried to twist out of the lock. Only managing to pull himself halfway standing, he stumbled back. Everything was suddenly very blurry and very very funny. It felt better to just smile and relax. Just lay down and laugh himself silly...about everything and nothing. His own laughs echoed somewhere in the distance as he blacked into unconsciousness.
When he awoke it was on his own sofa, a hovering Alfred attending to him. His head spun as he sat up.
“Are you all right, sir?” the butler asked.
The events of the evening reeled back in his mind. “I think so, Alfred.” Though he really had to wonder.
“What happened?”
“The Joker,” Bruce said simply.
“Apparently so, sir,” Alfred said, holding up a joker playing card. “It was on your chest when I found you.”
The gassed amusement had worn off, but some new part of Bruce welcomed the challenge of the message on the card: "Game on!"