Fic: New Year's Disillusions
Title: New Year’s Disillusions
Author: lilac28
Pairing: Batman/Joker
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, sadly
Notes: This is meant to be a sequel to my previous stories Performance Anxiety and Betrayal at the Ballot. However you don’t need to read those to understand this one. Set post TDK, assumes the Joker knows Batman’s identity.
Lots of talk of hate sex but it’s not very violent or dark. This is just for lulz, of course (well, and porn). Stole a quote from Arkham Asylum ‘cause I just couldn’t help myself. Apologies are also in order to Andrew Marvell.
Warnings: Crack (unapologetically). Sex (fairly graphic). Extreme length (of the, um, story that is).
Word Count: 6,081 (OOPS! How did that happen? I hope that’s not too long for crack!)
Summary: Bruce Wayne makes a New Year’s resolution regarding hate sex and the Joker, but how long will it last?
December 31st
For the last issue of the year, editors at the Gotham Gazette had chosen to print the headline in the largest, most formidable font that would fit on the page.
Four Dead After Joker Escapes Arkham!
Bruce Wayne was reading the morning paper with a calm that belied his growing dread. The Joker was free. It would only be a matter of time before he sought out Batman, and the churning lunacy would begin all over again. As would the steamy, rage-nourished hate sex.
He had tried to stop. Over and over he had tried to ignore his ardent rancor that drove him to violate the other man. He was disgusted with himself, but he just couldn't stop. Every time the clown begged for more he felt compelled to oblige. Every punch, every probing finger, every "this side shy of too hard" stroke....it all ended the same way, with the Joker bleeding and moaning into Bruce's neck.
Illusion or not, it was the only time he felt like he had any control over his ravaged life. At least they'd never kissed.
Alfred came in to clear the dishes. Noticing Bruce’s forlorn expression, he graced the younger man with a small smile of reserved sympathy.
"Not a very good start to the New Year is it, Master Wayne?"
"Alfred, I can't keep doing this. I arrest him and he just escapes to kill again. It's like everything I've done every night since Harvey's death has been completely pointless." He struggled to keep his emotions in check.
Alfred sat down next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder in a gentle, avuncular gesture.
"Master Wayne, things have improved. You'll catch the Joker. You just need to box clever, sir. And don't forget, two weeks ago you apprehended the Riddler."
Bruce tried not to visibly cringe, remembering his recent encounter with the Riddler.......
*Crack!*
Batman's clenched fist made a sickening sound against the Riddler's skull. He threw another punch, furious that the criminal had dared to devise yet another death trap for him. The trap had been clever, brilliant even, but the Riddler's compulsive flaws were once again his downfall. He had wasted so much time talking that Batman had been able to escape and catch him.
"Did you really think it was going to work? That you would escape justice?" Bubbling, bloody laughter was the only response. He picked the Riddler up and threw him against the outside of the Tumbler, looming over him like a specter. "Did you think I wouldn't stop you?"
Another punch. Batman was hard in the suit.
This was why he still went out every night even as a wanted man. To stop criminals. To stop madness. To bring a sense of order and decency to a hopeless world. Not to chase around a psychotic freak like the Joker and certainly not to engage in fantastic, abhorrent sex with aforementioned freak.
Sex that was over, that he swore he did not miss. Who needed the Joker anyway? He didn't need the Joker's presence to justify his actions. Didn't need scarred lips and heated, desperate grinding set off by hatred and insanity. He snapped a spinning kick to the Riddler's ribs.
That sick bastard acted like he was the singular bad guy in Gotham. Sure the battered man beneath him lacked the panache and tight ass of the Joker, but criminals were all the same. This one was even wearing green and laughing!
"S-stop," the Riddler whimpered.
Oh, wait. He wasn't laughing. He was crying.
"Please...please stop hitting me," he blubbered.
Batman shamefully lowered his fists. His erection withered faster than a tender shoot of grass in a July drought.
"I'm taking you back to Arkham." His tone was gruff, heart not really in it.
"Fine! Great! Let's go!" The Riddler practically threw himself into the small space of the Tumbler.
It was the most silent and awkward ride to Arkham that Batman had ever taken. When they arrived, the Riddler couldn't get away from him fast enough. They strode boldly through the front entrance, after which his captive scampered towards the shocked guards and orderlies.
"What's tall and dark and has misplaced aggression issues?" He huddled against one of the men, fearful eyes as wide as dinner plates.
The vigilante wasted no time in making an exit, fighting the urge to knock out the guards and sneak down to the maximum-security level where he knew they were keeping the Joker......
It had been his least satisfying night as Batman. Bruce cringed again, thinking of Rachel and Harvey. Okay, maybe his second least satisfying night.
Alfred removed his hand from Bruce's well-tailored suit jacket, but a lingering smell of cigarette smoke remained. His loyal butler had started smoking soon after Rachel's death. A habit, he claimed, that he had not indulged in since his time in Burma.
"Still smoking, Alfred?" He knew he was in no place to judge, but he hated that Alfred had started smoking.
"Not anymore, sir. Had the last one earlier this morning. I suppose I won't be needing this." He stood up and crossed the kitchen to throw an empty cigarette package in the trash, the movement smooth and nonchalant as anything he ever did. Standing with his back straight and face composed, Alfred appeared a paragon of stoicism. Bruce felt his spirits lift a little.
"Do you have any New Year's resolutions, Master Wayne? Any bad habits you'd like to break?"
"Too many to list, Alfred." His countenance was playful but inside Bruce Wayne was nervous as he repeated his resolution: I will not have hate sex with the Joker. I will not have hate sex with the Joker......
January 6th
It wasn't long before his resolve was tested. Things were quiet for about a week. A few foiled muggings and robberies were the only events to keep Batman busy. It was almost as if what remained of the criminal underworld had gone into hiding after the news of the Joker's escape. He hated it. The suspense was almost unbearable. Night after night he searched for the Joker, simultaneously wanting to find him and dreading the encounter.
Thus when an anonymous letter arrived at the penthouse that morning, he opened it with great apprehension. It contained two unmarked joker cards and one small piece of paper decorated in red block lettering.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
our sickness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Severed cleanly, cut by knife.
Toepfer Jewelers, 2 AM, come alone or someone could get hurt!
At 1:30 he revved up the Batpod and proceeded to the jeweler's. A cursory examination of the building revealed no skylights to burst through so he would have to make a more subtle entrance, like driving straight through the front door. He would be able to surprise the Joker and whatever clowns he had working for him, hopefully subduing them all before the police arrived.
He could do this. He had to. Batman was the lone force capable of stopping the Joker, the only one strong enough to stand against the maelstrom.
The Batpod tore into the building, a cyclone of broken glass and sleek metal. He immediately knocked out two clowns and was almost hit when a third tried to fire off a few rounds at him. The man didn't even have time to reload before the Joker sprang up from behind a display case and plunged a knife into his throat.
"I told you, no shooting at him."
The man fell lifeless onto the marble tiled floor. A dismissive gesture from their green-haired boss and the rest of the clowns rushed to escape. Batman allowed it. There was just one man in this crew worth capturing.
"Bat-man, what a pleasure!" the Joker drew out every syllable while twirling his chain watch in a theatrical arc. "Did you miss me? I missed you so much I had to, uh, check myself out of Arkham just to visit." He was quivering. Unchecked energy seemed to irradiate the room.
Batman wouldn't give him the satisfaction of appearing rattled. He adopted his most menacing voice. "What are you doing here?"
A lick of red lips and a sly smile accompanied the response. "Waiting for you, Bruce. I was hoping we could play a game-"
Bruce lunged for him, grabbed a fistful of his vest, and hoisted him onto a metal-framed display case in the corner. The Joker's back was slammed into the wall, his form illuminated only by security lights and rainbows from the glittering diamonds around them. He didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the glowering phantom seething over him.
"You think this is a game?!" The vigilante was incensed. "You killed four people when you escaped!" Cold rage uncoiled within him. He punched the Joker in the ribs, unable to contain himself.
"You're a sick, murdering fiend! I'm taking you back to Arkham and suggesting solitary confinement where you can't hurt any....any-"
He trailed off, suddenly aware of their compromising positions. The Joker was propped up against the wall, legs splayed and hanging off the display case to either side of Bruce's torso. His makeup was smeared everywhere, sliding colors making him appear chaos personified. Yet in the middle of the anarchic portrait that was his face sat a pair of shrewd, devious green eyes. Eyes that pierced right into him, read his every fear. Eyes that knew.
Eyes that traveled down his body, directing Bruce's gaze to his crotch, to the visible bulge in his purple pants. The Joker was obviously hard. Bruce gritted his teeth as he felt his own body stir in response. He didn't know which one of them he hated more.
For a few excruciating seconds nothing moved. He was frozen, torn between the desire to strangle and the desire to touch. I will not have hate sex with the Joker.
The Joker wrapped his legs around Bruce's waist, pulling him closer until their lower halves were almost flush together. Breathless giggling began anew.
"You wanna do it, youwannadoit. C'mon, Batsy, don't deny your true natuuure...."
After months of fighting the Joker, Bruce had managed to refine his response to such statements down to a monosyllabic art form.
"I'm not like you," he growled, grabbing at the Joker's erection through his pants for emphasis.
The movement elicited whooping laughter. "Oh yeah, you're nothing like me! Ha ha, look at you go! You w-want-oh.."
He stuttered, speech dissolving into a desperate grunt when Bruce started to move his wrist. Thin layers of fabric and kevlar were all that separated them as he squeezed. It would be so easy to just tear off his gloves, reach in, and rub the Joker with his bare hand. To see all of Batman's famed resolve crumble not with a bang but with a whimper, a pained whimper of longing from his worst enemy.
"Lemme give you some help with that," the Joker fumbled to unbutton his pants, perhaps sensing Bruce's hesitation.
Bruce could have stopped him but didn't, letting the other man unclip his suspenders and wriggle his pants down to his knees. And, oh God, he shouldn't want to look but he did, unable to fight the irresistible pull of seeing his nemesis so aroused, such a human, needy state. Suspicions confirmed. The Joker's cock was practically dripping.
In fact, given the Joker's proclivity towards premature ejaculation where all things Batman were concerned, he was surprised the clown hadn't come already.
They were both breathing heavy. Beads of moisture formed everywhere as the grating tension between them was pushed to the brink. A drop of sweat slipped through the mask and ran down his chin, giving away how much Batman wanted to touch. Grab. Pummel. Put the world and his sanity back together with naked hands.
The Joker's eyes rolled. "Do it. Do it as hard as you need to. As hard as you wanted to do it to her, if she ever woulda letcha! Heh heh heh...."
Fury twisted Bruce's stomach. "Don't you fucking mention her."
Although tempted to punch or inflict some form of violence, he fought the urges in a demand to gain true authority. Something one of the doctors at Arkham said came back to him: unlike you and I, the Joker seems to have no control over the sensory information he's receiving from the outside world. Violence never broke the man. He was going to need to send him into sensory overload. Without another thought, he snapped the Joker's chain watch from his clothes.
Eyes wide, the Joker watched as Bruce snaked the chain through his pubic hair, around his balls, and fastened the clasp to one of the metal links near the top of his shaft. The actual watch was resting on his pale thigh, throwing broken patterns of light across their bodies. Bruce secured the chain at what he deemed "just snug enough", effectively binding the other man's genitals. A makeshift cock ring.
The Joker seemed too shocked to even giggle. Now they were getting somewhere. "Oh, oh, oh, now you're talkin'. Brucey, I'm so proud of you!"
A voice inside screamed at him to stop, something about hate sex and New Year's. Bruce couldn't stop, too thrilled with his newfound power. The sight was captivating. The Joker's pubic hair was perhaps the one nondescript thing about him, simple dirty blond curled around the polished watch chain. His erection had already started to darken, a raised vein underneath now even more prominent. Shattered and trembling, he was one of the most erotic and sensually disgusting sights Bruce had ever seen.
The Joker gave a plaintive cry when a gloved hand curled around him and administered a series of slow, agonizing strokes. Bruce's breath caught in response to the sound, heart thundering like an entire cavalry was in his chest. He palmed the stiff flesh, stopped briefly, and began the rhythm over again. And finally Batman was able to employ a skill that he had learned not through the pain of loss or from his training in Bhutan, but by simply being "Bruce Wayne, playboy": the ability to tease.
"That's it, Brucey, baby, that's my good bat....."
"What are you doing here?" God, he could feel his gloves starting to get damp. He was hard in the suit again.
"Sh-shopping for the perfect-oh yes, that's it!-the perfect gift for you, lover. Unhh..."
It had to be something about the kevlar. Bruce relished the Joker’s increased sensitivity, rolling the man’s sac in his free hand. He moved higher, continuing his strokes while rubbing circles over the top, a move he knew drove the Joker wild.
"What are you doing here!?!?"
"HEIST," he wailed in a cracking voice, "h-heist...mob owned......money....gonna, gonna use it....oh fuck.....to, uh, create mayhem and b-bedlam....more just like that...."
He should stop. Just one more minute, a few more strokes. Then he would stop. Stop before he pulled out his own throbbing erection and pounded the Joker until things made sense again, or until he ceased caring that they didn't. Bruce was sweating, damp hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving in the suit. It was just so addicting to see the Joker in such a dire condition, a man after all. Funny how in order to bring humanity to the Joker, he had to lose some of his own.
The clown was getting closer, speech now just nonsensical mumblings. Every fondling motion was responded to with an involuntary thrust, scarred body helpless against the meticulous onslaught.
"Yes...Bruce...mpf-complete...please...gonna...I'm gonna...."
All internal arguments skipped off Bruce’s psyche as just meaningless chatter. He knew they were there, heart clenching in shame at their whisperings. They had no power against his desire to have the Joker screaming for him, his prurience to watch thick bursts spray all over that stupid purple suit. His conscience scrambled for an out, body and mind too caught up in the twisted exchange between need and release.
"Oh God, Bruce, Batsy, gonna go off just like that fuckin' bomb......"
And there it was, something to cut through the haze. Bomb?
"What?" Bruce growled, his hands freezing.
"Wh-what?" the Joker replied, dazed.
"What did you just say?"
"I don't know! I'm just babbling, don't stop! Heh, we're just gettin' to the good stuff."
He released the Joker's heavy erection and grasped his throat, knocking his head into the wall.
"You said bomb..." What was he doing? He had a duty. He had to stop the Joker.
"I'm just talking dirty! I think you've gone craaazier than me. This is too paranoid even for you, sweetie." He was wheezing from the pressure on his neck.
"You said 'that bomb'. You were referring to a specific bomb!" The Batman voice was back in full force.
The Joker managed to dislodge Bruce's hands, swiping at him with long fingernails. Desire mutated into manic, frustrated fury. "BATMAN! There is NO BOMB!"
"Listen to me," Bruce used his superior strength and weight to pin the Joker to the wall, "I'm not gonna let you win, you ugly freak. There's still good in this city, you don't have the power to tear that apart! Now where's the bomb?" He could redeem himself, uphold the symbol, be the dark anti-hero Gotham needed.
The painted face was laughing at him, slimy teeth gnashing with ire. The Joker didn't respond, all rage and rabid radioactivity put towards trying to struggle free. Bruce held fast, delivering a hard blow to his cheek. The straining, trussed up erection was almost forgotten between them. Finally he stopped struggling and regarded his captor with a bemused expression. Bruce could almost hear his mind whirring.
"Fine. You wanna play? I'll play. Listen, I'm gonna tell you where it is, try not to sc-rew it up this time. It's at fifteen High Street but you'd better hurry. I left some hostages to keep it company. Time, or should I say timers, wait for no one! Ha ha ha....."
That was all he needed to hear. Bruce pulled up the Joker’s pants and cuffed both hands around a pillar near the display case before racing to the Tumbler. He placed the call to Gordon, ignoring the cackling screech behind him.
Later that evening Bruce sat brooding in the penthouse, mask forgotten in his lap. There had been no bomb, no hostages. Just a group of firefighters who were very unhappy to see Gotham's most wanted vigilante burst into their station at fifteen High Street. Not quite as unhappy as a disappointed, hand wringing Gordon who reported to Batman later in the evening that the Joker had escaped before his men could bring him in.
Perhaps it was just as well this time. He later realized that, in his haste to leave, he had left the watch chain wrapped around the Joker's genitals. That would have been quite a surprise for whoever frisked him. How would he have explained THAT to Gordon?
Upon further reflection he also had to admit that maybe it was possible the psycho was just talking dirty. Who else but the Joker would mention explosives during foreplay?
He had almost failed, almost given in to the hate sex. It looked like he was in for another night of self-loathing fueled masturbation. What the hell was wrong with him? I knew I should have experimented more at Princeton.
Alfred entered the room in a pair of stately blue pajamas. It was 5 AM, he must have been waiting for Bruce to come home. The playboy looked at him with broken eyes, not even able to muster a fake smile.
"I didn't box so clever, Alfred."
"No? Dare I ask what happened?"
"He tricked me." Bruce hoped the response sounded genuine.
"He's not the enigma he once was. The more you understand him, the better you'll get at predicting his next moves."
He thought this over. "You're right. Maybe there's something I missed in his latest Arkham files...."
Of course Alfred saw where this was heading, another night of futile research and little sleep for Bruce Wayne. He gingerly took the mask and guided Bruce towards his bedroom.
"The Joker will keep, sir. You need to rest. Don't forget, you have a date tomorrow with two upstanding young ladies." The comment was delivered in Alfred’s typical satirical manner.
"Oh yeah, the models." Bruce resented these fake dates as they bit into his precious "Batman Time".
"You wouldn't want to disappoint them, sir."
"Certainly not. By the way, how's the not smoking coming?"
"Just fine. The gum does make the cravings more manageable."
The butler stood calm and collected, a bastion of sanity in a world out of control. Bruce's only real family, and one of his few true friends. If Alfred could continue to resist addiction, so could he. Mood slightly bolstered, he collapsed on his bed. Tomorrow he would do better. Go on his date, play dress up as Bruce Wayne, make love to two beautiful women, and leave like a cad in the middle of the night in order to become Batman. He would get all the thrills he needed from bringing criminals to justice.
I will not have hate sex with the Joker....
January 7th
Slightly refreshed after a little sleep, Bruce decided to view the next day as a meditation exercise. Calling upon all his training and discipline, he spent the day trying to center himself. Mindful meditation and breathing drills carried him through a set of boring meetings. A vigorous workout left him grounded and feeling strong before dinner.
He ferried the two beautiful women around Gotham like the preening, vapid asshole everyone assumed he was. By the time he ushered his dates from an art gallery back into his sports car, the famed "Bruce Wayne Confidence" was in full swing.
He could do this. As one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, resisting a psychopath would be easy when he was in touch with his true dominance. It wouldn't even matter if he ran into the Joker later anyway, he was planning on being so sexually spent from screwing the two gorgeous women that he wouldn't be feeling libidinous again for at least a week.
The two models were tangled up together in the front seat next to him, giggling at some private joke. They kissed with an ardor that was almost too soft, all perfect hair and artfully applied makeup. Tiffany and.....Melinda? Matilda? It didn't matter. He was going to take them home and fuck them senseless. Just like he should want to do. Just like a maladjusted, heterosexual vigilante would do.
He was just going to have to remember not to get carried away and punch anybody.
Bruce drove into the private entrance at the bottom of the penthouse and pulled into his parking space. Stepping out with stalwart assurance, he graciously opened the door for the two ladies. There was more giggling and some insipid comments about his being a gentleman. He flashed them a vacuous grin. For the next few hours he was resolved not to think about the Joker, the clown's hold on him broken by his newfound aplomb.
Bruce's heart didn't even sink when his private cell phone rang, the one for which few people had the number.
"Hello?" He walked a few steps in front of his dates, beckoning them to keep following as they exited the parking garage and made their way to the front entrance of the building.
"You know," a nasal voice jangled in his ear, "you're not supposed to, ah, leave a cock ring on for more than twenty minutes. You could do permanent damage."
The Joker’s sense of timing was consummate, as always. Unfortunately for him, tonight Bruce Wayne was prepared for temptation. He kept his voice level, not wanting to alert the women behind him that anything was wrong.
"I know you like to live dangerously. Why don't you tell me where you are? I can pick you up and drive you to our favorite.....facility." The perverted fuck was going back to Arkham tonight.
The Joker ignored the question. A cluck of disapproval could be heard on the line. "Your father looks sooo serious. No fun at all. That's probably why you can't take a joke. I'll bet he never hit ya, though! Now my father-"
"Shut up!" Despite all intentions of restraint, Bruce could feel his insides plummet at the mention of his father. "What the hell do you want from me?" His voice dropped a full octave, his dates looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
"I want you to come see the ama-zing thing I'm building at your desk. Really, Brucey, for such a successful company I would think you could hire some better security!"
Jesus Christ. The fiend must be at Wayne Enterprises. No doubt in his office, sitting at his executive desk looking at the picture of his father.
He would call Gordon. Tell him a threat had been called in to Wayne Enterprises. He wouldn't go down there and play into the Joker's hands. Nothing had changed.
The trio rounded the corner and approached the main entrance. There in front of the dignified gold-trimmed double doors stood Alfred. The butler met Bruce's eyes with an expression of muted shock. Only someone who knew him very well could tell that Alfred was tense. His shoulders were hunched over, cigarette in his hand, lips pursed tighter than normal. He stared at Bruce with a guilty expression, like a child caught doing something naughty.
Cigarette in his hand.
The phone fell from Bruce's fingers. "Alfred," he cried, "what are you doing?"
"Master Wayne," Alfred wasted no time in recovering to his staid, wry self. "You're home early, sir. I wasn't expecting you for a few more hours."
"I-I thought you quit. I thought you said it was easy!"
Alfred gave a gentle sigh. "Turns out it was a little more difficult than I expected."
"But....I was counting on you."
"Bruce," Alfred granted a rare use of his first name, completely misinterpreting the playboy's concern, "you can always count on me. I plan on being around for a long time to help you. This is just one moment of weakness."
Bruce continued to stare, a confounded look on his face.
"Anyway," the ironic twinkle was back in the butler's eye, "there's bound to be a few relapses on the road to recovery, sir."
Bruce blinked, digesting the words while ignoring the gawking of his dates and the voice still jabbering from the phone on the ground.
"After all I.....sir? Master Wayne?"
He was speaking to the playboy's retreating back. Bruce Wayne had turned on his heels and without a word marched away like a man on a mission, leaving behind two befuddled models and one very confused butler.
January 7th, 26 minutes later, Wayne Enterprises
"Wait....hold on, I...OW!"
"What's the problem? I thought you liked pain."
"I do! But this just isn't working. You need to move, ah...that way."
"Well, here, put your leg over there and-"
"No, no, no. Lemme do it..."
Bruce was shoved roughly into the narrow chair in his office, barely having time to readjust before his nemesis oozed into his lap. They were both naked from the waist down, upper bodies still clothed in custom shirts.
Things had become a blur after he had burst into the room. With any luck he had remembered to lock the door.
The Joker's haptic fingers were everywhere. Twisting through brown hair, scrabbling along steely arms, and tracing a smooth face with jerky motions that gave no indication of his true calculating nature. He fumbled with Bruce's tie, soon giving in to frustration and slicing it apart with a blade produced seemingly out of nowhere. One step behind him, Bruce seized his wrist with an iron grip, grabbing at the weapon and tossing it aside.
"No knives."
For once the Joker acquiesced without a word, ripping the other man's shirt open and pawing at the prize beneath. Something he'd never seen or touched before, despite their multiple, frantic couplings. Something always obscured by the suit: Bruce's bare chest. He gave a snicker and a smile at the sight of tensed muscles, approval on his face evident even through all the makeup.
"Bruce-y," he sighed. Any moment now he was going to start in with the obnoxiously insightful comments about the predetermined nature of their relationship. Time to move things along. The Joker wasn't the only one who could incite a reaction.
"Are we gonna play or are you gonna talk all night?" Bruce knew he must look every inch the rumpled, lascivious playboy with his legs spread, hair tousled, and handsome face covered in lipstick. Yet he also knew it was his dangerous voice, flashing eyes, and barely contained violence that captured the Joker.
"Oh, we're gonna play, sweetie..." He positioned himself and pushed back. Bruce braced to take his weight, the condom and lube meant for his dates being put to a far more depraved use. Preparations notwithstanding it was, just like everything between them, somewhat of a struggle.
Bruce gripped a firm buttock and flexed his powerful arms to help bring them together. Snug muscles stretched as he worked his way in, inch by torturous inch. The Joker wriggled in his lap, almost throwing them both off balance.
"Stop helping." He shifted and buried himself to the hilt in one feral motion. It had to hurt. He punched the clown in the face, just in case it didn't.
The Joker emitted a low moan and melted into what had to be their favorite position: his head buried in Batman's shoulder, ass stuffed with cock. "Yes, Bats, that's the ticket."
Oh yes, the fiery compression was almost too much. Voltaic anger and desire loosened the darkest parts of him. New Year's mantra long forgotten, Bruce was capable of focusing on one thing: the feeling of delicious completeness and pleasure now spreading throughout his entire body. He lifted the Joker up and wrenched him back down, drawing a grunt and a curse from both of them. He did it again. And again. And again until they gained a somewhat steady rhythm, straining desperately against each other.
"Harder, fuck......harder. I know you've, heh, got it in ya....."
Up. Down. Every charged thrust brought more luscious and wrong satisfaction. This was how Batman was supposed to feel: powerful, unstoppable, dominating. He pounded harder, reveling in the magnified sensations. "Goddammit....yes!"
The Joker snapped his head up, nodding with delight at Bruce's sudden, rare verbalization of lust.
"That's it. Thaaat's it, baby. Just let. it. out." Green eyes bore right into him as they moved in tandem, painted face a mask of earnest intrigue.
From there things corkscrewed out of control very rapidly. Caresses became deep scratching, all semblance of rhythm fell into erratic, frenzied grinding. Someone was bleeding, four short crimson streaks were splotched across Bruce's white dress shirt and exposed chest, a Rorschach test for repressed passions. The Joker was biting at him, stopping only to pant, giggle, or whisper lewd reassurances that made little sense.
"Yes, Bruce, don't cha wanna.....anything...can do it....c'mon, c'mon....just fucking hurt me." The Joker wanted no rules, no limits. Pain was secondary to the pleasure of breaking down Batman's boundaries. Bruce wasn't stupid, he knew the Joker loved dragging them both down to the lowest level. Whether he was just playing a game or trying to make a point the outcome was the same, they both could never walk away, too enthralled by the similarities they saw, too compelled to rail against the differences.
But he wouldn't sink to that level, not tonight. Well, not until after one last punch, which he delivered with great gusto. After connecting with the Joker’s face he dropped his hand to begin massaging the other man’s aching erection. It was sticky, hot, and so perfectly filthy.
Mine. The possessive and disturbing thought was fleeting as he feverishly groped at sinewy shoulders, continuing to thrust into that intense heat. Nothing existed outside of the Joker's lithe body and dripping voice. The Tumbler could have come crashing through the front door, driven by a naked Jonathan Crane, and neither clown nor bat would have noticed.
"Oh Jesus, God!" Almost too far gone, Bruce stuttered out expletives of his own. He was covered in sweat and white paint, sucking in air and letting it out with heaving curses and sighs. So close. Delicious, heightened pressure mounted at the base of his cock, heart slammed in his chest, fingers twitched. Bliss arrived in slow waves for the first few seconds, each being a little more pleasurable and wider-spread than the last. He was a high-speed elevator going up, every muscle stretched taut. One final, reflexive thrust of the hips and he succumbed to the longest, hottest release of his life. The peak lasted through multiple ripples and pulses, electricity radiating throughout his entire body, until it throbbed right between his eyes. Messy, swirling, tight. Fuck.
Words might have tumbled out of his mouth. Whether it was a string of colorful curses or a hasty emotional utterance he couldn't be sure, but would certainly wonder about it later given the lurid smile on the Joker's scarred face. Bruce struggled to catch his breath as he came down, body still trembling. He hadn't had such an intense experience in such a short amount of time since his old mentor R'as al Ghul had "warmed him up" after his unfortunate plunge into a frigid lake.
The Joker was still hard, still stretching for deliverance from razor sharp tension. Bruce could just stop there, muster his last reserves of energy to try to hit his enemy. Cuff him and drag him, rigid and furious, back to Arkham. Easier said than done. He wouldn't, couldn't, just stop. Even as his body unwound from such a forceful orgasm there was still one thing he wanted: to see the Joker come. It was absolutely engrossing and, God help him, completely addicting.
Fortunately, at this point, it also wasn't going to take very long. His hand was still wrapped around a very aroused Joker, movements going on autopilot as he stared at the man right in the eyes, not wanting to back down. Emboldened by his relaxed, post-orgasmic state.
One stroke and the Joker tore away from his gaze to nestle into his shoulder, two and the man was groaning and gripping his neck. By the fifth he was surging and convulsing against Bruce, splattering all over the playboy's naked chest and stomach, whimpering a series of creative permutations on both the name "Bruce" and "Batman". It always seemed so wild and charged, not surprising as everything the Joker did was explosive. He trailed off into broken giggles, finally lifting back up to rest his forehead against Bruce's. It should have been revolting. It wasn't, and that had to be one of the most unsettling parts of the evening.
Almost as unsettling as the fact that he was using his thumb to rub soft, delicate circles into the Joker's left hip. At least they'd still never kissed.
They held the position for a few minutes, recovering in a twisted parody of a lover’s embrace. Each using the opportunity to drink in the other, to satisfy some of their mutual, burning curiosity. Sticky fluid and sweat started to dry, stale air enveloped them. Hopefully Lucius wouldn't need to use his office tomorrow. There was a man worldly enough to know sex when he smelled it.
The Joker broke their reverie first. "Youuu," he gave a shaky chuckle, "You. You. You actually thought you could resist this? What made you think you could possibly do that?"
Bruce was too spent to even lie. Instead he simply ground out, through a wall of clenched teeth, "New Year's resolution."
"New Year's-what? Hmmm, you're kidding me, right? That's the best joke I've heard all day! Oh, Brucey, when are you gonna learn? Listen. Now rules-uh," he interrupted himself with a swipe of the tongue, positively leering. He was eyeing Bruce's lips suspiciously. "Rules were meant to be bro-ken."
And sitting in his armless executive chair, disheveled and sated, detonator parts strewn across his desk, a portrait of Thomas Wayne hanging behind them, Bruce Wayne received from the Joker what was arguably the most genuine smile he had ever seen.
The End
Author: lilac28
Pairing: Batman/Joker
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em, sadly
Notes: This is meant to be a sequel to my previous stories Performance Anxiety and Betrayal at the Ballot. However you don’t need to read those to understand this one. Set post TDK, assumes the Joker knows Batman’s identity.
Lots of talk of hate sex but it’s not very violent or dark. This is just for lulz, of course (well, and porn). Stole a quote from Arkham Asylum ‘cause I just couldn’t help myself. Apologies are also in order to Andrew Marvell.
Warnings: Crack (unapologetically). Sex (fairly graphic). Extreme length (of the, um, story that is).
Word Count: 6,081 (OOPS! How did that happen? I hope that’s not too long for crack!)
Summary: Bruce Wayne makes a New Year’s resolution regarding hate sex and the Joker, but how long will it last?
December 31st
For the last issue of the year, editors at the Gotham Gazette had chosen to print the headline in the largest, most formidable font that would fit on the page.
Four Dead After Joker Escapes Arkham!
Bruce Wayne was reading the morning paper with a calm that belied his growing dread. The Joker was free. It would only be a matter of time before he sought out Batman, and the churning lunacy would begin all over again. As would the steamy, rage-nourished hate sex.
He had tried to stop. Over and over he had tried to ignore his ardent rancor that drove him to violate the other man. He was disgusted with himself, but he just couldn't stop. Every time the clown begged for more he felt compelled to oblige. Every punch, every probing finger, every "this side shy of too hard" stroke....it all ended the same way, with the Joker bleeding and moaning into Bruce's neck.
Illusion or not, it was the only time he felt like he had any control over his ravaged life. At least they'd never kissed.
Alfred came in to clear the dishes. Noticing Bruce’s forlorn expression, he graced the younger man with a small smile of reserved sympathy.
"Not a very good start to the New Year is it, Master Wayne?"
"Alfred, I can't keep doing this. I arrest him and he just escapes to kill again. It's like everything I've done every night since Harvey's death has been completely pointless." He struggled to keep his emotions in check.
Alfred sat down next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder in a gentle, avuncular gesture.
"Master Wayne, things have improved. You'll catch the Joker. You just need to box clever, sir. And don't forget, two weeks ago you apprehended the Riddler."
Bruce tried not to visibly cringe, remembering his recent encounter with the Riddler.......
*Crack!*
Batman's clenched fist made a sickening sound against the Riddler's skull. He threw another punch, furious that the criminal had dared to devise yet another death trap for him. The trap had been clever, brilliant even, but the Riddler's compulsive flaws were once again his downfall. He had wasted so much time talking that Batman had been able to escape and catch him.
"Did you really think it was going to work? That you would escape justice?" Bubbling, bloody laughter was the only response. He picked the Riddler up and threw him against the outside of the Tumbler, looming over him like a specter. "Did you think I wouldn't stop you?"
Another punch. Batman was hard in the suit.
This was why he still went out every night even as a wanted man. To stop criminals. To stop madness. To bring a sense of order and decency to a hopeless world. Not to chase around a psychotic freak like the Joker and certainly not to engage in fantastic, abhorrent sex with aforementioned freak.
Sex that was over, that he swore he did not miss. Who needed the Joker anyway? He didn't need the Joker's presence to justify his actions. Didn't need scarred lips and heated, desperate grinding set off by hatred and insanity. He snapped a spinning kick to the Riddler's ribs.
That sick bastard acted like he was the singular bad guy in Gotham. Sure the battered man beneath him lacked the panache and tight ass of the Joker, but criminals were all the same. This one was even wearing green and laughing!
"S-stop," the Riddler whimpered.
Oh, wait. He wasn't laughing. He was crying.
"Please...please stop hitting me," he blubbered.
Batman shamefully lowered his fists. His erection withered faster than a tender shoot of grass in a July drought.
"I'm taking you back to Arkham." His tone was gruff, heart not really in it.
"Fine! Great! Let's go!" The Riddler practically threw himself into the small space of the Tumbler.
It was the most silent and awkward ride to Arkham that Batman had ever taken. When they arrived, the Riddler couldn't get away from him fast enough. They strode boldly through the front entrance, after which his captive scampered towards the shocked guards and orderlies.
"What's tall and dark and has misplaced aggression issues?" He huddled against one of the men, fearful eyes as wide as dinner plates.
The vigilante wasted no time in making an exit, fighting the urge to knock out the guards and sneak down to the maximum-security level where he knew they were keeping the Joker......
It had been his least satisfying night as Batman. Bruce cringed again, thinking of Rachel and Harvey. Okay, maybe his second least satisfying night.
Alfred removed his hand from Bruce's well-tailored suit jacket, but a lingering smell of cigarette smoke remained. His loyal butler had started smoking soon after Rachel's death. A habit, he claimed, that he had not indulged in since his time in Burma.
"Still smoking, Alfred?" He knew he was in no place to judge, but he hated that Alfred had started smoking.
"Not anymore, sir. Had the last one earlier this morning. I suppose I won't be needing this." He stood up and crossed the kitchen to throw an empty cigarette package in the trash, the movement smooth and nonchalant as anything he ever did. Standing with his back straight and face composed, Alfred appeared a paragon of stoicism. Bruce felt his spirits lift a little.
"Do you have any New Year's resolutions, Master Wayne? Any bad habits you'd like to break?"
"Too many to list, Alfred." His countenance was playful but inside Bruce Wayne was nervous as he repeated his resolution: I will not have hate sex with the Joker. I will not have hate sex with the Joker......
January 6th
It wasn't long before his resolve was tested. Things were quiet for about a week. A few foiled muggings and robberies were the only events to keep Batman busy. It was almost as if what remained of the criminal underworld had gone into hiding after the news of the Joker's escape. He hated it. The suspense was almost unbearable. Night after night he searched for the Joker, simultaneously wanting to find him and dreading the encounter.
Thus when an anonymous letter arrived at the penthouse that morning, he opened it with great apprehension. It contained two unmarked joker cards and one small piece of paper decorated in red block lettering.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
our sickness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Severed cleanly, cut by knife.
Toepfer Jewelers, 2 AM, come alone or someone could get hurt!
At 1:30 he revved up the Batpod and proceeded to the jeweler's. A cursory examination of the building revealed no skylights to burst through so he would have to make a more subtle entrance, like driving straight through the front door. He would be able to surprise the Joker and whatever clowns he had working for him, hopefully subduing them all before the police arrived.
He could do this. He had to. Batman was the lone force capable of stopping the Joker, the only one strong enough to stand against the maelstrom.
The Batpod tore into the building, a cyclone of broken glass and sleek metal. He immediately knocked out two clowns and was almost hit when a third tried to fire off a few rounds at him. The man didn't even have time to reload before the Joker sprang up from behind a display case and plunged a knife into his throat.
"I told you, no shooting at him."
The man fell lifeless onto the marble tiled floor. A dismissive gesture from their green-haired boss and the rest of the clowns rushed to escape. Batman allowed it. There was just one man in this crew worth capturing.
"Bat-man, what a pleasure!" the Joker drew out every syllable while twirling his chain watch in a theatrical arc. "Did you miss me? I missed you so much I had to, uh, check myself out of Arkham just to visit." He was quivering. Unchecked energy seemed to irradiate the room.
Batman wouldn't give him the satisfaction of appearing rattled. He adopted his most menacing voice. "What are you doing here?"
A lick of red lips and a sly smile accompanied the response. "Waiting for you, Bruce. I was hoping we could play a game-"
Bruce lunged for him, grabbed a fistful of his vest, and hoisted him onto a metal-framed display case in the corner. The Joker's back was slammed into the wall, his form illuminated only by security lights and rainbows from the glittering diamonds around them. He didn’t seem the least bit intimidated by the glowering phantom seething over him.
"You think this is a game?!" The vigilante was incensed. "You killed four people when you escaped!" Cold rage uncoiled within him. He punched the Joker in the ribs, unable to contain himself.
"You're a sick, murdering fiend! I'm taking you back to Arkham and suggesting solitary confinement where you can't hurt any....any-"
He trailed off, suddenly aware of their compromising positions. The Joker was propped up against the wall, legs splayed and hanging off the display case to either side of Bruce's torso. His makeup was smeared everywhere, sliding colors making him appear chaos personified. Yet in the middle of the anarchic portrait that was his face sat a pair of shrewd, devious green eyes. Eyes that pierced right into him, read his every fear. Eyes that knew.
Eyes that traveled down his body, directing Bruce's gaze to his crotch, to the visible bulge in his purple pants. The Joker was obviously hard. Bruce gritted his teeth as he felt his own body stir in response. He didn't know which one of them he hated more.
For a few excruciating seconds nothing moved. He was frozen, torn between the desire to strangle and the desire to touch. I will not have hate sex with the Joker.
The Joker wrapped his legs around Bruce's waist, pulling him closer until their lower halves were almost flush together. Breathless giggling began anew.
"You wanna do it, youwannadoit. C'mon, Batsy, don't deny your true natuuure...."
After months of fighting the Joker, Bruce had managed to refine his response to such statements down to a monosyllabic art form.
"I'm not like you," he growled, grabbing at the Joker's erection through his pants for emphasis.
The movement elicited whooping laughter. "Oh yeah, you're nothing like me! Ha ha, look at you go! You w-want-oh.."
He stuttered, speech dissolving into a desperate grunt when Bruce started to move his wrist. Thin layers of fabric and kevlar were all that separated them as he squeezed. It would be so easy to just tear off his gloves, reach in, and rub the Joker with his bare hand. To see all of Batman's famed resolve crumble not with a bang but with a whimper, a pained whimper of longing from his worst enemy.
"Lemme give you some help with that," the Joker fumbled to unbutton his pants, perhaps sensing Bruce's hesitation.
Bruce could have stopped him but didn't, letting the other man unclip his suspenders and wriggle his pants down to his knees. And, oh God, he shouldn't want to look but he did, unable to fight the irresistible pull of seeing his nemesis so aroused, such a human, needy state. Suspicions confirmed. The Joker's cock was practically dripping.
In fact, given the Joker's proclivity towards premature ejaculation where all things Batman were concerned, he was surprised the clown hadn't come already.
They were both breathing heavy. Beads of moisture formed everywhere as the grating tension between them was pushed to the brink. A drop of sweat slipped through the mask and ran down his chin, giving away how much Batman wanted to touch. Grab. Pummel. Put the world and his sanity back together with naked hands.
The Joker's eyes rolled. "Do it. Do it as hard as you need to. As hard as you wanted to do it to her, if she ever woulda letcha! Heh heh heh...."
Fury twisted Bruce's stomach. "Don't you fucking mention her."
Although tempted to punch or inflict some form of violence, he fought the urges in a demand to gain true authority. Something one of the doctors at Arkham said came back to him: unlike you and I, the Joker seems to have no control over the sensory information he's receiving from the outside world. Violence never broke the man. He was going to need to send him into sensory overload. Without another thought, he snapped the Joker's chain watch from his clothes.
Eyes wide, the Joker watched as Bruce snaked the chain through his pubic hair, around his balls, and fastened the clasp to one of the metal links near the top of his shaft. The actual watch was resting on his pale thigh, throwing broken patterns of light across their bodies. Bruce secured the chain at what he deemed "just snug enough", effectively binding the other man's genitals. A makeshift cock ring.
The Joker seemed too shocked to even giggle. Now they were getting somewhere. "Oh, oh, oh, now you're talkin'. Brucey, I'm so proud of you!"
A voice inside screamed at him to stop, something about hate sex and New Year's. Bruce couldn't stop, too thrilled with his newfound power. The sight was captivating. The Joker's pubic hair was perhaps the one nondescript thing about him, simple dirty blond curled around the polished watch chain. His erection had already started to darken, a raised vein underneath now even more prominent. Shattered and trembling, he was one of the most erotic and sensually disgusting sights Bruce had ever seen.
The Joker gave a plaintive cry when a gloved hand curled around him and administered a series of slow, agonizing strokes. Bruce's breath caught in response to the sound, heart thundering like an entire cavalry was in his chest. He palmed the stiff flesh, stopped briefly, and began the rhythm over again. And finally Batman was able to employ a skill that he had learned not through the pain of loss or from his training in Bhutan, but by simply being "Bruce Wayne, playboy": the ability to tease.
"That's it, Brucey, baby, that's my good bat....."
"What are you doing here?" God, he could feel his gloves starting to get damp. He was hard in the suit again.
"Sh-shopping for the perfect-oh yes, that's it!-the perfect gift for you, lover. Unhh..."
It had to be something about the kevlar. Bruce relished the Joker’s increased sensitivity, rolling the man’s sac in his free hand. He moved higher, continuing his strokes while rubbing circles over the top, a move he knew drove the Joker wild.
"What are you doing here!?!?"
"HEIST," he wailed in a cracking voice, "h-heist...mob owned......money....gonna, gonna use it....oh fuck.....to, uh, create mayhem and b-bedlam....more just like that...."
He should stop. Just one more minute, a few more strokes. Then he would stop. Stop before he pulled out his own throbbing erection and pounded the Joker until things made sense again, or until he ceased caring that they didn't. Bruce was sweating, damp hair plastered to his forehead, his chest heaving in the suit. It was just so addicting to see the Joker in such a dire condition, a man after all. Funny how in order to bring humanity to the Joker, he had to lose some of his own.
The clown was getting closer, speech now just nonsensical mumblings. Every fondling motion was responded to with an involuntary thrust, scarred body helpless against the meticulous onslaught.
"Yes...Bruce...mpf-complete...please...gonna...I'm gonna...."
All internal arguments skipped off Bruce’s psyche as just meaningless chatter. He knew they were there, heart clenching in shame at their whisperings. They had no power against his desire to have the Joker screaming for him, his prurience to watch thick bursts spray all over that stupid purple suit. His conscience scrambled for an out, body and mind too caught up in the twisted exchange between need and release.
"Oh God, Bruce, Batsy, gonna go off just like that fuckin' bomb......"
And there it was, something to cut through the haze. Bomb?
"What?" Bruce growled, his hands freezing.
"Wh-what?" the Joker replied, dazed.
"What did you just say?"
"I don't know! I'm just babbling, don't stop! Heh, we're just gettin' to the good stuff."
He released the Joker's heavy erection and grasped his throat, knocking his head into the wall.
"You said bomb..." What was he doing? He had a duty. He had to stop the Joker.
"I'm just talking dirty! I think you've gone craaazier than me. This is too paranoid even for you, sweetie." He was wheezing from the pressure on his neck.
"You said 'that bomb'. You were referring to a specific bomb!" The Batman voice was back in full force.
The Joker managed to dislodge Bruce's hands, swiping at him with long fingernails. Desire mutated into manic, frustrated fury. "BATMAN! There is NO BOMB!"
"Listen to me," Bruce used his superior strength and weight to pin the Joker to the wall, "I'm not gonna let you win, you ugly freak. There's still good in this city, you don't have the power to tear that apart! Now where's the bomb?" He could redeem himself, uphold the symbol, be the dark anti-hero Gotham needed.
The painted face was laughing at him, slimy teeth gnashing with ire. The Joker didn't respond, all rage and rabid radioactivity put towards trying to struggle free. Bruce held fast, delivering a hard blow to his cheek. The straining, trussed up erection was almost forgotten between them. Finally he stopped struggling and regarded his captor with a bemused expression. Bruce could almost hear his mind whirring.
"Fine. You wanna play? I'll play. Listen, I'm gonna tell you where it is, try not to sc-rew it up this time. It's at fifteen High Street but you'd better hurry. I left some hostages to keep it company. Time, or should I say timers, wait for no one! Ha ha ha....."
That was all he needed to hear. Bruce pulled up the Joker’s pants and cuffed both hands around a pillar near the display case before racing to the Tumbler. He placed the call to Gordon, ignoring the cackling screech behind him.
Later that evening Bruce sat brooding in the penthouse, mask forgotten in his lap. There had been no bomb, no hostages. Just a group of firefighters who were very unhappy to see Gotham's most wanted vigilante burst into their station at fifteen High Street. Not quite as unhappy as a disappointed, hand wringing Gordon who reported to Batman later in the evening that the Joker had escaped before his men could bring him in.
Perhaps it was just as well this time. He later realized that, in his haste to leave, he had left the watch chain wrapped around the Joker's genitals. That would have been quite a surprise for whoever frisked him. How would he have explained THAT to Gordon?
Upon further reflection he also had to admit that maybe it was possible the psycho was just talking dirty. Who else but the Joker would mention explosives during foreplay?
He had almost failed, almost given in to the hate sex. It looked like he was in for another night of self-loathing fueled masturbation. What the hell was wrong with him? I knew I should have experimented more at Princeton.
Alfred entered the room in a pair of stately blue pajamas. It was 5 AM, he must have been waiting for Bruce to come home. The playboy looked at him with broken eyes, not even able to muster a fake smile.
"I didn't box so clever, Alfred."
"No? Dare I ask what happened?"
"He tricked me." Bruce hoped the response sounded genuine.
"He's not the enigma he once was. The more you understand him, the better you'll get at predicting his next moves."
He thought this over. "You're right. Maybe there's something I missed in his latest Arkham files...."
Of course Alfred saw where this was heading, another night of futile research and little sleep for Bruce Wayne. He gingerly took the mask and guided Bruce towards his bedroom.
"The Joker will keep, sir. You need to rest. Don't forget, you have a date tomorrow with two upstanding young ladies." The comment was delivered in Alfred’s typical satirical manner.
"Oh yeah, the models." Bruce resented these fake dates as they bit into his precious "Batman Time".
"You wouldn't want to disappoint them, sir."
"Certainly not. By the way, how's the not smoking coming?"
"Just fine. The gum does make the cravings more manageable."
The butler stood calm and collected, a bastion of sanity in a world out of control. Bruce's only real family, and one of his few true friends. If Alfred could continue to resist addiction, so could he. Mood slightly bolstered, he collapsed on his bed. Tomorrow he would do better. Go on his date, play dress up as Bruce Wayne, make love to two beautiful women, and leave like a cad in the middle of the night in order to become Batman. He would get all the thrills he needed from bringing criminals to justice.
I will not have hate sex with the Joker....
January 7th
Slightly refreshed after a little sleep, Bruce decided to view the next day as a meditation exercise. Calling upon all his training and discipline, he spent the day trying to center himself. Mindful meditation and breathing drills carried him through a set of boring meetings. A vigorous workout left him grounded and feeling strong before dinner.
He ferried the two beautiful women around Gotham like the preening, vapid asshole everyone assumed he was. By the time he ushered his dates from an art gallery back into his sports car, the famed "Bruce Wayne Confidence" was in full swing.
He could do this. As one of the richest and most powerful men in the world, resisting a psychopath would be easy when he was in touch with his true dominance. It wouldn't even matter if he ran into the Joker later anyway, he was planning on being so sexually spent from screwing the two gorgeous women that he wouldn't be feeling libidinous again for at least a week.
The two models were tangled up together in the front seat next to him, giggling at some private joke. They kissed with an ardor that was almost too soft, all perfect hair and artfully applied makeup. Tiffany and.....Melinda? Matilda? It didn't matter. He was going to take them home and fuck them senseless. Just like he should want to do. Just like a maladjusted, heterosexual vigilante would do.
He was just going to have to remember not to get carried away and punch anybody.
Bruce drove into the private entrance at the bottom of the penthouse and pulled into his parking space. Stepping out with stalwart assurance, he graciously opened the door for the two ladies. There was more giggling and some insipid comments about his being a gentleman. He flashed them a vacuous grin. For the next few hours he was resolved not to think about the Joker, the clown's hold on him broken by his newfound aplomb.
Bruce's heart didn't even sink when his private cell phone rang, the one for which few people had the number.
"Hello?" He walked a few steps in front of his dates, beckoning them to keep following as they exited the parking garage and made their way to the front entrance of the building.
"You know," a nasal voice jangled in his ear, "you're not supposed to, ah, leave a cock ring on for more than twenty minutes. You could do permanent damage."
The Joker’s sense of timing was consummate, as always. Unfortunately for him, tonight Bruce Wayne was prepared for temptation. He kept his voice level, not wanting to alert the women behind him that anything was wrong.
"I know you like to live dangerously. Why don't you tell me where you are? I can pick you up and drive you to our favorite.....facility." The perverted fuck was going back to Arkham tonight.
The Joker ignored the question. A cluck of disapproval could be heard on the line. "Your father looks sooo serious. No fun at all. That's probably why you can't take a joke. I'll bet he never hit ya, though! Now my father-"
"Shut up!" Despite all intentions of restraint, Bruce could feel his insides plummet at the mention of his father. "What the hell do you want from me?" His voice dropped a full octave, his dates looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
"I want you to come see the ama-zing thing I'm building at your desk. Really, Brucey, for such a successful company I would think you could hire some better security!"
Jesus Christ. The fiend must be at Wayne Enterprises. No doubt in his office, sitting at his executive desk looking at the picture of his father.
He would call Gordon. Tell him a threat had been called in to Wayne Enterprises. He wouldn't go down there and play into the Joker's hands. Nothing had changed.
The trio rounded the corner and approached the main entrance. There in front of the dignified gold-trimmed double doors stood Alfred. The butler met Bruce's eyes with an expression of muted shock. Only someone who knew him very well could tell that Alfred was tense. His shoulders were hunched over, cigarette in his hand, lips pursed tighter than normal. He stared at Bruce with a guilty expression, like a child caught doing something naughty.
Cigarette in his hand.
The phone fell from Bruce's fingers. "Alfred," he cried, "what are you doing?"
"Master Wayne," Alfred wasted no time in recovering to his staid, wry self. "You're home early, sir. I wasn't expecting you for a few more hours."
"I-I thought you quit. I thought you said it was easy!"
Alfred gave a gentle sigh. "Turns out it was a little more difficult than I expected."
"But....I was counting on you."
"Bruce," Alfred granted a rare use of his first name, completely misinterpreting the playboy's concern, "you can always count on me. I plan on being around for a long time to help you. This is just one moment of weakness."
Bruce continued to stare, a confounded look on his face.
"Anyway," the ironic twinkle was back in the butler's eye, "there's bound to be a few relapses on the road to recovery, sir."
Bruce blinked, digesting the words while ignoring the gawking of his dates and the voice still jabbering from the phone on the ground.
"After all I.....sir? Master Wayne?"
He was speaking to the playboy's retreating back. Bruce Wayne had turned on his heels and without a word marched away like a man on a mission, leaving behind two befuddled models and one very confused butler.
January 7th, 26 minutes later, Wayne Enterprises
"Wait....hold on, I...OW!"
"What's the problem? I thought you liked pain."
"I do! But this just isn't working. You need to move, ah...that way."
"Well, here, put your leg over there and-"
"No, no, no. Lemme do it..."
Bruce was shoved roughly into the narrow chair in his office, barely having time to readjust before his nemesis oozed into his lap. They were both naked from the waist down, upper bodies still clothed in custom shirts.
Things had become a blur after he had burst into the room. With any luck he had remembered to lock the door.
The Joker's haptic fingers were everywhere. Twisting through brown hair, scrabbling along steely arms, and tracing a smooth face with jerky motions that gave no indication of his true calculating nature. He fumbled with Bruce's tie, soon giving in to frustration and slicing it apart with a blade produced seemingly out of nowhere. One step behind him, Bruce seized his wrist with an iron grip, grabbing at the weapon and tossing it aside.
"No knives."
For once the Joker acquiesced without a word, ripping the other man's shirt open and pawing at the prize beneath. Something he'd never seen or touched before, despite their multiple, frantic couplings. Something always obscured by the suit: Bruce's bare chest. He gave a snicker and a smile at the sight of tensed muscles, approval on his face evident even through all the makeup.
"Bruce-y," he sighed. Any moment now he was going to start in with the obnoxiously insightful comments about the predetermined nature of their relationship. Time to move things along. The Joker wasn't the only one who could incite a reaction.
"Are we gonna play or are you gonna talk all night?" Bruce knew he must look every inch the rumpled, lascivious playboy with his legs spread, hair tousled, and handsome face covered in lipstick. Yet he also knew it was his dangerous voice, flashing eyes, and barely contained violence that captured the Joker.
"Oh, we're gonna play, sweetie..." He positioned himself and pushed back. Bruce braced to take his weight, the condom and lube meant for his dates being put to a far more depraved use. Preparations notwithstanding it was, just like everything between them, somewhat of a struggle.
Bruce gripped a firm buttock and flexed his powerful arms to help bring them together. Snug muscles stretched as he worked his way in, inch by torturous inch. The Joker wriggled in his lap, almost throwing them both off balance.
"Stop helping." He shifted and buried himself to the hilt in one feral motion. It had to hurt. He punched the clown in the face, just in case it didn't.
The Joker emitted a low moan and melted into what had to be their favorite position: his head buried in Batman's shoulder, ass stuffed with cock. "Yes, Bats, that's the ticket."
Oh yes, the fiery compression was almost too much. Voltaic anger and desire loosened the darkest parts of him. New Year's mantra long forgotten, Bruce was capable of focusing on one thing: the feeling of delicious completeness and pleasure now spreading throughout his entire body. He lifted the Joker up and wrenched him back down, drawing a grunt and a curse from both of them. He did it again. And again. And again until they gained a somewhat steady rhythm, straining desperately against each other.
"Harder, fuck......harder. I know you've, heh, got it in ya....."
Up. Down. Every charged thrust brought more luscious and wrong satisfaction. This was how Batman was supposed to feel: powerful, unstoppable, dominating. He pounded harder, reveling in the magnified sensations. "Goddammit....yes!"
The Joker snapped his head up, nodding with delight at Bruce's sudden, rare verbalization of lust.
"That's it. Thaaat's it, baby. Just let. it. out." Green eyes bore right into him as they moved in tandem, painted face a mask of earnest intrigue.
From there things corkscrewed out of control very rapidly. Caresses became deep scratching, all semblance of rhythm fell into erratic, frenzied grinding. Someone was bleeding, four short crimson streaks were splotched across Bruce's white dress shirt and exposed chest, a Rorschach test for repressed passions. The Joker was biting at him, stopping only to pant, giggle, or whisper lewd reassurances that made little sense.
"Yes, Bruce, don't cha wanna.....anything...can do it....c'mon, c'mon....just fucking hurt me." The Joker wanted no rules, no limits. Pain was secondary to the pleasure of breaking down Batman's boundaries. Bruce wasn't stupid, he knew the Joker loved dragging them both down to the lowest level. Whether he was just playing a game or trying to make a point the outcome was the same, they both could never walk away, too enthralled by the similarities they saw, too compelled to rail against the differences.
But he wouldn't sink to that level, not tonight. Well, not until after one last punch, which he delivered with great gusto. After connecting with the Joker’s face he dropped his hand to begin massaging the other man’s aching erection. It was sticky, hot, and so perfectly filthy.
Mine. The possessive and disturbing thought was fleeting as he feverishly groped at sinewy shoulders, continuing to thrust into that intense heat. Nothing existed outside of the Joker's lithe body and dripping voice. The Tumbler could have come crashing through the front door, driven by a naked Jonathan Crane, and neither clown nor bat would have noticed.
"Oh Jesus, God!" Almost too far gone, Bruce stuttered out expletives of his own. He was covered in sweat and white paint, sucking in air and letting it out with heaving curses and sighs. So close. Delicious, heightened pressure mounted at the base of his cock, heart slammed in his chest, fingers twitched. Bliss arrived in slow waves for the first few seconds, each being a little more pleasurable and wider-spread than the last. He was a high-speed elevator going up, every muscle stretched taut. One final, reflexive thrust of the hips and he succumbed to the longest, hottest release of his life. The peak lasted through multiple ripples and pulses, electricity radiating throughout his entire body, until it throbbed right between his eyes. Messy, swirling, tight. Fuck.
Words might have tumbled out of his mouth. Whether it was a string of colorful curses or a hasty emotional utterance he couldn't be sure, but would certainly wonder about it later given the lurid smile on the Joker's scarred face. Bruce struggled to catch his breath as he came down, body still trembling. He hadn't had such an intense experience in such a short amount of time since his old mentor R'as al Ghul had "warmed him up" after his unfortunate plunge into a frigid lake.
The Joker was still hard, still stretching for deliverance from razor sharp tension. Bruce could just stop there, muster his last reserves of energy to try to hit his enemy. Cuff him and drag him, rigid and furious, back to Arkham. Easier said than done. He wouldn't, couldn't, just stop. Even as his body unwound from such a forceful orgasm there was still one thing he wanted: to see the Joker come. It was absolutely engrossing and, God help him, completely addicting.
Fortunately, at this point, it also wasn't going to take very long. His hand was still wrapped around a very aroused Joker, movements going on autopilot as he stared at the man right in the eyes, not wanting to back down. Emboldened by his relaxed, post-orgasmic state.
One stroke and the Joker tore away from his gaze to nestle into his shoulder, two and the man was groaning and gripping his neck. By the fifth he was surging and convulsing against Bruce, splattering all over the playboy's naked chest and stomach, whimpering a series of creative permutations on both the name "Bruce" and "Batman". It always seemed so wild and charged, not surprising as everything the Joker did was explosive. He trailed off into broken giggles, finally lifting back up to rest his forehead against Bruce's. It should have been revolting. It wasn't, and that had to be one of the most unsettling parts of the evening.
Almost as unsettling as the fact that he was using his thumb to rub soft, delicate circles into the Joker's left hip. At least they'd still never kissed.
They held the position for a few minutes, recovering in a twisted parody of a lover’s embrace. Each using the opportunity to drink in the other, to satisfy some of their mutual, burning curiosity. Sticky fluid and sweat started to dry, stale air enveloped them. Hopefully Lucius wouldn't need to use his office tomorrow. There was a man worldly enough to know sex when he smelled it.
The Joker broke their reverie first. "Youuu," he gave a shaky chuckle, "You. You. You actually thought you could resist this? What made you think you could possibly do that?"
Bruce was too spent to even lie. Instead he simply ground out, through a wall of clenched teeth, "New Year's resolution."
"New Year's-what? Hmmm, you're kidding me, right? That's the best joke I've heard all day! Oh, Brucey, when are you gonna learn? Listen. Now rules-uh," he interrupted himself with a swipe of the tongue, positively leering. He was eyeing Bruce's lips suspiciously. "Rules were meant to be bro-ken."
And sitting in his armless executive chair, disheveled and sated, detonator parts strewn across his desk, a portrait of Thomas Wayne hanging behind them, Bruce Wayne received from the Joker what was arguably the most genuine smile he had ever seen.
The End