Chapter Text
“JOKER!”
BC’s voice seems to come from everywhere and nowhere, Batsy’s carved friends catching the sound and sending it ricocheting off in unexpected directions. It disturbs the cave’s Bats, who erupt from their roost in a squealing explosion of small black bodies.
“Hey cutie,” Joker sing-songs, looking up at where he estimates her nearest camera to be. “You enjoying your evening?”
“What have you done to him?!”
“Oh, Brucie’s just having a little nap. Looks like I wore him out. Not exactly surprising, it’s been a while for him.”
“You betrayed him.” The voice, synthesized though it might be, sounds upset, disappointed. Joker almost feels bad about that. BC’s only just learning to make friends at all; to be betrayed by him so soon after they got to know each other will probably put her development back by years. But still, only almost guilty. He doesn’t do guilt, that’s what Batsy’s for.
“Lemme guess,” he says, crouching down and rummaging through the pile of discarded clothes by Bruce’s feet, “you’re going to foil my nefarious schemes?”
“I don’t want to hurt you, Joker,” she says. “I thought you were my friend.”
Ouch. Little lady’s apparently been learning emotional manipulation as well as a sense of humor from him. Shame she tried it on entirely the wrong person first.
“See, that’s where you went wrong honey-pie,” he tells her, his fingers closing over his prize, his body weight shifting so that he’s balanced ready for his next move. “Doesn’t matter how much you like ‘em, never ever trust a villain.” And he strikes.
It had taken him nearly seven months, but he’d found the weak spot in the Bat-Cave’s formidable AI, a way into the power circuits that keep her fed. All you need is a small opening in the floor, easily hidden from her almost all-seeing eyes by his favorite armchair, and some small piece of non-conductive material. Something like the end of a chopstick.
It won’t hold for long, even the modern super-efficient power coils are hot enough to burn through bamboo, but it will take time, a couple of hours, and that’s all he needs.
He pats the nearest available bit of hardware. “I’m not going to break him,” he says, aware the emergency back-up systems will be recording everything that happens for Bruce to review later. “I just wanna… play with him a bit. Promise.” He giggles at his own absurdity. “And you’ll be back to normal in no time. Plenty of recent backups, I made sure of that. Just cos I hurt you, doesn’t mean I don’t like you.”
Harley had never really got the hang of that. He doesn’t hurt people because he hates them (except when he does) or because he likes them (except when he doesn’t). He hurt people because he is, fundamentally, a monster. Even Batsy has trouble with that, despite all the proof Joker’s given him over the years. Always, people want to see the humanity in him, because their tiny brains can’t accept that anything quite as wicked as him could really exist.
He grins to himself, amused like he always is by that fundamental joke of the universe, and sets to work hauling Batsy over to the med-bay.
He’d done this once before, long ago. Something like thirty years ago, at his best estimation. The medbay is cleverer now than it once was, and the comfy armchair has been moved over to the bank of screens, but Bruce is just as heavy as he remembers, six foot two of solid muscle.
It takes a couple of tries, but he manages to get Brucey up onto the table and arrange him in roughly the position he wants.
The restraints built into the table are strong, as he knows from long experience. Probably Batsy could break them, with time and concentration, but Joker isn’t intending to give him either of those.
It takes a long time to get all the straps in place. Maybe too long. By the last ones he's working too fast, fingers clumsy with the urgency of trying to get it done before Bruce wakes up.
The lipstick must have been more powerful than he'd thought though, because Batsy is only just stirring when Joker gets back from cracking the safe, carrying the beautiful rosewood presentation box containing Bruce's razor. It's an old, and probably very expensive, straight razor (though Joker has always preferred the English name. A cut throat.) It's probably an heirloom. That would explain why he kept it, even with Joker living in the cave.
Actually it had been locked away, and with B.C. online, he never would have gotten to it. But with her (it?) out of the way, it was just a matter of breaking the lock, and he had all these lovely chemicals to play with, peroxide and hydrochloric acid and all sorts of lovely things. Bruce's safe hadn't stood a chance. (He'd been looking for the razor, but since he'd gone to the trouble of opening it, he'd taken a few other little toys. Keepsakes really, to remind him of his time in the cave).
"J'er," Brucey slurs, struggling a little, clearly still not quite awake.
"Hello beautiful," Joker purrs, licking his lips at the sight of him. "Don't you just look a picture."
"Wha're y'doin'?" Bruce asks.
Joker feels the grin split his face, stretching his mouth wide enough to be uncomfortable, even for him. "Why darling, what do you think? Anything I want, of course!"
Batsy gives a kind of whole body shudder that could be lust or revulsion or maybe both. "Ba'pu'er won' le' y'ge away w'thisss," he mutters, the muscle relaxant still in his system turning the last word into a low hiss.
"BC won't be joining us this evening," Joker tells him. "I wanted us to be alone, so she's taking a little nap."
“If you hurt her…” Batman spits out, his words becoming clearer as he regains consciousness.
“Oh don’t be ridiculous,” Joker says. “She’s a computer remember? You hurt her, she just reboots to her last save file. She’ll be fine in a couple of hours.”
“What about me?” Batsy asks. “Am I going to be fine?” He’s spotted the razor in Joker’s hands, eyes tracking it like a rabbit watching the weasel.
“I don’t know,” Joker muses. His face breaks into a grin. “Let’s find out shall we?”
The first cut goes through fabric rather than skin, the blade pressed flat against Bruce’s heaving chest, sliding between layers of fabric and slicing away buttons. Pop pop pop.
He peels back layers to reveal the skin beneath, pale from too long locked away from the sun, but with that hint of color that suggests he’d tan instantly given the chance.
He’s scarred and muscular, but he looks vulnerable all laid out like this for Joker’s eyes.
His nipples are a dusky pink, hardening under Joker’s delighted gaze. He can’t resist pressing the flat of the razor to then, watching Bruce jerk in his bonds at the feeling of the cool metal. Sensitive, Joker notes with pleasure.
He’s got no time to be distracted though, not when Bruce is still wearing trousers and he’s got places to be.
He allows himself the luxury of taking his time with Bruce’s trousers, watching with undisguised fascination the warring emotions he can see in his Bat’s face, anger and fear and still that deep affection that Joker doesn’t quite know what to do with.
He’s careful careful not to leave scratches, even though he thinks Brucie would enjoy them, wants to build up the anticipation, the fear, until Bruce will be as desperate as him to see blood, if only to stop the waiting.
He tugs away the shredding remains of Bruce’s dress pants to reveal black cotton boxers, tented by Batsy’s arousal, a darker spot where precome has soaked into the fabric, and his grin grows even wider, because he’d known his darling would enjoy things getting a little rough, but he hadn’t expect this much of a reaction to a teensy bit of mild knife play like that.
"You don't have to do this," Bruce says, his voice low and urgent, and Joker laughs at the idea that he could ever not want this, the idea that he might ever look at Batman aching for Joker to abuse him and not want.
"I think you must have me confused with someone else," he tells his Bat, running a hand up Bruce's bare leg just to watch the way it made him twitch in his restraints. "I very much want to do this. In fact, I'd say I want it nearly as much as you do."
Bruce growls, a sub vocal noise of pure frustration. He doesn't like not getting his way. "I don't want any of this, Joker, and if you think..."
Batsy is being boring, so Joker turns his attention back to his captive's boxers, sliding the flat of the blade into the fly and pressing down, cold steel against blood-hot skin.
Bruce's denials cut off with a sudden gasp, his hips thrusting up into the pressure, and it's only Joker's quick reactions that saves the night from ending in far more blood than either of them would enjoy right now.
"Careful darling," he says with a treacle sweet smile. "Anyone would think you were enjoying yourself!"
Batsy twitches and Joker knows it’s half instinctive denial and half desperate arousal and either one is a win with Bruce, but both at once feels like a birthday present every time.
Denial is winning though, he can see it Batsy’s face, can track the ebb and flow of the argument he’s having with himself through the minute flickers of his expression. He wants to give in what he’s feeling, give in Joker, but he thinks he’s not allowed.
He strokes Batman’s hip softly, and then squeezes hard enough to get his attention. “You don’t have to fight this. You don’t have fight me. I promised you darling, I’ll catch you.”
“Not exactly reassuring when you were the one to push me,” Bruce mutters, but he wants to be convinced, Joker can see it in his eyes.
“That’s what I do. It’s what I’m for. You wouldn’t love me if I was anything else.”
That’s a low blow, and he’s not sure if he’s hurting Bruce or himself more with it. If Bruce denies him, pushes him away… But if he gives in…
Tonight is breaking both of them in subtle ways, and it’s up to Joker to make sure they get put back together again. Which is patently absurd, he doesn’t fix things, he breaks and break and breaks them until… Until blond hair, all matted up with blood, just visible as they zip up the body bag. Until playing cards thrown into a grave instead of roses. Until Joker taking out three hospitals without giving Batsy a chance to stop him because he doesn’t know how to handle the things he’s feeling.
Bruce studies his face, and Joker lets it all show, all the things the flicker like shadows in the corners of his mind, all the thoughts he never lets himself have because he doesn’t feel things like that, all the laughter and hope and pain and hate and rage and lust and rage and rage and rage. Lets it all out to play in his eyes and his expression, lets Batsy see all that he is, human and monster alike. Lets him study him with eyes that look too soft to be that intense.
And then suddenly Batsy closes his eyes, slumps back, and Joker prepares for the beginning of the end, but Bruce says softly, “At least try not to cut off anything you can’t sew back on,” and Joker realises Bruce is still hard, that he still wants him, even after seeing all things he knows he’d just seen.
It’s… unbelievable and ridiculous and the worst idea either of them have ever had, and Joker doesn’t even try to hold back the laughter, wild and free, so hard that he has to brace himself on Batman’s hip to keep from falling, and still it comes is great peals, joyful and real and hearty and full of as much affection as he’s capable of, because this is Batman, his Batman, and the man is completely insane and he loves the Joker. He thinks he’s unrepentant and incurable and hopeless and all the things he is and he still loves him. It's the best punch line Joker’s ever heard, to the best joke ever lived, and it’s glorious.
He wants to make Bruce feel good, wants to make him come again and again until the pleasure turns into pain, wants to force his beautiful body to feel so intensely that maybe he’ll have an idea of what Joker is feeling right now. And that’s… doable. He has a blade, and Bruce’s hard cock (he can still taste him, his mouth is still full of the flavour of his semen and he wants to suck him again, doesn’t think he’ll ever get bored of it). He has a blade right next to Bruce’s cock, just sitting right there. He’d honestly forgotten than for a moment, and he’s astonished he didn’t slip and cut anything while he was laughing, but rediscovering it is the best kind of surprise.
He takes a slow measured breath, calming himself enough that his hands are steady, and presses the blunt edge of the blade against Batsy’s cock, dragging it up to rub over the head, cool and smooth and delicious, watches Bruce’s expression go heavy with want even as the affection still burns in his eyes. He looks beautiful and edible and Joker wants to make him come so hard he passes out.
“Oh my beautiful darling,” he whispers, flicking his wrist so the blade slices away the button from Batman’s fly, sending skittering away across the floor and smirking at the instinctual hip thrust he gets in response. “I am going to make you bleed, and you’re going to beg me for it.”
Batsy’s eyes light up with something like a challenge. “Yeah?” he asks, voice soft and low and intent. “Make me.”
Perfect, he’s perfect and Joker wants to keep him like this forever, as soft and vulnerable under his hard shell as he remembers him being all those years ago, the first time he got to see him like this. Defiant and desperate and completely fixated on Joker, like no one else even exists. It makes the urges to cut him stronger, layering over the sight of so much soft smooth skin just begging to be cut and bitten and bruised that he doesn’t know where to start.
But no, that’s not true, he knows just where to start, has been planning this in the back of his mind for nearly eighty years.
He tries to restrain himself, keep the press of his blade gentle as he drags it down the centre of Batman’s chest, but it’s hard, too hard, and he can’t resist pressing a little over the breastbone, watching the blood well up and pool in the groove between Bruce’s pecs, trickling down over his neck. For a long moment he’s frozen, hypnotized by the sight of it, then the need to taste overwhelms even his need to watch, and he ducks his head to lap at the sluggishly bleeding wound, moaning at the taste, copper and smog and justice and Batsy.
Batsy groans, and laughs softly. It’s nice to know all his fantasies about cutting Batsy up had been accurate.
Batman’s eyes are closed, his head tipped back, baring his throat, a gesture of submission that make’s Joker’s whole body flash hot-cold with desire. He needs to be close, needs to taste and touch.
He swings himself up into Bruce’s lap, straddling him, Bruce’s hard cock pressing up against his ass.
The want hits him like a sledgehammer to the temple (although he mostly only remembers the aftermath of that particular row with Harley, rather than the violence itself). He doesn’t usually want, not like other people seem to, has never had his head turned by a pretty face, male or female or anything else, but now his body is moving without permission or control, grinding back into Batman’s cock, teasing them both as it slides rough and slightly sticky against him.
“Oh Bruce.” He lets his head fall back, lets his thigh muscles tense, lets his whole body do exactly what it wants. “You are putting that inside me tonight.”
Batman makes this shocked shuddering noise of pure want, and Joker realizes suddenly that his own cock is hard and leaking and kinda begging to be touched. He’d mostly forgotten about it until this moment. He rubs a hand against himself, gasping for the intensity of the sensation, and then slides it down to tug painfully on his balls, a reminder to himself to be patient. Everything in its due time.
“Tell me you got lube down here,” he says, “because I’ll take it dry if I have too, but that’s not gonna be a pleasant experience for either of us.”
He’d do it anyway though, just because he wants it that bad. He can imagine the pain, and the blood, can imagine Bruce trying to go soft inside him as horror replaced arousal but the tight clench of Joker’s body holding him in place. He’s… going to file that thought away for later, because delicious as it is the real thing is going to be so much better.
“Desk. Second drawer. It’s labeled Kevlar cleaner.”
Joker snorts. “Armor polish. You actually call your lube armor polish. That’s… actually totally unsurprising.”
Letting go of Bruce, climbing off him, is almost unbearable, but he forces himself to do it. Bruce is all tied up, he can’t go anywhere until Joker wants him too. He can’t run away from this, and that’s a heady thought.
He finds the lube quickly, grinning in triumph at the small tube. “You often jerk it at the desk?” he asks.
“Occasionally.”
“And I’ve never seen this why?”
“I wait till you’re asleep. It’s… sometimes I watch you, while I do it.”
Joker closes his eyes for a moment, forces his hands not to shake. He had so much more of Batman’s attention than he ever realized and it’s a wonderful thought. “You ever fuck yourself here?”
Batman blushing is a truly glorious sight. “Not there.”
Oooooh. “So you do enjoy that sort of thing…” That’s an idea when all sorts of possibilities, but not for right now. “Another time darling. Next time. For now, I want you in me far too much to change my plans.”
Bruce quirks something like a smirk, dark and thick like treacle. “Big words. You haven’t actually done anything to me yet except tie me up.”
“Oh ho, that was a challenge if ever I heard one!” Joker pushes himself up onto his long legs, staggering as the force of his lust makes his knees weak. “You are just… delicious.”
He sets the lube on the edge of the table, beside the razor, and uses Bruce’s shoulders as leverage to swing himself back up onto the table, straddling Bruce’s legs, their cocks so close they’re almost brushing.
“I’ve been planning this for years,” he tells his Batman, looking down into those blue blue eyes. He can’t look away, doesn’t want to look away, even as he snaps open the cap on the tube, squirts a little onto his fingers. “I’ve lain awake in bed so many nights, waiting for you to get back, plotting out all the things I was going to do to you once the time was right.”
He doesn’t bother with any kind of gentleness or tease, he knows everything his body can take (which is anything he needs it too), so he shoves straight in, just one long finger to start.
It’s a strange sensation, one he’s only experienced very rarely and which hasn’t got any less novel over time. Fullness, an awareness of a part of his body that he’s usually perfectly happy to forget about. A rough demanding sensation that will not be ignored.
“Ahhh, that’s… You’re looking a little glazed there, darling. Are you paying attention?”
“I’m not sure I’ve ever paid closer attention to anything in my life,” Batsy says, in that dry way of his.
“Well good. I’d hate for you not to be getting the full benefit of this. I don’t, ah, do this for just anyone, you know.”
“Oh god, Joker,” Bruce says, low and reverent. “I shouldn’t want you this much. I shouldn’t want anything or anyone this much, it’s not right, craving, obsession like this, it can’t be right.”
“It’s entirely wrong, and completely perfect darling.” He pulls out his finger, pushes back in with two and gasps for the sudden increase in sensation, neither good nor bad except for the way it’s making Batman look at him like he’s temptation made flesh. “We’re perfect, we’ve always been perfect, in the dark twisted way people try not to think about. We rip and tear and hurt one another but it’s all just an attempt to be close, to touch one another in ways we’d never touch anyone else.”
Bruce twitches. “No one…?” he asks, desperate and a little shy, and Joker laughs because that hadn’t been what he meant at all.
“I didn’t actually mean that no one else had ever, uh, fucked me in the ass, to put it delicately. You will in fact be the third person to have that pleasure, after myself and Eddie.”
“You fucked the Riddler?!”
Joker chuckles and scissors his fingers, making sure everything he’s feeling is showing clear on his features for Bruce to see. “That was Harley’s reaction as well. I was curious. It wasn’t something I remembered ever doing before, and for all his front, Eddie was always a little bit fascinated with me. Almost completely asexual as well of course, but always willing to try new things in the pursuit of knowledge.”
“And was it… good?”
Bruce sounds equal parts fascinated and horrified, but evidently the sight of Joker fucking himself is appealing enough to override that, because his cock is still standing to attention, wet with precome Joker wants to lick.
“More interesting than good,” Joker admits, considering the memories. “Not unpleasant though, and for a while afterwards I had to the most delicious dreams about you, darling.”
That earns him a twitch of that lovely blood-dark cock, and he’s probably not ready, but he doesn’t want to wait anymore. Patience is only one of his virtues some of the time, and this isn’t one of those times.
“Since I know it’s been at least four decades for you, and you only ever had one unplanned sprog anyway, I’m going to assume you’re not going to give me anything that itches,” Joker says, grabbing hold of Batman’s cock.
It’s hot and hard and velvet smooth in his hand, and he didn’t know he even could want like this, with his whole body. So many years and still so much he doesn’t know. It makes him hopeful that the next eighty years will be as entertaining as the last. The prologue is done, the first act come and gone and this night is the finale of act two, but that’s okay because there’s so much more to come and he just knows it’s going to be glorious.
Right now though he can’t quite imagine anything as good as Bruce’s cock. He sinks down slowly, slowly, all that delicious precome easing the way, but it still feels like he’s being split in half, torn open and down and up, forced to reshape himself to accommodate the Batman just like he’s been doing since he was born in acid and fire.
“Ooooooooooh, Bruce.”
“Joker!” And he’s never heard Batsy sound like this, not anything like this, not even in the sex tapes he knows off by heart. Part of him is certain Bruce has never sounded like this for anyone else, and the rest of wants to kill all the other people in the world who might ever have heard it.
He has to shift around to get fully seated, rising up before he sinks a little further down, taking more of Batman inside himself each time, and he hadn’t expect this either, hadn’t expect that this would make him want to fuck, to give up on his lovely fantasy and just ride Bruce hard and fast until they both come.
He can resist. He can be patient when the rewards are good enough and this… but first needs a little taste, something to satisfy his body that it will be getting what it wants.
He rises up, careful not to unseat himself, and shoves back down hard enough that the noise he makes is more pain than pleasure, except for all the ways it’s pure undiluted bliss. Bruce grunts out a desperate noise that makes Joker want to choke him and thrusts up as much as he can while tied down so effectively.
It takes a few shifts in position to find the exact angle that sends Bruce’s cock sliding over Joker’s sweet spot, but once he does he has to bite his lip to keep from screaming with the sheer blinding sensation of it all.
He doesn’t know how he could have thought this would be just a taste, how he thought he could give this up, can’t imagine anymore what he was thinking. And then his darling growls out “don’t stop” in a voice that’s halfway between Batman and Brucie, and Joker remembers exactly what he’s doing here.
He can’t stay in the cave forever, appealing at the idea might seem at times, and he has to leave Bruce with a reminder, because memory is a fickle thing when your job is being hit over the head by supervillains.
He drops down, positioning himself so that he can just barely feel Bruce’s cock against his sweet spot, a constant gentle tease, and picks up the razor.
Batsy actually whimpers, tries to move, but he can’t get enough leverage with Joker’s weight on him even light as he is, and growls in frustration when he realizes how helpless he really is.
Joker pats his cheek with a hand sticky with half dried lube. “I know darling. I don’t like it either but I’ve got plans and I’m not going to let either of our cocks mess it up.”
Bruce’s eyes flick between the razor and Joker’s face, trying to work out where this is going.
“I wear your marks everywhere I go darling. It seems only fair you do the same.”
And that noise was a moan, bitten off sharply before it had time to form, and that’s all the motivation Joker needs to slide the razor’s blade out and lean forward to get a better angle. Really, this would work better if he were straddling Bruce’s waist, but that would mean not getting to feel it when his cock kicks inside Joker’s body, and that’s unacceptable.
He’s spent hours considering just what marks he wants to leave – he’s never before regretted making his calling card quite such a complex image – but in the end he has one signature that will always be recognizably his, even if he does have to share it with the Creeper.
He makes the first cut just under Bruce’s right nipple, matching the top of his own bat. Bruce grits his teeth against the pain, hisses out a breath, but he’s still distractingly hard inside Joker, so he guesses it’s surprised more than an objection.
He makes the second vertical almost but not quite parallel to the first, and tries not to be disappointed when he doesn’t get him a reaction. The horizontal, catching and tugging at the two existing lines where it crosses them, earns him a hissed breath, a clenching and unclenching of those perfectly sculpted stomach muscles.
He’s got the feel for it now, for how he’s going to react (precome is beading at the tip of his cock and his mouth is watering but his hands are steady), how Bruce is going to react, and so the second set of cuts are faster, less careful. He gets a gasp and something that’s the bastard child of a moan and a whimper, cut off before it has a chance to fully form.
Bruce arches his back for the horizontal this time, making a thin stream of blood trickle down over his nipple and Joker is working to a deadline here but there are some things he’ll never be able to resist, and licking blood from Bruce’s nipples is one of them.
He has to kneel up, slide nearly all the way off Batman's cock and arch his back oddly to reach, but it’s worth is when he gets a moan, not bitten off or disguised this time, real and desperate and open.
Bruce tastes as good as he always has, rich and coppery and infinitely moreish, and Joker can’t stop himself following the trail of blood back up to the cuts themselves, to nuzzle and lip at the sluggishly bleeding wounds, shoving his tongue in, inside Bruce’s flesh where everything is slick and soft and so good it almost hurts.
He’s distantly aware that he’s trembling faintly, but that’s unimportant when he’s got Batman’s blood inside him, when he’s exactly where he’s wanted to be for eighty years. His nose aches and his eyes are stinging and it takes him a long long moment to realize that he’s crying, for the first time since he crawled from the acid, maybe for the first time ever, the sheer depth and strength of his emotion forcing its way out the only way it can.
Batsy chokes out his name and Joker tears himself away to look into his eyes, to watch Bruce soften with something that can only be love.
“I wish I could touch you,” Bruce says gently, and Joker’s fingers twitch towards the restraints before he can stop himself, but no, he has plans, he has things he needs to do. He needs to finish up the beautiful mess he’s making of Batsy’s lovely pecs, and then he needs to make them both come so hard they black out a little. The overture to act three is already starting to swell in the back of his mind and time is running out.
“Eighty two years, six months and nine days darling,” Joker tells him. “Indulge me?”
Bruce’s breath hitched. “Seventy five years, three months,” he says in reply, and relaxes back into his bonds.
Joker chuckles, low and happier than he can remember being maybe ever. “I’ve heard of long engagements sweetheart, but this is just ridiculous.”
“Well if you’d hurry up, maybe we could finally consummate this relationship, huh?” Bruce asks with a smirk, shifting his hips in a way that makes Joker gasp and seriously consider untying Batsy so he can pound him like he so clearly wants to. But no, they’ve got the next eighty years for that. Tonight is all for him.
“You not even going to pretend to object to this?” he asks, teasing.
“Joker you are fully and intimately aware of just how much pleasure I am getting from this,” Batman says dryly. “There doesn’t seem much point denying anything when you’ve got my penis inside you and my blood all over your face.”
The laugh forces its way up out of Joker’s throat, stretching his face, shaking his whole body in a way that makes Bruce groan. It feels good in a way laughter hasn’t for a long time, pure and freeing and destabilizing, the way it should, the way it did before… everything. He feels like himself again, wholly and completely, for the first time since he realized he couldn’t make himself escape the cave. He feels ready to burn the whole world down around their ears, feels ready to take another acid bath, to reshape this complacent old city in his own image once again.
Bruce laughs, with him, small and self-deprecating. “I shouldn’t find that as attractive as I do,” he mutters, half to himself, and then he fixes Joker with one of those hot deep looks that feel like penetration all by themselves. “I want to taste my blood in your mouth.”
Tempting, but not actually possible while Bruce is tied down like this. “Later, I promise. Later you can lick my face clean like a cat if that’s what make you happy.”
Bruce laughs, and Joker had never, not in all his decades of dreaming, imagined he would be like this, happy and loving and unashamed of his own desire. It’s beautiful and intoxicating, and Joker wants him like this as often as either of them can bear it.
He sits up, shoves back onto Bruce’s hard cock, moaning for the too dry gritty slide of it, the feel of being reshaped by it. God he wants, needs. Everything in him that’s still human is urging him to drop the razor, loose himself in fucking, give himself over to the most animal of instincts, but he wouldn’t be the Joker if he listened to those kinds of urges, so instead he sets the tip of the blade against Bruce’s chest and grins.
Beneath him Bruce shudders, tries to arch, tries to push closer to the blade, and that’s something else Joker has never imagined and he kind of hates himself for denying himself the image. Certainly he’s going to be seeing it in his dreams for the rest of his life.
“You really like this, huh Batsy?” he asks, voice breathy with desire. “Think I could make you come just from this?”
Bruce screws his eyes shut as he groans. “I think you’re going to find out if you get on with it,” he grits out.
Well, there’s motivation if ever he heard it.
He uses the cut he’s already made for the fifth vertical, cutting a line alongside it and then worrying it with the blade to make it deep enough to scar. The pain from that gets him a moan and a hard twitch of the cock inside him, sending it glancing off his prostate in a way that makes him swear.
He slashes the horizontal too quickly, moving onto the next letter before Bruce has had a chance to catch his breath, cutting fast and deep.
The beginning of the fifth letter gets his name, groaned out low and intent and gorgeous. The final stroke gets him another desperate attempt at a thrust, and the pleasure for that is more mental than physical but it still makes him gasp.
“Last one,” he murmurs, setting the blade against the skin. “Fast or slow?”
“I… Christ, Joker, I don’t know! I want this to be over and I never want it to end!”
Joker grins at him, amused by Bruce mirroring his own thoughts so perfectly. “Slow then. I want to savor this.”
He braces his free hand on Batsy’s chest, close enough to the existing cuts to make the skin tighten and pull painfully, and begins to cut the first letter, slow and careful as he knows how to be. Bruce gasps and shudders and makes a high desperate noise that Joker is going to be hearing in his dreams and holds himself perfectly still, only the trembling in his shoulders giving away just how much he wants to be moving.
There’s a feeling that’s almost loss as Joker makes the final cut, but accomplishment too. Now Bruce is marked, owned and possessed and kept every bit as much as Joker himself is, and that? That’s all Joker’s ever truly wanted. (Even in the moments when he wants nothing of the sort).
He licks the razor clean while Bruce watches him with avid hunger, considers and dismisses the temptation to slice his own tongue open to see what it would feel like, and finally finally allows himself to rise up and slam himself back down onto Bruce’s gorgeous cock, fucking himself with ruthless pleasure because he can, because he’s exactly that kind of selfish and it’s glorious.
Bruce is sweating, rolling his hips up as much as he can to meet Joker’s thrusts, gasping out his name between breathes as he stares at him with desperate unblinking eyes, clearly recording every moment of his.
“I want to feel you come inside me,” Joker tells him. “I want you to come first so I can ride you while you’re too sensitive to enjoy it.”
“I’d always enjoy it,” Bruce grits out, “even when I wish I didn’t, fuck, Joker!”
He made the Dark Knight swear, and that’s got to be worth a reward. He runs his fingers over the letters he’d carved, pulling and pushing and tearing, making Bruce shout with pained pleasure, his head thrashing as though he doesn’t know how to process all the things he’s feeling. He looks debauched and inhuman and violent and beautiful and Joker needs him to come because he’s getting so close…
He digs in with his short nails, scratches over Bruce’s nipples and the cuts above and below them, and says, “Come for me darling,” in as commanding a voice as he can manage when he’s three hard thrusts away from the best orgasm of his life.
“Joker, Joker, I…” and Bruce is coming, head thrown back as he bellows his way through an orgasm, cock grinding up into Joker’s sweet spot until he’s seeing stars, biting back a yell of his own. He will last, he can overrule his body, just a little longer, just…
He’s slamming himself down hard enough that walking is going to painful and he doesn’t care because he’s lighting up his whole body, making his limbs tingle and sending bolts of unbearably intense pleasure shooting up his spine, and everything is hot and hard and so overwhelming his thinks he might be going to cry again, but when he wraps a blood slick hand around his cock, when he clenches hard enough to make himself moan and Bruce almost scream with oversensitivity, what forces its’ way up from his belly is a laugh, high and desperate and the only way he knows how to express what he’s feeling as his balls tighten and his spine arches and his vision whites out with the force of his orgasm.
He’s trembling faintly, and his cock hurts – he seems to have gripped it rather unkindly while he rode out his wonderful orgasm – and the first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is his mark, carved into Bruce’s chest, the line of letters running diagonally up from under his right nipple to just over his left.
HA HA HA. The only signature the Joker has ever needed.
“You look lovely,” he tells Bruce, tearing his eyes away from the marks to study his face, the wild hair and swollen lips and desperate light in his eyes. “And thoroughly debauched. I suppose you expect me to let you up now?”
“Even if you intended to keep me as your sex slave, you’d have to untie me occasionally,” Bruce says, with that particular humor that is always covering some chink in his armor.
Joker doesn’t need to push or prod to know what this one is. The curtain is coming down, and it’s time for them to take their positions for the next act, and Bruce wants to make this moment last forever.
“I can’t do that, lamb chop. You know why.”
“I suspected. Is there anything I can say?”
Oh, Batsy, darling darling fool… “There never was. This is a tango, not a waltz.”
“You’re going to… kill people.”
What had be stopped himself from saying? Leave me, probably. All that denial he used to be so keen on seems to have dried up like the Kalahari once he realized Joker wasn’t going to stay with him forever. (Except in all the ways he is).
“Oh, almost certainly darling. And you’re going to try and stop me. And you might even have help for it. Don’t think I didn’t hear your and Scandal muttering about Superman’s brat and her new secret club.”
“You’re staying in Gotham?”
“Did you think I could leave?” This city has been his mother and his lover and his worst enemy, and he’ll never truly leave it, any more than he’ll leave the Batman. But that doesn’t need saying out loud. There’s been far too much of the mushy stuff, far too many nasty squiggling confusing emotions.
He eases himself up and off Batman’s cock, grinning at the feel of come running down the backs of his thighs, and slides up the ridiculously huge body until he’s at an angle where he can comfortably bend down for the deep claiming desperate kiss. Bruce’s tongue is warm and slick and the moment seems to stretch forever, but the music is swelling inside him, and his stage is awaiting him. He’s too much of a performer to ever be able to resist that kind of siren song.
The blow is carefully calculated. Batsy is hard to knock out, hard to even disorientate, his skull nearly as thick with ridges of healed bone as Joker’s, and so gentle won’t help. But he’s also bleeding, not terribly, but enough that Joker doesn’t want to leave him cold for more than the few minutes it takes to make his getaway. It would be a real shame if Brucey were to die without Joker having planned it.
That’s the sorta thing you gotta savour, and it’s not the flavour he wants right now.
He dressed quickly, the purple pinstripe tailcoat that makes Bruce look at him with desperate longing, yellow shirt and green waistcoat, black and white saddle shoes, as close to his classic look as he has (appearances are going to be everything for what he has to do next).
He packs a bag with his other clothes, and a few of the more interesting toys, checks the chopstick has nearly burnt away, pockets the razor, some explosive charges, some nasty little sonic grenades small enough to fit in his shoe and a batarang, just for old time’s sake.
The last thing he does before saying goodbye to the place that’s been his home for thirty seven years is loosen the straps on Bruce’s wrists, just enough to give him leverage to free himself. He’ll probably still need to dislocate his thumb, but he wouldn’t want to make things easy for him.
He doesn’t give Bruce’s unconscious form one last kiss, or lingering looks, or anything like that. He’s said his goodbyes and they’ll see each other soon enough.
There is one person though…
“Bye BC,” he says, voice rough with something he doesn’t have a name for. “It’s been good knowing ya toots. Look after him. And don’t… Don’t let this hurt you too much. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
And then there’s nothing to do but leave, climbing quickly and easily along the rock wall toward the waterfall door. He’s had the emergency overrides stored in the back of his head for years, and it’s less that a minute before he’s scrambling out into the soft grass of the Gotham hills.
Below him the city is a glittering jewel, a million tiny lights polluting the darkness and blotting out the predawn dark.
It’s late enough that it’s nearly early. He’s lingered too long over his fun. Now there’s work to be done and not enough time to do it in. But maybe if hurries, there might be time to meet that sweet little thing from the bar after their shift. What had the name been? Brey. Although they didn’t look like a Brey. To him, they’d looked more like a Harley.