Life is so much better when you're dead

The smell of dust hit Bruce's nostrils as he was being led inside the apartment. Teetering, he took a few steps onward, clawing at the cold wall for purchase, the tangy taste of blood still present in the back of his throat, the bile coiling and trying to scale its way up his stomach. The quiet laughter didn't seem to go away, even as he pressed his head to the wall, slowly slumping to his knees, oblivious to the coarse surface scratching the skin of his face. Stark white light kept exploding underneath his eyelids with each pump of his heart, and the cold, clammy fingers of nausea seemed to wander all over his body, as if teasing every part, every inch of him into letting it go, into throwing up until there was nothing left inside, no blood to race through his veins, to fill his skull with excruciating throbbing, no muscles to painfully contract of their own accord at even the smallest recollection of what had just happened.

He heard the silent click of the door being locked, and despite his eyelids being closed shut, he registered the change of lighting; Joker had turned on the night lamp. He listened to the soft steps, to the rustle of the other man's clothes as he approached him--the hunched, quivering lump leaning against the wall like a cornered animal. Joker didn't say anything, he didn't even touch him, he just sat right next to Bruce and watched; the fingers curling over his own body as he wrapped his arms around his stomach, the disheveled hair, the reddened skin around his closed eyes, the slightly parted lips, the glistening strings of saliva dribbling out of his mouth as he kept giggling. He didn't want to reach out for him and drag him out of this state. He knew Bruce needed to crawl through all the corners of his memory and absorb as much pain and filth as he could. It had to happen, it had to hurt, it had to be his own. Still, Joker remained as he was, separated from Bruce yet close, feeling his own guts twist painfully with each passing minute. He waited for the laughter to stop, but it seemed to drag on and on, pulling him along dangerously close to a precipice he had never suspected to exist inside his head.

There was a moment of complete silence, a shred of time stretched beyond its capacity until it began to bleed with something ominous, dark and seething. Joker leaned in a little, watching Bruce's eyelids lift slowly, trying to catch a glimpse of the greenish iris. The whites of the man's eyes were reddened, covered in a web of tiny veins, and his gaze was absent. It took another torturous minute before it wandered up to meet Joker's. Bruce kept staring for what seemed an eternity, until the madman began to dissolve in his resolution to let him be for the time being; maybe it was about time to break out of it. Time for the blood-letting.

He reached out to touch Bruce's cheek. It was cold and sweat-slicked, pale and sickly. His gloved fingers trailed down, tracing the sharp cheekbone, pressing gently against the lacerated lips and wiping the rivulet of saliva off his chin. A speck of consciousness seemed to lazily worm back into Bruce's gaze, the corners of his mouth curling up almost unnoticeably at the gesture, and Joker felt as if his frost-bitten veins had begun to thaw, the warmth blooming in his stomach and spreading throughout every square inch of his body. He scooted closer; their eyes remained locked, and he found himself being drawn in by the foreign vulnerability. He put his arms around Bruce's shoulders, leaning closer until they were pressed flush against each other. Not really sure of what he was doing, his movements simply intuitive, he wrapped himself around the other man, hands wandering, rubbing, trying to breathe warmth into the cold body. He could tell how cold Bruce was even with the layers of clothing separating them, he could still smell the fear and adrenaline on his skin, he could feel its sour taste as he kissed him tentatively. None of this was sensual, it simply was; the assurance of something unspoken. The jagged, awkward movements slowly gave way to a silent embrace. It was easier to breathe when Joker was so close, and Bruce sunk into him. His cheek pressed to Joker's neck, he seemed to cherish the steady pulse, the soft sound of exhaled air ghosting through his hair.

For a second, Bruce felt like he was drowning, going further and further down until there was nothing that could reach him anymore. His limbs had gone almost completely numb, and it felt so good. Maybe being dead wasn't that far away from this, and the thought of it threatened him with another burst of uncontrollable laughter. Bruce smiled as Joker squeezed him with a quiet sigh. He inhaled the smell of him and the still present hints of gunpowder on his clothes.

"C'mere, let me look at you," Joker murmured and cupped his face in both hands. Bruce's pupils were a little widened and he was still shivering, indicating the shock hadn't subsided yet, but he seemed a lot more relaxed now, and the madman grinned despite the unrelenting knot in his stomach. "Say something to me... anything. Hm?"

"Something," Bruce said with a wan smile, surprised how effortlessly the word had left his mouth. Yet, his voice seemed too quiet, confined and distant.

"That was trite." Joker smacked his lips, but he couldn't hide the relief. His eyes began to sting a little as he ruffled Bruce's hair, hoping to see just a little more life come back to his gaze, but in vain. It wasn't over yet. He was leaning over the precipice right now and it took just one more little step. He darted onwards, pulling Bruce back into his embrace.

"Now, listen," he whispered so quietly he could barely hear it himself. "Don't even try to hold it in." His fingers clawed at the trembling body in his arms. "Please, don't." His throat began to tighten. "Or I will rip it out of you myself." He waited. His heart skipped a beat and he closed his eyes shut as Bruce's grip started to grow more and more painful. Joker felt the breath against his skin turn into erratic gasps, slowly giving way to stifled sobs. Bruce wasn't shivering anymore, he was shaking. Something wet ran down Joker's neck and it was getting harder to breathe as the grip came dangerously close to crushing his ribs, but all he could do was hold Bruce as tightly as he could while the man started to practically spill himself on him. Joker had never heard anything like this in his life before; it wasn't crying, it wasn't even wailing. There was no word to describe the sounds forcing their way out of Bruce's lungs, the incoherent screams reverberating inside his skull, sinking deep down into the core of his being and tearing it to shreds.

The words, growled, hissed, appeared not to make any sense, but Joker could absorb it, line up everything that was being forced onto him and understand it, and understanding was eviscerating to both of them. Everything that had remained dormant and welled up until this one point found its way out and seeped right back in, much more powerful, much more lethal. It felt like dying but never quite crossing the one final line, trying to pick up your own remains as they elude you, going down the drain. Joker gave in, welcoming Bruce's hands tightening so hard over his body they left bruises, his nails scratching blindly at the skin of his neck and face, gripping the flesh, strangling, tearing off the latex. His eyes closed tightly; he was petrified to look, but his hold over Bruce didn't weaken, and he waited for what seemed like hours, waited for the first signs of exhaustion.

There was a black spot when he found it so hard to breathe he almost lost it, but he pulled through, and the next thing he heard was Bruce simply crying. Unabashedly, without any restrain, his face nuzzled into the crook of Joker's shoulder, the iron clasp of his fingers slackening slowly as he dissolved into this half-conscious state. Joker stroked his hair until the silence claimed the whole room, boring into his ears.

The cold, white noise began to dissipate. Bruce lifted his head, too tired to do or say anything, too tired to force any sign of life or apology into his eyes, but he knew Joker never expected anything like this. His entire body ached, and he was completely covered in sweat. He looked at his own tears and saliva glistening on the lapels of Joker's jacket, at the strings of latex hanging down from his cheeks. He reached absently to touch the scratch marks he had left; it was his doing, but it was hard to recall right now. Joker's hand rested on his own and squeezed gently. Thankfully, there was no need to speak. Bruce still felt the pressure inside his head, and the edges of his sight were still gray and blurry, the image pulsating in accord with his heartbeat. Still, he was overcome with a sense that it was all supposed to be there, it was supposed to be embraced, dissected, and not abandoned. The wound had been opened and there was no need to stitch it back.

He started to tug gently at the tips of Joker's gloves, pulling them off his hands. Then, he began picking at the remains of latex. Simple, pointless actions, yet they brought him a little comfort. Now, he could grip the other man's hand and watch the slight smile slide onto his scarred lips. Joker seemed so pale and fragile in this one moment. It didn't feel right, but it wasn't supposed to. Bruce let out a sigh and hanged his head, their fingers still entwined. He relaxed against Joker as he felt the deformed cheek brush against his own. The gun in the madman's pocket ground into his ribs as he pulled himself closer, and he shivered. He reached underneath the black jacket and grabbed the weapon, leaning back a few inches to examine it. Joker didn't say anything. Bruce turned it in his hands, smoothing the steel, fingertips tracing every ridge and indentation. The memories that had just been ripped from the deepest parts of his mind and forced into his waking state mingled with the present, and he kept touching, remembering the gestures from many years ago when he had been pondering the countless scenarios of ending that man's life.

Back then, it had been enough to close his eyes to smell his fear, to hear the sickening whimpering as he would beg for his life. Like a dog. In the end, it had never come to this, it had happened much too fast.

Joker's hands came to rest around his own holding the gun. The madman smirked and raised his eyebrows. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"Familiar," Bruce answered quietly, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly before he mirrored the smirk.

"At some point you must have come to a conclusion that this is a cumbersome kind of device, huh?" Joker muttered, his voice just as weak as Bruce's, but he urged to give it a playful tinge. "But you can't deny it comes in handy. I can see by the way you touch it."

Bruce's eyebrows knitted, but the smile didn't leave his face. He enjoyed just hearing Joker say anything to break the silence, he liked how soft it sounded. "It was, um... too abrupt," he said.

"It's not like you can train it to take its sweet time, y'know," Joker licked his lips. "But you can coax it into solving all your problems when they stack up and get out of control." His long fingers brushed up the slide, jagged nails drumming gently against it. "Just so you know... you're not alone when things get out of hand... when you have it. I want you to have it." He squeezed Bruce's hand still wrapped around the grip. "When you're cornered, when you're sick of it... it will be your decision to make and yours alone. And I will abide. I give it to you." Joker directed the gun at his own head and smiled. Bruce felt his heart stop for a few seconds at the sight. He started trembling again.

"You know it will never come to this," he half-whispered.

"I don't know."

"No... not like this." He angled the gun, pointing it at himself. "You were supposed to follow me anywhere, remember?" A quiet chuckle forced its way out of his throat as he stared into Joker's eyes. He released the gun and wrapped Joker's fingers around it, his hands enclosing the man's wrist. Slowly, he pressed his own temple against the cold, soothing steel and his eyelids felt heavy.

"Silly..." The smile froze on Joker's lips. "You can't ask me to do this. Never," he hissed. His eyes began to sting again.

"What if I do?"

"What, like... now?" he asked, laughing mirthlessly.

"No..." Bruce began to laugh as well, although it sounded so much more relaxed than the uncontrollable giggling from what seemed like ages ago. "No, not now. Maybe tomorrow." He let go of Joker's hands and rested his head against his shoulder. He heard a clank as the gun hit the floor, and a warm pair of arms wrapped around him in silence.

Minutes were passing, and they seemed to have fallen into a strangely soft limbo together. They acted in unison, each movement and word languid and muted, the sense and clarity of their actions not quite registering, shrouded with lulling comfort. The clothes soaked with fear and agitation lay discarded on the floor as they advanced to the bathroom. It had all seemed like a sweet blur to both of them, the warmth of the water falling on their bodies in lazy cascades, the feel of skin against skin. Bruce leaned back against the cold tiles, his head slightly bowed, and savored each and every second of the simple, prosaic action of Joker washing his hair. With his eyes closed, he brought his arms around the other man's waist, ignoring the suds of shampoo trickling down his face. It was a sequence of images and sensations, no continuity, nothing logical. He was taking a shower with Joker, he had seen a man's brain hit the wall and he had been laughing. Slippery hands were wandering all over his body, cleansing him of it all. His own hands started their own journey over the smooth skin, and even though the water was blinding, he tried to look into Joker's eyes. Everything he needed was right there.

The warmth was almost smothering, yet it made Bruce's skin tingle pleasantly, assuaged the knots in his muscles and brought him close to drifting away. He leaned against Joker and burrowed into him as if anchoring himself. It struck him how rarely they had broken the physical contact for the entire day, and now it seemed like even the thought of breaking it for a mere second was unbearable. He wanted so desperately to melt together with the madman in his arms it startled him, forcing him out of this state of oblivion. Yet, he was unwilling, unable to let go.

Even as they left the bath tub and dried themselves, as they were taking turns with the sink to brush their teeth and lap up some water, as they went searching for clean clothes, they made a point to stay close to each other, as if only the other's proximity could allow them to conduct the simplest tasks that seemed so absurd and out of place considering what had happened. Still, each of those methodical actions seemed to bring them a little more peace, and so Bruce welcomed the black, plastic comb being pushed into his hand after he had seated himself on the bed. Joker climbed onto it and lay down next to Bruce, using his thighs as a cushion.

"Help me out with this, hm?" he muttered and smiled almost sheepishly, his lower lip tucked in a little. "I don't like combing. I really don't," he added quietly.

"I can tell," Bruce said. Without batting an eyelid, he complied and began tugging gently at the tangled curls with the comb, helping himself with his fingers at the more challenging parts. He felt like laughing again; through all his life the only things that could ever bring him any solace were spiked with violence and abandon. He had never suspected the meticulous act of combing the hair of a mass murderer would be so soothing. "Haven't you heard of a thing called conditioner?" he asked, trying not to pull too painfully, although the damp, blond thicket seemed to resist no matter how he approached it. Joker started to giggle and didn't answer. "That wasn't a rhetorical question," Bruce chided good-naturedly, chuckling as well.

"There's no place in my heart for such trivial things, dahling," Joker said dramatically, reaching up and cupping Bruce's chin in his hand.

"Well, good, such things tend to be for external use only."

The madman giggled again. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, letting out a cat-like purr as Bruce tugged with a little more force than he had intended. "You've done this before," he said with a seductive lill in his voice.

"As a matter of fact, no. I used to be a very decent man." Bruce gave him a lop-sided smile. "Turn your head now," he commanded, and Joker obediently shifted his position to give him better access. The comb dove into the uncharted jungle at the back of his head. Pulling, parting, smoothing, time and time again. Everything was so crisp and clear, the calm breath, the steady heartbeat, nothing absurd or surreal in any of this. For the first time in his life, Bruce didn't feel like what he was doing was escaping or blocking out the bleak reality. The quiet rustle of hair against the black plastic, the faint smell of shampoo, the patterned fabric of an unbuttoned shirt wrapped around the warm body leaning against him--that was his reality, and he had this man to thank for this; for purging his head with a few simple gestures, for staying to see him at his ugliest, for swallowing it all and not letting go. He had this deranged killer to thank for preserving his sanity.

Bruce put the comb aside; there wasn't much more he could do anyway. He touched Joker's shoulder, and the man lay on his back once more, looking up to meet his eyes. Joker seemed to be wearing an air of content languor, yet there was some strange anticipation in his gaze. Bruce brushed his fingers across the scarred cheek, smiling. Something was building up at the base of his spine, warm and demanding. He wanted this man, in more ways he could imagine. He wanted to mold together with him, to be absorbed by him, to tear himself open and let him crawl inside. His heart quickened its pace, but all he could do was stare, touching Joker's face as if it was the most precious thing in the whole world, waiting for the sudden upsurge of emotions to crest. The madman must have felt something similar; his eyes glazed over with longing, but Bruce couldn't overlook the small glint of apprehension. His hand wandered down Joker's chest, fingertips taking their sweet time over the hardened nipple before they slid down, nails grazing gently the sensitive skin at this side and leaving a trail of goose bumps in their wake before they rested on the pronounced hipbone. Nothing could ever inject such fire into his veins as the look in Joker's eyes as his caress continued. His fingers ghosted back up, sliding beneath the olive green shirt enclosing the smooth, lean body, and Bruce began gently urging Joker to sit upright. As soon as he was free of the madman's weight, he walked around and straddled him, his body doing the thinking while his blood started to race at a deafening tempo. He grabbed Joker's wrists and plunged onward, pinning them to the bed above his head. In a split second, his mouth was grinding into the soft, yielding lips.

Joker felt as if breath was snatched right out of his lungs with Bruce's sudden ferocity, the feverish body he could only feel through the layer of the other man's shirt imprisoning him before he had a chance to react. His back arched of its own accord and he spread his legs to let Bruce closer. The grip over his wrists tightened and a moan escaped his throat, stifled by the incessant mouth, kissing hungrily, denying him the precious air. He didn't mind. He knew too well he would rather suffocate than have this taken away from him. He angled his head to give Bruce better access, and a surge of tingles ran down his body, straight to the heat beginning to pool in his lower stomach, teased with the slow, coy movements of the other man's hips against his. Bruce's tongue moved inside his mouth, snaking around his own in such ways that it was enough to make him grow completely hard. He could barely believe the pleading, whimpering sounds he heard were coming from him, he couldn't stop his hips from bucking up, trying to get a little more of the delicious friction, but Bruce suddenly broke the kiss, pulling away a few inches to look at him. Joker felt as if his insides suddenly dissolved in the boiling blood, and his entire body began to shiver under the other man's gaze. There was no word to describe it; lust, need, bloodthirst, buried beneath a translucent veil of vulnerability and despair. A predatory smirk slid onto Bruce's flushed lips, and suddenly, Joker felt a pall of paralysis drape over him, transfixing him as he watched those lips move closer to his trembling skin.

It wasn't the fear he had felt before, being subject to Bruce's ministrations. Now, he knew it wasn't about fear at all; he wanted Bruce to devour him. He wanted him to unleash each and every last of his demons on him. He wanted to writhe under his hands, and scream, and beg, and he wanted those eyes to skin him alive, those lips to scorch him from the inside out. His throat tightened when the knowing tongue started moving over his neck, softly at first. Slowly, the almost innocent kisses and flits stopped and Bruce licked the throbbing, jugular vein, teeth nipping gently before the tongue wandered up, massaging the skin beneath Joker's ear. The madman's breath hitched, and he closed his eyes shut, trying not to think about the pulsating heat between his legs begging for attention while Bruce's hand brushed lazily over the insides of his thighs, the deft mouth still injecting poisonous pleasure into the most vulnerable spots of his neck. Still, he couldn't as much as move his hand. He wouldn't.

The tongue slid downwards, taking its time as if tasting Joker's skin was its only reason for existence. Kissing, sucking, relishing every inch of it. The lips brushed against his nipple, and he whimpered again. A warm, moist tip began to tease it, tracing circles around the hardened nub of flesh before it rolled over it, slowly, time and time again. Bruce kissed it, taking it in his mouth and sucking, his tongue still paying all kinds of vicious attention to the spot until the madman started to squirm. He looked up and smiled at the sight of his parted lips, his beseeching eyes. His hand moved from Joker's thigh to his groin, and his mouth wandered to his other nipple, leaving a trail of wet kisses on the heaving chest. He licked it, his tongue warm and tickling, while he allowed his fingers to brush very gently across the bulge in Joker's pants, just to ghost back to the man's hip and remain there.

This mere hint of touch where he needed it most was like a lash. Joker's hips jerked involuntarily, desperate for any kind of contact, but the hand was inexorable. The minutes of torturous pleasure and tension were dragging on and on, his entire body was tingling and shuddering under the vindictive mouth and tongue, melting under the hot breath. Bruce seemed to operate with some kind of a sixth sense, knowing exactly how to touch, where to lick to bring the other man closer to losing himself. Still, Joker behaved; he waited, allowing Bruce to sate himself with his offering. But his body could only take so much.

"Please..." he heard his own ridiculously mewling voice when the feather-like fingers rubbed his erection again and again while Bruce's lips started caressing his nipples anew. His entire body had become simply a quivering mass, each of his nerve endings strained for release; the slightest touch spurred waves of unbearable pleasure he had no outlet for. A soft hand stroked his hair and he watched as Bruce leaned over him, a sweet smile curling up the corners of his lips. Joker had never seen him like this; he fixed his eyes on him, spellbound. The man nuzzled his face and kissed his cheekbone, still petting him like one would a frightened child.

"Shhh," he whispered and planted another kiss on Joker's earlobe before he started nibbling at it, his tongue tracing its curves. The madman's eyes rolled back, his heart pounding, the paralysis growing stronger with this strange display of affection, combined with the pleasure building up to the point of aching for any kind of touch.

As if reading his mind, Bruce moved his hand over the bulge, cupping it, but without really doing anything else. Joker gasped, and his entire body jerked spasmodically. He looked at Bruce, not even trying to contain himself. "Please, Bruce..." Whimpering, again. The man squeezed him through the fabric, his thumb rubbing gently, but in the end it was even more agonizing than not being touched at all. Joker's eyebrows furrowed and he pressed his temple against the mattress, biting down the litany of pleas trying to force their way out of his mouth. His body didn't listen, though, and he started moving his hips, pushing into the almost motionless hand. The few seconds of friction were enough to make his entire body arch, and his strained groan echoed across the room, but suddenly, the hand was gone, and so was Bruce.

Joker opened his eyes, trying to catch his breath. He heard a few steps on the wooden planks. Lifting himself on his elbows and turning around, he caught a glimpse of Bruce picking something up from the floor. In a moment he was back, looming over him, his gaze even more ominous and suffused with pure lust. The mattress creaked as he positioned himself between Joker's splayed legs. He placed a small bottle next to him, and his hands returned to the quivering flesh, fingertips trailing patterns over the flushed skin, mouth starting a journey down the lean torso. The madman's head lolled back and he caught himself holding his breath when the burning kisses approached his lower stomach and didn't stop there, the tongue lingering for a moment around his navel and continuing further down along the stripe of wispy, light brown hair. Seconds were passing, yet all he could feel was Bruce's hot breath against his erection, still trapped in those pants, now more than dampened with precome. He didn't dare to look, he knew the sight of those cruel lips barely touching the place where he wanted them most and yet refusing to give it to him would bring him over the edge. He waited while Bruce's hands moved over his thighs, the touch growing more sensual as it approached the groin, but never quite arriving where it should.

Suddenly, a rush of electricity ran through his veins when Bruce closed the distance between the yearning flesh and his mouth, licking, tentatively at first, as if trying to gauge the madman's reaction. Joker literally wailed, starting to bite down on his hand, his thighs shuddering as Bruce spread them a little more, placing indulgent, lingering kisses through the fabric stretched tightly over his crotch. He began licking more insistently, massaging with his tongue, mouthing, grazing his teeth against the fly until Joker started to writhe, his nails digging into the sheets, teeth sinking deeper into his hand as if trying to stave off the release. Bruce placed one more kiss before he pulled away and reached for Joker's waistband, unzipping his pants. He started tugging at them without any hesitation; he couldn't wait much longer himself. Joker wriggled his body, helping him to remove the constricting piece of clothing until it was finally gone. He wasn't wearing any underwear; now, he just lay there, exposed and seized with anticipation. Bruce placed his hands on his shoulders and slid off the unbuttoned shirt. Joker had voluntarily found himself completely at his mercy, and the realization seeped a little more of the cold, paralyzing poison into his veins.

Bruce's vision began to grow blurry, yet he couldn't deny himself a little more of this. He had always reveled in how sensitive was the other man's body, how respondent to his actions and eager for any attention. All those years of crude sex with no place for savoring left him dreaming of inflicting so much pleasure onto Joker it would drive him insane, but the only thing he kept coming back to was feeding him scraps of his own passion, concealed in violence and pain. Bruce needed this moment to last as long as it could, and the madman's silent compliance effectively turned his blood into fire. He placed one hand on each of Joker's sides.

"Turn around," he ordered, his voice raspy. Still trembling, Joker did as he was asked, allowing the demanding arms position him until he was bent on his fours, his head hanging low as if trying to hide his growing despair. His breath faltering, he listened as Bruce freed himself of his shirt and threw it to the side next to his own clothes. A muscled torso pressed against his back, and a pair of feverish arms snaked around him, smoothing his chest, knowing hands caressing his stomach, sliding to his hipbones and inner thighs. A series of kisses descended down the crease of his spine until it stopped at the small of his back. Joker's fingers clawed tighter at the sheets when Bruce began licking the sensitive spot, and a quiet whimper punched its way out of his mouth despite him desperately trying to hush it down. He couldn't help it anymore; the tongue wandered lower and lower, and he knew what was coming. A wave of heat ran through his abdomen at the mere thought, his entire body shaking when Bruce's hands spread him gently, and the soft, moist tongue began flitting against his entrance, circling, prodding insistently yet sensually, taking its time. The warm lips brushed across the loose skin beneath, and Joker moaned, doubling up in a sudden spasm, his head burrowing into the mattress.

Through all those years, he got used to this part of his body being maltreated, although the amounts of attention he had to pay to it preparing himself before setting out to meet Bruce slowly effected in him growing to like it. Sometimes, even fantasizing it was his Bat's fingers moving gently inside of him and not his own could bring him to release, but he never dared to dream he would ever be given anything but rending pain. Now, he felt as if the blood from his entire body pooled in his lower stomach as the deft tongue continued to lavish him with warmth, massaging, slowly finding its way inside and twirling. He heard his own muffled scream when Bruce's fingers brushed down the underside of his cock, teasingly as if knowing a heavier stroke could prove to be overwhelming. His fingertips started rubbing gently the leaking slit at the tip, his tongue still refusing to stop its maddening ministrations. Joker started to break in his resolution to hold on as long as possible, the onslaught of sensations shrouding the remaining parts of his consciousness. He was so close, he couldn't control the spasms or the betraying, breathless moans. But Bruce seemed to know better, and just when the release was about to take over the madman, he stopped. He listened to the heavy panting and almost rueful whimpers for a moment, the sounds more delicious than anything he had ever heard.

Moving without haste, coyly, Bruce reached for Joker still lying face down and shivering out of the recent chafe with the overload. Stroking his hair, he wedged his other hand beneath his shoulders, hinting for him to turn around. The madman complied, reluctantly at first, but finally he switched his position and lifted himself, trying to support his body with his arms. He felt as if his muscles were rendered useless, twitching and trembling, every contraction reminding him of the heat still burning between his thighs. Bruce cupped his face in both hands, and Joker raised his gaze. That look was literally heart-rending, yet the sense of vile satisfaction superseded any other feeling that momentarily fluttered in Bruce's chest. Still, despite his predatory instincts gnawing at his insides now with doubled force, he simply placed a chaste kiss on Joker's lips, his arms snaking around him, cuddling him and tangling his fingers in his hair. This sort of subjugation felt so much more perverse, so much more rewarding. He started to slowly realize how purified he felt now, as if each kiss, each of his gasps and moans helped him smash the frozen monster inside him, grind its remains, shed the layer of loathing. Now, he was clean. He found himself growing more and more desperate; not cradling the other man, but clinging to him. He pulled away before he would lose himself, not without tugging at Joker's lower lip with his teeth first.

Joker appeared to be a little calmer, yet the burning plea in his eyes never went anywhere. Breathing slowly, he couldn't avert his sight, drinking the silent promise from Bruce's lips as they stretched slightly in a wolfish smile. Bruce reached to his side and grabbed the bottle he had prepared earlier, his movements fluid and deliberate. He opened the cap, squeezing the lube over his fingers profusely without breaking the eye contact; he just couldn't sate himself with what he saw. Joker seemed to relax almost immediately as soon as he nudged one finger inside; the tight ring of muscle must have learned a long time ago that contracting equaled more pain. The thought of it made Bruce's stomach clench, but he continued, pushing his finger deeper, rubbing and stretching, observing the subtle changes on the madman's face with silent reverence. A soft, breathy moan signaled he had found the right spot, so he indulged him for a few minutes, his thumb brushing against the sensitive skin just above. He wanted more, again. His lips still weren't satisfied; they ghosted down the arched neck, nipping at the collarbones, tongue rolling over the reddened nipples while he sent another one of his fingers inside.

Bruce wrapped his other arm around Joker's shoulders to keep him from falling flat on back, the prolonging preparation and the flitting, teasing tongue starting to threaten to take all the remnants of self-control from him. Those fingers moving inside of him, twisting, rubbing all the right places in just the right way brought him dangerously close to crying, the vehement lust creeping up and down his spine unable to find its way out.

Without a warning, the fingers were gone. Joker's eyes fluttered open and darted to meet Bruce's, not even trying to smother down the seething demand in his gaze. Something about the man's demeanor told him he didn't have to, not anymore. He watched him rise to his knees and undo his pants. His pupils followed the slowly descending waistband, unraveling Bruce's rock-hard cock. The mere sight only added to the frenzy already in full sway inside of him, and when the man poured more lube on his hand and began stroking his erection, spreading it over the velvet, throbbing flesh, he had to employ the last reserves to keep himself from pouncing him and finally closing the damned distance. He shifted anxiously, waiting as Bruce slowly leaned onward, his slippery hands spreading the flushed thighs. Bruce's heart was beating so fast it almost ripped out of his ribcage as the tip of his cock began to push slowly into the welcoming warmth. His vision darkened for a second, the body splayed beneath him arching and jerking wantonly, urging him inside. He felt Joker's legs wrap around his bare back, forcing him to plunge onward, connecting their bodies with one, slick thrust.

The fire in his veins seemed to have burned his retinas; he couldn't see, he couldn't hear, he could only feel the smooth, tight warmth sheathing his cock, the snake-like limbs close around him lest he decided to pull away more than the few inches he needed to thrust again, and again, and again. Finally, his senses started to return, and what he heard could easily bring him off in just a few seconds. The groans coming out of Joker's mouth, each and every single sigh and gasp dripped with pure, undiluted ecstasy, and he wished he could hear it every day, every night, for the rest of his life. His face hidden in the madman's neck, he began to claw blindly at his body, kneading, clinging in a sudden surge of possessive emotions. His hips kept moving and he knew he wouldn't be able to stop them even if he wanted, pushing into the heat in long, smooth but insistent thrusts. He caught himself instinctively aiming at the right spot, trying to give Joker as much pleasure as possible; something he had never done before. The sight before his eyes and the sounds filling his head were like the most beautiful reward he could ever get, and he knew he was going to regret for the remainder of his days what he had been doing to him for the past two years. It only made his blood boil even stronger as he suddenly wedged his arms beneath the sweat slicked back of the man beneath him and lifted him, changing their positions so Joker was on top, their bodies still pressed flush together.

Joker wailed with the unexpected burst of pleasure as the angle changed, his cock rubbing against Bruce's smooth stomach with every thrust of his hips. He couldn't stop even for a second, his fingers dug into the dark, damp hair, tugging, his mouth crashing against the bruised lips, teeth oblivious to the bite marks he had left just the night before. He pushed his tongue inside, devouring the hot sweetness while Bruce's hands kept wandering all over his body, his touch nothing like the teasing torture from before. He could feel the other man's despair mixing with his own as their bodies slammed against each other feverishly, bringing them closer to the peak. Bruce reached between them, his hand wrapping around Joker's wet cock, and he stroked hard, squeezing and rubbing its tip. The madman's body arched back, and the incessant heat inside of him hit the right place with vicious accuracy. His nails ground into the muscular shoulders supporting him. He felt his senses slip away, the growing pressure indicating there was no going back. He screamed, his body convulsing violently as he came, the liquid warmth inside of him and a low, sinfully delicious groan coming from the parted lips pressed against his neck only prolonging this moment.

Next thing he knew, he lay atop of Bruce, his heartbeat slowing down with each indulgent breath that he took, and he couldn't for the life of him recall anything that had happened before that day. He couldn't attribute any meaning to anything beside the greenish eyes he couldn't stop staring at for what seemed like hours now, and he felt their owner's thoughts mirrored his own.