And a Webcam Makes Three

The Joker swept into Crane’s office without so much as a knock on the door, ignoring Crane’s protests and demands. Oh, it wasn’t like he hadn’t played this game before. What was the worst he was going to do? Call his guards?

He yanked the phone cord from the wall as he circled the desk.

“Ah-ah, can’t have you bringing anyone in here, they’ll interrupt our little session—and as I do try to be professional in my recordings, I’d like to keep this just you and me, hmm?”

“Recordings?” Crane repeated apprehensively, but he didn’t have time to say much else before being evicted from his desk chair.

“Yes. Recordings. I’ve been trying everything to get Batsy’s attention, and he just keeps ignoring me. So. I’m going to send him a little…present, shall we call it? And you’re going to help me.”

Crane folded his arms and watched as the Joker began to fiddle with his computer, leaning in close with one hand on the mouse and the other on the top of the monitor, tweaking something every few seconds and glancing between the screen and his hand.

“I suppose I have no say in the matter.”

“Aww, you’d help a friend, wouldn’t you?”

He leaned back, gave the screen a pensive look, then grinned.

“That oughta do it. C’mere.”

Crane quirked an eyebrow at him.

“Why?” he asked slowly, shifting his position in a bid to move subtly away from the Joker.

“What, should I say please? C’mere.”

Crane didn’t move. Joker heaved an annoyed sigh, stood up, unzipped his slacks and yanked them down around his thighs, then grabbed Crane by the wrist and jerked him over. He coiled one arm around his writhing form, pinning him backwards against him, then fumbled Crane’s slacks undone and down with his other hand.

“Now see, wouldn’t this be much more pleasant if you’d cooperate?” he said, dragging the last word out in sing-song fashion and leaning forward so that his chin was resting on Crane’s shoulder.

“Let me go—”

“Oh, come on, it’s for Batsy. And if you won’t do it for him, do it for me.”

He jerked backwards, dragging Crane with him, and fell back into the chair, then shifted Crane on his lap and pinned his arms to his sides, wrapping both arms around his waist so that he couldn’t get up. He spun the chair around so that they were facing the monitor.

Crane jerked back with a hiss as he watched himself move on the screen, reflected as in a mirror with a split-second of lag, the Joker grinning behind him.
Joker reached up, moving cautiously, tightening his other arm’s grip on Crane, and adjusted the monitor again.

“I betcha didn’t even know your computer came with a built-in webcam, didja?”

Crane swallowed and twisted, trying to yank at least one arm out of the Joker’s grasp, but to no avail. Joker pinned him again, grabbed both arms and twisted them behind his back, then shoved him back so that his arms were trapped between their bodies. He kept one gloved hand pressed against Crane’s chest, then reached down with the other and began to stroke him.

The picture on the screen jerked back with a gasp a half-second after Crane did, then he squirmed and tried to pull away with nowhere to go.

“S-stop—don’t touch me—”

“Oh, hush, watch the birdie. Make this worth it.”

Crane arched and bucked in the Joker’s lap, trying to get away, trying to slide to the floor or writhe his way out of the Joker’s grip, but the Joker’s slow stroking motions, the surprisingly soft purple leather against his cock, the image of himself on the screen as he went hard in the Joker’s grasp—it was too much, little electric pulses shooting through his body, warmth pooling in the pit of his stomach and spreading down through his legs—it was sapping away his will to escape far too quickly.

God, he could feel the Joker going hard under him as he squirmed against him, and part of him was disgusted. But…part of him…

He gasped as the Joker’s thumb swiped over the head of his cock and smeared the pearly leak in circles over the sensitive flesh, and he bit his lip to bottle the moan sticking in his throat. He wrenched his eyes shut and tried to will himself against reacting, but his back was already arching, his legs spreading and his feet—barely touching the floor—straining and pressing him upwards, not much, but enough.

“Ah,” the Joker said with a warning stutter, and he clicked his tongue. “No, open your eyes, come on, look at the camera. Be a good boy. Keep those pretty blue eyes on the screen, hmm?”

He opened his eyes and forced himself to look.

In an almost detached way, as if he were watching someone else, he recognised the red flush to his normally pale cheeks, the way the colour was rising with the heat in his body—the perfect circle of his full lips parted in a perpetual silent moan, eyes half-lidded and cut upwards to the screen behind long dark lashes, glasses already set askew by the wanton movement, hair falling into his face—

—he watched the way the purple glove slid over his cock, the way the colour flushed darker at the head, the slick glisten in the light from his desk lamp, even the way the bottom of his shirt hung, parted as if framing his cock and showing only a sliver of pale flesh between the shirt and the tops of his slacks, now tight around his thighs as his knees spread wider—

—he watched with a sick twist of fear and a perverse sense of desire the way the Joker was fixed on the screen, smirk under the painted lips, red smudges stretched and distorted by the deep scars underneath, perpetual grin warping any expression, the way his black-ringed eyes were intent on themselves, and Crane knew that it wasn’t him the Joker was watching, he loved the attention too much, he was watching himself, but then—what was it he had said about mirrors? Was this the same? No, no, he loved seeing himself on television, he was watching himself now, watching his own movements more than Crane’s—

He heard a pathetic keening whine leak from the speakers on his desk, and he suddenly realised that it was an echo of the sound breaking from his throat, and all of his efforts were for nothing, it was too late, he’d shown his hand, he was losing control—oh god, losing control—

The hand left his cock and he watched the screen as the Joker’s echo bit the first finger of the glove and pulled it off, then tossed it, and as it vanished from the bottom of the screen it landed on the desk below the monitor.

Joker reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small bottle, then, with his arm tight around Crane’s chest but his hand bent back, he switched hands and squeezed a fair amount of viscous clear gel into his bare palm. He snapped the bottle shut and flicked his wrist to toss it with the glove, never loosening his grip on Crane.

“Alright, you’re going to have to cooperate now—can you?”

Crane let out a long whine and realised that he had forgotten how to speak.

Joker clicked his tongue and sighed. “Okay, look—I’m going to let you go. You’re not going to fall, are you? Oh, doesn’t matter, just—if you can, you’re going to have to lift yourself, just for a second—that’s all, just a second, I won’t let you fall, hmm?”

Crane bit down harder on his lip and nodded, unable to fight the need to do what he said—because as long as he did what the Joker said, there was still control, there was still order, it was when he fought it that everything fell apart, because it was a losing fight—so long as he went with what was happening, he maintained himself, he still had control—

The Joker repeated the motion with the other glove, pulling it off with his teeth, and he tossed it to the desk, then gripped Crane at the waist, just above the hip, and glanced up at him, away from the screen.

“Alright, come on now, pick yourself up, brace on the desk if you have to...”

Crane leaned forward, stretched his cramped arms, now free from their confinement, and gripped the edge of the desk just enough to lift himself off of the Joker’s lap and onto his toes—his legs were still straddled across the Joker’s lap, and he couldn’t quite reach the floor all the way in this position.

Didn’t matter. His legs were shaking, so all that was holding him was the fact that he was balancing his weight between his trembling grip on the desk and the Joker’s body.

He glanced up into his reflection on the screen, much closer now, and he could see the marks his teeth had left along his lower lip as his mouth fell open in a vocal gasp at the cold touch—slick fingers on his body, running between his legs, moving slow, barely touching him where it counted, encircling the taut ring—he shuddered and couldn’t stop his body from arching and pushing back, and he heard a cackle but couldn’t see the red grin split on the screen. The slick finger dipped inside of him, and his knees buckled—there was a hand on his stomach, holding him up, and he was thankful for it, moaned in gratitude, and a shiver overtook his body, his eyes flickering shut.

“Come on,” he heard the Joker say, and the hand moved from his stomach to his hip, guiding him down, and he lowered himself, following the gentle nudges this way or that, and the breath caught in his throat as he felt the Joker’s cock press against him, and he jerked, gasped, and followed the nudge and the urge to keep going, lowered himself into the Joker’s lap, heard the Joker hiss and choke back a groan, and he reached back with one hand to brace himself against the Joker’s leg as he pulled away from his brace on the desk.

He was still in control—still in charge—controlled his motions, moved slow, taking heed of the pain as the muscles stretched, choked and moaned at the sensation of his body enveloping the Joker’s cock, his voice pitching higher, and he tipped his head up enough to see himself in the screen, forced his eyes open enough to watch himself as he slid down the length, buried the cock within himself up to the hilt, could see the Joker’s face now, could see the twist of pleasure-pain, that look as if he didn’t want to enjoy it—

—and he realised that he had the advantage, not the Joker, that he was the one with the control.

He twisted, let his shaking legs relax, shifted, feeling the cock shift inside him, and he arched back, leaning against the Joker, tipped his head back and shrugged off his jacket—he was going to pass out if he kept it on, so hot, too hot, fever-heat flushing through his body, and he heard the Joker groan beside him, felt the sticky-slick hand run up his stomach under the shirt, then back down, starting at the bottom button and working its way up until his body was exposed.

Parted the shirt and pulled it away from his shoulders but left it on, and he felt the sickly slick grease paint slide along the crook of his neck, hot-wet lick up to his earlobe, soft nip, harder bite, and he gasped and groaned and squirmed at every sensation, his body arching and moving of its own accord, and he heard the Joker groan behind him, not entirely pleasurably.

He tipped his head back down and braced himself with his hands wrapped white-knuckled around the leather armrests of his chair, lifted himself on shaky arms, slid back down, careful, gentle motions, feeling the slick shaft slide against his muscles, feeling his insides contract around the head, and he shifted forward—

“Ah—!”

—slid back down, glanced up into the delayed reflection on the screen, watched himself in the same detached way as before as he rode the Joker, watched his body buck, watched the long-nailed, paint-smeared hands move over his body, one wrapped around his cock, the other on his chest and digging in with curled fingers—

Strange, in a way, how he could so thoroughly retreat from what he was seeing on the screen, how his mind could throw up a barrier and make it seem as if the blue eyes he was looking into weren’t his own.

But then, that’s why he’d stopped looking into mirrors. This was different. This was—this was arousing, Scarecrow watching Jonathan as he lost control, willingly gave it up, desperate for pleasure, begging for more, crying out and unable to fight it, such a little whore, with the body of a virgin...

And it wasn’t him watching the screen any longer—no, it was Scarecrow, but he was still the one trapped inside, riding electric shocks and bursts of heat, shaking and trembling and pushing further—further—in control of how long it took and dragging it out anyway, milking the situation for every drop of pleasure he could squeeze from it, and the Scarecrow was listening to the Joker lose control, loving every minute of it, enjoying the change of pace, the role reversal—how do you like it?—watching and waiting to see who went over the edge first.

Jonathan’s back arched, his head tipped back, his mouth wide opened and his eyes half-closed, his body shaking and strained, pale slender form curved back with every lean muscle showing taut over every sharp bone, and all breath ceased, all motion ceased—the Joker’s hand tensed on his cock, stopped, and he heard a simultaneous cry, a gasp for breath, a burst of life—

Pearly white ribbons draped over the monitor and slid sticky down onto the keyboard, the tension snapped, and there was a sharp hiss behind him, then nothing.

He collapsed forward, barely catching himself on sprawling arms on the edge of the desk. Joker fell back, slumped in the seat, breathing heavy with sweat streaking through his paint.

A shudder wracked his body, and slowly, he dragged himself up on the desk, glanced up into the monitor, brushed the sweat-slicked hair out of his face, and smiled faintly for the camera before pressing his hand over the top of the monitor to pull himself up.

The screen went dark, and that was all that mattered.