This is Halloween [Batman/Joker fic ~ NC-17]

Author Notes:I know this is so late for a Halloween themed fic, very sorry! Anyway. This is a bit different from (S)laughter, somewhat longer, random and perhaps not as fast-paced. Still, hope you enjoy. Thanks for your comments last time, they were awesome, although I don't actually know how to reply to them individually! I'm kinda new to this site. My livejournal is thatso_rad@livejournal.com for the person who asked (I don't have a myspace)

The night-time celebrations reflected bursts of colour, glittering lights and dancing flames against the glass, illuminating the dark cavern of Bruce’s eyes as he brooded over the spectacle taking place below.

Gotham City Carnival was a new addition to the Halloween festivities. An ambitious street pageant implemented to lift the public consciousness from the depths of its further plunge into paranoia and fear, ever since the Joker’s reign had spread panic like a highly contagious disease. Ever since Harvey Dent‘s untimely demise had eclipsed hope for a better future. And especially since word had official declared that Batman was now a cold-blooded killer, a criminal roaming Gotham’s skyline under the guise of a vigilante.

So it was time to shed light on the dank streets and shower them with candy. Sweeten and intoxicate the masses by throwing them their own party. Delude them into believing for, at least one night, that they weren‘t a city of despairing souls.

Viewed from the loftiness of his penthouse, the avenue appeared a single serpentine mass, a living body bubbling with hot lights and flowing like a stream of iridescent lava. It was a magnificent sight, a liberation in the darkness, but Bruce Wayne wasn’t entirely deceived by the façade. Tonight’s grand debut gave him a bad feeling. A niggling anxiety that only deepened as he gazed upon the troupes of exotic dancers and masqueraders weaving throughout the crowd or cavorting atop majestic floats.

The assortment of costumes was vast, dazzling, with many people swathed in rainbow colours in opposition to the typical Halloween fare such as monsters, skeletons and ghosts adorned by adults and children alike. Almost every individual present was masked, face-painted or embellished by some theatrical attire - even those stationary onlookers that thronged the sidewalks, curious, but happier to stand and watch the procession then actively partake.

Bruce had quirked an amused eyebrow more then once, surprised by Gotham’s imaginative turnout. Half an hour into proceedings he’d witnessed pirates sail a gigantic makeshift ship, decks of human playing cards and chess pieces shuffle past, Frankenstein and his bride skip along arm in arm, a bikini clad woman rendered as the Statue of Liberty, and a bizarre host of rod puppets be animated into the air.

Not to mention two of those horrendously fake Batman. And he’d not been certain whether to laugh or take offence when he saw one being cautiously approached by a rookie member of the GCPD.

Current focus of attention was on a group of circus performers, practising awe-inspiring stunts and acrobatics before the public. A vehicle had been elaborately decorated in a circus ring fashion, decked with orange and red stripes, twin trampolines and even a mini tight rope. In amazement Bruce watched as a fire-eater swallowed down a raging torch passed to him by one of the spectators without a wince, then handed it back to her extinguished, its soot coiling up in the air.

They were putting on an impressive show. Although their blanched faces and red lips felt to Bruce, eerily reminiscent of the clown who had terrorised his city. Yet judging from the enthusiastic claps and cheers each body-bending or juggling trick received, it seemed he was the only one who made the connection. Or at least entertained it. After all, tonight was about forgetting.

Farther back in the line, a marching band were striking their synchronised beats, creating the thrumming pulse of Gotham’s underbelly that lay low beneath the merge of heightened voices, raucous laughter and music booming in from all sides.

So far everything had run as smoothly as planned. Wayne Enterprises had no reason to regret its sponsorship of the event and the security in place seemed vigilant and capable, having so far needed to act as little more then cattle herders. However, the night was young and Bruce anticipated a hitch somewhere along the line, considering this number of drunken and excitable people within such a level of proximity.

A brawl or minor scuffle was bound to break out. If not, then maybe a prankster would start letting off illegal fireworks. Or there would be a string of pick pocketing, gone unnoticed in the disco fog and flashes. Nothing major, certainly nothing the GCPD couldn’t handle themselves, Bruce knew. Still he itched to patrol, loom like a spectre above cheerful ghosts and pantomime witches - just making sure.

Fortunately Gotham’s largest threats were dealt with or incarcerated for the present. Two-Face was gone. Crane was still being treated with a daily dosage heavy enough to keep him as docile as a puppy. And six months ago, the greatest danger of all had waltzed back through the gates of Arkham Asylum of his own free will, stopping to ask one of the first orderlies he met if this fine establishment had any rooms with a double bed and a balcony view available to book, and if so, would they take a wild card?

After an astounded, slightly perturbed Commissioner had relayed the information, Batman had grunted and promised to keep an eye on the situation. But beneath the cowl Bruce had paled. He and Gordon both acknowledged the odds of the Joker remaining in what he deemed his own personal hotel, and Bruce could vividly recall the incident which had last occurred during a procession in downtown Gotham.

Earlier that evening Alfred had urged him to take the night off, pleaded with him to sacrifice a minimum of two hours to watch the frivolity and enjoy the holiday.

‘It’s just considering the amount of masqueraders expected tonight, I’m afraid, Master Bruce, you might become lost in the mix,’ he’d commented dryly, after Bruce had grudgingly relented and invited Natasha around to the penthouse for company. ‘And should anything untoward happen you needn’t have far to travel.’

Accepting his flute of ginger ale (cleverly disguised as champagne) Bruce nodded his thanks, then turned to stare out the window spanning the length of his apartment.

---

‘Bruce, you seem distracted.’

Natasha drew up beside him, placing a light hand on his cuff. Bruce turned slowly, dragging himself away from his thoughts and forcing a pleasant smile to grace his lips - a movement appearing natural and was almost effortless due to years of honed practise.

‘I do?’ he replied airily, taking a sip of his faux champagne. ‘I think all the lights must’ve had me spellbound for a moment there,’ Preoccupied, his eyes darted down towards the lively spectacle again. ‘Sorry.’

Her touch slipping from him, Natasha stepped closer to the window. She was a vision of loveliness as usual, fitted in a cream backless gown that shimmered in the dewy glow of the apartment, her golden hair tumbling about her shoulders now she’d loosened it. Bruce knew he was Gotham’s most envied bachelor, dating a prima ballerina, a women of her talent and beauty.

As always he despised himself for playing selfish games, enticing these women into a charade that would only serve to benefit his playboy image and protect the Batman. He wished there was some method of avoiding it - the crush of her face, the hurt mingled with confusion he’d have to witness when he eventually broke it off.

An hour before they had shared a quiet dinner downstairs in the hotel restaurant and since returning had exchanged idle chitchat, while Bruce observed the parade, trying hard not to disappear into himself.

‘What do you think of it?’ asked Natasha, gesturing outwards with her slender, manicured fingers.

In the distance Bruce heard an explosion and seconds later a flare ripped through the sky, cracking it into red fragments that fell with ear-splitting cracks and pops. Myriads of fireworks began to soar in its wake. Natasha exuded a long sigh, her eyes widening with enchantment.

‘The parade?’ Bruce replied. ‘Well, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Gotham quite this colourful before, that’s for sure.’

‘That’s true,’ agreed Natasha, her breath clouding the surface of the glass for being so close. ‘I hope they do it every year.’

Discarding his glass, Bruce took to her side. ‘I think we made a good decision to fund it.’ He swallowed thickly. That statement remained a lie until the night reached its end, unscathed.

‘Who’s idea was it?’

‘Uh, I don’t know exactly. But apparently New York do a similar thing, and Metropolis, so the governors wanted to try it out here,’ Bruce shrugged - a picture of nonchalance. ‘Sounded cool, so I agreed.’

‘Well, I think its just wonderful. Your company’s so generous, Bruce. You’re so generous,’ Natasha turned to him and beamed, their statures nearly matched owing to her athletic and tall form. ‘Can we go out to the balcony? I want to hear the music.’

‘Of course,’ said Bruce, shadowing over his reluctance with an accommodating smile. He brushed Natasha’s bare shoulder. ‘Do you want me to fetch you my jacket? It might be pretty cold out there.’

‘No, I’ll be fine,’ she replied softly, reaching to clasp the hand Bruce had lain on her shoulder. Stiffening he allowed it, but the moment she leant to kiss him, casually tilted his head away to the side.

‘Hmm, what are you wearing? Chanel?’ he murmured into the curve of her neck, pretending to only just detect the fragrance.

Natasha shot him a questioning look. ‘Yes. You bought it for me, remember?’

‘So I did!’ Bruce chuckled nervously.

A billionaire socialite who held no other obligations but to lounge about, drink and host extravagant parties shouldn’t find himself so busy that he’d forget what he bought as a gift for his girlfriend only last week. That was not smooth. Yet neither was leading someone on, he thought glumly. They had only kissed twice, he didn’t want to make it a third time. Repentant, Bruce squeezed Natasha’s hand and wordlessly led her to the other end of the high-rise which opened out onto a veranda.

---

The air was warm when it hit Bruce’s face, the breeze seeming to throb like living matter, seep into his bones as though magically charged. From this detached height, the effect was almost somniferous. But below them the parade’s noisy, hedonistic atmosphere was showing no clear signs of slowing. People were getting wilder, their shouts louder.

‘Look, they’re handing out sweets.’ remarked Natasha, peering over the balcony ledge.

Her voice averted Bruce’s critical focus on two lax officers laughing with each another, ignorant of the crowd milling around them like rainbow confetti.

‘What is that supposed to be?’ he asked, mystified by the float to which Natasha was referring. The truck was barely camouflaged with white sheets draping its roof and insides - notably one of the poorer efforts amid the festivals impressive displays - but that wasn‘t what puzzled him.

Behind the vehicles folded-up shutters were crammed an assembly of men and a smattering of women all dressed in plain linen identical to the sheets. Each wore their hair slicked back, flattened to their head by grease and their eyes were blackened with kohl, white paste slovenly applied elsewhere on their faces so the overall effect resembled a skull.

These ‘skeletons’ were the ones tossing chunks of multicoloured candy into the crowd, smiling creepily as hoards of children rushed forward in delight to grab them.

But the strangest feature of all was stood centre stage upon the trucks roof.

‘A cowboy with a crew of skeletons? I don’t know, I think its meant to be random.’ replied Natasha, giggling when she caught sight of Bruce’s perplexed and mildly disconcerted expression.

Bruce squinted for a keener look at the cowboy. His outfit didn’t consist of traditional shades, and was instead a deep blue hue from head to foot, its trousers sleek and tight-fitting, shirt spangled with sequins. The wide-brimmed hat, dotted with rhinestones along its edge, was tipped down shrouding his eyes and a black neckerchief wrapped about the lower part of his face meant gaining a proper look at him was practically impossible.

Winding out from invisible speakers, hidden somewhere between the bodies riding the truck, was a jolty polka melody. Odd and unfamiliar to Bruce’s ears, he took an immediate dislike to the music and frowned when he noticed how the cowboy in contrast appeared to enjoy it, was patting one of his loaded holsters, even tapping his boot heel in time with the tempo.

‘I just don’t get it, why is there a cowboy?’ Bruce huffed, making a flippant gesture. ‘And polka music for God’s sake? It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Well, I guess it’s not like there’s any rules...’

‘No. No rules.’ Bruce chewed the inside of his lip. Why was it he felt irritated for no justifiable reason except --

‘Hey, what’s up with that kid?’ came Natasha‘s sudden shrill tone, derailing his train of thought.

‘What, where?’

The question was answered when his searching gaze fixated on a little boy coughing violently, an indicative candy wrapper hanging slack in his frozen hand. His mother was crouched before him, speaking frantically and shaking his lapels. Although her speech was muted within the high-strung polka music and distance, her panic was virtually tangible.

Soon Bruce realised that the child wasn’t just spluttering, but was burgeoning on a shade of green beneath his Dracula face paint and horrifically, a smile was dragging his mouth upwards. The boys eyes bulged as his lips were peeled rapidly over his teeth and split, spurting blood.

Natasha shrieked, but he scarcely heard it or felt when she collided against him, yanking his sleeve.

‘Oh God, look! The children, its happening to all of them, what - Bruce - what‘s happening?’

Ignoring her, Bruce scanned the crowd wildly. It was true, children dotted everywhere were experiencing the same fate as the boy, now affected by spasms wracking his small form. Firstly they began to spit and cough, choking on air and mere seconds later their skin began to blossom into a sickly tone, the poison reaching its climax by inflicting a rictus grin over their countenance.

Panic began to spread like wildfire in the vicinity of the skeletons truck, when people became conscious of the steadily rife epidemic. From both sides of the street a crescendo of parents and witnesses cries filled the air, uniting in distress and horror.

‘Bruce, what...’

‘They’ve poisoned the candy, everyone whose eaten a piece is being affected,’ Bruce explained quickly. ‘Those guys on the trucks, they’re the ones -’

He stopped abruptly, eyes travelling frantically in search. It didn’t take long to locate his concern. Leant over the edge on his knees, was the cowboy beckoning in haste to his comrades below. This man was undoubtedly the ringleader, Bruce deduced. Despite being the scum guilty of handing out tampered sweets, the skeletons were merely his mindless followers.

One lanky-looking fiend nodded, ducking out of view. When he next appeared, he was carrying twines of green hosing. Bruce watched as he swung the length of tube like a lasso, eventually gaining enough momentum to fling it up for his boss to catch. Once in his possession, the cowboy fumbled into his holster and withdrew a revolver, flipped it playfully, before firing a solid round into the air above him.

Raging bullets hushed the crowd into a shocked, ringing silence. On cue, the polka music was terminated as the cowboy strode with a jaunty, almost merry sway of his hips over to the middle of the rooftop, swooping to grab what appeared to be a megaphone tagged to a shutter.

‘Natasha…’

Bruce struggled to locate his voice, his energy zapped from disbelief. But he had to recover, tackle these new foes, protect Gotham. He had to become the Bat. And in order to do so he needed to escape.

‘Natasha, you need to leave. We might not be safe, I’ll, um, call Alfred and -’

Another unmistakable voice suddenly monopolized the airwaves, drying the words in his throat.

‘Ahem, testing … tes-ting. Can you hear me? Gooood.’ the Joker purred deeply, the mike adding a crackling resonance to his voice, like that of firework embers shuttling back down to earth.

‘Now that I have your attention, Gotham-mites I’d just like to say on behalf of Arkham Asylum’s star studded cast and myself - Happy Halloweeen! My, do we have a show in store for you tonight! But I can see the kiddies are already smil-ing, isn’t that right moms and dads?’

Blackened eyes crinkled above the neckerchief, and Bruce didn’t need superhuman means to envisage the warped smile beneath stretching to its fullest volume. That sight was etched in his brain, an inerasable eye blink away.

The Joker paced to and fro, delighting in the many faces stricken with fear and confusion. In the cave of the truck, his cronies leered at them, snickering. A couple had lit torches and were jabbing them threateningly.

The afflicted children were no longer choking, some had fainted while others were breathing harshly from their paralysed, gaping mouths. Nobody dared to move. Nearby cops eyed the Joker’s gun and hosepipe - its purpose still unidentified - severely out of their depth. They needed Batman.

Spinning on his heel, the Joker suddenly halted and bent as if straining to hear an audience member. Nobody had spoken directly, only faint crying and murmurs could be heard within the confused crowd.

‘What’s that?’ He cupped his ear. ‘Oh oh you don’t recognize me? Why didn’t you say. Here, I’ll give you a clue.’

With that he tore free the black shawl, simultaneously knocking his hat back and sending it flying.

‘Ta daa!’ bellowed the Joker, expressing a theatrical bow.

The revelation cut a shiver through Bruce and everyone else watching. Natasha whimpered, clinging tighter to him. Bruce could sense her quivering. From some area of the crowd arose an aghast scream which prompted the Joker to chuckle to himself, positively flattered, before ambling on with his spiel.

‘See, I’ve never been fond of masks like the Batman. Too constricting, too confined. Hate being confined.’

The crowd seemed to solidify, blending tight-knit together as they listened, regarding him with spellbound terror. Safety in numbers didn’t apply tonight.

‘Speaking of Batman, where is my ol’ fruitcake tonight? My sugar plum fairy of the sky?’

Twirling in a circle, the Joker scanned the skies. Bruce had the stupidest urge to duck down for fear the clown might spot him and give the game away before he could beat him to a pulp. Any minute now he was going to leave, relieve Natasha’s clamp off his arm. Any minute.

‘OOOoohhh BATMAN!’ the Joker wailed spookily into the mike, his eyes becoming saucers.

It’s echo slithered into every corner, every ally, pursuing Bruce, wanting to chase him out of the shadows. For the first time since he’d been that petrified boy trapped in his fathers well, he wanted to cover his eyes and hide from his fear. It was a knee-jerk reaction, a cowardice he was too strategically trained to follow, could overpower as the Batman - but still it shamed him.

The Joker had dug his claws in too deep.

‘Bet you miss him now, huh?’ the Joker berated, looking back at the crowd. ‘Be willing to bend a few rules now. Didn’t I tell you the only way to live is without em’?’

He surveyed their faces contemptuously, connecting with random individuals during the sweep of his gaze.

‘You people ne-ver learn, do you? Well, let’s see him save you from this. Crank up the time machine boys!’

Something ignited, surging to life a whirr of machinery. Red mist began to spout from the Joker’s hosepipe, florescent spurts that billowed and expanded like candyfloss as soon as it touched the air.

Fear toxin flashed through Bruce’s mind as a possibility, but was quickly discounted when he spotted a women clutching her face as though she had been attacked by a horde of angry bees. The effects weren’t fear-inducing, they were corrosive - attacking, melting the surfaces of people’s flesh.

‘Run free my pretties!’ the Joker cried, grin widening as the puffs began to descend over the masses, budding into a thick enveloping blanket.

The skeleton’s scurried to street level at their master’s call, torches flailing and tempering the mist, whipping it into a whirling frenzy. People began to scream like wounded animals, hyena shrieks that weren’t recognisably human consumed the night.

Mist developed so quick, that a blink later Bruce couldn’t see anything but swarming through the acidic fog. It was as though the almighty hand of God was angling a magnifying glass to citizens, scorching them like ants in the sun. This small speck of Gotham had exploded like an anthill. Gunshots were being fired sporadically as cops tried to take aim at the onrush of insanity, but the situation was out of control.

Bruce ushered Natasha inside, into the care of a waiting Alfred and turned back, deaf to her pleas for him to come along too.

‘Yeeeeeeee haaa!’ the cowboy yodelled, brandishing the hosepipe in great swishes of ecstasy, taking no cares to avoid the spray himself.

Clearly, he was immune to this poison and apparently so where the Arkham inmates. In a great lurch, he directed the acid to the other side of the street and shook it furiously.

‘Oh yeah, c’mon c’mon come on,’ he growled, eyes wide and manic, the smile hungry, but slowly being fed as he watched the liquid spill forth like a severed artery. ‘Yes, haha-haha-haha!’

This was exactly his brand of heroin, Bruce realised hollowly, this is what men like the Joker thrived on. This was the addiction Bruce would never understand, and for all his efforts, be able to cure. All that was left to do was punish, or remove the clog in the wheel altogether. And Bruce would only allow himself one of those options.

When satisfied he’d distributed enough utter turmoil, the Joker abandoned the tube to flee, leaving it to stream like a bloodied waterfall down the trucks side. Sliding from the roof, he caught the trucks wing mirror and jumped the short height to the ground, where Bruce lost sight, for the crimson haze which sucked him under. A perfect deterrent.

Seething, Bruce finally tore his eyes away and ran, sprinting towards the concrete bunker where Batman lay ready to be unleashed.

---

By the time Bruce had took to the skies, he was surprised to discover the harmful mist had already begun to clear itself, forming a sticky webbed substance, now bereft of the crux of its power. These giant mangled veins, offspring of the mist, were strewn across streets, pavements, crawling up windows, the threads themselves exuding a faint smoke as they fizzled. He suspected its components were completely unknown, specifically brewed for this occasion, so would have to be tested later in hopes of creating an antidote. No doubt a formula that the likes of Crane would have helped the Joker to devise in between his transient stays in Arkham.

Victims were scraping their freedom from the gloopy netting, and Bruce was appalled to comprehend their severely burnt faces, skin bubbling on their bare arms, and clothes which had been corroded in places revealing scalds that looked second degree or worse, it was hard to judge. One thing was certain though, the damage was paramount. The Joker had outdone himself with this sickening foray. Madmen had to be stopped. Tonight, somehow, some way Bruce vowed, on behalf of all these people, the Joker would pay.

Potent and hot as a witches cauldron was this built up section of Gotham, its occupants scrabbling from the ruins, yet still wallowing in despair. The sobbing and cries rung out, unabated, bearing down on Bruce as he swept from rooftop to rooftop, striking down terrorisers running through the mix, skeletons intent on wreaking additional havoc.

Extra effort was required to hurl the batarangs, the heat intensity such that the very air seemed to ripple before Bruce‘s eyes and penetrate his armour, slowing his actions. Sweat slid from his brow, welded in the mask and stung his eyes. Blinking it away, he struggled on, piercing another skeleton mindlessly trying to set fire to a drainpipe, then yet another smashing a store window. Muggy air infiltrated his lungs. The Joker had vanished, leaving heat as Bruce’s mocking antagonist now, one he couldn‘t pacify with weapons or fists.

When the first shout of ‘It’s Batman!’ reached him, causing crowd heads to lift, Bruce hearkened sirens finally beginning to wail, promising their true salvation. Paramedics and cops. After swooping to the other side of the avenue and cutting down the final offenders, bolting now they knew of his presence, Bruce dropped into an alleyway.

Batarangs were lodged and services were on their way fighting through the blocked roads and flamboyant traffic backed up two miles ahead. Gordon had his hands full certainly, but Batman had done all a wanted vigilante could do without risking a dozen shots. Except - find the source.

---

Rain was starting to pepper the ground when Bruce reached the Narrows, after passing a plethora of blaring sirens as he drove high speed towards the filth-ridden harbour where the Joker had most likely sought refuge.

If the agent of chaos retained any predictability it was that he never sacrificed a chance to lure the Batman, seek his attention. Usually the Joker didn’t try to escape until he’d indulged in some excessive torment and wouldn’t try outwit or lose him until the very last minute. He just couldn’t help himself. At least that was what Bruce was counting on while hunting through the murky recesses and alleyways for any sign of his nemesis.

While he was clambering onto a low garage roof to afford himself a better vantage point, a not-so-subtle sign suddenly roared its way around a narrow corner. A motorbike - noisy yet decidedly ragged - sped into view saddled by the one and only Joker, his hair flown back and jewel-incrusted trouser flares whipping in the wind as he rode.

His features blazed in the darkness, eyes glinting and wild - a beast set free from its confines. Bruce didn’t hesitate to take a running leap from the roof when the Joker crossed under him, to collide full force and throw him from the speeding bike.

Joined together they hit the ground, the Joker recieving the worst deal from landing backwards, his legs swept out from under him. Recovering quickly from impact, Bruce fisted his hands in the Joker's shirt menacingly. ‘Why’d you do it?’ he bellowed, over the screech of the bike skidding into a heap of clashing, clanging metal ahead of them.

Grimacing from a blow to the head, the Joker scrabbled blindly to escape the clutches but Bruce held fast, the heavy weight of his body and suit combined crushing the sinewy form beneath him.

‘Why?’ he demanded again, strength of his roar rivalling that of a klaxon, and directed so close to the Joker’s face the flying spittle specked his cheek and lips.

‘Do what?’ Disorientation seemed to have temporarily affected the Joker for he emitted a low moan, lip curling. Not in the mood for an ounce of sympathy, Bruce shoved him till his eyes snapped open, focusing hazily.

‘Hey, I was just here minding my own business - in my own patch. Then, whoosh, bam! you strike like thunder!’ Fluttering his eyelashes up at Bruce, the Joker brought hands up to fondle his shielded biceps and leant to whisper, ‘Honey, if you wanted another round - you could’a just made an appointment. I’d be more then willing to ob -’

Cutting the Joker off mid-sentence with an unforgiving fist, Bruce tried to quash the impact the words caused deep inside himself, that shot of adrenaline laced with physical - sheer bodily- desire he didn’t want to contemplate.

Recollections of writhing and arching on the table of his doctors office, of the Joker dressed in drag, lurid smiles as gloved fingers penetrated him, whispers of lewd commentary in his ear, the taste of the man’s salty skin on his tongue…

Bruce had fought so hard to shun the memory. And during the Joker’s comparatively long spell in Arkham the elapse of time had helped him pretend it never happened, such was the power of his self-denial.

‘You poured acid over the crowd, you maimed those children.’ he spat, teeming disgust for the Joker’s heinous crime overriding the momentary disgust he felt for himself. Now was not the time to dwell on it.

Through his dribbling nosebleed the Joker began to laugh hysterically, thrilled to discover that Bruce had been witness to his destruction.

‘What - hahaha, what are you talking about, that - hahaha-ha - that was bubble bath! They loved it!’

‘That poison, what is it? Does it do more then burn?’ If he could wrangle the truth out of the Joker, he could message Gordon and let the inundated hospitals know of a possible antidote.

‘Will they die?

At this the Joker only wheezed harder, so Bruce shook him like a rag doll, flinging his head back and forth, thudding it brutally against the road. The fit of cackling morphed into a jarring sound.

‘Will they die?’ he roared.

‘I’m… not sure! Ow, wait no, they’ll be fine. Scouts honour,’ the Joker saluted, in an imitation of boyish innocence. Not fooled, Bruce grabbed his throat and squeezed, as if to forcibly remove the truth.

‘Okay, kay - urgh, - I don’t really know,’ Gulping in a breath, the Joker used it to snicker. ‘Heh you give some, you lose some. Life’s like a box ‘a choc-co-lates! Never know what’cha gonna get!’

‘Joker, its because of you hoards of people, children are in hospital -’

‘And where was Batsy, hmm?’ the Joker interrupted, with a reproving click of his tongue. ‘I swear the whole job was so easy without you, it was almost dull.’

Bruce’s grasp slackened involuntarily. ‘I - I couldn’t. I was at the penthouse,’ he faltered, fuming, the shock of seeing the Joker again hitting him with renewed force. ‘It’s been months! You’d walked back into Arkham!’

Drizzle from the sky had strengthened into a shower without them noticing, battering Bruce’s suit and soaking the Joker from the ground up. The back of his silk, sequinned cowboy shirt had become immersed and muddied in a steadily filling puddle around him. Clothes squelched as the Joker struggled to sit up, to contemplate Bruce properly.

‘Oh, so you thought I was gone?’ he gasped, half amused, half scornful. ‘Thought you’d nabbed a night off? Well, think of tonight as a lesson. Standards Batman!’ the Joker pointed accusingly, jabbing Bruce in the chest. ‘Mustn’t have you dilly dal-ly-ing, now can we?’

Furious that he was being reprimanded from the Joker of all people, and furious that it held some degree of accuracy even in jest - Bruce knew he should’ve reacted faster, should’ve been out patrolling - he took another swipe at the clown, forcing his head back down and drenching his hair and forehead with the rainfall.

‘Sooo,’ crooned the Joker, smoothly mopping wet locks of blonde hair off of his brow once he‘d resurfaced. ‘Next time you’ll come when I call? Promise?’

The green dye had gradually washed or been scrubbed out during his stint in Arkham. However the abhorrent greasepaint remained, streaking from rain and sweat, but so far still proving resilient. It was in that moment that Bruce realised how much he loathed the makeup, how it represented everything unnatural about the Joker - the fear it stuck into the hearts of Gotham citizens when it was unveiled. If it was gone, would he seem any different?

‘I’m not your playmate, Joker. This isn’t a game.’ grated Bruce, taking advantage of the Joker’s slack posture, his luxuriating in the water to suddenly grab his wrists and pin them above his head. Despite this, the Joker didn’t attempt to budge, instead shifted to settle comfortably beneath Bruce.

When Bruce commenced a body search, running a hand over his front, sides, legs and lower back, exploring for concealed knives or other weaponry, the Joker issued a rough giggle. ‘Oo ooh getting frisky, are we?’ he uttered, arching up provocatively as Bruce quickly skimmed his groin.

The precautions were fundamental if he intended to try and cart the Joker away, bundle him into a holding cell without risking being stabbed in the leg for his troubles. But the Joker was testing the limits of his patience by arching up like that. It dragged obscene memories to the forefront of Bruce’s mind and he was eternally grateful for his mask to hide his flush while he pushed the thoughts away.

‘It’s the outfit, isn’t it? It’s so fabulous.’

‘Shut up, quit doing that.’ Bruce grunted, slipping a hand under the Joker’s leather belt and discovering a switchblade taped to his person.

Number two was found against his other hip. He yanked them free and cast them into a steep puddle far ahead. They would be rusty by morning. Digging a knee into the Joker’s thigh to keep him down, Bruce unbridled his belt, systematically as possible and cast it aside also.

Having his precious knives confiscated triggered an abrupt change in the Joker’s temperament and he instantly became a livid, wriggling mass twisting violently in Bruce’s grip. Taken aback for only a second, Bruce fought silently to restrain his wrists using both hands. Hateful, the Joker stared him out, no longer laughing.

Weather had worsened, beating ferociously now. Things were becoming slippery and Bruce had to blink frequently to windshield the rain, blurring his eyesight.

‘Where’s the pistol?’ he questioned the Joker suspiciously, voice low and level.

‘My dog ate it.’ the Joker spat, spraying Bruce’s face with each angry thrash in his shallow water pool, head bobbing like a jack-in-the-box. ‘Let me up, I’m drowning here.’

Although he was in no such predicament, Bruce acquiesced, carefully allowing the clown to sit upright. For about five seconds the Joker played along dutifully, panting and seemingly exhausted from his exertions, but the moment grip was loosened he dived through it, vaulting his whole weight over Bruce.

‘Wooopsie!’

They rolled, scuffling in the downpour, Bruce winning the upper hand, then the Joker - his body a wiry ball of energy strangely hard to throw off once latched on. Slaps and shoves were traded rather then full-blown punches and the scrap remained fairly light by their standards until Bruce caught the Joker in a headlock and he retaliated with vicious scratches to his mask and visible face, groping to stab him the eyes.

But instead those glassy claws snagged on Bruce’s cowl, disfiguring it. With the enragement of a taunted caged animal, Bruce roughly dislodged the Joker’s kicking and tearing limbs from his body with a frustrated roar and landed a partially blind blow to his antagonists jaw. The force was heavy enough to propel the Joker completely backwards, spine arching as he flew. There was a painful wet smack as he found comfort in unyielding concrete.

Quickly realigning his cowl, Bruce shifted to where the Joker lay in a wonky heap, forearms raised crab-like in the air. The Joker blinked sluggishly, groaning inwardly at the knowledge of being trapped again when Bruce clambered over him with ease.

‘Look’s like its raining on your parade Joker.’ he remarked, tone exuding as much solemnity as possible through arrhythmic breathing.

Nursing his jaw, the Joker scowled up at Bruce. ‘Newsflash, the bat has wit.’ he snapped. ‘Huh. Too bad it sucks.’

Just then it occurred to Bruce he’d never seen the clown look so blatantly peeved, dare he say serious. Of course that was prone to alter but for now he allowed himself a little pride for its achievement.

Floating in murky water, the Joker’s hair fanned around his face like a subversive halo, and Bruce reached out to wade his fingers through it gingerly as though expecting it to feel of some other texture then hair. It didn’t so he released it slowly, contemplating his next move.

The removal of the dreaded make-up.

With the Joker subdued and regarding him with dark, vaguely curious eyes he figured now was as good a time as any. However, protests began the moment Bruce pressed a soft thumb into the Joker’s cheekbone and along it. White paint smeared off in a fluid stroke, coating his black glove.

‘Oi, Bats.’

‘Stop squirming.’

The Joker stiffened under his touch, eyes flickering in quick, quizzical study of Bruce‘s face. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Seeing if I can wash you clean.’ he murmured absently, dipping his fingers into the rivulets cascading towards the gutter and swabbing a little harder. The Joker’s skin was already warm when it should have been cold.

‘What, trying to baptise me?’ the Joker gave a indignant guffaw, wrinkling his nose. ‘Cleanse my sins? Already done sweetie - don‘t think it quite worked.’

Bruce gazed at him, stunned by the offhandedness of his tone and remark, but more distinctly the bitter candour that shone through it. Intuition told him this wasn’t a deliberate lie (and the Joker’s tended to be elaborate weavings) - but perhaps a real insight into the man’s previous life. A background he himself had claimed was blurred, but perhaps that wasn’t quite so.

Choosing not to dispute, Bruce said nothing and set to pondering the ambiguous possibilities - each as likely or unlikely as the last - while working steadfastly on clearing away greasepaint. Every human being held a past, but the Joker’s was so lost, he seemed to be an anomaly.

Was it foolish to doubt if he even has a past, Bruce mused. If there are no evidential records, no family, friends or eyewitnesses to contend you having lived before bursting into Gotham like a destructive meteorite in a shower of flames and sparks, and your own memory betrays you too - did you actually exist before? If so, where is the evidence?

Although to seriously suggest the Joker could be such an exception, (going as far to treat him almost as an extraterrestrial) was to defy logic, and the rational hemisphere of his brain, Bruce couldn’t help himself from entertaining the most absurd notions when faced with an inextricable mystery.

Red, white and blue war paint melded, tainting the rainwater a dingy purple colour as it sailed towards the gutter. Each time the Joker struggled to rise, bored with his de-makeover, Bruce shoved him back in place, water logging his hair and allowing veins of water bleed over and sting his eyes.

He ignored the beastly growls and random buffeting he received to his arms, too engaged in his task for the actions to feel vexation. Eventually the Joker’s physical hostility petered out, causing Bruce to fathom whether he had all but given up the punch or was reserving energy for a particularly violent attack. Either way he persevered with scrubbing till the scarred flesh revealed its true, quite unremarkable, colour.

The Joker’s bare face appeared strangely handsome despite the scars that distorted his cheeks, slashed through his lower lip. His youth was more pronounced without the paint, those normally stark white areas were lessened to a fair, clear complexion, and eyebrows were a soft, sandy colour now matching wavy tresses falling across his forehead. His cheeks had developed a ruddy hue from friction, giving the impression of a healthy glow while the rest of his intriguing boyishness was emphasised by the presence of freckles dotted across the bridge of his nose.

Bruce stared. ‘You’re just a man… How can you be just a man…’ he murmured, the intonation sounding almost revered, yet it was pure astonishment.

The air shifted and a pang not dissimilar to pity shot through Bruce as he studied the planes of the Joker‘s countenance, carefully and methodically as though the scars themselves would prove vital clues if only he could decipher them, meanwhile all the time reflecting, wondering with a rare undue sadness for the man before him - where did things go so wrong?

Hands bunched by his sides, the Joker lay uncharacteristically still, observing Bruce warily as if he were waiting for something to happen, expecting an attack he didn‘t have the means to counter, even with laughter.

The sound of water drops pinging off kevlar pervaded the lengthy silence that stretched out between them, little rivers flowing over Bruce’s finger tips and cascading over the Joker’s hair and clothes. The Joker spoke first, after drawing a sharp, almost hesitant breath.

‘Hey Bat-freak,’ he called snidely, resorting to familiar jibes. Bruce tried not to feel disappointed for expecting something other, at least this once. ‘Why don’t you go ahead and take a picture too? It’ll last longer.’

Their eyes met, and Bruce could have sworn he noticed a trace of vulnerability belay that cock-sure tone of voice, the way it slightly trailed at the end, as if lacking conviction and how its accompanying smirk seemed almost a conscious effort this time. Curving lips weren’t so menacing now deprived of their bold rouge.

‘And y’know, keep you awake on a lonely night,’ After a pause the Joker continued to salvage his patter, aiming to upset the disquieting atmosphere. ‘When, of course, Mister But-ler isn’t there to lend a hand. Heh - right?’

Enduring the taunts with a stoic expression, he watched the Joker’s speedy recovery unfold, any fleeting distress or self-consciousness from his exposure healing itself like a magical wound before Bruce‘s eyes, leaving no trace behind. Without even needing to play off anger and punches, the Joker kept the act going unaided, nodding as if Bruce had replied and flashing a playful wink.

‘I’d even,’ the Joker leant up to whisper coyly, as if proposing an act terribly scandalous. ‘Do a pose if you want.’ he emitted a hissing chuckle, reaching up to trace dainty circles over Bruce’s breastplate with his finger.

‘I’ll pass.’ Bruce caught the Joker’s wrist, impeding the other hand that was beginning to journey south, sneaking between their bodies.

Bruce resisted expelling a sigh. Quiet contemplation was over. The rain was receding and it was back down to business, back to the old routine.

The Joker tilted his head lopsided, tongue clicking. ‘Soo what else?’

Dour faced, Bruce got to his feet, hitching up the crumpled man roughly by the collar.

‘Time to take a ride I think.’

The Joker twisted to glance behind, squinting at the motorcycle wreckage. ’Errr, don’t wanna spoil the,’ He waved frenetic jazz hands. ‘maaaster plan, but…’

‘No, this way.’ Bruce ordered, swiftly securing the Joker‘s hands behind his back, and marching him in front.

As he impelled the Joker towards a wider alleyway in the distance, where a spray of moonlight exposed half a streamline mould and ebony paintwork, he couldn’t help adding smugly, ‘You didn’t think I would forget to bring something to contain you?’


---


‘I’ll escape, y‘know.’ The Joker commented idly, languishing against the Lamborghini’s side door. He rolled his eyes when Bruce snapped him into handcuffs.

Bruce shook his head, enjoying the finality of the cuffs click. ‘Not this time.’

‘Oh yes. Ev-er-ry time.’ the Joker countered, enunciating each syllable with defiance. He jiggled his shackles, rebellious excitement on the rise. ‘And next time will be worse too, mark my words. I’ll open every asylum and penitentiary, every flea-ridden hell hole.’

Bruce’s hands balled into fists.

‘This was nothing, noth-ing!’ the Joker hooted, throwing his head back and braying at the moon with gleeful, raucous laughter. ‘Next time the whole world will burn!’

‘That won’t happen, Joker. I won’t let you.’ Bruce said resentfully, yearning to land another punch on the Joker’s jaw, despite how unnecessary. There wasn’t an excuse for gratuitous violence, Bruce reminded himself, and the Joker was only spouting words, however captivating and simultaneously cutting they were.

The Joker dropped his gaze back to Bruce, giggling. ‘But don’t you geddit? You invited me!'

‘What are you talking about…’ he growled in frustration, taking an intimidating step forward.

‘When you started prancing about like this,’ the Joker indicted with a nod towards Bruce, one corner of his mouth upturned into a slight, derisive smile. ‘When you became a flying, flapping ro-dent with all those delusions of saving Gotham. You were practically waving me a green flag to come along. Begging for a worthy opponent to test you, so you could be the heeero. Someone like me.’

‘I never did this to be a hero,’ he spelt out slowly and bitterly. Cloaked in shadow Bruce knew he appeared unmoved, in contrary to how his insides were trembling with a surmounting fury the Joker’s words had manifested. Secretly they made him doubt himself, challenged everything he lived for. Everything Batman symbolised.

What was it for, if he couldn’t stop the worst of them? If his very presence attracted villains like the Joker, was it even worth his efforts? He tried to imagine a Gotham without Batman, a city better off without his protection.

At the thought something inside him weakened, as though a vital piece once contained there, that he’d been dependant on up to now had been ripped away. Pain arouse from the gaping hole, the sensation so acute he might’ve mistaken it for physical pain. But the momentary loss quickly augmented to his snowballing anger.

‘And I couldn’t disappoint Batsy, now could I? You had me intrigued, curious - among other things.’ the Joker chuckled mischievously. ‘So very intrigued. Yesss, you gave me the most irresistible offer yet.’ His eyes, an untamed glint in the darkness, dipped to drink in Bruce’s murderous gaze. ‘Oh honey, it was all for you, don’t you see? You gave me the chance to shine! You made me what I am today!’

As a deluge of curbed laughter exploded free from the Joker, Bruce finally lost hold of his last thread of resolve and lashed out, rupturing the noise with a hard thwack to the upside of his nose. The ferocity of a second flat-handed blow was avoided by the Joker when he ducked in the nick of time, veering flat to the cars passenger door in a cowering posture.

‘Some punishment,’ he slurred, laughter dwindling to a throaty giggle. Finally it ceased when the Joker discovered a dribble of blood working its way into his mouth from a renewed nosebleed and he began to lick at it with mild interest, letting it coat the tip of his tongue before swallowing. Once finished, he squinted at Bruce through the narrow slit of one eye. ‘Isn’t it time you tried something’ new? Don’t get me wrong, Batsy babe, I dig the fore-play, but let’s cut to the chase.’

Curled fist wavering above the Joker’s shoulder, Bruce felt like he’d stumbled on a tripwire that caused him to malfunction, to stop unbidden. Anger still had a hold of him, the impetus to brutally pummel the Joker, however useless the action proved, still hung in the air, but he was stunned by the sight of the Joker crunched over, now starting to struggle with his restrictive use of hands, trying to wrestle down his zipper.

‘You wanna help me out here? ’Stead of just gawping at me?’ the Joker hissed, teeth biting his bottom lip back in frustration as he squirmed, twisting his wrists in the cuffs, even bringing them up to his mouth to bite the metal.

Again Bruce felt that hot flush of desire ripple through his body, tingling all the way down to his groin, aware of the sudden triple of his heartbeat. Even the anger that overwhelmed him, always owned him, fuelled the terrible, abhorrent desire. It was the strongest he’d ever felt it.

Bruce stared at the Joker outraged, for a moment irrationally convinced the fiend himself was blameworthy, that he’d tricked him once more into craving the deplorable. But a deeper, scared part of him knew it was a human weakness he could only attribute towards himself.

He wanted this. On some base, sordid level he’d been wanting it the moment the Joker had leapt from his doctors window ledge, left him in that white room stripped, spent and utterly defenceless.

‘No.’ Bruce lied, Bat-voice betraying a human nuance.

The selfish, desirous portion of Bruce assured that giving in was permissible, that he wouldn't be sinking any lower - just trying a different tact. Another form of punishment, no less gentle. Definitely no less gentle. If the Joker had capacity to feel embarrassment it could even be used as a humiliation device - a successful way to gain control. New approaches had to be tried, he reasoned. Violence alone was ineffectual, that became apparent during their earliest confrontations. Options were running out - short of killing the man. And he couldn't, wouldn't do that - he could never become his enemy.

‘Stop it.’

Or he could deal with this by the book - take the Joker in like he‘d planned, imprison him again in Arkham with the hope of catching him the next time he chose to escape.

The Joker raised his head, smile curving slowly - a provocation in itself.

‘Afraid Bruce?’

It was all it took. Spurned both by the goad and titillating use of his name, Bruce advanced towards the Joker in an abrupt stride, batting his chained wrists away to access the zipper himself, and rip it the rest of the way down.

The Joker mouth rounded to a O shape as he gaped, boggle-eyed at his undone pants, unable to form words. In the meantime Bruce grabbed his shoulder and spun him around, slamming his chest fiercely down over the metallic hood, clunking his skull against it for good measure.

‘No, I just don’t wanna see your face.’ Bruce sneered, pressuring one hand just below the Joker's neck to restrain him from standing, while the other wrested away kevlar plates.

Unfortunately his retort only elicited an excited moan from the Joker, accompanied by a wriggle of the hips. ‘Funny that. You seemed pretty interested earlier.’

‘Shut it. And stay still.’

After deftly pulling apart the last obstructing pieces of kevlar and dropping them into a pile beside his feet, Bruce discarded his gloves - he wanted to feel the sweat drip, coat his palms, wanted to bore into the Joker’s skin with blunt nails. The image made a shudder quake through his being and when an unexpected shift from the Joker caused his quickening arousal to deliciously graze the other man’s back pocket, his lips parted into a mute gasp - stifled so the Joker wouldn’t hear he’d given so easily into pleasure.

Eager to feel skin on skin, he moved his hands to the Joker’s hips and hooked his thumbs underneath the waistband, and after a moments uncertainty - could he really do this? - he tugged the Joker’s pants down, peeling the tight fabric from his thighs to expose the warm, slightly sticky flesh - the backs of the Joker’s slender but sturdy legs, the contour of his ass outlined in the moonlight. Bruce let the clothing fall halfway, pooling around the Joker’s knees - low enough for intentions - and shuffled closer, nostrils flaring with sharp intake of breath when his cock brushed the other body again.

His brain took a backseat as his curious fingers glided across the Joker’s unscarred, smooth lower back before venturing to part the man’s pale ass cheeks. Bruce hindered a moan in his throat - the flesh felt soft, surprisingly voluptuous as he massaged it. There was muscle there too, strength, and it made him swell harder. The tip of his throbbing dick secreted, his body aching and desperate to simply thrust, to be encased by those hot, narrow walls that lay so close in reach.

But there was more to it then that. Aside from the raw urge to fuck, exercise the feral lust clouding his senses - lust he hadn’t felt truly in so long - there lingered a higher motive, an even more despicable one. He wanted to hurt the Joker, longed to hear pain bleed through moans and rouse in him that acute humiliation Bruce was always subjected to whenever their paths crossed.

Of course the Joker wouldn’t beg him to stop or dare to admit the tables had switched, but he would nevertheless feel it and Bruce would be able to release six months worth of abstinence, without holding back. Mercilessly pound the Joker within an inch of his life, guilt never once crossing his conscience. After all, the man deserved this - he deserved worse - and Batman was nothing if not a creature of justice.

‘Gimme your fingers.’ As if in warm up, the Joker smacked his lips - the sound so obscenely tantalizing in the darkness that Bruce’s cock gave a rebellious twitch. He slid his fingers to the base. Not yet. The opportunity for a spot of revengeful torture wasn‘t to be missed now he had the Joker like a puppet on a string. For Bruce it too was agonizing, but the Joker needed a taste of his own medicine. Besides when he came, he wanted to come hard.

‘I don’t trust you not to bite.’

Anguished, the Joker uttered a string of low imploring moans. After a moment a faint squeaking could be heard, and Bruce realised he was humping the Lamborghini impatiently, half-hard cock trailing a glistening wet stripe over its surface. Although Bruce felt the urge to squirm and the need for friction just as keenly, he remained statuesque and gripped the nape of the Joker’s neck harder, secretly relishing in the repossession of authority. ‘I said stay still.’ he threatened.

‘Fine!’ the Joker huffed petulantly, falling limp with obvious effort. His shoulder blades flexed once Bruce slightly relaxed his hold, rippling like waves beneath his sweat riddled shirt. Was the skin there was supple or scarred? ‘I just figured you need some help back there, get things rolling. I mean, talk about taking your time. Has the gun gone off already or somethin'?’

In reply Bruce pushed his dry index finger all the way into the Joker, who expressed a yelp of surprise and Bruce was satisfied to hear - discomfort.

‘That what you wanted?’

There was a pause while the Joker adjusted to the intrusion, then clear as a bell he retorted, as if the unease hadn’t occurred: ‘Yes, but honestly? I thought you’d be bigger. Guess the flash cars and showbiz really is compensating for something.’

‘Not the time for wisecracks, Joker, you’re not in the position.’

To his annoyance the Joker wriggled back on his finger and hissed, ‘Mmm, then bite me, spank me, show me whose boss, do whatever you want…’

Unexpectedly he bumped against a mound that he presumed must be the prostate, and the Joker literally howled. ‘Ahh yes, that’s the magic, right there!’

Deciding this was the perfect timing to see to himself, Bruce withdrew his finger.

‘No!’

Smiling darkly at the sound of the Joker’s thwarted cry, Bruce began to work himself in quick fluid strokes, repeatedly teasing pre-come from his slit. When enough was gathered, collected on his head he smeared the lube down over his shaft, once pausing to spit a thick wad on his hand and add it to the mix. Needy moans and incoherent mumbling came from the Joker throughout the hurried task, wet squeaks and slides could be heard as he indiscreetly tried to fuck the hood.

Bruce glanced at the handcuffs, preventing the Joker from touching himself and almost laughed at how they had transformed the clown from an unpredictable yet strangely controlled individual into a pathetic, scrabbling creature, clamouring for release. The power rush surged directly to Bruce’s cock, and when his knees nearly buckled due to self-administered pleasure he knew this could wait no longer.

He rubbed a smear of pre-cum over the Joker’s puckered entrance before pushing in with one hard, intrusive thrust - driving his hips forward, swiftly breaching and expanding the Joker’s insides until his whole length was imbedded within him. He felt the burn along his shaft like a rush to the head, overloaded by sensation. The feeling was so hot and tight, he had to stop and adjust, unable to contain a groan. It spilled from his lips while the Joker remained wordless, breathing harshly as though winded by a mighty blow.

Glimpsing his profile, Bruce saw that his eyes were screwed up, contorted in a cringing pain he’d never witnessed on the Joker’s face before. Grimly satisfied that he was cause, Bruce withdrew and brutally speared the Joker again, bringing his hands up to grip the man’s slim, jutting hips, pressing hard enough for finger bruises as he sank into a unforgiving rhythm - short, nailing thrusts delivered as if he aimed to split the Joker in half with his girth.

‘Gonna have to do better then that if you wanna break me, Batsy.’ the Joker rasped, once his breath had caught up with him and the chafing had subsided. Bruce wondered if he’d made the Joker bleed.

‘Really.’ Bruce speeded his thrusts, pinching the Joker’s flesh in annoyance.

‘Oh yeah,’ the Joker craned his neck to smirk up at Bruce whose only retaliation was to glare, slam his hips harder, try to bury his cock deeper. Much to his irritation the Joker moaned outlandishly in an disturbing imitation of a porn star. ‘Oh ooo harder!’ he giggled, arching and pushing wantonly back on Bruce’s dick.

When Bruce accidentally hit the Joker’s prostate the fake moans slipped into guttural groans. He rattled his handcuffs and began writhing desperately over the hood, rolling and bucking his hips in a spasm, grappling for unattainable friction. The sight of the Joker struggling in vain heightened Bruce's arousal and he shifted the man's hips, plunging into him at a different, harsher angle, deliberately away from his pleasure spot.

The consequent cry of dismay from the other man surged the blood in his veins, he could hear it pumping like a drum in his ears, flowing to one area and towards one purpose. This pinnacle of domination was a delicious rush for his bruised ego, and he was savouring every moment of his power hold over the Joker as he ploughed into him, gathering reckless abandon with each thrust. He could feel the sweat bead in his mask, slowly coating his body with a thin film inside the Bat-suit.

Uttering an animalistic growl he suddenly fisted a tuft of the Joker’s damp hair and twisted it up, stimulating another shrill moan from the other man as his neck was flung back, showing his adam’s apple bobbing and slack lips uncovering a glimpse of dirty teeth. Often he would roll his eyes upwards at Bruce, displaying an aggravating smirk or sometimes a lip-pout, eyes hazed with carnal delirium, both too breathless and turned on to laugh.

Unable to stop himself from stepping up to the bait, Bruce filled the strained silence by yanking the Joker’s hair violently, distorting the sick smile by bashing his head into the car hood, never once slowing his thrusts. Absently, he debated whether to crush the Joker‘s nose just to hear the crunch.

‘Handcuffs.’ the Joker pleaded gruffly, giving them a shake up at Bruce. He was still hard, cock trapped against his stomach, leaking copiously.

Bruce surprised himself by laughing at the request, a low gritty Bat variation that rumbled deep from his chest, echoing around them before ending on a short stark note when he felt his cock pulsate, screaming for release.

Jerking his hips a final time the Joker stilled his efforts, going frigid with rage and frustration. He tucked in his chin, curly stands of hair obscuring his eyes and let his body jolt along with Bruce's movements despondently. It was the Joker’s defeated stance, along with knowledge he was the one restricting his orgasm, denying him any pleasure, which produced enough of a thrill to tip Bruce full-blown over the edge. With a ragged cry he came hard, entire body convulsing through a wave of mind-numbing orgasm. He burrowed his cock deep as possible, depositing his thick load within the Joker and wanting him to feel as he did so.

White spots sparked before his eyes in the darkness, his legs reduced to quivering jelly under the intensity of his climax so he was forced to clutch the Joker’s shoulder to refrain from toppling. Gripping tightly and sagging forward, he felt himself eject into a heady weightlessness, a high where his bones melted to liquid and he knew nothing but pleasure for a few blissful moments.

After a few lazy thrusts, Bruce slid out of the Joker, limp and exhausted, his breath winding down erratically. He stepped back, preparing to deliver some gloating remark, gain the last triumphant word before chauffeuring the Joker back to Arkham.

To his chagrin, the Joker jumped in first. ‘Guess this is as good a time as any to mention - I just might might have a little bit of AIDS.’ he murmured, voice and expression alarmingly dead-pan.

‘W-what?!’ Bruce stuttered, arresting all his movements to stare at the Joker, not even bothering to hide his shock, his mind flailing.

‘Kidding!’ the Joker shrieked, dropping the charade and ripping into howls of laughter at Bruce‘s infuriated expense. ‘Can’t a big bat like you take a joke?’

‘You’re disgusting.’ Bruce spat, although his mind was still doubtful, even a little worried. He would never rest if he didn’t arrange a test after this. Only scum like the Joker would find a plight such as AIDS amusing.

‘Speak for yourself.’ the Joker eyed Bruce’s naked, flaccid cock dubiously, lifting an eyebrow.

The implication caused Bruce‘s cheeks to flush with shame, and he rushed to recover the discarded pieces of his Bat-suit.

As he was hustled into the Lamborghini, the Joker wore a smile of victory.

---

‘Sir, I think you should come and take a look at this.’

Yawning widely, Bruce followed the sound of Alfred’s insistent voice down a flight of steps to the lower floor garage where the Lamborghini was parked among the rest of his elegant collection, that did not include the replacement tumbler or Bat-pod, both of which were safely hidden away in the secret bunker.

‘What -’ Bruce’s exclamation trailed into an embarrassed groan when his eyes settled on the vandalized Lamborghini. Sprayed across the wide glossy hood in lewd, red capitals were the words:

YOU CAN RIDE ME ANYTIME SWEETIEEE!!!

He shook his head incredulously, running a stressed hand through his hair. ’I took him in, I watched them lock him up.’ He looked at Alfred as if to incite a pearl of wisdom but instead received a wry grin.

‘Arkham? Surely you know his track record for staying in Arkham, Master Bruce.’

Bruce’s eyes travelled back to the defaced sports car, its taunting message causing his head to swim with debauched memories of last night. The Joker had stayed in captivity for less then eight hours, thanks to him.

‘Excuse my curiosity, sir, but is there any particular meaning within that message that you can deduce?’ Alfred inquired tentatively, his tone tinted with something suspicious, almost accusatory that Bruce took an instant dislike to. His stomach lurched, twisting into knots of guilt as he imparted a stern look to his butler.

‘No. Its just… random nonsense. This is the Joker we’re talking about, Alfred. There’s no meaning behind anything he does,’ Bruce answered glibly, fluttering a dismissive hand. 'Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could hire someone to remove that paint.’

On that note he turned and left speedily, Alfred’s questioning gaze burning into his retreating back.


---


i.Title from The Nightmare Before Christmas lyrics.
iiLJ cut text from ‘Search & Destroy’ by The Stooges.
iii.Rictus grin inducing sweets are inspired by comicverse Joker Venom. The acidic mist was invented by me, as it felt like something the Joker might use.
iv. The carnival was inspired by New York's Village Halloween Parade hosted in Greenwich Village every Halloween.
v.Joker’s gay glittery cowboy outfit was inspired by… well, we’ve all seen Brokeback Mountain right? ;)

Thanks for reading.
xoxo