Disclaimer: This is strictly for fun; in no way am I profiting from this.
Warnings: Violence, language, character death (not B or J), m/m slash, unfortunate OOCness, and the first attempt at the prelude of rough sex. A bit graphic I think, so you've been warned.
Prompt: Red and cyranothe2nd's prompt that I can't necessarily put down, because it sort of gives away the entire plot, but I don't think she'll mind. Hopefully.
Rating: NC-17
He really should have seen it coming.
He should have... but he didn't.
Another night. A different dank alley nestled in the labyrinthine Narrows.
The lightening flash of a blade and barely there sting burned along the slope of the exposed hollow of his cheek. A wetness smeared across his heated skin. He paused, stunned -the clown had never managed to cut bare skin before. Then jubilant laughter was racing away, chants of "I cut a Bat! By golly, I cut a Bat!" harmonizing with wailing car alarms, police sirens, and smashing glass.
Two sets of foot falls pounded across wet asphalt. A slick pair of soles danced between scatters of trash and skidded around a corner, marked by a white, grinning face and purple coat tails. Black, military-grade boots charged after, unperturbed by the meager obstructions in his path; his single-minded pursuit continuing without pause despite a pop and howl of a drunken bum clutching his newly broken ankle. Pointed ears and a billowing cape whipped around that same corner seconds later.
The adrenalin pumping through his veins brought him to his armored knees just in time to avoid the rusted tire iron probably pulled from the nearby dumpster. It hit the brick wall with a clang and clattered to the ground when his fist struck an emerald-swathed stomach. With a breathy chuckle, the Joker stooped over, raccoon eyes coming level with glinting black.
"Aww, don't be mad, big boy. Ya still look just as pretty. Red is your color, did ya know?"
Curling gloved fingers into greasy green hair, he yanked that painted face into sharp contact with his sculpted helmet. The cackling harlequin staggered backwards -blood seeping between his plum, leather fingers- as the vigilante rose from his kneel and tackled the other man.
"Don't worry," the clown wheezed, flat on his back and smiling at the scowling face looming above him. "I'm sure you'll still find a date to the big dance-"
A hard punch knocked his blood-washed skull back against the pavement with a thud. A red spray erupted from the Joker's curved lips and coated the lower half of the Bat's face in a fine, sticky layer.
It would have been impossible for him to tell; he knew he should have seen it then, but he'd been so lost in beating the laughing psychopath thrashing and frotting against his leg like a dog that he didn't. He should have known then when he stood up -panting and holding the unconscious man by the scruff of his coat- his tongue swiped across his lips tasting iron-
and he was hard.
Later, once the Joker was locked back where he belonged, his head was bowed in the cave's bathroom sink. The scalding water and vigorous scrubbing from the shower didn't quite take care of the fine trace of black around his eyes. Patting his face dry with a hand towel, not much could be done for the dark circles that couldn't be cured with soap and water. He paused, his pupils drawn to the fresh cut on his cheek. A two-inch laceration that wouldn't need stitches.
His finger traced the thick line.
But it would definitely scar.
Fucking clown.
His lips pinched into a frown. Well, better not make the stubborn, old butler wait any longer and send him off to bed. Running a hand through his wet hair, he turned away and set off to throw on some clothes. Alfred usually waited up for him despite Bruce's assertions he would be fine.
Bruce always was.
He paused outside the kitchen, stifling a yawn, and pressed reassuringly on the flesh-colored band-aid pulled taut across his skin. He already knew that wasn't going to go over well. They always ended up here every night, the older man waiting with a hot meal and Bruce always ate it whether he was hungry or not. It was routine.
He strolled into the large, brightly lit kitchen, already performing damage control. "Sorry, I'm later than usual, Alfred. Things took longer than expected." An unconscious scowl wrenched his jaw when his thoughts revisited the painted maniac. "Everything's all right though and before you ask it's just a little scra-" He paused, eyebrows knitted as he realized he was alone. The preparations for a quick dinner abandoned on the long, granite island. "Alfred?"
In the restroom probably.
With a shrug, he moved around the island to fetch the food himself -for once he was starving- but tripped and staggered, grabbing onto the counter to keep his balance. He looked down and promptly froze. His knuckles whitened, and his tense arms locked just to remain upright.
"Al-... Alfred?" trembled past his lips.
It was so appropriate, on the day of Alfred's funeral, for the sky to be a gray and strewn with dark clouds. He was nine years-old again following the slow procession on mud-packed gravel. The rain pelting numerous umbrellas clogged his ears and filled the emptiness behind his blank expression. He was the only one of the lot surrendering himself to the icy downpour. His fists were clenched and hidden away against his sides. The cut under the thin strip of adhesive ached with each slap of a rain drop.
The formal ceremony had felt merely like a dry place to sit for a few minutes. Lucius had taken care of all of the arrangements -and Bruce was grateful, no doubt about that- but he hardly noticed any of the details. Perched on the end of one of the many filled pews, the numerous condolence pats and sympathetic strangers asking after his own well-being were lost in a haze of disbelief.
He couldn't really be here.
This wasn't happening.
Several people had taken a turn at the podium: The priest, Lucius, old friends of Alfred, and even his brother who had flown in from Cambridge to attend. Bruce had been asked if he would like to speak, after all he had been essentially raised by the man, but he had quietly declined. He could hardly bring his too dry eyes to the open casket, much less say something that wasn't a croak of air.
So here he was watching as a rain-slick coffin was slowly lowered into the ground; Thomas and Martha Wayne's headstones not far from sight. His chest constricted in a tight metal vice several sizes too small. His pounding heart lodged in his throat, rivulets of ice ran along the sides of his face. His suit was soaked as he stood under the canopy set for the occasion and weather.
It became real once the first wave of moist dirt coated delicate, red petals of the many roses left on the casket, and Bruce was sure right at that moment this, Alfred, was all his fault.
The coroner had determined a heart attack was the cause, a relatively quick and painful end. Alfred had a bad heart; it was inevitable, he was told.
All Bruce heard was this could have been prevented. He should have been there, but he wasn't. He was too busy running around the city, chasing clowns and beating up petty criminals. He could have come home earlier and made it in time to call the ambulance where they could have been useful instead of telling him there was nothing they could do; it was too late. He could have been there to have at least caught the old man when he collapsed.
But he wasn't there.
No, what it all came down to was Bruce should have been there all along. He was finally seeing the pattern his life as the caped crusader had given him.
He fought and fought and fought, and everyone he loved died.
That day, on Alfred's fresh grave, Bruce made a new vow.
He was done. Finished.
The next day he showed up at the office bright and early, looking as fresh and indifferent as ever. Underneath the protective shield of Armani, immaculate shoes, and a shiny watch was simply a man who hadn't gotten any sleep for the past week and was privately ashamed to be wearing concealer to hide the dark circles around his eyes and lessen the vivid red cut marring his high-cut cheek.
On the first day, Lucius was quick to enter his office just as Bruce was realizing how ignorant he was in the goings on within his own company. He'd neglected so many things.
"I thought it was decided you'd be taking a few more days off."
Eyes intently scanning the report at the top of the heap, he said in a flat tone, "I didn't decide that."
"If you don't mind my saying, Mr. Wayne, no one will think less of you for taking a few more days for yourself. I know how close you and Alfred were. He was like a father to you-"
"I survived it the first time, I'm sure I can do it again."
The utterly bland delivery over the slow shuffling of papers gave the other man pause. "... have you slept or ate at all since the service?"
The way Bruce saw it, not saying anything couldn't really be a lie of omission if it was about inconsequential things, so he didn't answer.
"I'll take that as a resounding no," Lucius eventually murmured in disapproval. "You haven't gone out, have you?"
"No, that's done."
"Done?" White eyebrows arched towards an equally pale hairline. "May I ask why?" If anything he was expecting the exact opposite of the somber man. All the work and dogged dedication couldn't possibly come to such an abrupt stop.
Thin pink lips whitened and filled again with the deliberate roll of his broad shoulders; the constant tension remained there like always as a hardened knot. "Someone once told me it shouldn't be about thrill-seeking. It was, so I'm not doing it anymore. Simple as that."
"Yes, simple... Bruce," Fox started.
He almost looked away from the small print in front of him. Almost.
"I know for a fact it was never about that. You have nothing but the best intentions, but I know when an old man shouldn't meddle when it will do no good. Your reasons are your own, though I still think you should take a few more personal days. I believe you're serious, but you never know; you may have a change of heart."
"I won't." Then he unexpectedly hissed. The papers in his hands crinkled. He watched in distant fascination as a fat drop of blood swelled at his fingertip and spilled over. A small, red splatter on a sea of white and empty black words.
Just then he felt like he'd sworn in blood.
Flash bulbs went off.
"Mr. Wayne- Bruce!"
"Bruce, over here!"
The PR woman stepped forward with a plastic smile. "Everyone, please, one at a time. You there." An acrylic nail stabbed in the direction of a man jumping up and down.
"Alec Meyers, Gotham Gazette. Mr. Wayne, what prompted you to donate fifty thousand dollars to the GCPD?"
"Well, justice and protection of our city have always been a strong issue of mine, as it should be for us all."
"Yes, but does this have anything to do with the drastic increase in crime since the last reported sighting of Gotham's resident vigilante, the Batman?"
"Of course not. Commissioner Gordon and his men should be supported regardless. The jump in crime, all the more reason to."
"Bruce? Summer Gleeson of Gotham News Tonight. Does the apparent absence of the Batman concern you at all?"
"No."
"And why not? Despite his unorthodox methods, he's made quite an impact on the city. He even prevented the destruction of Wayne tower on the Narrows' Night of Terror two years ago."
"I should be what, grateful for him interfering when legal law enforcement is sufficient enough? I'm sorry, but I'm not going to applaud a man, who clearly has issues, acting above the law."
A motley of eager voices assaulted him at that point -the PR chomping at the bit to intervene- until a shouted, "Tell us more on your views on Batman" and suddenly the press conference about his hefty donation became all about Him. Bruce had needed to do this though: To commit to his abstaining in such a way he couldn't brush it off with a simple just one more time. It had been hard, and it would continue to be, but he could do it.
He would do it.
With a deep breath and flash of a beatific, brittle smile, he went on. "Look, for all we know this Bat character could be dead, or he finally woke up from his delusion of being a superhero and decided to stop. In either case or neither of them, I believe in following the law. It's time that we, as citizens of Gotham, take back our city and not depend on masked men with capes. If my donations help improve the police department in such a way that they in turn capture Batman, then all the better."
The next day on the television screen the billionaire's face was quickly replaced with a mugshot of the clown.
The Joker had escaped from Arkham.
"I'm standing outside of Gotham General where no more than an hour earlier the ER was flooded with severe cases of burn victims. The cause, bouquets of ordinary flowers with a deadly twist.
"Emergency calls were placed across the city at approximately one this afternoon immediately after these bouquets were delivered to a mix of office buildings, eateries, and private homes where the recipients were sprayed in the face by a small, well-concealed canister of acid. One such victim being the wife of GCPD's Commissioner James Gordon.
"A quick search discovered Joker playing cards tucked into each arrangement. An anonymous leak from within the investigation revealed handwritten notes on these cards demanding for the continuously absent Batman. Gotham police are convinced the notorious Joker is responsible for today's attack, the newest addition to a string of outrageous crimes since his escape-"
The reporter's face disappeared within a black TV screen. The remote shattered against the wall with a dent.
Needless to say, Bruce didn't watch much television after that.
He was sitting at his desk, the city at his back and the daylight hours still causing him to squint. It was amazing how the typical nine to five was still a novelty to exercise. Contracts from foreign companies sat in a too tidy pile on his large desk, none of them touched save for their edges so they all matched up perfectly. The line of fountain pens arranged to his right had been painstakingly nudged and eyeballed until they all matched up perfectly. Just as he was about to get up after an hour of contemplating rearranging the furniture into something decidedly un-Feng shui, his secretary was stepping into his office with the same deer-in-headlights expression she always wore.
"You have messages from a Miss Victoria Davids asking for you to call her back at your earliest convenience."
A date that, in his eyes, ended in an unmitigated disaster. Pink, glossy lips had swooped towards him, and he had in turn instinctively ducked out of the way.
"The mayor sent an invitation for a benefit in aiding the victims of the er- the Joker's next week, Saturday. Would you like to RSVP?"
He was about to say No; the event was a catastrophe waiting to be created by said clown. Bruce nodded a bit too eagerly instead.
"Mr. Fox scheduled a board meeting at four-"
Please... no more work. He wanted to groan. It wasn't as fulfilling as he thought it would be to become more than just a stupidly grinning figurehead to his company. He kept telling himself he would eventually get used to it.
"Oh, and here's today's paper. Sorry it's a bit late."
The thin stack was set before him; the headline in bold, black letters: More Bodies Found Mutilated on GCPD Rooftop. Once again the ribcages split open. Speculation deemed it different than "creating angels" some religious kooks might pursue in wild delusion. The Joker had made it clear when reports first got it wrong: With rictus grins, they were quite clearly bats.
Bruce's stomach turned, and he looked to the clock mounted over his door. It would be hours until he allowed himself to go home.
He was done, and he meant it. No more living half a life. He was going to be what was always wanted of him: Bruce Wayne was going to be normal.
Unlike his buried self, when he arrived home he failed to see the swing of a tire iron, and everything instantly went black before he could berate himself.
Then everything was a stinging white, and his brain felt to be imploding inside his skull. Piercing beams of light hyper-focused on his pinprick pupils slowly settled into something almost bearable. When his slitted eyes processed the fuzzy edges of granite counter tops and expensive, unused appliances, the scales tipped back to unbearable once again.
He hadn't gone into the kitchen since that night. There wasn't much reason to. Even the food set out from before was collecting dust on the island. He craned his head to keep that dreaded area out of sight, hissing when the wet knot behind his ear pulled taut. Just as the sibilant exclamation slipped from his mouth, his eyes fell on a turning, purple-clad back framed by the glow of the open fridge.
"Look who's awake." The Joker grinned, bottles and cartons balanced in his arms. "Gotham's prodigal son." The last was punctuated by a sharp kick to slam the fridge door shut. If the clown was expecting Bruce to jump at the loud noise in the quiet, he would be disappointed; aside from the wincing at the steady throb at the base of his skull, his fists curled and his wrists tied at the base of his back rubbed against the rope binding them.
"No 'Hello'? No 'Welcome to my, uh, stately Wayne Manor'?" The Joker's tongue flickered against his painted lips like a snake's tasting the air. "Geez, not even an offer to take my coat," he grumbled, moving to the island and dumping his armful in a careless pile. Rolling his shoulders, he shrugged out of his trench and tossed it to the side. "Hang that up, will you?"
Bruce jerked his head -pain withstanding- to dislodge the scratchy material reeking of smoke and gasoline from its suffocating drape over his face. It fell into a heavy pool on his lap. His glare turned baleful.
It was so... surreal watching as his enemy -no, not mine anymore- prepared an easy dip concoction of bruised cherry tomatoes, ranch dressing, and grape jelly. Leather gloves absent, it was a messy, slurping process. If Bruce wasn't so preoccupied with the layered images of the clown and Alfred's lifeless form on the floor behind him, he'd realize the roiling in his chest was disgust and anxiety. A tainted juxtaposition. It'd been so long since he'd last seen the psychopath; from nothing to the atrocities in the media spotlight to him all of the sudden here, now, was bit disorienting, head injuries aside.
"Why are you here?" His voice pushed past the lump in his throat in a dry croak. The sly quirk of the maniac's sloppily chewing gob produced a sinking weight in Bruce's gut.
"I think you and I both know why, Brucie," the Joker replied, not bothering to look at him and instead focusing on his nauseating spread.
"No, I don't. What do you want?"
"What I've been wanting since, uh... forever? It's really quite simple... I want the Bat."
Bruce's jaw locked. All of his fears in this moment: He was alone, unarmed, restrained, with the Joker knowing his true identity. They all came true.
"And you, rich boy, are going to lure him to me."
Or... maybe not.
Judging by the billionaire's shocked and puzzled expression, the scarred man would have to explain. With a long-suffering sigh, he hopped onto the counter, pinstriped legs swinging. "So worthless compared to my Bats; at least he's pretty and smart... I might as well let you in on my genius since you're probably not going to live through this."
"Wait, what did I ever do to you?" It was the expected protest, and, hell, he genuinely wanted to know. His head was aching, and he sensed an impending network of delicate maneuvering with an extremely smart, extremely dangerous homicidal clown about to occur.
"Why not you, Brucie? Just because you're rollin' in the doe I won't remember to include you in all the fun?"
"What fun is happening here?"
"Wellll-luh, I've been super busy this past month what with the mass murder and chaos and whatnot, but busy doesn't necessarily mean I don't get bored. I've been noticing a population decrease in this wonderful city of mine's inhabitants, and I can't have that, no. Who wants to perform to an empty house? I deserve better, way better... Arkham does have the best audience, y'know. Free admission to the world's greatest show, me, at the small price of a few sticks of dynamite. Generous of me, huh?"
Bruce didn't know whether to be horrified or not; he was sure he already guessed where the knave was going with this.
"But that would involve sharing, and that's just not my thing. So this, me and you, is my last howl for attention. See neglect is hell on the looks." And Bruce did see: The green hair was lank instead of its normal wild tangle; the carelessly applied face paint was worn, black-pitted eyes more sunken; his lavender shirt and olive vest was wrinkled and hanging off his hunched frame. He was twitching more. If the Joker slept before, he certainly didn't at all now.
"All these... romantic gestures might have been too much. Subtlety, that's the key. Just one hostage, but not just anyone, Gotham's favorite son... Thought I'd light some candles, strap some explosives to your chest, place a quick call to the Commish and demand a date with my puddin'. Simple, low-key. This can't fail, ya wanna know why?"
He hopped down from the counter. "Because 'a man who clearly has issues' is just too good to resist saving a poor, innocent life, even if it is yours." He sneered in apparent disgust. "But little will he know..." His charred, honey voice stalked closer, crimson lips dipping down to brush the bound man's blood-slick ear. "You're going to barely have a pulse by the time he hears about it."
The chuckles puffing hotly against his ear had Bruce yanking his head away in something not exactly repulsion. His previously shifting arms had paused when the clown came near, but he needed a little more time to stall since the police weren't coming to save him from giving himself away, and he knew for a fact Batman wasn't going to swoop in and save him.
"... I also said he could be dead. This could all be a waste."
A cool hand shot forward and dug bony fingers into Bruce's cheeks, mashing his face. A snarl on the clown's scarred face to match his vicious grip.
"Don't say that," the Joker growled from deep in his throat, sounding torn and bloody as if he screamed much of the same before.
Burning hazel glared into Bruce's own, before the clown again opened his mouth. "I think we'll start with your tongue." A knife snicked into existence out of sight. "That good with you, too, Brucie?" He smiled, standing straight and preparing to roll up his sleeves. "After all, you can still scream without that pesky, waggling muscle."
A small frown tugged on the clown's curved lips as he noticed a beige smudge on his fingers. His thumb rubbed the creamy stain into his pale skin. "Ha! Who'da thunk the billionaire playboy wears make up just like m-"
His amused chortling cut off just as he looked up from his hand. His eyes widened, latching onto the revealed, fresh scar on the other man's handsome face. Bruce knew he was out of time when recognition registered in the clown's shocked gaze, and his hands wriggled through the last loosened knot of his restraints.
"Bat?" That breathy sigh was followed by the creak of the chair as Bruce lunged out of it and tackled the man frozen to his spot. The knife clattered to the floor. Using all of his strength, the other's malnourished weight was nothing when Bruce lifted him off the floor only to slam him down to the tile, his fists clutching handfuls of purple fabric. Bruce was crouching down over the still stunned harlequin, landing them in a stalemate.
Red lips worked soundlessly as the Joker scrutinized the concealer-caked cut. When a paint-stained hand moved slowly upward, Bruce, panting from the unexpected strain, pulled away, but the hand was insistent and continued on only to hover over the upper half of his face. Seconds passed of Bruce staring between the slits of crooked fingers before the first giggle popped into the air, then another, and another until the kitchen was filled with the sounds of positively giddy laughter.
"Oh, oh, this is- this is classic!" His convulsive hooting and howling had Bruce tightening his grip and pinning him down harder against the floor.
"Stop it." Bruce could have gone forever without having that grating laughter pelting his face again.
"I- I can't! All the people I killed and you just- just watched it all from your ivory tower! Bruce-fuckin'-Wayne!" A punch landed onto one of his tearing eyes, but that did little to slow him. "My Batman!"
"Quiet!" Bruce shouted in his face, spit flinging from his scowl. "I'm not him anymore!"
That... that did the trick.
The clown's boisterous hiccups cut abruptly to a gurgle in the back of his throat. His grinning face smoothed to stone. "... and why..." His tongue trailed carefully over his lips. "Why not? You can't just... decide to do that, to leave the game without saying anything-"
Bruce shook him once in rabid frustration and panic. "I can the same way I decided to start this madness. I didn't have to tell you anything. This was never about you."
"But-"
"No! After everything you've done to -what- get my attention, 'lure' me out as you so put it, you don't get to act the victim in all this."
"And why shouldn't I?" the Joker spat, rearing his neck and bucking in an attempt to throw him off. "You left without a word. No 'See ya never, no 'Farewell my fair knave'? I do something naughty; you chase me; we beat the hell out of each other; I let you win 'cause if I didn't, I'd kill you and I don't want that; then you throw me in the loony bin and I happily lick my wounds until I get bored with that and we start all over again. Imagine my, uh, surprise when no one's there to ca- no one's there!"
The knot on the back of his head was reasserting itself with a dizzying vengeance. Annoyed, Bruce blinked and shook his head through it. "Because being Batman cost me enough! Friends, Rachel, Al- Alfred." He couldn't help it; his narrowed eyes drifted to where feet away he found the old man cold and still, and returned suspiciously shiny to the clown beneath him. His tight hold loosened. "I... I don't want to lose anymore."
"You won't."
Before he could realize what was going on, bony fingers were clamping around the nape of his neck and he was yanked forward, scarred lips rising up to smash against his own unsuspecting pair. All his muscles arrested as he stared through bulging eyes into the clown's. He tried to jerk away, but that somehow didn't work like he wanted; it only was enough to place a few scant inches between their mutually panting mouths.
His mind was racing. He wanted to shout 'Why,' but even though air rushed in and out through his mouth, it felt like there was no oxygen to be found in his lungs. He wasn't even sure what exactly happened just now. All he knew was his eyes itched, his knees ached against the hard tile, the back of his head must be bleeding in a prelude to a concussion, and in that instant when the clown kissed him he felt something.
Something better than apathy and misery.
And fuck he wanted more.
Eyes wide open, he tentatively closed his mouth over the clown's, tasting the wax of his lipstick. A sly tongue surged forward between his lips, and all he tasted was the sharpness of ranch dressing mixed with the sweetness of jelly and something unique and strange which could only belong to the Joker. It should have repulsed him, but it didn't and he licked and sucked just to get more of it. Little mewls and growls fell from the clown's mouth with each hungry smack of lips, and in a fit to hear more Bruce bit down and copper swelled and painted their kiss a bright red.
He tried to resist when, with a snarl, the smaller man pushed him off. His confused, unfocused gaze took in the puffy, scarlet lips before movement elsewhere drew his attention. Skeletal hands tore at silk suspenders and proceeded to fumble with the fastenings of his trousers. With a frustrated grunt, the zip was wrenched down and the tip of a leaking erection was revealed. He froze, staring, even as those same hands started on his own pants and he looked down at himself when cool air hit his bare flesh, morbidly fascinated to find himself just as hard.
The Joker didn't waste anytime taking him in hand tugging and spreading the clear fluid around the flushed head. Bruce fell forward, supporting himself on one arm, eyes half-lidded and thrusting his hips into the tight circle of the clown's hand. Giving into the sheer pleasure, he made the mistake of looking up right at the spot where Alfred had died and halting his movements.
God what was he doing?
"Come on, don'tstopdon'tstop, let go," urged the man below him, wriggling out of his pants with his one free hand and squeezing the blood into Bruce's erection with the other. "Bats, please."
It snapped him out of it. Bruce dipped his chin and focused on the purple pants hanging off one long leg and groaning under the sharp nip of teeth on his neck. It was obvious what the other wanted, and for once Bruce wanted the exact same thing.
Hate flaring in his eyes, he tore the psychopath off his neck by his greasy green hair and shoved him flat against the tile. In the mess of white face paint, lipstick, and blood, a satisfied smirk emerged on the Joker's face. Thin, pale thighs parted without a fight, and Bruce helped out by pushing them high on his chest, nearly bending the clown in half, and exposing his hole. The vigilante had never done this before, so he wasn't sure how much was needed in the way of lubrication. When the scarred man kept hissing,"Just put it in, c'mon, do it," he knew it would hurt a lot that way, but he wanted it to hurt just a bit more.
With a feral grin, he pulled his fist back and smashed it against the clown's nose, producing a crack and twin trails of crimson flowing from his nostrils. Through the throb of heat that action brought him, Bruce's fingers sloppily scooped up the blood and smeared it over his cock, creating a slick sheen. He barely paused a second pressing the head against the cackling man's entrance before surging inside all the way to the hilt. A choked grunt sounded and the walls around him contracted in a hot vice. Spots danced in Bruce's vision, and he had to keep himself from collapsing on the man beneath him at the painful ecstasy. The Joker moaned and lifted his hips to force him deeper.
A split-second clarity hit Bruce then: Here he was balls deep in the Joker and he just... didn't care. With a bark of laughter at the absurdity of it all, he pulled out just enough for the tip to tease the rim and thrust back in with a savagery.
Since he was young, people always assumed Bruce was a man quite fond of the color black. Little did they know black was an aesthetic convenience: in his clothes, the cars he drove, the shadows in which he hid, and the armor he donned.
Red.
Red marked his life. The red of his father's blood; the red swirling in ambulance lights; red of the sunrise after a night spent saving the city; red of the rose petals on Alfred's grave; and now the red slash of the Joker's grin, a happy wound seared into his vision and whenever he closed his eyes it glowed in the black like embers left over from an angry inferno.
He saw it now, even as he lay sweaty and panting beside his enemy on the kitchen floor. His fingers still digging bruises into his boney hips. His weight crushing the man and his softening cock still buried in him, tacky with blood and semen, but the clown didn't seem to mind. Instead, his arms and legs were draped loosely around him, and a deep hum vibrated under the sticky lips he pressed mindlessly over and over again on Bruce's scar.
In that moment, Bruce never wanted to move again. He wasn't necessarily happier than he was before, but he now knew what better felt like. And he couldn't believe it came from the harlequin in his arms, wetness soaking through to his stomach.
He really should have seen it coming, but he didn't.
Fin.
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