AUTHOR'S NOTE; Copying my fics from Archive of Our Own to here. You can find a full list and fic-only blog at .com.
For a prompt from the Bat Jokes website; "I would like to request again here for an omegaverse fic, with joker as the omega, batman as the alpha, and the pairing be Batman/Joker, please. Thank you!"
Here you go! Lots of fun, try to go easy on me though, I haven't really written porn before.
Oh! Check out ! It's a Batman/Joker community and slash archive I've created.
The first thing Bruce notices about the Joker is that he doesn't smell like much of anything.
That isn't completely correct - he does smell like plenty of things. An overly healthy dose of omega, beta and alpha pheromones all heaped on top of a layer of bleach, gunpowder, the bitter smell of chemicals and bad takeout chinese.
But he had no scent for his own, nothing to indicate any status or whatever may lay beneath his clothing. He was small enough to be an omega, all slim limbs and a way of sliding around that suggested mildness. He was average enough (in a completely un-average way) to be a beta, able to talk to anyone and everyone, no limits or bounds. And he had all the energy, all the fire of an alpha.
And that last part Bruce knew best of all, the fire that leapt at him and threatened to lick the flesh from his bones. The Joker was a beast he'd never encountered before, one unlike any he would ever encounter after.
He assumed - as he had correctly assumed many times in the past - that the Joker would eventually reveal his true identity at some point in the future. He wasn't overly concerned about it. There were bigger things to deal with then what the clown smelled like under his artificial barrier.
. . .
Except one day he found himself fucking the Joker against an alley wall, all teeth and aggression and the clown gave back everything he gifted, snarling and tearing at fabric and armour. And it didn't matter much then either, because the difference between sex and fighting was so minimal at this point that he barely noticed.
And it wasn't even real sex, really. He'd tried to unbuckle the clown's belt, but almost got a broken wrist in return, so they settled for rutting against each other, fabric adding the extra texture to get them off all the quicker, panting into each other's mouths.
Joker made the most delicious keening noises he'd ever heard, sounding like the world was breaking as he just grabbed and held tight to the dark anchor Bruce had become, bracing them both up off the wall.
And when it was over, they just went on their ways. There was no way he could bring the Joker in reeking of sex and the jester certainly wasn't going to go and blow up a building, if that satisfied stumble was anything to go by.
He called it an early night and took a long shower, rubbing all the scents the Joker had given him off his skin, and his own dense layer of prescription beta pheromones he used to mask the alpha scent half the rich world could correctly identify as Bruce Wayne. And the smell of sex. There was certainly a lot of that.
He refused to think about whatever had gone down, and he swore it wouldn't happen again. A momentary lapse in control. He was an unmated alpha in his prime. It just wouldn't happen again.
. . .
Except it does, and it happens a lot.
It seems every chance they get, one of them starts something, and its heated and passionate, barely even in the realms of affection or often even safe. They tackle and wrestle and one of them will end up pinning the other, rutting against.
Surprising, its Joker's lithe form that takes the other for the first time. One evening no different from any other, with his muttered whispers of "get it off, off, off-" and somehow Bruce ends up without half his lower armour and the Joker's between his legs with a moan he's come to know so well and they last even less then usual, joined as physically as it gets.
The thing Bruce remembers the most is the way Joker presses his splayed fingertips against Bruce's open palm, the other hand clenched around part of his cape and this hand so light, like some kiss that could never truly happen.
They just join their fingers, shifting their bodies in a slow rhythm to the grand finale and Bruce thinks if he ever loses this bastard, he'll die from grief.
. . .
They never talk about it. They never talk about much of anything. If there is noise, then its hurried instructions, or a half-hearted rant about injustice or justice (he can barely tell up from down, let alone his ideals from the Joker's).
And he'd say that was an advantage, but it wasn't. Neither of them really did the people thing. They fought and they fucked and that was pretty much it.
Naturally he messed it up.
(It wasn't like the blame laid entirely with him - after all, if Joker never said anything, how as he to know what not to do.)
So one night, and maybe its months or maybe its years after they've started it, long enough to know the tastes and fake smells of each other like a map only they can read, he completely messes it up.
(And he wanted to say it wasn't his fault but maybe it was.)
The Joker's so docile beneath him, content and acting like a well-fed beast, and they begin to move into round two, and he just buries his nose in the other's neck, moving his hands lower and lower. And he gets to the buckle and the clown doesn't even notice what he's doing while Bruce's got his pants down to his knees.
Except then his hands find the slit between the jester's legs where he doesn't have one. And suddenly he knows.
And the Joker explodes.
There's a confused, half-formed question on his lips, like why did you never tell me or why don't you trust me but then his head's hit the pavement and there's a pain in his leg like the bone's broken and someone's screamingand is it Joker?
He had never heard his clown scream, has perhaps never seen him angry, and it scares him so deep he can barely breath but by the time he blinks the last shreds of blurred vision away, the other is gone.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He thinks it all the way home and he doesn't come out of his batcave for twentyfour hours, all his thoughts just backdropped with fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
. . .
So the Joker broke his leg in a fit of rage and he uses it as an excuse to sulk. Says horse riding accident, if you know what I mean, coupled with a playboy wink to anyone who asks, uses a brace and does some detective work to get through the nights.
He doesn't see the Joker for a while - long enough for him to actually be caught by the police, taken to Arkham and then break out all over again.
He doesn't really know how to apologize, so he fixes it like Bruce Wayne would. He spends a lot of money on practically every type of birth control and hormone suppressants that exist for omegas and he leaves it in one of the Joker's old hideouts.
. . .
"If you get me pregnant, I swear to God, I'm killing it."
It's been months by now, and Joker's just giving him this hard stare, refusing to break eye contact and he sort of wants to fall over and beg because the sex was really fantastic and he sort of loves to hate the little shit. And this is the first time they've talked since that one night.
(He thinks he can admit it was all his fault by now.)
"Okay." He says, and they do it up splayed across the rooftops, all long limbs and they take their time like old lovers (which they almost count as by now).
He doesn't take the Joker like any alpha would an omega, because he's beginning to think there may be something there.
Like the fact that this isn't truly a monster, just a normal person whose had a lot of bad days.
What happened to you? He thinks, but he doesn't risk it out loud, just bows his head against the clown's blows and soaks up the violence like its the last source of life on Earth.
They don't talk about it. And that's probably a bad idea.
. . .
And it goes on and on. He loses interest in females and omegas, stops smelling their scent as time goes on. When an aggressive alpha tries to take a shot at the clown and he's in range, he beats him until he screams for his mother. Joker, once a nobel flirt (even if nobody ever flirted back) seems to have moved onto other things.
(That's really the end of any indication, though. So its not saying much for him.)
He notices things the world doesn't. Like the first time December rolls around and the Joker vanishes like the summer sun, and the year after that and the year after that. To Bruce's knowledge, he's never gone into heat in Gotham, and going through heats unmated and unmedicated is long and painful. (he's paid for that too, and got a snarky response about him caring too much, but he thinks his clown may have taken them, because he's gone two weeks instead of four the following year.)
They still don't talk about it. But the night after Bruce takes off his cowl for the first time, and Joker sort of gives him this look of I have no idea who this bastard is - WAIT. they do actually have completely normal sex, as anyone with half their restraint would have done years ago. And its slow and careful like they've never really done before.
Bruce just moves between the Joker's hips like he's made of glass and the clown stares at the ceiling with a look verging on panic. But he holds onto Bruce, hands clinging into his hair and once the knot starts forming he shrieks and wraps all his body around Bruce, breathing hard and fast and they just move until they're finished.
And then they lay together in a forgotten hotel room for a long time and when the sun begins to grace the sky, the Joker whispers in his ear so quiet that no one else will never hear.
The world has broken me. He hisses, and Bruce closes his eyes against the desire to break the world back.
. . .
And he tries other people - Selina comes to mind - and Joker does the same - Harley in his case - but it doesn't really work. And he thinks maybe he should tell someone but he doesn't.
He could make useless gestures the rest of the world makes about this sort of thing, but he doesn't think the Joker would stand for it. So they fight and they fuck and that's just about it.
. . .
And it takes seven years for the Joker to trust him.
Bruce never tells him he trusted the villain a long time ago - maybe not with his wallet or his car - but certainly with his heart.
But come December in the seventh year, the Joker shows up at Wayne Manor anyway, looking miserable and the first thing he thinks is he can actually smell him. Just a dull, bland generic omega smell layered with a lot of soap. Like he'd had the longest shower of his life and maybe he has.
And they don't talk then (because they never have and maybe they never will).
But they bury themselves in each other, deep within the home Bruce has lived in for years, wrapped on his bedsheets wearing only each other.
And it starts slow, his scent getting heavier and they go through at least five "practice" rounds, as the Joker calls it under his breath. And the sun begins to set and the heat sets in with a vengeance.
Then its fast and its brutal and one or both of them wails in desperation and Bruce never gets to remember most of it (which is a pity) but he remembers driving himself into the clown faster then he's done before and Joker shrieks and looks like he wants to tear Bruce apart and pull him in deeper all at once.
And he knots inside him, feels a perfect fit and chokes on air or maybe this feeling that he's been waiting too long and the Joker's all distorted around him, whispering "fuck me or I'll fucking kill you-" and he does. He takes him six ways to sunday and it lasts right through the night, the room too hot for winter.
They fall asleep at one point, and Bruce wakes in the morning on an urge, feeling someone close by, and suddenly vastly protective of the smaller man nestled into his arms like he wanted to tear the billionaire's chest open and crawl inside. He lays there ready to fight for ages and then whoever's outside his door - its probably Alfred, oh God - walks away. He stays awake a little longer, if only to see the sunlight fall on green curls, then drifts back off with the thought that maybe they could do this forever, and that'd be absolutely fine.
. . .
The Joker smiles against his chest one December, and maybe its the tenth and maybe its the twentieth. Bruce can feel the set of his teeth, the curl of his lips and he sort of gives a soft smile in return.
And they don't smell like much of anything, but its the greatest smell in the world.
(They never ended up talking about.)