Guilty Pleasure

"Alfred, please."

Your voice sounds desperate to your own ears but you can't help it, not when the man's denying you entrance into the Wayne Manor. Not when you need to get in there and you need to get in there now!

"Master Wayne does not wish to see anyone at the moment," he says, stiff and determined and just so 'butler-y' that you have to hold back a hysterical chuckle. Instead you beg again because you have to see him. You have to make sure that he's okay—that he hasn't given up on life because of her death.

You meet Alfred's tired gaze with one of your own, but you can see that you're wearing him down; that you're close to getting what you want so you push on—stubbornly ignoring the fact that you sound like a whiny brat.

"Please, Alfred," you whisper again and clutch at the tired man's sleeve. "I can help," you say even though you're not sure if there's any truth to your words. You're determined to try, and that's what counts right?

And just why are you standing in front of Wayne Manor begging dear old Alfred to let you in?

Because Bruce Wayne has locked himself away from the world for the past three days and has refused to see anyone.

You bite your lip when Alfred gives you a skeptical look, no doubt wondering what you could do to help. Sure, you've known Bruce since before the death of his parents and you two had even gone to the same schools for most of your education but, as of late, your relationship had become strained, and you two have ceased to talk.

The fact that you were here now, demanding to be let in leaves a sour taste in Alfred's mouth. Soon though he deflates and lets you in because really, there's no way you could possibly make things worse than they already are. So when he steps to the side to let you in, you give him a quick kiss on the cheek before running inside and making your way to Bruce's room.

You turn down the familiar halls with ease as memories of times spent running around as a child fill your head and you can't help but think back on the days when the Wayne Family was whole. When Bruce Wayne had been a happy child and your best friend.

With a sigh you come to stop at the door to his bedroom. It's the same room he's had since he was a child because he refuses to move into the master bedroom. You rest your hand on the door and pause as guilt washes over you.

Poor Bruce.

He always looses the things he's loves.

You know it's not your fault but it doesn't help that the soul person responsible for Rachel's death is the love of your life.

You don't know how it happened and don't care to examine your feelings to figure it out. All you know is that one second you were being held hostage in Wayne Bank and the next you were being pushed up against the bathroom wall while staring down into vivid green eyes as the owner of those eyes rutted against you.

And you loved every second of it.

That's the start; you soon realized when you begin to find yourself the victim of a series of ridiculous kidnappings and hostage situations. Each one ends with both of you howling in pleasure and then you start to look forward to the next time you'll see him.

You can't help it.

He's like a drug—leaves you crazed and satisfied and yearning all at the same time. You're hopelessly addicted to him, to his touch, to his lips, to the adrenaline that fills your body every time you so much as see him. Soon you find yourself constantly on the lookout and awaiting the next time he'll pop up and pin you to the nearest flat surface.

For a really brief and insane period you'd imagined it was love. Of course reality has a funny way of crashing in on you and it had been a harsh bout of it—reality—that reminded you that it was just sex. Hot, wild, passionate (sometimes kinky) sex but sex none the less.

And then Harley Quinn showed up.

You just about killed the bitch.

It may be just sex—some of the best you've ever had—but god damn it that's your fuck buddy and Harley Quinn can kiss your ass. You'd told her as much after the third love confession, of course, and after putting the annoying little bitch in her place everything had been good.

Wonderful.

Until he goes and kills Rachel…

When you found out, you had driven straight to his 'hideout'. He'd taken you there a couple of times—in both senses of the word. You understand, in a sense, that this is what he's about. Killing, chaos, and destruction is his forte and it goes without saying that you two never discuss it.

What he does in his free time is his business. You are not a part of it, you will never participate in it, and—as far as the police know—your relationship with him doesn't exist. He just happens to target you for 'unexplainable reasons'.

But for all that taking about what he does at 'work' is forbidden territory; Rachel had been your friend. So, not even your unspoken agreement keeps you from walking right up to Gotham's—current—number one villain and slapping the bejesus out of him.

The look on his face had not been worth it—the shock and betrayal etched on to his features had hurt to see—but, as you stormed back out to car without a word, it had been enough to cool your temper for a bit.

That slap hadn't even been for you and it hadn't been for Rachael either. No, it had been for Bruce because you know how much Bruce loves her. You know how much she meant to his alter ego…

Of course you know about Batman! Anyone with half a brain could have figured that one out—you had seen the scars and you're smart enough to realize that only someone with a huge amount of money could afford to be Batman. Hell, it's so obvious that you're sure that even The Joker knows who Batman is and in a way it was a good thing that this city seemed to lack brains.

After you had slapped the maniac, you had left and headed towards Bruce's.

So now you find yourself here, in the huge and empty Manor, desperately trying to think of a way to show Bruce that life's still worth living. You got nothing, though. You don't know what to say to make it all better. You don't know if there is anything that can make it all better but you'd said you'd try so you knock on his door.

A grunt from beyond the door is the only answer you get and years of experience with Bruce's stubborn ways stops you from identifying yourself as you push the door open slightly and slip in.

You let your eyes roam over the neat room, taking in the almost un-lived in atmosphere that covers the entire manor—as it does to many others—like a blanket. Soon, though, your eyes fall on the rumpled sheets and the body hidden under them.

Quietly, with practiced ease—thanks to a certain someone (The Joker)—you make your way towards the bed and sit down gently. Letting your hand run over what's visible of his head, you tangle your fingers in his soft brown hair while guilt fills you again.

"Poor baby," you whisper quietly while leaning down to kiss his head.

Before you can though you're flipped onto your back and you feel that powerful body press into yours. Though you know it's only been a few days, you can tell he's lost weight.

A hand grips your hips as the other moves up to tangle in your hair while he nuzzles your throat. You freeze because you know you smell of gasoline and gun powder and something just uniquely Him but he doesn't seem to notice as he sighs against you neck and shifts onto you more fully.

You can't help but wonder if he's lost in his memories and has confused you for Rachel but you don't really care because you wrap your arms around his neck and let your fingers graze over the scars that litter his back.

A small moan makes its way through your lips as he bites you in response and you feel yourself blush at the sound as Bruce chuckles above you. You don't remember when you allowed your eyes to close and as you open them dark brown hair blocks your view of the ceiling.

It confuses you for a bit and you're not sure why it does, until you realize it's because it's not the nappy green hair you're used to. And it's with a start that you realize that you really shouldn't be doing this. You may be more than a mad at him but this isn't right so you try to push him off.

It's useless though, he's stronger than you and he pins both your hands above your head with one of his. When you look up you can see the lost, almost glazed, look in his eyes as his other hand moves to caress your cheek in hopes of calming down your squirming.

"Wait," he pleads, voice desperate, panicky, and the sound of it stops you cold. So when he nuzzles into your neck again, you don't stop him. "I love you," he whispers in the same desperate voice and you realize you can't—won't bring yourself to push him away.

He needs this.

He needs it greatly and you did promise to help in any way you can.

It won't be that bad, right? It's not like you're actually dating The Joker, right? It's just sex, right?

Right?

To hell with it, you promised to help and that's what you're going to do. With a sigh you settle back on to the bed and tilt you head back, exposing your neck invitation.

He jumps at the offer you've giving him and lets your hands. One hand goes back to tangle in your hair while the other slithers down to lift your leg. You hook it on his hips willingly, even becoming bold enough to grind against him and you gasp as you feel the size and the heat that rolls of him.

He's bigger than The Joker, that's for sure.

The Joker…

You keen when he grinds into you again; wiping your thoughts clean while the hand on your hip slides up to cup your breast. His mouth moves from your neck and begins to trail kisses across your collar bone that peaks through your shirt and a sharp nip has you arching into him. As he works above you, you start to wonder if he's going to undress or if you'll just have to settle for sex through your clothes.

Your question is soon answered, though, as he rips your shirt clean off your body without any warning. There's a smirk on his face as he tosses the torn shirt over his shoulder and somewhere in the room that you choose to ignore.

You close your eyes again as he bends down to nip at your breast and by now you know you'll have a lot of 'love marks' to explain among the ones you came in here with. The Joker's a little obsessed with littering your body with marks and you doubt he'll believe that he was the one to create these new ones.

A rather sharp nip to your nipple pulls you out of your thoughts and you find that you have no clue when he removed your bra. Still, you moan when his other hand comes up to fondle your other breast. The pleasure has you clawing at his back again and it's only then that you realize he has no shirt on. He grunts at the feeling and you moan again as the sound vibrates through your body.

His hands fall to your jeans and you bend your knees so that you can push down his sweat pants with your feet but he stops you with a chuckle and pushes himself up to his knees. You stare at him, unsure of what he's going to do until he takes your shoes in his hands and takes them off before moving his hands back to your jeans and popping the button open. You begin to squirm as he tugs them off your hips and down your legs and then throws them in the same direction as your shirt.

You moan again in frustration when he leaves your panties on and settles over you again. With a grunt you move your feet back to his sweats and hook your toes in the hem before pushing down. You gasp as you realize he's not wearing any underwear and feel his manhood, hot and heavy, bump against your core.

You begin rocking against him, moaning at the amount of heat that he gives off and for some strange reason you want to see him, want to see what you're in store for but his body against yours blocks your view of little Bruce so you just settle for the feel of him instead.

A soft growl reaches your ears as he begins to nip at your neck again while he begins to rock against you too and you gasp when you feel fingers trailing over your clit through your panties.

By now you're a moaning, panting, withering mess so when you feel him push your panties to the side and feel him begin to finger your opening, you let out the loudest moan yet and push onto his finger, loving the feeling of pleasure it brings.

You don't know if Bruce thinks you're still a blushing virgin but the way he treats you screams gentle and you're not sure if that's just the way he is in bed but it's so completely different for His harsh but tender way, that you find yourself loving every minute of it.

You're in love with this, in love with the tender kisses, the gentle probing, the loving bites. Hell, if you weren't so in love—well, not love, more like obsessed with Him, you're sure you'd end up falling for the man between your legs right now.

Something inside you aches at the thought and you sigh inwardly because you know that's not true, because you know that somewhere deep inside you love Bruce Wayne too. You've had a crush on him since you were kids and you would have said something sooner. Only that you were so sure this moment would never come because of her that you had tried to smother your crush for him and you were so sure you had succeeded until today.

All too soon you feel something hot probe at your opening as you feel him shift above as he hooks your right leg on the crease of his elbow while his unoccupied hand dips down to help guide his manhood to your opening. You move one of your hands to cover your mouth while gripping his shoulder with the other as you try to ready yourself to take him.

Your eyes lock on to his and you nod slightly when you see his questioning gaze.

There's a slight burning sting when he slips into you because you're not used to his size and you keen as the feeling of being stretched. He's bigger than you expected him to be though only slightly bigger than Him.

He begins to rock gently into you when he notices the way your body begins to tremble. You begin to moan uncontrollably as pleasure washes over and you claw at his shoulder while your other hands moves to do the same on his chest. You claw over his muscled chest and chiseled abs and you hook your left leg on his hip, trying to get him to go faster.

"Bruce," you moan when he completes your wordless request and begins to thrust into faster you. He sets a slightly harder pace than you would have expected from him but then again he's already knows you're not a virgin. If only he knew everything, you muse.

But it's not fast and hard enough for you because the time spent with The Joker and his imagination have spoiled you rotten so you beg and moan and wither under him, trying and failing to get him to go faster, harder, rougher.

"Bruce," you keen arching up into him while rocking down to meet him halfway in a desperate attempt to get your demands met. "Faster, please Brucie, please," you moan trying a different approach as you continue to claw at his shoulder. You throw your head back, offering him your neck in a submissive manner.

But he only gives you a throaty chuckle as he continues on with the same pace and something about that noise reminds you of Batman and all of a sudden you know that you're no longer dealing with Bruce Wayne. His Batman at the moment and you can already tell that he's a tab bit sadistic. Though, it's okay because you know how to deal with sadistic thanks to him.

So you let your hands drop to your own body and begin to claw against your chest leaving red trails while continuing to moan rather loudly, and with the amount painful pleasure that simple move brings you, you know you're a masochist.

"That's my job," he says and that scratchy sound of his voice makes your body temperature sky rocket so your only response to him is a rather low whine. You pull yourself into him, connecting your chests in a needy manner and pawing his back.

He chuckles again and lifts you into his arms while moving back to sit on the bed and seating you in his lap; you moan and purposely go limp against him when he slides deeper into your core.

You move onto your knee, ready to start bouncing in his lap but the hands on your hips stops you and you whine again as you lightly claw at his chest but he smirks and holds you still so you beg, "Please, Ba-Brucie."

You try to cover up your slip but he catches it anyway and his smirks widens as he suddenly lets go of your hips and you lose your balance, slamming down into him with a howl. The pleasure has you throwing your head back and tangling your hands into his hair.

He only chuckles as he picks you back up and slams you down onto him and you're going crazy with pleasure as you finally get what you want. You can't keep yourself from pulling on his hair, but he doesn't seem to mind as he picks up the pace and starts lifting you up faster.

You pull yourself into him again and begin to nimble lightly on his neck, making sure you don't mark him because if he comes to regret it later you don't want to leave any reminders. He's not thinking the same thing though as his mouth covers his favorite stop to mark you and he bites down hard. And just like that you feel yourself tumbling over the edge as you come hard and all but scream out your release, clamping down on him.

He in turn keeps rutting against you now harder and more desperate, trying to find his own release and you rest your chin on his shoulder continuing to moan quietly in his ear to help him finish.

Not too long after he spills his seed inside you and you've never been more grateful for birth control pills than right now. Thank god he didn't like using condoms else you'd be panicking right about now.

You groan quietly as he slips out of you and you shift uncomfortably as you feel his seed drip out of you and pool in your panties—which you only just realize he never took off—before running down your thighs. You meet his worried gaze but you shake him off with wave of your hand as you find the strength to shuffle off his lap and crawl to the edge of the bed.

He doesn't say anything and neither do you as you hunt down your jeans and slip them on along with your bra, shoes, and socks. When you come to your shirt though you just stare at the tattered remains and wonder what you're supposed to do now.

You look behind you as you hear Bruce get off the bed and turn just in time to catch the shirt that he throws at you. You clutch the gray shirt to your chest and give him a slight nod before slipping it on and begin heading towards the door with a slight limp.

You can't help the smile on your face because you know he's watching you, know that his eyes are raking over rumpled clothes and tangled hair. You can practically feel the smirk that's no doubt planted on his lips. But you don't bother to wave or say goodbye as you yank the door open and step outside all the while feeling better than you've felt in days.

You all but skip down the halls and towards the front door feeling like nothing can bring you down until you reach your car that's parked in front of the manor's doors. All it takes to wipe your good mood is that card. That stupid Joker card you had pinned to your steering wheel a long time ago.

And, as you as rest your head against the seat, you feel guiltier than ever.