Pressure and sparks blended into one messy blur. Every nerve in his body echoed the Joker's appearance: frazzled, shaken, messy. In a few short moments, Bruce found his lungs screaming for air. They received no relief, no quenching drink to ease the pain. How was it possible, he wondered, to feel more suffocated in the open Gotham air than back behind the stage of an old theater? For each breath drawn, his lungs compressed and forced the air back out into the wind. The result of this was a noise which he could not stop himself from releasing.
The Joker's mind shuffled cluttered thoughts about on bullet trains, but never steadily enough to pass his lips. His body was focused, though his mind was weak. Wind, again, assaulted Batman's body, as if holding large ice cubes hard against each inch of him, and though Gotham's swift skyline breeze was something he had long ago grown used to, there was something about it that was different. This time, he was left virgin and vulnerable, free for the taking. As gentle as the breeze may have been, comparatively, it was ripping its nails across his skin like thousands of small, silver tacks.
The walls of Gotham's soldier fell, not slowly like consuming fire, but quickly like a breaking dam. His moral spine had snapped, and in that frozen moment, he was paralyzed beneath a man of lesser conscience than any he'd known in all his years. The flame of a burning, dripping hand brushed skin and set the ready pyre to burn. The wave of heat crashed down upon him; the breaking waves beat his aching frame back into the concrete. A desperate plea, a groan, a curse, slid past his heart and through his lips, a rogue serpent from the Garden of Eden.
"Now, there's a bat man," a voice cackled. It was one of triumph and victory. It glowed with pride and shook with passion, just the way it should when a man gets what he really wants. When a man achieves his ultimate goal, it is a moment that rocks him to the core with breathless wonder. The bat man, however, was the only one who found himself unable to breathe. Though the moonlight glowed down upon pale, sweaty flesh, it could not pierce the skin the way the Joker's eyes seemed to. Every glance sent a pulse through the boy's body, and it was he that was shook to the core with breathless wonder. The tables had been roughly turned, and like a mirror, the Joker's every jolt of feeling was cast down upon his victim.
And Bruce lay there to suffer. The predator took pride in his catch, savoring every drop of fluid that covered the body of his prey. Even the drops he know could have easily been his own. By then, though, every molecule, every particle of human life between them was spread equally about their bodies. It was a passion so intense that fluids began to blend and blur just as flesh meshed together into one dripping unit.
Though the Joker had certainly had his fill of the muscular torso before him, as evident by stripes of rubies scarring milky moonlight skin, his hands fumbled down and passed further into uncharted territory. Pushing back the surprisingly soft cloak of darkness separating their bodies, the Joker's fingertips pressed roughly past the hero's naval. As if pulled by a string tied 'round the villain's finger, another unspeakable noise was torn past the opposing lips. And this time, the masculine voice of our hero crackled like fire and slipped up into the ever-listening ears of the Joker.
"One more time, Batty. Come on. Just...once?"
The final boards of resistance were cracked like dead and hollow oak trees as the hero's own fingertips found flesh to grip. In his moment of hesitation, his fingers seemed to linger, wondering if they were supposed to be pulling the opposing force closer or pushing it father away. His head was screaming no, but his lips were screaming something different. Load, cowardly gasps and shudders wracked his body as his hands groped for something warm. At first, they found no area of comfort. After much persistence, though it happened in what must have been only half a moment, his quaking hands found a place of peace.
They pressed in hard, nails included, into the small of the villain's back. It was not an attack, but an attempt at closeness. The bat could no longer deny what his body would not do without. As the body of the man before him, equally shirtless and sweaty, slid in and locked hips with his own, Batman's face grew pale. The warrior had no more fight left in him, not enough enough to hold his heavy lids open, and so his eyes rolled back and slammed themselves shut. The doors of his heart had been barred shut to moral arguments. Only his body was speaking now.
The Joker took no time in closing whatever gap was left between their bodies as one more groan, this one of pleasure, escaped his plaything's lips. Their frames fit close like puzzles pieces, and soon, on his hands separated their bodies. When Batman finally dared to open his eyes again, he saw not in his former black and white, but also in a vivid shade of green. Though sparks and fireworks erupted in his gut, the only audible sounds were ones of heavy, desperate breathing, and that time, he was not alone.
The hero's heart, corrupted and black from the stain of lust, ached hard and jarred itself incessantly against his ribcage. The Joker, his own heart responding in the like, felt every beat of the organ and heard scream of his hero's body, even if the young man had managed to silence all but his muffled whimpers. Just as the bat man felt he might literally fall crashing through the roof of the building for weight of passion, he found one last burst of will. Though beaten and broken, the bat was not dead, and in the moments before his final groans into the ear of his worthy partner, his
lips found the flesh of the Joker's neck.
The fallen angel had succumbed completely to the serpents will.
The bite marks, though faint and quickly fading, would never let the Joker forget it.