A/N: HELLO! IF YOU DON'T READ THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE, PLEASE READ THE WARNING! THANK YOU! …. I am a fan of the newest Batman movies, and even more so, the Heath Ledger version of the Joker (may he rest in peace).
Fun factoid, this Joker is probably the most accurate and closest version of the character, as was originally written for the Batman in the Detective Comics in the '20's or '30's.
I'm a fangirl and geek by nature; so obviously, this pairing does not surprise me. I don't slash the cartoon or even the comics, as I do the movies—weird as that maybe. See, I feel I must confess, I'm the crazy fangirl who is very strict about who tops and who bottoms in the fan fiction/fan art. Mainly because it changes the whole dynamic of the characters and the way they would relate to one another. That being said—I prefer the Joker to be in the position as the "man." Neither wrong nor right, just my preference.
Interestingly enough, after searching the fan fiction dot net site, I did not find many with Joker being the more dominant figure—which, in a way, I understand, but do not agree with when it comes to the newest dimension of the Joker character. I decided in the end, to write my own fic just to get it out there and help my own fangirl need. SO, the reason for this insanely long note is to let others know how I stumbled upon the main basis of this fic.
Well, it is simple. Everyone focuses on Batman, Batman, Batman. There is a man behind the mask. Bruce Wayne. He is Batman, Batman is him. It is as easy to understand as that. They are not separate characters. However, to keep the city safe, loved ones unharmed, and to still seem frightening to the bad guys, Bruce Wayne must hide himself. Must hide who he is. Likewise, that persona of Batman can never give away that he is Bruce Wayne. He must deny, lie, and pretend, all for the greater good. For some reason, despite being a big billionaire of an entrepreneurial company, Bruce Wayne himself is rarely put in danger… Perchance he is in peril, what can he really do when a blade is held to his throat? Especially, the Joker's blade. That idea is how this fanfic came into being…
Warning: This fic contains graphic depictions of sex between two males. It is violent, non-consensual, and possibly even disturbing to some readers. Involves mutilation, humiliation, mild language, and behaviors society incriminates offenders for participating in. Please be aware if you are underage, you should not be reading this fic. If you are of age, but frown upon acts of homosexuality or rape, be conscious you do not have to read if you are uncomfortable. There is always a back button. Now, if you have read this warning and wish to continue onto the story, do so at your own discretion.
Summary: Bruce Wayne is in a serious situation when the Joker visits him on a stormy, lazy night. The poor hero must choose whether to risk revealing who he really is or let the villain have his fun for the betterment of the city…
Disclaimer: -Brings out a quarter-
Heads I own Batman, tails I don't!
–Flips quarter, lands on heads-
–Joker promptly walks out and flips quarter to tails-
I hate you, Joker… Possessive bastard…
"Dialogue"Thoughts or Emphasis
It was a cold night, rain pelting the window in the bedroom, streaking what little light the sleepy world outside still emitted. The city had been quiet, and by 2:30 in the morning, Batman was aware no one was going to commit any crimes on such a night. So, the hero went back to his mansion, deciding that it was time for much needed sleep. Bruce Wayne had been in bed for perhaps an hour at the most, under his blankets and dozing when he awoke. It baffled him for a moment. Bruce was not as cold as he should have been. He realized this instantly. It unnerved him. His tired mind knew a moment later; he was not the sole occupant in the room.
Gasping, he shot up in his bed, ironically with a simultaneous timing to a lightning strike. He was blinded, barely catching the moving figure of another human being. Bruce raised his arms defensively, and a heavy body collided with his elbows. Bruce felt the weight throw him off balance, and he smashed his head into the ornate board of his bed. Groaning, he tried to shake off the throbbing pain, but the body above him was shifting, gloved hands suddenly grazing his cheek. Immediately Bruce slapped them away, but they returned with a triumphant vigor, left hand pressing into his mouth—to keep him quiet, Bruce recognized—and the right was gripping his throat.
"Shhh… shush shush… shh…" a voice, sounding male and darkly amused, whispered into the night. Bruce glared up at the shadowy intruder, and squirmed in response, but the hand around his windpipe twitched, applying more force. "Care—Careful now… Don't want your, uh, butler to hear… right? Things might get unnecessarily messy." The thought that Alfred could be in danger made Bruce freeze. "See?" the voice, beginning to grow more and more familiar, said. The pressure on his throat lessened considerably. "Better, no?"
Bruce shook his head no. A snicker floated through the chilling air. Another bolt of light struck, illuminating Bruce's spacious room. Blue eyes widened considerably at a grease-painted face with the permanent grin staring down at him. Instinct kicked in and Bruce spun his head away, surprising the Joker, and used the opportunity to roughly push the body off of him. The next few moments were a blur of legs and arms and feet and hands. They were rolling, struggling, and suddenly the Joker shifted and the bed under the two men's bodies had disappeared.
The vigilante went down, feathery comforter breaking his fall on the wood flooring. The sheets had entangled his legs, constricting his movements. The Joker then pinned Bruce to the floor. Growling, Bruce was ready to renew their fight, raising his fists, but with a flick of the wrist, the Joker had a serrated knife at Bruce's jugular. The brunet's hands fell above his head, waiting for the vicious slice that the Joker would surely make. A beat of ragged breathing filled was with the downpour and a crackle of thunder.
A hidden emotion was swirling in the Joker's hazel-green eyes. The knife came down a few centimeters, the metal stinging Bruce's skin. Bruce pressed into the floorboards hard, lifting his neck a bit to ease the pressure. The Joker watched, eyes still swirling in the black depths he painted. In that moment, staring into the possible eyes that would hold his death, Bruce felt a panic rise in him. Does the Joker know? As if reading his mind, the Joker leaned down, knife motionless on Bruce's neck, and he whispered, "Do you think the big Bat… would save you?"
"The big Bat?" Bruce parroted, tone breaking without his consent on the last word.
"You're death would, shall we say, be very much a bad thing?" the Joker was merely inches away from Bruce's face. Thunder rumbled distantly and an electric current was running through the atmosphere. Bruce flinched, looking away when another angry strike of light flared the room brilliantly. "I mean, Gotham would struggle, yes? Batman would certainly be working overtime, don't you believe?" Bruce's face was twisted back up so that the Joker's eyes could leisurely trace over the stiff contours. Hot breath washed over the tip of his nose, making the rest of his body flare up in goosebumps at the temperature difference of the cold room. "The chaos would be quite thrilling."
"I don't know," was all that Bruce could respond with. His undertone was wavering and so the man pulled his mouth in a tight line. It would do little good to talk to the psychopath above him. The best thing would be to try and gain the upper hand somehow. Yet, there was a deadly weapon upon a vital vein. The Joker needed to relax enough to let his guard down—but the chances of that seemed slim to none after the stunt Bruce just pulled wrestling him in the bed. As his mind debated what to do, the Joker had suddenly reached out, clutching on to Bruce's chin and yanked. The taunt mouth popped open and the point of another knife had suddenly slid in.
"Aw, c'mon… why so serious?" the Joker inquired. Bruce glared, trying to keep from trembling. He knew the odds of him escaping this scenario were quickly going down the drain. Light flashed in from the window, the rivets of water creating dark ripples about the men on the floor. Tilting his head, the Joker paused, but never removed either knife. Bruce almost snarled, What? However, the slick dagger in between his lips made him reconsider that action. The Joker's eyes glazed over slightly… and then… "Lick."
Bruce remained immobile, uncertain if he heard the heated command correctly. The knife pushed closer to the corner of his mouth, creating a full shiver to coarse through Bruce in anticipation. "Lick it," the Joker demanded, staring down at the secret Dark Knight. If the Joker ever discovered who Bruce Wayne really was…
The chaos would be quite thrilling.
Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and parted his mouth, tongue darting out to brush over the point of the weapon. With a shallow breath he dared to peer up at the Joker. Insanely, the scared mouth was set straight and when it stirred, another word came out. "Again." Bruce hated it, but his life and probably the lives of others were being weighed, and with a noise similar to that of a disgusted whimper, he lifted his head slightly to give a long, slow lick to the flat of the blade. When he reached the tip, his head rested on the bunched blankets beneath him. In the space of a gasp, the Joker was pressing into him, and the knife was shoved back into his mouth recklessly and insistent. "Again."
Bruce keened low in his throat, but complied, letting his tongue openly travel along the gleaming silver. The Joker would cloyingly slide it along Bruce's swollen bottom lip, making the poor man feel dirtier than a cheap street corner whore. The knife was pushed back inside the orifice, and Bruce gazed up, finding the Joker fixated on watching saliva trickle down Bruce's jaw. He closed his eyes feeling a churning in his stomach at the simple thought. The ministrations continue, Bruce's tongue obscenely playing among the dagger's edge, and the Joker lightly gyrating in a hectic tempo along with it. Behind his closed lids, Bruce's eyes detected a flash of brightness, indicating lightning as a thunderous sound refracted through the room.
"Ohhh… I like it… I like your mouth, Brucey," the Joker murmured, and Bruce felt a tremor as the knife traced the edge of his mouth. It had to be the way the villain said it. Entranced and husky. "You know, it reminds me of the Batman." In a startled jolt at the words, Bruce's tongue hit the tip of the knife harder than he intended, and blood swelled. There was a slight prick hurt, but fear chased it away. Bruce ignored the taste of copper, eyes wide, and stared up at the Joker expectantly. The Joker's pupils had dilated in their black voids. "The eyes too… Such a pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty blue color …" The Joker was hovering above him, locking eyes with the frightened Bruce. That decorated mouth split into a wicked grin, and Bruce's breath hitched at the mere sight. "I know! Why don't we play a game?"
"G-Game?" Bruce stuttered, loathing the voice betraying him. The Joker's hands were tightening on the handles of his blades and then releasing the tension spasmodically. "What game?" came out with a forced calm. The Joker could barely keep his cackle at bay.
"It's called, 'The Quiet game'!" he explained, the knife that had previously been in Bruce mouth twirled through the air giddily. Bruce had a feeling of dread well up in side him as the Joker's eyes flicked up. Light once more flickered from the storm outside; the knife maliciously glinting as it wound it's way up Bruce's naked forearm. "We see—well, its about listening—anyway when you utter any sort of noise, you lose!" the Joker went on. The slight scratches against Bruce's flesh were slightly distracting. He was unsure of how to approach this situation. "We will…" the Joker whispered, voice no louder than the scccccr sounds of steel scraping skin, "staaaaaaaaart…." He dragged on, the second dagger at Bruce's throat moving as well, causing a gulp, "riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight…" Bruce tensed, feeling the blade quickly move the length of his collarbone, and the skip over his shoulder and elbow, "abouuuuuuuuuu-ouuuuuuuuuuut…" Bruce took a deep breath, readying to strike since the daggers were removed, but the Joker was faster. Without warning, the pair of knives plunged into Bruce's palms.
Bruce let out an agonized wail, unprepared for the bite of the blades. The Joker rotated the handles, pushing all his weight onto them, and splintering the hardwood flooring beneath them. Convulsions of hot, threading pain hit Bruce and the Joker muttered, "Now!" Odd sounds sputtered from the one on the floor, covered up by the remote sounds of the thunderclouds. The Joker licked his lips, pleased with his handy work—pun intended. He lengthened over the injured Bruce Wayne, a third knife produced from the inside of his grimy purple coat. With this knife the Joker shredded the dark blue boxers Bruce wore as his only nightclothes. The freezing air was what caught Bruce's attention, and he vainly tried to kick at the Joker, but the villain captured his fatigued limbs easily.
The hero lie naked on the floor in a disarray of blankets, both hands over his head, stabbed in their position, and legs spread apart, the Joker nestled squarely and most comfortably between his quivering thighs. "Let's play another game, Brucey," the Joker murmured, discarding his jacket. There was clinking as metals landed on more metals.
"No," Bruce said, a sob just barely catching in his throat. It was evident that Bruce was already losing.
"It, uh, wasn't a request…" the Joker replied, "Plus, if you play real nice like… you get to live a longer life. Hmmm?" Bruce shook his head; another beat of lightening revealing the Joker and his wiry chest looming over him. A gloved hand was rubbing Bruce firmly across his heaving chest, and then venturing downwards lazily.
"Stop it!" Bruce shouted, demanding, arms shaking in their torment. He tried sinking into the ground, but those hands dipped into his stomach, tracing the shape of his muscles in reverence.
"Make me," the Joker declared, circling his hand around the base of Bruce's cock, "In the dark, anyone can be my Batman." Bruce cried out at the friction of the frayed fabric pumping him harshly. His back arched high, his watery eyes focused on the ceiling dejected and maddened.
"I-I said—" Bruce cut himself off with a choked moan as something balmy and bulky seared a trail past the tight ring of muscle at his entrance. His legs were pushed farther apart as the Joker thrust his hips forward, hissing in pleasure. The Joker dug his fingers into Bruce's sides, barely keeping steady; all the while Bruce shaking at the feeling of being stretched without preparation or forewarning. He pressed his mouth together, mewling deep in his throat from the harm being inflicted to his entire body.
The Joker was panting, his head tilted as he watched the man before him. Bruce let his lids close, resigned for the villain to finish. He was entirely surprised when the Joker's hands ran up the length of his body, coming to rest with the palms pressing into Bruce's jaw line, leaving the fingers to spread over his cheeks and flutter in ecstasy. "Open your eyes…" was the order and Bruce's chin quivered, "I'm still playing."
"Joker…" Bruce almost pleaded. He couldn't risk it, couldn't risk his hidden identity being exposed.
Bruce snapped his eyes open. His vision was met with the Joker bent over him, those hazel-green orbs dangerously swirling once more. Bruce couldn't glance away for the city's sake… he kept reminding himself of that as the Joker's hips pulled back and then slammed in. Bruce unconsciously developed a rhythm, alarmingly aroused by each wonderfully excruciating thrust. His body seemed unaware of what was transpiring, confusing the signals of pain for other stimuli. It was sickening, nevertheless Bruce felt the whimpers tumbled from his lips and his hips buck wantonly. The Joker never stopped stroking Bruce's cheeks, mouth, and chin—keeping the eye contact throughout the whole act.
It was then that somebody modified their movements just right; Bruce thrashing his head to the side, the inner muscle contracting, and the Joker gave out a delighted groan. The pace sped up in a frenzy to obtain the reaction again. "No—No more!" Bruce begged, the situation out of control, creating him to grow desperate. He didn't want the horrible, awful delicious feeling of the psycho taking him so violently. The Joker slows, and then the pummeling is soon a rocking, and both men try to catch his breath. For a moment, Bruce thought it was a miracle. The Joker reached over Bruce's head to encircle long fingers about the knife handle. He tugged the weapon free, dripping blood over Bruce's aggrieved face in the process. The poor vigilante was exhausted, in pain, and prayed relief was nearby. Gingerly, the Joker lifted Bruce's hand, causing him to wince.
There passed a minute where the Joker contemplated the battered hand he held. Bruce could only observe, waiting on pins and needles. Finally, the Joker noticed and cocked his head down at Bruce. With a deadly smirk, he wrenched Bruce's injured hand up to his mouth. Bruce's fingers twitched of their own accord as the mouth was smeared even redder by blood. Bruce began to hyperventilate as the Joker's tongue probed the wound. With a spark in his eyes, the Joker restarted pounding into the body underneath him. Bruce howled as that tongue wiggled its way into his wound, setting his nerves on fire. Every time his prostate was hit, the Joker's tongue dived into the hole in his palm. Bruce was unsure if it was blood loss, pain, pleasure, or lightning, but his world went black, and then burst a vivid white in a series of exquisite dancing stars. He figured he might have passed out.
Maybe seconds or minutes went by, but it turned out no one had fainted. Bruce was staring, eyes half-mast, past a green tinged head of dirty blonde hair. His stomach was warm both inside and out. There were sticky, white splashes of his seed over his and the Joker's abdomen. The Joker was likewise dazed, trying to gather himself, while perched over Bruce, squashing the injured hand to the ground beside Bruce's visage. Closing those black-rimmed eyes, the Joker released Bruce, pushing up and slipping out of him at the same time. Bruce no longer pretended to be undamaged, moaning softly at the loss of the Joker as well as the fluids running over his inner thighs. The noise caught the Joker's interest. The villain replaced his clothing. When he finished, he knelt beside Bruce, running one gloved hand through the damp, coffee colored hair. Then grasped the remaining knife left in Bruce's other hand. It made the brunet writhe in misery.
The Joker hummed, satisfied, "I think you're now my favorite playmate…" His gaudy face moved in closer and Bruce wanted more than anything to curl his fingers into a fist and punch the bastard. However they refused to do anything but ache and jerk in painful shots. "I've decided to keep you for another rainy day!" It's perverted and deviant, but Bruce's stomach flip-flopped at the statement. Almost fondly, the Joker regards the knives that housed themselves in Bruce's flesh a few moments earlier, and ends up sweeping them into his jacket. "I'd stay and play… doctor…. But I gotta get going." Bruce wanted to spit at the grinning clown, rising to do so, but with the trauma, he was abruptly dizzy, and falling down immediately. The Joker's hand caught him by the chin, hauling up the face that carried the features so remarkably like that of the Batman. "Eager little boy… Don't want me to leave lacking a goodbye kiss, eh?"
"Joker…" Bruce breathed; he knew he was about to lose consciousness, so he glared best he could, hissing, "You're… You're going down."
"Hmm, maybe next time, Brucey," he said, a deep chuckle leaving him like that of the thunder echoing around the men. Bruce's eyes became unfocused and there was a weak sensation of another pair of lips brushing his own before all is gone to nothingness.
When Bruce Wayne awakens, it will be with a shudder in a hospital bed two days and four transfusions later. There are the relieved faces of friends and employees all around him. A few police officers to deal with afterward. Then, sure he is alone; the man will count the countless roses. He'll read the Get-Well letters. Yet amidst them, Bruce will shortly find a single playing card of a red and black joker laying face down on the bedside table… a promise of more to come—and yes, pun intended.