Title: Did We Not Choose Each Other
Author: Cyranothe2nd
Word Count: 4480
Rating: NC-17 for graphic sex
Disclaimer: This work is based on characters and concepts created and owned by DC Comics, Warner Bros. and other entities and corporations. No money is being made and no copyright and/or trademark infringement is intended.
Warnings: Nolan-verse, sex, language, bottom Bruce, angst, straight up PWP
Summary: Was it the dancing?
A/N: This fandom needs moar PWP. This is set somewhere in the middle of 'Mine is the Heart I Will Save,' a few months after the hotel scene but before Joker visits Bruce at home. It's not necessary to have read the previous fic to understand this one.


Bruce hates nightclubs. He hates the flashing lights and the crush of people and the music. He hates the artificiality of it all, how everyone is trying to be someone else. He hates pretending to enjoy being here and he secretly fears that, without Batman, this is the man he would be—that his playboy persona would grow like a cancer and take over his soul.

His head is pounding and he wants nothing more than to get out of here, to go home and put on his suit and feel the cleansing air on his face as he glides over the city. But he promised Alfred that he would spend more time maintaining appearances, maintaining his "Bruce Wayne" image. In truth, he doesn't want Alfred starting to question why he's been spending more and more nights away from the penthouse. He doesn't have the words to explain what he's been doing most of those nights, or who he's been doing it with.

So, he chats up some vapid, aspiring actress and tries to keep from looking bored, but can't quite keep his gaze from wandering to the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. The club is large and more than half the patrons are dancing with the abandon brought on by a lot of alcohol or really good drugs. Bruce watches them with a small smile, nodding along to the inane story his companion is shouting in his ear to be heard over the din, when the crowd parts to reveal a familiar figure.

Bruce is moving before he can even process what he's seen, leaving Miss Aspiring Actress mid-word. His brain catches up when he is half a dozen steps onto the dance floor and he wonders if he might have been mistaken, but he didn't get to be what he is by ignoring his instincts and his instincts are shrieking alarms.

Bruce makes his way with difficulty through the dancers, swaying along a bit to the thrumming bass so that he doesn't look too out of place as he moves to the spot where he saw—

The crowd parts again and, yes- His hair is blonde and he's traded his trademark clothes in for skinny jeans and a black t-shirt. He's changed his face as well, losing the makeup and covering the scars. Still, there is no mistaking him at this distance.

Joker is here.

More to the point, Joker is dancing.

He dances with the same unselfconscious recklessness with which he does everything; throwing his whole body into the rhythm, tilting his head back and thrusting his hips, jumping and twirling, arms outstretched. The dense crowd instinctively gives him room; no one seems to have the courage to grind on him, although Bruce can see several women and some men eyeing him speculatively.

Bruce purses his lips and breaks the invisible bubble that surrounds him, grabbing Joker's arm and halting him mid-turn. Joker casts him an annoyed glance that immediately melts into a wide smile as he recognizes Bruce. He pulls away slightly and Bruce lets him because the worst thing that could happen would be to get into a fight with Joker in public, in his public persona.

Actually, the worst thing that could happen would be Joker blowing up a club full of unsuspecting victims, but Bruce thinks they are a bit beyond that. It's been nine months since he and Joker made their deal—Bruce's time and attention in return for a halt on the madness that Joker seemed to relish inflicting on Gotham-and Joker has upheld his end of the bargain, so Bruce isn't concerned about mayhem so much as the mere fact of Joker's presence.

"What are you doing here?" Bruce tries to shout over the throbbing bass.

Joker shakes his head and motions to his ear, still grinning at Bruce. He's begun dancing again, but the unselfconsciousness is gone, replaced by pure provocation. He twists his shoulders and gyrates his hips suggestively, fingers reaching out to trail teasingly down Bruce's chest. Bruce narrows his eyes but doesn't move away. He repeats his question, over-articulating so that Joker can read his lips. Joker points to himself and then shimmies, wiggling his hips and eyeing Bruce like he's slow. Dancing, duh, is the silent message.

Bruce pulls him in close and leans down to his ear. "You know what I mean," he growls. "You're supposed to be in Arkham."

It is true, although it wasn't Batman that had sent him there. The GCPD had actually raided Joker's safe house and taken him in. Bruce had been proud of Gordon for that and relieved that, even with the threat of the asylum looming, Joker hadn't broken his word. He'd given himself up without a fight, shouting the whole time about how Batman had better be damn grateful for this.

They have not seen each other in over a month.

Bruce isn't surprised that he escaped, not really. Nothing could ever hold Joker for long, not if he didn't want to be held. Still, he shouldn't encourage that sort of thing.

"I got bored," Joker answers. He presses closer, still bobbing and dipping to the beat.

"Next time you're bored, you come find me," Bruce says. He can tell it was the wrong thing to say by the lascivious grin that flashes across Joker's upturned face and the way the clown grinds his hips against Bruce's leg.

"Really, Batsy?" He coos in Bruce's ear.

"Don't call me that," Bruce says harshly and pushes him away. Joker turns the push into a moonwalk, sliding across the floor and still grinning that infuriating, sexy grin. Bruce can see that people are staring, that they have, in fact, become the focus of quite a lot of attention and he sighs in frustration, already thinking through ways of playing this off as another of Bruce Wayne's sexual stunts. He forces the tenseness out his shoulders, makes his mouth return Joker's flirtatious smile as he steps closer again.

Bruce can dance. He has natural rhythm, bestowed by years of martial arts training and he's aware of his body in a way that he knows most people aren't. He knows how to move and how to look good while doing it. He puts these skills to use now, letting his hips swing to the music. Joker's grin turned delighted and he reaches out, reeling Bruce in and they are rocking against each other, caught in each other's orbit.

Joker's face is close to his and he looks good without the makeup on—younger and handsomer than Bruce would had expected. It's strange because they've been fucking for nine months and been mortal enemies for longer than that, but Bruce has never seen his face before today. Bruce reaches up, brushing strands of honey-blonde hair off Joker's cheek. Joker makes a sound that Bruce cannot hear but can feel rumbling through Joker's chest and into his. Joker presses forward, his hands on Bruce's waist and the sway of his hips becoming overtly sexual.

Bruce is suddenly very aware of his own erection, trapped in the hollow of Joker's hip.

Joker makes that noise again and leans his head in, lips brushing Bruce's neck. They are pressed tight together now, no space between their bodies at all, simply swaying with each other as Joker's tongue swirls patterns across Bruce's throat. Joker's thigh insinuates itself between Bruce's legs and presses into his erection, just as Joker's teeth nip sharply at his neck. Bruce gasps. It has been too long; Bruce wants to just grind against him and get them both off, but he is not a teenager and there are photographers here and he knows he's already made a spectacle of himself. It will be hard enough to explain this to Lucius, nevermind Alfred.

It is that thought that makes him reluctantly pull away. He takes Joker's hand and leads him through the maze of bodies towards the front door. It takes long minutes to navigate their way out of the club, but Joker's hand is warm and sure in his and they finally emerge into the cool night air.

Bruce hands his ticket to the valet and then they get in the car. Bruce drives towards the penthouse on auto-pilot, vividly aware of the man beside him. Every movement of Joker's body, ever small sound he makes vibrates right into Bruce. It's always been like this—the connection shivering between them, electric and uncontrollable. Even in the days when they did nothing but hurt each other, Bruce could feel it. It is sharper now, the edgy awareness compelling a longing deep in Bruce that is as immediate as it is unwanted.

Bruce wonders if Joker can feel it. He desperately does not want to be alone in this.

As if in answer to his unspoken question, Joker's hand slides across the space between them and onto Bruce's thigh. It's the kind of familiar gesture that lovers share and which they never have, and the ease with which Joker does it sends Bruce's world tilting.

"Aren't you going to ask how I did it?" Joker asks quietly.

It takes long seconds for Bruce to find the ability to make words. "How you did what?" He finally asks.

"How I got out of Arkham. It wasn't easy, I can tell you that."

This is the Joker Bruce knows; brilliant, arrogant and baiting. Bruce feels a bit less dazed.

"Well?" Bruce prompts because he knows Joker wants him to.

"Hmmmm, I might tell you," Joker says thoughtfully, tapping his index finger against his lips.

"But then you'd have to kill me?" Bruce finishes drily.

"Aw Bats, you know I'd never do that," Joker says lightly but his fingers tighten on Bruce's thigh and Bruce has the strange idea that they are having two different conversations. He has no time to examine this, because they are pulling up to the carpark and, with sudden panic, he realizes that he has brought Joker to his home.

His heart leaps into his throat at the thought of bringing Joker upstairs, of seeing the clown spread out on his bed. Bruce turns off the ignition and just sits there for a long minute, debating with himself. It's risky, he knows, and stupid, but Bruce wants Joker in his space and he can no more fight that feeling than he can fight Joker. Finally, he makes a decision. He turns to his companion.

"Look, I am going to go upstairs for a minute. Then I'll come back and get you. Wait here and don't touch anything. Are we clear?"

"Crystal," Joker affirms. He is not even bothering to hide how pleased he is that Bruce has brought him here.

Bruce gets out, bringing the keys with him, and takes the long ride up to the penthouse in his private elevator. He hesitates at the door, rehearsing what he will say to Alfred. He hates lying to the old man but he honestly can't see any other alternative because he can hardly explain their relationship to himself, much less to Alfred. It's better this way, he thinks. Kinder to keep his friend in the dark than admit the darkness in himself.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to explain anything. Alfred has already gone to bed for the evening and, with a damning sense of relief, Bruce descends to the carpark and fetches Joker.

"Don't make any noise," he warns Joker on the way up. "Don't go wandering around. Stay in my room and be gone before morning, understand?"

"Sure thing," Joker shrugs.

They leave the elevator and Bruce herds him inside and down the hall to his bedroom. The urgency is half not wanting to get caught and half wanting to get Joker's clothes off. As soon as the bedroom door is closed, Bruce is pushing Joker against it, devouring his mouth while his hands hitch up and under the black v-neck Joker is wearing. Joker makes an approving sound as Bruce's hands find bare skin and his own hands get busy unbuttoning Bruce's shirt.

Bruce trails hot, wet kisses down Joker's throat, scraping his teeth along his Adam's apple. He feels Joker shiver, his hands stilling on Bruce's chest and Bruce smiles against his skin. It feels amazing, to hold this force of nature. To control him, if only for a few minutes. Joker is such a slave to his senses; Bruce knows that he can really do anything to him right now, and the heady sense of power only increased his desire.

Bruce pulls back and flips on the light switch. He turns Joker's head to the side to examine the prosthetics that cover his scars. He runs a thumb over his cheek, feeling the ridges of scar tissue, and uses his thumbnail to peel the silicone mold away from Joker's flesh. He does the other side and then leans close, tracing the raised lines of Joker's scars with his tongue and his lips. His flesh tastes of the synthetic molds and, underneath, of salt and sweat. Bruce takes his time, laving each side of Joker's face with kisses. Joker is a shivering wreck by the time Bruce is finished. Bruce pulls back and takes him in; his flushed face, slightly shiny from Bruce's saliva, his mouth open to pull in shuttering breaths, his eyelids fluttering. As he watches, Joker's eyes open and Bruce sees something panicked and terrified flare across Joker's face, before it is smothered down. Bruce feels a vicious sense of satisfaction twist in his gut; he's not so alone in this after all.

The satisfaction must have shown because Joker straightens from his half-slouch against the door and kisses Bruce, all tongue and teeth and just on the right side of dirty. Joker's hands are everywhere, up Bruce's shirt and in his hair and gripping his ass. Their tongues slide together, bodies pressed tight, Joker's hard cock rutting against his thigh. Bruce grabs the front of his shirt and leads him to the bed, letting himself tumble down first and pulling Joker on top of him.

"You know, sometimes I think you're the worst thing that has ever happened to me," Joker mumbles against Bruce's mouth.

Bruce huffs a mirthless laugh against Joker's lips. He's thought the same thing about Joker too many times. But it's too late now. They have already collided with each other and there is no escaping. Bruce knows this, has known it for months, and he is sick to death of fighting it.

He pushes away from Joker's mouth to peel off Joker's shirt and then his own, tossing them carelessly to the foot of the bed.

He reaches out to pull Joker back down, moaning into his mouth at the sudden contact of Joker's skin against his. Joker's hands trail up his sides, thumbs teasingly brushing Bruce's nipples. His mouth slows against Bruce's, drawing the kiss out languidly. His fingers slow down as well, dragging against Bruce's sweat-slick skin, down his chest and lower, to his hip and then his thigh, ignoring the place Bruce wants it the most. Bruce pushes his hips into Joker's, urging him to hurry up but the clown seems content to tease—drawing his own hips back only to reach a hand down and run his fingertips tauntingly against Bruce's jeans-clad erection. Bruce arches into the touch, his dick aching from holding on so long already, but Joker pulls his hand away. He's trying to provoke Bruce, he knows, trying to get him to take control.

Bruce obliges, reversing their positions. "Pants off," he growls in Joker's ear and Joker giggles and complies. Bruce discards his own pants and boxers and slides back up Joker's naked body. Their cocks bump against each other and Joker's moan reverberates into Bruce's bones. He grinds into Joker, his cock sliding against Joker's hip and belly and god it feels so good. This is not going to last long at all and Bruce cannot even muster up a sliver of fuck. The sounds spilling out of Joker's mouth are fucking perfect and his body feels good against Bruce's and it's been so long—

"Shit, Bats," Joker chokes out, his voice tight and urgent and Bruce reaches down and fists both their cocks. Joker makes a mewling sound and then he's coming, hot and wet against Bruce's hand and the drag of his fingertips scrambling over Bruce's back send Bruce over the edge as well.

Bruce flops down on the bed next to Joker, slinging an arm carelessly around him, pulling him in for a sloppy kiss.

"That doesn't count," Joker mutters into Bruce's mouth.

"It doesn't?" Bruce says in between the moments his mouth isn't occupied with Joker's.

"Nope," Joker says and nips at Bruce's lower lip. "I want a do over."

Bruce snorts. Joker takes Bruce's nipple between his teeth and bites hard. Bruce yelps and Joker licks soothingly.

"Have a lot of time to think about this in Arkham?"

"You have no idea." Joker raises his head and grins evilly at Bruce before sliding down and licking a long stripe up the underside of Bruce's soft dick.

"Fuck," Bruce gasps. His cock is still almost painfully sensitive and he squirms as Joker licks him again, the muscles in his stomach jumping. Joker's hands grips his hips, holding him still as he closes his mouth around him, soft and hot and wet. It is too intense, too much and Bruce moans Joker's name, voice jagged and desperate and ruined.

"Joker, Joker, fuck—"

He doesn't know if he's begging Joker to stop or to keep going. Every nerve ending that he has in on fire. Blood is rushing in Bruce's ears and Bruce can't feel anything but Joker's lips sliding against his tender flesh.

And then suddenly, something flips and every move of Joker's mouth transmutes into pleasure and he is bucking his hips into Joker's hands, trying to get more sensation. Joker pulls away, his mouth making a soft pop as it leaves Bruce's cock and then he is licking behind, his tongue marking heated paths down to the core of Bruce's body. He lifts and parts Bruce's legs. Bruce is liquid, boneless everywhere but his cock from having come once already, and Joker's tongue teases as his entrance and then oh fuck-his tongue is inside Bruce, sliding smoothly in and out and Bruce is powerless to stop the broken sounds that spill out of his mouth.

"Joker, Jesus Christ, please—"

Joker slides a finger in beside his tongue and Bruce's voice breaks off into moans.

Joker takes his time, licking at the muscles around his hole as his fingers stretch Bruce out. When he's got three inside, he crooks them and Bruce yelps as they brush his prostate. He feels Joker's lips curve into a smile and he presses harder. Bruce wails but Joker doesn't let up, dragging his fingers over Bruce's prostate mercilessly. Bruce feels like he's shaking apart, like he is barely hanging on.

"Joker, Jesus, fuck, I can't—"

"You can," Joker tells him.

His fingers move inside Bruce and the pleasure is so intense that Bruce looks down his own body, sure that he is coming. His cock twitches as Joker presses in again, leaking precum that pools on his belly and drips down to the sheets. Joker grins at him and then bends his head, licking a trickle of precum off Bruce's hip. "Fuck!" Bruce cries. Joker, please, please, get up here and fuck me."

Joker removes his fingers and Bruce feels cold air and then the hot press of Joker's skin as Joker climbs up his body.

"You are such a bastard," Bruce says raggedly.

Joker laughs, throaty and pleased. Bruce cups the back of his head and brings him down for a kiss, tasting himself in Joker's mouth. Joker shifts and Bruce feels Joker's cock nudge against his ass.

"Drawer," Bruce gasps out and Joker leans over and retrieves the lube, squeezing a bit out and slicking himself up. He looks down at Bruce and that look is back on his face, the panicked, terrified look, and he glides his hands gently down Bruce's chest; touching him like Bruce is some precious thing that he hasn't yet learned to destroy. Or maybe doesn't want to.

Bruce captures one of Joker's hands and pulls it to his mouth, sucking Joker's index finger to the web and swirling his tongue around it. Joker's cock twitches. Joker's expression turns hungry.

"Now who's the bastard?" he asks breathlessly.

Bruce arches impatiently and Joker lines himself up and pushes in. Bruce's head falls back and he concentrates on breathing as Joker slowly slides into him. He feels stretched and his muscles burn as he takes Joker in and he cannot believe how good it feels; his whole body coming alive under Joker's. Joker stills when he fully seated inside Bruce, exhaling a broken stream of air against Bruce's sweat-dampened throat.

"Joker," Bruce whines and the way his voice sounds elicits a groan from Joker. "Move. Come on—"

His voice breaks off in a wail as Joker tilts his hips back and then plunges forward. The hot drag of him inside Bruce feels amazing and Bruce arches with him, trying to urge him to go faster.

"Bats, Christ-" Joker's voice is completely wrecked, his face flushed, his pupils blown wide. Bruce forces his eyes open so that he can watch him, watch Joker's every feeling flicker across his expressive face as he fucks into Bruce with abandon.

It's too much. It's always too much, with Joker. Bruce feels like he is burning up from the inside, like he's going to go up in flames at any moment. He reaches down and palms his own cock, squeezing and stroking to the rhythm of Joker's cock inside him. Joker makes an approving noise and shifts, his cock thudding against Bruce's prostate and Bruce is done; splashing across Joker's chest and his own. Joker is still pounding into him and all Bruce can do is hang on, twitching and groaning, until Joker thrusts into him one last time and stills. Bruce feels a jerk and the throb of heat and then Joker goes boneless, collapsing onto Bruce's chest.

Bruce cards his hand through Joker's hair, tucking it behind his ear. "That definitely counts," he says.

Joker huffs a weak laugh against his neck. "If I'd known dancing would get you this hot, I would have tried it ages ago."

It wasn't the dancing, they both know, but neither one wants to acknowledge that fact quite yet.

"Shut up," Bruce murmurs, his hand still tangled in Joker's hair.

"Love you too," Joker snarks back.

Bruce tenses, all the warm lassitude of his body leaving at those words. Joker feels it and pulls back, looking down at his face.

"Calm down Bats, I wasn't serious," he says, but the damage has already been done. Bruce's mind goes to Rachel—lovely Rachel, with her serious face and warm eyes—and he imagines what she would say if she knew he's been fucking the man who killed her. Rachel, I'm so sorry.

His guilt chokes him.

Joker levers up and off of Bruce, his face tight, already searching for his clothes. He dresses in sharp, angry movements, but Bruce is too embroiled in his own guilt to notice until Joker is standing right in front of him.

"Ya know," Joker says in a flat voice, completely devoid of its usual teasing tone. "I'm getting pretty tired of this shit." His eyes bore into Bruce's, glittering with anger. "You made a choice, Bats. You chose me. You've gotta learn to live with it."

He is gone before Bruce can think of something suitable to say in reply.