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The door gave a soft release of air as it opened. Turning his head towards the blinding light that flooded in, the Joker saw nothing but a bit black blob, before the door was closed again and he was left in blackness.
He grinned, shifted around on the soft, padded floor. He’d been locked in here for two days now, with absolutely no visitors. Truth be told, he hadn’t even been given anything to eat, but he didn’t mind. His tongue still tasted like the blood of the orderly whose shoulder he had left beautiful teeth scars in, ears still filled with her terror-ridden screams and screeches. She’d been pretty, but her screams were just too high pitched for him.
“Long time no see, Bats,” he said, “forgive me if I don’t, ah, stand and shake your hand. They’ve got me locked up nice and tight here.”
He squirmed around in his straight jacket, tilting his head so his curls twisted around him. His blonde roots were growing out- they didn’t allow him hair dye or make-up in Arkham. He’d been particularly upset over his lack of paint when he’d gone off on the orderly. But why should she get to have those rosy red lips, and he was forced to walk around with naked skin?
Batman didn’t speak, but he moved. His boots were quiet on the floor. He came out of the shadows but stayed no more than an outline, crouching down and grasping the Joker by the front of that jacket, yanking him up onto unsteady feet. Grinning, the madman allowed it, stumbled a little, his balance off.
“So, to what do I owe this pleasure, cupcake?”
Silent, Batman shoved him against the padded wall, pressing close, the other hand tangling in his ever growing hair. He pulled painfully, and the Joker hissed.
“Into hair pulling, eh, Batsy?” He pushed his hips out, found that tight suit and gyrated. “You know, you shouldn’t start with such rough foreplay. I haven’t even warmed up yet.” He giggled, before an arm pressed into his throat, cutting off his air. He squirmed, his head growing fuzzy, liquid like- and then there were lips on his, heavy and crushing and demanding, pushing into him as if they were searching for something. He tried to move his mouth in response, but as the oxygen depleted it was as if his body was a mile away.
The mouth and arm moved in unison, and the clown sucked in a deep breath, wheezing it out before he spoke- his voice hoarse now.
“Mmm, you do play rough.” He licked his lips, was grabbed by the shoulders and jerked forward, then slammed against the padded wall again. Despite that, his head still had a dull ache, but it was hard to realize as those lips once again claimed his own, kissing with bruising force.
The Joker strained against his straight jacket, wanting to wrap his arms around Batman’s neck- to clung and strangle and dissolve. Instead all he could do was press his chest to that suit and tip his head back, opening his mouth for a probing tongue that gave him chills.
This wasn’t the first time the big bad Bat had kissed him. It wasn’t the first time the Joker had rolled his hips against the hard armor and known- just known that below, his Bat was just as hard. He’d never gotten more then a few delicious grunts, a restrained gyration of the hips, and that hungry mouth. Batman’s fist always found him before he got more.
What the Joker didn’t know now, as one of those hands tugged on the front of the straight jacket, missing the shirt that could so easily be torn- was that the Scarecrow had just escaped Batman’s fingers, had set fire to a strip of highway and left cars to burn and blow. Five dead, easily, with dozens more in the ICU. And nothing to show for it.
He needed something to control, to manipulate. To hold in his hands and crush. He needed the Joker with a burning fire in the pit of his gut that only the painted man could light. He needed release from this night.
Batman stepped back and jerked the Joker to the ground. He stumbled, fell, landed chest down, ass up, cheek smashed into the padded floor. Batman was behind him, one gloved hand grabbing at the flesh beneath those thin state issued pants- flimsy cotton barely a barrier against warm skin and tissue. The Joker pushed back into the touch, groaned into the floor and wanted to feel flesh and Kevlar and sweat on skin.
“C’mon Bats,” he whispered, barely audible, and his pants were ripped down, resting around his thighs. Elated, he mewled when the sharp corners of Batman’s gauntlets bit into skin, pried apart flesh. He heard him fumbling around with his suit, heard the click of armor moving, the sound of flesh waiting- his heart in his throat, his mouth, pounding against his teeth in yesyesyes euphoria. So close, so close to his Bat and all he wanted and needed and-
He cried out when that iron-hard flesh penetrated him, dove deep into him and burned and pleased and touched every bit of his body in one thrust. He wanted to shake his head, to writhe, but he was immobile as he was, forced face down, one gloved hand gripping his hip as Batman pushed into him, speared him, withdrew, speared again- a terror of a rhythm.
The Joker fought against his restraints- never hated the straight jacket more than he did in that moment. His cock was hard and heavy, left to smack his belly with each exceptionally powerful thrust- otherwise given no contact. He needed something, even as his Bat drove into that bundle of nerves that made him see fireworks. He needed contact.
“Touch me,” he hissed, commanded, but was met with those sharp gauntlets digging into flesh, drawing blood- reaching for his lower back, under the jacket, digging again. “Fuck Bats, just let me-“
Batman leaned over him, buried his hand in his hair and pushed his face further into the padded floor, effectively shutting him up. He didn’t want to hear him- didn’t want him to enjoy it. This wasn’t about pleasure, this was power. He had to have it over someone tonight, and it was the painted man’s misfortune that he happened to be locked up and so easy to pluck.
Except his body was tight, hot silk that made Batman shudder, his muscle tighten. He felt like a god- better than the women he fucked as Bruce. He hadn’t expected this.
The Joker was choking on his breath, a mix of coughs and gasps and giggles escaping his mouth as Bruce buried his hand in the sleeves tied behind his back- yanked with all his force as he drove into him, tearing fabric. The Joker’s arms tumbled to his sides and he pushed himself up, gasping into a cry as he arched and new nerves were hit.
“Bats,” he panted, gripping onto the floor, shoving himself back onto that length, needing more, wanting everything and more. “Nnn, how’s it, ah, feel Batsy?” He pushed back again, felt the hand tighten on his hip, and it was all the answer he needed. He reached one hand between his legs, grasped his aching cock and stroked, biting his scarred lip until he tasted blood- felt the sting of his broken skin and the bruises forming, coupling with the delicious ache the Bat was causing his ass.
He had meant to make it last as long as possible, but his own hand worked him too fast, too tightly, and the Joker was mewling and rolling his hips in time with Batman, and then crying out, gasping for him, hot seed spilling over his fingers. His muscles clenched Batman like no other, seemed like a vice, milking him as his own orgasm wracked him unexpectedly. He growled and grunted, emptying himself before pulling out and roughly turning the Joker onto his back. He crawled over him, mouth finding a set of bleeding lips and kissing, sucking, metallic and salty and sharp.
The Joker lay a quaking mess below him, wanting to do it all over again, even as Batman reared up, tangled a hand in his hair, and delivered a deafening punch to his jaw.
The pain made his muscles rhythmically clench again, and he was crying out as a seedless orgasm overtook him, as punch found his pale, ribs. As his Bat emptied his rage, his desire now spent.