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Bruce’s head pounds, as if the blood in his skull has tripled in quantity, he can’t move his arms, his wrists burn something fierce, and his legs feel like they’ve had lead weights tied to them.
His eyes finally flicker open but all he can see is black. He blinks slowly.
“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!”
He tries to recoil as he realises that the Joker is not two inches from his face, straddling his thighs, and what he thinks is darkness, is the Joker’s murky eyes. He can’t move far, he’s tied, just this side of snug, to a chair within a dingy room. He smells the stench of the concrete walls and mildew growing in the corners, which are too indistinguishable for him to make out in the dim light, but knows are festering slime and muck anyway.
“Good morning, Batsy,” the Joker croons, “Enjoy your nap?”
Bruce tries to escape from the vile breath, but it rushes warmly over his face anyway, and his upper lip curls in revulsion. The Joker leans back pouting, clearly mocking him.
“You’ve hurt my feelings,” he says, but the laughter that bubbles in his throat doesn’t match the words appropriately. “You see, I’ve been waiting a while for this, Bat Man. Been waiting for us to finally be reunited. I’ve missed you.” He runs the backs of his fingers down the right side of Bruce’s face and laughs again as Bruce tries to escape from them.
The Joker’s face darkens and his mouth curls up. “Don’t worry, you’ll want it soon enough. You’ll be begging for it.”
Bruce frowns in confusion, but he knows the Joker can’t see it as it’s covered by his mask. His face is just one perpetual frown nowadays anyway.
There’s no time for games, Bruce knows he has to find a way out, and he thinks it would be convenient if he could take the Joker down at the same time; finally lock him up for good. His eyes once again flicker around the room, looking for ways to help his predicament, but there’s nothing; the room is bare. He can’t even find a door or a window. His gaze is drawn back to the Joker, as the other man, no psychopath –calling him a man is far too respectful– squirms backwards and finally stands up. The Joker starts to walk circles around him, his hands in his coat pockets. The clown giggles as he spreads the coat open to impersonate the Batman’s wings and zooms about, skipping this way and that, making whooshing noises as he turns about the room happily.
Bruce holds his tongue.
The Joker slows his movements and takes his hands out of his pockets. He stands directly in front of Bruce as his fingers jitter along the edge of Bruce’s cowl.
“Does it annoy you?” he asks his eyes lighting up like one of his homemade bombs. “Does it annoy you that you can’t feel the wind through your hair when you fly about protecting your precious Gotham?” He licks his lips, a force of habit, and his fingers drift away.
Bruce lets out the breath he’s been holding.
“Don’t you long to feel free like the wind?” the Joker asks, and Bruce is sure the words hold a deeper meaning than just to mock him. He realises he’s right when the Joker, just like magic, produces a small, white pill between his thumb and forefinger. He holds it up to his eye and smiles. “Ready for some fun?” he whispers.
---
Bruce doesn’t like the look in the Joker’s eye, but he is almost certain that he has no say in what’s about to happen, anyway. The Joker palms the pill, holding up his empty hands to Bruce’s face, before he makes the pill reappear and moves it to sit between his long digits once again. He does this three or four times, until Bruce is clenching his teeth, so tightly with anger, that it aches like he’s been whacked in the jaw with a baseball bat. The Joker just continues to stare at him with a grin on his face. Bruce can’t help but count the number of times the Joker’s pink tongue flicks out against the painted red lips. He gets to seven when the Joker moves closer and plonks himself down across Bruce’s Kevlar-clad thighs.
“Are you going to be a good boy and take you medicine?” the Joker whines, patronising him.
Bruce’s lips thin in disdain. He wonders how far the Joker will go to get him to swallow the pills, then realises he doesn’t even know what kind of pills the Joker has stored away in his purple pocket. His lips disappear as he bites them closed, wordlessly defying the Joker.
The Joker sighs heavily, his face free from smiles (excepting the one that’s painted on). He tuts and shakes his head in mock-sadness. “Shucks, and I almost thought you’d comply, dear Batsy.”
The Joker moves quickly, though Bruce wonders if he thought he’d ever be able to stop him with his hands bound behind his back. He shoves his fingers upwards to block Bruce’s nose. Bruce keeps his mouth shut. The Joker moves the pill in his free hand and winds it through the air making loud engine noises. “Here comes the aeroplane!” he yells excitedly, moving the white tablet towards Bruce’s face. Bruce doesn’t move a muscle, but he can feel his lungs begin to burn. He knows he can hold his breath longer and takes a moment to relax himself.
“Why delay the inevitable?” the Joker asks, and Bruce almost believes that it’s not rhetorical. He tries to shift away from the clown’s fingers, but nothing happens. His head is beginning to pound.
The Joker stares off into the distance as though he’s bored of their game. It’s not a game if they both know who’s going to win.
The Joker rests his outstretched arm on Bruce’s shoulder, the pill still in between his fingers. He begins to chew on the inside of his lips and hum tunelessly in the back of his throat. Bruce’s eyes trail over the Joker’s face, trying to figure out what’s going on inside his chaotic mind, but nothing wavers or gives him away. He can’t believe how relaxed the Joker acts, even though his fingers are lodged up Bruce’s nose. He almost opens his mouth and sucks in a breath as the Joker slowly turns his head and stares at him. His eyes are dark and dangerous. “You know what?” he asks, not looking for an answer. “I gave you a chance, but I guess, you don’t want to come quietly,” he pauses and chuckles lowly to himself, enjoying a joke that Bruce doesn’t get. “I’ll make sure you don’t ever come quietly,” he whispers into Bruce’s ear, the arm resting on the Batman’s shoulder slowly slides down his back.
He smiles and Bruce doesn’t like it one bit.
Before Bruce can blink, the Joker pulls his arm back, slips the pill back into his pocket, and replaces it with a rather sharp looking knife. He sways it slowly left to right in front of his face, and Bruce can’t help but follow it with his eyes.
He presses the tip of the blade into the corner of Bruce’s mouth, not pressing hard enough to cut, but not soft enough for Bruce to relax. Bruce’s eyes feel like they’re about to burst out of their sockets when he finally opens his mouth to gasp for breath. The Joker removes his fingers from Bruce’s nose and drops his knife –Bruce hisses as it slices the skin between Kevlar plates on the outside of his thigh when it falls– as he claps his hands together and swings his legs above the ground happily. Bruce concedes that he’s lost as his chest rises and falls violently.
The Joker stops clapping and stares curiously at the Bat before him. “You going to behave now?” he asks, withdrawing two or three little, unmarked white pills from his pocket. He holds them up to Bruce’s lips and smiles brightly as he takes them into his mouth and swallows.
The Joker pauses and his eyes narrow in accusation. “You haven’t swallowed them, have you?”
Bruce opens his mouth, wide enough for the Joker to peer in, and lifts his tongue to show there’s nothing hidden. The Joker sits back, satisfied with his results, before he swings his leg around to straddle Bruce. He leans in until he’s a hair’s width away. “Don’t you want to know what they were?” he whispers, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips, catching the side of Bruce’s mouth at the same time. The Joker pays it no attention; Bruce bites the inside of his cheek.
The Joker bites his lip in excitement, and Bruce can tell he can’t wait to tell him what he’s just taken. There’s a wad of dread in Bruce’s stomach and he has the feeling that he won’t want to hear what the Joker is about to say. He looks the Joker straight in the eyes and blinks slowly.
“With an a-a-aphrodisiac, your h-h-heart goes pitter-pat,” the Joker sings at him, waiting for the Batman’s reaction he knows is going to be good. He isn’t disappointed as Bruce, who can no longer hold in his rage, struggles against the bindings that tie him to the chair. The chair shifts, scraping loudly against the concrete floor; their combined weight stops it from lifting off the ground. The Joker throws his head back giggling as if he’s just told the funniest joke ever heard. The only thing Bruce can see is red, not only because of his rage, but because the Joker has lowered his face and Bruce is forced to stare at the fake, ruby red smile painted over his lips.
He realised his struggles were futile ever since he woke up, but it doesn’t stop him from continuing to make it harder for the Joker to carry out his plan.
“All I want. Is for you to finally relax. Have some time for yourself. I could even give you a lovely makeover, so you look like me. Wouldn’t that be nice?” The Joker doesn’t blink as Batman tries to head butt him. He just leans away from the attack, and slips another knife he’s drawn from the inside pocket of his jacket, under the Batman’s chin and presses firmly. “None of that, dear Batsy,” he tuts, his face holding an expression of fake disappointment. “You’ve just got to loosen up.”
Bruce has no idea what to do. He knows he’s at the mercy of the Joker, and knows it isn’t going to be pretty. A lick of arousal flairs in his stomach causing him to pause, and he knows the aphrodisiacs are starting to kick in.
The Joker moves the knife away, cocks his head to the side, and smirks at Batman. “Are you feeling it yet; the slow burning inside you? I made those myself, just so you know; a special blend of sugar, spice, and all things nice. Works quicker than any of that garbage they sell around here, because where’s the fun in waiting?”
Bruce doesn’t want to hear it, but the Joker continues. “I’m betting you’re trying to ignore it, but you can’t, can you? It’s slowly eating away at you, blossoming in your stomach and slipping downwards,” The Joker slides his free hand down the front of the Bat suit. “You’re getting hard and there’s nothing you can do about it. You hate it. You ab-so-lute-ly despise it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.” The Joker leans forwards and his nose bumps against Bruce’s. He smiles and his tongue darts out to swipe along his bottom lip. Bruce is back to staring into the dark abyss of the Joker’s eyes and a slight blush tinges rouge high onto his cheekbones. His face is still impassive, but his mind is soaring.
The Joker’s hand rests over the cup on the Bat suit and, although Bruce can’t feel the touch, he can feel the warmth from the flat palm. He refuses to show how uncomfortable he is, knowing it would only be ammunition for the Joker’s sick pleasure. The Joker’s fingers swipe over his armour, trying to locate a catch, a fastener, anything that serves as an entrance. He finds nothing. He begins to tear, scratching at the plates in an animalistic nature, his nails raking futilely over the material. The Joker stops, looks up at Batman from under his eyelashes, and laughs softly. “I love a good puzzle, you know.” He pauses to scratch his nose nonchalantly and Bruce notices the blood trapped under the Joker’s nails; the Joker doesn’t seem to notice. “I think a knife might prise this open nicely. What do you think, Bats?” He focuses his attention on Bruce again and waits for an answer.
Bruce clenches his jaw. “Why don’t you release my hands and I’ll take it off for you,” he says, his voice terse and rough with hatred, and his ever-growing arousal.
“Oh ho, looks like we’ve got ourselves a joker here!” The Joker’s mouth strains with the force of his smile and it surprises Bruce that his scars fail to re-open and pour blood.
There’s a silence where the only thing that hangs in the air is the quiet hum of laughter in the back of the Joker’s throat. It’s like water torture; the laughter slowly drilling into his mind, and its aggravating chords only adding to Bruce’s frustration and helplessness. If he doesn’t go mad from the Joker’s taunts, he will certainly go mad from lust. It’s rampaging through him, twisting in his gut, and winding its way down to his cock. His temper is short and he knows he’s going to snap long before he can stop himself.
“I’ve got all day, Bat Man, have you?”
The area behind Bruce’s right eye is pounding and he starts to think that the Joker might have made his pills with something more than just aphrodisiacal ingredients. The Joker is drumming his fingers on one of his purple-clad thighs impatiently and the soft pattering does nothing to calm Bruce down. It incenses him further, and he hates himself as he growls out, “the closure is behind the utility belt”.
“Such a helpful young man, your parents must be ve-ry proud.” The Joker smirks at his own joke as his hands dart forwards to unclasp Batman’s belt, throwing it to the side and ignoring the loud thump as it comes into contact with the concrete wall to his left. The unmistakeable sound of a held breath being released isn’t unnoticed by the Joker, as his nimble fingers finally open the bottom half of the Bat-suit and release Bruce’s growing erection from the confining codpiece.
“I’m glad you saw fit to, uh... rise to the occasion,” the Joker drawls before allowing himself the pleasure of laughing at his own pun and the expression of fury on Batman’s face. He leans in close enough to smell the sweat that’s gathering under Batman’s cowl and lowers his voice. “How do you feel now? Still stiff and tense, or are you starting to loosen up? What if I do this?” He runs the flat of his palm over the head of Batman’s cock and watches as his eyes flutter close for just a moment; not long, but enough for Bruce to realise it’s only just the beginning, and the Joker to realise it won’t take long to break him. “I’m def-i-nit-ely going to enjoy this,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over Batman’s cheek.
The Joker slides himself off Batman’s lap and falls heavily to his knees. Bruce notes that he doesn’t even flinch as the resounding crack of the Joker’s knees connecting violently with solid concrete flooring fills the room. He wonders if the Joker notices or if he even cares. Bruce finds himself not caring as the Joker grips a hold of the inside of his thighs and looks up at him. “Why so serious?” he asks humorously, as he sucks Bruce into the heat of his mouth.
All thoughts of kicking the Joker away fly from his mind as he is finally given relief to his aching groin. The raised scars inside the Joker’s mouth brush against his cock as the Joker hollows his cheeks and it’s a harsh reminder to Bruce about who is kneeling in front of him. He’s just about to come to his sense and kick the Joker away, when the Joker grabs his knife off the floor and presses it against the outside of his bare thigh. Bruce knows he’d fair well to calm down, but when the Joker slices into his soft flesh just for fun, he growls expletives at him and tries to knee the Joker in the chest.
The Joker pulls away (Bruce can’t help the soft ghost of a whimper that escapes from his lips) and stares at him blankly. “Do you want me to bite your cock off?” He raises his eyebrows slightly and half-smiles, all hints of amusement gone. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand to rid himself of the spit that sits on his lips, and smears his garish red makeup in the process.
All the while, Bruce can’t help but think kicking the Joker away was the worse decision he’s made in a long time. The heat pooling in his lap has increased tenfold and he’s biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood to stop his wanton pleas from tumbling beyond his lips.
The Joker leans back –his arms stretched backwards, his palms flat on the cool concrete floor– and stares at Bruce’s masked face. “You finished? –I mean with your outburst, not with your-” he waves one finger at Bruce’s crotch, “problem.” He smiles in a way that unnerves Bruce and he has to force himself to maintain eye contact. “The thing is, Bat Man,” he stops and puts his fingers in his mouth as if searching for something. It’s a while before they withdraw, but when they do, there’s a coarse black pubic hair laying between his thumb and forefinger. He mouths the word ew and wipes his wet fingers on his waistcoat. “Where was I?” his eyes flicker to the ceiling in thought. “Oh yes, the thing is, is that my little pills, they grow ever more...potent over time. You think you’re hard now?” His laughter is just a huff of air from his lips. “Wait a while longer and you’ll find out you can punch your way out of this room with your cock.” The Joker raises his eyebrows in an I-know-better, care-to-disagree? kind of look, and Bruce knows that if his hands were free, he’d be punching it off his face. Instead, he tugs insistently against his bonds again, while the Joker watches him curiously. The Joker looks at his wrist, as though checking the time, even though he has no watch, and sighs in boredom.
Bruce’s wrists are numb, and if it’s even possible, he’s harder than ever. He closes his eyes, takes and deep breath, and swallows loud enough that he knows the Joker hears him. When he opens his eyes the Joker is no longer sitting on the ground, he’s standing knee to knee in front of him.
“All I need is one simple, teeny weenie, word, Batsy,” the Joker croons, leaning over him.
Bruce’s cock throbs and he can’t focus properly. “Please,” he croaks, the word barely there.
“I’m sorry, could you speak up?” the Joker taunts, knowing full well what Bruce said.
“Joker, please,” Bruce says, loud enough that it almost suffocates him as it bounces off the walls of the small room.
The Joker grins broadly, a literal winning smile, and his hands go to his pants. With deft movements, he unbuttons his suspenders and tugs them down the back of his waistcoat so they hang uselessly behind him. He then moves his fingers to the fastenings on his purple pants and undoes them slowly, making the man in front of him wait those few extra minutes for his final release. When they’re open, he lets go of the striped material and his pants tumble to his ankles with the help of gravity. The Joker flings his arms out, “Ta da!” he yells, at the Batman. “Does this answer your ul-ti-mate question of boxers or briefs?”
Bruce’s eyes flicker downwards towards the Joker’s exposed lower half. The Joke isn’t wear boxers or briefs; he isn’t wear anything. Bruce swallows trying to put moisture back into his mouth.
The Joker bends over and, with some difficultly, pulls his pants off over his boots. He’s left looking a lot less daunting. His legs are lanky and pale, with light hair scattered over them, but the hair thickens and darkens as it reaches the junction between his thighs. The flush across Bruce’s cheeks hides itself behind his cowl, thankful for the shelter. The Joker isn’t exactly large, but he sure as hell is hard. The head of the Joker’s cock is moist with precome, and Batman knows that he’s been nursing it for a while now. He drags his eyes away and focuses on the Joker’s movements; he moves closer to where he’s tied to the chair and straddles his legs. The position rubs the Joker’s erection against the Kevlar of the Batsuit and Bruce’s own erection rubs against the inside of the Joker’s thigh. A burst of hot breath flees his mouth as he’s finally given some relief. The ache inside him is still burning, and it flairs up again as the Joker grinds his body forwards. He wants the Joker to stop it all, yet he wants him to sink down onto his cock at the same time. He doesn’t know whether to try to press forwards, or to try to shrink away, but he’s given no choice as the Joker uses one sweaty hand to guide himself onto Bruce.
Every inch he sinks down is like a knife twisting deeper into Bruce's gut, but it’s stemming the fire inside him and he doesn’t care. Bruce’s head falls back as the Joker puts his whole weight onto his lap. Before he’s even had time to catch the breath that’s been stolen away from him, the Joker is pulling up and slamming himself back down. Bruce cries out, his voice no longer the gravely Batman tone but a louder, higher, gasping yell of pleasure. The Joker continues his movements until Bruce thinks the chair will collapse from the exertions.
He doesn’t know whether to head butt the Joker or kiss him; he does neither and instead, he tips his head forward, and rests his forehead on the clown’s waistcoat-clad chest. The material is rough on his skin, and it rubs as the Joker continues to bounce in his lap; drawing up so high that Bruce almost thinks he’ll slip out of the tight heat.
The Joker moans loudly, and Bruce guesses that his cock inside him must have just hit his prostate. He watches the Joker’s face, distorted with pleasure, and can’t help but wonder why he’s doing all this.
All too soon, Bruce feels his balls draw closer to his body and he clenches his fists, his fingernails biting into his palms, as he comes deep inside the Joker. The Joker, who’s gasping and laughing at the same time, moves his hand to wrap around his own cock, and pulls himself off in a matter of seconds. He collapses against Bruce’s chest and their quickly drying semen glues them together in a sick and twisted kind of way. Both of them breathe heavily, trying to replenish the oxygen supply in their brains. The fire inside Bruce has dwindled considerably, for which he’s grateful.
The Joker shifts in his lap and Bruce doesn’t want to hear what’s about to come out of his mouth; he just wants to sit in the darkness and silence and forget this ever happened.
“Hey, Batman,” the Joker whispers, his lips brushing the shell of Bruce’s ear. “You want to know a se-cret?” He pulls back so Bruce is forced to look at him, and he smiles like the cat that got the cream. “I couldn’t actually find any aphrodisiacs, so I hope you didn’t mind the vitamin pills.”
Bruce’s stomach plummets as the Joker throws his head back and laughs and laughs and laughs.