Archive of Our Own

"Aw, Bruce! You're so sweet. You simply shouldn't have. I couldn't possibly— Oh, just feel this cashmere. Can't leave without that."

Rhyleigh Brighton— heiress, humane society volunteer, and natural blonde— hands the burgundy sweater to the impassive sales clerk and moves on to a rack of wool skirts. The store is hers to plunder; Bruce paid the management at Lacey's to close down for the evening so his date can shop without bother.

It's a quintessential Bruce Wayne stunt, and Rhyleigh is eating it up. He tries not to judge, since it is a flattering gesture, but the light in her eyes as she peruses the expensive garments still puts him off. It's like she thinks the price tags reflect the clothing's actual worth and reinforce her own value.

He watches her pass a coal-black skirt to the clerk and reminds himself that this kind of wasteful indulgence is far overshadowed by his philanthropy, to say nothing of the importance of maintaining his playboy persona. He can't do his most dangerous work if people suspect that he's—

A bang sounds at the front of the store, then another, the sound of the doors being forced open. The commotion builds with scattered laughter and heavy footsteps and the manager's protests. Bruce turns as he hears her sputter, "W-we're closed, sir, for a—"

The poor woman squeaks as a brute of a man lifts her by the collar as easily as a cat handles a kitten. He and two more hulks are dressed as mimes, in fitted black trousers and black-striped t-shirts that cling to their broad torsos. White paint smoothes out their faces, and semi-automatics are strapped to their chests.

All three men are a good foot taller than the fourth leading them, whose ghostly pallor owes nothing to makeup. Joker strolls into the store, his chilling cackle echoing off the shining walls. The mime with long curly hair stays behind at the entrance to keep watch. The two others flank their boss, the bald one pulling the manager along while aiming his gun at her head.

Joker stops and leans on the shelves of cashmere sweaters, and the warm and muted apparel makes his typical purple suit pop as much as his blood-red lipstick and toxic green hair. He surveys his prey with a malicious grin. Rhyleigh drops the dress she's holding to hide behind Bruce, while the clerk stands frozen with her selections draped over his arms.

"Would you look at this!" Joker exclaims. "I come to shop at one of Gotham's establishment businesses and find it's closed for 'a private event.' Yet the only patrons inside are perennial bachelor Bruce Wayne and his latest ex-to-be."

As he comes forward, he reaches out to catch his fingertips along a rack of hangers, ticking the metal. Bruce steps back, Rhyleigh moving with him, and spreads his arms as if that will defend her. Joker's smile stretches wider.

"Come on now. I may be intruding, but really? Private event? How selfish! For all you know someone might be in dire need of a…" Joker plucks a hanger from the rack and considers it with a cock of his head. "A blouse with... elbow cutouts?" He does a double-take at the price tag. "Well, they might need to return it. Pay off a bookie or two, or—"

"Whatever you want," the clerk bursts, nerves breaking at the worst time. "Take it, please."

Joker's face darkens at the interruption. Bruce tenses, his mind cycling through the moves a coddled socialite can feasibly pull off without raising questions, and trying to reconcile taking action with the risk to the manager, or the risk of both mimes opening fire on all of them.

But in a flash, the clown's disdain switches to sadness. "Is that how staff here are trained?" Joker laments with his gloved hands over his heart. "To profile the disfigured but fashionable as penurious bums?"

"I, uh, I'm sorry," the clerk rambles. "I didn't— No offense was—"

"I deserve as much respect as every other nonpaying customer!" Joker declares, jabbing his finger at Rhyleigh.

"Absolutely, sir."

"And this one doesn't even respect the merchandise!" In two long strides, Joker is picking up the crumpled dress at Bruce and his date's feet. He pokes the hanger into Rhyleigh's arm and raises an eyebrow at Bruce. "This is the kind of person you want to be photographed with in the tabloids?"

Joker is temperamental, but he's still having fun. Bruce can't let the mood swings rile him, though he wants to pull Joker's focus.

He answers calmly, "It was an accident. We were a little startled."

"Startled," Joker repeats, again playing up his offense.

Bruce plays it nervous but friendly. "I think she and I have both been at parties where you made an appearance. You leave a powerful impression."

Joker's eyes flash with delight. "Of course. I make an effort in all of my performances, from the blocking to the costumes."

"It shows!" Rhyleigh pipes up in a misguided attempt at being helpful. She pokes her head out from behind Bruce. "Certainly in your fashion sense! You're absolutely right about that blouse. Some of these designers, what are they thinking?"

"That their elbows are too warm, clearly," Joker titters. He holds the dress up against his frame, canting his hips. "You've got a good eye yourself," he remarks as he turns to a mirror mounted on a nearby pillar.

Bruce gives Rhyleigh a hard stare, but she doesn't notice and takes a small step out from his cover. "Little black dress, always essential, right?"

Joker hums, contemplating his reflection. "You think I should take it?"

"Oh absolutely! Take it, buy it, whatever."

His shoulders slump. "You lovely young things," he sighs, "you think it's so easy." He whirls from the mirror, his renewed smile sharp and green eyes gleaming bright. "But why shouldn't you? With your fortune and your boytoy, it's so simple to buy all the shiny things."

Rhyleigh silently retreats, clutching the back of Bruce's suit jacket.

"Did it just make you sick," Joker asks, stepping closer, "that one of your thousand special nights over your flickering little life got interrupted? Burst your bubble?"

Bruce needs to get them back to de-escalation. He pulls up a winning smile. "I could buy it for you."

He doesn't think the offer will work. He's buying time, keeping an eye on the mimes for a good opportunity to disarm them or run. But there's no telling what will catch Joker's fancy. Instead of mocking Bruce, the clown pauses with a finger to his chin.

"Have my own frolic in the bubble," he muses. "That does sound fun..."

"Everyone deserves to be indulged."

"Yeah," Rhyleigh squeaks, staying unseen.

"I'm sold!" Joker exclaims. He leans into Bruce and bats his evergreen eyelashes. "Or rather all this merchandise is sold, to you, for me. Sound good, pretty boy?"

Of course the dress isn't enough. The clown wants to take Rhyleigh's night, but that's fine. The longer he's entertained, the longer everyone lives.

Bruce nods deferentially. "I'd love to treat you."

"Great!" Joker chirps. "Okay, boys, the clerk will help our spree, but off the girl and the manager." He cuts his finger across his throat.

"What?!" Rhyleigh shrieks.

Joker rolls his eyes. "I don't compete on my dates. What do you think this is, a reality show?" He pauses and looks at the mimes. "Write that down."

"You can't kill anyone," Bruce says tensely.

"Historically untrue," Joker replies, examining the hem of the dress.

"You want the full billionaire bachelor experience," Bruce says, thinking fast, "but I can't keep up the charm when innocent people have just been killed. I'm sure you'll like me best at one hundred percent, the real deal."

He's grasping for the right framing, and there's no way Joker doesn't know it. Joker's choice really depends on his mood, if he's curious about how the playboy behaves without murder clouding the night, or if he wants to see just how well Bruce can play suitor under mortal pressure.

The clown puts on a show of thinking about it, tapping his foot while cupping one rouged cheek then the other. Then he opens his arms. "Deal!"

"Deal," Bruce affirms.

Judging by how Rhyleigh's still gripping his jacket, the manager still looks queasy, and the clerk is still holding the same garments like a security blanket, they aren't bolstered by his confidence.

And for good reason, considering Joker's amended instructions. "Alright, Curly," he says to the bald mime, "just take their phones and lock them up in a janitor's closet or something, and watch them while I go shopping. If it sounds like Brucie is breaking our deal, then you break it too." He calls over to the entrance, "You hear that, Larry?"

"Got it!" comes the answer.

"I keep my word," Bruce says, turning to Rhyleigh and squeezing her arm.

"Yes, very valiant," Joker deadpans, shoving the cowering woman away. He reaches into Bruce's jacket and takes his phone. "You won't need this."

He tosses the device to Curly, who pockets it before marching Rhyleigh and the manager off at gunpoint.

Bruce tears his eyes away and tries to look unbothered by Joker's cruel smile. "It's your night," he says. "How should we start?"

Joker holds up the black dress. "How else? With a wardrobe change."

The fitting room has six stalls, three on either side of a tall tri-fold mirror with a round platform a couple inches higher than the floor. Joker sends the obedient clerk to find some heels before skipping into the second stall. After the clerk leaves, the remaining mime— who, with his bowl cut, must be Moe— blocks the doorway.

Bruce doesn't have any faith that the clerk is going to risk someone's life by calling for help. He posts himself in the corner and surreptitiously watches Moe. He doesn't recognize him from the files on Joker's repeat hires, so he has no information on how well-trained he is with firearms, if he can get off a shot before Bruce can grab his weapon.

After a couple minutes, Joker calls over the door, "Are you ready?"

"If you are," Bruce responds amiably.

Joker twirls barefoot out of the stall and hops onto the riser. He faces the mirror with his hands on his hips and purses his lips. "What do we think?"

A sheath dress should only exaggerate Joker's bony frame, but the black silk slides down his body to his knees in smooth curves, casting his bare calves and arms as clean lines. The modest V neckline crosses nicely over his clavicle, while the draping at the back, from shoulder to shoulder, dips down halfway to his waist. The flourish gives a sense that the scars there are not so much exposed as they are on display.

The clerk is back suddenly, carrying stacks of shoe boxes, and Bruce realizes he's staring. He fights a flush of awkwardness as Joker dismisses one pair of shoes after another with shakes of his head. As awful as he is, Joker is still a person, and therefore it's possible for him to have features that Bruce would find appealing in other people. Set it aside. Focus.

Joker's face finally lights up, and he snatches a pair of pointy-toed stilettos from the clerk. "There they are!" He shoos the clerk away, then dangles the heels by their thin ankle straps. "Brucie, be a doll," he coos.

Bruce comes forward and takes the shoes. When he kneels, he half-expects Joker to kick him in the face for laughs, but the clown just extends his right leg and points his foot. Bruce holds Joker's ankle as he slides the shoe on, hiding his neat purple pedicure.

The oddness of touching Joker like this adds to the mess of feelings in Bruce's gut. He's used to using force, not care, to handling the villain in near darkness, not crisp lighting. In a knockdown fight, Joker is gangly and unwieldy, but as Bruce fixes the tiny buckle around his ankle, the joint seems nothing more than delicate.

That's ridiculous. Bruce's face is burning. He doesn't rush the second heel so he has time to collect himself. When he's finally done, it's a struggle to take only two steps back instead of retreating to the wall.

Joker evaluates himself in the mirror. His wrists look as delicate as his ankles as he plays with his hair.

"I have an affinity for black," he says, "but I don't know if it's for me."

"It looks good," Bruce says, because he's expected to reply. His thoughts are just that, observations and associations.

"What about the scarf?" Joker asks, fiddling with the fabric draped across his back.

Bruce realizes it's only attached at the shoulders, with another V line underneath, as Joker starts to pull it over his head.

"I can switch to a sort of cowl neck in front—" Joker stops when the scarf covers his hair "—or a cowl over my head." He giggles, "I can look all mysterious like my darling."

The remark helps Bruce center himself. "Batman?"

"It's no secret after all these years."

"'Darling' isn't the impression I get of your relationship."

"We're unconventional." Joker lets the scarf drop to its original place. He smirks at Bruce. "Don't get jealous."

Bruce can't help a scoffing laugh. "I'm not."

"Good. You can't be if tonight works out to an arrangement."

The presumption is meant to throw Bruce off, but he keeps his cool. "I've had arrangements, but it may be difficult to keep one up with you, considering your lifestyle."

"I suppose we'll see," Joker says idly, tugging at one of his curls. He snaps his fingers at the clerk. "Patrick, fetch me tools from the grooming department."

Patrick, whose name tag says otherwise, is quick on the uptake. On his return, he's juggling a hair dryer with multiple attachments, a curling iron, two differently sized round brushes, three types of comb, and a bag of bobby pins, along with several bottles and aerosol cans. Joker marks Bruce as his assistant, impatiently ordering him to hand over a particular tool or a certain hair product or a handful of pins, and somehow in less than ten minutes, the job is done. Joker's curls are piled on top of his head, the front locks spilling over his forehead with the tips trailing near his right eye.

"What do we think?" he asks.

"You've pulled it all together," Bruce says evenly, while inwardly acknowledging that Joker looks too much like models he's dated.

The villain shoots him a cross look. "Pulled it together?"

Right. Bruce's role is to treat Joker like those models. He smiles. "Too stunning for words."

Joker's smirk returns, and he pats Bruce's cheek. "How kind." He gestures to the mess on the floor. "Paolo, all this goes on the bill."

"I'll hold it at the register," the clerk says, scurrying to gather everything up.

"Be quick about it." Snootily lifting his nose, Joker steps down from the riser and links arms with Bruce. "I cannot be indulged without the proper accessories."

Thankfully, it only takes the clerk a few minutes to find them again at the jewelry counter. Joker made a beeline for it out of the dressing room, and he has his nose to the glass where the ostentatious pieces are locked up.

He lifts his head and points at the fog left by his breath. "This set right here."

The stud earrings walk the line of gaudy on their own: shining diamonds surrounded by tiny sparkling emeralds and amethysts. Laid out below the stand, however, is a full collar of the same fine gems, all the size of a fingernail. They're set in three rows, about two inches wide, coming close to enclosing the wearer's entire neck.

The clerk finds the key to the case and pulls out the display, setting a hand mirror beside it. Joker tilts his head up and locks his eyes on Bruce again.

The absurdity of the evening is perfectly illustrated by Bruce pulling an extravagant necklace around a throat he's strangled countless times. Yet as much as Joker deserves the violent treatment, merely decorating his skin is… not unwelcome. From the collar's silver clasp, a chain dangles down Joker's spine, weighted by a column of three tiny stones, purple, white, and green. They glimmer between his shoulder blades, at home amid the abalone-like shine of his scars.

Just like that, a flood of suppressed images breaks through, from dreams and fantasies Bruce can't write off as thoughts, observations, associations. Some visions are nearly indistinguishable from Batman's fights with Joker, colored with beatings and sprays of blood, but others are just the heat, the exchange of breath, the grasping of flesh. That's the core of it: that Joker is his to grapple with.

"Brucie?" that lilting voice says curiously.

Bruce swallows a lump in his throat and steps back to Joker's front. "Just making sure it looks right," he says as he gets the earrings.

Joker picks up the mirror, viewing himself from the side as Bruce adorns his ears. "Ah, who better than a man of refined taste to ensure I'm not taken in by flawed merchandise?"

"I couldn't say," Bruce replies with a crooked smile, and he doesn't know what to do with the bolt of pleasure at the compliment. He knows Joker's appreciation isn't genuine.

He knows what matters. He needs to keep Joker happy to keep other people alive. So Bruce Wayne will follow through and flirt and flatter like he has in hundreds of other precarious situations. A shopping spree with Joker is the most precarious so far, but it's controlled. If the worst thing Joker does tonight is assert himself through Bruce's wallet, there's no harm at all.

And Bruce does know what to do with these disturbing feelings: use them. The more convincing he is, the better off everyone will be, until Batman can arrive on the scene.

Once the earrings are on, Joker swats Bruce aside. He swings the mirror to his front and fingers the collar as he takes in the dazzle.

"I'll definitely be taking these," he decides as if there's a question. He wears the pieces like they belong there, like he's owed them.

"They bring out your eyes," Bruce says, because he should, and because it's not a lie.

Joker grins brightly and tosses the mirror at the clerk, who misses it. He hooks his arm with Bruce's again, like it belongs there. "Tell me more!"

Ensemble complete, Joker zig-zags through the apparel, following whatever attracts his interest in the moment. It shouldn't feel so different, watching him flit through the store in a classy cocktail dress instead of cavorting in a purple suit, but Joker is a showman, and when he's committed to playing a part, he can do it well.

No, "part" isn't exactly right. There is real gusto in Joker's oohs and ahs at all the well-made clothing, and he happily remakes himself on any given day, after all. He lives the show, and the fashion needs just as much of an audience as the rest of it. He keeps engaging Bruce by asking his opinion on this shirt or that scarf, even if Bruce's classic charcoal suit is evidence of safe tastes.

It's a shame that even shopping baskets are too pedestrian for Lacey's branding; three times the clerk's arms become so loaded with merchandise that he has to drop it all off at a register. When he comes back for the fourth round, Joker absentmindedly flings a blue shawl over his head, then makes Bruce hand over a gold pantsuit with a black midriff top.

"Paul gets paid for that, not you, Brucie," Joker scolds, looking at perfumes displayed in the aisle.

"I was raised to be helpful," Bruce says.

"You're helping me." Joker lifts a blue bottle in one hand and a silver one in the other. He spritzes both into the air between him and Bruce. "Which?"

The scents are too mingled. "I can't really tell the difference?"

"Eh!" Joker shrugs and tosses both bottles at the clerk, who catches them with more luck than he had with the mirror.

Bruce spots the display's unobtrusive price tag as they continue on to the sleepwear. Spending all this money is ludicrous when Joker's not going to hang onto anything. He'll be arrested or lose it all somewhere or set it on fire, by accident or on purpose.

But, Bruce reminds himself as Joker mixes and matches a pajama set, this is still more palatable than the clown's usual efforts to live in the moment.

"I notice you're not trying anything else on," Bruce says.

Joker holds the hangers to his front and coyly pops back a leg. "Was there something else you wanted to see me in?"

He's picked a teal camisole and blush-colored shorts, both in slippery satin. The shorts are cut high, and it's easy to imagine how much leg they show off.

"The dress is fantastic," Bruce says quickly.

Joker adds the nightclothes to the pile in the clerk's arms. "It's certainly to your taste, right out of those fancy-schmancy parties."

"Have you ever thought about actually attending one? You know, instead of just showing up to rob it."

"Yawn! There's no way all those fuddy-duddies are as fun as you, Brucie."

"You prefer flattery as you take their money, is that it?"

"Flattery and a pretty face go a long way," Joker replies as he strolls across the aisle and inspects the bras on offer.

When Bruce turns, he catches Moe in his periphery. On the sales floor, the mime has hung back, and sometimes, just for a moment, Bruce forgets the henchman is there. He shouldn't let that happen. He shouldn't feel perturbed when he remembers he's not simply entertaining Joker.

"Speaking of galas," Joker continues, poking the bra cups as he ambles by. "I'm surprised we haven't had any personal encounters before today."

"I've paid for training on how to avoid ransom situations."

"You escape?"

"More often I can hide. Laying low has worked out."

At an end-cap, Joker picks up a push-up bra in navy blue with a gold fleur-de-lis pattern. "I'll have to keep an eye out for you next time, to see how well-trained you are."

"Well, now I've ruined it for myself," Bruce chuckles. "It seems I'm poorly trained."

Joker reaches over to squeeze Bruce's bicep. "I beg to differ," he purrs.

Bruce's face feels warm. "Building muscle isn't the same."

"But it goes a long way." Joker walks his fingers up Bruce's shoulder. "Sometimes survival is just as simple"— he traces a nail along Bruce's square jawline— "as using indomitable force." His finger trails down the center of Bruce's chest— then he grabs each end of the bra's band and stretches it wide, pressing it against Bruce's pecs. "And hoo boy, imagine conquering this mountain!"

Bruce surprises himself when he laughs— a real laugh, not a practiced chuckle or amused huff of air. Joker grins proudly as he slingshots the bra and it smacks Moe in the chest. The levity bursts through the cracks in Bruce's begrudging veneer, hitting him with how much he enjoys this, the idea that he can just hand over everything, and without blood or screams, he can have Joker's charm, his silliness, his company.

Joker will behave for him.

Another feeling stirs, too low and deep, and the levity shrivels.

Bruce didn't feel that. He can't feel that, especially right now.

He coughs awkwardly and attempts a redirect, "I'm nothing against your Batman, that's for sure."

Joker's smile curls at the edges. Discomfort is like blood in the water. "Oh, I don't know, I'm sure he'd appreciate your help in tag-teaming me."

Bruce can't feel that, but the shadowed image comes anyway: Joker ecstatic, caught between the cowled, growling vigilante and the besuited socialite. Batman clamps his glove around the clown's ill-gotten collar, choking him as he drives an armored thigh against his crotch. Bruce murmurs into Joker's bejeweled ear while stroking his hair and rutting against his silk-covered ass.

In the bright lights of the store, Joker laughs loud. "Hoo, on second thought, we may be a little much for you, Brucie. Wouldn't want your self-esteem getting a beating when you can't keep up."

Joker thinks he's scandalized. Bruce should feel relieved. He laughs weakly and tugs on his collar as his gaze drifts to the floor.

On top of being logically impossible and disgusting, the fantasy is stupid. Foolish. Joker has kept his word so far, but he's still holding people hostage. Bruce can't get lost in this role. He can't forget that if he crosses any of Joker's arbitrary lines, innocent people could die. The clown would have tried strangling Bruce with that bra if a funny enough reason came to him.

Joker sighs— the same as he would after Bruce's body dropped to the floor— and looks around the store. "We've snapped up goods left and right in this place!" He looks over at the clerk. "How much damage do ya think, Perseus?"

The clerk blinks. "I'm just hoping all the damage is at the register, sir."

"HA!" Joker slaps the clerk's back, and the poor man almost falls over. "Brucie, you better tip this guy good."

"I was planning on it," Bruce says, relieved that this may be nearly over.

"I'll bet." Joker sticks out his tongue as he reaches under his arm into the dress. He snaps the concealed price tag free and sets it neatly atop his other selections. "Get a move on, Perse."

The clerk leads them to the register where he's collected everything, and it turns out he's already started ringing them up. Over a dozen large bags, white with the Lacey's black logo, sit on the floor behind the counter. They all look neatly packed rather than thrown together. It seems despite his duress, or rather because of it, the clerk remains committed to meeting the Lacey's standard of service.

Once the last items are scanned and efficiently placed in another bag, he reports the astronomical total.

Bruce takes out his wallet, and Joker watches almost admiringly, leaning on the counter with one arm propped up on his elbow, cupping his cheek. Paying the bill feels strange even though Bruce was ready for it. Joker is, hopefully, going to peacefully leave a store with paid goods for once, instead of setting off a canister of toxin and running away with whatever he can carry.

The clerk processes the card, and Bruce's eyes are drawn back to Joker— to the chain lying askew on his exposed back, to how the black silk clings to the curve of his ass.

Joker chuckles and wiggles his hips.

Bruce looks away, and the blush surging to his cheeks is not helped by the realization that the silk fits so smoothly because Joker isn't wearing anything underneath.

"Mr. Wayne?"

The clerk is handing the credit card back. Bruce mutters a quick thanks and takes it.

"Soooooo," Joker says, straightening up, "what comes next on your dates, moneybags?"

Bruce knew that Joker ending the night here was a thin possibility. "Usually dinner, but we were going to play it by ear." He doesn't want to participate in havoc at a restaurant. "Sometimes it's nice to have a private meal in a hotel room or the penthouse."

Joker darts in close, palms flat against Bruce's chest. "The penthouse!" he says, eyes sparkling like his new jewels. "Now that's exclusivity! Let's go. We've already got a car."

Bruce is thankful. Joker wouldn't believe that he and Rhyleigh didn't have a ride ready, and he doesn't want to bring her driver into this. "So we'll leave everyone here, safe and sound."

Joker pouts and plays with Bruce's lapel. "You know, technically I only said I wouldn't kill them, and it's really one of my favorite loopholes. Never gets old."

"But?" Bruce prompts.

"But…" Joker smiles. "You said I'd see what the fuss is about, and you've been a real charmer. So, sure, why not?"

"I appreciate it."

"I can't have them tattling, though! It'll cut our night short. So we'll compromise. Everybody goes in the closet with a little knockout gas, and someone will find them eventually." Joker waves a hand through the air, as if the details are a bothersome fly.

The poor clerk has gone pale. Bruce manages a tight smile. "Gas?"

"Only the knockout kind, I promise!" Joker raises his right hand and holds up three fingers. "Jester's honor."

"I suppose that's safe enough."

"I love how you see everything my way!" Joker says sweetly before whirling around and hollering, "Hey, Larry! We're skedaddlin'!"

In short order, Bruce and Joker are waiting outside a personnel entrance that lets out into a narrow side street. Curly and Moe stand behind them in a sea of Lacey's bags. Larry pulls up in a limousine, gets out, and opens the rear door. He wears a chauffeur's hat that looks a size too small.

"Gentlemen first," Joker says, pushing Bruce in.

Bruce settles in the rear seat, and he gives the store one final look as Joker climbs in. He asked if he could check on Rhyleigh and the manager when Moe took the clerk away, and he didn't push it when Joker said no.

There have been a few times when Bruce was able to take Joker at his word, and he prays he's not wrong to feel that everyone is relatively safe, not only because Joker is having a good time, but because the clown would think it funnier to have living witnesses. Even with the full story in the press, the Wayne Enterprises publicists are going to have a hell of a time explaining why their esteemed playboy CEO treated a murderous scoundrel to fine goods with a placid smile.

Instead of sitting beside Bruce, Joker sprawls on the seat along the side of the limo with an overly exhausted sigh. Larry stands at the door and watches the other mimes load the trunk in a few short trips, then moves aside as Curly starts to climb in next to Bruce.

Joker shoots upright. "What are you doing muscling in on my date, you idiots?!" he snaps.

Curly jerks back. Moe and Larry duck their heads into the doorway to look at their boss. All three of their expressions are too chastised by a man half their size.

"There's only one seat up with Larry," Curly explains.

"Then Moe sits with him, and Curly, you go…" Joker throws up his hands. "Drown yourself in the bay! I don't care."

The mimes quickly nod and close the door. Joker flops back, grumbling, and Bruce can faintly make out Moe assuring Curly that he should just go back to the hideout. The limo rocks as Larry and Moe get into the front, and the locks latch.

"Ah, where is this penthouse, boss?" Larry asks.

Joker curls his lip, apparently tired of his mimes speaking.

"The Moore," Bruce quickly answers before hitting the button overhead that raises the privacy screen.

It's better to stay separated from the henchmen. Now that it's just Bruce and Joker, hostages left behind, Bruce has more leeway. He can escape on his own, if these aren't trick locks, or lure Joker into being captured.

But he isn't thinking straight. He should have lied about the penthouse's location. He should have pickpocketed his phone from Curly. He should be gearing up to fight Joker, but the incongruity of the last two peaceful hours lingers. Joker is supposed to be the one who breaks the deal.

Instead he's just sitting there, legs akimbo, flexing his ankles.

Batman needs to break through and treat this situation as it deserves, by taking advantage of Joker's lowered guard and punching him in the face.

While the opening Bruce Wayne sees is the one between Joker's thighs, that he's sure would welcome his practiced hand.

No. That's too far. He's too close to going too far. It's too warm in the limo.

He shouldn't have looked there. Joker saw, and he's all smiles again. "I forgot my manners!" the clown gasps, crossing his legs. "I wouldn't want to give you saucy ideas."

He's still misreading. Bruce still can't flip the switch from beau to bat. "It's fine. I—"

"On the other hand, I love saucy ideas." Then Joker's crawling from his seat, into Bruce's lap, straddling his thighs. "Come on, Brucie," he mocks, laughing and thrusting his hips. "Tell me I'm pretty!"

The silk hitches up on Joker's narrow hips, showing more of his pale thighs, and he's not wearing anything else, Bruce remembers. Thin black fabric is all that separates Bruce from the full expanse of paper-white skin. He grips the edge of his seat, fingernails digging into the leather.

Joker goes quiet and still. "You do think I'm pretty," he accuses softly.

Bruce looks up at his face, afraid the word will burst from his mouth, but Joker doesn't need to hear it. He knows, like he knows Bruce won't move when he gathers the silk up to his waist, revealing his bare cock. Then his spindly fingers loosen Bruce's belt, and Bruce just watches.

"I'm sure most girls wait until the end of the date," Joker says, freeing Bruce's stiff length, "but it looks like you don't mind straying from convention."

Bruce inhales sharply at the upward slide of Joker's fist. The clown leers, rubbing his thumb over the head.

"Good to see all those tawdry tales weren't overstating your, ah, talent."

He licks his palm, grabs both their cocks in one hand, and starts to pump. Bruce is thicker and longer, obscuring Joker's pearly white dick, but in the clown's grip, he feels every bit of flesh pulsing against his own. It's almost too tight, absolutely perfect, and a bead of pre-cum is already forming on his tip.

"Look at that eager boy," Joker teases. "How many people have ached to feel how big he is?"

Joker wants to feel it. Bruce wants him to feel it. He finally moves, grasping the bunched silk at Joker's waist and hooking a hand around his thigh, pulling him forward. Joker lets out a pleased oh and lets go of their cocks. His warmth is mesmerizing, through the silk, in his bare skin, at his waiting hole as Bruce presses against it. Batman has felt Joker's heat in throes of violence, but Bruce Wayne doesn't spill blood. He makes it run into blushing cheeks and heaving chests, swelling in waves it flows downward.

"A little black dress really does it, hm?" Joker breathes as he reaches between his legs.

He holds Bruce's cock in place and rocks down, gasping at the breach. He plants both hands on Bruce's shoulders and keeps rolling his hips, taking inch after inch.

"Oh, he does like to give," Joker pants. "You want me to take it all, don't you, Brucie?"

Bruce still can't answer. He watches Joker sink down, feeling the sublime pressure engulf him, and it seems impossible when the clown sits flush in his lap. Bruce's thick cock shouldn't fit in that narrow ass, but the needy clench proves otherwise. Joker's throat sparkles as his head tips back.

"Brucie, Brucie," Joker moans, "next time I crash a party of yours, you stick around."

Joker's dick is still only half-stiff, but his enthusiasm is all in his bucking hips. Bruce holds tight as the clown rides him. It has to hurt— there's too much friction— but it doesn't seem to bother Joker one bit, and Bruce's concern slips away. He lets out a moan.

"I knew you liked me," Joker says with a wicked grin. "Tried to hide it like a good boy, but you're a naughty one."

The words twist deliciously in Bruce's gut. This shouldn't be happening, but it's too late to stop it, to pretend he wants it to stop. Bruce Wayne engages in sex with so many people he barely likes; why can't he finally fuck someone worthwhile? He gave Joker everything he wants, and now Bruce gets to have him.

"Spent some sad sack's bonus on this dress," Joker says tightly, "only to make me come in it."

"Yes," Bruce gasps.

Joker rocks harder, jamming one forearm against the roof to brace himself. Bruce feels his balls draw up, and with other dates he'd seize their hips, slow them down, make it last, but this pace is too relentless to stop, too exciting. Joker's cries go higher, breathier, so unlike his noises when they fight.

Bruce finally thrusts up when he comes, pulling Joker close, muffling his cry against the smooth white skin of Joker's chest.

The clown's laugh is all delight, and he doesn't stop moving, driving Bruce inside of him. "That's it, baby. Give me all you got."

Bruce does, clutching the other man even through the last pathetic twitches of his cock, until the stimulation is too much, and his grip finally forces those jerking hips to a stop. He slumps back, breathing hard, and sees the spatter of Joker's cum caught in scrunched black silk.

Joker sags, gripping both Bruce's shoulders again as he lets out a winded sigh. "Whew, you really can show a clown a good time."

Bruce feels wrung out and wonderful— and sick. The gem collar twinkles as his enemy climbs off his lap, and the sight of his own sated, softening dick feels like a cruel joke.

With a grunt, Joker sits beside him. "You live dangerously, Brucie. A bachelor navigating gold diggers without any condoms?"

"You don't have the risk of a surprise heir," Bruce replies, as if he simply didn't care about the other risks, but he didn't think about protection at all, not for a moment.

"True," Joker says, grabbing some tissues from a panel near the door. He leans into Bruce's side and coos, "I'm glad you and I could be closer."

No one else has winked at Bruce while wiping at his mess leaking down their thighs. Bruce's hands tremble as he puts his dick back in his pants. Joker shimmies his skirt down and swipes at the cum on his front. With the silk straightened out, the dark marks left behind go all the way down to the hem, not that Joker shows any concern. He tosses the soiled tissues on the floor, then reaches up and hits the button for the divider. Caught off guard, Bruce jolts up and tries to casually smooth out his suit.

"Are we almost there?" Joker calls to the front. "I've got this energy all of the sudden"— with bedroom eyes, he tweaks Bruce's chin, then turns forward again with a sour look— "and I wanna get out."

"Just up on the left, boss," Larry responds.

Out the window, Bruce sees the Moore towering over the street. Below, streams of people enjoying Gotham's nightlife mill around the restaurants, clubs, and shops. He shakes his head. He's screwed up royally, but he needs to keep thinking. "Pull around the back from Fifth Street."

Joker claps his hands. "A private entrance?"

"A private garage with an elevator."

"Used to hiding all your lovers?"

"Used to avoiding the press for any number of reasons."

"And wouldn't this be a story?" Joker says, voice suddenly low, threatening. Cheer pops back in. "But you can worry about that when I need something more than your company, Brucie."

Bruce grimaces. "How generous of you."

"I know."

Within the next fifteen minutes, Bruce is sitting with a glass of whiskey on his leather couch, facing the crackling fireplace and listening to pop music. He and Joker are completely alone now. The henchmen were summarily dismissed after bringing all the Lacey's purchases to the elevator.

The penthouse is sleek and pristine, with marble floors and primarily glass exterior walls, and all of the entertainment areas are part of an open floor plan. The front door opens into the living room, with the couch and matching chairs at the edges of the large rug in front of the fireplace. Behind the seating is a dining area parallel to a bar built into the far wall. Further back is the kitchen, near one of the double doors that leads to the outdoor pool, also accessible from the balcony that surrounds the whole apartment. The bedrooms are closed off, beyond the doors on either side of the fireplace.

The largely open atmosphere belies the array of weapons concealed in multiple hiding places. If Bruce decides using any of them is too much of a threat to his hapless billionaire facade, he has a few ways to secretly contact Alfred and get an ally to come to his rescue.

But he hasn't decided either way. Instead, after letting Joker inside and bringing in all the bags, Bruce started the fire and turned on the voice-operated satellite radio at his guest's request. Meanwhile, Joker took a few bags from the pile behind the couch and disappeared through the door on the fireplace's left, the one for the master bedroom.

"What are you up to?" Bruce asks loudly as he stares into his glass.

Joker left the door open, and he replies loudly over the music. "I live fast and loose, baby. My next stint in Arkham could be any day now, and who knows if this stuff will still be here when I'm out."

Bruce lets out a light, quiet laugh, recognizing his thoughts from earlier. Then he says, "It might."

He didn't have to say that. Sex hardly means Joker is attached to him— but Joker spoke like he plans on coming back. Will he? How is Bruce supposed to explain visits from a supervillain?

Joker pokes his head out and laughs. "Might. Ah, that famous playboy commitment." He laughs again when he sees Bruce's weak smile, then steps out of sight. "Oh, I love it when they look all mixed up."

"They?"

Joker reappears, dancing out of the bedroom in tight burgundy pants and a loose, knitted sweater in mustard yellow. He still wears the collar and earrings despite the color clash. "I told you, no jealousy," he says with a wag of his finger. "You knew what I was when you picked me up."

Bruce isn't jealous. He can't be. Even if he was only a wealthy CEO, he'd know Joker's history as well as the rest of the city. He'd know about the parade of impressionable people caught up in the jester's web.

And, of course, Bruce isn't only a CEO. Batman of all people knows better than to be intimate with the Clown Prince of Crime. It never should have crossed his mind. He's outsmarted and outdone Joker for years. He's dived into that parade of victims and saved them from Joker's manipulations, or watched them refuse to be saved. Yet in mere hours, Bruce tripped and fell as easily as all those henchmen, collaborators, and Arkham staff.

He thinks of the times he pitied Harley. She was so promising, so intelligent. How could she meet someone as blatantly conniving as Joker, and…

Bruce knocks his glass back, and two fingers of whiskey burn down his throat.

Joker stops dancing and glares. "Hey, where's mine?"

"Coming right up," Bruce says, already heading for the bar.

"Give me the fanciest you've got. I'll change. You don't seem to like this one."

The exposed shelves are loaded with bottles that cost more than the average Gothamite's car, some several times more. Bruce doesn't recall which is the most expensive, but the cognac imported directly from France is a good candidate. Rather than use the counter below to pour the drinks, he grabs the bottle and a second glass and brings them back to the couch.

As he sets everything on a side table, Joker's already coming back out of the bedroom in the gold suit. He struts to the music's beat, using the stretch of marble floor along the rug as a catwalk. The pants are fitted, and the buttonless blazer comes to mid-hip with the tight shirt underneath cutting an inch above his belly button. The jewelry works better with this outfit, and black boots add as much height as the stilettos did.

Joker slides on a pair of rhinestone-laden sunglasses. "I'm ready for your next red carpet."

So soon after the limo, it's not such a silly notion. Bruce pours a finger of cognac into Joker's glass, then half-fills his own. "So it's you who should be pictured with me in the tabloids?"

Joker affects a cool demeanor, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Who better to invigorate your image?"

"You mean ignite it?"

The booze may be loosening Bruce's tongue too much. The corner of Joker's mouth ticks up, and he crosses to the couch in long strides. He stands over Bruce, and he must be staring but the dark lenses obscure his expression.

Then he plants the thick heel of his boot in Bruce's abdomen, just shy of his groin. Joker leans forward and reaches into his jacket. Bruce shouldn't be drinking. He's not used to it. It's dulled his reflexes and he might be too slow to the grab the—

Menu. Joker swats it against Bruce's nose. It's for the restaurant downstairs. He probably found it in the nightstand.

"You promised dinner," he says, dropping the paper and pushing off Bruce's stomach.

The menu drifts into Bruce's lap. Half the offerings are circled.

Joker takes off the sunglasses and polishes them on his coat. "And get something for yourself too."

Bruce looks up at him, feeling the ghost of the boot driving into his muscle. The phantom pressure travels lower, and he curses himself but it feels hollow.

He lifts his glass. "Can I see more of you modeling?" he asks before downing another mouthful.

The request lights up Joker's face. He doesn't so much as glance at his drink as he grabs more bags and dashes back to the bedroom. Bruce calls the restaurant.

The one-man dancing fashion show is the perfect distraction for Joker, and it allows Bruce time to think. All that's demanded of him is a little applause and an approving comment now and then.

But he doesn't think about strategy. What he thinks about, while blaming the liquor he doesn't put down, is how those satin pajamas show just as much leg as he thought they would. When Joker puts on jeans, Bruce's attention is drawn back up to his long throat, wrapped in a scarf that hangs down the front of his off-shoulder t-shirt. An emerald green velvet tracksuit accentuates the length of Joker's reedy shape, but when he swings the jacket off and over his shoulder, the orange tank top underneath lets Bruce see the wiry tone of his arms. The next outfit is grey trousers with a ruby red double-breasted coat that cinches nicely around Joker's trim waist, but Bruce prefers the periwinkle cape-style coat with pinstripe leggings that comes after. The cape cloaks so much of Joker that Bruce feels the urge to frisk him, then go further.

Really, the urge has been building with each outfit, a need to possess growing as Bruce watches Joker adorn himself in finery paid for by the Wayne coffers.

But it's of Joker's own volition. Bruce has bought things for women and felt an unspoken concession, that they owed him in turn or belonged to him. Joker may want to be his— Batman's— but not in that way. Joker will decorate himself like a billionaire's trophy, but he will not be owned, and Bruce is enamored with the torture of being unable to win him, not while wearing the entirely wrong suit.

"Do you think this one is too subtle?" Joker asks, propping his elbow on the mantelpiece.

The solid fuschia jumpsuit has wide legs but no sleeves, with ruffles at the shoulders. The band of the collar covers most of the necklace that Joker continues to wear no matter what. He's put the black stilettos back on.

They remind Bruce of the limo again, and it takes him a moment to answer as he gestures pointlessly with his glass. "Ah, no. I mean, if you go salsa dancing?"

Joker huffs, apparently danced out. "I thought it would be perfect for bowling."

"Sure. Why not?"

At the lackluster agreement, Joker turns away, reaching behind his neck for the zipper. He pulls it down a little as he walks toward the bedroom, then twists his arm behind his back to pull the tab the rest of the way. He stops, struggling.

"Let me help," Bruce says, getting up.

Joker's muscles are straining. "It just... needs a little— oop!" Several inches of zipper tear from the fabric, leaving a gaping hole. Joker drops his arms and slaps his thighs, snickering. "A split! Even better for bowling!"

He sighs and saunters through the doorway. Bruce hears more ripping, Joker tearing the jumpsuit off.

It cost half a grand on its own. Joker's had it for an hour, and now it belongs in the trash.

Glass in hand, Bruce rubs his wrist across his forehead, trying to relieve a sudden tension. He's overreacting. Carelessly ruining designer clothing is light years from the worst thing the clown has done.

The doorbell chimes, and Bruce hurries to answer. He's not too tipsy, but he focuses on taking steady steps. A server has brought dinner up on a silver, two-shelf cart, and Bruce dismisses him with a hefty tip before Joker can decide to introduce himself. He pushes the cart to the couch and takes in all the plates. Each shelf holds six dishes with flat covers, but the top shelf has a second layer of plates with domed cloches.

"What's that?" Joker asks as he returns to the room.

His black shirt has a wide scooped neck that shows the lacy straps of the white tank top underneath. The shirt is tucked into a pink-and-purple houndstooth mini skirt with fabric buttons down the front. Just a couple inches of skin are exposed between the skirt's hem and his thigh-high black suede boots. He sits next to Bruce and picks up his nearly-forgotten drink, signaling that the fashion show is over.

Bruce removes the cloches and sets them on the floor. "Escargot, arugula walnut salad, lobster tails, Kobe steak, oysters, saffron risotto. Do you want to start with these, or look for another dish?"

Joker swirls his glass. "Eh, I'm not hungry."

Bruce stares at him. "Excuse me?"

Joker raises an eyebrow and says it louder. "I'm. not. hungry."

"You asked for all this."

"Okay? That was a while ago."

Bruce turns back to the cart. He can eat a good amount, but most of the food will go to waste.

Joker suddenly chokes and sputters, holding his glass at arm's length. "Ugh, what is this?!"

"Cognac."

"It's not even chilled!"

"Cognac is served at room temperature."

"Blecch." Joker dumps the glass into the salad as he gets up, then strides to the bar. "You got anything good over here?"

Bruce pulls his eyes from the arugula bathing in a few hundred dollars of liquor. He watches Joker bop his hips to the music while inspecting the bottles. "What do you like?"

"I dunno… Ooh, how about some wine? Old wine! The good stuff."

"Take your pick."

"Look at this tea-stained label from nineteen twelve." Joker grabs the bottle by its neck and waggles his eyebrows. "To think, the French bozo who corked this booze had no idea people would be playing spin the bottle with it a hundred years later."

"You can't play with only— Don't!"

Joker's set the wine spinning on the counter, and Bruce only gets halfway across the room before the bottle slips off the edge. It shatters on the floor, leaving amber glass scattered in a golden puddle.

"Oof," Joker says behind his hands. "You got somebody to clean that, right?"

"Just mop up hundreds of thousands of dollars?" Bruce says tensely. "Yeah."

"No problem then."

"It's a mess."

"Then call somebody up," Joker says as he saunters back toward the couch. He picks up one of the remaining bags and rummages through it. "What did we even buy?" he giggles.

Bruce is still standing over the wine, hands clenched into fists. Of course he's not going to call Alfred or anyone else to clean it up, and he can't leave Joker unsupervised long enough to clean it himself. It's going to have to wait.

After sitting over a hundred years on shelves, waiting to be opened, only to be destroyed.

"Oh!" Joker says, and when Bruce looks, the clown is holding the two perfumes. "We still didn't pick a fave!"

Bruce numbly goes over. The elaborate designs of the two-ounce glass bottles come nowhere close to explaining their seven-hundred–dollar price tags. Joker hands him the blue one, then pulls the cap off the silver. He spritzes it in the air and sashays through the cloud.

He stops. "Hrm."

When he turns, he flips the bottle over his shoulder, past the rug, and it breaks in the pool of wine.

"Smells like an unfilled donation to a children's hospital," Joker says with distaste, but he flashes Bruce a grin and reaches for the silver bottle.

Bruce drops it on the couch. "Music off," he orders as a floral scent fills his nose. The smell and the silence help banish the numbness as he sneers, "You're doing all this on purpose."

Joker's eyes widen. "What? Me? Nooooo." He shrugs, again reaching for the bags. "At least not the zipper gaffe."

Bruce grabs his wrist. "You've blown enough money for a donation and to send a dozen kids to Gotham University," he snaps.

Joker snatches his arm back. "Yet it was all in here instead! And kids are still starving in the third-world, don't ya know."

"It's wasteful."

"Oh, brother. I'm getting bored, and it's fun."

"It's disrespectful."

Joker brings his hands to his mouth, teeth chattering as if biting his nails. "Oh, gosh, I wouldn't want to disrespect you, Mr. Wayne."

"I'm a powerful man," Bruce growls.

"You're a touch-greedy boy," Joker retorts, tapping a single finger on Bruce's nose, "and a charity-driven softie. What are you gonna do? Call security? Spank me?"

He ruffles Bruce's hair and turns away. His cackle lingers as he disappears yet again into the bedroom to thrill in his spoils.

That's what this comes down to, regardless of the easier consequences and Bruce's confused fondness. Bruce is being used. The clown's toleration and teasing aren't out of any real regard. He just wants to see what he can get, and Bruce's humiliation makes him as happy as anything.

And Bruce has been letting him have it.

He feels hot all over. His scalp still tingles from Joker's nails, from being treated like an adorable but annoying dog.

Treated as if Bruce Wayne isn't capable of teaching Joker to behave.

He walks to the bedroom doorway as Joker tosses the black shirt into a pile of discarded clothing that's collected at the foot of the bed. The clown turns, and Bruce can see that the tank top, entirely lace, fits like a corset, with hooks running up the front.

Joker smirks and starts to unzip the skirt. "Ooh, he's got more to—"

Bruce's fist closes around green curls, and he heaves Joker down, pulling him back into the living room. Bobby pins ting onto the hard floor, and Joker would sprawl onto his stomach if not for Bruce's grip. He scrambles onto his knees and lets out a gasp when he sees Bruce's already freed cock in his face. Bruce shoves the full length between those parted lips and down Joker's throat.

"Are you fucking bored now?" he snarls as he thrusts, his stifled erection getting harder in Joker's mouth.

Joker grabs Bruce's thighs as he chokes, looking up with watery eyes. Bruce doesn't slow his pace, doesn't give him a moment to catch a single breath. The clown may not be wearing a real corset, but the swell of his chest strains against the stiff material. He tries to tug his head back, but Bruce holds his hair tight, glorying in the feel of that talented tongue along the underside of his shaft, those lips sealed tight around his girth.

"This is your best look, in whore's boots on your knees."

Joker manages a soft sound between a plea and a groan. His knees inch further apart in the suede, and the loosened skirt sits askew on his hips. He gets his bearings, his breathing evening out, and he starts to clench his throat each time Bruce drives in. The sensation is amazing, his mouth getting wetter with every slide, and for once Joker looks eager to please.

Bruce fucks his mouth faster, feeling a spike of pleasure when Joker starts gagging again. Tears break from the clown's eyes, leaving trails of mascara, but amid the flashes of panic is something familiar: adoration. Bruce has no doubt that Joker's skirt is barely hiding an erection.

He grabs onto the gleaming gem collar, squeezing his fingers alongside Joker's neck, and starts yanking him into his thrusts. The necklace pulls tight, and Bruce groans when he plunges deep and feels that constriction around his cock. Part of him still can't believe the clown loves this as Joker's breaths turn sparse and his eyes roll back, but the seal of his red-smeared lips persists and his thin fingers dig into Bruce's thighs. And thank god, because Bruce has never felt so good, and he doesn't think he can stop.

Yet his orgasm is approaching fast, and like before he can't slow down. He bucks harder.

"You want it all so bad?" he hisses. "Take it."

He hears a snap, the collar's clasp breaking, and he lets it fall to the floor as he grabs the back of Joker's head. He thrusts his dick as deep as he can, holding Joker's face to his groin. He groans as Joker kneels there, eyes hooded, weak and pliable, and accepts every spurt down his throat, his mouth too full to make a sound.

But it's not enough.

When Bruce pulls out, Joker wheezes back to life, coughing strands of spit and cum. Bruce keeps his grip on the clown's hair, yanking him to his feet and dragging him into the bedroom. He sits on the side of the bed and throws Joker over his lap, pressing one hand between his shoulder blades and pushing the skirt down over his thighs. Bruce sharply smacks the clown's white cheeks before he even notices the black thong splitting them. Joker jolts, kicking reflexively, but he's not getting away.

"Did you learn your lesson?" Bruce growls with another smack.

Joker clumsily tries to steady himself, holding onto the edge of the mattress with his other hand flat on the floor. Half his curls hang loosely off the side of his head, and his erection presses into Bruce's thigh. "Hypocrite. That tacky necklace—"

Bruce hits him again. Joker whines, suddenly needy, and Bruce's softening cock twitches. He brings his hand down in a punishing tempo, and Joker's cries get louder as he ruts against Bruce's thigh in time with the strikes.

When the pale ass under his hand burns pink, Bruce stops. "Are you going to behave?"

Joker keeps rolling his hips desperately. "Teach me harder," he gasps. "Harder."

Bruce thought the liquor muddled everything, but he's never felt more focused. He knows exactly how to best teach Joker, how to make his nemesis come inside those panties just like he came on the dress. Holding Joker down, Bruce grabs the buckle of his belt with one hand and tears it free of his pants. After some fumbling, he's clutching both ends, and he raises the leather loop in the air.

It cracks against Joker's ass, and Joker yowls, one hand clawing at the comforter. A red stripe crosses both his cheeks. Bruce only waits a few seconds before cracking the belt down again, leaving a second stripe alongside the first.

"Yes," Joker pants, digging the toes of his boots in the carpet. "Just like that."

Bruce whips him again and again, using fractionally more force each time. His vision narrows, and he starts to beat the leather on the same spot, raising a welt on Joker's right cheek. He keeps going until the welt splits into a bloody line, and Joker shouts. Bruce adjusts the angle of his swing and hits the left cheek with the same intensity, until he breaks the skin there too.

"Please, I've been so bad," Joker rambles, rocking wantonly against Bruce's leg, "so so bad, come on…"

Bruce aims for the cuts, alternating between them, smearing blood as it surfaces, steadily painting Joker's ass with red streaks.

"Bruce," Joker sobs. "Please."

"Say it."

"Please."

"No."

Joker shakes his head, perhaps in an attempt to clear it. "Bruce… I… I'm sorry!"

Bruce snatches his hair and slings the belt one last time, striking low where the panties cradle Joker's sac. Joker convulses, and Bruce yanks his head back, rewarded with bony hips jerking sharply against his thigh, once, twice.

Without a sound, Joker goes slack. His arm slips off the bed, and his head drops when Bruce lets go of his hair. Bruce's own tension evaporates; he drops the belt, and his hands settle on the body draped over his lap, on the structured lace sloping down Joker's spine. He feels Joker's heaving breaths match his own, and his gaze drifts from the fallen curls at the other man's nape to the marks on his battered ass. Bruce dips down and runs his tongue over one of the broken welts, and Joker shivers.

Long moments pass before Joker moves, slowly attempting to get up, but he only succeeds in sliding over Bruce's knees onto the floor. He breaks into giggles, and when Bruce reaches down, Joker grabs his shoulder for help. But Bruce pushes his hand into the front of Joker's panties and fondles the clown's soft cock, confirming it's wet with cum. Joker mewls happily.

"You really are a naughty boy, Brucie."

Bruce doesn't care. He pulls Joker up, wanting to lie in bed with everything he paid for, and Joker lets him.

It's still dark outside the windows when Bruce wakes. He gets the laptop from the nightstand drawer and checks the news. Everyone at Lacey's was found less than an hour ago. They're still unconscious, but people knew that Rhyleigh had a date with Bruce. When the police confirm he didn't make it back to the manor, they'll check the penthouse.

"Aw," Joker murmurs, "is our night over?"

Like Bruce, he lays atop the bedding, looking at the screen. He's still wearing the corset tank and soiled thong, and he's left blood on the comforter. He pulled off the long boots at some point in the night; one is draped over the corner of the bed.

"You should have left hours ago," Bruce says.

If the fireplace is out, he should relight it, throw in the belt and the comforter and some other choice items. He can say the clown just started burning things out of his penchant for mayhem.

Joker lifts his arms and stretches, biting his lower lip as he smiles. "I needed to recover."

He sits up and hooks his hands on Bruce's shoulder, resting his chin on his knuckles. His makeup is a smudged mess, and his half-pinned hair hangs along the right side of his face. Lower, his neck is marked with bruises from the broken collar.

He adds coyly, "You've given me a lot to think about on lonely nights."

Bruce knows all the regrets he should have and tries to respond accordingly. "I'm sure I can't hold a candle to your Bat."

"Maybe, but you're certainly more accessible."

Joker tips Bruce's head to capture his mouth in a kiss— their first. It's short and soft with a flick of Joker's tongue. Bruce can't tell if the warmth spreading into his chest is a salve or a poison, or if it matters.

"Hold onto my things, hm?" Joker says. He pulls away to crawl off the bed.

Bruce Wayne needs to disappear for a while. Joker will find someone else to toy with, or he'll double his focus on Batman. Bruce can't deal with a clown who's obsessed with both his identities, who'll now demand all his time instead of half. He has a choice of prepared absences to escape this situation.

But he can't think of any as he catches Joker at the foot of the mattress, grasping his hip. He bends the clown over with a shove, heedless of how it tosses him half off the bed. Joker catches himself on his palms, planting his hands in the pile of clothes on the floor below, and his arms almost buckle when his panties are torn aside and Bruce rams his spit-slick cock into that begging heat, just one more time. It'll just be this last time.

Batman doesn't get to do this. Bruce knows it's a dysfunctional domestic play, that Joker will do heinous things outside of it, but they're still inside. Here, everyone is safe, and Joker is his. Batman puts Joker in his place with a fist, but Bruce gets to use his cock, gets to watch Joker's bloodied ass clench around him. He gets to hold Joker's hips like a vice and dig his thumbs into the abrasions, gets to hear Joker's jubilant wail.

Bruce slams in harder, punching out moan after moan, dislodging one of the loose bobby pins tangled in Joker's hair. Joker doesn't try to push back. He hovers over all the discarded gifts on trembling limbs, holding the best position to take, take, take.