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He couldn’t have anticipated how quickly it would spin out of his control.
A part of him wants to reason aloud, wants to grab Joker by his lapels and say you didn’t leave me any choice. It’s never a choice with you.
But that’s half the problem.
Batman hadn’t had any protocol - not a single goddamn thing set up in anticipation of this situation. There’d been no reason to. It used to be unthinkable. Having unprotected sex with the Joker should have never stopped being unthinkable. But now he’s dealing with the consequences of his own carelessness, and he isn’t even prepared. He’s playing it by ear, feeling around in the dark. Unable to assure himself that he’s making the best decisions when none of his options are so much as good.
They’d considered termination. That was the first damn thing they’d considered. But no, of course, it had to be too much of a risk, had to pose a danger to Joker’s health, Joker’s life.
There hadn’t been a choice. But Joker had made one anyway.
Bruce was well aware of Joker’s capacity for self harm. It was one thing when the clown was understimulated - seeking out any and every source of sensation, inviting pain or simply inflicting it on himself. But this was different. This was Joker hurting himself with a very specific goal in mind.
“Won’t get your hands dirty, hm? That’s very you,” the clown had chattered, all tight-wound rage and manic intensity. “Well. I can’t promise it’ll be a pleasant viewing experience, but if you really won’t pluck out the little parasite yourself—”
—Bruce had administered the sedative so quickly he hadn’t even thought about potential adverse effects. Hypothetical or not, these kinds of concerns are new. Unfamiliar. If Bruce is being honest, he’s sure that Joker is as unused to them as he is.
Before now, there had never been a fear of going too far. Joker has fallen from cliffs and bridges and buildings alike, has been beaten, shot, stabbed— broken in ways that shouldn’t be survivable. Bruce would always save him when someone else dealt too much damage. But he’s never had to worry about saving Joker from himself.
Then he’d gotten him pregnant. And everything had become a variable. There’s too much he isn’t willing to risk anymore, too much he doesn’t know. Bruce hadn’t even known the clown was capable of getting pregnant - not that Joker had known, either. He…has a uterus, obviously. But they’d both assumed - silently or not - that whatever the chemicals had done to him, they had sterilized him, too. And they had both been wrong.
He watches Joker periodically through the monitor, focusing on the subtle rise and fall of his chest. Listening to the steady beep of two heartbeats, one slowed by unconsciousness, or something close to it.
Joker isn’t on the anesthetic anymore. But he is on a very powerful muscle relaxant, specially synthesized. Strong enough to keep him still without resorting to physical restraints. Bruce can’t imagine keeping Joker in a straitjacket now.
He can’t imagine keeping him on an IV drip for much longer, either.
Patrol ended an hour ago. Bruce doesn’t plan on sleeping. There are variables he’s yet to eliminate, solutions he’s yet to find. No parameters, no plan, so find one, Batman. Plot out the course to the end that justifies the means.
It’s the sixth time the monitor has distracted him when he can admit that a physical examination is reasonable. A below resting heart rate can only say so much on its own, and at the end of the day, Bruce is worried. He hasn’t performed an ultrasound since he knocked Joker out, and he has to know that he hasn’t broken something that can’t be repaired.
He tells himself it’s for privacy’s sake that he turns off the cameras. He exchanges his gauntlets for a pair of medical gloves, but still can’t bring himself to enter Joker’s cell without the cape and cowl.
The room, in actuality, is closer to a medbay than a ‘cell’. Outside of the regulatory measures Bruce put in place, really, it does manage to be comfortable. Or as comfortable as a cage can be. Were he less familiar with the clown, Bruce might even say Joker looks peaceful.
In reality, though, he knows better. Because he is familiar with Joker. Far, far too familiar.
Joker’s measurements, for example, Bruce has known for a while. The clothes he wears now were picked to fit him without drawstrings or laces - neither of which Bruce trusts with the ever-creative clown. For obvious reasons, he’d chosen a shirt that was more oversized than usual. Bruce leaves it alone for as long as he knows he has to touch Joker’s chest.
Touching him anywhere is disturbingly easy. It’s natural to feel the beat of Joker’s heart with his own hands, separated by gloves and a full layer of fabric, but still so, so close. Bruce urges himself to focus on the task, then pushes up Joker’s shirt to finally expose his stomach.
He doesn’t know if he’ll ever get used to the sight. To the things it makes him feel. It’s the steadily growing proof of something he never should have done. And yet—
And yet the dark, buried, possessive part of him, the part he can never bring himself to embrace… It feels proud. It thinks I did this, and doesn’t feel anything even remotely resembling guilt.
Bruce averts his gaze. He retrieves the gel and applies it to Joker’s abdomen. Methodically but carefully, gently, passes the transducer over where it’s been spread.
His heart launches its way into his throat the second the sonogram appears on screen.
It never gets any less terrifying. His first impulse is always to expect the worst, to find something, anything that’s gone horribly wrong. But he watches every small movement of what is soon to be his child - searches every damn inch of the monitor for a problem. And then and only then can he finally conclude: no complications.
He couldn't possibly help the relief that washes over him at that certainty. Bruce is a thousand times more relaxed as he removes the transducer, setting it aside. He wipes the gel off of Joker’s stomach with one smooth motion, feeling what of it got on the gloves as he discards those, too.
It’s always so damn cold. Colder than Joker already is at his baseline.
…Bruce really shouldn't. He knows it’s unnecessary. But he still makes the choice to splay his palm over Joker’s abdomen. To start slowly, gently moving his hand back and forth, letting his warmth transfer to this man he so rarely allows himself to approach with gentleness.
It’s a minute, maybe more, before Bruce pulls back, covering Joker up again. He has nothing left to check - Joker’s vitals are always available to him and only him, easily accessible anywhere outside of this room. He has every reason to leave. And after a moment of pause, he steps away from the bed to do just that.
Then he finds himself going very, abruptly still.
It takes a second for Bruce to fully process that in the time since he’d last glanced at them, Joker’s pants have started to cling to his crotch. Bruce can see the consistency of what’s leaked through them - can tell it’s translucent and thick. He doesn’t have to be the World’s Greatest Detective to deduce exactly what it is. To understand exactly what it means.
Joker is wet.
In whatever state of unconsciousness he’s been in, whatever tiny amount of lucidity he could possibly manage, Joker’s body has visibly responded to Bruce’s touch. It’s readied itself for him - needy to the point of soaking through his trousers.
Bruce isn’t thinking when he steps back toward the bed. He isn’t considering the consequences when he pushes the baggy shirt back up and lowers his bare palm between Joker’s thighs. He moves one finger slowly, slowly over his clothed clit, feeling as it twitches even through the fabric. It’s just barely tangible against his fingertip, but Bruce still wets his lips.
He wants it, Bruce thinks. You’ve locked him in a cell and drugged him to the point of immobility. You’ve refused him power over his own body. You’re forcing him to have your child. And he’s still dripping for you.
It’s a dangerously addictive thought.
Bruce’s cock is stirring, pressing against his codpiece. The cave is empty. The cameras are off. No one can enter this room without authorization.
And Joker wants him.
In a desperate rush, Bruce drags down Joker’s pants, tugs them off and tosses them away, uncaring as to where they’ll land. The bed wasn’t made to support both of their weights, but he doesn’t care about that either, just gets Joker’s legs to part and settles between them as smoothly as he can.
He hadn’t taken his time prepping Joker the last time they’d done this. He couldn’t - not with the sounds Joker was making beneath him, whispering filth and encouragement alike, hips rocking to meet every deep thrust of Bruce’s fingers.
“Fuck me,” he’d demanded, tone equal parts desire and impatience. “F-Fuck me open, Batsy, I want it to hurt, want you to make me bleed. I’ll take it, darling, all of it, I’m yours. So fuck me.”
…Bruce only has two fingers buried in Joker’s cunt now, both of them crooked to drag perfectly against his g-spot, peaking with every pull outward. It’s slower than Joker would ever let him be, but he decides that’s better for them both. If Bruce loses control of himself here, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to get it back. So instead he restricts himself to gentleness, working Joker open finger by finger in place of forcing his way in.
“Good,” he murmurs once he manages to push in the fourth, the praise slipping out regardless of whether or not Joker can hear it. He can feel each involuntary twitch Joker gives when a nerve gets stimulated just right - feel the uncontrolled way his cunt clenches reflexively as though to keep Bruce inside him.
It’s when Joker actually manages to whine that Bruce decides he’s done waiting.
His belt and codpiece are cast aside in a hurry, Bruce shoving his boxers down to free his erection. He’s panting as he lines up with Joker’s cunt, parting his folds with the head of his cock. “I know what you want,” he quietly assures, guiding his tip up and down Joker’s slit, collecting the wetness that’s still dripping out of him. “I’ll take care of you, Joker, you just have to let me.”
Joker makes another high, broken noise in the back of his throat. Bruce can’t tell if it’s from anticipation or distress, but for all he knows, it’s both.
“Let me,” he says again, just above a whisper. “For once. Let me help.”
The near instant he’s done speaking, a sound bubbles out of Joker’s chest - a sound Bruce knows all too well. A laugh. And Bruce’s cock twitches even as his jaw tightens out of habit alone.
He pushes inside Joker without another word, then, feeling the lack of resistance with a mix of unfamiliarity and satisfaction.
You can’t fight him, he reminds himself firmly. There’s no way for him to fight back.
But for now - for as long as he still has the luxury to - Bruce likes that fact. He finds himself reveling in Joker’s helplessness - his inability to goad Bruce into anything he would never do otherwise. Never do to anyone else.
For once, Joker has no sway over him. And it’s exhilarating.
Bruce groans as he bottoms out, head ducking down to pant against Joker’s neck. He wants to leave marks. He wants to bruise Joker like he’s branding him, mottle white skin with violent purple.
Instead he just mouths over his throat. Kisses along his jaw. Draws his hips back just to push his cock in slower, like he’s trying to make Joker savor every inch of him.
“You never let me take my time,” Bruce murmurs, muffled even more against Joker’s neck. “It’s always violence with you. Always pain. I wish I could just…”
He cuts himself off. A light shudder runs through him as Joker manages another weak clench, cunt tight around Bruce’s girth, tight like he can’t stand the thought of Bruce being anywhere but inside of him.
So Bruce begins to thrust.
It’s natural to work them up to a steady rhythm. To seek out the right angle, make it painless instead of fucking Joker open just to use him like a toy. Bruce thinks it might be easier if he could treat Joker like an object. But he doesn’t know how. He’s never known how not to care, never known how to kill his emotions. Only how to conceal them.
He can’t conceal them right now. But for once, he doesn’t want to. His hands move to Joker’s sides just so his thumbs can stroke over his abdomen, and he feels the responsibility on his shoulders like an unbearable weight.
“…Joker,” he whispers, voice somewhere low, somewhere separate from all of Batman’s hatred and anger and pain. “Please, I need you see this through. Just for the months that are left, just until it’s over. It won’t change anything, I promise I won’t see you any differently. Just let me take care of you.”
The noise that Joker makes sounds all too much like a sob. Bruce moves to kiss him before he can think to stop himself, crashing their lips together even when he knows Joker can’t reciprocate.
His hand moves again, stops just above where he’s buried inside Joker. And then Bruce is rubbing two fingers into his clit - small circular motions meant to coax him to the edge instead of dragging him there by force.
“Let me,” he breathes out again, catching Joker’s bottom lip between his teeth. And Joker spasms around him with an orgasm so sudden it has Bruce’s mouth dropping open just to moan.
He’s quick to recapture Joker’s lips, keeping his fingers moving against his clit. Letting his cock drive in and out of him with single-minded precision as he fucks Joker right through his climax.
He wants it to feel good. He wants Joker to feel good, even taken with such startling carefulness.
Unbidden, he thinks of their last time. Thinks of Joker’s legs locked behind his back, gloved hands cupping Batman’s face. “Don’t you dare come anywhere but inside me.” Spoken with such resolve. Such certainty. “You’re not pulling out until I say so.”
Bruce feels his pace start to falter, hips stuttering the closer he gets to the edge. And despite everything, despite all that’s happened, he lets himself get lost in the memory.
“I know you want to, darling.” Purred against the side of his cowl, Joker‘s lips gracing the edge of his jaw. Smudged lipstick, still so stark against the sickening white, marking Bruce’s skin, redder than blood. “You want to fill me up.”
Bruce’s eyes squeeze shut. His hands settle back on Joker’s hips, pulling him into every thrust, and he’s close. He’s so fucking close. Joker is pliant and motionless beneath him, and Bruce can’t feel guilty, not now. Because Joker’s voice is echoing in his head. He hears the same words, the words that have burned themselves into his mind. The words that he could never possibly bring himself to forget.
“You want to breed me.”
Even now, it isn’t true. Bruce had denied it to himself the moment Joker said it. Had heard those words and immediately thought, No. But he’d come inside him anyway.
Only because he wanted it, Bruce reasons. Only because he didn’t allow for anything else. He wanted it then, and he still wants it now.
So Bruce gives him what he wants.
He shoves in deep. Doesn’t give any pretense of pulling out, just buries himself in Joker’s cunt and lets go. Joker keens as he’s filled, a sound so involuntary and helplessly broken that Bruce has to seal their mouths back together just to taste it on his lips. He groans as Joker spasms around him a second time, coming on the feeling of Bruce alone.
It’s so good. It’s all so damn good. Bruce fucks his come into Joker like he’s trying to breed him all over again, and it could be either or both or neither of them that wants it, but it doesn’t fucking matter. It’s already happened. It’s already too late. Because there’s never a choice with Joker, but there’s never a choice with Batman, either.
…Eventually, finally, Bruce comes down.
He pulls out. Cleans up. Redresses them both and allows his eyes to linger on Joker’s cunt, to fixate on the come that just barely leaks out of him. He lets his hand linger over Joker’s stomach, and doesn’t let himself think about the reasons why.
Tomorrow he may pretend this never happened. Tomorrow the drug will wear off, and Joker might remember this, and he might not. Tomorrow Bruce will have to deal with a completely new set of consequences for a completely new set of actions.
But right now his palm is splayed over the body of his enemy, and he doesn’t want to pull it away.
He looks up at the monitor. At the place the sonogram was displayed just before.
No complications, he’d observed.
…If only.