Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Don’t try to speak.” There was a warning edge in Bruce’s tone.

The corners of Joker’s lips twitched into a wry smile. 

He sat up on the medical gurney, ignoring Bruce’s order to stay lying down, and tried again to force the words from his badly damaged throat. 

The resulting noises were raspy and choked, a hint of English here and there but nothing distinct. He coughed, tiny red droplets splattering his white palm and the concrete floor.

Bruce clenched his jaw, feeling the throbbing in his temple sharpen into a headache.

He was less than thrilled with this situation. 

They were in one of his smaller emergency bunkers. Although they weren’t near the Batcave proper, Bruce still felt nervous and stupid for bringing the clown here. It was as though Joker was seeping, little by little, into the once-private spaces in his life - a step forward, then another, no steps back. Eventually there’d be no space left between them.

Despite Bruce’s anxiety, Joker displayed a blase disinterest in their surroundings. His attention remained trained on Bruce.

When he opened his mouth to try and speak again, Bruce jabbed a finger emphatically at the object sitting on Joker’s lap. 

“Use the board, or I’ll gag you. You’ll make it worse if you keep trying to talk.”

Joker brought one hand to his mouth in a look of mock scandal at the mention of a gag, fluttering his eyelashes at Bruce flirtatiously. But as Bruce glowered he reluctantly picked up the little handheld chalkboard. With the long piece of chalk pinched delicately between his spindly fingers, he began to write.

Bruce busied himself with the medical supplies. The feelings of shame and disgust were rising back up, and he had to distract himself so as not to dwell on the sharp, fresh memories.

It wouldn’t have mattered if it had been a fight.

If he’d beaten Joker to a bloody pulp in rage, he could have justified just dumping his broken body at Arkham’s doors.

But he hadn’t felt anger when he’d grabbed Joker’s hair roughly, ripping out little green tufts from his scalp.

He’d lost control, not because he needed to punish a remorseless killer, but because the man's mouth just wasn’t enough to satisfy Bruce. He’d pulled the Joker forward, his cock surging down his throat far too hard and fast. For a few bleary moments it felt just incredible - impossibly tight, then suddenly hot as blood rushed from the tear in Joker’s esophagus. He’d felt rather than heard the reflexive convulsions, reverberating through Joker’s chest and traveling straight up his cock.

A fingernail tapped sharply against slate and Bruce looked up, startled. Joker held up the board almost proudly.

It was worth it : ) 

Bruce sighed heavily. 

“I’m sorry.” His voice was hard and firm.

Of course Joker wouldn’t let him just have that. He threw Bruce an extremely skeptical look, eyebrows raised high. Then he wiped away the message with a dark green sleeve (his blood-splattered jacket lay limply over a little stool), and scrawled something new.

He tilted the board back up, this time the words a little more crowded.

Make it up to me by letting me finish the job ; ) 

Bruce reached forward, his gloved hand wrapping loosely around Joker’s throat just under the chin - barely above the worst of the bruising.

Joker froze, not in fear but anticipation. His eyes gleamed with excitement. 

Bruce’s gaze lingered on Joker’s badly smeared lipstick. It had entirely rubbed off in places, revealing extraordinarily pale lips underneath. 

He knew where that lipstick was now. He’d had no time to clean himself up - it encircled his cock in bright red sloppy rings. It would paint his skin till he showered in the morning. 

Bruce took a steadying breath to clear the image from his mind, but Joker seemed to see it in his eyes, and began squirming slightly in his grip.

Bruce pressed his thumb to the underside of Joker’s chin, forcing him to tilt his head back. Joker didn't resist in the slightest.

The white skin of his throat was marred with a frightening amount of angry dark bruising, his esophagus visibly swollen. How had it looked while forced to accommodate Bruce’s entire length?

Joker jerked in surprise at the sting of the needle, but Bruce held him steady. The pale greenish liquid was injected with slow care into the soft swollen flesh.

Bruce moved back, staying close enough to catch Joker if he lost consciousness. He slumped forward, but caught himself by gripping the edge of the gurney, looking weak and woozy but awake.

A shaky white hand unclenched from the metal edge and raised to touch his bruised throat, massaging it tenderly at the point of injection. It probably burned.

“That will keep your throat paralyzed for a good while, so you don’t worsen the injury - it should help with the pain too, once it sets in.”

Bruce was already drawing a different liquid into a new syringe, one Joker eyed with displeasure. 

“I’ll put you under while I check the internal damage. If it’s all easily treatable at Arkham, I’ll drop you off there when I’m done. You’ll probably wake up in your cell.”

Joker’s lips moved, but not the slightest sound came out - the numbing agent was working. Scowling, Joker found the chalk where it had begun to roll away along the gurney.

When Bruce read the shaky letters, he allowed himself a small smile.

 your e no fun at all : {