He's expecting the hand at his wrist to do something subtly brutal and ninja-esque to him. A twist here, a fast bit of pressure there, and before you know it, his entire arm will be in agony or useless or both. Or he'll suddenly be facedown on the pavement, with a Bat kneeling on his spine and snarling something in his ear. God knows it's happened enough times before.
It'll be worth it, of course. It always is. And especially here, where Bats so clearly wants to lean into this Bruce thing, where there are cameras and rules and–
Batman's tongue is against his neck. Warm. Wet.
Joker stops breathing. Stops thinking. Stops doing anything at all with his hands.
Every nerve in his body is focused on that one spot of connection between them, on the unthinkably wrong thing that's happening between them. Then Bats's teeth close on his earlobe, with just the lightest, sweetest flash of pain, and Joker hears his own breath shudder out just before Batman laughs.
And for a moment, everything is sensation, because his brain simply refuses to work. That laugh, right in his ear, goes straight to his cock, bringing a rush of need that makes no sense, that shouldn't be. He can smell Batman's skin, the scent that follows him into the nightmares only Harley knows about. He can feel the warmth of him, the solidity of him, but he can't fucking think.
All his brain can conjure, stupidly, uselessly, is: Oh.
It's never been sexual, this thing with him and Bats. They're something else, something more, like gods of old. Fated to duel for eternity. Bound to one another, but not like that. For all the endless hours (upon hours upon hours upon hours) Joker has spent obsessively thinking over every aspect of Batman's being, he has never once pictured fucking him raw.
Not until right this minute.
He turns his head toward Batman, just a fraction of an inch, and his eyes have gone a darker shade of green. His pupils are dilated; his lips are parted. When he speaks, his voice has lost all of its lilting, teasing bounce. It's gone dark as his eyes, low and full of an uncharacteristically sincere warning. "Be careful what you start with me, Bats. You may not like where it leads."
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It'll be worth it, of course. It always is. And especially here, where Bats so clearly wants to lean into this Bruce thing, where there are cameras and rules and–
Batman's tongue is against his neck. Warm. Wet.
Joker stops breathing. Stops thinking. Stops doing anything at all with his hands.
Every nerve in his body is focused on that one spot of connection between them, on the unthinkably wrong thing that's happening between them. Then Bats's teeth close on his earlobe, with just the lightest, sweetest flash of pain, and Joker hears his own breath shudder out just before Batman laughs.
And for a moment, everything is sensation, because his brain simply refuses to work. That laugh, right in his ear, goes straight to his cock, bringing a rush of need that makes no sense, that shouldn't be. He can smell Batman's skin, the scent that follows him into the nightmares only Harley knows about. He can feel the warmth of him, the solidity of him, but he can't fucking think.
All his brain can conjure, stupidly, uselessly, is: Oh.
It's never been sexual, this thing with him and Bats. They're something else, something more, like gods of old. Fated to duel for eternity. Bound to one another, but not like that. For all the endless hours (upon hours upon hours upon hours) Joker has spent obsessively thinking over every aspect of Batman's being, he has never once pictured fucking him raw.
Not until right this minute.
He turns his head toward Batman, just a fraction of an inch, and his eyes have gone a darker shade of green. His pupils are dilated; his lips are parted. When he speaks, his voice has lost all of its lilting, teasing bounce. It's gone dark as his eyes, low and full of an uncharacteristically sincere warning. "Be careful what you start with me, Bats. You may not like where it leads."