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The blood sticks to Bruce’s teeth like taffy, layering his mouth in an iron coating of red paint that he licks at distractedly. A stinging heat floods his mouth, a broken crown falling out from between his lips and landing on the ground with a clatter. It’s pink more than white; looking like peppermint candy if one were to squint; a broken little tooth.
“Oh, Batsy, baby, we’re gonna have to get you to a dentist,” A voice croons from his side, laced with a starvation that sounds like Joker’s imagining the taste of his iron coated skin in between his lips. When they make eye contact, he grins wide. He’s dressed down today, with a purple shirt and black dress pants, covered by a lilac coat that’s unfortunately suffered the same fate as Bruce’s mouth. Splotches of Bruce and Joker’s fight stains the wool like a Rorschach test. Bruce thinks he might see an outline of a bat with a broken wing.
He bets if Joker were to look down, instead of keeping his two sharp green eyes on him– which are not like emerald’s, as one may want to describe, but more like acid, bubbling and brewing, or the green of a sour apple candy that has enough sugar and preservatives to make a man’s teeth rot– he’d probably see a bat too, or at he’d lie and say he did, just to get under Bruce’s skin.
They’ve been locked in a stand off since they entered the old abandoned carnival, throwing themselves at each other in a heated flurry of violence and bloodshed. They’re both panting, exhausted from running in a game of cat and mouse, where Bruce chases the clown deeper and deeper into the maze of bright colors, loud noises, and red and black painted structures. They started at the entrance, moved through the fun-house-of-mirrors, bolted past the set of dunking booths, and came to a halt beside the ferris wheel.
It’s decrepit now, with dilapidated metal and wooden beams creaking at every small gust of wind that hits it. The last time it was in use, has to have been over a decade ago, and it’s sat precariously, in a state of decay since then. With rusty bolts and carriages that wobble. Under the pale moonlight, the red rust around the hinges blends in, and Bruce can’t help but spare it a calculating look.
“Joker,” he says, stepping closer despite the structure’s looming threat over them. It’s shadow casts a darkness over the other man’s pale skin, making his hair look less green and more blue for the slightest instant, “Enough games. Where are-”
“The bombs, yes, yes,” Joker tsks, tongue poking through his teeth and rolling his eyes. His hands shake with energy as he waves them in the air, blasé, “Always straight to business with you, Bats.” he adds with a huff, “Never any foreplay.”
That morning, Bruce had woken to the reporter on channel nine news, alerting the citizens of Gotham to Joker’s latest stunt: an explosion in the middle of the city’s park grounds; decimating a bronze statue of the late Mayor Hill. No deaths, but a piece of shrapnel had blown off and embedded itself in the leg of a man on a jog, while an unfortunate elderly woman feeding the ducks had gotten a piece in her eye.
Later on, another statue, close to Wayne Tower, of Bruce’s own parents had suffered the same fate at the Martha Wayne Memorial center. Again, no deaths, but three were hospitalized. Not to mention, Bruce had rage coiling through his bones the entire afternoon, watching the video feed on loop. One moment his mother and father stood proud and shining, and the next, his mother’s skull was blown to bits. The sight was a bit too familiar. Joker knew this.
Going off the man’s delighted little smile when he appeared at the last blown up statue (this time of Jeremiah Arkham) he was having the time of his life, after spending the last three months imprisoned. Arkham always stifled his creativity (his words, not Bruce’s) and left him particularly volatile once he got out. Especially if the scheme he got put away last, never hit its climax. Bruce was anxious to realize, with this in mind, that he’d stopped Joker before being able to skin James Gordon and make a human flesh coat, three months prior, and raced out to find the clown before the violence could continue.
Now, here they are, breathing heavily, doused in sweat and blood, slick like they’re covered in grease, one smiling and the other on the verge of ripping open the other’s throat.
“Stop messing around and tell me-“ Bruce stomps forward.
“There are no more bombs.”
Bruce sways a little on his feet, a half-aborted step making him stop, “What?” he growls.
“There are no more bombs,” Joker repeats, letting out a giggle, his hand flying over his mouth like he’s trying to hide how wide it is, “No more!” he adds, and brings his palms away from his lips to give jazz hands like he’s talking to a baby, “I used the last of em’ on Jer’.”
Bruce can’t help but furrow his brow. Joker, despite his insanity and lack of actual routine, has a typical guideline of doing things in stages. He does three lead-up-crimes, which leaves Bruce guessing and chasing after him like a wolf tracking its prey. And then delivers the final performance, which requires a standing ovation, and therefore a crowd, and therefore, something batshit crazy enough that it has Bruce beating him with little remorse.
The confusion, and hesitance to move forward, must appear on Bruce’s face (or at least his jaw must tighten, under the cowl), because Joker gives him a sad pout, “Oh, I’m sorry, darling, I know you like playing hero. This must be just a slap in the face-” he smacks his own cheekbone with a sharpness that sounds like it hurts, “But, look on the bright side; no more blow-to-bits-bronze! And I did the city such a nice favor by getting rid of those god-awful statues. They were all so ugly. I mean, if you’re going to make one, pick someone that has good enough looks to transfer over to sculpting. Someone like…” he trails off and waggles a finger in Bruce’s direction, “Gotham’s one and only Bat, perhaps? Lord knows you’ve got the chiseled chin down.”
“Not yourself?” Bruce quips, and it’s only a second later that he realizes he’s implied Joker is, at all, attractive enough to warrant a statue in his honor. Carved into marble like one of those Greek statues that Bruce’s seen at the museum galleries he’s forced to endure at charity events and galas. When he’s not under the cowl, but constrained to the title of pretentiousness and elitism. He wonders for the slightest moment what the public’s reaction would be if billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne were to be seen admiring an art piece that has a smile carved deep into its lips. If he attended with a pale face that held red lips and manic eyes. Would there be public outcry? Horror? Frustration? Rigid fragility that snaps under the slightest nudge? He can picture the disappointment that would curl its way into Alfred’s image or the slow deliberate shake of the head from Selina. He doesn’t want to picture Jason or Dick’s reactions, but it strikes him anyway, as he stands there— Joker Statue in his brain, real-life man in his peripherals— that being caught with an eye trained on the clown’s figure, is a betrayal in itself.
“Oh, honey,” Joker smirks, dragging him out of the fantasy (correction: nightmare) with a glint in his eyes, spearing dread into Bruce’s gut like a dagger dipped in black dahlias. He braces himself for whatever’s about to be said, like he’s putting his fists up to deflect a punch to the jawbone. Joker flutters his eyelashes, “You flatter me-“
“Let’s finish this conversation in Arkham.” Bruce cuts him off. His chest feels tight as stomps the remaining ground between them. A throbbing little thump thump thump in between his ribcage, that speeds up the closer he gets to white teeth and bloody lips.
“As much as I love the idea of us having a tête-à-tête in my cell block, I’m not so sure the orderlies will be alright with the sexual tension between us, Bats. It’s just so electrifying! So intense! It’ll give everyone within a five mile radius a third degree burn and you know Harvey has already lost half of his body, so who knows what another burn will do. Make him full face maybe. Burn face-?”
“Enough,” Bruce snarls, marching the rest of the distance between them. There’s a throbbing ache in the crown of his skull, as if Alfred’s come along with a rolled up newspaper and smacked him in the head for indulging any of Joker’s whims. Like he’s a bad dog, sniffing around something he really shouldn’t. His ears tickle, distinctly hound-like, as they press into the fabric of his cowl, something in the back of his head finding the Two-Face comment amusing.
He rectifies this by scowling deeper, “Come on,” He turns slightly, avoiding Joker’s eyes as he stalks forward and finally puts a hand on the clown’s wrist.
“You’re no fun when you’re like this.” A sigh comes out. Huffy, slightly irritated, but more so disappointed like Joker’s been anticipating his reluctance to give in and let his animalistic desires out, “And when I went through all the trouble of keeping everything non-lethal…”
Bruce comes to a halt. His hand feels like it’s on fire despite the thick gloves he wears and Joker’s suit jacket being lined with fur on the inside to combat the cool winter weather. The skin of his palm tingles and he gives a full-body shudder that could be explained away by the cold weather- if not for the heating system inside his suit and his own flaming face.
The implication of not killing for the sake of Bruce is…it’s interesting. The kind of surprising incident that makes him wonder if he’s in a dream or a mind-fuck put on by Mad hatter. Perhaps he’s been tossed into an alternate reality and in this one, he’s being given a relief from the death toll his Joker has begun to rack up.
It’s been years since the man has committed a victimless crime. The last instance Bruce can remember, had to have been a robbery, five years earlier, where no one died (a security guard had been shot in the foot- he still can’t walk properly- that’s not victimless, Bruce) and the money had all been from the rich elite. Those who wouldn’t have even noticed the withdrawal from their accounts if not for Joker’s dramatic theft. Money from a joint Wayne account, where even he had to admit; oh, yeah, that’s barely even a dent in my checkbook- I wouldn’t have noticed, had he not left a smear of graffiti on the bank vaults.
The following weeks had been more exhausting than horrible; no one died, but Joker spent his wealth like a mad man (well, a madder man) on luxury items; cars, clothes, seafood dinners, jewelry, companies. He’d bought a share of Wayne Industries under an anonymous persona, worming his way into the company with Bruce’s own money and making suggestions to their tech department that were even somewhat decent.
‘How about lessening the mechanics of this new security system’s defenses? It’ll make it more eco-friendly and a slimmer model will make it less obvious and more secure.’ - J.
Bruce will forever feel a flicker of shameful amusement at the notion that Joker had bypassed all of their defenses, in the exact way he sent in his letter of how they should be wary. A sort of, ‘Look at how easily I did that. You should change it before I do it again, or someone else does, and steals my joke’. And he meant it; Joker hates reused humor. It sticks to his skin like glue, the crust getting under his nails and making him awkwardly cringe into his oversized purple suit. Bruce has used his own gimmicks against him once or twice, a flare gun to the gut, a mutter of Joker’s own punchline before he can say it. It irks him. To the point that some days, he can’t help but repeat Joker’s jokes under his breath.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred scolded one evening, eyes wide and trained on him. The skin around his brows had been pulled taut, and it had taken Bruce a moment to realize he was being regarded in faint horror. A flush of red had descended over his cheeks as he’d sat there, judged and eyed by his pseudo-father figure.
“Please refrain from speaking that mad man’s words in the manor.” Alfred said after the long pause, twitching in his seat.
“Sorry, Al.” Bruce whispered back, glancing down, feeling the eyes continue to sit on him heavily. Across the dinner table, Dick and Jason had watched with curious, uncomfortable expressions. It’s always awkward when Alfred scolds their father. Even more so when Bruce isn’t able to help the way his tongue is stuck, mouthing the words, “A bat and a clown walk into a bar…” like he can’t help it.
Because Joker is a part of him in a way he can’t quite explain to anyone else.
Everyone tries to understand to some degree; Clark tells him he about his connections with some of his enemies; citing his turmoil with Lex Luthor (Co-parenting Kon with the man is difficult, and some days, downright hell). Diana tries too; she’s always so empathetic, so desperate to prove her humanity in a world that regards her abnormally. She and Clark are just like that; eager to help, but always on the outside. They aren’t like Hal or Barry who don’t have to prove their humanity. They just are, and they know that their enemies are just that; helping where they can and knowing when they can’t. Not that the latter two treat Bruce poorly for how he deals with Joker. They’re good men.
But none of them get it. They try. They try so hard, to understand why Bruce can never kill Joker despite all that he’s done. Hal looks at him sometimes with the slightest flicker of rage whenever the clown escapes Arkham for the millionth time and ruins someone’s life. Gordon can’t look him in the eye some days, desperately wishing that Bruce would just take one for the team and put an end to it. Even Clark thinks; ‘why not just kill him? Stop the suffering?’ even if he never says it out loud. His jaw clenches and his eyes dart down to the ground when he thinks it, Bruce has noticed.
They all wonder why he treats Joker with a glower rather than a gun. Why he lets him run wild like a toddler with a sharpie, Gotham being a plain white wall in the mansion. It’s a wonder that bleeds into anger and then hatred. They hate him some days. Dick especially. Dick hates him for a lot of things though. Things like Bruce’s dismissive tone. The way they can’t work together anymore. The fact that he can’t help but call him dad on reflex or hug him tightly when he comes home from university.
Jason doesn’t hate Joker. No, not now. Not yet. Hopefully not ever. Bruce hopes he stays like that forever; his young boy that doesn’t have a hateful bone in his body-
“Baaaats,” The hand in his grip shakes a little, trying to simultaneously remove him, yet press closer.
Bruce looks down at their joined limbs, swallowing down all of the feelings swirling inside his gut like tide pool of the world’s most fucked up body of water.
“Wow, way to make a guy feel like he’s a bore,” Joker pouts, his red lower lip jutting out, “Making me conform to your sense of morality and not even giving me the courtesy of paying attention to our conversation? How rude! And while we’re holding hands too,” he mutters lowly, “Playing with my emotions…”
“We’re not holding hands.” Bruce gruffs.
Joker lifts his arm an inch, jostling his grip, “What do you call this then-”
With a snarl, Bruce snatches the cuffs clipped to his utility belt and clicks them around the two bony white wrists in front of him. His hands immediately begin to cool down from the lack of physical contact, fixing two fingers around the metal clasp. He gives a little yank, relishing in the stumble he gets.
“Kinky.” Joker comments, gazing downwards.
“Quiet. I’m taking you back to Arkham.” Bruce says quickly, as if getting the words out fast will make it all go faster, and before he knows it, he’ll be able to lock himself away in the bat cave (far from Joker, or Dick, or even Alfred).
“And then what? Rub one out in your batmobile like a teenager?”
He jerks to a halt, breath stuck in his lungs at the words. It’s not the first time Joker’s said something sexual to him. Not the first time he’s flirted, batting his eyelashes while his hands are in the metaphorical cookie jar that conjures itself via a corpse’s chest cavity or a bank vault.
It’s also not the first time Bruce has felt himself shiver with something other than revulsion. The first few instances, back in their early years, he’d scowl and feel bile rise in his throat when the man called him darling or told him they were connected by fate. Joker was a man and an unconventionally attractive one at that, with pale white skin and cheekbones so prominent they looked like they’d pop out of place with one wrong touch. Over time though, Joker’s face has become less disturbing, and more normal.
You look at something everyday for years and, even if it’s the strangest thing in the world, it’ll start to become common.
You’ll relax around it and Bruce has come to understand, for him, this is exactly the case.
He can even admit now, that there are attractive qualities to the man in front of him. His cheekbones may be pointy, but they’re also sharp. He has an odd frailness to his body, with long limbs and a thin torso, but it’s strong and covered in raised skin from old scars; a body carved into, rather than out of something. The mess of green hair he combs back, it’s striking. Noticeable. Just like his purple suits and bright orange bowties and red fingerless gloves, wrapping up a thin waist like it’s a present under gift paper. His legs, fuck, his legs are lean with calves that Bruce has imagined digging his teeth into-
He’s thought it all before. He knows he has some sort of attraction to Joker, but he also knows that there’s a reasonable explanation for it:
Misattribution of arousal, in which his body mistakes the rush of endorphins in the midst of a fight for a desire to press his skin against Joker’s.
A deep seated trauma in which he wants to punish himself; fucking the monster in front of him rather than addressing the one he keeps inside.
A desperate need to find the humanity in the man he’s spent so long trying to rehabilitate (but keeps failing miserably at saving).
A reasonable explanation. And every time, Bruce has been able to shake himself free of the growing desire he feels when they make physical contact.
But this time it feels different. There’s something in the air of the carnival. Maybe its the fact that Bruce is exhausted from running around the city all day. Maybe his defenses are down because his parents’ image has been desecrated once again, by their statue exploding. Maybe it’s those words, “Keeping everything nonlethal”.
“You…” he swallows, trying to ignore the throbbing heat spreading downwards, “I really hate you.”
It sounds pathetic, landing between them with a wet splat.
“You’ve said before,” Joker nods sagely, “But that’s getting stale, dear,” His head tilts to the right as he keeps talking, eyes wide as they absorb every inch of him, “Are you sure you aren’t just saying that to convince yourself? To make yourself believe it?”
It’s not unlike every other interaction they’ve ever had; Joker has a talent for being observant, just as much as he is talented in getting under people’s skin. It’s one of those skills that go hand in hand. Despite the cowl, Bruce has always felt as if Joker could see under it; able to see the darkest, most depraved bits of himself, that even he couldn’t comprehend. In another life, Bruce thinks Joker would’ve made a great detective.
“I-” Bruce swallows, closing his eyes.
There’s a moment here. One of those where you know something is about to happen and you have the choice to either cross a threshold or slink back into the night with your tail between your legs.
Bruce can either step over the boundaries he’s set up over the years, lean in, and connect their mouths, or continue existing like this until he inevitably snaps.
It’s the fear of this happening in front of others that gets him to move. The concept of him breaking in half, while Dick or Clark are nearby, and able to see him crumble to pieces in the Joker’s tight grasp.
“Fuck.”
He jerks forward like a desperate man, inhaling the smell of chemicals and grime as his lips bruise with the force of pressure he’s putting in. It’s violent and angry, their teeth clinking together painfully (his broken tooth gives a wail of agony) and spittle ending up on his chin from where Joker yelps into the kiss, a puff of air slipping out.
He’s caught the clown by surprise and that sends a burning thrill through his body, hands shaking as they reach up and curl around his nape, pulling him close. His chest heaves, feeling like butterflies are fluttering in circles throughout his guts. The wind is cold and bites at them but Bruce is sure he’s never felt so hot in his life. Everything feels like it’s on fire.
“Bats,” Joker whispers when he pulls back to allow them both a chance to breathe.
They pant. Gasping. Heaving.
He can’t get another word out, too focused on the spindly little fingers working their way into his neck piece. There’s a clang from the cuffs still around Joker’s wrists knocking into the chest armor and the clown worms his arms into between them both so his digits can draw lines over Bruce’s adams’ apple.
He scratches against the bobbing bump of cartilage, long nails sharp in a way that makes Bruce groan, long and loud. It echoes throughout the empty fairground. Somewhere in the distance, there’s Gotham’s nightlife, but it’s quiet out here.
Just Bruce’s deep guttural grunts and what can only be classified as raspy little whines from Joker’s throat.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” Bruce mutters, pulling back to watch Joker shiver against him.
“Let’s hope.”
They both know he’s not lying. The words are disconcerting, and if Bruce was a stronger man, he would push away and put distance between them.
He isn’t though, he’s a hungry one, and with a low grumble of annoyance, moreso frustrated to not be sucking on Joker’s bottom lip, he crowds Joker in close, towering over him until the man’s back finds a beam from the ferris wheel.
It shakes slightly, the metal crying out from the pressure and they both pause, watching as the tower gives a little sway.
“Think it’ll come down on top of us?” Joker snickers, leg coming up to wrap around Bruce’s hip. He tilts his head back, resting it on the rusting metal while he sticks his pelvis out and presses it against Bruce’s.
Flashes of white hot pleasure shoot through Bruce’s groin, his thighs quivering as he reciprocates. Another creak, but he ignores it, rolling his hips forward eagerly, toes curling in his thick boots as each touch has his cock stirring in his pants.
“What a way to go out,” Joker pants, laughing as his voice gets breathier and breathier with each touch, “I can see the headlines now; Joker and Batman found as flat as a pancake, mid-quickie; both with their pants around their ankles and their-”
“That’s pretty long for a headline,” Bruce quips, thrusting a hand into the man’s hair and tugging until their lips are slotted together once more. The talking dies down instantly, replaced by the deep-bellied heaves of the man’s body as he laughs into Bruce’s tongue. It’s wet and ragged, like he’s choking on his own spit.
He makes a keening sound when they separate, leaning into Bruce’s space as if it physically pains him to separate.
“More,” he pleads, throwing his head back against the metal beam. There’s a sickening cracking noise, followed by a moan, and Joker arches as Bruce bites his earlobe.
He likes the pain and Bruce, as disturbed as he will inevitably be, once they’re done, realizes likes inflicting it upon the man under him. Joker looks good with blood dripping from the crown of his skull and across his windpipe.
“Oh fuck, Bats, yes,” Joker grunts as teeth dig into the soft expanse of his jaw. Then the side of his throat and soon, his collarbone after Bruce has reached up and tugged the obnoxiously orange bow tie from his collar. It comes away with a rip and gets dropped to the grass below them, along with a few torn-off buttons, now lost forever.
“I liked that tie,” Joker pouts through a mess of flustered breathing. His chest rises and falls in quick succession, and through his mangled shirt, Bruce can see his ghostly white skin is darkened by a pink flush. Every layer of clothing seems more like something for Bruce to unwrap the longer he stares at the shuddering form in front of him.
He’s always been able to render his lovers as complete messes; the woman he hooks up as Brucie Wayne, Playboy millionaire, all have left stellar reviews. Selina, in the whirlwind of their hook-ups over the years, has never been…unsatisfied. Their dynamic is a rough one, but it’s fueled by affection.
For Joker, he only has the urge to fuck, hurt, and ruin.
With a sound that is more animal than man, he grabs the chain that connects Joker’s wrists, yanks them over his head and secures them over a loose nail sticking out of the metal beam. He sticks his leg between the man’s thighs, and watches, transfixed as he feels a cock grind into it.
“Who knew you were so perverse, Batman,” Joker grins, testing the security with a few yanks. When it doesn’t come free, he whines and bucks his hips harder. It’s messy, erratic, and after only a few twitches of his hips, Bruce can feel dampness seeping through his dress pants.
“You love this.” He says, proving his point when he knees Joker in the crotch and gets a pleased little grunt in response.
“I do, I do, I really do,” Joker practically melts, flexing his arms as they hang above his head. His thrusts start to grow in speed and in an amusing display, he grinds himself into a stupor, riding Bruce’s thigh and picking up the pace like a dog humping a boot.
Bruce really should put a stop to it. Joker’s about to cum and thought of cleaning semen from the suit’s kevlar is not something he was to do anytime soon (he’s definitely not asking Alfred to throw the suit into the wash either). Not to mention he likes his partners to cum on his dick first and a little after when he eats them out or sucks them dry. But, the open mouth, huffing out what sounds like agony, and Joker’s eyelids pressed tightly shut are a captivating sight. He can’t look away. Can’t grab his waist to get him to stop moving and can’t help but shift his thigh in tandem with the man’s rocking motions.
“Oh! Oh fuck!” Joker whines at applied pressure, cuffs keeping him upright as his legs go slack and bend out awkwardly.
“You look pathetic like this,” Bruce mutters against his cheek, giving him a nip and getting a yelp in return. Joker doesn’t look anything like the crime boss he’s regarded as throughout the city anymore. His clothes are rumpled, contrary to the dual flair of a suit he usually wears. His purple jacket is falling off his shoulders and his pants are damp on the front making his bulge all the more obvious. The lips he usually slathers in red lipstick are smeared and actively bruising, and Bruce has no doubt that his own lips must bear a similar sight.
It’s always humiliating to walk away from a fight with the Joker and have a kiss mark pressed to the side of his cowl without his knowledge.
“Got freaky with the clown, huh?” Barry once snickered after the Joker and Legion attacked Central City, waggling his brows amidst an all out fire fight. Bruce had been wrestling with Joker for over an hour, chasing him through the city and ducking and weaving through alleyways. At one point, Joker had gotten the drop on him, slamming his head into the side of a dumpster and kissing his jaw bone before running off with a giggle.
His cheeks flame as he imagines the state of his helmet now. A nervous jittering warmth that makes him slant his own hips forward, pushing closer until their clothed groins are against each other in spontaneity.
With a tremendous full-body shudder, Joker lets out a little yip like a cat that’s gotten their tail pulled and seizes up. Bruce can’t feel the pressure of anything against his bare dick besides the painful underside of the protective cup. But Joker must feel every hard edge of the suit, the way it jabs into the sensitive shaft of his prick, and strokes him to completion.
“Bats,” he nearly sobs, twitching throughout his orgasm. He’s worked up to the point that Bruce wonders if he’s been hard the whole time. If their fighting has had the clown hiding a boner for over a hour, while getting off from the chafing of his boxers and Bruce’s fists. A needy little cry comes out of the man’s lips, forced out of his lungs like a pressure cooker losing its lid. He heaves and bucks his hips, cum leaking out of his boxers and staining the purple dress pants he sports. Bruce can feel it soaking through the thinner material of his suit that stretches around the skin of his inner thigh, like a layer of concrete locking him in place.
“Fuck,” Joker pants, still twitching as he leans his head back to look at the Ferris wheel above, “You sure know how to give a girl a good time, dont’cha darling?” He says raggedly, breath hot enough that it condenses in the cold winter air and they can see it in the wind. It’s unlike the instances he’s run around Gotham mid-December, or whilst Mr. Freeze forced the city to enter a winter wonderland during the summer. All those times, he let the visible breath dissipate, mind too battered and rattled to sit patiently and watch its effect. Now though, in post-orgasm bliss, he lets it fester in the air, gazing at Bruce through the fog.
“Do you need help with that?” He asks after a moment, eyes darting down to where their hips are still slotted together. He gives a small thrust into the space and Bruce’s knees nearly buckle, cock straining under his belt, painfully erect.
“Please,” Bruce pleads, horrified to hear the desperation in his voice. It crackles in the cold, mixing with Joker’s breath, filling both of their nostrils with one another. He lets it hang for two agonizing seconds before shattering the plea with a harsh growl.
“Honey, you don’t need to beg, I’ll take care of you-“ Joker starts to croon, only to let out a strangled laugh as he Bruce bits down on his shoulder, “Fuck! You minx,” he giggles as Bruce starts to hurriedly remove his armor, shedding pieces and dropping them on the ground without a care, “Treat me like a teething bone, Bats,” he moans when Bruce’s teeth dig in more painfully, “Like you’re an overgrown puppy- big ol’ bad dog ripping me apart until I’m bloody and-“
“Shut up.”
The cool nighttime air dances across the back of Bruce’s shins as he stands there, the armored pieces scattered around the dirt. His thermal underlayer sticks to him like a second skin, tight around the crotch. A damp spot is staining his inner thigh where Joker’s already left a mark, accompanied by a darker stain atop the noticeable tent that bulges outward.
Joker whistles, head tilted down, tongue lapping at his bottom lip at the sight.
If his hands weren’t suspended above him, Bruce has no doubt he’d be reaching down to cup him through the material (Not that he can’t escape like this. Bruce knows damn well, Joker’s been in a pair of cuffs more times in his lifetime than he’s made toast. He’s allowing Bruce to have him like this. Readily surrendering his own body, eager to feel the press of their skin, slick with sweat and fluid).
“Come on,” Joker says lowly, eyes half-lidded with lust, “Use me like a sleeve, baby, I can take it-“
Bruce doesn’t wait a second longer, hooking a thumb under his waistband and yanking his under layers down. His cock springs up without anything to hold it down, and it bobs between their bodies, thick and pulsing, precum dripping from the head.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Joker’s lips tremble at the sight, an almost in-awe-expression crossing him as he looks down. Like he can’t believe this is actually happening. Bruce can’t believe it either- his conscience has vacated the premises since he entered the amusement park- but he feels shame crawl over him like insects as he slides his dick along Joker’s lower belly, leaving a trail of white. This is wrong and he knows it. Everyone will hate him if they ever find out. The symbol of Justice will mean nothing and he’ll lose Barbara forever if she were to ever hear about the rendezvous. Gotham will have to exist in the same universe as the one where he fucks the man responsible for half of it’s destruction and death toll.
It’ll be hard to look at himself in the mirror without feeling an overwhelming amount of shame.
“That’s it, Bats. Use me.”
Joker’s voice is like a siren’s. The way it curls around his ears and into his eardrums, yanking his spiraling mind back to attention. It’s scratchy and high pitched and prone to giving Bruce headache every now and again. But right now, it’s sultry and seductive enough that Bruce gives in to his carnal desires.
“Ah,” he huffs, rolling his hips into the warmth of another human. It contradicts with the icicles hanging from the rafters nearby, but Bruce is on fire as he slants his cock into the heat of Joker’s tummy and dirties his shirt.
“Careful! I really like this one,” Joker complains as he writhes against him, but with no real bite, “You’re ruining the silk, you know.”
“Hmph.” Bruce fixes this by digging his fingers into the cloth and tearing it open, buttons flying everywhere and fabric turning to scraps. The white of Joker’s skin is much brighter underneath; his chest doesn’t regularly see direct sunlight, and there are a series of scars all over. Some with raised skin, others a little pink from where Joker must’ve been bored and picked open scabs until they left a permanent mark. Across his hip bone is a long white line that Bruce remembers giving him with a batarang a few years ago. He’s surprised that it’s still there. And a little shameful that it was so deep.
“Most are from you.” Joker says when he notices Bruce staring, “Cept for the one on my collarbone. That one’s from Harley. And the claw mark on my back is from Croc. Got into a row with him two weeks ago. Bastard couldn’t admit I have more charm in my pinkie toe than him.”
“What about this one?” Bruce asks, leaning in trail his tongue along a small mark on his right pec. Its circular shaped, most likely from a bullet.
“Eddie got me pretty good a few years ago,” Joker shrugs, jostling the cuffs with a snicker, “Said his riddles were shitty- which, fyi, they are- but it totally fucked with him-“
It’s not that Joker is talking about other people and Bruce is jealous of them for being able to land hits on him that makes him cut Joker off- but it’s because he’s standing there with his cock out and needs to get it inside the man before he keels over.
“Turn around.” He barks.
“Can’t really do that when I’m strung up like a spring chicken, darling.”
Bruce groans, annoyance spilling into the sound as he reaches up and unhooks the cuffs. They fall to the ground with a thump.
“Oh, so you mean business now, hmm?” Joker laughs, wobbly on his knees as Bruce roughly spins him around and presses his face into the Ferris wheel’s structure. He lets out a pained sound when the bridge of his nose is crushed, but giggles through it, like he’s having a good time.
“Ruin me, Batsy.” He mutters into the metal, swaying his hips from side to side as if to entice Bruce further. A visible shiver runs up his spine as hands travel over his waist and yank down his slacks with his boxers (alarmingly of which are Batman themed).
His pale white flesh flashes out, rounded, and Bruce doesn’t think for a second before reaching down and giving a sharp slap to give it some color.
“Bats!” Joker yelps, startled by the touch. Just as Bruce imagined, his ass glows a bit pinker where he hit him, the sight making his cock ache painfully, bobbing for attention.
“Warn a guy if you’re going to-“ whatever Joker’s planning on saying, he can’t get it out in time before two fingers are shoved into his mouth.
“Suck.” Bruce commands.
“Mmph,” Joker huffs- despite eagerly and obediently swirling his tongue around the digits.
His canines are sharp when Bruce’s finger pads brush them and it isn't long before he tries to nip.
“Fuck-“ Bruce yanks his hand to his chest and scowls at the bent over figure in front of him.
“Aw? Didja get a boo-boo?” Joker feigns concern, lapping at a trail of blood dripping out of his mouth.
It’s not the first time he’s tasted his blood, and Bruce gets a sudden flashback to the time Joker feigned vampirism for a week-long bit. How he’d gallivanted around town, with new yellowed fangs and a cape to rival Batman’s. More than a dozen people had been found drained like crushed juice boxes, pale and skeletal. In the end, Bruce discovered it was a blood-trafficking scheme he pulled off with Crane and Cobblepot, when the latter two grew tired of Joker’s vampirical facade and turned him in.
In that time, Joker had managed to get a good chomp out of him. A decent sized bite wound that he still had a scar from, three years later, on his left pec.
Right over his heart. Like he’d been marked.
The anger of the ordeal, despite being so many years later, flares up alongside the memory, and with a snarl, Bruce reaches down, grips the man by the waist and drags him forward.
Joker makes a confused sound, before struggling just for the heck of it (he kicks Bruce in the shin, nearly making them topple), only to still when they reach one of the Ferris wheel cars.
“Oh baby, yes,” he cackles when Bruce throws him onto one of the seats and curls over him, crowding him in. The metal whines and squeals under them, but somehow even when combined with all the manhandling, it holds stable.
It’s still uncomfortable though when Bruce has to lean back on his legs to finally get his hand around Joker's ass, spread it, and find his hole.
The mewling yip is worth it, Joker arching like a whore in a brothel when he presses his pointer finger into the right ring of muscle. It’s warm inside like a furnace, and Bruce wastes no time by quirking the digit up, pressing past his knuckle and giving Joker a small moment to adjust.
“Oh god, fuck,” The man chokes out, sounding more human than he has in a long time, “Bats, please, just-“
Bruce smiles faintly at hearing the word ‘please’ come out of his mouth, and rewards him by adding another finger. It’s a rough preparation, fueled by a desire to just rush through it and stick his dick in, but Bruce still has his manners after all and he’d much rather not fuck someone bloody (as much as Joker may like that). He is by no means gentle however.
Joker, to his credit, doesn't yell out. His teeth dig into his bottom lip, dampening down any of his louder grunts, while he’s being fucked open. The tightness of his ass around Bruce's digits is enough indication that he hasn’t had anything back there for a good while. It makes Bruce wonder if he’s ever bottomed before, but knowing Joker it can be any of a plethora of ways: he could’ve been hooking up with someone last Friday- he could’ve shoved a pistol handle up there just for the heck of it- or he could be a virgin, experiencing all of this for the very first time (because in all honesty, what other fool could ever want to do this with him?).
Bruce doesn’t let himself think too heavily on the matter; Joker’s sexual history is none of his business and the twitching muscle he’s knuckle deep in doesn’t seem to care much either.
“Another.” Joker demands after it’s only been a few seconds. His hole flutters pathetically around Bruce, looser than it was a few minutes ago, but nowhere near ready for the full girth of a cock. Fingers will have to do.
The man yelps when a third is added, and Bruce curls his knuckles until they’re bumping against the swell of his prostate.
“Too much?” He asks while a smirk tugs at the corners of his lips.
“Ha! Do you even-ah-know me, Bats?” Joker scoffs, chin jutting out proudly, but his resilience is crumbling like a child stepping on a sand castle, his hips jerk and twitch, thighs shaking with excitement, “I can take- fuck- all of it-“
“All of it?” Bruce questions, using his other hand to stroke up and down his own cock. He glides over his foreskin, collecting the build up of pre that’s begun to spurt on the back of Joker’s thighs. It makes for a slick lubricant and he eases his fingers out of Joker’s ass to press a teasing movement over his hole.
“All of it!” Joker yells out, wobbling on his knees so the head of Bruce’s cock is teasing his rim. It’s a dizzying sight; watching the man rock back and forth, the grinding of rusted metal punctuating his movements. There’s a strain in his back legs, the veins on his thighs bold whilst he struggles to keep himself leaned over the Ferris wheel seat.
It’s not dissimilar to the times he’s been wrapped tight in rope or a straight jacket at Arkham (although, let’s face it, those had never truly stopped him). All he’s missing is a bit of gore and an orderly in the corner that warns Bruce their time is almost up and to ‘always keep five feet away from the prisoner’.
Bruce twists his finger, spitefully thinking of the guard's words with a grimace crossing his lips.
How many times had he spent with Joker in the prime position to be pounded into with little mercy? How many times had he stared at the clown’s ass whilst he checked him for weapons or lingered too long on his lips whilst watching him smile gleefully over a dead body?
He feels his heart clench, guilt swelling like a balloon as he recalls all the moments of waved away fantasies. This isn’t a one off thing. He’s thought about it before.
Many times before.
At Arkham, escorting Joker to his cell- he thinks about the what-ifs: grabbing the man by his bold bright hair and fucking him against the bars of his cell. Feeling the tight taut muscles around his cock, whilst he pumps a load into the man’s hole. Dragging his tongue over the soft fleshy part of his throat and drawing blood so they match: red on pale skin.
Hooking Joker’s legs over his shoulders and pressing him into his shoddy little cot. The thin scratchy sheets on their skin, slick with sweat and creaking every time Bruce’s hips jerk it forward.
He thinks about being out on the streets of Gotham; capturing Joker in an alleyway. Dragging him towards a dumpster, having him hold onto its railing for dear life while he’d slam into his ass. Maybe Harley would sit a few feet away, hands in cuffs, eyes wide while her puddin became pudding in Batman’s arms.
Maybe in the back of the Batmobile, on the way to Arkham, he imagines Joker leaning over the divider and wrapping those red, lipstick-stained lips around his member. Bobbing his head, throat quivering as it’s fucked into. The barest brush of teeth, the terror of knowing Joker may get off on biting his dick clean off.
“Oh fuck,” Bruce moans, pre dribbling down his thighs at the mental image (of which he doesn’t want to think too hard about; him having a kink for getting his cock bitten, is something he can he face tomorrow), and he finally takes his fingers out of Joker with a wet thwap.
The other man immediately whines out at the loss, mourning in his tone like Bruce has just informed him his mother has died - but goes still when Bruce presses his dick fully to his open, pink hole.
“Oh, finally,” he sniffs dramatically, “You sure know how to keep a girl waiting-“
He cuts himself off with a groan and not for the first time, Bruce wishes he could see his face. To watch his eyes get blown wide, mouth open in a silent scream, hot puffs of air coming out. He wants to flip the man over to get a peek, but that would require pulling out when he’s just begun. And his dick may fall off if he can’t get all of it inside the man now.
“You feel so-“ he chokes off, pressing in deeper and deeper, practically melting inside. It’s pulsating and warm, and despite using no lube and not wearing a condom (oh fuck) it’s slick. He wonders if any of its blood, but comes to the realization that no, it can’t be, because when he pulls back out, there’s nothing on his length but clear liquids; precum, spit, sweat.
“Batsy, baby, please don’t pull out!” Joker wails as he checks his dick, “Please, haven’t I been good so far?”
“You mean besides biting me?” Bruce huffs, although the words are devoid of anything serious as he listens and inches back inside.
“Those were love nips!” Joker exclaims, clenching his hands around then railing, hips twitching.
Between his legs, Bruce can see his thin prick fully erect; tip pink like blush as it bobs, balls taut, with the faintest wisp of hair. The carpets match the drapes apparently. The rest of Joker is surprisingly smooth; either shaved or no hair being able to grow because of his tumble into Ace Chemicals. Bruce prefers the image of Joker sitting on the edge of a bathtub, spreading his ass to carefully shave himself, hips angled up into the razor- than the concept of his body having one more permanent trauma done onto it.
It’s somehow that thought, which has him pressing fully inside, dick pushing past the ring of muscle until his pelvis meets the back of Joker’s ass.
“Ah!” The man under him makes a broken little sound, and Bruce eagerly laps it up, desperate to hear it again. He gives the clown a second to get used to the sensation, before pulling back and then slamming back in to the hilt.
“Fuck!”
Bruce is reminded of Selina as he starts to thrust his hips into a steady rhythm. Not out of desire or preference, but for how different she is in comparison to Joker. Who, is babbling words that Bruce can’t decipher and eagerly meeting his thrusts like he wants to be torn in half.
With Selina, she’s quiet, eyes cast over Bruce in deep verbose waves. She’d sit on his cock and ride him until reaching her peak, taking until Bruce had nothing left to give.
But Joker is the opposite. He takes everything and accepts everything like it’s gospel. He lets Bruce screw his guts into a puree and would probably let him slit his throat mid-fuck, if it meant he was able to feel Bruce’s cum inside at least just once.
“Fuck fuck fuck- fuck me on your fat cock,” Joker squirms, the swell of his dick crushed into the seat under them. It twitches against each buck of Bruce’s hips, the glide of his seed from first orgasm drawing him closer towards another, “Harder, Bats.”
It feels impossible to pick up the pace any faster than the rate Bruce is fucking him at, yet he complies as best as he can. Thighs shaking with exertion, sweat pooling in the crevices of the remaining bits of his suit, he grips the back of Joker’s hair for leverage, and angles his hips to piston out of the man.
Joker goes rigid for a moment, like Bruce has pressed a button for him to self-destruct, and then falls apart like his bones are jelly. He collapses in a heap, rocking himself backward like it’s the only part of his body still able to move. His cock pulses between his thighs and Bruce watches with a growing smile as two pale pasty hands try to stroke it into cumming.
“Uh uh,” he taunts, feeling an odd sense of role reversal as he tugs Joker’s hair like a horse’s reins and slams into a spot inside the man that makes him shriek.
“Oh, darling, ah- darling, darling, I need-“
“You need to shut up,” Bruce cuts him off, pulling at a strand of green hair that’s coiled around his knuckle. It’s grown longer since the last time Batman saw him, growing past his ears and gelled back to keep out of his eyes. Now, with his manhandling, it’s a mess of tangled wispy locks that make for a great handle, “Or I’ll rip your hair out.”
“Rip my-?” Joker lets out a squawk of laughter, glancing at him over his shoulder. His makeup has smeared even worse than before, lipstick on his nose and teeth, “Honey, a bald spot from you is more than worth the pain-“
“Shut up,” Bruce pushes his face back down into the seat, listening to the metal of the Ferris wheel’s gears screech as he pushes himself closer to coming, “Christ, you never. Stop. Talking.” He punctuates each word by aiming for the clown’s prostate, savoring every mewl he earns.
Jokers spent his entire life flapping his lips and talking like he’ll die if he doesn’t- a habit that’s given Bruce more than enough migraine to last a lifetime- but it’s his wailing, alongside the shrill noise of steel crumbling, that has him seeing stars.
A white hot fire burns in his lower belly, sending heat down his legs and into his toes. Behind the cowl, he breathes hot and heavy, grunting like an animal. Maybe he should’ve taken it off, but it feels more honest for him to wear it whilst they’re connected at the hips. Joker doesn’t wear a mask; hasn’t worn one since he fell into Ace Chemicals, But Bruce’s flesh is his own. Batman is his reality and with Joker pinned under his weight, he’s never felt more honest with himself as he plows into the man as he deep as he can reach.
“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“ Joker starts to stutter, eyes rolling into the back of his head on one harsh yank of his hair, arching his back.
“Cum then, you fucking greedy monster.” Bruce snarls, and feels the resulting shudder of the man’s internal walls convulse around him.
Joker’s cock spurts violently as he cums, dripping down his pale inner thighs and staining his slacks that are twisted around an ankle. Below them, on the seat, a puddle of white builds under him, mixed and congealed with sweat and rust. A thick, pink-toned mixture that Bruce reaches into, swipes a paw through, and then sticks into the other man’s mouth.
“Clean.” He demands, continuing to piston his hips in and out of the hot trembling hole under him. He feels a tongue, damp with saliva, and the sharp ridges of those damned teeth stab in his middle finger, but keeps them there, even in the throes of pain.
“Ba-bats-“ Joker says through a mouthful, sounding muffled and ruined as his guts are rearranged until his cock twitches with the beginnings of overstimulation. A shrill screech bleeds out, like he’s being tortured, chest heaving and hips jittering like an addict. If Bruce were a fool, he may consider the tears beading along the clown’s waterline to be genuine- but he knows Joker. He knows how much he loves this. How his cock being rubbed raw into a metal bench, and his ass being rocked mercilessly, and his hair being yanked from his skull- is everything he’s ever craved.
He wants this. He’s wanted this far longer than Bruce has; dating back nearly a decade. He may have started wanting this from the first time they met.
“I love you,” The man cries suddenly, and that’s enough confirmation that Bruce only pauses for the slightest second, his heart hammering inside his chest, before saying it back via an orgasm that has him seeing stars. His vision goes white, and he shudders, filling Joker with his seed, toes curling, and mouth letting out a sound he wasn’t previously aware he was capable of making.
“I hate you.” He sobs, slumping over the man’s back and settling along the ridges of his spine with a grimace. He can feel every bone, every sharp piece that sticks into his pecs with salt. It’s not a soft place to land, but it’s exactly what Bruce needs.
He runs his fingers over the hip bone that juts out too starkly, and breathes in shallowly, inhaling the back of Joker’s neck like he’s a dog in heat, “I hate you.” He mutters again into the surprisingly soft remains of the man’s once combed back do.
“Of course you do, baby,” Joker chuckles back, and Bruce can feel the reverberation as he lays there, crushing him, “You hate me so much you had to mark me.” He laughs suddenly, and it’s so jagged edged that Bruce forces himself to step back and pull out. A stream of his own cum spills out of the clown at the action, but neither of them move to clean him up or prevent it from ruining the remaining tatters of his clothing.
“Are you…alright?” Bruce asks, going right back into Batman mode as he eyes the mess he’s made of the man he vowed to arrest earlier in the morning. He’d promised Jim he’d return with Joker in a pair of cuffs for all the property damage he’s gotten away with.
Eyeing the Ferris wheel, which sways in the nighttime air precariously, he wonders if there will be one more structure Joker will be responsible for toppling that evening.
“Relax, it’s been upright for over twenty years- us knocking boots won't be what topples it.” The clown tells him, rolling onto his backside to look him in the eye. He looks worse from the front; covered in love bites and bruises, eyes rouged red and dripping in black. Somehow, it makes Bruce’s cock twitch.
No. No more, He tells himself. This has been more than enough. Probably more than he ever should’ve entertained, because now, he realizes with a nervous roll of his shoulders, he’s gone and defiled Batman’s name by coupling with his enemy. His family’s enemy. Gotham’s enemy.
“Fuck.” He says plainly, standing like a lost little boy in a crowded theme park, his cock having heavily between his legs. He swallows and then turns to begin picking up the pieces of his suit and redressing, “I have to go. We have to go. You’re going back to Arkham.”
“What? No aftercare?” Joker huffs, reclining in the seat, uncaring for the cum he’s sat in, “How typical. You give a guy what he wants, and he leaves as soon as he's done getting his rocks off. What a nasty man you are, darling.”
Bruce ignores him, pulling his chest plate on and locking it in place.
“Bats.”
Another tug and he’s put his cock away, protected under an athletic cup, cupping his balls and staining it with fluid he’d rather not think about.
“Bats.”
It’s fine, he has to tell himself. He’ll wash the suit out when he gets home. He won’t let Alfred do it nor will he ever tell him anything or anyone for that matter.
“Bats!”
He looks back at Joker, now fully clothed, and feels his stomach twist into knots, “What?” He asks.
He really shouldn’t be surprised when he sees Joker standing, naked as the day he was born, standing at the control panel of the ferries wheel and flipping on switches.
“Think we should knock this puppy down for good?”
“Joker, don’t-“
The clown flicks one last button and it’s the action that closes the night; their combined efforts loosening whatever remaining security it held, and with one attempt at movement (how there was still power, Bruce has no idea) it sets the Ferris wheel into despaired motion.
It groans like it’s in pain as it goes; so loud and angry that Bruce has to clasp his hands over his ears to avoid having them bleed.
“Oh dear.” Joker frowns, watching, while the structure gives one more squeal, and then begins to come apart like it’s made of straw, “Whooopsies!” He snickers, knocking his hip against the control box, “What a doozy!”
Bruce can barely hear his blathering over the sound; but nothing can drown out the Joker’s laughter as he bounds away into the chaos, the dark, and the grim.
“Get back here!” Bruce snarls, attempting to give chase, but it’s a fruitless endeavor when the Ferris wheel is coming down and he has to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed to death.
“See you soon, Batsy!
“Joker!” He yells out once the dust settles, and sees the Clown has disappeared, slinking away into the night, nude and with a secret on his tongue that makes Bruce tremble under his cowl.
“Shit.”
The next day, Bruce wakes up and heads downstairs, his head aching and muscles creaking like an old man’s.
“Sleep well, sir?” Alfred asks from the counter, preparing a breakfast that smells heavenly for Bruce’s growling stomach. His back is to him, but he looks over his shoulder to smile in his direction as he sits the breakfast table. It looks strained and he hurriedly looks back at his work when Bruce meets his eye.
“Mhmm,” Bruce hums, ignoring the pulse in his throat that hasn’t gone away since Joker scratched it with his nails. He reaches out for the coffee Alfred has been kind enough to brew and practically inhales it, “Where are the boys?” he asks after a moment.
“Master Grayson is at work and Master Todd is at school.”
“Already?” Bruce frowns, picking up a newspaper and flipping to the gossip section.
“It’s half-past noon, sir.”
“Oh.” he pauses, glancing at a nearby clock on the wall. 12:35 it reads and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, distinctly aware of the fact that he is still wearing his pajamas and wrapped in a robe, wasting the day away like a child on sick-day.
“I had a meeting with some investors at the company this morning-” He starts, a bit anxiously, but Alfred beats him to the punch.
“Moved to tomorrow. In fact, your entire day has been cleared.” Alfred turns off the stove and marches over, placing a plate of eggs and toast in front of him, “You were exhausted when you came home last night,” he thinks for a moment, “Or should I say, this morning. Five am is hardly a proper bedtime, Bruce. I figured you could use the sleep.”
A spark of affection hits Bruce as he sits there, then dread when he remembers what he did the day before.
“I’ll call Dr. Thompkins to look at your jaw also. It seems Joker got a few good hits in last night, hmm? Your tooth is cracked, my boy.”
“Okay. Thanks, Al.” He whispers, swallowing thickly when the older man rubs a hand on his shoulder and slips out of the room.
Bruce looks down at his coffee and stares at his reflection, all too aware of how noticeable the hickies on his neck are, the bruises on his lips, and the taste of iron still on his tongue.
With a grimace, he reaches out for the paper Alfred’s laid out on the table, taking a swig of coffee- and then promptly spitting it out.
The front page, in bright bold lettering reads, ‘FERRIS WHEEL AT ABANDONED THEME PARK DESTROYED, JOKER AND BATMAN LAST SEEN FLEEING LOCATION’.