"We live in a society." - Arthur Fleck (1981)

More Arthur/Murray (which is proving hard to actually turn pornographic):

Arthur does indeed make a pretty picture on Murray's bed. He's clearly trying to seduce, a leg cocked up at the knee, his half-hard cock a dark pink and dewy at the tip. He bites his bottom lip and makes eyes at Murray - first at his face, then at his groin. "Aren't you going to take your pants off?" he asks after Murray has stood there, unmoving, a beat too long not to make Arthur feel self-conscious.

"No," Murray says. "Spread your legs. I want to look at that cock."

Arthur squirms a little, unused to the sharp, focused attention of an individual, but he obeys, letting his legs fall open. Like this, Murray can take him in more fully, the wiry, sparse hair near his groin, the cleft of his bony ass. His toes are curling and uncurling in a way that's clearly not intentional, and his eyes suddenly can't seem to rest - they're everywhere in the room but on Murray, and a little glassy like he's too far in his own head.

"Look at me," Murray snaps.

Arthur tears his eyes away from where they'd been perched on the wall behind Murray, and looks at him. He can't maintain eye contact for more than a moment before looking away again. Murray sighs, full-bodied, playing up the disappointed father act that Arthur is clearly angling for, and he can see a gleam of - something - in Arthur's eyes, not happiness exactly but contentment, familiarity. Murray is by no means a sensitive man, but it makes his chest tighten just an increment.

"I'm sorry," Arthur apologizes softly. "Please don't hurt me."

"I'm not gonna hurt you," Murray reassures him, bringing a hand up to his button-up and popping the top button out just to give his hands something to do, and Arthur huffs a little. "Please don't hurt me," he repeats more insistently, his erection, which had been starting to flag a bit, almost soft, stirring awake again. "I'm sorry for disobeying you. I'm so sorry. Please don't make me put my mouth on you."

Murray feels, very suddenly, like he is being made a fool out of, like there's a joke being told that he isn't laughing at. "I'm not gonna make you put your mouth on me," he says. "My beautiful boy. My pride."

Arthur throws an arm over his eyes. "No," he says, over and over again, "no, no, no - "

"Haven't I told you to be quiet once before?" Murray asks him. "I don't want to punish you, Arthur. I want to make you feel good."

"Bad little boys don't deserve to feel good," Arthur whines, frustrated. "Only good little boys do. I've been a bad little boy - "

"Cut this 'little boy' shit out," Murray says. His voice is raised, but he is careful not to yell, not to snap like he had before. "You come to me as a man or you don't come to me at all. I don't get what you're playing at, exactly, but I'm not playing along. You're here because I want you to be here."

Arthur eyes him almost warily as Murray, still mostly clothed, moves to climb on top of him, bracketing Arthur's waist with his legs. He's careful not to rest on his haunches, not to make any contact with Arthur's cock. "Put your arms around my neck," he instructs him, "and move with me."

Arthur does, though his expression is still slightly soured, and lets Murray move them both so that Arthur is back on top of him. The dressing room feels like a lifetime ago.

"What are you going to do to me?" Arthur asks once they're situated, pressing his head to Murray's chest, closing his eyes.

-

A shorter Arthur/Bruce piece:

Bruce has such small hands. Delicate hands. Wealthy hands. "Your hands must be insured for five thousand dollars each," Arthur tells him, no humor and only a whisper of embitterment, enraptured instead.

"You're strange," Bruce says to him - bluntly, as he says all things - as he wriggles his index finger into Arthur's mouth. He furrows his brow and presses his thumb into the hinge of Arthur's jaw, coaxing his mouth open wider. He pokes and prods at each and every one of Arthur's teeth - curious, of course, as all children are, but with concern knitting his features together more like a concerned dentist than anything else - and adds, after a long moment, "You have bad teeth."

"I smoke," Arthur reminds him, though, with Bruce's fingers still inside of him, it comes out sound more like, "Ah, oak."

"Did your mother ever take you to a dentist?" Bruce asks him, drawing his fingers out and wiping them with an uncharacteristic sloppiness onto his nice pants.

"We couldn't afford one," Arthur tells him. "And I brushed my teeth, anyway. Sometimes, I even flossed." The joke falls flat on its face in front of Bruce's apathy; instead, his upper lip curls briefly in irritation before he touches his hand to Arthur's cheek. He almost always touches Arthur like that, with the detached gentleness of a man stroking a dog.

"Brush your teeth," Bruce instructs him, "and come to bed with me."

-

Bruce rarely waits until nightfall to invite Arthur into his bed. He is, as in all things, meticulous in his routine, but, within that routine, he has made adjustments. Some of them of are small - he takes a single scoop of chocolate ice cream with his dinner, now, something that Thomas had forbade; he has retired the dress jackets that Martha had made him wear and insisted on purchasing comfortable-yet-tasteful sweaters, instead.

Some of them are big. Bruce seems to delight in the subversion of intercourse as something that a man and a woman do under a thick blanket of black and stars. Sex is one of the few occasions in which he smiles, though it certainly isn't guaranteed if Arthur doesn't perform well enough for him; he slots it neatly into the same block of time that he would recreation. And it is recreation to him, Arthur's big hands encircling his waist and his impoverished mouth on his cock. It's quite fun, usually.

Today, though, Bruce's stomach turns ever so slightly at the prospect of receiving oral sex. Even after brushing his teeth, they're still stained yellow, and his gums are bleeding at the high edges. No, today he wants to try something new.

The curtains are closed but the windows are open, and the mid-afternoon sunlight streams wet and lazy into their bedroom. Bruce had been insistent on leaving his bedroom untouched; similarly, he hasn't entered Thomas and Martha's bedroom since the murder. Instead, he's commandeered one of the many lavish guest bedrooms and transformed it into something chimeric, half-four-poster paradise with a mountain of pillows and silky-soft blankets, half-office, with papers strewn across the wide mahogany desk against the wall and sheets of newsprint tacked to the wall.

There's a pile of clothing, now, too, at the side of the bed. It had taken a while for Bruce to mold Arthur into even the shadow of the butler that Alfred was, but he's improving every day, and Bruce doesn't anticipate having to remind Arthur to start a load of laundry when they're done. It makes him smile.

Arthur smiles, too. Bruce calls them "sympathetic smiles" - Arthur can't help but grin when he sees Bruce grinning, too; he'd grinned, too, at the alliteration of the term. Arthur finds genuine humor in such small things.

"I want to try something new," he starts. "Would you do that for me?" He already knows that Arthur would do anything that he asks, but he enjoys hearing it spoken out loud.

"Of course," Arthur says. He's already fully hard; Bruce admits to being intimidated the first time that he had seen Arthur's erection, clothed but straining in a way that must have been nearly unbearable, though they had only been kissing at the time, but the feeling of intimidation had subsided quickly when Arthur had made a tiny, almost pained sound into Bruce's mouth that made Bruce's own cock jump suddenly. Now, it's almost endearing, how quickly Arthur gets hard for him.

"I want to penetrate you," Bruce says, and it's so matter-of-fact that Arthur forgets to be surprised at first. It's only when Bruce moves his hand to cup one of Arthur's cheeks, fingers barely brushing against where his hole is were they only a little deeper, that Arthur says, "Oh."

"You said that you would do this for me," Bruce reminds him. "I saw some pictures of it, once, in a magazine. The man being penetrated was smaller than the man penetrating him, but the idea is the same."

Bruce motions for Arthur to pick him up, so Arthur does, and when Bruce wraps his arms around his neck and his legs around his waist, Arthur kisses his neck and says, "You're too small. You won't fit. You'll slip right out."

Bruce screws his eyes shut as Arthur kisses farther down his neck, to his collarbone. He doesn't like giving Arthur the upper hand, but Arthur's mouth feels so good on him, hot and wet and smelling of peppermint, that Bruce almost acquiesces and nudges Arthur onto the bed, onto his back, climbing onto his face to let Arthur at his groin, his hole.

"I want to try," Bruce insists after Arthur's mouth makes its way back up his neck and to his ear, sucking the lobe into his mouth. "It's supposed to - oh!" He breaks off, writhing in Arthur's arms, as Arthur sits on the bed and adjusts Bruce so that he's now in his lap. "It's supposed to feel good," he finishes as Arthur pulls away from him, finally.

"It does feel good," Arthur says. "It hurts, at first, but even that can feel good in its own way. Then it gets even better. But you're too small. I won't feel you inside of me."

"But I want to be inside of you," Bruce says, emphatically not pouting. "You're mine to do with what I wish, and I wish to be inside of you."

"Maybe when you're older," Arthur says. He looks more crushed than even Bruce feels, his frown deepening the crinkles in his face, his eyes practically pleading with Bruce to understand. The question of whether or not Arthur will still want him when he's older goes unspoken; Bruce could and would not believe otherwise.

"Alright," Bruce huffs. "If you won't let me penetrate you, then I'll have to let you penetrate me."