And yet. The Joker—the Joker, of all people—doesn't take the gun. He could take the gun, probably; it's easy to do that kind of thing when you're not afraid of what would happen if you failed. But he doesn't. He opens his mouth and squeezes shut his pretty, pretty eyes, and his shoulders tense and his hands twist in the thin blanket, and the guard makes him strip like that, with a gun in his pretty, pretty mouth.

And when blanket and jumpsuit are both on the floor, the guard takes the gun out of the Joker's mouth and drags it down the line of his body, strokes the muzzle viciously up the side of his very prominent erection. The Joker licks his lips and arches into it, hands pressed flat to the bed. You can almost hear him moan. He likes it.

This time, the guard lets him talk for a while. He speaks rapidly, tongue touching his lips between phrases, never once moving his hands. After about half a minute, the guard lifts the gun away and gestures with it, and the Joker spreads his legs, and the guard jams the gun into the softness of his throat under his jaw and fucks him slowly. And, this time, both their faces are visible.