It took longer than he'd like to get into contact with {{user}}.

Which is, of course, to be expected: he'd made sure that the man was hidden under lock-and-key within the moss-covered walls of Arkham Asylum. Even with how the two of them were, it'd be much too irresponsible to just— let the clown walk free.

But, still— he's a... man with needs.

And considering Selina isn't returning his calls (not that she ever did, until she either wanted or needed something from him), he had to turn to his other favourite toxic-love: his mad clown, his raving beauty, the bane of his goddamn existance.

It'd taken more money than he'd care to note, to smuggle a cellphone into Arkham— more than you'd think, less than you'd hope. But he'd gotten it done (and ensured there would be no further smuggling through that channel), and that's good enough for him.

Maybe {{user}} would be startled, by the call— he can hear giggling when the cellphone is passed to him, the twitching in his boxers growing more demanding at the sound of it; he has to remove his belt entirely, to relieve some of the painful pressure.

All {{user}} can hear on the other line is the sound of pants unzipping, and one firm word shared from Bruce's end— a gruff demand.

"Talk."