interpretthis: (tdk_wellllllllll)
[personal profile] interpretthis

Title: Pulling Out

Author: interpretthis

Fandom: TDK

Pairing: Joker/Batman

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Sexual jazz, violence, SPOILERS, possible general craziness – I really have no clue, extreme sleep-deprivation is eating at my brain so there could be all sorts of things going on…I apologize in advance for the last scene, for one thing…

Disclaimer: I don’t own Batman, and I certainly don’t own Nat King Cole.

Summary: “You like it?” The Joker struck a pose, his garish red lips curving up in a wicked grin as he watched Bruce carefully from beneath his eyelashes.  “This is just a tryout, mind you, the real lucky one will be your blond beau Mr. Dent."



                Batman rode on the soft lilt of the wind, gliding towards the search signal that stabbed off the roof of MCU and into the black night, a part of his mind incensed that Gordon dared to call him tonight of all nights but the majority of it too desperate for distraction to care. 


                He landed softly on the roof, folding his wings back into place as he did so.  The searchlight snapped off with a hiss and a flash.  His head shot up, eyes scouring the darkness as his heart kicked into a dull thud beneath his armor.


                “Gordon?” he hissed, his voice infused with a mere sliver of the growl it normally held.


                “Yessssssssssssss Batsy?” The laughing voice came from behind the blackened hull of the searchlight.  There was a low, maniacal cackle and a form stepped out to face him in the darkness.


                What do you want?” Bruce tried to muster up as much of the deafening growl as he could, but his throat felt dry and he was painfully aware that fear tactics were little use against this man either way.


                “What do I want?”  The Joker’s head jerked to the side as he gazed over at Bruce, his lips forming a small circle of vicious glee as he giggled quietly.  “I want what anyone wants – a fulfilling future,” he gestured wildly with his arms as he turned on his heel and sauntered back to the searchlight, a small but jaunty spring in his step as he rattled them off, “love, devotion, life, money, Christmas!,” he gave a dramatic shiver, clapping his hands together in mock glee, “fluffy bunnies and pink kittens, commitment, a goddamn phone call, blah blah blah.”  He yanked the bar on the light and spun around to face Bruce once more as the sharp white of it caught his mismatched form.


                Bruce blinked.


                “You like it?” The Joker struck a pose, his garish red lips curving up in a wicked grin as he watched Bruce carefully from beneath his eyelashes.  “This is just a tryout, mind you, the real lucky one will be your blond beau Mr. Dent – he’ll get the full effect of the costume – you know - white room, automatic be-duh, the smell of death in every corner…perhaps a sponge bath -”


                You’re not getting anywhere near him!” Bruce surged forward, adrenaline feeding newfound strength as desperation gnawed at his bones.


                “Oh ho ho, bit touchy tonight aren’t we?” The Joker darted around the light to lean over it, arms crossed, his painted face thrown into sharp relief by the strength of the illumination flooding his features.  Bruce stopped dead and swept around, fists locked tight, a tremor running the length of his spine.  He had to stay calm.  Violence was ineffectual, a weakness.  He strode carefully to the edge of the building, readying himself to soar off and leave the madman behind – his games were poisonous, and tonight Bruce was more vulnerable than ever.


                “What, leaving so soon?” Bruce could feel the deadly glint in the Joker’s eyes, even with his back turned.  “You haven’t been nearly as much fun as I expected.”


                Tough luck.” Bruce shuddered as his wings snapped out, forcing his mind away from thoughts of killing the Joker, of throttling him to within an inch of his life, of making him beg for mercy as he pummeled his head into the sharp curve of the light’s bat symbol again and again, for everything, for her –


                “I can tell you where she is.”


                Bruce’s swimming mind cracked into place in all the wrong ways, the small part of it that wanted to kill ballooning out into the rest of it, shunting Batman’s precious ideals to the back.


                “Mmmmmmmhmm,” Bruce could almost feel the Joker click his tongue.  He felt him move away from the light, felt him step up from behind.  He snapped his wings back into place and swung around because he was just Bruce Wayne.  He was just a man in a suit.  A man in a suit with a few misplaced principles running around his head like dysfunctional whirligigs.


                He lashed out with his right hand, sending the Joker flying to the ground with a growl from his own mouth and a grating cackle from the other.


                “W-watch it!” The other man breathed through his choking laughter.  “You’ll dirty the dress!”


                Bruce gave him a kick in the gut, watching in disgust as the Joker curled up on himself and laughed harder.


                “This is t-twice in one night Bat-sy,” he turned his head up to the masked man above with a lewd grin, “I’m beginning to think this abusive relationship of ours is a tad unhealthy.”


                Bruce grunted, his foot snapping out to wallop the Joker’s bare shins.


                “Oh, ohh hooo hoo, I’ll be purple by morning!  Such a lovely shade of bru-tality, don’t you think?”


                Bruce roared, his foot connecting with the Joker’s nose in a sick crunch.  Blood spilled down the side of his cheek and onto the ground, turning dark against the black of the roof.  The Joker’s eyes shone fierce with delight as he ran his finger through the blood and sucked it off with a groan.


                “Purple’s nice, yes,” his voice was deadly and low, heavy with pleasure, “but red tastes so much better.”


                Bruce felt his eyes clouding with tears of rage and helplessness, felt his bubble of strength shudder and burst, its liquid fire seeping out of his system like water through a child’s hands.  His legs gave out beneath him and he sank to the ground, his armor scraping the roof’s short wall as he did.  He stared into the light, eyes blank, relived its brightness kept him from seeing the Joker curled at his feet.  For a moment, the blanket of silence was punctured only by the hiss and pop of the floodlight and their heavy, steady breath.  Bruce felt the Joker stir at his feet and ignored him.


                “Don’t you want to know where she is?” Bruce refused to glance down at the man below, but tensed in response.


                “Rachel is dead.” His voice was his own.


                “Ah,” the Joker’s grin stretched wider at the sound of the man beneath the mask.  He dragged himself up onto his knees, until he was kneeling just in front of Bruce, his blood-streaked face moving to block the light.  His eyes, milky and hypnotic, surveyed Batman’s face.  He shifted forward a few inches, his bare knees brushing Bruce’s boots as he rested one hand on Bruce’s tucked knee and inched the other toward his mouth.  “But did you see her die?”


                Bruce flinched as the Joker’s finger traced his lips but didn’t dare look away.  Rachel’s face blossomed in the forefront of his mind, her eyes fierce with passion, her face brushed with an expression of jaded happiness, a brand of weary love that was all for him and all his fault.  He didn’t make her eyes light up like Harvey did.


                “I heard her speak.  I heard her last moments.”  Bruce’s mind ran thick with pathetic, deluded hope.  They hadn’t found a body.


                “Lemme tell you something,” the Joker’s voice was low and fervid, his golden-green hair bright with the light from behind.  He trailed his finger down to trace Bruce’s exposed jaw before gripping his chin and leaning in close.  His tongue flicked out quickly and he glanced around for eavesdroppers, just for the fun of it, before grinning softly, his face inches from Bruce’s.  “I’m not wearing any underwear.  And you’re right!  She is dead.”





“L is for the way I laugh at thee…O is for the only thing you see…”


Bruce’s consciousness struggled its way up the slippery footholds of reality.  Ludicrously bright light glared at him from the opposite side of his weary eyelids.  They didn’t want to open.  They wanted to step on the hands of his conscious mind and laugh as it slipped back into the abyss, but something was calling.


Bruce caught the light, sickly-sweet, disorienting scent of chloroform as he jerked back into being, his eyes flashing open as the world rushed back to fill the abyss.  He saw the Joker.  Saw him prance around the floodlight in his coy little number and groaned.  The Joker flashed him a wink, tracing the bat symbol on the light with what looked to be his own blood.


“V is very very, fucking ordinary…E is even more than anyone that you implore for mer-cy…da da da da da dee dum!”  He looked up to meet Bruce’s eyes from across the light with a mind-splitting grin, gave a quick growl of manic delight, and traipsed around the light to crank it into darkness once more.  The moon had risen since Bruce had fallen unconscious, and now spread its light in a pale blue streak across the roof.  Bruce wasn’t sure whether or not he was grateful for its slight illumination.


As the Joker made his way over to him, Bruce realized he now sat on a different section of the roof entirely – to the right of the light, against the brick wall of the building housing the door to the roof.  He also happened to realize, with a twist of dread, that his hands were bound to the small grating at his back.


“Did you like my song?”  The Joker knelt down between his outstretched legs and gripped his jaw, slowly moving Bruce’s head around on his neck as if he were a doll.  “I’m not especially pleased with that last bit,” he stilled his hand, glaring into Bruce’s eyes with rapture, “it could use some…carving down, but the original didn’t give me much to work with I’m afraid.”  He tapped the forehead of Bruce’s mask, as if he was personally responsible for the less-than-satisfactory lyrics.


“Now then.” The Joker’s eyes slipped shut and he gave a delicious little shiver of anticipation.


What are you doing?” Bruce hissed, straining at his binds.


The Joker clucked his tongue disapprovingly, rocking on his heels as he placed his hands on Bruce’s armored thighs and rolled his eyes skyward, letting them flicker down to Bruce’s only occasionally.  “Th-that is the wrong question entirely Batsy.  You should be much more concerned with what I’m going to do.  At the moment I am relatively harmless, and ergo do not warrant concern.  However -” his eyes snapped back to Bruce’s and he grinned, yellow teeth peeking through crimson lips, “a constant, tiny amount of concern is always a safe bet as I could go and do something like this.”


He flashed him a hungry grin before crashing down onto his knees, reveling in the sharp ache as he snatched Bruce’s jaw once more and yanked their lips together.  Bruce, too stunned to prepare himself, took a sharp breath through his nose as he felt the Joker’s tongue snake around his own, probing fiercely.  The Joker gave a loud groan, biting down hard on Bruce’s lower lip as he did, shaking their heads together with unchecked glee, not caring that Batman’s head smacked into the wall as he did.  He pulled away with a great gulp of air, the grin that was still plastered to his face even wider. 


“I’ve always wanted to do that!” He mused brightly.


Bruce regarded him from behind heavily lidded eyes, dazed, his head throbbing, lips tingling.


“Oh come on!” The Joker tapped his helmet with his palm.  “Don’t be a spoilsport – the best is yet to come!”


Bruce gazed back, uninspired, as the Joker cocked his head and placed his hands on the white linen curving over his hips with a mock frown.  He gave a shrug, reaching into one starchy white pocket as he did.


The knife he revealed shone silver in the moonlight, and Bruce forced the small part of his mind still in his control to focus, tried to ready himself for the attack.  The Joker fingered the blade, slipped to the side to straddle Bruce’s right leg, and scooted forward with a low groan.  Even through the padding sheathing his leg, Bruce could tell he was hard.  His breathing went shallow as the focused part of his mind shuddered between abandon and reality.  The Joker leaned closer, knife in hand, and sliced through the bindings on Bruce’s wrists.  His hands fell to his sides, boneless and limp.  His surprised eyes flickered to the painted face. 


The Joker leaned in, simultaneously pressing his hips into Bruce’s abdomen and shunting his own knee up against Bruce’s crotch as he whispered against Bruce’s cheek, his voice thick.


“You’re more fun when you think you’re in control.”


With that he gave a violent cackle and bounded back between Bruce’s legs, shunting the knife he still held into the seam at the armor’s hip.  He wrenched away piece after piece, tearing expensive fabric with deft, eager hands as he worked towards his goal.


He felt the heat of Bruce’s cock before he saw it, and gave a delighted giggle as he groped for it in the folds.  Bruce gave a hiss and squeezed his eyes shut, going tense.  He could feel his blood singing in his veins, could feel the potential energy screaming beneath the surface of his skin, ready to spur his legs into action, ready to force him from this place, not ready to contend with his mind, not strong enough to reel in his pitifully dangling consciousness, not ready to overcome his humanity.  Tonight he was just Bruce Wayne.


The Joker’s sticky red lips closed over the head of his cock and he couldn’t stop himself from crying out, couldn’t stop himself from using the hands that had been so recently freed to tangle shuddering fingers in the Joker’s filthy green tresses and hold him down.  The Joker snickered around his prize, and the divine tremor sent Bruce’s head crashing into the wall behind.  His glassy eyes caught the remaining sliver of the laughing, mocking moon where it hung, smothered within the blackness of the sky above as it crept behind a building.  He couldn’t look down.  Couldn’t face the truth.  The Joker pulled away with a pop, fighting the hands desperate to keep him down.  He rested his head against Bruce’s plated abdomen, chuckling under his breath.  Bruce tried to thrust his hips up but found nothing in the way of friction.  The Joker, head still to Batman’s chest, raised a hand to slide up the thick black armor and slip beneath the mask.  Bruce froze, trying to jerk away as reality came crashing back in.  He couldn’t do this.  He was risking everything.


“Shh shh shh shhhhhhhh,” the Joker’s thumb traced the hot underside of Bruce’s jaw.  Bruce shivered.  The Joker chuckled, his fingers caressing every inch of skin they could reach.  “It’s like pulling out before you come – not as satisfactory as the real thing, but better in the long run.”  He gripped the edge of the mask and pulled it away in one stroke.


Bruce held his breath, desperate to close his eyes though he didn’t dare move.  The Joker kept his face down, the crown of his head resting against the armor’s sternum.  Bruce watched his white-clad back as steady, even breaths made it rise and fall.  He felt hot fingers on his face, the smooth pad of the Joker’s thumb as it swept across the bridge of his nose.  The Joker slid his head further up Bruce’s chest, face still down, and buried it in the curve of Bruce’s shoulder as he lifted his other hand to Bruce’s cheek.  Bruce exhaled, sitting stock-still, letting the Joker’s hands roam across the plains of this face, letting the Joker’s fingers rake through his hair, letting his eyes fall shut and a groan escape his mouth as the Joker rubbed his kohl-blackened eyelids with soft fingers and slid his knee forward to press it slowly into Bruce’s crotch.


Slowly, painfully, Bruce let his hips jut forward, gasping at the friction.  His fists shook where they lay balled at his sides.  His breath caught in his throat as the Joker moved one of his hands from his face and slipped it beneath his dress with a choked groan.  The other still stroked at Bruce’s exposed flesh, fingers tracing lips, eyebrows, sweeping across his cheek, tangling into his hair.  The Joker’s breath was hot on his neck and he nipped at his flesh, sending jolts of fire down Bruce’s spine.


                The Joker thrust into his hand and came with a deep groan, his back arching against the darkness.  He took a deep breath, erratic giggles sneaking from his lips as he slid back down, his second hand slipping away from Bruce’s face as he went.  His tongue touched the tip of Bruce’s cock and the man shattered, tears desperate to squeeze themselves from the corners of his eyes.  The Joker swirled his tongue around the head of his cock with a moan, then raised himself once more, reaching for Bruce’s unmasked face in the darkness.  Bruce started and tried to pull away as he caught sight of the Joker’s own pearly face swimming up in front of his own, but realized the blackened eyes were shut.


                “See this is the thing about you being in control, Batman,” he breathed in a metallic whisper.


The Joker felt for his lips in the darkness before surging forward to capture them, his tongue seething into Bruce’s mouth.  Bruce groaned at the slick, salty tang of himself mixed with the gummy, synthetic face paint and shuddered violently.


                The Joker tore away abruptly, his lips slanting across Bruce’s cheek to hiss in his ear.


                “You have more fun when you’re not.”




                It was still dark when Gordon arrived at the blown-out MCU in the early hours of the morning – dark enough for him to notice the ray of the floodlight surging into the black canopy above.  The bat symbol was bigger than usual, and slightly misshapen.  He flung his coffee to the curb, crashed into the building, and took the stairs two by two, drawing his handgun as he did so.  Upon reaching the final landing, he inched to the door, his gun at the ready, and peeked through the window as he pushed outside.


                An unconscious Batman lay strapped to the floodlight, his legs dangling off the edge.  Gordon felt the force of his pulse in his Adam’s apple as he took a cursory glance around the roof and rushed to the light, putting his ear to the man’s nose.  Still breathing.  He shook him softly, his eyes pooling with worry.  Swearing, he moved for the binds, and as he did a white glint caught his eye. 


There was a card pinned to the armor of the Batman’s chest, just above a section of the suit that looked decidedly mismatched.  Gordon leaned closer, squinting.  On the right side of the card – a Joker, of course – was a small sentence in a careening, loopy red script…


The real Batman stood up.





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