interpretthis: (tdk_massive eye-fuck)
[personal profile] interpretthis
Title: Gravity

Author: interpretthis

Fandom: TDK

Pairing: Joker/Batman

Rating: R

Warnings: Spoilers, sexual situations, blood, language, fun!

Summary: It only takes Batman a week to get caught and thrown in Arkham, the Joker’s parting laugh still ringing against the base of his skull as they process him for confinement.

Notes: For the Batman Kink Meme, with the prompt:

Pairing: Batman/Joker
Kink: "Batman: You'll be in a padded cell forever.
The Joker: Maybe we can share one.
HMM. What do you think they'd get up to, dear Anons?



                 It only takes Batman a week to get caught and thrown in Arkham, the Joker’s parting laugh still ringing against the base of his skull as they process him for confinement.


                “All it takes is a little push.”


                They throw him in with the Joker on purpose.  Of course they do.  In the end, few humans hesitate to give others that fateful push, not when it earns them a laugh and a pat on the back.   His eyes are brighter than Bruce has ever seen them.  He’s taken aback by the clean, makeup-free face and stumbles over his own socked feet as the heavy door closes behind him.  Behind them.


                “Bruuuuuuuuce Wayne.  Brucecakes.  Batsy.  Brucey.  Rich, dumb, and pretty – quelle surprise!”  The Joker gives a vicious little eye roll and crosses his ankles, his mismatched, multicolored socks now white.  Bruce steps carefully over his outstretched legs and sinks down against the lightly padded wall, eyes trailing from floor (white) to ceiling (white), to door (white) and finally to the Joker, who is so completely washed-out and dumbed down in comparison to his usual purple, green and red self he may as well match the rest of the room.  His flyaway blond hair though, still tinged with green, is a sweet and unexpectedly welcome reprieve of color.  Bruce is surprised by the man’s utter…normality.  He’s years younger than he would have guessed.  Only the warped, puckered corners of his mouth hint at the mind beneath.  His eyes are dark and loaded, as if daring Bruce to comment on his stripped, whitewashed identity.


                Bruce just watches.  There’s nothing to say.  Nothing to do, no one to save, no justice left to serve.  In here they are the same.


                The Joker glances to the door, then lets his eyes dance over to his wriggling toes.


                “So are you surprised the great Gotham turned on you?” He cocks his head to the side and sweeps his eyes over to Bruce.  Bruce is struck by how captivating they are now that the custom horrorsuit and garish face paint are gone.  He pauses before answering, mulling over his words.


                “Not at all.  To them I am a murderer and they have done the right thing.  Gotham has only fulfilled the promise of Batman, to bring justice where justice is needed.   They have saved everything by condemning me.”


                “Yeahhhhhhhhh.”  The Joker flicks at an invisible speck on his white pant leg, a smirk twisting his unpainted lips.  “I suppose I did sc-rew things up for you.”


                Bruce gives a noncommittal shrug and leans back against the wall, closing his eyes.


                The silence does not last long.


                “Destiny, what did I tell you?”  Bruce hears the Joker scoot closer, the rough fabric of his uniform hissing against the rubbery floor.  I’m here because of you, you’re here because of me.  Something in that great mind of yours must be able to appreciate that.”


                Bruce cocks an eyebrow.  “Great mind?”


                “Only great minds end up here.”


                Bruce is unsure whether by “here” he means Arkham or alive in the presence of the Joker for an extended period of time.  He feels the Joker’s hip against his own as he inches closer.  The man is bony beneath the thick white fabric.  He feels fragile.  There is a warm weight against Bruce’s shoulder.  When the Joker next speaks, his voice is close and his jaw works softly against Bruce’s shirt.


                “You must be feeling very conflicted.  Bruce.  Batman.  Just who are you?  Who are you?  You march in here in your new white suit, the protector of Gotham’s soul, ready to be locked – locked – up with its breathing laughing laughing down. fall.  Noble to the end.  Valiant.  A crusader.


                “Out there you could try to be two.  Bruce.  Batman.  But this place changes everything.


                Bruce flinches softly as the Joker’s fingers rub at his chest, pressing into his sternum.


                “Whose heartbeat is this?  Hmm?”  The Joker rolls his head back, stretching, tipping its crown into the hollow of Bruce’s shoulder, a soft smile curving his lips.


                “Bruce. Wayne. Doesn’t. Exist.  Not anywhere, not here.  And in here,” his head rolls back into place, shifting against Bruce’s shoulder.  His hand falls from Bruce’s chest to land on his thigh with a loud thwack.  “Batman can’t exist.”


                He lets his words hang in the air, sighing, shifting closer to Bruce in the brightness.


                It’s a few long minutes - or perhaps a few short hours – before that high, pliant voice works its way against the grain of silence once more.  Bruce feels the warmth leave his shoulder, feels large eyes boring into his head.


                “Don’t expect to get used to the white.  It’s unnaaa-tu-ruull.”  His fingers crawl up Bruce’s neck and clutch at his jaw.  Bruce takes a sharp breath, unmoving.  So far unresponsiveness has done him well.


                “We’ve no violet, no forest green, no deeeeeep blue.” His tone hits a low growl.  “Just the knowledge of our black hearts squelching in our chests and the crimson -” he bites the bumpy inside of his cheek, desperate to draw blood, groaning softly – “oohhhhh the red, sloshing beneath the surface.  Set to overflow.  Made to come. free.”  He wrenches Bruce’s head to the side, letting out a quick sigh of pleasure at the sound of protesting joints, aching bones.


                Look at me. 


                Bruce wrests his jaw from the Joker’s grip and trains his dark gaze on the pale face, his eyes guarded, protesting against the sudden brightness.  The other man is close, his face trembling, his breath hot on Bruce’s face.


                “You. belong. to. me.  Out there -” he waves his hands at the door, eyes fixed and bright, unhinged, never darting from Bruce’s face, “out there there are others.  People.  Forming a great, tangled web you can weave yourself into and lose yourself in.  People to protect you, people to harass you, people to keep you alive, people to lend you purpose.” His voice sinks deep on the last word, his lips going slack, eyes glassy.  He reaches out, snatching at Bruce’s shirt to pull him close, and Bruce lets him.  “Out there we make. each other.  I play off you – feed off you – and you come back again and again because my heart still sings in my chest – because you let it, againandagainandagain.” The Joker slides into Bruce’s lap, pressing him into the wall with clutching hands and manic eyes.  “But the people – your web, your web, your spider – they eat you alive, they suck your precious blood, they steal your purpose and your face collapses with your mask.  Let it die, let it die, they let it die, they let you die.” The Joker’s lips ghost over Bruce’s as he speaks, almost accidentally, his words a frenzy of heat.  “In here there is no one to protect you and no one to make you but me.  And there is nothing to stop us anymore.  Nothing.


                Bruce doesn’t know who starts the kiss.  Doesn’t know why or when or how but the Joker’s hands are cradling his head in a vice grip and his cracked lips are chafing hungrily at Bruce’s, his tongue striking out fiercely, forcing Bruce to respond or choke.  Bruce’s mind freezes as he tries to jerk his head back into the wall, tries to do something useful with his boneless hands, shudders violently against the thick web engulfing his mind and ends up pressing his hips up into the Joker’s somewhere between oh my and god.


                The Joker bites at Bruce’s lip, hard, drawing thin, tangy blood that runs over their lips and melds its way into their frantic kiss like melted butter.




                Their lips slip apart and their hips jut together.  Bruce grinds his teeth, angry splotches of light bursting against his eyelids as he squeezes them shut.  The Joker’s breath flushes over his tense neck in choked, erratic waves.


                The brightness bursts, jagged weightless diamonds swimming in Bruce’s head, disappearing into the dark web one by one by one.  His head lolls precariously between his shoulders.  One of the Joker’s scars sears against his neck.  Their chests rise and fall unevenly.  Bruce feels blood drying on his lips, down his chin.  He feels heavy, too heavy for oxygen to force its way in and out, for his heart to pump on and on and on againandagainandagain, too heavy for the white padded floor of Arkham Asylum to hold him up, hold him in.


                There is nothing to say.


                Nothing to do.


                The lights click off, drenching the white in a blackness so deep and complete he doubts there is anything beyond it.  No people.  No world, inching along day by day outside thick walls and bars and locks, the Batman gone from their hearts and minds and streets.


                There is a heartbeat, there in the darkness.  Against his chest.  There is breath against his shoulder and the press of ribbed, contorted skin against his neck and blood in his mouth.


                Just a little push.


                All it takes.


                Gravity is infallible.  Constant.  Truly incorruptible.


Something you’ll never be.

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