Intervals- Fury
Title: Intervals- Fury
Author: newbluemoon
Summary: The seventh in a series of drabbles depicting the twisted relationship of Batman and Joker.
Pairing/characters: Bruce/Joker
Rating: Overall NC-17, this chapter pg-13
Warnings For Series: Graphic sex, swearing, violence, slash, procrastination
Word count: 1050 (this chapter)
Disclaimer: When zombies finally take over the earth and massacre every living being on the planet apart from me (because I've already got my zombie-defeating plan figured out), I will sneak into DC HQ and steal the rights to all things Batman. And even then the zombies will probably want to fight me for them. But until that fateful day comes, all of this belongs to the none-zombified people at DC and not me. Cretins.
A/N: This was a prompt given to me by a friend of mine who selected it at random from a prompt table. Not too happy with this chapter, but ah well. I need Joker pov practise anyway and oh my, was that the fourth wall I hear breaking in this thing? Hahaa. I have up to chapter 12 written and I'll be posting periodically while I work on the knight vs anarachy challenge. :)
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Despite what people may say about me, I'm absolutely, completely and one hundred percent cool headed. I don't subscribe to all those pesky little emotions you're harbouring in that crusty cage of a chest of yours. Don't let things like anger and rage cloud my vision. My definition of getting mad, is a little different to yours. It involves loosing your mind, not your temper. But contrary to all this, I'm quite well acquainted with fury. I seem to have a knack for drawing it out of people. Oh most of the time it's laced with a nice spray of fear, a little hint of desperation and a good old fashioned pants wetting, but from one man it's always unpolluted. If I'm going to evoke that pretty, pretty emotion for him, it is never, ever escorted out of his body by any other feeling, regardless of the situation. When I do something a little too Joker-ish, and sometimes when I've done nothing at all, polar white flames spike in his cobalt eyes and he becomes possessed with the rage that constantly bubbles in his wiry, copper veins. Oh he becomes so completely furious. And it's so easy. It never takes much, as always, just a push.
I only have to taunt him with pet names and a teasing flavour in my voice to see those gorgeous orbs of his ignite like a dynamite derby. Only have to threaten to let some precious little infants meet a grizzly end in a fireball somewhere and he's shaking with the need to spill my blood. Occasionally, I don't need to do anything but party my lips and grin, letting my scars stretch an inch, two, and he's hurtling towards me, gauntlets ready to mar my flesh. He aches to discolour my skin in charming plum bruises and watch as death seeps out in my life fluids. He wants to rip me apart, peel my skin, wants to see my meat exposed to him. No, not that, you pervert. Although that's a theory I happen to have invested in as well...But I digress. The point is, he's always prepared to hurt me, to feel that delicious hate for me. I don't need to provoke it from him. The snake charms itself. His will power protecting that emotion from me is doily-sturdy. He wants to feel it and he wants me to draw it from him.
The one thing that really, ah, gets him going, is a name drop here, a 'Rachel' there. Oh,the look in his eyes when I do that! I can taste his hatred swimming in the air each and every time. The murderous intentions screeching like trapped animals to escape the restrictions he's made for himself. I'm trying to pick the lock on those rusty chains of his, but Batsy must be a fan of bondage, cause it's a tough combination. These knots ain't giving yet, but they're fraying. Slowly, just like a virus creature-crawling away in your pumping arteries, slowly they're coming undone for me. With every new stab of wrath, of hate, of tumultuous fury, they're slipping. It may take a while, year, decades even, but when his hand squeezes my neck a little too tight, a heartbeat too long, it will be worth it. To see him crumble in my death, it will be the ultimate. So I'll keep trying it all, every last thing to see him captivated by an onslaught of abhorrent, vicious acrimony, because I want them to haul my carcass out of the cesspool river and for Batman's name to be carved into my rotting flesh.
But there's something that has me awfully stumped. Something I cannot for the life of me figure out. See, I did something a little...shall we say, unusual in another endeavour to conjure lethal, odious ire from my Bat, and it should have worked. I calculated the odds of him pummelling me into oblivion in the aftermath, and they were quite favourable. You see, a few weeks back, I kissed him. Lips on lips. Breath tangling with breath. Hell, I even slipped him some tongue. And I was expecting it to turn into yet another glorious Joker-beating session but it...evolved somehow. Didn't feel like a game. It felt normal, I guess. But still, I was anticipating the beautiful bat-fury to come crashing down around me, like icicle daggers falling from the bitter sky. Any second now... But it never came. And when it dawned on me that he wasn't kicking the crap out of me, he was kissing me back, I realised maybe this wasn't the most well thought out idea I'd ever had. Or at least, maybe it had diverted itself from my original intentions. You see, his tongue was stroking mine and I could still taste his hatred, but it was different. It was on another level. Compared to before, it was a parallel universe- mostly the same, but a little...off. Kissing Batman is like kissing the embodiment of fervid, zealous disdain. Needless to say I revelled in it, but afterwards, I couldn't help but feel that it might be just a little harder to drag out that familiar rancor from my darling and have it manifest itself in its fiercely typical form from then on. But I've never been one for normality, and I can't say I'm completely furious with the notion. In fact, this change of events has me rather excited. I think you and I both know what's coming my way. It may even be better than sucking in my last breath as a kevlar fist closes in an ironclad contract on my pulsing heart. And I'm sure I can get that same fist to close on my...ahem. Now, now gentle reader, there are ladies present. But he will. And soon too. Batsy has a particularly inventive flavour of repression that I'm more than willing to taste.
Oh my, I'm just a lucky, lucky clown aren't I?