Fic: Roleplaying
Title: Roleplaying
Word Count: 899
Pairings: Joker/Batman pre-slash, currently Joker/Harley
Disclaimer: I don't own TDK, DC, or its characters, and be glad I do. Otherwise the comics would be filled with random crack like this, like, ALL THE TIME. *the horror* D:
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: bedtime roleplaying games? (implied sexual themes)
Summary: Harley is all up for some bedtime roleplaying with Joker...but this isn't exactly what she had in mind...
A/N: I think it can be accurately surmised about me, from this and other fics, that I'm a hard-core Harley-basher. What can I say, she's the kind of Mary-Sue that I hate the most: a canon Mary-Sue. I think Nolan was completely justified in not including her in TDK, otherwise Batman I would be most jealous disgusted.
She loved Puddin’. No one else could understand that. Not the cops, who had slapped her in handcuffs almost as many times as he had. Not the shrinks, who she used to work with, and now was forced to answer stupid, endless questions from. Not her cellblock mates, who gave her furtive glances bordering on pitying whenever she was marched back into her assigned padded room under armed escort. Not even Red, who sheltered her when no one else dared, yet all the while browbeat her with “Why are you still”s and “Can’t you see”s. No one else seemed to realize the truth that was lying right under their noses.
Yes, she loved him, while no one else seemed to care. She was the only one to care for him, to cry when his plans were thwarted or when he was incarcerated again. She loved him, with all her heart. She loved him. And sometimes she felt like she was the only one who could understand him.
But yet, despite her undying trust in his intentions…she still couldn’t fully fathom why he was making her do this.
“Alrighty, Puddin’, I’m ready,” she called out from the bathroom.
From behind the closed door she heard the bed shift as he sat up, intrigued. “Let’s see it, then,” he slithered in response, his voice sounding almost…thirsty.
She took a deep breath. Her reflection was not a happy sight back at her. This style didn’t suit her at all. Heck, it didn’t even suit its original designer, either. Whatever he’d been trying to pull with all this getup certainly was not working one bit. Too bulky, too dreary, too drab. The uniformity of it seemed its biggest downfall, she decided. While she did indeed wear black as part of her own street attire, she still had white and red to compliment it. It made her feel like a living reflection of her honeybun’s face, in a way, a fact she always smiled as large as he thinking of. But this…all one color…
It was indeed hard to scramble in and out of, too. She wondered how he managed it, every single night of his life. What would inspire someone to sport such a wretched excuse for clothing was beyond her imagination.
But yet something perplexed her further at the back of her mind, an inkling beyond the obvious hatred of the costume’s original wearer. Why would Mr. J want her dressed like this tonight? It seemed he dealt with it so much when out and about that he wouldn’t want a reminder of it in the privacy of his own bed. But, his wishes were her prime directives, and what Mr. J wants…
She collected herself again and slowly (whether to project desire or her apprehension she wasn’t sure) opened the door into the motel room, where Joker was sitting up on the bed, one arm resting on his propped up knee, eyeing her with sly interest.
The light from the bright bathroom spewed into the dark bedroom, blocked only by a tentative Harley dressed in various pieces of black Kevlar, a black silk cape, and black greasepaint smothered over her entire face, save for her chin.
His eyes were riveted on her, in a manner she hadn’t seen them focused upon her figure since their first therapy sessions. And even then, she hadn’t held his attention quite this closely. The scarred corners of his mouth were dancing on his face, ever upward as the impassible seconds dragged on.
He was going to laugh at her any minute now, she knew it, and then would tell her to take it off and get back into bed. Please, Puddin’, this joke isn’t as funny as the other ones are…
But the laugh not forthcoming, only the smile, she slowly advanced a step forward. The scalloped hem of the cape swooshed behind her as she stepped, causing a cold, ticklish breeze to rake her ankles. How the dark knight could keep a straight face with this constant wind at his heels was beyond her. Upon noticing her move, his eyes twinkled, and he crooked a finger at her, beckoning her towards him.
“Did I…get it right?” she squeaked, stepping closer to the man she still loved. She knew that no one except the crusader himself would know the suit better than the clown would, after having fought against it for five years.
When she made it to the edge of the bed, he placed his hands at her sides, nearly flipping inside upon the feel of the familiar material in his palms. Their mutual sharp intake of breath was almost-but-not-quite in unison; Harley from his touch, Joker from the hodgepodge of Kevlar ordered weeks ago.
His fingers traced the seams of the black armor up her body, to finally rest at the batarang he had superglued onto the breastplate. Smiling even wider, he brought his head up to it, resting his cheek against the smooth metal.
“It’ll do,” he intoned into the symbol, and felt black gloves envelop themselves in his hair, pressing his head closer to her chest. She was probably thinking he was savoring her heartbeat, and he chuckled to himself at the thought. But the only beating he could hear was that of a night creature miles away, whose silver instrument was pressed into his sight, his skin, and his soul.
Word Count: 899
Pairings: Joker/Batman pre-slash, currently Joker/Harley
Disclaimer: I don't own TDK, DC, or its characters, and be glad I do. Otherwise the comics would be filled with random crack like this, like, ALL THE TIME. *the horror* D:
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: bedtime roleplaying games? (implied sexual themes)
Summary: Harley is all up for some bedtime roleplaying with Joker...but this isn't exactly what she had in mind...
A/N: I think it can be accurately surmised about me, from this and other fics, that I'm a hard-core Harley-basher. What can I say, she's the kind of Mary-Sue that I hate the most: a canon Mary-Sue. I think Nolan was completely justified in not including her in TDK, otherwise Batman I would be most jealous disgusted.
She loved Puddin’. No one else could understand that. Not the cops, who had slapped her in handcuffs almost as many times as he had. Not the shrinks, who she used to work with, and now was forced to answer stupid, endless questions from. Not her cellblock mates, who gave her furtive glances bordering on pitying whenever she was marched back into her assigned padded room under armed escort. Not even Red, who sheltered her when no one else dared, yet all the while browbeat her with “Why are you still”s and “Can’t you see”s. No one else seemed to realize the truth that was lying right under their noses.
Yes, she loved him, while no one else seemed to care. She was the only one to care for him, to cry when his plans were thwarted or when he was incarcerated again. She loved him, with all her heart. She loved him. And sometimes she felt like she was the only one who could understand him.
But yet, despite her undying trust in his intentions…she still couldn’t fully fathom why he was making her do this.
“Alrighty, Puddin’, I’m ready,” she called out from the bathroom.
From behind the closed door she heard the bed shift as he sat up, intrigued. “Let’s see it, then,” he slithered in response, his voice sounding almost…thirsty.
She took a deep breath. Her reflection was not a happy sight back at her. This style didn’t suit her at all. Heck, it didn’t even suit its original designer, either. Whatever he’d been trying to pull with all this getup certainly was not working one bit. Too bulky, too dreary, too drab. The uniformity of it seemed its biggest downfall, she decided. While she did indeed wear black as part of her own street attire, she still had white and red to compliment it. It made her feel like a living reflection of her honeybun’s face, in a way, a fact she always smiled as large as he thinking of. But this…all one color…
It was indeed hard to scramble in and out of, too. She wondered how he managed it, every single night of his life. What would inspire someone to sport such a wretched excuse for clothing was beyond her imagination.
But yet something perplexed her further at the back of her mind, an inkling beyond the obvious hatred of the costume’s original wearer. Why would Mr. J want her dressed like this tonight? It seemed he dealt with it so much when out and about that he wouldn’t want a reminder of it in the privacy of his own bed. But, his wishes were her prime directives, and what Mr. J wants…
She collected herself again and slowly (whether to project desire or her apprehension she wasn’t sure) opened the door into the motel room, where Joker was sitting up on the bed, one arm resting on his propped up knee, eyeing her with sly interest.
The light from the bright bathroom spewed into the dark bedroom, blocked only by a tentative Harley dressed in various pieces of black Kevlar, a black silk cape, and black greasepaint smothered over her entire face, save for her chin.
His eyes were riveted on her, in a manner she hadn’t seen them focused upon her figure since their first therapy sessions. And even then, she hadn’t held his attention quite this closely. The scarred corners of his mouth were dancing on his face, ever upward as the impassible seconds dragged on.
He was going to laugh at her any minute now, she knew it, and then would tell her to take it off and get back into bed. Please, Puddin’, this joke isn’t as funny as the other ones are…
But the laugh not forthcoming, only the smile, she slowly advanced a step forward. The scalloped hem of the cape swooshed behind her as she stepped, causing a cold, ticklish breeze to rake her ankles. How the dark knight could keep a straight face with this constant wind at his heels was beyond her. Upon noticing her move, his eyes twinkled, and he crooked a finger at her, beckoning her towards him.
“Did I…get it right?” she squeaked, stepping closer to the man she still loved. She knew that no one except the crusader himself would know the suit better than the clown would, after having fought against it for five years.
When she made it to the edge of the bed, he placed his hands at her sides, nearly flipping inside upon the feel of the familiar material in his palms. Their mutual sharp intake of breath was almost-but-not-quite in unison; Harley from his touch, Joker from the hodgepodge of Kevlar ordered weeks ago.
His fingers traced the seams of the black armor up her body, to finally rest at the batarang he had superglued onto the breastplate. Smiling even wider, he brought his head up to it, resting his cheek against the smooth metal.
“It’ll do,” he intoned into the symbol, and felt black gloves envelop themselves in his hair, pressing his head closer to her chest. She was probably thinking he was savoring her heartbeat, and he chuckled to himself at the thought. But the only beating he could hear was that of a night creature miles away, whose silver instrument was pressed into his sight, his skin, and his soul.