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Into the Dark	By : devilishkurumi Category: zMisplaced Stories [ADMIN use only] > Batman (All Movies) > Batman (All Movies) Views: 1963 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Disclaimer: I do not own Batman, Joker, or Harvey, and I do not make any money from these writings.

Chapter List
- 1-Into the Dark
- 1
Author’s Note: Written for the Harvey/Joker kink
meme; the prompt was “emotional-assed sex,” with a side-helping of “make one
(or both) cry.” I’m not sure what counts as “emotional-assed” and since I
can’t see the Joker having any emotions beyond those of a demented
twelve-year-old, he might seem a little... OOC? But hey, I tried. Hope this
suits you, Anon.
***

            There’s gore everywhere. The walls are coated,
thick with congealing blood and pus, the stench of death so heavy that he can
hardly breathe. The revolver is hot in his hand, drops of blood dripping over
his face as he stares, unseeing, at the man tied to the chair in front of him.
What’s left of him, anyway.
            Harvey can hear the Joker laughing behind him,
deep and hoarse, like a hyena with a bone lodged in its throat. Heh, heh,
heh.
            His coin is in his pocket and he didn’t even
flip it when he took this man’s life, didn’t even stop to see what fate had to
say about him, this worthless thug, a homeless man who killed a young woman for
her purse –
            “Wasn’t so hard, was it? Just gotta
learn to pull the trigger...”
            Something cold grips him from within and he
shudders, head to toe. “Shut up.”
            Footsteps echo as the Joker paces to him, puts
his hands on his shoulders and coos, “Oh, don’t worry so much about it, Harv,
it’s gonna be all right...”
            “I said, shut up.” He reaches for his
coin, pulls it out – feels the rough side on his thumb and God, it makes him
gag every time – and flips it. “Call it.”
            “Harvey.”
            He slaps the coin down on the back of his hand,
covering it, shaking. “Call. It.”
            A sigh. “Fine. Uh, tails.”
            Of course he’d pick that side, the side that
makes him want to vomit every time he sees it but right now, right now he prays
that it’s the upside, just this once...
            He moves his hand and drops the coin, the
untarnished side smiling up at him until it bounces away on the floor. The man
in the chair drips and Harvey finds himself sobbing a little, dry-heaving more
like it, because it wasn’t his turn...
            “Harvey, would you just quit it?”
            Harvey turns and grabs the Joker by the throat,
clamping down with all the force he can, unable to hold back the seething, raw loathing
– stronger than that, abhorring – that’s coursing through him. God, he
just wants to squeeze until the fucker’s head pops...!
            The Joker gags and grabs at the lapels of
Harvey’s suit, eyes wide and confused like a dumb animal’s, cracked nails
scrabbling to make some kind of impression on him – he chokes out, “H-Harv-”
before his eyes start to roll back and Harvey’s forced to loosen his grip. He
already checked this monster’s fate and he can’t kill him.
            When he slackens his grip, though, the Joker
doesn’t quite move away; he clutches Harvey’s suit and stares at him with some
kind of... look on his face, one Harvey can’t place and doesn’t want to.
            “Harvey,” he says and it sounds
like how a lover would say his name in bed, a breathy little whisper that makes
every hair stand on end. He shoves the Joker away.
            “Get away from me.”
            He turns to go, choking down the bitter sting of
defeat because that’s what’s happened, here – Joker got to him and made him
pull the trigger before he could think. Joker introduced more anarchy in his
life than he could handle. The Joker won. Again.
            “Wh-What, are you running away?” the
Joker says in a bloody-thick voice, “Just like that, huh? Just gonna, uh,
leave everyone else to clean up your mess, just like with Ray-chul.”
            He stops and turns to glare at the Joker, mouth
twisting into a grimace and burnt skin cracking over muscles, “Don’t even
fucking talk about her, you little-”
            “Raaaachel,” the Joker sighs, “Y’know, it
– it would’ve been great to have just a little more time with
her.” His voice is cocky and self-assured, but his eyes are desperate
and Harvey almost turns away so as to not give him the satisfaction –
            “I bet she was great in bed.”
            Harvey lashes out and pistol-whips the Joker
across the face; the psychopath recoils with a yelp and Harvey loves it,
so he does it again, grabbing the Joker by the neck again and hitting him once,
twice, three more times with the gun before dropping it and socking him in the
nose.
            “Don’t talk about her!”
            The Joker giggles through blood and snot and
licks his lips. “Oooh, Harvey, gonna show me your dominating
side? Gonna treat me like a little, uh, bitch? Just like little old
Rach-”
            Harvey doesn’t know how to shut him up and so he
crushes their mouths together, Rachel’s name getting swallowed up between them.
The Joker makes a startled sound and bites him, reinvigorated and clawing at
his face – there’s panic in the way the psychopath’s whole body jerks away from
him and so he keeps him close, biting back and keeping the fucker’s airflow
restricted. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!
            The Joker whines, low in the back of his throat,
and grabs at the hand around his neck, twitching as though being electrocuted.
He keeps trying to pull away and so Harvey keeps pressing forward, until
they’re against the wall; he grabs at the Joker’s hands when they get in the
way and pins them up against the wall. The Joker writhes and snaps his teeth
at his mouth, hands clenching and jerking even though Harvey’s just a little
stronger than him and there’s no escape.
            When Harvey pulls away there’s saliva and blood
trailing between them, the Joker gasping for air with what little leeway Harvey’s
giving him and Harvey himself gasping for something he can’t quite describe.
            “It wasn’t his turn,” he says, voice
sticking in his throat, “And this is all your fault.”
            Harvey doesn’t want to admit it but he’s a
little shocked when some semblance of hurt flashes over the Joker’s
face, and his hand on the clown’s neck slackens a bit.
            “Just... wanted to have a little fun,”
the Joker rasps, blinking rapidly, “Just loosening your, um, your restraints
a little more...!”
            “I don’t need you to do me any fucking favors.”
He pours as much disdain into his voice as possible, tries to make it clear
that he doesn’t think they’re favors at all. The Joker looks hurt again
and he nearly backhands him – he doesn’t deserve sympathy, he doesn’t deserve
to look upset, this is all his fault –
            He pulls away and drops his hands, twisting to
get away from the Joker, whose hands grab his wrists tightly. “Harvey,”
he says in that bedroom voice again, “Harvey-!”
            He can’t stand the tone of the Joker’s voice, a
pleading noise that just – just doesn’t work, can’t be right – “Get away
from me,” he says, even though he can’t seem to force himself to move back
again.
            “Don’t-”
            A full turn around from before has the Joker
grabbing at him, trying to pull him closer, licking at his lips like an
affection-starved stray. Harvey feels something in the back of his mind,
something telling him that this submissive attitude on such a dominant
personality is good, is something he wants, can work with –
            “Don’t what.”
            His voice comes out like sulfur, pungent and
full of bad connotations, but the Joker keeps on pulling at him – he finds his
feet moving reluctantly, one step at first, then another, until he has the Joker
against the wall again. It’s like a dance, almost, and it feels too gentle so
he backhands the Joker, who rolls with it and moans.
            God, he’s a depraved psychopath!
            Pots and kettles, that little bit in the back of
his mind reminds him; he presses until neither of them can breathe without
inhaling something from the other.
            The Joker’s hands are quick – moving with an
uncertain, teenage sort of grace to Harvey’s fly, unbuttoning and unzipping it
before Harvey can grab him away. “What are you doing-?”
            “C’mon, Harvey, can’t you – the smell,
Harv, the feeling,” the clown-faced man sighs, writhing against the
wall, “It’s all blood and goo and I want it, want it want it want
it, indulge me, Harvey, c’mon.”
            This man – this thing, he isn’t a man,
hasn’t been in a long time, if ever – is pressing up against him, hands
grabbing at him as though in a storm, leaning into his ear to say hideous,
disturbing things...
            Harvey finds himself pressing back and nodding,
his mind feeling heavy and slow now that he’s forced to focus on the smell
shrouding them, his body reacting to adrenaline and anxiety. The Joker moans
again, into his ear this time, and Harvey says, “Shut up and don’t make a
sound.”
            He feels the clown nod against his neck, breath
coming out as though they’d just finished instead of having barely started,
hand reaching again for Harvey’s fly. Harvey smacks it away, grabs both wrists
in a hand and pushes them over the Joker’s head, pinning him with a low,
menacing noise that isn’t quite a growl. His other hand, free to move where he
doesn’t want to go, reaches for those expensive tailored pants, tears the
buttonhole and breaks the zipper apart, moving back so the cloth can drop.
            The Joker doesn’t let go – he leans with the
movements, keeping his face buried in Harvey’s neck, legs kicking to throw the
pants off completely – it’s not what Harvey wants but it’s too late to object,
so he simply reaches up and yanks the clown’s hair violently in reprimand. All
the other does in response is buck his hips and pounce, really, on
Harvey, mouth moving from his neck to the burnt side of his face, licking and
kissing at exposed muscles as a leg comes up to hook around the half-burnt
man’s hips.
            Unused to the weight, the force behind
the Joker’s moves, Harvey stumbles back, footing lost against the blood-slick
floor. They hit the ground together, the Joker’s hand lashing out to wrap
around the back of Harvey’s head and keep him from splitting his skull on the
cement. This puts the Joker on top and Harvey can’t stand it, can’t
allow him that luxury for even a moment, and so he’s quick to roll over,
pinning the Joker to the floor. The clown’s hand is buried in what hair he has
left, eyes roving all over Harvey’s face, as though he’s trying to decide what
part to eat first, and when Harvey growls the Joker pulls him down to bite at
his mouth again.
            He’s being dominated even now, and though part
of him realizes it, Harvey can’t help but let the Joker have some control – another
part of him wonders if he can ever be in control any more, or if some outside
power, some stronger being, has to be the deciding factor. The Joker’s mouth
and tongue soon drive most coherent thought away, one hand digging into the
back of his neck, along the burned flesh – the other, slowly, almost pausing,
traveling along his side to work at his belt. He lets it go, pressing into it
with a growl, and it unfastens the buckle; the Joker pulls his mouth away,
biting at Harvey’s shoulder now as he uses the extra few inches to start
pushing the cloth down.
            Harvey pulls his hands away – when had they
balled up in the Joker’s vest? – and does the job much more quickly, groaning
inwardly as he realizes both he and the Joker share a similar distaste for
underwear. The Joker giggles and so Harvey socks him in the jaw.
            “I said, don’t make a sound.”
            “C’mon, Harvey, don’t do this –
you can’t just, uh, pretend I’m someone else-”
            He hits the other again. “I don’t want to pretend
you’re someone else. I want you to shut up.”
            So the Joker shuts up and Harvey relishes in the
silence that’s broken only by their breathing and the occasional strangled
laugh. The Joker’s hand is grasping at him, stroking erratically in some kind
of attempt to get him off – it drives him crazy but not over the edge and he
quickly drags the hand away. The thing under him wriggles in response,
brushing every available inch of himself against Harvey, hands coming up to
wrap around his neck like twin boa constrictors fighting for a meal.
            “Do it,” he hisses, and Harvey doesn’t think to
shut him up. “Let’s do it,” he singsongs. Harvey’s never done this
before; he imagines it works the same – hell, he’s heard stories from vice –
but... The Joker writhes and grunts into his ear, “Stop stalling.”
            He isn’t stalling – he doesn’t mean to hesitate,
that is – but this is getting too far out of control. He should... He should
check, see if this is what’s really in store for him. But the Joker’s
breathing hot against his ear and he’s aching, and maybe he can actually
hurt the psychopath this way, since he seems to write off every punch and kick.
            He takes it slow at first, like he used to do
with Rachel, but the idea of being as good to this sick fuck as her makes him
want to retch so instead he thrusts in with a series of slow, painful jerks.
There’s no lubrication here, no easy slide, and the muscles pinch against his
skin, but the pained howl that comes from the Joker makes up for that in
spades. He finds himself grinning – grimacing, really, not capable of any
pleasant expression right now, and he grinds out between his teeth, “I thought
this is what you wanted.”
            The Joker doesn’t respond, to Harvey’s slight
surprise, just digs his gnarled nails into the burned skin on his shoulder and
bites the side of his neck so hard Harvey’s certain he’ll be missing a piece of
flesh there. He thrusts again, then once more, and the going gets slick with
what Harvey imagines is blood. He hopes it fucking hurts.
            The Joker groans and cracks his head on the
cement, eyes shutting tight before opening wide, mouth forming half-thought out
syllables, like he wants to say something but can’t quite get the words all
there. Harvey takes no time, trying to make this as completely different from
Rachel as possible – bloody, mean, fast and hateful. When the Joker
tries to kiss him, or some facsimile of the act, Harvey smacks him away.
            Still, it’s just not enough; every noise the
Joker makes brings back memories of Rachel – holding her close, her leg hooked
over his waist, hair knotted from their earlier rough-and-tumble and now
splayed over the pillows –
            There are no pillows here, there’re no soft skin
or quiet words; just hard concrete and half-growled aa’s and nngh-!’s.
The Joker’s arms are wrapping around his neck again and the clown struggles to
bring his mouth up to Harvey’s, pressing erratically against every thrust of
the ex-D.A.’s, and in between pants and noises he manages to say:
            “Forget about her, Harvey –
let’s make something new.”
            And just like that, images of dark hair and blue
eyes vanish; he tries to bring back the memory of her nails against his back or
the smell of her favorite perfume – things he knew he could never forget – but
all he gets is the smell of gunpowder and dynamite, burning money and eyes so
dark they might as well be pitch.
            He’s not sure when things went from being all
about hurting the Joker to this, but here with this new memory being made, he
finds the Joker licking away tears, shushing him almost gently (a gentle that
must be the harbinger of darker things). His own arms come to wrap around the
Joker’s back, and with a few hasty movements he’s sitting beneath the
psychopath who’s killed Rachel twice, letting him have all the control.
            The Joker laps up every drop of saline coming
from his eye and keeps the original pace set by Harvey – fast and vicious and deep
– but it’s lost all its meaning now. When Harvey comes it’s with a low sob and
no sense of relief; the Joker shushes him again and grabs one of his hands,
showing Harvey stroke-by-stroke how to finish the psychopath off.
            The Joker slides off of him with a contented
purring sort of noise, rising to his feet and gathering up his ruined pants.
He pauses as he pulls them on, looking over the zipper and button in dismay
before going to the corpse festering in the room and pulling the belt off of it.
            Harvey, for his part, just stares at the wall,
mind painfully hazy as he wipes his hand on his shirt. The Joker moves to
squat in front of him, bringing focus back into his eyes.
            “What.”
            There’s a pause as the psychopath sizes Harvey
up, looking – serious, for the lack of a better word, though maybe solemn would
be best. “I’ll find you again,” he says, and it sounds like a promise between
lovers.
            Which is wrong, because Harvey loves Rachel.
            When the Joker doesn’t get a response he sighs
and starts to move; Harvey doesn’t think about it rationally, but the man in
front of him took Rachel away. With a gasp, he grabs the Joker’s tie and pulls
him into a kiss, ravaging his mouth as if that would bring her back.
            After a moment, the Joker pulls away – somewhat
reluctantly, Harvey notes (or pretends to note, because it’s likely he’s making
it up) – and pats Harvey’s cheek.
            “Don’t beat yourself up over it, Harv.
We gotta lot of space to fill in that noggin of yours, now that you’ve,
uh, given up on keeping that broad in there.” He stands, moves to the
door, and tosses a wave over his shoulder. “Be seeing you.”
            The door shuts with a heavy thud.
            Hours later, sitting in the dark of “his”
apartment in the Narrows, Harvey briefly recalls dark hair and a breathy, “I
love you,” before replacing them with black eyes and a simple, “Be seeing you.”
He can’t decide which one is better.
            The coin-toss to determine it comes up charred
and scratched.
- 1
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Into the Dark