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Tears and Rain	By : Waxcrayons Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 13546 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not nor will I ever own Batman, Superman,DC comics or any of their characters, or make any money off of them.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Simplicity was a term that had never had a place in the life of a certain billionaire playboy. Romance? Happiness? Contentment? Forget about it. Wayne Enterprise work, Foundation work, and the obsessive need for nightly parkour made him inconsistent with the women he dated, and depending on how well a case was going, his patience and emotions ran hot or cold, with very little tepid middle ground. While the unpredictability was “dangerous” and “exciting”, the novelty of his general moodiness did wear thin... Usually followed by an abrupt break-up on his end, or slipped steadily into one of those awkward slow deaths. Memory traced the lines of their faces, all beautiful women with strong characters and promising careers. Their individual strengths had been what attracted him in the first place and were the main reason he let them go so easily. What right did he have to cling to these strong people and drag them down with him? No... Better to cut them free so they could really fly. Face after face flouted through his mind, as they were when he first gazed upon them and as they were when he set them free, tear-stained some, angry and volatile others. No doubt they were all thankful to be rid of him once their eyes dried or they stopped throwing things at the walls. The cycle complete, he was left with one last image of a great man. Hair as black as sin but eyes a heavenly cerulean, this man looked every bit the angel as he descended gracefully from the sky. With an animated face far more human looking than the stiff mask he wore in the cowl or out of it, this man smiled curiously down upon him. The overwhelming strength of his character soon revealed through their tentative and situational teamwork left Bruce's head swimming for days. He tried all the time not to think about how impulsively he had acted or about how needy or just plain slutty he must have come off grinding against and moaning for a stranger.
Clark never mentioned anything about their first encounter, but he also hadn't been the one to be weird about the whole ordeal. That had been Bruce, of course. Embarrassed because he hadn't been able to control himself and confused because he had never desired another person in quite that way before. Never with such urgency. Surprisingly Clark had also been okay with how weird and slow Bruce had been about allowing himself to warm back up to the big blue boyscout. He had never laid a hand on him anywhere or any longer than Bruce had been okay with. Sometimes he even indulged the man's love of cuddling. Leaning subtly into him while they watched movies with the kids and allowing the arm thrown around the back of his chair while in restaurants and the like. In a few occasions that could be counted on one hand they had slept together in the most literal translation of the word. Twice in the Manor after those huge parties billionaire Bruce Wayne was apt to hold, he too tired and his willpower too weak to say goodnight. Once had been when Clark had just so happened to show up during an impromptu need to nap after a long day at the office. The result had been a sleepy conversation with his head pillowed comfortably in Clark's lap. Another time had been while he was visiting the Kent's with the kids during the Smallville electoral campaign. Pete Ross, an old friend of Clark's had won the Mayoral race and threw a small town barbecue and beerfest that ran all through the night like a high schooler's party. The whole thing was so quaint he relaxed enough to drink a little... then a lot. He woke up on a couch tangle up with Clark. There had been one other time, but Clark had been suffering hypothermia and that cuddle was strictly a medical cuddle.
Not that he didn't dream about it like all the other instances. Sometimes his mind embellished when he lay between waking and sleep, piecing together different parts of separate events into a wishful fantasy. Sometimes they were wild and cartoonish, like the two of them as swashbuckling buccaneers, or space cowboys like Bravestarr from that awful cartoon Jason adored. His favourite had been of him riding a giant bat in full Batman regalia down the open highway chasing Clark as a huge Samoan and his shotgun Hunter S. Thompson while the two of them screamed about being in “bat country”. Yet for every chuckle there was a steamy harlequin romance dream. Mostly in those lusty Montana mountains and contained enough billowy shirts and windswept hair to put Fabio to shame. He tried to keep the flighty fantasies to a minimum but they came more and more recently. And they were far more erotic and intense then he could ever recall. Usually they begun when in dreams he felt the bed creak and indent under the weight of his night visitor and a smile ghosted his lips in anticipation. It was interesting scenario, Clark sneaking into his bedchambers like a thief in the night. Come to steal a kiss, have you? He would force himself still as warm blankets were pulled away and cool hands explored his body...
...Cool?
Warning signals lit up like fireworks but his stubborn exhausted mind reeled, pulling out excuses and explanations from out of nowhere. And honestly, he did feel feverish, so why wouldn't Clark's hands feel nice and cool against his fevered skin?
...Why can't I believe that?
A hand ran up the side of his body, up his neck, the side of his face and into his hair. Cold Juicy lips pressed against his temple first before continuing the path down his body the hand taken. Another hand gripped his waist possessively as the fist tightened in his hair before untangling to pull the rest of the blankets away, exposing him. His legs were spread just enough that the dormant fissure inside his body reminded him that it was still present just as a greedy mouth closed down on his member, tasting him with hardly a moment for savouring or even a hint of romance. The pleasure was too sharp and sudden. It was almost painful. He gasped and tried to raise his hands to grip the pillow only to find his arms stiff and uncooperative. So without an outlet to dull the pleasure he was forced to beg for mercy. After all, why was Clark being so possessive and hurried suddenly? Was this some manifestation of his own frantic desires? If so, should he not have some control over his own dreams? His lips parted but once again an overwhelming sense of caution stilled his tongue until all he could whisper was “Please, not like this... Kal.”
The moment proceeding his quiet cry was eerily still and silent. Then with a rush of palatable anger the visitor bounded up from the bed and the room was flooded with bright blinding lights. He tried to focus on the foreign pasty form in front of him, too confused to form coherent thought.
“That is it!| The ghoulish man screeched. “All you've been moaning about for the past week is this 'Kal' asshole. Who the hell is Kal!?” It demanded, shaking him until he was wide eyed and limp like a child's doll. “You're mine, you know that.” The man warned him. “Fine!” He hissed tossing Bruce to the floor where he was seized by his hair and dragged through empty corridors naked and bewildered. “You don't have to tell me who Kal is. I don't care. But I do care that you seem to have forgotten that we're perfectly dichotomised. Two halves of a whole! We're only complete when together, and you seem to forget that! I've got just the reminder on hand however, and she doubles as an incentive.”
“Joker.” The rusty cogs clicked slowly. He recalled where he was. The hostages, the beatings... other things were too hazy, but he knew it was all bad. This was real. He had been molested by a madman and was being dragged to god knows where. Suddenly the dream world memories seemed like heaven.
“Too late, Batsy. I would have forgiven you five seconds ago.” The Joker pulled him painfully to a room that elicited a deep fear in him even before he recognised it. It was the same room he had been kept in before at the start of this whole nightmare. As he was thrown inside violently he noticed he was not alone here. An older woman huddled against the coil-heater much as he once had. She watched him, her pretty face a mask of worry and horror. Their eyes latched onto one others, each relieved not to be alone in this madhouse, but terrified of what was to come next. “Don't think I like doing this in front of our guest, Sweetums, but I feel a bit of servitude will remind you of your place.”
The pale devil's face grew unreadable before he began to undo the complex fastenings of his trousers. Bruce shook his head. He wasn't going to... He couldn't do it. His body froze. The Joker pulled out his vile and flaccid member and ran two fingers down the shaft slowly.
“Oh yes. That kind of servitude. You forget I've seen your other side, lover. Your submissive, fragile secret.”
“No.” His defiance was but a tremor in the still room.
“You don't get to deny me any more. That's why we're here doing this. To show you.” The gun was out suddenly, cocked, and trained on Dr. Brandt. The woman glared daggers at him, refusing to show her fear to the crazed clown. Good girl... The Joker pulled him forward suddenly but he caught himself with a hand on each thigh and turned his head.
“No!” he defied again with more fire.
“Don't you dare!” Sophie called out, whether to the Joker or to him he couldn't say.
“See,” The serious clown explained. “Usually I torment you for kicks and then let you play cops and robbers with Gordon. Usually. You don't understand that there isn't a whole lot of time left for games that I haven't already planned out. You're going to admit you want to be complete with me at last. That's how the game ends, honeypie.” The gun once again fired straight into the same leg the psychotic clown had first shot the poor woman in.
The shock of seeing her blood so suddenly, of hearing her cry of anguish piercing the unforgiving air... His mouth hung uselessly open, too late to stop it. Too late to agree to the madman's vicious demand. His eyes darted up to see cold green fire looking down upon the pitiful creature that he was.
“When I get back, you better be over your tantrums.” With an angry flourish of purple silk, the man was gone.
***
Stars were fascinating for countless reasons, one being that they seemed endless. Almost true, as there was not quite a finite number of them. Stars were born, lived, and died like everything else. While they lived they gave warmth and light to their celestial neighbours, and when their time came the beauty of their final breath was gazed up upon and admired from light years away for what might as well be said simply, forever. Or close enough to. Each planet had it's starlit skies. Different cultures made their own constellations and told their own lore and legends about their astral onlookers. Earth was no different, and growing up under it's beautiful starry nights, Clark was no different. To travel beneath the familiar constellations after coming from so far... Well, it was as good as coming home. That warm tingly feeling of belonging and safety spread through his body right up to his fingers and toes. Hal's understanding smile caught his eye. As a Green Lantern the whole process of leaving his home world behind and being welcomed back was a ritual he preformed often. On Clark's end, other then sunbathing on the moon during his private downtime he had never really explored the Milky Way galaxy before. Never even had had the urge to do so. Perhaps now that he could see that his home would still be there waiting for him when he got back, he would take the time to do just that. He wanted to thank Hal for brightening his horizons right then, but it would have to wait until he was in atmosphere. Hal, with his flashy ring to bypass basic physics had no such problem. "I want to thank you again for coming with me. It was nice to be able to show someone else around the place for a change. I feel like I've been the new guy forever. Anyways, Supes, I'll let the gang know when I see them that you'd like to be off duty for a few more days. I gotta punch the clock with my other boss in a few minutes so... See you around?" Clark nodded and Hal grinned back. "That boss of mine is a strict woman..." There was a quick wave and then they parted ways as soon as they entered Earth's atmosphere. Clark watched the man fly off until he was lost in the distant curve of the horizon. With Hal gone he let himself drift, oblivious to outside stimuli, upon the free willed winds. Home. He inhaled air that was far too thin for a human being to survive on. It's good to be home. Eyes that matched the pure cerulean of the skies sprung open and he took off, soaring over this cloud, beneath that one, and straight through the other. It was a dance. Aerial pirouette, graceful steps, elegant dip, leap, and repeat. A solitary performance for a celestial audience. In every fluid movement was the representation of what it meant to be alive. And wasn't it fantastic to be alive? To exist right here in this moment in time? To share it with all the other magnificent creatures? Weren't there a few people in particular that made his corner of the map a little bit brighter? He had thought about how to approach the subject the entire trip to Oa. Dwelt upon the small nuances that would have to be addressed. There would be the lifestyle changes... not too different from the one they had now, but still different. It was one thing when everyone suspected something was going on between two people yet it was entirely different when everyone knew there was something going on between two people. Consenting adults or not, there would be an adjustment period for everyone they knew. While he wasn't too worried about the kids or Alfred or even his mother... You just never knew, right? The journey had given him a lot of time to settle on the only course of action he was comfortable with. Clark knew he was straight forward kind of guy. He also knew that Bruce took his time, measured each option, made projections, weighed pros and cons, and always, always, left himself an escape route. Clark was aware he was going to need just a little bit more on his side of the scale if he even wanted the chance to tip it in his favour. While exploring the calm beauty of Oa he had compiled a list of hard facts one Dark Knight would not be able to dispute. They had chemistry. Lots of chemistry. The under laying tensions between them lately were almost as excruciating as they were exhilarating. They worked flawlessly together, each complimenting the other... Completing, you could say. They had a growing history together that proved they were perfect as a team, and not just in form and function. They had an understanding of each other. He knew what Bruce was thinking the majority of the time. He knew which morals the other man kept close to his heart and how far he was willing to push or be pushed. He was proud to say he was one of the handful of people Bruce was relaxed around. The man had built walls even Superman had had trouble getting over. He understood that Bruce had a need for distance and solitary thoughts... Yet he also knew that even if the Dark Knight wasn't aware of it, Bruce also had a need for connection. One didn't need to spend years pouring over psychology texts and studies, or spend months in discussion with top Psychologists in their fields to see that Bruce was damaged goods. Of course, Clark had spent the past few years with his nose in psychology books and talking with psychologists. You know, in his spare time. It was a fact that trauma that caused the loss of innocence too early in a child's life had irreversible effects. These experts had theorized that Clark's "friend of a friend" desired to be loved and have somebody to love, but simply lacked the proper development to follow through. Being with someone required that you make yourself vulnerable. You had to be able to trust someone not to hurt you. Not to leave you. The tragic and untimely deaths of Thomas and Martha had taught their young son that the people you love and trusted to take care of you could indeed hurt you by leaving you. Adult logic was different than a child's emotional understanding of the world. To Bruce, they were murdered, yes, that was his adult logic now, but then... Thomas and Martha had abandoned him. Meaning anyone who loved him could leave. Family, friend, or lover. Deep down inside the man was pining for what he had lost but was afraid to achieve it. It made sense to Clark. Why else would Bruce take in all these children and build this semblance of a family life without fully committing to it? He didn't call them sons and for the most part there was the unspoken rule that they weren't to call him "Dad", but he loved them like they were his own. As if calling them what they were was an invitation to have them be taken away. In Clark's case it was the only explanation he found for why Bruce was forever reaching out to him but never taking his hand. Which also meant... I must mean something to him too. He knows we have something together and he's afraid of the possibilities. On one hand that knowledge made him the happiest man on the planet, on the other, he realized it was the key trial he was going to have to overcome. Who could ever say Superman was afraid of a challenge? Aimless coasting upon a warming breeze had carried him to a lovely patch of green sky overlooking the beautiful Mediterranean. A romantic area with a rich history and even richer food. Poise, hovering in the air, he contemplated if this occurrence was just fate giving him a little bit of a break. Here the people had a high value on family and friends. They laughed a lot, ate a lot, and took care of each other. It was the embodiment of the domicile bliss and exactly what the young Bruce buried deep inside the the Batman was missing. It was the embodiment of exactly what Clark was going to convince Bruce they could have together. He descended down from the sky with the sun at his back, fully aware of the similes these old country folk would be making between one of their old gods and he. Diana had called him Apollo the first time she saw him, and as much as he had blushed about it later... He understood why she had thought of him so. Gentle islanders going lazily about their chores in simply the most serene locale gathered together, young and old dropping toys and tools alike to greet the stranger who had come to them from the heavens. 'It's Superman', was whispered here and there. He smiled broadly as he crouched down to shake hands with the children fearlessly pushing passed their parents just for the chance to touch him. The villagers were very pleasant and knowledgeable about their land. With their help he gathered together exquisitely plump and fresh vegetables, fish, and all the spices to make a hearty feast. While they refused to take his money, he did manage to convince them to accept his help with a few manual labour chores in exchange. As he was leaving the thought of dropping down into the nearest city for a newspaper or two crossed his mind. He had been away for a long time after all and it was good to know what was going on in the world. But it could wait, he decided. He had a few days before he had to go back to work for both the League and the Planet and for once in his life, he was going to be selfish and take his time. It was just days shy of Christmas and with luck, he was going to get the best present he could ever hope for. Convincing Bruce was going to require he lay everything before the cautious man. He kept that in mind as he made his way back to the Fortress, ingredients in hand. He was going to have to share his most private space. Batman wasn't the only person who had to wear different masks for different settings. This solemn place, a collection of all the knowledge and science of his long gone home world, was where he had learned from Jor-El about the man he was born to be. Where he had spent time in solitude contemplating how he was to find balance between what he was born to be and the man the Kents had raised. It was soon to be the place where Bruce and he would figure out where each of them stood, and where they were going. Red boots touched down upon the virgin snow before a massive structure. Glittering in the high sun stood the mass of criss crossing crystals formed by technology far more advanced than anything on Earth. Its beauty was unquestionable. Its technology fascinating. Yet it had a fault that may seem paltry to most, but it meant everything to Clark. The Fortress was utterly inhuman. Here was proof of his alien origins... Something he was not always so comfortable with. Being gifted was a blessing, so Ma and Pa had told him insistently when he was young and these strange powers starting manifesting. Being fast and strong meant he could work harder and be more helpful. It was such a wonderful way to look at the miraculous situation. Learning that he was so different because he was literally not of this world had been initially devastating. Here was Clark's inner demon turned inside out for anyone to see, and judge. His inner fear that despite all the good he could do, he was alien... And perhaps when all was said and done, he had no place in this world. The fortress recognized him and immediately began to turn on the heat and lights in the main living areas. Electronics hummed as they warmed up and small droids were deployed to clean and dust what had settled in his absence. He made his way through the kitchen and dropped everything off to be prepared later before continuing on his way to his bedchamber. Behind opulent white doors lay a modest space made with same alien crystal design. Here and there signs of Kansas could be seen. The photos of Lana and Pete and other old friends from high school, trophies, sport team ball caps and the like, they looked out of place among the fluid modern lines. Even the quilt his mother had made painstakingly by hand seemed garish when laid down upon the bed, but he loved all of these things even more because of that. He had missed this bed. The feel of slipping between the covers was heaven to him, and tangibly soon Bruce would also say the same. He closed his eyes to envision content pale skin wrapped in too little blanket, tousled black hair that needed Clark to brush away from lidded pleasure misted eyes, and wide flat lips parting to whisper little paramour secrets... It wasn't his intent to fall asleep, but the fantasy world was just too appealing to let go of. When in dreams they had finally grown too tired to do anything but lay in each others arms Clark roused to find himself alone and the time very late in the evening. All plans of checking in with his mother before absconding with Gotham's most eligible bachelor would have to be pushed back until tomorrow. But really when you're about to start a whole new chapter in your life, what was the harm in waiting one more day?
***
Bruce shook uncontrollably, holding Sophie as frantically as she clung to him, her cries a mix of agony from of her bullet wound and the relief that the Joker had finally left. Her bullet wound. He focused on her blood pumping leg with it's sucking wound. Above the new injury her old one was bandaged with clean fresh gauze (Nygma?) but he was going to have to be the person who took care of this one.
“Dr. Brandt,” His sandy voice held no confidence. “Sophie... You have to put pressure on the wound. Put your hands on it.” The woman sobbed but complied, her sense of survival outweighing everything else. As for him, his mind raced. He needed tools to extract the bullet and something to staunch the blood flow quickly. “Hold on Sophie.” He said shakily, staggering to unsteady feet. Seconds later he was throwing open the medical cabinet doors, scouring frantically for anything that could help. The scalpel and scissors I lost in one of those crazed thugs would have come in handy, now wouldn't have they? He berated himself uselessly. No, not now. Come on, Macgyver, make use of what you have.
What he'd collected in the end was a handful of wooden tongue-depressors, one large compress -Perfect- two packaged rolls of age yellowed gauze, and an ancient but unopened bottle of rubbing alcohol. No tweezers. No easy way to pull the round out. Also no time to worry about it. Doctor Brandt's initial shock should be wearing off. She's going to be in too much pain to stay still for me to extract the bullet. He gathered everything in one arm and brought them to Sophie. The first good look at the shot told him in was clean and into the bone without damaging any major arteries. Still, there wasn't enough gauze to staunch all the bleeding she would do once he started. Think... Think...
“Hold on.” He told Sophie, leaving briefly to examine his favourite old pile of rubble. Sure enough the two hospital gowns were still stashed there. Sophie was drenched with sweat when he returned to her side, rocking weakly with her teeth clenched. Still she gave him a pain-laced but still warm smile.
“Are you all right?” She asked him.
He sighed a laugh. “I'm better than you, at the moment.” The weak smile he wore faded as he mentally prepared himself for the next step. “Doctor Brandt, I need to get the bullet out. I don't have the right tools, proper or adequate bandages, and there isn't anything close to an anaesthetic or even a fucking Tylenol in sight. This is really going to hurt, and it's going to get a lot worse when I disinfect it with this.” The rubbing alcohol was held up for her to see.
“Gotta do what you gotta do, son.” She whispered. “Really going to hurt that bad, huh?”
“You have no idea.” He answered honestly, tearing one of the gowns into strips for a tourniquet, opening gauze packages, and readying the compress. As he continued explaining, he broke the tongue-depressors and fashioned two pieces he could use as make-shift tweezers. “I'm going to have to dig into the wound and pry the bullet out. It might not even work. And again, it's really going to hurt, but I need you to be as still as possible.”
“You have terrible bedside manner.” She laughed, but they both knew how terrified they each were.
“Don't say I didn't warn you. Ready?”
“No, but... Please try to be fast?”
“I'll try”
That was how with a surge of adrenaline the worst surgery preformed commenced. The doctor sobbed and hissed and cursed and pleaded, all the while jerking away from his touch, begging him to forgive her, and apologizing to what he assumed was the names of her sons. Every time he glanced up from his work the poor doctor looked paler, sweatier, and haunted. As the unwieldy wooden tools worked their way deep enough at last to try and dislodge the bullet, he had to sit on her leg to keep it still, apologizing profusely himself. When it was finally over his hands trembled too terribly to properly put pressure on the wound. Sophie raised a shaky hand of her own and caressed his sweaty face with the back of her hand.
“You did it.”
He nodded absently. Not just yet. “I still have to disinfect it.” The reminder chased the smile away from her weary face.
“Okay,” Her weak hand fell to clutch his thigh. “It's okay, son. You're doing great.”
He took a moment to stare at her in awe. It seemed he always needed to be reminded that the world was full of wonderful, extraordinary people. Even in a city like Gotham. In spite of whatever the clown had done to her, she was keeping it all together, and on top of that, she recognised that he desperately needed reassurance and was capable of telling him exactly what he needed to hear. “You're a good psychologist.” He whispered. “This will be bad... Worse. But it will be over quick.”
Sophie nodded, steeled her resolve, and held onto him firmly. “Fast.” Was all she said. It was agonizing, but fast. Her piercing shriek hadn't yet died away before he was layering gauze, using the remaining scraps from the hospital gown to tie it all in place. “Oh, God.” Sophie cried. “Oh, thank fucking Christ that's over.”
He brushed her hair from her pale face. “I agree.” Truly, he did. “I don't think I'm in any shape to move you...” Luckily the gurney mattress wasn't so heavy as he had feared. The struggle acutely reminding him of how weak he had become, he managed to drag it off it's frame and over to the heaters to help Sophie ease down upon it, and covered her with the thin sheet. At least she's by the heater. That will keep her warm, and she's off the ground.
“Is there running water here?” Sophie asked wearily. He jumped to fetch her a Dixie cup and helped her drink in much the same way as Nygma had done for him. Sophie thanked him quietly and was asleep seconds later.
As for himself, he was certain he could follow her lead as the ordeal had taxed them both. Instead he used the adjoined washroom to wash her blood off of his hands, in a literal sense only, easily ingested a litre of water, and scrubbed his cold sweat soaked face clean. Adrenaline long gone, his body once more felt stiff, weak, and cold. Although he would later need to tear it for the extra bandages, for the time being wearing the lone spare hospital gown was a better alternative to being bare-assed naked in a concrete dungeon. For a long time he simply sat by the coil heater watching Sophie sleep. He attempted to think of nothing. The Joker had told Nygma he wasn't going to be around for much longer. Sophie was here to make sure he behaved until 'much longer' was finally up.
He had long ago lost all sense of time. Had he been missing long enough for people to notice? What if this was simply just one long weekend? Had Clark just left for Oa, or had he come home yet? Was Clark thinking about him right now? Wondering why he didn't pick up the phone or answer an email? “I can't even meditate properly any more.” He told the sleeping doctor. “I don't know what to do.” The quiet confession continued. “I always have a plan that comes with a pile of contingency plans attached. But this time..? I don't think I can wait for any miracles, Sophie. It's never been my style. But... I wish I knew how to save you.” His head lowered on it's own volition until he was staring at his hands uselessly, feeling more then seeing the shadow that loomed over him.
Serious and silent, the Joker stood above him, gun held firmly in one hand, his other crooked a finger like a master summoning a slave. The pathetic thing was he had no choice but to follow the monster into the bathroom like a lamb to the slaughter. Perhaps even more pitiful was that he hadn't waited to come to the conclusion that he had no choice before moving. Master had whistled and the dog came to heel. I really don't have a choice. A tiny voice tried to reason. He'll just shoot her again. He won't kill her. Just keep making us both suffer until he gets what he wants. The clown closed the door over partially, enough to give them a semblance of privacy but still open enough for the lunatic to casually aim the gun at the sleeping doctor with an arm strung across the sink from where he sat upon the closed toilet. His posture was that of a lazy sprawl, but his eyes...
Bruce wavered on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands. The Joker ran eyes up and down his body expressionlessly. “Well?” The clown's pointed question was laced with angry impatience.
Honestly, that just pissed Bruce off more than anything else. “I don't know what you want me to do!” He snapped, face flush with anger, embarrassment, shame, and wary anticipation.
The Joker answered him with a long-suffering sigh. He wasn't going to get much else, he quickly realized. Cheeks flaring a deeper red then ever before, he took a few tentative steps forward, hoping a closer proximity would get the clown to dictate what was to happen next. When he was left hanging again, he bit his lip and closed the small gap between them, hesitating briefly before kneeling more or less between the Joker's splayed legs. He looked helplessly up into smouldering green eyes and asked in a soft voice, “What do you want me to do?”
The cold stern mask the Joker wore soften slightly. That's good, right? He wondered briefly before the tip of a two-tone shoe collided with his collarbone, catapulting him into the opposite wall. He stared at the clown, his back against the wall. “I...”
“You don't understand, I know.” The Joker finished for him. “To start, you're doing well. You understand now that you are mine. You come when I call. You'll do what I want you to do because at heart, as wild and crazy as you all think I am, I am in complete control of my 'insanity'. Just like as in control and insurmountable you make everybody think you are, at heart you're as untamed and wild as a storm, just begging for someone like me to force you into submission. Someone stronger than you or your willpower.
I will not let him believe that I-- Another harsh kick put him back in his place, both physically and figuratively.
“No more pointless posturing. You're just going to do what I say.”
He shook his head disbelievingly. “You're going to kill me. Why all this? Why won't you just do it?” He glowered.
The Joker waived the gun slightly, as if he needed to be reminded it was pointed at Sophie. “How many times do I have to tell you? It's all about the big reveal. Now. We're going to do as I say.” It was a dare, not a question. “A box of marzipan says I can get her in the same place as last time from this angle.”
“What do you want me to do?” He asked once more. It felt like giving up... because it was.
“A lesson in futility. Show you that you'll actually enjoy being a pet. We all know how much you love control.” Crimson lips peeled back into a thin sneer. “Sit back down on the floor with one knee up, foot flat on the floor...” He listened to the eerily focused man's instructions, posing 'perfectly' and 'just so' like a living manikin. Posed until he was half way between lying down and leaning against the wall, at a perfect angle to be looked down upon. The Joker admired him for a moment before using his foot to push his upright knee down, effectively spreading his legs in – and he hated to use that fucking clown kept throwing at him – in submissive surrender.
“Hike up your skirt, Princess.” The Joker smirked. “Not too high. Not passed your hips. I love that suggestive half unwrapped candybar imagery. Yeah, you're dirty and innocent all at the same time aren't you, angelpie?”
Bruce bit his tongue hard to still it. Why say anything when it wouldn't accomplish any good. It would only let the man know just how badly he was getting to him.
“Tousle your hair a little, you look too well groomed. That's good. A little more. Spread your legs a little more too.”
I don't think I can blush any deeper.
“Now touch yourself.”
“I'm sorry?” He asked automatically.
“What, too vague for you? How about... Use your left hand to stroke your cock right now or I'm pumping some more lead into sleeping beauty over there you gorgeous but horribly daft plaything?”
So maybe his flesh couldn't show it, but he certainly felt even deeper levels of shame and despair. “I don't really...” he fumbled for the words, desperate to explain. “I mean, it's so easy for me to get women to... Ahh...”
“I think all these warnings I keep giving you are rather generous. Must be my love for you, making me soft. But only so much. Last warning.”
Out of instant fear of what the clown would do if he stalled any longer, he took himself in hand. “ I don't masturbate. I never have to...”
The admission was met with a sharp click of the tongue. “Well, you know how to, don't you? Does Papa need to give you 'the talk'?
He shook his head furiously and started to move, complying with the occasional command to 'keep his legs spread' or go faster or slower. Use two fingers. Concentrate on the tip. Now the shaft. He tried to think of anything that would help. The sea of beautiful women at his disposal weren't enough. The fantasy of those forbidden statuesque Amazons from Themyscara didn't help either. He couldn't get aroused. Not here before the Joker like this. He couldn't become the perfect portrait of a moaning, submissive slave to pleasure. The portrait the mad clown had constructed of him, and was visibly annoyed when his chosen actor couldn't play the part.
“Can't you even masturbate properly?” The clown spat.
“I'm not aroused, okay?” He tried not to snap. “There is nothing remotely sexy about this whole scenario.”
“Oh, I disagree.”
Of course you do.
“I think you just want a little help from me. I can't blame you after all these years of playing hard-to-get.” The Joker patted his lap invitingly. “Come here, little boy. Santa's got an early present for you.”
That's... Sick. Bruce shivered inside, revolted, but he didn't need the ever present threat to Sophie to be restated. He crawled forward, too stiff to pick himself up straight away and crawled onto the the very edge of the clown's lap. Never thought I'd ever being straddling this whack-job.
“That's much better, now isn't it?” The falsetto had returned at last, much to Bruce's chagrin. The hand not holding the gun moved the gown out of the way quickly before the clown brought it up before his eyes. All but the middle and ring fingers were folded, the remaining ones brushed his lips gently. “Suck.” He was ordered.
He leaned inward to draw the digits into his mouth. Don't think about it. Don't think about why you would have to do this. Don't think about what's going to happen. Don't think about what could possibly make fingernails grown green.
“You might want to slather on a bit more saliva there, my pretty. And I didn't say stop touching yourself.”
Why won't you just kill me?
“That's enough.” The Joker decreed, pulling the fingers free. They glistened in the low light from what he could see in the brief instant before they vanished to probe him in ways he could have never imagined. The digits wriggled, stretched, scissored, probed and retracted at just slightly different angles with each invasion until he jumped with a surprised yelp.
“What--?” He tried to ask but each subsequent probe was at that angle. Each thrust rub some part inside of his body that rapidly became ecstasy. It was a sensation he had never experienced before yet he couldn't not enjoy it. Not even under these circumstances. A glance down filled him with a mix of surprise and horror as he discovered his hand now stroke his fully erect member, each stroke like a stoke to a flame. His flesh became painfully aware of just how smooth the fabric covering the clown's thighs were. Of the refreshingly cool sensation of the Joker's icy hand inside his hot body, of the coarse hospital gown rubbing against his nipples, and especially of the hot breath and wet sloppy kisses on his throat and shoulders. "I..." I can't seem to finish my sentences lately? "I told you you'd like to be dominated. Look at yourself. Panting, moaning shamelessly while you play with that delicious looking cock." The clown smiled triumphantly. "You're even fucking yourself." His eyes widened at the lecherous tone but slowly it dawned... That the mad clown was right. The Joker wasn't moving into him at all. Only held his hand in place, fingers curled perfectly so that every time Bruce rocked his hips they made that special contact with the pleasure inside. I'm doing this. His mouth hung open in disbelief. Willpower be damned, he couldn't stop his body from moving, couldn't stop. Whatever shame and disgust he would feel about this would most certainly have to be dealt with later. Right now, all he wanted was to feel this to the fullest extent. He braced himself with a hand on one of the Joker's knees to better force himself back upon the fingers, reaching deeper inside his body than before. "Here." The clown 'helped' him by pulling the gown off and rightly decided that sucking on his nipples would be a fast way to bring him to the edge. He couldn't help it. He fell forward, barely catching himself with both hands fisted in a silky dress shirt and his tear stained face buried into a shoulder. "Please..." He wasn't sure what he was begging for. For the strength to stop his body from betraying him? To simply climax and be finished with this? "This is so wrong... It's so wrong..." Were the words sobbed over and over.
There was an intense rush followed by a white blindness. In the ebb of his orgasm he took a long time to take stock of what had just occurred. Inside, he was emotionally void. On the outside he was aware he rested all of his weight against the very man that had violated him, glad to have any contact with his surroundings to prove it was all real, and only vaguely aware that hands were caressing him. One cool hand tracing soothing patterns along his spine, the other simply holding his softening member. Bruce shifted his head slightly, resting his forehead on a hard collarbone so that he could stare at the hand holding him. It was wet with... I guess he... Finished me off. The first thought in the wake of the ordeal sunk heavily in his stomach. His face crumpled as a heavy lump formed in his throat, and he began to tremble uncontrollably. "There, there..." The monster feigned sympathy. "You're too pretty to cry." Bruce made no attempt to mask his snarl, bounding up from the clown in a mad dive towards the gun. He wasn't going to shoot the clown, not even after everything that had been done to him at the behest of the monster. He just wanted to take the weapon away. To give the doctor and he a fighting chance. The Joker denied him, throwing him to the floor far too easily and giggling historically as he danced away with the gun. "Oh you sweet thang, can't we have a nice and normal post coital cuddle? Look at your face. Why so serious?"
A shoe planted itself down hard on his chest, keeping him splayed helplessly on the cold tile. The effort to keep his face blank and his body stone was too great. Hot tears washed his vision away as tremors from silent sobs wracked through him. The Joker still loomed above him silently. Studying him in his weakest moment like a puzzle the clown couldn't understand. The pressure from the foot eased gradually and was then removed but he dared not move until the clown told him in a strange and hushed tone to sit up.
“Put your dress back on.” Slow and self consciously, the gown was slipped back into place as he waited warily, eyes downcast, for what was to come next. He felt warmth encircle him as the long coat the Joker had removed was placed around his trembling shoulders. In a breathy whisper the Joker spoke into his ear. “Don't blame yourself. You can't fight who you are any more than I can, Batman. This needed to be done so that you could see.” The clown straightened to leave, his final remark light hearted, as if he hadn't just violated the broken doll on the floor. “There's my favourite deck of cards in the pocket if you get bored. “
He threw up all his body had consumed in water without waiting for the clown to take his leave. When there wasn't a spare drop of liquid left to be purged, he dry heaved, sobbing freely between wretches.
“I deserve this.” the accusatory statement cut the silence out of sobs. He had done nothing but come up short since the start of this madness, failing Sophie time and time again. He had been a weak doll, allowing Nygma and Zsasz and Croc to play with him like a toy. He had been a willing participant in his own rape be being unwilling to stop. “I deserve this.”
Silence stretched onward as he waited... Now was the time when the strong voice and reasoning of Batman would tell him to quit his pity party and come to his aid. Little Brucie's big black crutch. The great avenger of the poor pitiful victim would have the answers for him like always. Still... Only Silence. It wasn't right. That better side of himself was nowhere to be found.
In the filmy bathroom mirror was a stranger staring back at him.
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Tears and Rain