#┇𝐅𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓┇

[chaoticjoke]

i don't like asking you for help, but i don't have a choice.

Not sure if... serious?

These words make him blink. Twice. Joker's eyes narrow and brows furrow in confusion -- he's not sure if he's heard Batman correctly. The Batman's. asking. for his help? Really? Reaaaaaallllyyyy? Oh this is already so much fun. Even if this is another hallucination. The Joker can't really tell with all the Thorazine in his system they keep pumping him with these days. He wonders what might actually happen that his arch-nemesis would come to him, of all people.

He can't help it anymore -- loud maniacal cackling is now echoing off the walls of Arkham Asylum. The Agent of Chaos can't tell if it's a joke or not -- and that's what makes it even more hilarious.

"Ooooh, poor little Bat is desperate!" he announces, his voice is hoarse from both laughter and dehydration. "Ah, come on, spit out out already, Bat-man, I'm all ears!" He nods enthusiastically, encouraging the other to continue.

"But, before you do, I have a question." He bats his eyelashes at the masked vigilante, mocking. "What do I get in return?"

@gothamsaved

[chaoticjoke]

The Agent of Chaos is everything but blind. Hardly anything can escape his omnipotent eye.

Especially when he's this close.

The fact that he and the Batman are very much alike he's learned a long time ago, back when the controversial headlines about the Caped Crusader screamed from the first pages of The Gotham Times. BATMAN STOPS MOB MELEE, ARREST BATMAN - NOT JUST YET, BATMAN: SAVIOR OR MENACE? --- he's been watching him from the start, and the more he watched, the more he realized that Batman was the only worthy opponent for him. A perfect nemesis. A better class of hero (criminal?). An equal.

He's never had any intentions of killing the Bat, not even remotely. And when he told him they were destined to do that forever, that endless cat and mouse game, he meant every single word.

There's a theatrical pause that prolongs the visible confusion of the Bat, impossible to hide or conceal behind the mask. Does he even need it anymore at this point? The Joker simply watches him up close, taking in every millisecond as if trying to keep up with the transparent thoughts of the Dark Knight. He can see hesitation written all over Batman's features, the unsteadiness in his voice, the erratic breathing...

The Batman's thinking too loud.

The Joker can't help but burst out laughing again. He's going to regret that later, the consequences of the brutal beating and broken ribs will soon become impossible to ignore, but he cackles nonetheless. The World's Greatest Detective says he doesn't have a clue. A clueless detective. Only in Gotham.

"Oh, youuuu." Joker hisses, tears glistening in the outer corners of his eyes, smearing the dark paint even further. "You're making thisssss SO. much. Fun."

"You're seeing it too now, aren't ya?" He quickly brushes his tongue over his lower lip. "Tell me. How does it feel", The Joker grunts as he makes another attempt to shift himself under the weight pinning him down, "not believing in your own wuuuurrrds, hm? How does it feel" (jerk) "to finally admit to yourself that I was right. All. This. Time?"

Repulsive. Everything about it is.

What's it? Does he even know?

Joker. The Joker repulses him, so much that he shouldn't want to say it like a name. Humanize him. Bruce Batman watches the man's tongue slither like a savoring snake, and there his own nerve endings go, turning inside-out, numbness everywhere, too high a voltage. Static erupts behind his eyes. He doesn't know.

His fingers are bitten down around Joker's forearms like the fists of Egyptian statues, hard diorite and alabaster — but so weak. Repulsive.

Yet repulsion is the basis for everything that drives him.

"Stop it." Broken intervals of sound, laced through grating teeth. "Stop . . ." What? What words are you afraid of? (says the devil under his shoulders.) Or is it that Joker moves? That he moves and Bruce can feel the tendons against his own gloves, flexing, musculature against kevlar, slithering. He's human — except that's not the real problem, anymore. Hasn't been for the last two minutes.

Two minutes is plenty for a revelation. Touch. Repulsive. He can't let go.

"We're nothing like each other," the Dark Knight growls — but it isn't a growl at all. If Bruce is the mask, if that's possible, then he's pulling the Batman back inside him, burying him under his very human fear. "There is no WE, Joker — you're delusional. Blind. You don't see me — and I have . . . no clue what I see."

Can't (can) let go, or he (just doesnt want to) will lose him again.

[chaoticjoke]

bruz3r answered:

“ I can do it again. “  He growled, letting go of the cable for a good full minute before he stepped on the remaining pool on the floor and pull him back up from where he’d hung THE JOKER from. Pulling him back up a little higher, feet by overbearing feet until they’re back to eye level with the clown’s almost vacant stare and THE DARK KNIGHT’S angry glare. 

The thought occurs that all his future problems could be fixed with just ─ letting go.  But there’s a trap awaiting cops and some innocent civilians across the city. And the temptation dissipates just like that ; automatically replaced with the ever prevailing rage at his presence. 

“ Where are they? “ He grits through his teeth, stepping closer to the ledge, grabbing him by his tie and tightening it around his neck. “ Answer. Me. “

"And yet they call ya World's Greatest Dee-tec-tive." Joker mocks and clicks his tongue. His voice is clownish and nasally, head dizzy. "Guess that's too, uh, farfetched." There's a devilish smirk written over the smeared greasepaint. Their game is only getting better and better as it progresses and he's excited how far he'll be able to push his arch-enemy this time.

They both know if The Dark Knight finally snaps, it's going to be a win-win for The Agent of Chaos. That brings a self-satisfying grin to Joker's scarred face. He doesn't know what he enjoys better -- the boiling rage on the Bat's face or the fact that he's chocking him, using his necktie as a makeshift noose.

Is he sure he wants to hurt him this way or..? A low rumbling chuckle is slowly filling the air. Oh, it hurts goooooooood. ...Maybe that black suit of his has been chosen for a reason?... The Joker starts laughing maniacally.

"I ahhhhh," he wheezes, "I'd appreciate if you were a little bit more... specific."

@bruz3r

[chaoticjoke]

➫ BRUCE thought he had Joker on the ropes, chasing him all over Gotham, following him into this warehouse and feeling like he finally had the guy cornered. But as always, the other had a mouth on him and couldn't stop himself from talking. It was really annoying, he had always thought so, but it's not like he could ever get rid of this enemy. Joker was like a cockroach. "You've got a twisted sense of morals, Joker. Maybe I'm a villain for all the low lives who ruin my city, but I'm cleaning up Gotham with every scumbag I get off the street." He stepped into the shadows, behind some boxes and disappeared into the rafters. "Are YOU saying you're a hero? A hero for who, exactly? I'd love to hear this sorry excuse for all the chaos you cause." (x)

Oh, he liked where this was going. The Bat's taking the bait.

The Agent of Chaos had been waiting for this little tête-à-tête with his caped arch-nemesis for a long time. He had always known how much his words affected the Batman, hitting where it hurt the most, just like his knife would pierce the vulnerable flesh between the Kevlar armor plates.

So here comes the good ol' batsplaining. It was an absolute pity that Batman would never know how adorable he looked when he tried so hard to teach him the difference between the good and bad, the black and white, the right and wrong, the positive and negative. This was starting to get too much fun. Black-ringed eyes watched the Batman, unblinking, and, the more he listened, the more amused he became with every moment of their existential conversation. The Joker couldn't help it anymore -- dark mocking laughter slowly filled the warehouse, giggles echoing off the walls and ceiling.

"Your city..." he mused, snickering. Sooooo... possessive.

Excuses? The Joker truly had no excuses, no reasons. He just had this ability to turn others' plans upside down. Just for the heck of it. Because he could. And he was damn good at it. It wasn't about excuses.

"No. No, no, no, no. Noooooo. There's nothing heroic about chaos. Y'see, it's uh, it's natural." He swiped his tongue over his lower lip. "This... so-called morality is just another tool to control people. But chaos? It's just is. And that's the beauty of it." He gestured wildly to emphasize his point. "You're just too stubborn. to understand. that."

@berylcluster

[chaoticjoke]

@nightvow from here

"But you did break your rule, didn't ya?" Joker keeps taunting, despite Batman's unsuccessful attempts to avoid the sensitive subject. No so incorruptible anymore, not so righteous.

"Twice-ah." Talia. A little bird told him. Were there others? The Dark Knight is not that different from him, no matter how much he denies that. He just doesn't see the full picture yet. He will.

"One more kill and you'll become... a serial killer."

[chaoticjoke]

Why so... stubborn?

Life would be so much easier for the poor little bat if he wasn't always been in constant denial. Well, maybe that's why it makes his every encounter with the Batman so much fun. The Batman is his only worthy opponent, both in physical and verbal fight.

No matter how hard the Dark Knight's trying to maintain his composure, the Agent of Chaos does know his arch-nemesis always puts his words into consideration, and getting under the bat's skin has always given Joker some sort of sadistic pleasure. He can do this all day.

"Wanna bet ?"

The Joker is the very worst of his adversaries because — because he is everything Bruce fears he could become. Might still become one day, if he loses the ironclad control he struggles to maintain every second of every day.

But saying it out loud, to the Joker no less, is unimaginable. Less so, is drawing back his fist to crack across the green-haired thug's cheek, but it's another good exercise in self control — only allowing himself a single flexing of his fist as he otherwise forces himself completely still.

"We have nothing in common." A flat out lie, and they both know it, but he'll take it rather than agreeing. Poking at the hornet's nest to give him one more reason to contain it.

[chaoticjoke]

@godresembled asked:

“You weren’t really going to say that, were you?” - batman

"...You know what your problem is, Bat-man ? You're uh, overanalyzing things. Put everything to quest-chun. You think too much. And that slows you down. Makes you vulnerable."

[chaoticjoke]

The Joker will go to any lengths only to get into the Bat Tumbler and make Batman take him for a ride with him. He's that hopeless.

[chaoticjoke]

Some of you have probably noticed how often Batman is mentioned in our threads, even unrelated to the events of The Dark Knight.

And that's because the Joker thinks about his arch-enemy all the time, or most of the time, the man dressed as a bat has forever invaded his stream of consciousness.

I don't make the rules.

[chaoticjoke]

@godresembled asked:

❛  is that how you say thank you?  ❜ from the 🦇

"Ya want me to kiss you or somethin'.. ? "

[chaoticjoke]

@thesharpestsmile see, Batman, he’s just a

[chaoticjoke]

Ah. Finally.

A smile full of triumph and relief is painted on the clown's face, black-rimmed eyes twinkling maliciously. He knew everything wasn't in vain. The pointy-eared vigilante just made him wait which wasn't very nice. The Agent of Chaos almost began to wonder if the Bat was sick or dead, or even worse, killed. Murdered by somebody else. The Joker imagined just how pissed he would get if that really happened. He'd unleash chaos and wreak havoc upon Gotham until it was completely burned to the ground. And yet that wouldn't even begin to cover his disappointment.

Every inch of his body electrified with adrenaline and anticipation as the Joker sees the familiar black silhouette approaching. It's impossible to stand still -- a myriad of violent and chaotic thoughts is flooding his mind, purple gloved fists clench and unclench, tongue runs over the mangled lips, again and again, as his dark gaze is focused straight on the Caped Crusader. The Joker doesn't blink as if afraid that his archenemy might disappear if he did. The Clown Prince of Crime can't afford that, now can he? Too risky.

The Batman makes him feel... intoxicated. The Batman. makes him. feel. Feel... different things. That's why he likes hates him so much. That's why their every encounter is so much fun. The Joker despises the sheer possibility of that fun ending one day. One bad day. He'd prefer it to continue as long as possible. Forever.

"About tiiiiime." Joker sing-songs sarcastically, fighting the urge to grin from ear to ear. He's missed his Bat so much. He knows, deep inside, the feeling is mutual.

"I knew you couldn't resist showing up," he wiggles his eyebrows, gloved hand casually pointing upwards. "especially after I fixed the Bat signal and gave it a little pizzazz."

Doesn’t even have his cowl on. Maybe that’s a risk. No need for ponderous introspection: he knows him. Knows his unpredictability (whatever way that can be known). Knows that there’s something churning in there, eating at him. Whatever fuels him, he won’t believe it’s just the flames. Watch the world burn. But he doesn’t just watch, he couldn’t. Bruce knows it.

But you won’t even use his name. (Well, maybe I would. If he gave one.)

A risk, yeah. Or maybe it’s funny. Spent all that time trying to get him unmasked, now Bruce is here, open. Out in open, waiting.

Then he sees. Soft, at first, his eyes that track the familiar shape and its nearby origin. Sees it stretch across the velvet black . . . betrayer-limbs unspooling.

Lights. Camera, action. . . .

That’s not funny. Because it’s weird, being up here, at home; yet in-between: one world that isn’t his own. And one that is, but can’t be.

Seeing that light that twisted smile puts the taste right back on the farthest corners of his tongue.

Movement. He is a blur. Lurch—    Shape of shadow suspiring against breeze. Breeze bending to shadow’s will.

Cowl is on. No face now. The man is gone, become the symbol—

<THERE>

—Their lurching is backwards—these faceless gunmen who’re posted up around the entrance/exit wherethrough a stair descends—pulled on a string. Yelps (not enough time to be shouts) pepper the static stillness, charging a frenzy. Their shadows disappear. Make way for a different kind of shadow.

But one almost gets him—as he twists off the brunt of his own attack there’s a glimpse of metal ‘cross his shoulder. Teething. Deflects it—he thinks Just barely, feeling of Close call that drives up his blood.

Eight weeks. That’s all?

Shadow sweeps out of focus, seemingly off the ledge. Nobody’s fooled. The Joker’s gunmen have their guns looking high, over the roof of that entrance, or maybe behind it, or maybe into the velvet fabric of night. There he is—somewhere. (Isn’t he?) Got to be.

The Batman.   Face a macabre, Venetian cavity where somewhere-eyes glitter, and they look, somehow, like teeth. Puncturing.

[chaoticjoke]

This is going even better than he could ever imagine. And imagine he did. Countless times. He'll cherish this moment till the rest of his days. The moment of truth. La piece de resistance.

Batman's (Bruce's?) face is absolutely priceless.

The Joker flicks his tongue to lick his lips, tastes copper -- yum. A few more angry blows from the Bat's fists and he might as well need another set of stitches on his signature smile.

It hurts to laugh.

"You...." he rasps, half-giggling, half-coughing. "You still don't get it, do ya?"

He won't be surprised that one or two of his ribs have been broken. Just because of one word. Five letters. B-R-U-C-E. Brucie. Brucie-boy. Ha.

Bruce here thinks he knows him, knows what stands behind his reasons and motifs, knows the way his brain operates. In fact, he doesn't know anything about him. He doesn't even know his name.

Bruce here is straddling him, pinning him down with his weight, holding his wrists -- very straightforward. Black-ringed eyes twinkling maliciously as he makes an unsuccessful attempt to shift himself a little, trying to adjust his body under the weight of the Dark Knight. This is personal now, Joker can tell, they're on a whole new level. Good.

"You and I? We're two of a kind. Two sides of the same coin. I see you. For who you really are. Think you're hiding behind the mask? No. You're hiding without it."

Bruce is a bad actor — because he's spent so long wearing the skin of an exceptional one.

Does Joker feel it, too? That onslaught of nervous-system fever when your performance, that deeper facade, falls too near to the real face? The one that's hidden away at the shallow surface?

Just like the Joker laughs, the Batman's rage is a snarl that batters the night, worsening the closer to the edge he gets — Which face is which? — edge of himself, where all that rage really is, because he doesn't know the answer — Which face is which?

“Care!” rasps from between his lips, a face like fury in animal skin inches from Joker's, “You dont care about anything—no one you hurt will ever hurt you, nothing you do will ever sate you, nothing you are will ever be anything . . .” Panting. All the freight-train fury seeps from the vague cedarwood breeze of his breathing, because suddenly it dies in his chest. “. . . and yet I'm the reason. . . .” Suddenly, he sounds like Bruce.

Confused. Capsized. Anguished. Alone.

The Batman has stopped. The gunfire has stopped. Bruce doesn't realize he's on top of the man, holding him down like his fingers might just disappear inside Joker's wrists. He doesnt realize how his own body shakes with its force. He sees green flecks in brown, dirty eyes.

“I'm the reason . . . that you're still out here. Is that it? Is that why you torment me?” Shaking. “How?”

There's a real face, and a fake one. So which one am I?

[chaoticjoke]

How long? How long? How about... forever?

It doesn't go unnoticed how Batman has metaphorically referred to their ultimate battle as 'song and dance'. A smirk twists Joker's mouth and he can't help but snicker at the Dark Knight's choice of words. Since when has the Bat become so poetic? Hearing Batman claim that he really knows him, sees him as no one else does, makes Joker raise an eyebrow and whistle suggestively at the remark. Oh, my. Color him impressed and intrigued. If Joker didn't know better, he'd take it as an act of... batflirting.

"Do ya really wanna know the answer, Bat-man?" The Joker tips his head forward as he slowly advances, a wide smile is spread over the jarred Glasgow grin carved on the clown's face.

"Welllll-ah. You see," he licked his lips. "I’m enjoying this uh, 'dance'. I really am." He pressed a gloved hand to his chest near his heart and nodded several times as a further confirmation that he's telling the truth. "Having the time of my life-ah."

What comes next happens within a span of mere seconds.

A blade emerges from his sleeve and the Joker lunges at the masked vigilante with brutal force, violently stabbing him into the anterior abdomen, the knife piercing a place between the plates of the Batsuit.

"And it's gonna last..." Joker twists the handle of the knife as he grabs Batman by the back of his neck in a deadly grip. The blade isn't too deep inside to do lethal harm to Batman's vital organs, but it has sure damaged the abdominal wall, severing the muscle and nerve tissue, leaving his archenemy in excruciating pain. "until you admit..." His low guttural voice turns into a dark menacing whisper as he locks his gaze with Batman's, their foreheads almost touching each other. "you’re enjoying it as much as I do."

➫ BRUCE had a way of aesthetics, if the suit wasn’t evidence enough of that, he liked to think he embodied justice; not only in the way he carried himself but the way he spoke too. And yes, when hearing himself talk on the surveillance tapes, sometimes he had to cringe too. Too much into the character, is the only conclusion he can come to as to why the Caped Crusader persona naturally takes over. The observation he makes later didn’t account for in the moment, however, so much adrenaline pumping through him so he doesn’t even notice how corny he sounds.

The Bat steps out from the shadows, having observed that he wouldn’t be ambushed and out numbered by his goons. It was just the two of them and unfortunately, whenever this happened, they had a long history of conversation. Like old friends trying to debate the philosophical issues of the day. It was the truly weird things about their long standing relationship, how an outsider could mistake it for contentment, a volatile contentment, but still.

“I’d think you would know me better than that, as well. I know you plenty, not as you’d have others see you, but as you really are. It’s a sad thing, your mask may be painted on but you keep it on so no body knows who you are. Just like me. I imagine we’ll be doing this song and dance long after everyone else has given up the fight.”

Not caving yet, he doesn’t want to admit that he would gladly fight Joker until his dying days, they were too similar, while being plat opposites. He stands back behind the other, cowl wrapped around him, if he had been hanging upside down he would have mimicked a bat perfectly. But this way he doesn’t pose a threat, not that he couldn’t become one if the clown decided to make a move. “How long are we going to do this dance?”

[chaoticjoke]

"Gotcha."

The rest in the world doesn't matter right now. The two of them are the only ones that truly matter. The rest is meaningless. The rest is chaos. And it's beautiful.

He desperately wishes this moment to last forever. It's just too precious. He wishes someone could snap a picture of the Bat, caught, trapped, caged.

Bruce is a bad actor. Joker can bet Bruce is terrible at playing poker, too. Except, there are no cards left to play anymore. No more words. The silent scene. Qui tacet consentire videtur. So, here comes the violence™. Predictable.

As soon as the Bat pounces the Joker is cackling maniacally, his body is ready, almost welcoming the upcoming blows. To say the Agent of Chaos is excited would be a terrible understatement. He is absolutely ecstatic, thrilled beyond words. He knew this glorious moment would eventually happen, the mere thought of it kept him going all those endless months. All worth it. No regrets.

The cackling only intensifies, mocking, going full crescendo, nothing will stop it unless his heart stops beating. Except even that won't be the end, because, Joker knows damn well, this is the kind of laughter that will haunt the Bat, ring in those pointy ears till the rest of his days. He's planted it too deep.

"Wait--" Joker pants, lungs desperately gasping for breath. It seems like every inch of his body, every bone, has been poked and beaten with red-hot iron. Too much rage just because of one word. What a drama queen. So extra. "I don't care!"

Should've noticed it. Picked up what the silence was spelling out, like lights in a theater ceiling going low, low, gone, Get ready for the show.

The Bat is panting. Sore from the rasping texture of his own conflicts, reaching their boiling points. He should be tired — he should be exhausted. He should mean what he said. No more games.

Panting isn't tired. Conflict isn't tired. It's rage.

And then it takes him a second — precious seconds. The color in his macabre face, just bleeding out. All the color in the world gone dry.

'Bruce.'

Bruce is yanked straight out his last flimsy sense of anonymity. Bruce gets ice around his neck and an electric bolt up his spine. Bruce shouldn't be here, the Bat doesn't want him.

Bruce is a little boy again. Hazel-brown eyes have never looked so terrified.

DUT-DUT-DUT, gunfire lights the shadow, and it's just one of Joker's goons flinching on the trigger but suddenly the shadows are growling back, rippling like the noise of so many wings. Bruce The Bat The Dark Knight grows against palette of night, morphs into a terror of his own. Bruce's face beneath the cowl is split in some Hellish frenzy. Grows and keeps on growing, then he's —

— There, crashing against the one and only man who is his waking nightmare.

The Bat's Kevlar arm swipes up on a collision course for Joker's throat. He feels nothing except a distant force. A blur. He's shoving forward across the roof, doesn't even hear the lethal growling caged within his own chest, doesn't stop for goons or bullets or caution. Powerful legs and senseless grit. He doesn't stop.

[chaoticjoke]

Question: What's the purpose of the joker card? Why do they even include joker cards in every deck?

Funny how one minute can compensate for countless days. Months. A minute of his quality time with the Dark Knight. The Joker's savoring every moment of it, watching Batman like a hawk, seeing through him as if his armor was a translucent veil.

No matter how good your cards are if your can't read your opponent.

He can read Batman like a book. Here comes that raspy voice, that telltale growl -- ooh, the Bat is mad -- good, we're hitting the nerve here. Let's keep going.

Here come the accusations, questions. Angry ones. The Bat's always trying to analyze him, understand his motives, follow his twisted logic. How cute. But foolish. 'What did it steal?' 'What did they steal?' You.

Blind as a bat. Now he's starting to get what that's about. Think you've found a plausible answer, a solution? Not even close, detective. But we're close to the punchline. You're about to see.

Why is joker the strongest card in the deck?

His words are merely a whisper.

Answer: Here's why. Watch.

"Oh, but you're already playing, Bruce."

And I've already won.

For most, 'too much' is having nothing to go on when your boss leaves you stranded like a fish out of water to finalize quotas on your own. 'Too much' is when an old friend tells you they slept with somebody you may or may not've had a 'thing' for. Or when an old lover reveals they'd been cheating, just to watch bullet hit mark.

No one else would be caught dead across (— above, technically —) Gotham's 'Clown Prince' if they could help it. No one else would care to try.

“A chance?” (Now it's a growl, because he can't stand it, the theatrical smugness, the delusional swagger, impossible to understand —) “That's what you call this? Breaking out of your padded sell to pay the city back — for what? What did it steal, what did they ever steal, from you?”

As if the same questions couldn't be shot back at the defamed Bat himself.

'No one else cares.' Hits him like a shuriken in the dark. Might've crushed the breath right out — except he finds he hadn't been breathing enough to start.

Four words. Bury them, forget it, forget Bruce. Four words to spell out the pit of yawning empty that nestles, bruised, somewhere inside his body under Kevlar layers.

“I know why you think you'll always think you have an edge,” shapes in the darkness rumble, deflecting, while goons below his perch fail at frail attempts not to fidget, “It's because they let you get in their heads. I won't play your games, Joker.”

Might even be the first time he's spoken Joker's 'name' to his chalk-white face. Yet he's too occupied regretting his own words to notice —

Some denials are just self-condemnation, masquerading as the opposite.