Who could possibly look at this man, at Batman, and see anything submissive? Patient, yes. Passive even, okay, maybe, sure, in the same way a monstrous spider might be said to be passive while waiting in its web. But submissive? Not on your life.
The Batman Joker knows is all muscle and cunning, all fists and blood and stubbornness. He's implacable. Relentless. Worthy.
The thought of him doing any of the things Joker has seen submissives doing here... Batman, kneeling beside his master on a train. Batman, collared and leashed, clambering about on all fours like a dog. Batman, with his eyes downcast, nodding obediently so that he might receive another tender murmuring of "good boy" from some half-wit who has no idea what sort of treasure she has in him. Unthinkable.
And that they did it to him in his sleep! When he couldn't even fight back, couldn't show them how very, very wrong they had it.
It should be funny, Joker knows. It should be hilarious, really, the kind of side-splitter that goes down in the annals of comedy classics to be cherished for always.
Instead, he can feel the knowledge summoning in him a need for violence so intense it's like a physical thing, tightening his chest and making his fingers begin to twitch.
And somehow the idea of Batman accepting and playing along with all of this because it's useful makes the whole thing just that much worse. Because he can see that, actually. Batman on his knees, degraded and debased, telling himself how very, very useful this humiliation will be. No one pays much mind to lapdogs, now, do they?
"Useful," he repeats, and there's the faintest tremor of rage threading through it. "Oh, I'm sure it is."
Something drips onto his glove with a soft, sticky plop, and Joker remembers the popsicle. His upper lip curls into a muted snarl, and he flicks his wrist, letting the popsicle land in a sloppy purple puddle in front of the shop's door. Then his gaze snaps back to Batman, and he sees him afresh.
The movie star face. The outfit. The disguise that shouldn't fool a child, yet somehow seems to fool the whole world.
Bruce, he realizes. These bozos thought they were getting Bruce.
Bruce Wayne, a submissive? Now that, Joker could believe. Nothing about Bruce was ever threatening, after all. Never commanding, never challenging, never doing or saying anything that might make anyone think he had two interesting thoughts to rub together in that entire noggin of his. That was, after all, the entire point.
Joker shakes his head again, and when his eyes find Bats's now, they're full of an incredulity that can't seem to decide if it's affectionate or loathing. "So you're just going with it," he marvels. And now he does advance, slow and easy, as if his entire body isn't coiled tighter than a spring in a grenade. "And whose little lap-bat are you, pray tell?"
He can find out for himself, of course. But he wants to see the look on Bats's face when the name is spoken.
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Who could possibly look at this man, at Batman, and see anything submissive? Patient, yes. Passive even, okay, maybe, sure, in the same way a monstrous spider might be said to be passive while waiting in its web. But submissive? Not on your life.
The Batman Joker knows is all muscle and cunning, all fists and blood and stubbornness. He's implacable. Relentless. Worthy.
The thought of him doing any of the things Joker has seen submissives doing here... Batman, kneeling beside his master on a train. Batman, collared and leashed, clambering about on all fours like a dog. Batman, with his eyes downcast, nodding obediently so that he might receive another tender murmuring of "good boy" from some half-wit who has no idea what sort of treasure she has in him. Unthinkable.
And that they did it to him in his sleep! When he couldn't even fight back, couldn't show them how very, very wrong they had it.
It should be funny, Joker knows. It should be hilarious, really, the kind of side-splitter that goes down in the annals of comedy classics to be cherished for always.
Instead, he can feel the knowledge summoning in him a need for violence so intense it's like a physical thing, tightening his chest and making his fingers begin to twitch.
And somehow the idea of Batman accepting and playing along with all of this because it's useful makes the whole thing just that much worse. Because he can see that, actually. Batman on his knees, degraded and debased, telling himself how very, very useful this humiliation will be. No one pays much mind to lapdogs, now, do they?
"Useful," he repeats, and there's the faintest tremor of rage threading through it. "Oh, I'm sure it is."
Something drips onto his glove with a soft, sticky plop, and Joker remembers the popsicle. His upper lip curls into a muted snarl, and he flicks his wrist, letting the popsicle land in a sloppy purple puddle in front of the shop's door. Then his gaze snaps back to Batman, and he sees him afresh.
The movie star face. The outfit. The disguise that shouldn't fool a child, yet somehow seems to fool the whole world.
Bruce, he realizes. These bozos thought they were getting Bruce.
Bruce Wayne, a submissive? Now that, Joker could believe. Nothing about Bruce was ever threatening, after all. Never commanding, never challenging, never doing or saying anything that might make anyone think he had two interesting thoughts to rub together in that entire noggin of his. That was, after all, the entire point.
Joker shakes his head again, and when his eyes find Bats's now, they're full of an incredulity that can't seem to decide if it's affectionate or loathing. "So you're just going with it," he marvels. And now he does advance, slow and easy, as if his entire body isn't coiled tighter than a spring in a grenade. "And whose little lap-bat are you, pray tell?"
He can find out for himself, of course. But he wants to see the look on Bats's face when the name is spoken.