A/N: Well, here it is, ladies and gents - a longer update as promised, dealing thematically with situations I have never before approached. It gets pretty hot :) Please review! Thank you so much for all your kind words - E N J O Y !
Disclaimer: I do not own Commissioner Gordon, Batman, or the Joker - just Tori and the plot.
Victoria's apartment was the victim of a crime scene investigation extraordinaire. The small space swarmed with policemen, detectives and nosy neighbors either being questioned or wanting a piece of the action.
"I didn't even hear her door open," one wonderfully unhelpful neighbor told the police. "Of course, if she wasn't hammerin' away on that god-awful instrument all the live-long day, maybe then I woulda heard if some freak in make-up was makin' his way up there …"
"I heard the explosion and I came right over," another stressed neighbor commented agitatedly. "I knocked and knocked and knocked … but she wouldn't answer the door!" They obviously had their sequence of events slightly muddled.
And of course, everywhere, awed and terrified whispers of 'The Joker' sliced through the air… no one could seem to believe that the madman had been in their building. In the most demented way, a mild sense of fame and celebrity hung in the air, adorning the inhabitants of the complex with a sense of pride nearly as demented as the man who inspired it.
In the midst of the unholy mess stood Commissioner Gordon, the unfortunate victim of a raging headache. Mercifully, it had been a good long while since he had felt this low – but to be realistic, the Joker had been in Arkham for that interval of time, and therefore Gordon and the force had automatically been spared. But now, it seemed that the maniac was back and in full swing.
It scared Gordon more than he was willing to admit; that the police had no idea what the Joker was planning. Usually, by now, they would have received one of his infamous home videos, or some sort of bloody trail, or any lead of any kind. But this time – nothing. Nothing but the threat and disappearance of one young woman, who was seemingly unconnected to anything.
Gordon knew he had done a terrible wrong by not giving Victoria Simon better protection from the force. It was a marked slide in his standard of care – he usually didn't take stupid risks like that. It had been downright selfish, what he'd done, using the innocent girl as bait like that. But without Batman, running the force was a different experience. He found himself taking measures he would, in a better frame of mind and a better state of Gotham, have deemed foolish and irresponsible. Without Batman … things seemed utterly hopeless. He sighed and angrily willed away the tears that threatened to fall.
He sunk into the nearest seat, the bench of Victoria's piano, and picked up a few sheets of manuscript paper. Flicking through them, he surveyed some of the young pianist's compositions. So young …
This time, he couldn't stop the tears from forming. Tears of disappointment, rage, despair. Closing his eyes, he swore to himself they would find her. He couldn't let the Joker unravel Gotham again.
--
The pianist in question was currently attempting to clear her mind and focus in on her performance. She seized and hung onto the first song that emerged from her consciousness, wryly thinking that she was about to give the performance of her life. Or rather, the performance for her life.
The song that flowed out was, curiously, Joni Mitchell's 'A Case of You.' As she began to sing in her bluesy tone, she noticed the Joker tilt his head and lean back slightly, regarding her with that impenetrable, evaluative stare.
As accomplished a performer as she was, Victoria was painfully self-conscious while she played. It was something she had never quite managed to overcome from her teenage years, and as a result, was always unsettled when people sat too close to her while she was at the piano. So, as the presence of the average person looming over her shoulder flustered her, having a homicidal, sociopathic clown at her elbow came as more than a bit of a shock. Especially while she was wearing nothing but a thin nightgown. Still, fighting against her body's natural urge to tense up and flee, she rose to the occasion and played stunningly. Her warm, honeyed voice rang out through the echoing room as the piano softly accompanied.
Finally having the opportunity to observe her performance's effect on the Joker firsthand, she stole a glance at him. By now, he had made his interest in her abundantly clear, and she was keen to see the effect of music on his infinitely complex mind. The fact that he felt so connected to it was just one more thing that drew her to him, against her will and better judgment. Turning her head slightly, her eyes met his piercing gaze.
His eyes, as usual, smoldered dangerously, two bright coals that threatened to set the world ablaze. However, as she sang and continued to stare into them, something about the fiery pits changed. It was strange – they seemed to grow darker and almost liquidate as the song progressed. The concentration in them continued to rise perilously high, and she had to look away for fear that it would slice her in two.
When she dared to look again a minute later, she was startled to see that his eyes were closed and his head was leaning back. His slender frame swayed gently, not to the beat of the music but to some seemingly internal rhythm. She was amazed – his usually excessively energized features were no longer analyzing, appraising, manipulating. He looked so content, so at peace. Relaxing slightly, she let her eyes fall elsewhere as she immersed herself in the piece of music.
But this was the Joker she was dealing with, and she was making an enormous oversight by assuming that his features mirrored his inner thoughts. In contrast, his scarred visage betrayed absolutely none of what he was feeling.
The Joker was in a state of internal chaos. It was an experience utterly foreign to him – he had never been on the receiving end of disorder, least of all disorder of an emotional nature. He didn't like the idea of falling victim to anything, let alone a feeling of this nature, but at the same time was obtaining an almost perverse enjoyment from it.
All because of this girl, the hypnotic quality of her musical ability, and her unbridled passion that turned to lust in his mind … She was under his skin in a way that no one had ever been – he almost felt controlled, and, shit …he almost liked it …
Oh you are in my blood like holy wine
Yes, he had heard her play and had heard her play again, but he had never been this close to her while she was working her magic. Her effect was painfully, deliciously intoxicating. He had never felt so drawn to anyone or anything before, and was suddenly overcome by an inexplicable need to touch her, taste her.
Oh and you taste so bitter but you taste so sweet
Confused, he tried to combat the urge, but nearly everything in his being was screaming that he would break apart completely if he didn't make physical contact. Reaching towards her, his hand froze suddenly, for a reason he couldn't articulate to himself. But he didn't have to – his body's motive became instantly clear.
Oh I could drink a case of you...
Seeming to move with a mind of its own, the fingers of his other hand gingerly, gently tugged off the leather glove covering the other. Releasing a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, his cool, dry hands met soft flesh as he trailed his artistic fingers along her delicate swan's neck. He heard her breathing hitch; and yet she continued to sing. Good girl.
Caressing her jaw line, he was eerily fascinated by the rhythmic movement of her mouth around the lyrics and was excited to see her eyes drift slowly shut.
I could drink a case of you, darling
She lazily tilted her head back, clearly savoring his touch, and the submissive gesture caused a growl to rise from his throat.
And I would still be on my feet
He didn't want the song to end, but at the same time he couldn't wait for it to finish so he could have his wicked way with her. She was an infuriating combination of teasing aphrodisiac and a manifestation of sex all at the same time. He could barely contain himself … he was dying to hear her scream.
Oh I'd still be on my feet
The last few bars of the song seemed a sweetly agonizing eternity to him as he shifted his body onto the bench next to her. Taking hold of a fistful of her curls, he trailed his tongue along the outside of her ear, reveling in her unreadable shudder, before speaking.
"Still be on your feet, eh?" he whispered huskily. "Something tells me you'd be flat on your ba-ck." The last syllable cracked like a whip across her skin. He regretted not being able to see her eyes as her body gave off another shudder, more pronounced this time. A quick smile flashed across his focused face before he finally began to fulfill his urges.
In one movement, he jerked her head backwards by her hair and covered her cry of pain with his mouth. He forced his tongue into her mouth with a groan of predatory satisfaction, eagerly exploring the source of the mournful, elegiac melodies that held and twisted him so mercilessly.
"Come on, come on," he thought impatiently, anticipating her body's response. She remained relatively passive – reciprocating, yes, but not in the wild way that he craved. His countless fantasies of her wild passion played through his mind like a filmstrip run at hyper speed. He was almost sure that the untamed creature he had seen behind the piano would come out when called … and if this wasn't calling, he didn't know what was. He certainly couldn't have been wrong in his analyses of her.
Would he be able to provoke her into it, perhaps? His constantly moving fingers clenched deeper into her hair, as he ravaged her mouth with increasing ferociousness. It was like waiting for a bomb to go off. Story of his life. Oh, the irony.
Time to kick it up a notch …
Taking her bottom lip in between his teeth, he bit down hard. As his mouth filled with her blood, he felt rather than heard her gasp. It was like he had flicked on a fucking switch.
Her hands shot up behind him and wound themselves tightly into his stringy, green-tinged strands as her mouth matched his in intensity. Now that was more like it.
The tension of her grip impressed him – she was, after all, a piano player, so it shouldn't have come as too much of a shock. What else were those hands capable of? Something about this thought, combined with the painful burning in his scalp and the throbbing bulge in his pants, caused something to snap within him.
Enough with the preliminaries – it was time for the main attraction. Untangling his long fingers from her hair with slight difficulty, he withdrew his mouth from hers and pushed her shoulders down, effectively lying her down on the piano bench. Straddling her, his stomach jumped in excitement when she made an unexpected move. Staring straight into his eyes, she grasped his elbows and lurched, throwing them both to the cold, concrete floor.
He yelped in pleasure and giggled frenetically, murmuring nasally, "Ooh, I think I've found me a good one." Pinning her to the ground and reaching to undo his pants, his hair hung in ropes around his face as he regarded her, licking his lips licentiously.
"Now lie back, Tori-girl … this won't hurt a bi-t."
Words couldn't express the sense of depraved delight that flooded through him as the ever-unpredictable Victoria uttered a sound somewhere between a giggle of pleasure and a moan of fear.
Dragging her nightdress up her hips and yanking her panties aside, he looked down at her with satisfaction. He had been right about her. The poor thing wouldn't know what hit her … but she was going to love it.
