Sorry bout the slow update. Work, yanno? The real world sucks, that's why I try to spend as much time as I can in other, more fictitious ones... Even if it's the sullen, gloomy world of Gotham City.
So, I really like this one. This chapter is inspired by My Purple Skies fic 'An Agent of Chaos'. So, if you have read her fic, you may see some similarities, if you haven't read it, go friggin do it! Her Joker is bomb diggity!
Anyways, on with chapter 10! Tonnes of Mr. Purple Pants in this one, folks!
Disclaimer: I don't own TDK, but if I did... *rubs hands together deviously *
Chpt.10 The Seat Behind the Wheel
You have set something in motion; Much greater than you've ever known; Standing there in all you're grand naivety; About to reap what you have sown~ Nine Inch Nails
We've been driving for over fifteen minutes or so, and despite myself I feel immensely awkward. But I'm sure so do all the other hostages. It's quiet except for whistling coming from the back. The Joker has finally managed to button his undershirt most of the way (he has about three buttons left to, well, button), and his waistcoat is hanging off him, completely unbuttoned. At the moment he has a foot propped against the seat in front of him, and he's putting on his worn loafers. I can't help but notice his zany, argyle socks.
Who wears argyle anymore?
After he had let go of DeYoung, the Joker had fallen back into silence, apart from whistling eerily cheery ditties. The lady beside DeYoung, who I assume knows him well (daughter? patient? much younger wife or girlfriend?) as quietly as she could freaked out over the laceration in DeYoung's cheek, which has only now stopped bleeding. Another doctor, after getting Maul's permission (who first looked to the head honcho, and he had nodded) went over to look at DeYoung's wound. He cleaned it as best he could, and is now attempting to stitch it up.
I grimace and look away, shuffling through my satchel. My heart drops into my stomach when I see I had grabbed the Folder. I don't remember why, but I think I had wanted it along for something only semi-important. If the wrong person- well anyone, but namely a certain anarchist- gets their hands on the Folder I am so totally screwed.
"You got any gum?" Brant asks me out of the blue, moistening his chapped lips. I nod and pull out three packs; Stride peppermint, 5 Gum cinnamon and Excel spearmint. I like having fresh breath, plus it stops me from biting my nails when I'm nervous.
"Which one?" I whisper very quietly, and Brant points to the spearmint gum. I pass him a piece, and pop one into my mouth as well, and proceed to bite my nails.
I'm pretty friggin' stressed.
Minutes stretch by, and the silence is starting to get to me. Well, not complete silence. In the back, the clown has moved onto whistling something that sounds kind of like 'Pop goes the Weasel'. I have my iPod in my bag, but I don't know if I'd get in trouble for listening to it...
Jeezus, it's like we're- the hostages and I- are taking an exam and the clowns are our teachers.
No cell phones
No talking
No cheating
All we need now is a time period in which we have to complete out exam, and thinking about it, I realize out time period is probably very short. And running out.
So you know what, if I'm going to be a pawn in some grand anarchical scheme, I sure as hell am going to listen to my music. I mean, hell, what have I got to lose?
...
Actually, I can think of a lot of things, but fuck it, I don't care (that much).
I dig through my bag, pulling out my brick-like iPod, and I untangle my blue headphones before putting one of the buds in my ear.
"Can I listen?" Brant inquires, eyeing my other ear bud. I hide my grimace; I don't like sharing headphones, because the prospect of intermingling ear-wax freaks me out a little. But, I take pity on the poor kid, because this situation sucks for him just as much as it sucks for me. I hand him the other ear bud, and he sticks it into his ear really far. I wrinkle my nose briefly, then begin scrolling down my songs. I want to help myself relax so I think I'll choose something a little light...
"I'll choose," Brant says, snatching the iPod from me. My brow creases and I quirk my lips, displeased by these events. I wince when the song he chooses blares into my ear.
Great, it's Bodies, by Drowning Pool. Why do I even have this song? I hate screamo and metal. Plus the whispering at the beginning scares me. But, Brant seems content; he bobs his head, his hair bouncing around like a classic head-banger. So, I'll give him this one.
But next ones mine.
~/~
Three minutes later, I'm deciding between Michael Buble or Regina Spektor, when a voice barks a few seats from me.
"Oi! Whaddya doing?" It's the mean looking goon that had collected our phones earlier. I widen my eyes, in an attempt to look innocent. It doesn't work because he comes lumbering over, his stance intimidating and his brutish face curled into a sneer.
"Give that to me," Meanie orders, thrusting his meaty palm toward me. I frown and pull my ear bud out.
"Why? It's just an iPod," I return defiantly, which I'm sure isn't smart but I'm really protective of my portable music box. I mean, honestly, why is my listening to my iPod his issue? It's one of the very first editions, so it's not like it can connect to the internet or that fancy-shmancy stuff that the newer iPod's can do.
"Just give it to him, Marjorie," Brant says under his breath. Yes, I gave him one of my, and I realize the most used, aliases. I look at him, mouth slightly agape.
Why that little mo-fo!
Stupid kid just betrayed me! What the hell? I mean, I shared my headphones with him! If that isn't a bonding and trust exercise, then I don't know what is.
"You heard the pip-squeak," Meanie leers, showing off chipped, crooked teeth, "Hork it over," He flexes his clammy paw, and the thought of my precious iPod in his beefy hand makes me shudder.
"Really, it's not a big deal. Look at it, it's a brick! It's only function is music, honest to god. Plus, it doesn't even have giga-bites, it's so old that it runs on mega-bites or whatever. Every time I get a new song I have to erase like... Five old ones..."
I'm blabbing, but seriously, the thought of this meat-head taking my iPod has me real stressed out.
"Listen, bitch, just give me the fuckin' iPod!" Meanie spits, his voice rising threateningly. I raise my brow at the insult, but really, petty words like bitch, slut, whore, etcetera, don't affect me. They're just words. Degrading, sure, but those kinds of words don't do anything to me 'cos I know I'm not them... Well, at least not a slut or whore. A word should only affect a person if the word describes who they are. And even if I am a bitch, so what? Maybe I like being a bitch.
But I digress.
"Listen, you over grown meatball-" I begin, but my mouth clicks shut when laughter, clowny laughter, reaches my ears.
"Children, children," I wrinkle my nose at the mockingly chiding tone, "No fight-tah-ing, no bit-tah-ing," I don't look up. I refuse to. I plop my iPod into my bag, and hold it close, looking out the window stubbornly.
"U-uh, boss, she, uh..." Meanie stutters, and I smile a little, but it's gone in a second.
"Now, Dee," the Joker sighs condescendingly, "Is that any way to treat-tah a, uh, a lady? Hm?"
My knight in purple armour
"But, boss, she was bein-" Meanie, or rather, Dee (what the hell is with these names?) tries but the Joker shushes him, and begins speaking him in too low a voice for me to hear. Beside me I can feel Brant trembling, and sneaking a glance I see he's staring at the Joker with an odd mixture or fear and wonder, not unlike one would feel when meeting a famous person. My eye twitches in disgust for the boy I had semi-befriended.
I needa pick better friends.
I hear Dee let out a shuddery breath, and utter an apology, then he stomps away. I hear someone tossing their saliva, and my breathing becomes harsher as I realize the Joker is still here.
And he knows I'm here.
So, so, so, soooooooo screwed
Goosebumps cover my arms as the familiar sense of fear that the clown brings fills me, but at the same time a warm feeling in my stomach begins to simmer. That, I suppose, is my fury toward the clown resurfacing. Hot and cold flashes wave over me, and I'll say it's not the most comfortable feeling.
"Hey," The Joker says, but I don't think he's addressing me, "Small fry," He's talking to Brant. I can feel Brant trembling beside me. He's scooting closer to me, like I'll offer him some protection. Wish I could, kid, but in all honestly, what can I do? Besides, the little bugger did semi-betray me.
"Scoot," the Joker barks, and beside me Brant is yanked away. I flinch when he yelps in fear, but I don't allow myself to turn to see what's going on. I do, however, press myself against the window as someone, much bigger and ultimately more intimidating than Brant, slides in beside me. The fire in my stomach climbs up to my chest, but at the same time my breathing is shallow in fear. I'm amazed at how bold I was the last time I saw the Joker. Both times I mean. When we were in the Cage and the squad car. But, I suppose while in the Cage I thought perhaps the cops could help me if need be, and in the police car I was a little loopy from likely being slightly concussed. I hunch my shoulders up when I feel humid breath near my ear.
What is with this guy and invading personal bubbles?
"Two days in a row, huh?" the Joker states smugly into my ear, and I can feel his arm pressed against mine. I can tell he still isn't wearing his over coat; I can feel the silkiness of his periwinkle undershirt against my arm.
"You still sure all this is co-in-ci-dence-sah?" his mouth brushes against my earlobe, his hair intermingling with mine. But I refuse to look at him. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll explode and rip him a new one. I want more than anything to rage at this man for killing Rachel and ruining Harvey, but this is hardly the place. So, I'll wait until we're of this bus, and until we're alone, (although I hope I won't be alone with him). I grit my teeth when he lifts an arm and rests it against the back of the seat, the tips of his fingers just barely brushing my shoulder. I shrug my shoulder, trying to shake him off, but he retaliates my gripping my shoulder, crushing it in his hand. I growl under my breath, and he chuckles quietly.
"Mmm," the Joker hums against the hair by my temple, "Why so... furious-suh, Green Eyes?" he sounds calm, but I can hear the subtle bite in his tone.
"Go away," I whisper bitterly, barely keeping my anger in check, but at the same time making sure I don't shake in fear at how close he is to me. I feel him turn in his seat, so he's facing me, and his hand crawls to my face, brutally turning it so I look at him. I slice my eyes to his, contempt wrinkling my brow. His tunnel eyes rove my face, pondering me. I assess him too; his make-up is messy, as usual, and he still hasn't buttoned his shirt all the way. His tie hangs loosely around his neck, and his vest is still open. Only one suspender is up over his shoulder. I try to jerk away but his grip on my jaw tightens to the point of it being painful.
"Go... Away?" he echoes, like he doesn't quite understand, "Why?"
"I don't want you near me," I reply quietly, inhaling sharply through my nose to keep calm. He sucks on the inside of his right cheek, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. He brings his face close to mine, his nose almost touching mine.
"And, why is that-tuh?" he inquires tilting his head to one side slightly, glaring at me from beneath his brow.
"Shouldn't it be obvious?" I snap, "You're a homicidal maniac. Why would I ever want to willingly be near you? You are poison. A toxic human being, and I don't want you around me," my voice is all venom and acid, but I keep it quiet, just in case anyone is watching, which I'm they are. I can feel eyes on us, and I swallow hard. The Joker blinks at me, then smirks lethally.
"Ohhh, I gettit. You're, ah, you're upset about Dent-tah and Mizz Dawes, aren'cha?" he guesses, raising a chalky eyebrow, arrogance all too evident in his erratic voice. I bite my tongue to keep from retorting. We can't have this conversation here. So, I change the subject.
"So... Any special reason why you decided to blow up a hospital?"
And why the heck in a nurse outfit?
"Blackmail, I suppose," he answers, allowing the change in dialogue, and relaxing back into his seat, his hand un-curling from my face. He keeps his other hand on my shoulder though, "Someone wanted to rat out Bat-uh Man, so I said if someone didn't, ah, kill him, I'd blow up-pah a hospital. As you've probably guessed-duh, no one killed the rat," he licks his lips lazily, keeping his eyes on my face.
"Don't you want to know who he is?" I ask, a little peeved. I mean, I thought the reason for his little crusade was because he wanted to know who the Batman was. Isn't that why he killed Brian Douglas and all those others?
"Oh, I do," he says reverently, pulling me closer to him. I hunch my shoulders again, trying to gain any distance I can.
"But-tah not by some, uh, guy who sim-pah-ly wants his fifteen minutes of fame-ah," he tells me, squeezing my shoulder in what I think is an effort to un-hunch it. I do, but I keep the other one up.
"No, no, that would be, ah..." he tongues the corner of his mouth contemplatively, "Lazy," he decides with short nod of his head.
"Y'see," he goes on, leaning into me like he wants to tell me a secret, "I want the Bat-uh Man to, ah, be the one to tell the world. To admit to himself that he is human. Just. Like. The rest of us,"
I mull over his words. I find they disgust me. I think he wants to break the Batman, and that makes me feel sick. The Batman just wants to keep this city safe and uphold justice, all that jazz, and this monster beside me would take that away. I may not like this city, it may not have many redeeming qualities, but I don't want to condemn it, and I think Gotham needs the Batman.
"What will you do if you ever figure out Batman's identity?" I whisper, lowering my eyes to my lap. I see that my hands are shaking, so I clench them into fists. The Joker shrugs carelessly.
"Dunno... But I'll think-kuh of something," he promises darkly. I shudder and he chuckles, stroking his thumb along one of my collar bones.
"What are you gonna do with the hostages?" I ask, looking over my shoulder to see if I can spot Brant. I do; he's sitting where the Joker used to be, watching us with wide blue eyes. He doesn't look afraid, but rather amazed and marvelled.
Looks like the clown actually has liberated someone
That Brant, cute innocent little Brant may actually believe in the Joker's words fills me with an odd sense of melancholy. That's the problem with teens, they are so easily manipulated.
I mean, look at Hitler's Youth.
"I, ah, guess you'll just hafta wait. And. See," the Joker smirks, moving his hand higher to lightly hold the side of my neck. His bare hand is extremely warm, and it feels uncomfortable against my goosebumps. Worry for Brant and the other hostages makes the fire in my chest recede back into my stomach, where it simmers quietly. Dormant, for now. But, the fear rises, making even my tightly clenched fists shake, and shivers run through me.
"Let us go," I plead quietly, biting my lip as it begins to tremble. His other hand places three fingers under my chin, chucking my chin up. He puckers his lips mockingly, like he's actually thinking my request over.
"Wouldn't that be a little, uh, redundant-tuh?" he exposes his teeth in a wolfish smile. My heart sinks, and my lips twitch with my need to beg more. But I don't; I'll keep whatever dignity I have, thanks. The Joker's smile suddenly falls, and he scowls.
"You're, uh, you're wearin' those contacts again," he pulls at the skin under my left eye with the tip of a finger. Right, I had forgotten that I'm still in costume; Still Vee.
"You should, ehm, take 'em out-tah," it sounds like a suggestion, but I have enough sense to know it's a direct order. I sigh, but pull away from him, and he allows it. Using the window to help me, I take out the navy contacts, then I put them into a pocket in my satchel. A hot hand returns to my neck, and I turn back to the Joker, only to jolt when I see his face is inches from mine. He drags my face closer, and proceeds to lick me- lick me!- , from the bottom of my chin, over my lips, to the bridge of my nose. I squeak loudly and thrust myself away from him, plastering my back to the window. My chest is heaving, my eyes are wild, and the saliva on my face is unpleasantly warm.
What. The. Fuck. Was. That?
He laughs, loud and shrill, at my terrified, as well as vastly confused, expression. I flinch noticeably when his finger touches the skin beneath my mouth, prodding my flesh.
"I, ah-heh," he says through self-pleased chuckles, "I was just wiping off the eyeliner,"
Eyeliner... Oh, the beauty mark
My mouth drops open in horror at the absurd reason behind his actions. He snickers, the sound throaty and low, and collects both my wrists into his hands. I don't resist, still numb with horror, as he pulls me toward him by my wrists. He rubs the skin beneath my lip with the back of one of his knuckles, his mirth-filled eyes drilling into my incredibly wide ones. He stops rubbing my skin, and simply cups my chin in his hand. His eyes take in the details of my horror-struck face; from my gaping mouth, to quivering eyelashes, and then to the line of his saliva on my face. I can feel it drying on my face, and I'm reminded of a fire hydrant being peed on by a dog.
I feel marked. My eye twitches.
My breathing stops when he begins inclining toward me.
Is he...
His mouth is centimetres from mine when I shoot up out of my seat and his grasp. Feeling much like a deer freaking out while trying to escape a wolf, I attempt to bolt outta there, only for the bus to go over a bump, causing me to topple over. Hands catch me around my waist, yanking me back before I can face-plant. The momentum of being ricocheted as such makes me topple again.
...Right into the deranged clown's lap.
His howls of mirth register to my ears long before my predicament registers to my brain. By the time it does, the Joker's got my hands in one of his, and his other hand is wrapped tightly around the small of my back.
I'm good and stuck.
The bus jostles more, and I fall forward again, face-planting into the Joker's clavicles. I can feel the rumbles of ill-contained laughter in his chest, humming against mine.
"Well, hello there, Rumy dearest," he whispers huskily, his thumb stroking against the inside of one of my wrists; on the pulse point. I'm breathing heavily; huge bursts of minty (I managed not to swallow my gum when I fell) puffs hit into the Joker's collar. I wriggle as best I can, but his grip is tight and I'm trapped. My legs are bent at the knee on either side of him, so I'm straddling him. I feel like a stripper giving a costumer a lap dance.
"Lemme go," I say with as much strength as I can, but my voice wavers with fear. He's too warm, too strong, too malevolent. I want to go back to my apartment, back to my bed.
Back to my old life.
"Hummmm," he murmurs, resting the side of his face against the top of my head, "No, I'm good, thanks," I can practically feel his smile. He tugs me closer to him, so my face is practically squished against the base of his neck. I can feel eyes on us more than ever. And gossiping whispers reach and taunt my ears. I whimper low in my throat, and he hushes me, rubbing his chin gently on the top my head. His hand makes circles on my back, and the skin that his hands touch sear with the heat of his hands. His hand releases mine, but they are squished between us, rendered useless. He reaches up and runs his hands through my hair.
Petting me, like I'm his dog.
Like I'm his bitch.
"Yanno," he says quietly, for my ears alone, "I'm us-ual-ly more, ah, into red-duh heads," he tweaks a strand of honey-coloured hair, chuckling to himself, " I mean, all that scah-reamy coloured hair all over, the tempers... Not to mention they, uh, they bleed a lot. Didja know that? Ginger's blood is us-ual-ly thinner than other peoples," he curls that strand of hair around a long finger, "But, there's this... Something about you," he presses his stained lips to my temple, his green-blond hair falling into my face. I'm trembling and panting, but he likely doesn't care because he goes on.
"Could be that, uh, knack you have for gettin' into trouble," he muses, his words burning on my skin. The hand in my hair travels down, tracing the outside of my ear, before dipping and trailing down a large vain in my neck. I try to rear back but the hand on my back pushes against me, knocking our hips together.
"Or may-ah-be it's that funny little habit-tuh of yours to act like you're not afraid when, uh, clearly you are," his scorching fingers trace my clavicles and I close my eyes, willing the monster beneath me to just disappear. I flex my fingers experimentally, only for them to brush against the Joker's lower abdomen. The contact makes me jerk, and I give up on trying to move my hands. I'm surprised by how much muscle I can feel against me, in both his arms and torso. For a lanky looking dude he's pretty defined...
Gah, no no no, don't think like that. Bad thoughts, bad thoughts
"Could be your eyes," he considers, then grabs the back of my neck and yanks my head up. I whine in my throat at the pain of my neck being whipped around like that. The Joker knocks our foreheads together so he can get a good look at my eyes.
"I always did like the colour gah-reen," he tells me, licking his lips insidiously. Being no longer fully pressed to him, I am able to move my hands, and ignoring the burning feeling, I push frantically against his chest.
"Let go of me!" I demand, heaving my hands against him as hard as I can but he doesn't even blink. Instead, both hands lash up to cup my face. And in one of them, he holds a knife. The way his hands are placed on me enables him to press the tip of the blade to the corner of my mouth. He's smiling at me, but I'm not sure that it reaches his eyes.
"You know what I think-kuh it really is," he asks me feverishly, licking his chops with relish. I shake my head but he tsks at me, instead forcing me to nod.
"I think-kuh one of the likeliest reason why after allllll this time you haven't been, ah, sliced-dah is because you're a... mystery," the knife presses deeper into my lip, breaking the skin. My hands clutch at his shirt now, to help control the panic rising in me.
"See, I'm the kinda guy who likes to, ah, know the people I kill. Understand them to a certain dah-gree, so I can show them who they actually are," his fingers dig into my skin, likely to leave welts and bruises. Tears fill my eyes, swirling the red, white and black of his face even more.
"But you, oh you," he says in a mixture on endearment and contempt. I always find it strange how he's able to feel two opposite emotions at the same time, "I don't-tuh know you. Thought I did, for awhile. Thought you were a mob brat, little Mizz Mah-roni. But then, suddenly, suddenly you weren't!" he widens his eyes, like he's surprised all over again.
This guy is just an expert story teller, ain't he?
"You sud-den-ly didn't have a name-uh, a personality, nothing," he growls, his brow furrowing with abrupt annoyance. His mood swings make me even more afraid and a zillion times more uneasy.
"And that, uh, that frustrated me at first-tah," he smacks his lips, and watches the dribble of blood rolling down from the prick in my lip, "Why would- How could..." he drifts off, like he's unsure how word what he wants to say. My watering eyes wander from his face to find Brant, since he's the only familiar (except maybe Cadence), semi-comforting person in this bus.
"Hey," the Joker snaps my face back to his, the knife digging into another part of my mouth, underneath the other cut, "Listen to me," he shakes my face a little, rattling my brain.
"Sorry, sorry," I croak quietly, trying to focus my eyes, with some difficulty.
"Good," he say says tersely, "As. I. Was. Say-ing... See, what some people don't know is I like to make a, uh, connection with the people I kill-uh. Re-mem-ber when you mentioned how I sah-possedly change my lil scar stories, hm?" he distractedly wipes some of the blood away on my chin with his thumb, waiting for my answer intently. I nod a little, not wanting to anger him (more).
"Mhm," he smiles, and it's an arrogant one, "Do you remember why you thought-tuh I change them up?" he doesn't wait for me to answer, "You said, and I qua-wote 'Maybe you're bored?'. Pretty good guess there, Green Eyes," he taps the knife against my lip, quirking his lips.
"But-uh, not the right one," he sing-songs, "Wanna know why I change my, uh, little story? Huh?" he leans in further, his right cheek pressed firmly to my left, the knife beneath my jaw. My vein's jump at the metal-to-skin contact.
"Yes," I answer, hoping he won't cut me. One of his hands, the one that isn't holding the knife, trails down my back, tracing my spinal cord. I shiver, the movement quaking against the clown plastered to me. He licks his lips, the tip of his serpentine tongue touching the rim of my ear.
"Beh-cause, it makes the kill more per-son-al," he explains to me slowly, like I'm slow or something.
"See, the story changes dah-pending on the person I'm telling it to. But-uh in order to do that, I hafta know something about them, no matter how small or in-sig-nifacant that something is," he's leaned into me so much the side of my face is pressed to his face and his neck. His warm skin on my cold, yet feverish flesh is awkward feeling.
"So, with you I can't make up an, uh, appropriate story, because I know nothing about you!" his voice rises with his frustration. His mouth, damp from all the tossing of saliva, presses against my ear.
"It's infuriating," he whispers, his voice suddenly becoming calmer, contradicting his words, "I mean, most women try to keep themselves mysterious, but it just makes them all the more obvious-sah. You, you try too, but not 'cuz you're trying to be coy. No, no," he shakes his head, hitting the side of my face with his own lightly.
"You keep yourself a mystery, a puzzle because you needa, riiiigh-tah? But, but we're going off subject here. What-tuh was the original question again?" he pulls back and I can feel the paint on my skin where his face was. I control the urge to wipe it off.
"Ah, yes, why is it that you aren't dead-uh yet? What is it about you that, uh, keeps you alive? You wanna know the real answer, Rumour?" I flinch when he uses my alias. I'm beginning to think telling him to call me that was a huge mistake.
"You. Are. Unpredictable," he infers, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before cutting back into mine.
"You never cease-suh to surprise me, and darlin', that's simply a hoot," he grins leeringly, his hand on my back traveling down to the end of my tank top, and snaking up it. I suck in a harsh breath as the tips of his fingers trace patterns on my bare skin. I lick my lips, tasting the coppery taste of my blood, and then do it again, liking the taste. The Joker watches the action, dark eyes intense, so I stop.
"That's why I, ah, kissed you that day," my ears perk up at that, and he smiles knowingly, "You've been wonderin' bout that, haven'cha?" what he does next almost has me screaming. His tongue slips from his cavernous mouth, and trails along my lips, licking up my blood. I yelp weakly and I desperately try to get away, wiggling wildly. The hand beneath my shirt clamps down, keeping me in place and the knife returns to my neck.
"What you said to me," he murmurs, his mouth millimetres from mine, ignoring my struggles, "Caught me, me, off guard. It filled me with this feeling of impulsiveness-sah that I can't hardly describe. I'm a naturally impulsive-vah guy, but you increased the trait. You still do, and I can't decide if I like it... Or hate it,"
Then he's kissing me.
His mouth moves against my clamped mouth fervently, his tongue probing my bottom lip. Begging for entrance. His face presses hard against mine, and the angle he's at sort of covers my nose, making it difficult to breathe. His scraggly hair sticks to my skin and his scent of gun-powder, fire and gasoline wreaks merry havoc on my senses, making me dizzy. The hand on my back slithers down to clutch my hip beneath my tank top. His other hand quickly pockets the knife, then palms the back of my head. Little whimpering noises escape my closed mouth, and my hands push weakly at the Joker's chest. He presses deeper into me, bruising my lips, and completely blocking off my nostrils. I can't breathe.
And he knows it.
My throat is convulsing in its need for air, and I instinctively open my mouth to breathe in a grateful gulp of air.
And his tongue lunges into my mouth. It traces along the insides of my cheeks, exploring me. My own tongue retreats to the back of my mouth, but his tongue hunts mine down. His corners my own, and rubs against it. A jolt goes through me, and suddenly I'm still; I become numb. I feel the Joker smirk against my mouth as his tongue strokes mine slowly. I shudder, and while I'm no longer struggling, I do try to pull my head back. He simply yanks my face back, and releases my tongue and mouth, only to suck on my bottom lip; on my blood. I grunt and wiggle my mouth to try and get his off. He doesn't, so I act on impulse; I bite his upper lip.
The Joker rears back, breathing hard, his eyes wild and his grease-paint even more smeared. His mouth is redder than usual, because the bite I gave him is bleeding. Not a lot, but enough that it's noticeable. His tongue slowly glides over the wound, and I begin hyperventilate all over again.
Oh Jeezus, oh Jeezus he's going to hurt me, he's going kill me
So when he begins to laugh, I'm surprised but no less tense. He laughs a lot, and it could mean anything. I close my eyes, when he tugs my face back to his. I wince when his mouth traces over my cheek, leaving a trail of blood. Marking me, again. I can smell the metallic scent of it on my face, and my stomach heaves a little.
Oh god, I'm going to be sick
"Hey, boss I-" and with that, I'm dumped abruptly out of the mad-man's lap. I open incredulous, but no less relieved eyes to see the goon, Maul, talking to the Joker, who has Maul's undivided attention. Maul's eyes keep flitting back to me while he talks to the Joker, but I can't make out the expression behind them.
"Boss, Apple's on the phone, says 'e needs ta talk to you 'bout something," Maul is saying, his Irish accent immediately reminding me of home and of Gramma. I retreat back to the window, pulling my knees up to my chest, and resting my open my mouth on the top of one of them. I fight back tears of humiliation, and I close my eyes, thinking of home.
Beside me, I hear the Joker speaking quietly, and I sneak a peek at him. He has a cell phone pressed to his ear, and he's hunched forward, his brow knit together. His red mouth moves quickly, and I can only make out a few words, like "Nitrate" and "Radio".
"No, no," he says louder, his voice dripping with obvious annoyance, "No cameras. It'll run the, uh... Surprise-zuh," he chuckles darkly, bouncing his knees as he continues talking into the phone. The conversation doesn't mean a thing to me so I stop listening, and let my suddenly heavy – why am I so tired lately?- eyes slide closed again.
My last coherent thought before I fall into a troubled sleep is:
Where the hell did my gum go?
Yup, more Rumy-Jokey canoodling. Can't help myself. Again, no real romance here, at least not enough for it to be labelled as one.
Is Jokey's explanation for his stories good? And his explanation for his fascination for Rumy in character? Tell me!
linnie kinda spinnie