Chapter Numbah 12, peeps – enjoy!

ooo

Chapter 12: Bitter Avidity

Her room was amerced in well-kept shadows as the break of dawn attempt to bathe it entirely in orange light.

She groaned, in her best impression of a bona fide seventeen year old unwilling to wake, and rolled over soundlessly into the warm cocoon of her bed-sheets to guard against the sudden chill that impacted her bones.

There was a presence here — she was sure of it, but couldn't Angela tell? All Raven desired at the moment was a few more minutes of sleep.

The chill traveling down her spine, merely grew more poignant as the strange figure moved toward her, arousing her curiosity for a moment. If this stranger meant to commit an hostile action, he would've struck her by now.

But there came no blow to her head; the earth did not seem to shatter at her feet, if there was some kind of threat – she would be ready. She remained painfully still for a moment, allowing one slow breath after another to tumble into her lungs – an illusion of just waking.

She tensed like a jungle cat on the verge of striking its prey, and breathed her mantra into the air, a murky, blackened shadow began to appear in her grip, as translucent as the present sunlight.

"Azarath, Metrion Zin–oh!"

He was pressed ever-so-lightly against her, in a dangerous — yet, oddly comforting – embrace.

Her throat felt as if she hadn't had a drop of water in days, and her tongue seemed coated with thick lead.

"G-garfield?" she breathed, as his slow purring began to drum against the cavern of her ear.

Purring was a perfectly ordinary action for cats when feeling pleased, or particularly affectionate — the problem?

He wasn't a cat anymore!

He was pinned against her, his sculpted arms supporting his weight, and resting on either side of her head, smiling lazily against her, as the unnatural, pleasing vibrations of his throat continued to send one thousand volts of feather-like electricity through her.

This was ... nice.

Very nice, she had to admit ... but of all the monks of Azar, why was he ... ? Was he ... ?

"What are you ...? Oh, Azar!"

She clamped a hand over her mouth with such force that it stung her, her eyes widening in shock.

His tongue was on her ear now!

He was sampling her like some fine French chocolate!

... And she'd moaned!

"Garfield." she muttered, intending to make it sound more forceful, but her voice just couldn't seem to find the right pitch.

This was absurdity – she was in control – lust was beneath her ... wasn't it?

"Hmm." the boy mumbled, the sound coated with mirth – he was amused by her confusion.

His lips traced a winding path down the tendon of her neck as she stretched it, desperate to avert his touch ... no matter how pleasing.

"Garfield." Raven choked out again, her eyes – a dark violet shade, now – gently lolling back against the warm tides of pleasure that the boy was stirring in her veins.

"Gar!" she tried again, desperate to focus – focus on anything!

Raven had no idea what an emotion so powerful could do – on, or off the earth-plain.

The sunlight – she would pick the sunlight – it was always so calming to her, watching it shroud the towers of Azarath in fire and shadows, as a child.

And now, it appeared as though it was dancing – licking lightly at the ebony satin that hung from beyond her window.

Licking.

Licking.

This. Was. Bad.

Very Bad.

Get off of me now, so help me! The thought came in an enraged command – in her mind – in her bones – in her veins, everywhere but through her mouth; rendering such a request utterly useless.

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it, Garfield don't make me hurt you!"

The thought coming out in an irrate growl, finally she'd gotten her voice working.

"You'd never." The response coming back in a cool, sly tone that she could hardly identifyas his – even though she hadn't know Gar for very long – where was the awkwardness? ... where was that strange, light upward infliction in his voice? ...This was ... this was.

"Not Garfield." Raven gasped into the chocking thickness of the air around her, all-at-once relieved, and a bit ashamed for having fallen for this. But, shockingly – whatever Gar-manifested vision this was seemed hardly phased by her words.

He ... It – torn it's mouth from her neck, and peered down at her – a mix of pure delight, entwining with the raw lustful shadows in it's dark blue iris. " ... What that?" The words bubbled from the thing's throat drunkenly; syllables shattering like rain drops on pavement.

"You're not ..."

The muscles in her throat contracted roughly, and the illusion smiled, sweeping it's tongue into to her mouth, and then, in it's best expression of a gentleman, nudged lightly at her chin with it's finger tips. Sweeping it's nose along her stern jaw-line, breathing her in.

"I'm not ..." It muttered, smiling in approval as she began to tremble, it's mouth painting a path down the slight curve to her rib cage.

Raven was terrified at this, the tremors which shot down her spine like hot blades were not one's of fear, but of ...

Desire.

She wanted it's touch.

This thing. This blackened shadow, sent through the blistering embers of her father's birthplace, it's mission to haunt her – like the on-going nightmares of Azar's death which sliced through her sleeping mind as a child.

A sickening bile formed in her throat – it's taste so bitter, that it fought off the incessant purrs building in her throat.

This was a lie.

Garfield would never touch her in this way ... and if he ever found out what exactly the mysterious 'Raven' was – she'd be considered lucky if he even looked at her – she was a monster.

The Gar-shadow cupped her shoulders, muttering her name in a brief whisper below her navel where the bridge of it's nose rested.

"Raven ..." it muttered, as though being stirred from a wondrous dream. "... beautiful ..."

"I'm not!" she cried, desperate to move her subdued limbs in any direction to fend it off. "You're not, Garfield!" A vile growl building in her throat — driven by demon blood.

A blood-warm black shadow in her grip, her hand poised to strike, as it's chin remained on her

stomach – gazing up at her with eyes the color of blue flame, those that were unmistakably ...

His.

This vision looked like him – and smelled of him – and looked at her with his same, unusual intrigue.

Unusual affection ... caring.

"You don't ca ..."

Words seemed to fail her as she began to taste the salt of the strange occurrence of tears.

"Raven." The illusion muttered again, bringing it's upper body forward in one fluid motion, and capturing her lips in a kiss, lingering there for a moment.

"... Rae ... Raven." The expression of Gar's voice coming out in a cracked whisper, her throat burned again with unshed tears.

"Raven." it sighed again, kissing her – along it's warm breath to dance gently across her face.

She wanted ...

She wanted so desperately for this to be true — for someone to care without the weight of blood ties and the responsibly of the burden that was Raven Roth.

"Rae ..." It muttered, it's expression as warm as the heat from its body.

She accepted it's kiss without any feeling of disgust, and slowly waved to the Gar-shadow as it faded into the gold-painted dust that danced in front of her window.

ooo

He remembered.

The city lights, the thrill, the pressure in his bladder.

Heros didn't pee before going to beat up bad guys – they didn't.

The slow purr of the Batmobile's engine, and smell of gasoline, and the curves of the shadowed, winding roads that it traveled down.

Every other eight-year-old in Gotham would be searing with jealousy; this was the coolest!

And once Bruce figured out that he had stowed away ... well ... he would definitely be grateful once "Robin" helped kick The Joker's butt.

Joker — the guy was a psycho – Bruce always said so ... among other things – Bruce never did like sayin' swear words in front of him, and was always careful to stop himself – but Dick could read lips.

He smiled.

Then furrowed his brow in disgust at a certain "thought."

He'd heard in the news recently that the Joker had "rehabilitated" one of his "doctors" and that she went bonkers and decided to help him out with a few "pranks."

Bruce laughed when he'd heard that according to news reports, the two had became "romantic" in their pursuits.

Yuck! — he hoped they wouldn't start kissing and stuff.

Kissing was so gross.

The car halted to a stop – and he suddenly felt like he'd had too much sugar cereal; he was smiling so hard he thought his cheeks would pop; intense excitement buzzing inside his veins.

He held his breath, waiting for the tell-tale sound of the Dark Knight's footsteps on the ground outside.

The shadowed silhouette entered the abandoned factory, and the little "Robin" – unbeknownst to Bruce – followed suit.

He remembered — the painful part – ... Stupid kid ...

Voices at the back window – anger ... and struggles — and before he could even register what was happening, his legs were aching from the run, and he was inside.

Standing wide-eyed in front of the creep Bruce had been trying to stop for years.

There was no voice resembling that of a hero to be found on his tongue — only dying stupid whimpers.

The Joker was ... scary. He face was riddled with scars, wriggling with each exaggerated movement of his face, like worms dying on the earth after a rainstorm – outlined with pure white makeup.

His lips were coated red — the ultimate clown cliche – though instead of adding any kind of brightness to his face; it was so thick that it ran down his cheeks like dried blood; as he licked at it and laughed like the goddamned mad man that he was. Cold eyes shrouded in cracking dark make-up.

And Bruce — Bruce was kneeling before him; blood running from his mouth, a low wrathful growl building in his throat.

He was angry – but he wasn't fighting back ... why?

The answer came when Batman's narrowed eyes suddenly widened, and cast themselves in the direction of the frightened little boy that was supposed to be a hero.

"Dick ..." he mouthed. "Run."

A pair of yellow irises bore into his and another set of chilling cackles echo through the building.

Another strangled cry is ripped from his throat — and he can't ...

"Run!" comes Bruce's warning. "Robin – Run, now!"

"Ah ... Batsy." sneers the Clown Prince, "Haven't ... I ... told you? I love kids ... always so ... easy to put smiles on their faces ..."

Bruce earns a swift punch in the jaw, more blood spills forward staining the mold ridden factory floor. He spits, a tooth falls to the floor. "Tell me, J – what exactly do you plan to gain from hurting the kid? – I doubt it'll make you look any less like a psychopath ..."

That's how come Bruce was such a hero to 'im – he always acted so brave, even when he was all beat up.

And here he was. Standing there – disobeying orders; trembling just as hard as the night his parents died.

The tears felt like acid – and as he struggled to breath, every hiccup felt like something inside him was trying to rip him to shreds.

The Joker took quick maddening steps toward him – thrusting a blood-covered knife in his face, that caught quick flashes of moonlight, and reflected in his wide blue eyes.

"Ya wanna be like that freak, kid?" the Clown Prince grinned, directing the blade in the direction of the wounded Batman.

'Robin' nodded – fearing what would happen if he didn't.

"But, why, huh? Doesn't seem like much fun – always so serious." The Joker extended a gloved hand that reeked of the mold of the factory and Bruce's blood, and slapped him promptly on the cheek – grinning, as he tried desperately to rub out the pain and cease his tears.

"Why so Seriousssssss?" Demanded the crazed clown – flicking out his tongue as a tribute to a deadly serpent, and laughed long and loud at the boy's misery.

Dick was still trembling, worried that his legs would start shattering from the inner earthquake raging inside him.

The Joker's irises, turned corn-yellow in what little light the room had, rolled back in an expression of annoyance. " Now ... don't make me kill you."

His sobs continued at the threat.

"You're scarin' him, Puddin'..." came a light, feminine voice, it seemed to be coming from overhead.

The Joker cast his eyes to the ceiling above him in a slow, annoyed gesture – his lips resembling something of a pout, as the vile parody of a smile stretched ever-upward. His tongue running slowly and deliberately along the flesh of his lower lip, before hitting the roof of his mouth and extracting a nasal-chocked string of words from his throat.

"... C'ere ..." he muttered, earning a squeal of delight from the other speaker. "Shut 'im up Harrrlll." Her name drawn out like a stick of gum he'd gotten tired of chewing. " ... Givin' ... Daddy ... a bit of a headachhhe."

"Ohhh." The voice cooed, sympathetically, as another figure emerged from the darkness.

"Harleen." Bruce muttered flatly, the blood causing the greeting to come out in a harsh gurgle.

"Bats." came the curt response, as the woman rushed past him and wrapped her limp arms around The Joker's shoulders, peering at the boy with a bright – almost friendly – interest – but the Dark Knight wouldn't be ignored.

"I see that Gotham news reports haven't gone to the dogs, so it's really true – you are that deluded."

She turned sharply and snapped at him.

"Shut it, creep – I'm tryin' ta help your bat-brat."

"I also see that you're alive – so, he hasn't killed you – yet." Bruce grinned, earning him another icy glare.

"Puddin'" the women purred her voice resembling that of a baby's, as she nuzzled his hardened shoulder with the made-up curve of her cheek.

Joker growled – clearly enraged at her display. "Harley!" he cried, causing his hench-girl to immediately snap forward in an obedient stance. "So ... in-compet-ant" he began cooly – stretching out each syllable as though pronunciation of the word was the world's grandest bore. Her blue eyes blinking in a horrid worried expression – the Clown Prince's face shown disgust.

He turned sharply – gazing at Bruce, and turned back to her."... Quiet down the little shit." A wheezy almost-laugh at the order, as the tip of his tongue examined the scars. Harley grinned - her expression 'squished' and drenched with the utmost adoration.

"... within the next ten seconds."

She nodded fiercely, an obedient child. Another elvish, wheezy chuckle.

"Funny. Little. Thingggg." A row of rotted teeth, shown clearly, and before one had time to blink, his hand collided with the her throat - the loud 'smack' of it, causing the boy to whimper slightly. The Joker, toyed with the flesh - squeezing hard enough to raise the slightest fear in her eyes — a sailboat on the horizon – and then releasing with a look of satisfaction.

The woman knelt before Dick, paying no mind to the mauve, finger-shaped bruise, that was fast-forming around her throat. She grinned broadly like the pretty doctor she was supposed to be and chirped, "Hi."

Robin stood silent – tear after tear trailing down his cheeks; whimpering again as quietly as possible.

"Hey ..." she whispered, "I'm Harley. Puddin' won't rough Bats up too bad, honest."

Harley wore similar face paint to her counterpart – though instead of messy, blood-like goop that her 'puddin'' wore, her black lipstick was applied smoothly – shining as she smiled. The grease-paint on her face was applied so modestly, so carefully, it almost looked to be her skin-tone – giving an almost angelic appearance, were it not for the thick , tar-like eye paint, that ran down her cheeks, thinning out as it went – like she'd cried hard. A clash to the tiny, perfectly poised cracks at the corners of her mouth – small 'Joker' scars that would grow longer in time.

She worn a black and dried-red Jester's uniform, ripped in a few places, that seemed much to small – and he could see her ribs, could count them, could watch as they rose – 'cause, he guessed the Joker was starving her.

The sound of a fist against Bruce's flesh – and Dick's quiet trembling once again began sporadic, his mouth contorted in silent screams.

And Harley's voice grew louder. "Hey! Hey! Calm down!"

"Harley!" came another thunderous growl – and The Joker stalked forward again. He smiles, revealing a row of putrid, yellow teeth, and pushing out another wheezy chuckle. He grabbed Harley's blonde tresses so swiftly that it hurt; and he slapped her too – breaking her lip, cracking the small, fresh scars he'd made.

"Okay, okay!" she squealed quickly, turning back to Robin and forcing a substance similar to hard candy between his lips.

It was thick and sticky and sour in his mouth, as he rolled it back forth – eyes floating upward dreamily. An unbelievable calm. Then the daggers.

It Hurt.

Hurt.

Hurt.

And then everything went black.

He woke up in his bed at Wayne Manor, and threw up in the bucket that Alfred had placed there.

Hearing Bruce grumble something about disappointment.

And something about relief.

The slow buzz of a ceiling fan.

Such a stupid kid.

ooo

The vision had faded.

And the walls seem to bleed.

A little parting gift from Jesse — her lustful little brother.

ooo

Wha'd ya think?

I know, Robin was a fully grown man by the time Harley came into the picture – but, I couldn't resist, ya know? I love her.

Feedback. Feedback. Feedback.

Next up: A battle scene. A Cy-centric scene. And ... more.