Anxiously, you tugged at the threading of your dress. The loose strings which, although hidden for the most part, twisted between your relentless digits, acting as an escape from the simmering pressure of your surroundings. Though, as the enthusiastic, high-spirited melody of the live band, to your right, resonated in one explosive blow, this momentary retreat was short-lived.
“We’re back with our guest, Dr. (L/n)!”
His introduction speedily brought you back to reality, and you promptly dropped the hem of your dress, eyes snapping towards him.
“Now!” Murray paused, immediately, turning to you.
His expression was beaming as he leaned forward in his chair, “you gotta see our next guest for yourself. Will you stick around? Maybe you can help, I’m pretty sure he could use a doctor.”
“Oh,” you paused, brows furrowing, “does he have sexual problems?”
“He looks like he’s got a lot of problems.” Murray retorted, and you internally cringed at his mocking tone. You weren’t sure who his next ‘guest’ was, though if what Murray said was in some way true, you couldn’t imagine being ridiculed for it made the mystery guest very happy.
The audience, as always, laughed.
“You’ll see,” he grinned, pointing towards one of the monitors.
“Play the clip!”
Everyone, the audience included, watched as the monitor transitioned from Murray to a man on stage. In what you assumed was provoked by his nervousness, sweat coated his forehead, trailing down his face. s
It quickly became apparent that the man had pseudobulbar affect, a condition while you knew of, weren’t particularly acquainted with – your field mainly contrived of sex therapy.
You watched, sadly entranced, as his hands desperately clenched at his throat, trying to force his planned jokes out, only for a flurry of broken phrases to wryly pass his lips. Composing himself appeared to be an arduous task, and the dread that built up at the sight of those making fun of him, of those laughing, neared its peak. The sensation was a prominent discomfort in your gut; his suffering was deemed as a hilarity – an oddity to poke fun at – and you were the single person who empathised; who understood the anguish lost in the gloss of his eyes. Murray was wrong for making fun of this man, wrong for making fun of someone who had a condition.
As you gazed at the audience’s thundering hysterics in shame – reflecting on the filth Gotham had become. The video ended shortly after and Murray’s voice returned once more.
“Okay, you may have seen that clip of our next guest when we first played it two weeks ago. Now before he comes out, I just want to say that we’re all heartbroken and sensitive to what’s going on here in the city. But, honestly, I think we’re in need of a good laugh, and this is how he wanted to come out. So, please welcome, Joker!”
On cue, the audience prompts flashed, begging for applause. The public complied and projected their excitement while the band played its specific introductory piece.
A man strutted on stage, and an abundance of adjectives filled your mind. ‘Colourful’ had been one among the heavy flow, ‘confident’ was another and following short behind, dare you say, ‘magnetic.’
Within nanoseconds, your eyes had snapped to the male drinking in his features. Even though they were hidden behind a thick coat of white greasepaint, as well as the ever so widespread symbolism of the clownish makeup, it wasn’t hard for you to conclude that the man who prowled his way on stage in an ostentatious manner, like a lion, was damn near gorgeous. The clip truly hadn’t done him justice.
‘Joker’ as Murray had called him, was a name which failed to relinquish its robust hold on your thoughts; a metronome – repetitious and in tune.
With a certain finesse, the man, after flicking his cigarette behind him uncaringly, propelled himself to his right in a series of twirls. His striking pine green hair floated behind him, and the carmine jacket followed similarly.
Joker’s entrance secretly had you squirming in your seat.
It was something you hated to admit, let alone acknowledge. You barely knew the guy – yet there was something about him that had you aching for more. Maybe it was the air of danger which stuck to him like the potent kind of glue, fabricating his demeanour. Or perhaps it was how those frozen eyes snapped towards you; harsh and determined, forcing you to scramble up from your seat.
Shit, maybe you needed a doctor.
You didn’t have time to dwell on it because once he halted the rhythmic snapping of his fingers and shook Murray’s hand, he strode right for you. The flickering twitch of his right eyebrow, complemented with his heart-stopping grin, was the last visible feature of his face as he grabbed your own with his large, delicate hands.
When he so unexpectedly pressed his painted lips to yours, you glaciated. Slender were his digits, majority sliding behind your ear, while his ring and pinky pressed up against the distinctive bone of your cheeks. His thumbs occasionally stroked the skin of your neck obliging a deep, thrilling, full-bodied shiver.
Immediately, the peculiar tang of his face paint flooded your senses, and this only worsened when you kissed back. Eyes long since fluttered shut, you felt his surprise when you responded, a gentle vibration – a grunt – tingling against your lips. The fury of the crowd’s applause, wolf whistles and shouts included, were lost on you as you focused on the softness of Joker’s lips, his rhythm slow and sensual, taking their time to sync with yours.
When he suddenly pulled you closer to him, a sultry growl left his lips; a noise riddled with an enticing hunger. No longer were those hands at your chin, they had slithered down your body, seizing your waist with an abrasive squeeze.
To say your body was on fire was an understatement.
You’re unsure as to whether Joker had noticed the applause dramatically stop at his bold movements, the room worryingly silent except for the occasional awkward cough. To this, you were conscious of, very much so, but the lingering exhilaration coursing through you like a fever – at the prospect of millions of eyes watching the two of you clinging to each other – had you grinding against him. It was a move equally as brazen, one he was equivalently pleased at; reciprocating. As he pushed up against you, a muffled moan left your stained lips, swollen, as you felt the outline of his stiffened cock in his trousers. You were completely, and utterly, devoid of shame.
What you were both unaware of, however, were the producers signing desperately to cut the show. Many, too shocked, upon weirded out to do so, had missed the infamous ‘t’ signal, hypnotised by the bizarre scene ahead.
Fuck you, Murray.
When you opened your mouth a little wider, Joker, not missing a beat slid his tongue past, hardly asking permission. Well and truly, the slickness between your legs had built up, and you were hyper-aware of it pooling in your panties. Giddiness was hardly the feeling you would associate with your shared moment, more accurately a carnal lust; a need displayed in the fervid movement of your leg and how it moved against his hip. The very same hands which were once gentle, eagerly maneuvered to your thigh, supporting the limb. Then, without warning – the other.
The swift movement had you breaking away from the man – only for a second – with a titter. Furious steps, which sounded more like stumbles, filled the voiceless room, then a frantic voice.
“We’ll be right back folks!”
At this, Joker pulled away to look at the hollering mystery man. His make up was smudged beyond belief – namely his lips, though his sinful grin seemed to be something that couldn’t be rubbed off. When he directed his attention back to you, his tongue trailed over his teeth, placing you down. With a dangerous glint in his eye, he turned towards the audience, adjusting his waistcoat and his lapels.
“Y-you – uh – alright…doctor?” Murray asked you, bewildered.
You refused to look at Murray, while you were red-faced and fidgety, it was hardly because you were embarrassed.
Joker’s eyes hadn’t left yours as his nose wrinkling with his laughter.
If you knew the events that would transpire that night, there would have been a small part of you that wished you never met Joker. That you were never given the opportunity to swallow the pill that so willingly established your addiction. He was unlike any man you had met before.
Wild, eccentric, unafraid.
Curiosity killed the cat, however, and before you knew it, you were at Joker’s side. The havoc of the studio was nothing compared to the blaze raging within his eyes. He was chaos, beauty and grace – a madman all wrapped into one.
His hand reached out to yours, Murray’s bloodied corpse an afterthought. The Joker, who had thrown the gun somewhere, a move similar to the cigarette he had tossed prior, was void of concern. While you had been shocked at the violent move, Murray’s blood splattering across your dress, a morbid interest had you reaching out for him.
His exuberance, almost child-like heightened when you interlaced your hands together. Yet to depart from the camera’s view, he pulled you up from your seat and spun you around, then, finally dipping you. His hands had once again snaked your waist. His lips were mere centimetres from yours as his breath warm tingled against your lips; teasing. You wanted to kiss them again – badly – and you knew he could tell from the wicked grin contorting his face.
Oh, how absolutely enthralled you were.
“Burn Gotham with me,” he whispered.
It was almost comedic. The way that poisonous phrase was uttered like it had in fact been something so innocuous, the way his eyes glistened with a newfound hope; hell, you would have thought he had asked you to prom.
Perhaps a demagogue, perhaps not; what you did know was that he had changed Gotham. Propelled it into chaos with the deaths of those three men. Tension had been building up for God knew how long, but he had been the catalyst for the end. Gotham had finally reached its boiling point.
Without thinking, you uttered an agreement.
And at that moment, you had sold your soul.
To the dazzling devil.