#jokeresques

[11:46pm - txt] I hope you take a fall in the shower. [11:47pm - txt] Ass.

  Manifestations of pleasure collect at the crease of indelicate eyes. Arctic woven irises scintillate beneath vibrant flashes as the phone rattles tenderly in cradling grasp, shifting with perusal. Fingers bend passively, drumming inelegantly to spare lethargic response. 

     [11:59pm] I found amusement in your inconvenience, I’ve not insulted you otherwise, not enough to goad incivility.      [12:00am] There’s numerous places I can lose balance. You have to be indecent and assume the compulsion to recommend the shower.  

     Audacious beckon of ornamented digit precedes the doctor’s incline of spine. Joker’s sobriety is curtained by a euphoric flaunt of modified teeth, whilst enameled incisors feed into the suppleness of bottom lip. Never has he taunted the psychiatrist with such formality, yet regulatory conceit provides leisure with newly indulgent acquaintance. Impudent dimples breech idleness of pallid cheeks as Joker’s optics highlight Jonathan’s compliance. Consenting appendages vigilantly delegate a perplexing tenderness as they collect Joker’s extended hand. Nerves warily entice, restricting taut sarcasm beneath subtleties of tongue.

     ❝ Go on, then— ❞ Expectancy shepherds murmured tone; the prince’s temperament confined by exotic trepidation. ❝ —Don’t be s h y.                                                                                           Kiss it. ❞

     A raised finger greeting a man entitled bends to meld sweetly into the natural curve of slim joints. The head inclines to him, inscrutable eyes glinting under offensive gleam. A jounce distances their touch and he claims him by expectant hand once more. Entreating eyes cajole a response of him, and he instead provokes him. He collects both middle and index finger, lethargically entwining fingers to galvanize irritation. 

     Their exchanged stares do not waver. 

     Slackened fingers conceal a decided path as lips graze into flesh, outlining the bend languidly as he speaks along chilled ligaments. He dares him to respond, to trust a solid fist to prompt a forced ‘kiss’. An eager fist is prone to connecting inelegantly into the unhinged scalpel Crane loosens of its trigger in the hand concealed behind the back. 

Vitality palpitates against disgruntled temples. A furrowed, planar brow articulates involuntary restiveness as refined cheekbones tunnel into the gravity of silken pillows. Once awake, always awake, or so it seems for the Prince of Crime. Insomnia renders Joker irritable; his disposition an artifact of strict fragility within the opaque dimness of the room. A vigilant mind entices squirm of digits along the satin finish of linen sheeting, appendages eager for the slender extremities of a neglected cell phone. Isolated by his restlessness, he disengages the furtive lock screen, swiping it into prompted vibrancy. A fluorescent silhouette streaks his features, motivating piqued eyelids into a narrowing screen over strained pupils. Slighted, gradual adjustment to contrasted lighting permits feverish tap and scroll through alphabetized associates. Mistakenly, Joker has acquired a vulnerable habit to call upon a particular psychiatrist whilst Harley’s conscience disintegrates beneath weighted snores. She can sleep just fine. Infuriating. Thumbs rejoices upon delivered invite. Mutual acceptance shelves itself upon patterned symbols across the screen. Negligent of the absurdity of calling this time of night, a precarious twitch of lower brow meddles with Joker’s disciplined composure. A fashioned bite over tainted lip will suffice in waiting. Shortly thereafter, the conservative call screen transitions to that of parallel darkness. Jonathan answered. Stifled perplexity from the other end is filtered through a disoriented microphone, prompting Joker’s casted teeth into a cursive smirk. Temperate in simper, he compresses sarcasm into designed tease. ❝ Lookie, lookie. Jonathan, I think I see some dark circles. You must be dreaming about me too much, looking like that. ❞ Anyone in his position would be, due to inestimable work hours and overtime. It’s the Clown who cannot sleep for reasons undetermined. “Fuck off.” Forthright disinterest concludes their exchange. Sincerity in Jonathan’s exhaustion remains an attributing feature to the revisited display of brightness [Call ended, duration 00:00:22]. Several minutes of subjective, pensive provocation lubricates Joker’s vexation. Harley remains at sprawl within lenient slumber next to him as he stares aimlessly into rejection. The room seems quieter than before, somehow.

An unsettling verbosity mangles his thoughts as he sets the phone down to the right, disgraced with poise. An exaggerated breath climbs his system, lingers beneath ribcages, and protrudes a shaken sternum. The cartilage of his chest cannot mollify the psychological tremors across his beating void. Flustered sharpness of curling knuckles clamp onto immediate pillow, thrusting its weightless mass over his face. Impulsive bite and mouthful of fabric is explored in vain, shortly succeeded by extended, pitched yelling and vulgarity. He is so frustrating.

      Blinding luminescence inhibits mercifully through lashes in lidded scrutiny. He reflects the pallid blur, brows creasing in vague semblance to Joker’s fleeting bewilderment. 

     Slightly discerning the silhouette of a former colleague joining the Joker, fatigued eyes skim upon the tired slopes of a Siren. He relinquishes him of avid query, sheets beneath whisking with adjusting arm. Crane mutedly registers the zinger, thumb caressing the slope of a glimmering screen to angle his image lackadaisically. 

     A bed contrastingly adorned with the company of no one lures thought and he ponders the options briefly. The gaze does benevolently return to him, eyes open in a glower. He’d enjoy and endure a bout of inebriation over evocative dreaming of a counterpart. 

    There isn’t a proffered response, and in the soundlessness, Crane’s fingertip seeks the marked cerise icon to relinquish himself of patent denseness. He’ll cater to the indecent trials  as he’s both awake and wittingly lenient. 

     The pleasures of solitude are halved by harvested mirth, the intrigue to the displeasures Joker likely endures when condemned to a purposeful negligence. He welcomes indignation with prominence of curled lips in undisguised simper. To a man of intrigue, Jonathan does incite, both thumbs lazily drumming against petite lettering. 

     ( You’re going to wake Harleen. )  

      Dwindling application returns, fixing inscrutably to paperback publications and a quavering finger shadows words overlooked. A matter unchallenging as perusal becomes taxing as recollection of intricate vocabulary corrodes, birthing of frustration a hushed seethe. He retries in vain, fervidly skimming compositions ineffectively. Insightful thought is reduced to nullity, and he again exerts himself. 

       Pronounced, offensive grey edges free of constricted pupils, and it’s not long before treasured sight threatens to wither. Lids conceal a depletion of health in cursory flutter as focus depletes. A deft bend of the thumb collects a slick cover, nurturing it to seal. 

      “What’s keeping you from talking this time?”

    Contours of flesh sear, aching for a slim juncture of relief and he soothes blackening veins with malnourished fingers. He nimbly outlines the tangible irregularities with the tips of each finger, seeking a purposeless path to rid what little he has left of the years ahead. He is a man of science, after all. 

    It’ll not be long before he endures the beginnings of hysteria. 

    Emergence of declining health secretes with unwitting sclera of shifting eyes tinting an unseemly crimson. The head pangs, an inexorable throb leading a man insane to rock himself back, book cradled in hand slipping of a gentle hand to its unrefined descent. A low tolerance burdens him, and he reaches to the jaw, scraping into flesh, brittle nails biting with an eager tear. A low simper follows.

     “Go on talk,”

            His voice raises for him, imploring, swathed beneath incivilities and he rocks himself again, knees marrying unsightly flooring. A sovereign of guilted does not recognize his decline. Uneven nails search the canvas of unwilling flesh, and he scratches into the column of the neck, grating audibly as he tries again, louder. “Get their attention, we’ll be needing it.” 

              There is no we. 

      He’s entranced by his delusions, and he encounters the grandeur of illusory themes. Sightless eyes lift, blind to the orderlies gathered beyond sealed frame, deaf to a hushed debate. 

     Is Gotham’s judge worthy of his execution?               A negligent staff will not refine their practices. 

       “You--” A pause embellishes erratic regard, parted lips gifting onlookers of soundlessness. Fragmented words reach cessation, voice lost as he preserves a stillness. Brows furrow, fashioning unspoken question. Flesh of the back begins to tauten as the spine curves and he heaves audibly, attempting a word. “alw-” interruption follows globules of fresh blood, garnishing his efforts. 

                             This is not regular of corporeal reactions. 

   The cold is unrecognizable and with thundering heart, a palm compresses into the unsanitary ground of Arkham’s renowned asylum. The bare heel of the palm reddens by unbridled aggression, and subsequent pain is welcomed, paling in comparison. 

     Health reaches vigorous decline and averse to surrender, the body yields before mind. Observance lingers beyond a Rogue, as they witness an execution. He convulses, struggles, unable to breathe. Nails break with a tear and with garbled whimper, a wheeze releases between hefty coughs as books of reach collect his blood. 

  The cheek connects with the surface and he yields to apathy. 

makes you chicken nuggets