velveteen [heath ledger joker x reader/oc]

v e l v e t e e n

velveteen
the-killing-j0k3

it's 4:06am when he softly jolts from his half-lucid slumber, as though a primal spark- a feeling that runs deeper than blood- had shot its way up through his body, into his head, brain thrumming against his skull.

the room is near black as death, save for the blue slivers of moonlight snaking in through the blinds, gnawing the sharpest corners and softest edges of the dusty furniture positioned indifferently around the room. the vanity mirror brags a harsh glint of light as it swallows up the moon's offer, blinks its glow directly into his tired, squinting eyes; as he glares towards the flickering glass, he can't help but notice how slowly the dust motes swim through the moonlight. like ghosts. suspended in time.

suppose he too is strung up in such dislocation. never waking, never sleeping, never feeling, never counting. time is... -it's 4:07 now- time is so inconsequential in its existence it makes him laugh.

well, it doesn't actually. it's not that funny.

(let me out, moans the bloodlust voice in his head, demanding the carnal caress of a switchblade.) it wants to feed on something he can't quite taste.

but there is that taste.

that taste stirs awake right beside him.

he finds his wrist in the soft and tender vice of cold and trembling fingers. he can't see in this dark, but he can feel the warmth stretching out towards him, can hear those tearful breaths, can smell the panic in the sweat that clings to that ever-surrendering flesh.

it's you. such a silly little girl.

a nightmare, you cry. there is a certain ugliness to the beauty of what he manages to capture in the drowned blackness- the moonlight twinkling in the solitary tear that rolls down your invisible cheek, before it descends, retreating back into the darkness. where the light can't find you.

you wish there existed a lie sweet enough to make you believe that it wasn't him that brought you to this darkness in the first place. perhaps a word or two of comfort that instils some faith in you, that surely he brought you to such a place with good intention. not this physical place, of course. hopping hotels and sleeping in the back seat of cars mattered little to you when he looks at you with those eyes, turns to you with that face, speaks to you with that voice.

that voice.

like a... a siren, maybe, but with not a single promise of luck or love awaiting on a barren shore, wishes granted with just one embrace. no sweetness. no honey. no. his voice entails something darker, deeper- deeper- something much more insidious than a simple song to lure you in.

(the deepest secret nobody knows, you'd heard said somewhere, in another time. another world, maybe. the root of the root. sky of the sky. such a black and endless sky.)

his voice had always been the beginning of all things, sunken deep into the centre of the earth, to whisper out from impossible corners and fleeting breezes, the cold slice of his words traipsing along the air. silly little girl, he'd say. without him, you'd wander with your head on backwards. or so he says. it's difficult not to believe every word that leaves his mouth. not when he says it so softly- so crudely- grating yet velveteen all at once. each word a kiss along the curve of your shoulder, the lithe swallow of your neck. when he speaks- no matter if he even touches you- it always feels like he's biting you, trying to peel back your skin and climb inside of it. inside of you. suck on every bone and turn them all black. just like him. god's twisted image.