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#☠ aes. ⋙ 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙩.

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" He had a surprise party. " How swiftly she adjoins his sentence is likely to betray the ostensibly close eye she's been keeping on her husband's first love. In truth, she's just unable to avoid the latest update on Alex's life or the newest recipe for a cocktail he's created that she would secretly wish Arthur'd attempt for her. Once his eyes land upon hers, she spares him a shy, tense smile.

The phone in her hand still illuminates the close space between them while she ponders her next response and wastes precious seconds on a long drag of his cigarette. She wishes it remotely soothed the itching in her chest like she assumes it does his. Instead, Nix is left with the wasps' nest netting around her lungs. The sour, warm swathe upon her tongue does remain something of a comfort, however. A similar thread unfurls with his next breath. He's patient with her, given how she fights the anxious wiggle of her lower half.

Blinking, fleetingly avoiding his gaze, she passes back the cigarette and mutters, " He's, like, half-influencer. Trying. " Surprisingly reticent, her vexation flashes only momentarily across her features. Nix sucks in her cheeks with her next breath, pinching soft flesh between her molars ere releasing her grasp and tossing her hair over her shoulders with a shake of her head. " Sometimes it feels like the only thing I don't know is his fucking social security. "

Arthur breathes a laugh at that, though it is notably quiet. With her free hand, she's wound fingers through the curled ends of his hair. The night air has cooled those verdant waves, and a slight dampness clings to the very tips. She combs through intangible knots in both an attempt to slow her own heart, as well as his. From her vantage sat across his lap, she cannot gauge that gentle whoosh of his heart's murmur, but she remembers that hesitant rhythm with ease nonetheless.

Alex Day remains the open wound it was when first she felt that she pushed Arthur to reveal him to her — accident, though it was. She's not forgotten those bruised eyes, downcast and locked to his feet; that weight slung across his shoulders and the embittered gash laid allegorically open to bleed. All she ever did was poke at it. That same grief resides still, she feels it in the thinning air. Sees it in the slow hike of his shoulders as his lungs fill next with smoke. Nix lifts her hand so that she cradles the base of his skull, avoiding the floral-garlanded bat at his nape. The tips of her fingers apply light pressure to his scalp. Now she can hold his pulse in her hand, and shield it by tucking her husband's head beneath her chin.

A kiss crowns him while her heart sinks. Penny is yet another ghost who lingers perpetually beneath the vine-like string lights she'd decorated their pergola with. Nix cannot look her in the eye right now, but fears those boundless black caverns aren't far away.

" What did she think you were doing? " She asks, quiet and gentle. It's some fight to level her tone while dread heaves at the root of her tongue and a preternatural chill stills her lungs in her chest. Nix speaks into Arthur's hair. Those silken waves cradle her cheeks with gossamer fingers that pull from her pallid features a soft smile. Whether she speaks or kisses him next is beyond her. Both occur at once. " …When you'd be away with him? "

Ere he thinks her query one of accusation, she tightens the bend of her fingers through his hair, and cossets his scalp with parted lips. " I mean, he had a place, right? " Her phone again, though now it may as well be a brick in her grasp. Nix's thumb's tensed now, threatening to cramp for how she holds her screen on pause. She draws away from Arthur just enough to slip the iPhone into the little space between them. " Do you… remember this? " Gentle, girlish, she flashes him her teeth when he glances at her, and then, somewhat reluctantly, to the photograph on screen.

The modest crowd of young men offer, occasionally smarmy, smiles. Broad cheeks and broader chests, Arthur's a lean thing under Alex's arm, younger than what she knows herself. No piercing glints above his eye, and his hair is far lighter than how she'd first seen. Over a year, maybe two since they'd first sat across from one another at the checkers table, those black-blue locks turned to deep, honey-washed brunet. She sees that now on-screen, above his youthful face, and sweet smile.

" I'm guessing it's another birthday. " That drawl is half-bored, though not for the subject matter she actually wishes to discuss. It's just that, were Arthur to look, she's clicked through around thirty or so of Alex's stories to reach her relative treasure at the far end of it all. " But look, " Her cheeks round and flush. The iPhone 'dances' in her hand as if that'll draw his eye precisely where she wants it. " I found you. " As if he might be lost to as to who she means, Nix kisses the shell of his ear and whispers, " He's the handsome fucker on the right. "

Before the thorns from that name sink any deeper under his skin, Joker’s tired eyes shift to her iPhone. Their barn owl settles on the back of the loveseat alongside it. Preening, Jareth chitters and lifts his cream-colored, heart-shaped face so one of them will crook a finger and stroke below the beak. Joker transfers his cigarette to his weak hand, then does Jareth the honor.

All the while anxiety’s tightened the noose around Nix. Her throat pinches too tight. Her eyes flush pink from unshed tears and moisture gathers below her nose. Still she peppers kisses against her husband’s damp green crown. A citrusy fragrance lifts from his color-depositing shampoo and conditioner. No bleach today. It’d have struck her senses with a baseball bat before she even touched him. Bony arms fold across the backs of his bare shoulders. The edge of her mobile burrows beneath his clavicle. She’s given a blank canvas to drape over and burrow in for comfort should she need it.

Joker slips his cigarette between his teeth and bites down so her breathing might regulate once his warm fingers slide up her throat and dance behind one ear. He spools mussed blonde hair around it — and almost falls sideways when Yellowcake bulldozes between his knee and the fire pit so he can squeeze on the cushion alongside Joker.

Their foggy-eyed observer across the yard might think a bulk of shadows just joined Joker. Werewolf glances at Penny watching him from behind an old oak tree, then swats Yellowcake on the hindquarter and rolls his eyes.

Nix giggles and tucks her face alongside his. Joker coughs once a stubborn cloud singes the back of his throat. His lips then settle on the corner of his wife’s natural downturned pout. One kiss stamps the spot. Another deepens further along her full Cupid’s bow that barely bends where it should. He’ll never tire of that cheap watermelon body mist from Victoria’s Secret…or the fact that she still uses Evelyn and Lilac’s toddler shampoo to this day.

She breathes a little easier, though she knows why his eyes actually settle on the phone. Three baby monitors are synced to the device. If he listens closely enough, he might catch Lilac explaining why stars are dead to her Squishmallows collection. Through and through her mother’s daughter.

Joker slides his hand from Nix’s face, down her shoulder, to her hand. Their fingers lace and batten down. He guides her around the furniture until she swings onto one of his thighs. He’s spread his knees so far apart, they could touch the edge of the loveseat. He bounces one of his feet too and, once he’s settled Nix on his lap and tucked his head under her chin, resumes focusing on Penny behind the old oak tree. She won’t come out. She wants to hear what he hid from her for thirty-six years. Would it even surprise her?

Flashing his crooked teeth, Joker rests his free elbow on his opposite thigh and allows his cigarette to rest within it. 

“Did his rich husband finally murder him?” Joker asks with acid, raking his teeth along his lower lip and pushing his left knee down to hide how it shakes. 

Frowning, Nix brushes a stray lock from his eyes and thieves his cigarette for her own nerves, “I just said it wasn’t bad.”

“Who said that’d be a bad thing?!” he asks as if they’re staged in a sitcom, awaiting canned laughter from a studio audience neither can see. 

Nix giggles. He won.

Joker preens himself with a little shimmy now that Nix powers through a kittenish noise and ‘smacks’ him on the chest, “You’re such a petty fucker!” How her voice deepened with each word got him snickering, too. Joker coughs into his distended shoulder, then turns and kisses his wife’s breastbone. She’s still wide-eyed and trying to process, “Ho-ly shit!” He says no more, but leans so his face burrows deeper under her chin. Pallid plumes vent from his nostrils while he loops an arm around her waist. “Wh...” Nix doesn’t know how much farther her teasing can go. He encourages it by lifting those piercing green eyes and allowing the moon to flood them. “What else did you lose in the divorce, Babe?” She wriggles a smirk out of him. “Did he take your favorite wooden cake pedestal?“

Pretending to reach his breaking point, he exhales smoke and sighs, “You fuckin’ bitch,” with warmth so she knows not to take that to heart. “You know, I never told my mother…?” he looks Penny in the eye while saying so, “Five years of my life, I never told her. She knew all about you — that went to her god damn grave, but not him. Or me,” his mouth quirks, “Probably for the best.” Joker swings a shoulder to shift gears, “His birthday’s coming up, I think. May first. He’ll be 41…going on…23.”

#jokethur

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#☠ ref. ⋙ 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙. #nsfw cw//

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Dread fills her from the bottom up. It ladens her legs first, turning her shins to steel and her the joints of her knees to cement. Her leg locks so tight in his hold that it cramps altogether. As it climbs north it hangs like bricks in the pit of her stomach, churning the organ until it sinks deeper, and deeper, and her centre of gravity is thrown.

Her mother cannot watch how colour drains from her youngest's face. Hers has already bled down to her throat in sickly, reeking rivers of red tar. Soft tissue peeled from charred black bone in wet ribbons that sway haplessly from what once was the line of her jaw as her mouth opens wide for a long, unending scream. It was left ringing in Phoenix's ears. She mimicked that death howl for weeks until her lungs was raw and she spit blood down her chin.

In the here and now, Nix would swear that she feels those same runnels of iron slink from the corners of her open mouth. Slick fingers, warm against corpse skin. She's sliced right through the inside of her cheek with her teeth in spite of her husband's earnest attempts to soothe. Smoke exists as a solid plume down her throat, pooling and whirling in the shrivelled sacks her lungs now resemble. When she tries to breath, those deflated pouches only bid her some pathetic wheeze to keep her living, and her eyes focused. What little she gleans through the black swathe choking the room holds her. Twin jade headlamps. They watch her unblinking as she feels like she's letting them down.

When she manages a reticent, broken vowel, " I… " it's begotten with the rattle of bone chimes. In time with the metallic rasp of steel under volcanic pressure, Nix sucks down a breath despite the blood lacing the air. " I don't know that. "

Speaking comes with little ease. The book in her lap weighs the same as Irene's car mid-inferno. Arthur's sweet and trying face unfurls flame and dark plumes so that it alone exists with its own gravitational pull — he'll know this as she sways endlessly forward. With such a lack of control, soon her entire weight hangs on her husband's palm, pressed just above her breast, where her heart sprints and her lungs rasp. He smile's misplaced, awkward, lopsided, as though it were painted on. As though she were just the doll she's come to be in most eyes.

Nix, however, takes the pressure as security. He won't let her drop, no matter how heavy he's become. Arthur's planted his feet in the carpet and affirmed his hold beneath her knee to attempt to balance her. In her lap, Madeline remains grasped, both the lifeline and the return to that brazen bull.

Horrified, she tells him, " I don't know… anything. " Eyes too wide, they affix upon his own. He's warmth beyond the fire, somehow a would-be comfort. If only she could reach him. " And I'm not, " Nausea swells her cheeks. She wants to peel her fingers from Madeline's edges but finds them rooted without her say. " How I'm supposed to be. "

“Sssh — ssh! Ssh, sh!” he’s careful not to break her nose while raising higher off of his knees and placing a paw over her heart. Its awkward beat sprints. Each thrum further thins her breaths until blonde hair puffs in and out of her mouth quicker than he could try fishing it out. She’s bleary-eyed, dizzy, and lightheaded. The vise her socked feet entrap his calves in refuses to budge. All the while she’s white-knuckling the book.

Joker allows her that crushing grip so she resists less once he cradles her face. The hand over her heart remains curved under her breast and battens down so he can continue counting beats. The rhythm takes a detour through his skin and knocks its way past his hand and up his arm. Joker leans against it to bump noses with Nix and pepper kisses from her worried forehead, below her eye where her lower lashes have begun shedding water, to her naturally downturned pout.

“Hey…!”

Eyes on him.

Joker postures his eyes wider than they already are so she has little choice but to surrender. The hand cradling her face slips under her jaw and into her hair. He spools those loosely tangled locks a few at a time around his fingers and tries to smile for her. It’s little more than a splash of his mangled teeth at first.

He can’t see what she does, but the quiver of her lower lip and hapless glaze that’s overtaken her is enough to paint a scene. Does Irene burn to his left, screaming as her flesh melts off her bones and the rest incinerates? Those fingers splayed across his wife’s chest begin thumping to what the pattern should be were her heart not outpacing itself to the wrong metronome in her chest.

“Киса…” that murmur snaps her focus to him.

Joker soothes any sting with a smile, then uses his own face to nudge hers. He releases her chest to sweep his fingers under her thigh and climb toward her knee’s stiff arch. He’ll draw lazy circles at the crux to try and loosen it.

“You wanna know how I know that?” Joker prompts Nix to mimic the way he nods, then touches his hairline to her own and speaks like warm honey, “I know that…” his grip at her nape strengthens, “Because...I love you. And your mom…?” He pauses drawing circles under her knee to grip that leg so she doesn’t lower it from his waist. “She bore you. Sh-she doesn’t…need to be here. In this room. To know how you feel. A-and there’s…little echoes of her in all you do.”

Now he foregoes her thigh to settle his fingers over hers. The diamonds and rubies embedded in her wedding and engagement rings leave prints in his skin as Joker squeezes one hand as best he can.

“Obviously I wouldn’t know, but from what your old man says…?” he spares her a shy smile, “You’re her daughter.”

#jokethur

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#☠ aes. ⋙ 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙩.

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⧖.* 𝚂𝙸𝙼𝙾𝙽 𝚆𝙷𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙻𝙴𝚁'𝚂 𝙽𝚄𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝙾𝙽𝙴 𝙵𝙰𝙽.

Though he'd never like to admit it given how let down he was by the last man he in any way valued or admired, Arthur is a massive fan of Simon Whistler, an English media personality and content creator working within the realms of the mysterious, historical, geographical, and biographical.

A relative genius who's always looking to know more, as well as dabble in the occasional conspiracy, Arthur watches every single episode of every show Whistler has created, and rarely misses a new release. Again, he wouldn't admit it, but if you're visiting the Fleck house there's a high chance that one of Whistler's shows is on the television. He's white noise. They re-watch old content. It's a comfort, and Arthur loves learning, and so loves each show. Nix knows this. Nix knows this very well.

Due to her own experience in content creation on platforms like YouTube, she's also well aware as to how hard it is to continuously make a living doing just that. She donates. She donates generously. It's all off her own back and Arthur doesn't even know she does it. He's also unaware of the DMs and emails and 'fanmail' Nix has sent Whistler through the last few years and will likely continue to. She often details just how much her husband loves the content, how important it is to him, and focuses on how it is absolutely paramount that the content doesn't stop or slow. They're mutuals on Insta, and if a video release is late, the poor guy soon knows all about it. She also pays his numerous writers across his shows, as well, so, it's not a bad threat to have.

It might seem strange to some, but ultimately Nix is big on the whole 'pay your content creators' philosophy. Obviously being one of said creators herself has brought her to those ideals. However, her husband's love that he pretends her doesn't have for this one particular creator does rather hone her focus to one specific direction more. She's fine with that because she loves seeing her man happy and his brain expand… so that ultimately he can relay all his knowledge to her, usually naked in bed. Everybody wins.

#☠ abt. ⋙ 𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠. #filed under arthur #who is loved very much and anything that makes him even remotely content Will be afforded the utmost priority #she'll eat people don't think she won't #or you know #send some fanmail and cash

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━ :･ﾟ⧖.* 𝘔𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘏𝘢𝘶𝘯𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘺𝘴, 𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘠𝘦𝘵 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘌𝘺𝘦𝘴 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺.

#☠ nix. ⋙ 𝙞 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙞 𝙙𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪; 𝙞𝙩'𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩. #mine* #clown camera #something is coming she is Working and she will rep her red clown man as it happens

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Eyes on a swivel, they land on the socks. They hang from his fingertips like Spanish moss, and even sway a moment as if tempted by a breeze. No such luck, though it would ease her. Inside the Iceberg Lounge the atmosphere is eerily still, as though the perpetual tide of writhing bodies is all the air needs to circulate. Lungs to lungs. She gleans her air from Arthur, tinged with the faint remnants of his last cigarette, and whatever scant sips he'd taken of the mocktail she'd ordered for him at the start of the night. She swallows his exhales, pure muscle memory, and tries to ease the strain of her spine against the cold stone pillar.

He's trying to help her. Her tireless searching for his father's wandering body has exhausted the muscles in her legs, so stubbornly they've tensed. The realisation that he'd actually thought to bring her socks from home strikes her in the chest with all the force of a mallet reeled far back for the swing. Her lips part for a soundless cognizance that softens her features. Only the whet tips of her canines snare the next wave of purple light which sweeps across them both over Arthur's shoulder, though her lips peel back for a smile once their eyes lock again.

She's tempted, and the subtle bobbing of her chin tells her as much. Nix mimics him, though for a different cause, and rolls her shoulders back against her plinth. His jacket's lining is soft against naked skin, and already her garb feels as though it's more freeing. It took him mere seconds to mitigate her biting nerves, and he's only trying to do more of the same.

Her tongue parts her lips, effectively blunting the itch of dry skin as she lays her arms across her husband's shoulders. " I shouldn't. " She says, affirming her hold and speaking against his mouth. Her eyes hang open in spite of the proximity, netting their lashes so close that they may never untangle at all. She wouldn't mind, and neither would he. They would gladly cold weld here in a corridor of coloured glass and gelid stone. Perhaps Oswald could decorate them to match their eternal boreal environs.

" Wouldn't be very Mrs. Wayne of me. " She teases, lifting her brows and allowing her cheeks to swell for the kittenish grin he'll feel stretch across her lips. His next kiss lands on her two front teeth, prompting a giggle from her which climbs to a snort she doesn't shy away from. Nix doesn't carry shame the same way as those around them. She doesn't care that her outburst turns heads — they only swing away upon realising who's caught their eye anyway. An amalgamation of fear steeped in queer respect keeps the faceless masses from lingering around them.

She untwines her arms purely to cup his face in her good hand. She splays her fingers so that two cool pads press beneath his eye in some attempt to soothe the sleeplessness hanging there. Sclera tinged reddish draw the attention. His second face masks much, including the warmth of his olive skin, but she's mastered the art of seeing both vizard and his naked features at once. The latter is bitten by a discomfort she deigns to distract from.

" And, um, " Her lips purse, ere she cheekily says, " I don't want dad's foot up your ass. " Her other arm now drops from the shelf of his shoulder. Nix is forever careful to avoid the knoll visible through his shirt, though he'll lie and tell her it causes no discomfort. When next her feels her, it is with a swift tap to his backside. Impish, she wrinkles her nose and flashes all her teeth. " It's delicate. " Again, that prize claw applies just enough pressure to nudge him half a step forward, as if they could be closer. Her breasts do their utmost to flatten against his chest. His murmuring heart lures her own closer still.

A pause stills Nix's lungs. From her slight vantage against the pillar, and the stilettos on her feet, she has to decline her chin to rake her teeth against Arthur's bottom lip. He eases the angle by steering his face toward her, their eyes still locked and pressed close. His wife releases him with a subtle pop, never minding the now ludicrous show they perform for any wandering eyes in the Lounge's wing. A benign peck softens any graze upon his tender skin.

Knowingly, she continues, " He's in a good mood, too. Chill, you know? " The pout she presses to his mouth swells some for a flared sense of dramatics. She still has his glute pinched in her hand. " I don't wanna be the reason he's not. I'm on thin ice. "

Live! with Murray Franklin’s iconic rainbow curtain must riffle for Nix, too. They haven’t yet been given a cue from the stagehands. Deep blue ensconces them.

Nix’s features suit any illume. While doing her makeup for the occasion, Joker opted for a dewy base and dramatic tight-line so she could look 'haute' as requested. Black shadow wings down at her inner corners and lifts her hooded eyes from their slightly downturned outer corners. Journalists will compare tonight’s look to Brigitte Bardot instead of acknowledging that Nix is uniquely and wholly herself. Joker isn’t certain if she recognizes that either.

The pad of his thumb grazes her pout and draws a fine line from its low outer corner to her cheekbone’s peak. Nix’s lips part as if they’ve never been kissed, let alone by him. The lash glue remains imperceptible, especially while swamped in theatrical kohl.

One blinding shaft of light slips from the curtain’s narrow gap. Should they abandon their column and creep close enough to that billowing wall, they’d find NCB Studios’ auditorium: mired in thick black cables and a set that belongs in the late seventies. The studio audience has long been summoned to their seats. They’ve already applauded the favorite late prime time host and provide cheers and jeers when instructed.

Husband and wife’s borderline lewd scene at the bar is up for scrutiny on the monitor. Two stagehands observe the same couple waiting to be called onstage with the same indifference they had while watching Joker’s failed standup at Pogo’s nearly five years ago.

Could it be stage fright that’s gripped his wife’s eyes? Wheezing from Penny won’t allow him to think beyond it. His mother's flaky mouth huffs, dry-heaves, and sinks her yellowed claws deeper into his chest. Joker can’t shrug her off without dislodging Nix or causing her to crack her skull against the pillar. Instead he presses foreheads with Nix, bats his eyes until their lashes tangle, then scrunches his nose and spares her a crooked smile. If not for the makeup he’d likely frighten children. Soft green ringlets flow over his shoulders and half-veil his face from Murray’s stage crew.

Gene Ufland is likely losing his mind from the director’s chair. He times this show to the second for advertisers’ sake.

The aperture remains so slim Joker can’t even fit the width of his eye through that crack were curiosity to get the better of him. Nix places her spiky acrylic nails on either side of her husband’s mouth and kisses where his lower lip is thickest. Werewolf hooks an arm tight around her waist and, careful not to tear the loaned gown she’s so sewn into that her breasts form ridges hard enough to bounce a coin off of, reels Nix off the column until their lips cross.

She hums into the warmth, unaware of the goosebumps that coat her flesh from the studio’s aggressive air conditioning. Werewolf shrugs his blazer off both shoulders at once. He only releases Nix’s face to slip one arm from the garment, then the next before draping it across her shoulders. One arm at a time he helps her put it on. It isn’t nearly warm enough, but she revels in it anyway. Her hair forms a blonde pouf that he isn’t too keen to free from below his collar.

Joker pushes her torso so close to his that she giggles and places a hand on his chest, cheeks pinched pink and her tongue poking between her teeth. He kisses that slim tip, flicks it with his own, then sweeps a hand through her layered hair and extensions to tuck a lock behind her ear. Most of it falls loose again.

Nix can’t incline her chin too high or he won’t be able to reach her mouth with his own. He’d hold her stilettos if she asked him to. The way she wobbles on them sends that message.

Joker dips the hand that cradled Nix’s face into his pant pocket and produces a pair of black ankle socks. The Council would faint — Constance in particular.

Now Murray’s stagehands turn their heads and sneer like he’d tugged one of his wife’s breasts from behind its beaded veil. Thalia’s half of his face softens. He’s thinking about it.

Nix drapes an arm across the backs of her husband’s shoulders and spools her fingers around his green locks at the scalp. Her hand then becomes a prize claw and clutches what she can. Nix then squares her shoulders to broaden her chest. She's thinking the same.

Don Ellis and his Orchestra prepares to welcome Murray’s special guests back for an encore. Nix, for the first time. The moral masses would never want her to darken that stage if not for ridicule. Perhaps that’s what tonight’s episode is about. The weight on Joker’s shoulders remains even as he rolls them in alternating strokes to try and loosen up. He offers Nix the ankle socks by dangling them not far from her eyes. 

“If my old man really is here…” his voice hardly lifts above a purr, “A stunt like this should send his foot up my ass like white on rice.”

Laughter from the studio audience couldn’t possibly be at that joke, though Werewolf quirks a brow and holds Nix close by the waist. He touches his chin to his shoulder and waits for their cue. Penny’s sunken skull pressures his as he does so from the temple. Her breath reminds Joker of stale flowers left out for months in a dirty vase. His eyes blow red to hold back from gagging. 

#jokethur #what she say and what she do are two very different things

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Rebecca Ross, Divine Rivals

#☠ jokethur. ⋙ 𝙩𝙚𝙡𝙡 𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪'𝙡𝙡 𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚 𝙛𝙤𝙧𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙧.

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He'll feel how her features fold in on one another. Nix's downturned pout burgeons to such a steep bridge that he almost kisses her chin next. A pathetic mewl she'd want to combust over were she a fly on the wall fills the proscenium of Arthur's mouth when she cants her head to deepen the kiss. The tell-tale tang of her own distress paints them both now, though he never seems to mind. She, momentarily distracted by girlish embarrassment appears to wince at the notion, and they part with a subtle pop.

Without increasing the modicum space between them, she sniffs, and does her best to fill her lungs. The air in here is sweeter than she'd first assumed it would be. Instead of aged musk emanating from antique furniture and the historic wallpaper, she smells something warm, like incense amalgamated with the fresh, outside air. Cut grass and something akin to cinnamon. For a moment she hangs in that aura as if she doesn't feel herself about to shatter right in front of him. It slows her pulse and turns her heady.

A sigh drops her shoulders, and her attention to their interlocked hands. Nix flexes her working fingers about his own like she's testing he's really there with her, and not some foggy creation of her mind's eye. When he squeezes in turn, she's at least partially satisfied. Still each breath comes as a tenuous shudder, snatched still in her chest.

Pursing her lips, she now watches as the light adores her husband's face. Those long angles and steep slopes drive her to dream and for once he suits their environs. He'd never think so. He'd much rather be sat on their bed at home, the children just down the hall and the monitor on the bedside table so that he can hear them breathe. The vast sky outside and these gilded, yet ultimately barren halls bring him nothing of the comfort at home. They're here for her. He's done this for her. As he does everything.

Uncharacteristically lithe fingers frame his cheek, the pad of her thumb drawing a gentle arc from the corner of his mouth to the apple of his cheek. " I don't wanna be a leach. " She admits, and it's so thick and viscous in her throat that she could spit it. So as to avoid how ostensibly ghastly she's become, Nix pins her chin to her chest, and attempts to pad clean what she can of her face with her shoulder. It ultimately fails.

" But I think I just… fucking am. Naturally. " How she whispers deepens the bend of his brow. Every word must feel like a spike right through his face. Her hold on him affirms at the thought. The cold perpetually hugging her fingers begins to seep beneath his skin. Arthur's never winced, though she worries. " That's not how it's supposed to be. I love you. " A hollow laugh momentarily broadens the pencil-thin channel her throat's become. " I'm meant to... actually do things, out of my way, like you do. But it never lands the same. " A bird sings its song above the nearest window. The sweet treble haunts the air and it feels like mocking as she leans in to rest her brow against his. " I want it to. "

The tides within his eyes swash low, pooling around the hand that clutches ‘their’ skulls. Those conjoined charms are engraved with the couple's initials and wedding anniversary. He’d re-proposed to her with them two years ago.

The pressure’s drained her knuckles white. Salt clings to her waterline and nets between her eyelashes. Should he break that web, it’ll paint black slashes across her angelic face. They’re about as close to heaven as he can get her: the foothills of the Italian Alps. Green mountains ensconce them beyond the French-handled brass doors that will lead them out onto a private terrace.

She doesn’t notice how sunlight adores her, how the panes create a soft filter that halos her. In spite of her tears, Nix glows from within…but she’ll break skin if he doesn’t act.

Werewolf rocks onto his paw to set her St. Germain-crafted elderflower cocktail on the baroque gold night table below a mirror framed by matching majesty. They didn’t bring enough to physically fill this space. The villa's staff was visibly surprised to see how light the new generation of Mr. and Mrs. Wayne travel. Thomas and Martha had vacationed here. In this room. No one’s yet to raise that to his prodigal son. The apple truly didn’t fall far, though Thomas’ eldest is far more pleasant and easier to accommodate. 

As he places her cocktail within reach, he swings back over and argues, “But you do,” without raising his voice or lacing it with venom.

If he doesn’t find a tissue soon, she’s going to keep using that cocktail napkin and then her wrist. Nix’s naturally downturned pout trembles when she sniffles again, wet with tears she’s humiliated to shed and a dejection he still can’t comprehend.

“Hey!” now that he’s regained balance, Joker cradles her cheek and strokes backward from her nose. “Phoenix…”

When he opens his eyes as wide as he can get them, they’re flooded by natural light. She almost coughs from crying as he works on freeing the necklace from her clutch.

“Bunnicula…Bones…” she needs something to burrow her fingers into so Joker allows her to entrench her spiky nails in his hand and tucks that knot against his heart so she’ll feel the murmur batter the back of her hand, “You do. You always have. Just…” he shrugs, but uses the dead man’s crooked smile as a balm, “You know…in different ways. Just because…” his eyes don’t track from hers even though his breathing’s fractured, “You can’t quantify them doesn’t mean they don’t exist. I feel them. Every time I look at you,” his turn to kiss her knuckles and hold, “And it makes me happy to make you happy. Sometimes…” he deigns to ‘cringe’ for theatrical effect, “The math really is that easy, Merlin.”

Pushing their latticed hands back against his chest, Joker tilts his head and thieves another kiss. A briny film from tears blended with watery nasal discharge coats her lips.

Joker ignores the tang to nudge her nose with his own and kiss her again, “I love you,” is muffled given that they haven’t broken the lock, “Always.”

#jokethur #now we know she's actually having the time of her life #and that's why she's so upset #yes #it makes sense and isn't weird #tell her it makes sense dear god

[banschivs]

#☠ ref. ⋙ 𝙖 𝙜𝙤𝙤𝙙 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚 𝙬𝙧𝙖𝙥𝙥𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙣 𝙜𝙤𝙡𝙙.

[banschivs]

Bag after paper bag lands against the counter top. Mrs. Fleck, as she so prefers, has ordered a party-sized heap of varied donuts, whether or not she realises it. Those gaunt features of hers remain still as stone, collecting the night's dim light in the hollows of her cheeks, and desaturating the blue of her eyes. Realistically, they should glow under this cyan lighting. It washes everything in the same gelid swathe and seems to hum beneath the scalp. It should suit her. Instead of that, she is a long, pallid waif, swaying against a wind that nobody else can feel. As she glances across the space toward that single occupied table housing her husband and the woman who so desperately clings to him, it's a struggle to recall the wolfish threat she'd just been moments prior.

Vincent stuffs an Italian Rainbow into its bag, pinches both top corners to flip it and seal, then lays that atop her already high pile inside a bigger bag. She isn't watching. Her eyes are affixed on the two in the booth. She watches again and again as her husband soothes the nape of 'Anya's' neck with his splayed fingers, muttering further comforts in Russian that she continues struggling to glean.

Even with the Ray-Bans shielding the majority of Svetlana's pretty and hollow face, she can still see how wide her eyes are held. Her head may be bowed but that stare bores right into Arthur's own with an intensity that Nix herself recognises. The notion alone shunts a cold spire directly up her spine, from the impact of which she winces, though manages to contort the grimace to a habitual sniff, wrinkling the bridge of her nose and curling her top lip.

Vincent's struggling in the silence. He lifts his eyes from Skizm's Killer Queen to Joker, the woman whose wind-swept hair now threads with strands of his own, and then back to Nix. " Are you guys… headed somewhere after this? "

The question could be passed off as mere allusion to the pile of treats he's been bagging for the woman in front of him, but Nix feels an entirely different nerve tense at the ostensible accusation. She knows that Vincent has seen more than sweet dates and family treats in his years spent in this dive.

Her eyes strike him with cold flame, pupils pinpricks. " What? " Her teeth snap. She watches his shudder a moment as he does his best to quantify his errors. What were saucers in her head narrow to relative slits, but the bitter fires fail to die. She scrapes her tongue against her front teeth, drops her attention to the name on his chest, then asks, " Do you wanna chew some lead, Vincent? "

She spits his name as if it were acid. He swallows his next breath.

The hike in her tone has drawn her husband's attention from across the space, though his fingers have yet to slip from his charge's hair. It hasn't been brushed in... he doesn't know how long, yet Arthur's managed to comb through the soft tufts at the base of her skull. Svetlana sniffles into the space between them and locks her bony fingers tight at his wrist for fear her might leave her alone again.

Vincent isn't looking. Shakes his head with it hung low as he calculates what Nix owes him. He already knows it won't matter before she scrapes her bag from the counter and juts her chin over his shoulder. " Give me one of those cup holder thingies. What do you think, I'm fucking octomom? " That task is performed in silence. The setting of the cups by Nix, not so much.

She hangs the bag from the crook of her elbow and carries both drinks in the same hand, leaving her right free and hovering above Kindness' holster against her thigh. Without paying, she turns away. Three long strides carry her toward Twin Donut's front door. A bolt turned red with age and rust draws her eye upward. In one heavy motion, she shunts it toward the ceiling, locking them all in.

The rasp of metal drags knives in every one of their ears, but the only one who jumps is Svetlana. A sharp gasp thieves her lungs, then deflates them to empty sacks that ache. The air is too cold in her throat, striking like ice shards with every heave she manages. Paired with how her fingers shake and jerk against Arthur's skin, and the burgeoning sensation of all her joints slowly turning to cement, it's a wonder she can manage a sound at all. Wild eyes roll, a filly about to shy, once Nix returns to their table with her goods in-hand. The black coffee is laid before her, and for the first time, she thinks she sees a softness, just barely clinging to the outer edges of Nix's visage.

Like her throat's dry, Nix tries, " …Э́то поможет. " Her eyes downcast, latched onto Svetlana's shuddering hands.

The woman blinks at her like she's grown a second head in her short walk from counter to table. Her cracked lips parts thrice before she actually speaks. " Вы говори́шь по-русски? " Her voice is paper-thin. Like, Nix thinks, she's just discovered a threat.

Arthur's pumpkin cream cold brew lands atop the table next, and she slides it across the surface toward him. Their eyes lock as she benignly admits, " Hемного. " and then takes the seat in the booth opposite her husband so she can watch the door.

Nix hadn’t expected that awkward zinger to land, yet Twin Donut’s sole employee cracks a tired smile and laughs only with his eyes. Joker, too, grins against her skin and pushes his face into the juncture where her neck meets her shoulder. A red dot might paint her if he isn’t careful. Joker ignores that possibility to tilt his head at an even steeper angle. His green crown tips toward the counter. He shuffles without a sound in the process, mostly shielding Nix’s back with his body, but turning at the right diagonal to keep those glass doors and the trash-smeared window-wall within view.

The young blonde in his Ray-Ban’s and Nix’s trench is trembling. She can barely smoke the cigarette he’d handed her. Joker’s own cigarette abandoned his grasp at some point. The pack’s in his pant pocket. He’d reach for it were Nix’s fingers not burrowing in his own. Instead he patters a dreary piano melody under his wife’s ribcage. The progression’s looped over and over like shimmering sheets of rain.

Nix lifts an eyebrow and bends her neck to try and slide her husband’s immaculate makeup into her periphery. He collects light. The jade headlamps that usually arrest her are hidden behind his lids, which are also painted white. Residue dusts his long lashes. Nix presses her hands into his, rakes her teeth down the slope of her husband’s chin, then smiles once those beautiful eyes open and melt just from looking at her. She, too, forgets to breathe. Nix risks abandoning his skin to cradle the steep line of his cheek and lean into a kiss much too warm for their environs: he’s been smoking. Joker itches for another, but won’t part his fingers from her torso.

From her corner, Svetlana shifts her attention like a bird between the besotted couple and those doors Nix just sent one of her former captors back through. What if it happens again and they’re distracted? Leaning to the right, the gaunt employee notices the third party stowed in that booth. Opaque lenses hide how her eyes are bloodshot, wreathed in bruises and bags. Her spiky red nails drum the tabletop until Joker himself catches the nervous rhythm. He uses his face to nudge Nix’s so breaking the kiss stings less — Nix closes her eyes and tries to lean in again, but he pecks her septum and brushes his lips against her ear.

Joker whispers, “Let me talk that one off a ledge,” he kisses her cheek, “Order all the fake ponchiki you want.”

Before his wife can protest, Joker upends the hand he’d buried in her torso and laces their fingers. He stamps a kiss on the back of her hand, then, smiling, releases in a fluid sashay. The black and white tiled floor’s filmed in dirt off the sidewalk, yet not a granule grinds under his shoe.

Nix watches on with a dejection that’d humiliate her were she a fly on the wall. Joker, lighting up a new cigarette after flicking his silver lighter’s spark wheel twice, swings around the booth and extends a hand for Svetlana. Their rescue takes his hand and digs her nails into his flesh the same way Nix had. She uses her lit cigarette to gesture between Joker and the glass doors anyone could traipse through again. Joker hears her concern, but slides the cigarette in his mouth so he can better cradle the young woman’s nape and press foreheads with her. They speak in whispers now…not in English either. Nix gleans something about a friend and the catholics and that’s about it. He’s likely speaking of St. Mary’s mission, the safe-house that will both shelter Svetlana and arrange her flight back to Russia now that her passport has been returned. 

“We don’t carry anything with pretzels,” the employee whose name reads ‘Vincent’ snaps Nix’s attention his way. She bats her eyes like he’d just asked her to calculate exact change. “But we do have Fruity Pebbles, Chocolate M&M’s, Cinnamon Sugar Nutella, French Toast…?”

An entire wall of choices sits behind Vincent. Nix’s buggy blue eyes narrow as she tries to concentrate, but Joker and Svetlana are still having an intense conversation in Russian. He hasn’t taken a seat next to the young woman, but keeps a hand in her hair and holds his face close enough that she has nowhere else to look. He won’t be heading back over anytime soon. Not while the scared doe shivers and begs her favored savior not to leave her side again. Joker gestures behind him toward Nix, then forces a dry laugh that results in a cough.

“Ma’am…?” Vincent slants his dark eyes and tries to win Nix’s attention once more. “Anything behind me is on the menu.”

Fighting her slackened jaw that felt frozen in stasis, Nix thinks aloud, “Right…” then begins reading, “Get my little demon,” Joker, “a pumpkin cream cold brew to start…”

Finally Vincent starts ringing her up. 

“And a black coffee for Anya back there.”

“You got it,” Vincent’s still manually typing into the old register, “Anything else I can get you?”

“Give me…” she pinches her brow and purses her lips, “All your ponchiki. A lavender donut, guava and cream cheese, a Nutella Rocher, a Bavarian cream kronut, a Napoleon, an Italian Rainbow, a Twix, a Ring Ding, a French Toast, Maple Bacon, what the fuck?!”

“That’s a crowd favorite,” Vincent warns her. Nix would’ve considered the option had they used turkey bacon instead. 

“I’m off the pig,” she white lies, “So let’s do a New Jersey Cheesecake, a glazed birthday cake, and some Fruity Pebbz.” 

“Will that be all, Mrs. Wayne?” he’s noticed that Svetlana is parked at the table with the red rotary phone, though it didn’t require thought to recognize Thomas Wayne’s crown bastard and his peasant bride. 

“Fleck,” Nix corrects him, though a wad of spit muddies that retort. “Our last name is Fleck.”

#jokethur #i'm ready to learn how i still misunderstood my russian today 🙏 #but if i don't try it without you holding my hand through every single letter i fear i'll never get better #still pressing post through my fingers tho

[banschivs]

#☠ jokerphoenix. ⋙ 𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙞 𝙣𝙚𝙚𝙙 𝙞𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪. #nsfw cw//

[banschivs]

∞ 𝐀𝐋𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐌 ☻

Alternate Side Parking in Gotham forces anyone with a car to move their vehicle four days a week to the other side of the street. City claims it’s for “street cleaning.” Neither Arthur nor Nix have ever seen that. They don’t even get garbage pickup, which makes parking even more challenging. Even though they live on a residential street, they don’t have the luxury of a garage or a driveway. They park in the street like everyone else. In their eyes, it’s just another way to bleed its citizens of money.

Arthur and Nix have a car, so they’re thrown in the alternate side vortex that typically sees him needing to watch where their car is parked on Monday/Thursday and Tuesday/Friday. Their street’s divided between Monday/Thursday and Tuesday/Friday. The Fleck household is on the Monday/Thursday side. As the man with insomnia who is likely safer out alone in the witching hours, Arthur takes one for the team. One of his chores is keeping track of Alternate Side Parking.

How alternate side works basically is on Sunday evening, Arthur parks on the Tuesday side of the street —if they can find a spot. Since their area is residential it’s a little easier for them, but given the garbage situation it really isn’t. For Monday, he’s fine. GCPD will be looking to ticket anyone on the Monday side, but Arthur will have moved the car so they won’t get slapped with a fine…but Monday night, he’s gotta get out there and move their car to the Monday side of the street so they don’t get ticketed on Tuesday. Arthur can keep the car there until Wednesday night, then he needs to move the car to the Friday side, then rinse and repeat. Come Sunday night, he has to move the car to the Tuesday side of the street so they don’t get ticketed Monday morning.

If he wanted to be petty, he could double-park during the alleged “street cleaning” windows and just move the car back once it’s passed, but it’s typically just easier to bite the bullet and move the car to the other side. It’s just finding parking that can suck and not all streets are on the same schedule.

Nix also drives Lilac to preschool in the mornings while Arthur walks Evelyn to kindergarten, which makes it even more aggravating if they’re ticketing during the window that she returns, but could in theory move her car right back over as soon as the “cleaning” passes.

There’s a GC-311 app specifically for Gothamites to be able to track ASP. Some days ASP is suspended too, which means that Arthur doesn’t need to move the car at all. 

Arthur typically doesn’t forget when ASP is in effect, but given how annoying it can get especially in the rain, in the snow, etc. Arthur will sometimes say “fuck it” and eat the $65 ticket. Sometimes he’ll eat a few tickets…but if he lets it get up to $350, they’ll boot Nix’s car and there is no punishment GCPD’s traffic cops can dole out that’ll even touch what will happen to Arthur if Nix finds out he let six parking tickets go unpaid because he forgot or didn’t feel like paying the fine or just moving the car. 

Again, no actual street cleaning ever takes place. It’s just to hand out tickets.

#☠ abt. ⋙ 𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 ����𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠. #filed under things nix will never be able to thank him enough for #jk it'll go under gotham #but her man really does take one for the team here #and it's stupid bc it's nix being bone-headed #she says that's a stupid rule and i'm not doing it #then will literally combust when her car gets booted or worse #arthur just #saves them all #he's an angel and she loves him

[banschivs]

love

#☠ aes. ⋙ 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙠𝙞𝙣𝙙 𝙤𝙛 𝙡𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩 𝙘𝙖𝙩𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙨 𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙩.

[banschivs]

NOT ALL HEROES WEAR CAPES... OR BAT EARS. Eyes On Gotham's digital April '24 issue / featuring the latest controversy to hit the Wayne's. (February 24 issue)

*open new tab for hq.

#☠ abt. ⋙ 𝙭𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙢𝙚 𝙠𝙞𝙡𝙡 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙠. #media tag. #hi there's this #arthur's first ever interview hooway #it's a good chunk of reading but i'll know if u commit then bail so #watch urselves #jessie and i spent.............. Time building this sentence by sentence lol #pure collab #lorna waves the joker-phoenix flag every single day of her life and i'm surprised she doesn't have their faces tattooed at this point #the court really said pick the one reporter who'll want to be the peanut butter in the sandwich and let her go #i quietly love writing her

[banschivs]

SAMARA WEAVING 2024 SXSW Film Festival Portrait Studio

#☠ nix. ⋙ 𝙞 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙢𝙞𝙨𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙬𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙞 𝙙𝙤 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙤𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪; 𝙞𝙩'𝙡𝙡 𝙗𝙚 𝙞𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙛𝙧𝙤𝙣𝙩. #mrs. wayne