#I'm still not used to the judgement circle cause it's been 2 years | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

quinn-tessence · 4 years ago

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Paint me like one of your French girls

Part 2

This goes out to all the artists in this heart warming Joker community, who still find so much inspiration in our beloved character. Thank you for sharing with us how you see Arthur/Joker through your eyes, your creative vision brings so much joy and comfort through these troubling times! 🙏🤡❤

Summary: you accept Joker's invitation against your better judgement, even after he'd broken into your home and caught you red handed. His rhetoric makes you fall into his degraded sense of civic duty. So does his sly but chivalrous demeanor, a different shade of the Arthur you used to know. You're in for a revelation that seals the deal.

Length: 7k ish, gradual build up

Warnings: a touch of Theodore Twombly, splashes of Arthur and heavy strokes of Joker, mentions of mental conditions, flirty fluff, oh smut, yes, yes, keep readin'

As his scent still lingered, the yellow street lights engulfed the room as you stood naked at the window, facing the portrait you'd painted. Maybe it had only been the light reflecting off its surface, but you could have sworn it was looking right through you.

Did this really happen? You thought to yourself as you stepped down from your high, hoping this had not just been one more of your self induced vivid fantasies. But the flammable cocktail he'd left lingering in your studio was a stark reminder.

Arthur had come at last, even if one year late, but it had been Joker breathing down your neck, intoxicating you with whispers of your most ardent desires. A butterfly in the path of a flame you were, the attraction to him primal, insatiable, frightening. Was this really Arthur? He was surely the Clown Prince of Crime, and that was not something sweet Arthur could have maneuvered while pumping himself full of antidepressants.

‘I'd put my mouth on you’ resounded against your temples, his purring whispers a delicious catalyst for a continuous pulsating sensation throughout the night. 'Cause that's how I imagine you every night' had been the least expected confession, had he lied to just get you hooked, he'd been successful. As you tried to drift away, you'd force yourself to resist the urge and keep yourself untouched for him. Agonizing as that was, how he'd stirred the embers in your mind had made any of your attempts futile. No substitute would do.

Tick, tock. You hadn't heard your bedside clock ticking for years, but today it was thumping, a metronome to steady your breath as you woke. The only sensible action was to take charge and keep yourself busy. He was going to get what he wanted, clearly he had made the alternative impossible with his mischievous schemes. But he had been thinking of you all night as well, and that was one aspect up to be exploited.

A few minutes to 9 PM, a pinup doll you'd never seen before was staring right back at you in the mirror. His spine tingling whispers had made you work on yourself on commission. He had one demand and it was up to you to fill up the rest of the canvas to impress.

The street was empty as you walked out on the dot. Swiftly, 3 SUVs pulled up in front of your alley, and your heart leapt to your throat.

Here comes the devil. Dashing. Elegant. Ravishing in that pristine makeup, green eyes piercing your whole body as he swaggered closer, his body ambling, almost floating on air. Your art made him no justice compared to the original. Any shades of color you might have painted before would pale in comparison to how they contoured him in the flesh, and the makeup uneven, yet always perfect. Smoke fuming from his mouth, his heels screeched the pavement as if to warn you danger is nearing, yet your knees grew weaker with each step he took.

He was… just as slim as you remembered, but somehow a bit taller. Instead of Arthur’s timorous gazes, a devilish smirk crowned his beautiful jawline enough to make you forget even your name. You couldn't help but wonder why the dress as his gaze systematically reduced any fabric covering your skin to irrelevance. The emerald green eyes had already made you whimper in silence, this wasn't going to get any easier.

‘Hi Y/N. Glad you decided to come tonight.’ An eyebrow twitch accompanied his words as a much needed release from hypnosis.

‘Hi, Joker. Not sure if I had a choice in accepting your invitation.’ An unmistakable vibration in your voice immediately made his deep, long dimples contour his well defined face. The sexiest dimples you'd ever seen in a man, you were certain.

‘Of course you did. You had one week to consider, and here you are. I must admit, you are your finest work of art so far. Is all of this for me?’

‘I have a date later and I thought I’d dress to impress. The fella seemed to have some serious intentions.' The thump of your heartbeat could easily be heard by his armed men keeping watch. Thankfully, they minded their business.

‘What a lucky fella. He'd better, or else I know a few guys who can straighten him up'

An eyebrow twitch followed by a tongue in cheek chuckle, he tried to distract your noticing by running a hand through his slick green hair, but his shy gaze fell to his feet. Hi, Arthur…

‘In this case, we'd better be on our way before we get all of us in trouble. A couple precautions before we go. I'll need to wrap this around your eyes to protect the location we're headed to. It'll be a 30 minutes drive. Sadly, I’ll have to jump in another car, for both our protection. If anything happens on the road, I’ll be the main target and my guys are sworn to keep you safe. But we took care of a few things and Gotham should be teeming with crime tonight, enough for us to have a safe journey. Are you ready?’ his hand extended, your primary instincts shameless traitors. As you touched his fingertips, you went all in.

You both hopped into one SUV, his proximity to you nerve wrecking, the warmth of his slender body radiating against your prickled skin. The way he had been staring into your eyes for a few seconds was making you question reality. Shutting your eyes as he wrapped his tie around them didn't help clear the waters.

‘Tell me if it's too tight.’

‘Wouldn't that be the point? Don't untighten it.’

‘Miss Y/L/N... Here you are, blindfolded in the backseat of my SUV, about to drive off with Gotham's most wanted. Knowing your inner circle, I’d have wagered they'd advise you to keep better company. Good thing I’m not a betting man.’

‘Well, a certain gentleman had made a promise last night, if I remember correctly'

‘Indeed he had. I'm not going to hurt you'

‘That was not the promise...' you forced the corners of your mouth to not betray your titillating reaction.

‘Wasn't it?’

An endearing giggle helped cut the tension in your core, but you gently startled at the feel of his fingers caressing your cheek and rushing over your lower lip, the ever present smell of nicotine flooding your nostrils, the lack of eyesight heightening your other senses. Somehow he made this feel like a dream.

‘See you soon'

A 30 minute drive with only the voice of Frank. Thoughtful touch, making you feel close to home even while venturing into a world of batshit crazy. Blindfolding you might have been for protection, but it served another more tantalizing purpose. And processed you did, but not at all did it help with the anxiety. If anything, Joker had poured gasoline on the bonfire he had started the night before.

The cars stopped and the door opened, your hand touched softly, you were descending from the car and carefully directed forward by his arms. You’d been right about his scent, and it drove you mad as he helped you watch your step.

‘Open your eyes'

The venue, a vineyard outside Gotham, with a manor and view of the lake. Breathtakingly elegant and conveniently out of police jurisdiction. A coquette set up on the front terrace in an open space foyer, the breeze rustling the flowers that dangled from it. As beautiful a venue, in reality he was still the center piece of this canvas, the white streaks of makeup, his green hair, the contrasts of his suit, that never ending cigarette. Unethical, dangerous, beautiful. What was he doing to you?

‘Welcome to my summer retreat. Glad you decided to join me, miss Y/L/N.’ He pulled a chair for you, elegantly inviting you to sit.

‘If we’re so intimately acquainted, why are you calling me by my last name?’

‘I like the taste of it on my lips. I like kitten more, but you know, pleasantries and all.’

He'd called you that before. Arthur was there, but Joker was clearly behind that lewd smirk and tantalizing choice of words. Tingles started running up your thighs without warning, in sync with the rhythm of his cues.

‘Pleasantries are for strangers'

‘Oh! Well then. We already see eye to eye' the clicking of glass betrayed a slight tremor in his hands as he poured a little more wine than necessary.

‘Cheers, thank you for having me here. How could I decline the invitation?’

‘I didn't know if you'd accept the invite one year later.’

‘And yet you took the risk'

‘How could I not be intrigued by the artist who paints me as a primary subject? You can imagine my surprise when I found out you were the same Y/N from the pharmacy queue. Why did you move out?’ As gallant as he was, he sure knew how to cut straight to the point.

‘I... I wasn't in a good place, I needed to uproot myself. So I quit the force, moved out, became a full time artist and painted my view of the world. That gives me fulfillment, I had been searching for it in the wrong place, I guess.’

‘Can’t argue with that. Fascinating. Tell me more.’

‘How far back should I go that you don't already know?’ His eyes moved away for a second, then returned with an intensity to freeze one's bones to the core.

‘It would mean so much more if I heard it from your lips rather than my trusted informants’. ’

That sweet white wine was a dangerous catalyst to unleash to him your widest smile, comforted by the verified honesty of his stories and his sharing of turmoil at the world. He'd also been an artist, although his conditions had been a detriment to his success in a comedy career, and support for him nonexistent at best.

You were just as fluent in Arthur's tragic life as he was in your tumultuous one. You’d been reduced to tears in your late nights when processing his fall into madness and how helpless he had been. All alone. That utter feeling of pain and grief had fueled your inspiration through all those months. But now the makeup made him look younger, the furrows of life less visible on his skin, that deep sorrow hidden under a thick layer of overconfidence, and if that was what he wanted to show you tonight, the last thing you'd do was force him otherwise.

A couple hours flew within minutes, the food half nibbled, his elbows on the table, his eyes every shade of the sea amidst a storm, devouring your every twitch as you spoke. Each time you'd meet them, he'd watch you languidly, dissecting your every reaction, the corner of his mouth slowly arching his dimples into existence. You had already sunk deeply in the sight of him chuckling and occasionally strolling his delicate long fingers through his green locks. He was so real and close to the touch, his presence so electrifying, it gave you fever.

And yet he made you feel comfortable. It had been a long time since a man had done so well and so naturally, you had forgotten how sweet the shivers were. And here was Arthur, that once shy, flustering man, igniting fire after fire in your gut with each elegant note of his voice and moves of his slender body. You couldn’t tell if the spark in his eye was his, or a reflection of your flaming self.

‘My turn to share?’

‘Yeah maybe I should stop talking for a while now, sorry, I got a bit carried away.’

‘Nonsense. You're my guest, why would I have brought you here if I didn't want to hear your stories?’

‘Well if you insist, I could think up a few reasons… aaand here I go, I’m so sorry, that was a bad joke, I swear it's the wine speaking…', your hand went straight to your face in a desperate attempt to hide your tipsy embarrassment.

Typical of you to screw this up, atta girl, you thought to yourself, feeling how your cheeks had turned the color of your dress. You weren't lying, the wine had had a woozing effect, but you were drunk on him instead. As you shyly lifted your eyes, a hungry wolf was lurking beneath the painted blue diamonds, eyes as deep as an ocean, eyebrows creasing his forehead in long, deep wrinkles. It wasn't fair how the red razor sharp grin cut through his cheeks like furrows, his crooked teeth exposed enough to make you bite your lip in shame of your sassy comment.

‘That's… one description, but not the one I’d choose… When you come out from under there, I have a surprise for you. Come with me inside for a minute.’

That red dress suddenly shrunk tightly on your chest, the fabric a suffocating shroud for your skin. Guided through the gliding doors, an elegant galley of your work hung against a red brick wall. You felt a knot in your throat, your eyes watering.

‘This part of the house is my little sanctuary. Where I come to spend time with you, with how you see me through your eyes. I started collecting those the minute I felt alive through your art, immortal, legendary. You’re fueling my ego, you know?’

This was more of a shock than a surprise. A shock at your naivety than at his right to purchase your public art. He had kept all your thank you cards, even if you'd thought you'd written them for different clients. He called them your letters. They were to him, and about him, so he found it appropriate. Was this just incredibly romantic, or was it the schizoid paranoia from his official diagnosis?

Right then, the realization finally struck, and it struck with the sound of a thousand church bells between your temples. You’d shared such intimacy with him for months, and he’d been financing your bohemian lifestyle since you’d left the force. This was his big night, just as much as yours, it was clear as you looked into his eyes to see sweet Arthur from the pharmacy line. Yet his shy gaze betrayed anything but an expectation to cash in that cheque. You were ignoring all the red flags again, the rush of emotion rendering you incapable of clear thought.

And yet, your body was yearning to shed its covers and unravel your latest masterpiece to absorb his reaction through every pore, but you gave into your superficially cautious thoughts. As he stood next to you in admiration, he lit a cigarette and passed it over after puffing almost halfway. You’d never thought the sight of red marks on a cigarette would be the catalyst to set you ablaze in your choice of men, but you'd been ironically wrong. The very close presence of this clown felt nothing like fear and anxiety, even more so as he was fidgeting so sweetly. An adorable irrational fear of a possible rejection had kept a never ending cigarette between his lips, and your heart coiled at seeing a painted Arthur before you.

‘I hope you don't mind. If a fire broke out tomorrow I'd save these first. You saw me when I needed to be seen, and the way I needed to be seen. Your art is breathtaking. Nothing humbles me as admiring it.’

You felt as light as a feather as his hand extended once again, and carried you back to the foyer to pour the last glass of wine.

‘I gotta be honest with you, kitten. I’m not an easy guy to be around. My mind is a twisted place, and past treatments were … debilitating, to say the least. Fate took me off those by force, just to feel much better afterwards, ironically. I switched my treatment for a couple conditions in the meantime. You see, having difficulty distinguishing reality from imagination could be quite inconvenient in my line of business. Else, I'd be back in Arkham by now.’

For a deranged criminal, he was exquisitely refined. His posture, his attire, the cigarette between his fingers were radioactive. This deceitfully feeble man had once bashed in the brains of a man twice his size with a pair of scissors and a wall, the police records had been detailed enough to make your stomach churn. His slim, delicate body was a dangerous trap for those who questioned his ferocity and agility coupled with his multiple mental conditions. The 3 Wall Street guys had had no idea what a catalyst they were about to be. And yet, here he was. Delicate and gentle, maybe even vulnerable.

‘Back? Why back?’ you asked despite knowing every little detail.

‘Not an easily digestible subject, I’m sure you'd agree. That's a conversation for another time, but here I am, flesh and blood, thinking as clearly as daybreak. In most aspects.’

That wine must have had no effect on him, as he continued to control the conversation, steering it with refinement, clearly more cautious than yourself.

‘What aspects are not clear?’

‘Is this an interrogation, kitten?’ his wide gaze from under long eyelashes coupled with the pet name off his lips were utterly debilitating.

‘Not at all, I am intrigued. Please tell me more'

‘If the lady insists. What’s unclear? Well some minor details. Like my future, my life, the next target, evading the police, you.’ His emeralds confidently strolled along the lines of your face, particularly the curve of your lips. Not at all distracting.

‘I can understand the others, but me?’

‘You see me for who I want to be. I’m not always Joker, that's for my men, my criminal nightlife. You knew me before all this, and you paint that man wearing this Joker outfit. Sometimes I wish it were so, but most times I am convinced that it must be otherwise.’

He swallowed hard and emptied his glass.

‘So you see how your artistic depiction of me is what I want to see when I look in the mirror, not what they say on TV. It's kept me from going too far, it gives me a level of restraint that this Joker makeup laughs at, and I really prefer that to any straight jacket. I like this new man I’ve become, but I can't allow him to overwhelm the old me. Whomever that was.’

As he spoke, there was a sweet sadness to his voice that proceeded to melt you from the inside, furthering the utterly irresponsible, delicious plunge. He was forcing himself to smile even through the most painful truths, like a tic developed through years of practice, but his voice faltered here and there, trying to stifle his bouncing knee. All you wanted was to cup his cheek and caress him through the anxiety that had been crippling the body of both his whole life. He reached out for another cigarette before you could fulfill that thought.

‘I… am flattered, to say the least. I wasn't sure what to expect of tonight, but I will have another glass of wine, please. If there's any left in this beautiful vineyard.’

‘Coming right up!’

He danced nimbly into the kitchen, Sinatra serenading an audience of hanging grapes and the two of you.

Impressed was an understatement. Where was that psychopathic, vicious killer clown that all the headlines had been about for the past year, that your friends had tried to warn you of? Joker had been a gentleman so far, none of his known crimes had tainted that opinion of him, not even Murray to be quite frank. He wasn't half as ruthless as he had been demonized to be. How he spoke so caringly about his men, they were not just his goons, he trusted them, and they trusted him. This didn't make your coming here any wiser, not in the eyes of society. But your mind was already made up.

He soon returned with a new bottle, poured a glass and extended his hand.

‘Voulez vous danser avec moi, mademoiselle?’ That pristine makeup and red suit molded him into the most alluring devil coming to claim you. Speaking in French had sealed the deal.

‘Biensur, monsieur.’

Strolling you across the terrace on The Way You Look Tonight, leaning you onto his chest, his palm on the small of your back, gently intrusive. The warmth of his body engulfed yours, his cheek on your temple, he had you craving for a heavy dose. He was such a good dancer, you felt like a feather in his delicate arms as he turned you a few times then leaned you backwards to lift your thigh in a shy attempt to test your responsiveness. The innocence of his smile quickly altered into curiosity as his fingers brushed over your garter. A glimmering spark coated his devilish eyes and an eyebrow twitch marked the epitome of nonverbal cues.

‘Where did you learn French?’

‘From old movies on the telly. Unfortunately, my extensive knowledge of French will end here. I'd always fall asleep through the romantic dancing, so I don't know what comes next.’

‘What a terrible waste of a beautiful evening that would be…’

‘It would… But I've also prepared for tonight, kitten, in many ways.’ You whirled at his directive once again.

‘You did indeed. I appreciate the effort.’

‘Hah, I’m sure you do…' he chuckled to himself mischievously. 'I know I am putting you in an awfully strange position by being here and showing you all this. I'd like to know you're comfortable, all things considered. I wouldn't want to overwhelm you.’

‘Yes, how thoughtful indeed. Especially after how you left me last night.’

‘Ohhh yes, I did that, didn’t I?’

‘My dating rulebook had a few pages torn out, so I had to skip a couple chapters in my preparation. Perhaps you could fill me in on the content of those missing pages…’

He hadn't expected you to make the first move, the surprise in his eyes at seeing you instinctively biting your lip was palpable, but the tension in your core had overstepped any boundaries.

‘… I wouldn't want to drag you down. I'll catch up. What page are you on right now?’

As you spoke, you were dancing him inside the mansion, towards the main art room. Tantalizing him, your lips grazing over his, locking eye contact intensely, then shying away. His intrigue at your little game etched a smirk across his face, his fingers sinking into the flesh of your waist, very gently contouring the girdle holding your stockings.

‘I have an advanced edition. The page that cautions against wearing lace for a long time.’

‘Lace?… oh. Ohhh! I see! Yeah, I remember that. In the missing pages, they strongly advised removing all other clothes for easier access to the lace…'

Your back sensually turned to him, his fingers lowered your back zipper, the feel of burning wet lips on your neck snatched a deep moan from yours as a hum vibrated against your ear. In a swift second, you were in his arms being carried in front of his gallery, and as soon as the stilettos touched the ground, your dress was framing your ankles at his careful directive.

‘Oh... The advanced edition must have a copy of my journal in the writers' room’ his eyes gleaming, he took a step back to revel in the sight of his freshly lace garnished gallery.

‘Not really. Seeing how you wrapped me up in a tight bow, I found another way of adding a… touch… of myself.’

A wide grin across his face, he was visibly panting. His hands straight to the top of his teal shirt in a desperate attempt to get some fresh air. The light emanated from the frames of his portraits contoured your body as he approached with careful steps, as if a predator stalked its prey, strolling hungry eyes all over your curves.

‘And here I was, thinking I’d seen the best of you yesterday. Look at you… you're worth every damn risk in the book. Tell me, have you been a good girl last night?’

He slowly ascended the 3 steps leading to the art wall where you stood in your unholy red lace lingerie, stockings hanging from your girdle insolently. Your pedestal, that was. Colin was right, reality beats fiction every god damn time. If he only knew.

‘I clearly haven't. I should have called the cops on you. Yet you break in and rake me up with your mischievous whispers, you make me dress up for you and bring me here, to all this, and then claim you don't want to overwhelm me. You're acting like a gentleman but you're really a sneaky bastard, aren't you?’

Shamefully you put all the blame for your descent into his madness on him, as if you’d taken no part in this tantalizing game. In his ascent, he had gained the advantage right back, towering over you in all his colorful splendor. In that very moment, he knew you were his. The corners of his mouth arched so intensely that no amount of makeup could cover Arthur's arousing wrinkles any longer. He knew very well that he was the devil coming to claim what was his, and his gentle demeanor had shifted drastically to reflect that and scorch you. His inquisitive eyes onto the soft edges of the red brassiere, his tongue strolling over his lips lusciously, you were soon humming to yourself.

‘I… I am about to fuck you into next month. I hope you cancelled your plans, pussycat.’

His bluntness made it clear that Arthur had left you at the mercy of this clown, yet every atom of your body craved him.

‘How gallant… What about your criminal activities?’

‘I'm taking a small vacation. My men will shake things up enough to keep your buddies doing overtime. As for being a gentleman, I’m done with that for tonight.’

‘What if I say no?’

‘I made sure you wouldn't do that last night’

The moment you felt his ragged breath against your skin, you melted away in his arms, like gold in a fire pit. You gave in completely to his hungry lips trembling as he kissed you, his whole body as tense as a string, savoring you with heavy gulps. The intensity of his grip, the weight of his body, the shivers in his flesh betrayed the end of a painful anticipation that he'd yearned for. The bitterness of his makeup was the first shock, the second was his body weight heavy against you, the third the most unnerving, ohhh la la! If one lit a match you'd both combust in flames.

‘How about we skip the pleasantries, mm?’ he whispered in between heavy gulps of you, far from asking for permission.

The taste of his mouth, a mélange of cigarettes, wine, bitter makeup, each flavor made your limits become optional. Lace was suddenly no longer a threat for your breasts, as his fingers bared your chest for his delight, quickly followed by his painted thin lips. Something about him made you feel like a dangerous woman. Devouring you whole, shoulders, neck, breasts, his makeup brushed faded color tracing his steps, little moans escaping his throat at the taste of your skin. To your left, a full gallery of your ardent attempts to bring him back. You’d been afraid for so long to articulate your feelings for him even to yourself, always denying the possible realization of this moment. But his warm tongue strolling along your navel was a check mate to your insecurities, and now your body was his canvas, painting you in shades of Joker.

As he got on his knees, you felt yours would weaken in an instant, the heels of your stilettos working their way to penetrate yours.

‘I think we should take the advice in the rulebook and avoid exposure to lace for too long, don't you?’ his nimble fingers removed the lace panties and his tongue invaded your core before you could object. As if.

Fuck yesss… you exhaled a touch too loudly.

‘Oh dear, where are your manners, young lady?’ as if he wasn't speaking with a mouthful.

The sight of his green hair falling over the red jacket, his wide eyes pinned on yours, his mouth gobbling at you had been your usual suspects for the past year. But you'd imagined Arthur under the makeup, and these darkened eyes betrayed another beast altogether, a hungry, voracious beast. A surprisingly crafty one, within seconds he'd made you purr uncontrollably.

An outpour of sensation washed over you, body and mind together feeling so sensual and wanted, he was controlling your body with his tongue even as he knelt before you. You’d been intoxicated by the smell of cologne, cigarette and faint gasoline, your finger tips tracing the freshly applied white makeup and green dye on his temples. Soon enough, the slick bastard was maneuvering your clit, exposing and tasting it to his own pleasure. For a second, he moaned as he lost himself in your folds, the sounds of him enjoying what he was doing to you made you pulsate on his tongue. He'd rattled you down to your heels, you were panting so hard you were afraid you would tumble.

‘Joker… I’m gonna fall…’

‘Now now… let me finish this first, then you can fall for me, kitten.’

It hadn't even crossed your mind to make that connection, but you were once again red-handed. You couldn't help but let out a silly school girl giggle as he got up and lifted you in his arms, so much stronger than his slim complexion let see, carrying you to the large sofa, gently laying you in a corner.

‘Is this better?’

Your eyes the size of two full moons, you nodded.

‘Keep those devils on, will you?’ winking at the red soles of the Louboutins you'd chosen for the occasion. You nodded once more with beggar eyes.

‘The taste of you… mmm how I’ve yearned for it… I wasn't joking about your cancelled plans. Don't say you weren't warned' he whispered as he kissed you, his taste and yours mingled on his lips were an aphrodisiac. You nodded obediently one last time.

Kneeling once again between your thighs, he proceeded to unbutton his vest, then his shirt, yet maintaining eye contact. Damn, that new treatment must have been making miracles. You had never been intimate with Arthur before, but you couldn't miss that it was Joker in between your thighs. You’d be shamelessly lying if you said you didn't want him to take you just like this, a painted, deranged clown that had been stalking you for months, the danger an essential part of the thrill.

As he bared his chest, a deep purple covered part of his left ribcage underneath the teal shirt, his nightlife trade in violence etched onto his body, causing you to frown with genuine concern. That must have been why he seemed to flinch and change course at the thought of baring his body to you. In his own time.

You trembled as his warm breath spread over your clit, sinking his tongue in whatever he'd made of you already. The intense eye contact would be enough stimulant to answer your burning curiosities, but he had his to satisfy. Savoring each slurp, he was masterfully tensing you up like a guitar string ready to pop at the next twirl, and those diamonds around his eyes only served to plunge you into the ferocity of his curious gazes. You were a ball of ache to feel his flesh slither inside you, tongue, fingers, cock. The thirst you’d felt for him for so long was strikingly visible in your quivering body and four octave moans, his palms strolling across the red lace all the way up to your breasts. How insatiable he was in his exploration, each touch a stronger confirmation that you were really, finally his.

A soft stroke of his tongue over his lips yanked you out of any distraction, an uncontrolled twitch of your knees betraying a futile instinct of self preservation. Your reflexes had been off by around a year, though. You whined and moaned and shivered under his velvet lips as he strolled them down your breasts, your ribs, your belly button, feeling the jolts in your body and reveling in them as he hummed. Each kiss he carefully peppered onto your prickled skin sent you into a maddening spiral, your core a backdraft aching for him to extinguish. How ironic. You had grown up petrified of those nightmares of a dreadful clown chasing you down to eat you whole. Who would have thought these terrors would develop into consuming yearnings 20 years later?

The high that came with his virtuosity made the fabric of reality feel hazy, your fingers tangled in his green hair an anchor to the real world, where it seemed as if your body had been designed for him to unlock. With each feathery stroke he'd have you yearning for more, contorting in lust as he tasted you for his own pleasure. Your fingers on his white temple, he seemed intrigued by the beggar look staring right at him, so he buried his tongue deeper.

‘This tastes exactly how I imagined it…’

This hungry wolf kept on controlling your whole body through his tongue, slurping each drop of pleasure he brought. The narcissist in him was feeding off each reaction he ignited, reveling in the fact that he was the cause of all this hot mess, and you were falling like rain on a scorching mid summer day.

‘You rascal... Is this your MO, you threaten your prey 24 hours before the inevitable?’

‘I usually take ‘em by surprise'

Fire and ice collided in your core into an outwash of sensation and your eyes drowned in the back of your head as he gentry filled you up with one finger ‘Ohh… right there…’. It was too much to bear as his tongue played with your flushed bud and his finger stroke at your deepest well of intense pleasure. Never would you have thought Arthur capable of pleasuring a woman so exquisitely, but here he was, proving you wrong in the most delicious way you'd never imagined.

He was an artist after all, a nimble dancer who was born with music in his veins. And what is dancing than making love set to music? How he constantly drained you of every drop of pleasure with his skillful tongue, as if he'd finally found his vocation. The tenderness of his touches betrayed a long lasting want for you in his arms, a haunting want that he'd finally captured and was now close enough to taste.

‘Oh God, this is too good, please keep going' your voice had turned into beseeching cries.

‘Yeah?’

‘Yes, please…’

‘Mmm… Right here?’

‘Y… yes… don't stop please', the words poured out as if coming from the sweetest place of ecstasy, the beggar look and pulsating muscles a dead giveaway.

‘Come for me, pussycat, and look at me as you do...’

His command to come for him tipped you off the edge instantly, he had released the hold on the leaning rollercoaster, his tongue twirling and stroking your flushed bud. His piercing eyes gleamed as your skin went aflame and you combusted in his mouth harder than you’d ever had before. Your mind was devoid of thought as you let yourself sink into his fervent caresses. He held you down as you bucked and convulsed in blissful agony pinned onto his finger, he sank his nose and tongue into your cunt, prideful for making you come so soon. You felt flushed, ravaged, trembling from all joints, your eyes in the back of your head unable to contain their fluttering any longer. His starved frenzy had eased into careful strokes with a soft tongue, comforting you through the dwindling climax.

‘Whoa, hello there, pussycat… how I love hearing you purr like this for me’

He climbed up to you gently, the widest, proudest grin imaginable etched on his face as he smacked his lips. The lower half was smudged enough for his mouth to be visible under a glistening coat of you, and there it was. The scar that you'd specifically left out of the composite sketch. It was very old, a part of him, his face branded uniquely. As much as the clown costume spewed fire down your spine, you so badly wanted to see Arthur without it once again.

‘Joker…’

‘Yeah?’

‘I'm gonna…’

‘Come again?’

His nimble fingers were skillfully riding you fast towards another orgasm, your core still highly sensitive after your first one.

‘That's it kitten, give this joker what he wants. You're so damn beautiful, I want all of you'

His savory whispers lifted you to your peak, then his lips kissed you through your implosive ecstasy as your whole body quivered under his. The taste of you on his lips should be his new cologne from then on. After he’d seeded those thoughts the night before, it wasn't at all surprising how your body overreacted to his touches. Murmuring softly in your ear, he slowly released the grip as you descended from the second high. Your palms caressed his jawline, the feel of paint covering his skin a contradiction you'd never felt before. But here he was, teaching you what you didn't know how.

‘There there, I’ll let go now'

‘No, don't, please. Give me more…' You begged, commanding respect as the highly virtuous, dignified lady you were in that moment.

His smile as wide as on Christmas morning, his eyebrows raised, a chuckle exulting his whole body, he clearly hadn't expected that reaction so soon. Cat's out of the bag now.

‘Well well well… Look at you beg!'

‘I didn't beg…!'

‘But you will'

You should have known better than falling into that again, but you were too distracted with unbuttoning his red pants and finding the real culprit for your sleepless nights. If you'd known Joker from so many accounts, this had not been in any police record. But boy, it should have been, you wouldn't have thinned your art exhibitions to avoid being found, what a ridiculous thing to do!

With a swift motion, he was already in between your thighs. Lowering his white briefs and positioning himself at your glistening entrance, he was massaging with the tip, testing your sensitivity. This surely wasn't the same gallant gentleman who'd wooed you so far, this was another animal who was toying with his food, and you had willingly stepped into his lair.

‘Is that a threat or a promise?’

His eyes squinted in the dim light, a smug smile to his ears and your whole body jolted at the feel of him entering you all the way down, groaning with eyes in the back of his head.

‘Knowing me, what’s the difference?’

You molded so well on him as he filled you up and some more, his arms locking you down for his pleasure. Careful and gentle at first, his knees deep in the couch the more he'd bury himself into you, his face immersed in your hair gulping your scent, his tongue nibbling your ear.

‘And now I’m inside you. All the way inside you', his hand caressing your jawline, shyly brushing over your gaping mouth before kissing you.

Releasing yourself to him had been the epitome of the most ardent desires clawing out of you progressively. You‘d craved each and every word he was whispering in your ear as he was having you. His size filled you all the way in, you must have been molded to him or else you could not fathom how you'd never felt so awash as you did with Joker. He was going there, working exquisitely to get his little prize again, and it was terrifying how familiar he had become with your sweet spot in under an hour. Perhaps you'd anticipated this moment for months on end that his slightest touch would just keep you hooked in a state of blissful tension. His slim body felt heavy over you, his sharp pelvis bones grinding against your inner thighs, his protruding ribs over yours.

And yet he was so beautiful, no other man had ever awakened such riveting feelings inside your gut so effortlessly. The amount of torment this man had felt throughout his life, and yet he was still capable of making you feel such heart warming bliss in his arms. As he'd wrapped you around him tight, his palm on your cheek, his forehead to yours, it was clear you weren't just tonight's fuck. He had longed for you, and you were finally his. And his you were.

‘I'd asked myself so many times why you kept painting me, and what would you think about when you did that… Am I on the right track?’

You were a broken record of enticing approvals, your mind and body in ecstatic agony. This was not the same man from Pogo's Comedy Club, or the same man on the police car for that matter. This man was phlegmatic, charismatic and gallant enough to be a dirty flirt, and so goddamn dashing in his suit and makeup. Everything about him was such a contradiction it was driving you rabid.

Getting plowed you screamed and panted heavily, your core soaking him whole. His strokes were taking you to the edge, had they been delicate so far, now they were progressively vicious as he heard you whimper. Your mind was a sweet void, a deep abyss of shivers and tingles shrouding you in free fall, your dry lips pleading him to keep going.

As he bit his lips, his facial features turned aggressive, his eyes dark with lust. You moaned as he laid you down and fucked you hard and deep, hitting your sweet spot rhythmically, your cries fuel to his ego. The sneaky bastard was grinning at the sight of his kitten crumbling under his pleasure, so damn proud of himself.

‘You've been thinking about this for a while, haven’t you?’

Your five senses were invaded by his forehead sweaty onto yours, his eyes a hypnotizing flood of green murky waters, the smell of ammonia and cigarettes filling your nostrils, his husky voice whispering softly as his cock rummaged your sweet spot.

‘You want to be my precious little slut doll, don't you? Come for me.’

Oh god… a new set of pleasure waves rushed through your flesh progressively. Something about the way he cursed sent you into a spiral, how it tipped you over into another outpour of muscle spasms. Under tight grips, he fucked you the way you needed to be fucked, fast and hard, without a pinch of mercy, his cock growing stronger under your spastic contractions, Arthur must have left the building completely. You slowly shed every ounce of ecstasy as he trailed his eyes down your body, his breath ragged, his voice purring little silent curses.

You're here, really here, you're mine, all mine, his voice whispered right before his sea green eyes disappeared in the back of his head and you felt a strong throb rushing through you as he spilled himself into you, shuddering, panting, gasping for air. His moans in pleasure were an aphrodisiac you’d never believed you'd get a taste of. But here it was, and all you wanted was to savor it at your discretion again and again.

As he descended from his high, his body felt heavy and his heart galloped against your chest, yet his lips still lingered on your skin, peppering it with red traces of himself. Joker had ousted the whole world from your senses, leaving only himself under your skin, his embrace the safest shelter for both.

‘If you only knew…’ he whispered as he lay his face to rest in the nuzzle of your neck ‘… just how many times I’ve played this in my head, kitten… If there's one good thing out of my condition, it's that my imagination can be blissfully vivid.’ His fingers deciphered your face gently, grabbling the warmth of the skin. ‘But every time I’d wake hopeful, you weren't there. And that's when it was most cruel and bitter…’The faltering of his voice played the piano tiles of an innocent, tormented concerto that filled the room despite the windy night.

‘But I am here now, Arthur'

‘You are… yes, you are…’

The sweetness of his soft lips deliciously covering your face until reaching your mouth, he'd been right when predicting your fall for him, and what a rhapsodic fall he'd triggered. The silence of his tight embrace said more than you'd ever dared hope for, but a playful hum lingered in his throat as the words murmured indelibly.

Someday when I’m awfully low, when the world is cold

I will feel a glow just thinking of you, and the way you look tonight

His husky voice gave you shivery prickles, and a chuckle escaped you remembering the direction of Sinatra's lyrics, what a master of anticipation Arthur had become.

*Knock knock*

Arthur's voice froze in an instant, your heart almost bursting into his palm, he placed a finger over your lips to shush you.

A voice with a British accent apologized for the intrusion and set your mind at ease, but had clearly set Arthur on edge. By his puzzled reaction, he had meant his promise of a vacation and an interruption couldn't be a good omen.

‘Ahhhh shit, Gary! He wouldn't bother unless it was important. Stay here, kitten, I'll be right back. COMING!'

Untangling himself from you proved difficult for both as he kissed your lips one last time while tucking himself back into his pants. You'd covered half your face with the first pillow to stifle your giggles as he stumbled putting his shoes on, seemingly willing to greet Gary with his lower face smudged in a most decadent mixture of you both.

‘Arthur… that suit won't cover the lower half of your face, you know?’

An eyebrow twitch stopped him in his haste to ponder at your hint, the realization of it spreading a most endearing smile of the night onto his face. Your heart coiled at his complicit chuckle of needing to put Joker back on as he'd forgotten him for a second.

Two minutes later he bowed gracefully, his makeup shamefully half applied over the initial mess.

‘Gary's my best man, he's seen worse of me. But what’s a valiant knight to do if not protect his sweet damsel's virtue?’

A wink and a quick peck on the lips, so comfortingly as if you'd known each other for ages, and off he went.

As he will, undoubtedly…

#joker #joker x reader #arthur fleck #Joaquin Phoenix #joker fanfiction #joker fanfic #joker x y/n #joker x you #joker joaquin phoenix #arthur x you #arthur x reader

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justhereforfanfiction · 5 years ago

Text

Lost - Logan x MC

Angst, approximately 2, 500 words.

Hi. This is my first ever fanfiction, so any feedback is welcome! Although I haven't posted any fanfictions on there other than this one, I will likely branch out from Choices on Wattpad and if you are interested in that, maybe you could look at my account? It's @ GalaxyGirl20671! Again, feedback including constructive criticism is welcome, and I hope you like it! I think it helps 'set the mood' if you do listen to the song, but in no way do you have to! I hope you enjoy. 😊

I know I didn't use every lyric but that's because I didn't want to use repeated lines in case it became repetitive.

Song - Lost by Freya Ridings

*I know I use 'Ellie' in this instance but it just represents the MC - to me, it feels a bit detached to use 'Y/N' - but feel free to self-insert if you wish! :)*

'Standing on the platform, watching you go...'

Ellie stood at the turn - in at the end of her block, watching as a sleek, black-striped yellow sports car slid out of its slot into the street. Almost as easy as it had come into her life, she supposed, on that less-than-fateful day. But she knew that that was not the case, just as she knew the boy whose spark plug necklace was slipped under her t-shirt, guarding her rapidly beating heart.

'It's like no other pain I've ever known'

That same heart ached at even the concept of him leaving her side, yet somehow there the reality was painted, harsh and monochrome against the bold, colourful canvas of what had been her hopes and dreams for the two of them. Although with him, those dreams could have been driving around the city or sat in some reincarnation of his loft eating takeout from Kelso's, and it would still make her feel as though she was graduating from a hundred- no, a thousand - Langstons. Her sense of loss was so strong it manifested itself as physical pain - a common symptom of undergoing stress, she seemed to remember from one of their late-night 'study sessions', the knot in her stomach tightening at the fond, soon-to-be-bittersweet memory.

'To love someone so much, to have no control...'

Ellie could still feel her whole body pulse gently, perhaps not entirely from her emotions (although those threatened to overwhelm her), but from the intensity and fierceness of their last embrace before he left. That had been out of her hands, he had wanted to keep her safe - but her father pulling a gun on him only pushed the situation further out of her grasp. It seemed she had come full circle - from her cop father controlling her life to her breaking free, her forgiving him again, and back to him commanding the one thing she loved beside him; the boy with the car. Couldn't she have one untarnished goodbye out of the many to remember him by, without someone accusing them of something? Ellie's dad had only been trying to protect her, and she knew that - but her first everything had been putting HER first as well, being noble for Gods' sake! Even if it didn't feel like it to her...

'You said "I wanna see the world", and I said "Go"'

The look on his face had told Ellie one thing, yet his mouth spoke another. He had known she had plans for the future, and to him, he was getting in the way of those. With his words, he gently retracted himself from her life. He had been 'just some kid you caused trouble with in high school' to her father undoubtedly, but in Ellie's heart, she knew he was so much more. However, while he was saying that, his arms drew her in and she had melted into his touch. The sound of his car engine seemed to call out decidedly that his words had signified his true intentions.

'I think I'm lost, without you'

Without him, Ellie didn't know who she should be anymore. He was the one who brought her into this life, who brought out this side of her. Every time she had been brave, or confident, or even remotely bold, it had been because of him, directly or otherwise? Whoever thought she'd dance at a secret warehouse rave? Or pass her driving test? Or even talk to Ingrid as an equal in any way other than academics? Going back to her old self felt as difficult as trying to separate water from the sand without filter paper. "Be the real you. the one that was always waiting to come out" he had said. She wanted to so badly, but how could she do that when so much of that person was based on him? It was just like Colt had said - every time she gets behind the wheel she will remember them and the year she had spent.

'I just feel crushed without you'

Ellie's emotions weighed down on her like the heavens on Atlas the Titans' shoulders. Whenever they had been driving or executing one of Kanaeko's master plans with the rest of the MPC, she had enjoyed - no, loved - his company, yet now she realised that once the others were gone he had been the one she needed the most of all of them. And now he was about to be gone, leaving her with a stolen car that Toby wasn't here to patch up, and the memories of fleeting touches long since past.

'I've been strong for so long, I never thought

how much I needed you'

Even when he had left after teaching her to fight, Ellie had not felt it with the same note of finality that this moment held. She had always thought there was a possibility - however small - of seeing him one last time. And now, even though she wished it desperately, Ellie knew he wasn't coming back. This time, too much was on the line.

'Strangers rushing past, just trying to get home.'

In the not-so-far distance, Ellie could hear the steady stream of LA traffic that the boy she loved would soon enter. She wondered - would they know a wanted street racer was cruising down the freeway amongst them? That that drive was breaking two hearts and would damage at least one more before the night was out? Nobody knew where he was going, however, not even Ellie. Her best guess was back to Detroit, but Ellie guessed that not even he knew where he would wind up tomorrow morning. Even that one suggestion could have been some sort of plot to make sure she didn't worry about him (although she would nonetheless) or found where he was. He knew her better than anyone, after all. She would only have agreed to Mona's terms if he had reiterated them.

'But you were the only safe haven that I've known'

Those words were true enough. Despite her father claiming to support her in everything she did, the one thing Ellie never knew she wanted had been right under her nose, kept away from her by the one who 'only wanted her to be happy'. Sure, Ellie understood that Grand Theft Auto wasn't exactly a conventional - or indeed safe- pastime, but not teaching her to drive only meant that once Ellie wanted to learn, she was dangerously inexperienced anyway! And look where that got her. With her driving license, of course (since Ellie, as her dad loved to brag, "succeeded in everything she put her mind to"), but with her friends a now orphaned teen with what seemed to be a world (or at least city) domination problem, a hardened criminal currently in hospital, soon to be jail with a bullet through her side because of her, and two mechanic - slash racers on the run, and a boyfriend (well, would-be, since they never defined the relationship, but an ex now involuntarily)being forced by her dad to leave the country at gunpoint.

The boyfriend who had taught her how to drive. Who had cared about her over the safety of his crew, or even being put in jail. Who had guided her through her first... everything, really. First kiss, first car, first heist - whenever Ellie needed him, he was there. And most importantly, she could say next to anything around him and he would listen and give advice without judgement. Even though she had missed the comfort of her bed whilst residing in his loft, that boy was - and Ellie had a feeling always would be - where her heart lived.

'Hits me at full speed,

Feels like I can't breathe

And nobody knows'

As soon as the key had turned in the ignition, the Devore roaring to life, Ellie's breath had been knocked out of her as fast as if her car could have accelerated from 0 to 100 in a nanosecond. All she wanted to do was scream and howl at the sky, to God, to anyone who would listen to try and get them to rewrite fate so that they could be together. She wanted to cry to Riya, but she knew that her best friend no matter how much they had in common would just take her to get ice cream and tell her 'these things heal in time'. She wanted to collapse at her mothers' feet as she frequently did in her dreams, but the tightness of the heirloom bracelet at her wrist reminded Ellie that that was impossible.

Most of all, however, she wanted her fathers' understanding; that she loved and had lost just as he had all those years ago. She remembered when her dad had met him for the first time properly, the anger he had wielded towards the boy who had put her in so much danger - who had saved her from it just as many times. The disbelief on his face as she explained that she loved this 'bad boy', this 'adrenaline junkie' as she was sure her father addressed him in his mind. How the initial shock had moulded into fury at whatever 'trick' he was sure this criminal must have worked on his daughter. No, Ellie was sure he wouldn't understand for at least the next week or so.

'This pain inside me

My world is crumbling

I should have never

Let you go'

The first tear of what was to be many rolled down Ellie's already mascara-striped face as she fell to her knees. Her dad looked at her in surprise as she screamed in the middle of the street, and could see an identical tear roll down the face of the boy inciting it as he drove past the old man, wincing in guilt as the sound of his ride or die's anguish reached his ears. Had it maybe been the wrong thing to do? Had he maybe... underestimated the intensity of the teenagers' emotions? Undoubtedly, but he had to protect his daughter from going down the wrong path.

Ellie's jaw tightened as her father dared to look vaguely upset at the situation. He was the one worsening it after all. It was almost shameful of him to have judged her (literal) partner in crime so quickly. After all, when had he ever hurt her with bad intentions at heart? Ellie realised that her anger was not directed towards her father, but rather towards herself for allowing this to happen. She couldn't have stopped him leaving, but she could have made sure they were farther out of her dads' line of sight so they would have a chance of a 'proper' goodbye, whatever that was; the one year had spent with him and the crew had felt far more meaningful than any of the 18 she had gone through alone, to the point where the mere thought of goodbye was heartbreaking. And she had simply let him be treated in that way by her kin?

'I've been strong for so long, I never thought

How much I love you'

Earlier in the evening, once she had dispelled all of her nervous energy, her mind had been solely focused on bringing Shaw and The Brotherhood down. But once that had come to pass, her emotions had hit her like a ton of bricks. The Mercy Park Crew had no reason to stick around now Teppei was dead; it was time to find a new gang. For Colt and Mona, leaving had not been a choice. The latter's injury and the formers' determination to build his name in LA's criminal underworld saw to that. Saying goodbye to each of them had been no easy task, and she had half expected him to have skipped town already, to save them both the heartbreak of saying goodbye. But that had not been the case, as he had stepped out of the darkness to say one final farewell.

Tears had soaked Ellie's skin at the words he spoke, as they did now as he drove away. Her guard had been up during the heist, channelling her anger and determination to have Jason put behind bars, along with Detectives Wallace and Hester. But when she was around the crew, those she considered close enough to be family, Ellie had broken down. She had been fierce and brave then; that had been to cover up her paralysing fear of losing them again. Of losing herself again. His goodbye had hurt the most, like a slap to the face, short and painful but with lasting effects.

Throughout the brief conversation, their relationship had played through her mind; not just from her perspective, but what it must have been like for him. How on that day, what seemed to be casual flirting and general friendliness must have been tiptoeing through a minefield for him. A single wrong move and the whole crew could be placed at risk. The initial shock and rush when driving from the cops leading to the beginning of their relationship. How in each moment Ellie fell deeper in love with him, he was doing the same, only that feeling of freefalling was paired with the guilt of tricking her, and the fear of letting her in at the risk of his emotions and her safety - concerns which were not calmed by certain complications they had run into along the way. This myriad of memories only emphasised the emptiness Ellie felt in her heart now.

'Standing on the platform, watching you go.

You said, "I wanna see the world" and I said "Go"'

As Ellie felt the tarmac of the sidewalk dig into her knees and tears roll down her face, she watched as the car she knew so well turned into the next street. When the car swung around, she caught a glimpse of its driver, his eyes trained on hers, smiling weakly through tear-filled eyes. Regret was written undeniably in his gaze, but he was trying to put on a brave face for her to remember him by. Trademark. A thought that once would have put a grin on Ellie's face now caused her to sob in sorrow, grieving the little moments that comfortably passed between them that she was sure could not be replicated with anyone else. She shot him back a brief smile, equally bittersweet in the less than perfect moment, and the last words he said to her echoed in her mind.

"Give 'em hell, troublemaker"

His car finally moved out of sight, and Ellie suddenly felt the repressed need to call out for him spring out in full force; now that her father had walked inside she felt less pressured to avoid the elephant in the room, at least out loud.

"Logan..." she choked out to no one in particular, as she rubbed her road marked knees the way he would have done and slowly got up.

Later, after she had deleted their messages from her phone and laid in her bed in silence, she took off the necklace from around her neck and placed it on the adjourned pillow. "Logan." Ellie whispered to herself as if in the affirmation that he had been real.

She had been lucky to know him. Too bad there wasn't a next time to be ready for.

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sibilantly · 7 years ago

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hi, sib. i sent you an ask about writing a while ago and you were super helpful, but i have found myself in yet another conundrum - i'm blocked. it took me some time to figure out why, and i'm pretty sure it's 'cause i'm supposed to be starting my mfa this fall and i'm just scared shitless. i'd really appreciate some advice on how to unblock the block. i just feel so useless right now. this nonsense in my head is honestly wearing me down.

You sent this several months ago, dear writing anon (as I now dub thee), and I’m terribly sorry I haven’t replied before now. RL got in the way of my online/fandom time again, but, more than that, I’ve been musing and reflecting on the situation you described, and I’ve only recently been able to marshall it all into semi-coherence. I assume you’ve started your MFA already (CONGRATULATIONS, BY THE WAY!), so all this navel-gazing and advice may be moot, but on the off-chance you’re still stymied, here’s my take and (for what it’s worth) my advice:

The thing about ‘writer’s block’ (air quotes), which you seem to have figured out already, is that it’s really emotional block. And the most common emotion is fear.

It’s not surprising, really, when you consider the fact that writing is both a craft and an art. (Well… alright, every art form is a combination of craft and art - of technical skill and vision - but we’re just going to focus on writing right now). And, just like every other art form, the very best writing requires self-expression. Think of your favourite authors, both published and in fandom. Could you ever mistake their writing for another author’s? I’m willing to bet my last dollar that your answer will be ‘no’.

However, self-expression also means baring yourself. It means producing a piece of writing that says, in effect, ‘this is what I think, this is what I feel - this is how I see the world, this is my perspective on this trope/theme/topic, this is me’, and putting it out there to be looked at and judged by strangers. Strangers who may then have all sorts of reactions and opinions - negative ones, even - about not just your work, but about you.

And for the vast majority of people (myself included), that is fucking terrifying on a visceral, lizard brain level. In prehistoric times (or… whenever… anthropology is not my strong suit), being rejected by others meant isolation, which in turn meant increased risk of starvation or death by megafauna. We’re not in prehistoric (or whatever) times anymore, but rejection and negative judgement still hurts and looms large in our psyches because… well, the lizard brain is a powerful motherfucker that has gotten our species this far. It’s like that douchebag in your social circle that you just can’t drop entirely because they’re handy/annoyingly right in certain situations.

Anyway.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is: take heart, writing anon. You’re in good and numerous company. This fear - this emotional block - you feel is common. It’s unbelievably common. I personally grapple with it every week. Like, literally every week. From a certain evolutionary perspective, you could even say the fear is reasonable (DEATH BY MEGAFAUNA).

…however, that perspective is severely unhelpful in motivating one to write, so let us acknowledge said perspective like it’s an acquaintance we’re on nodding terms with, and move on.

The fact of the matter is, we’re not in prehistoric-whatever times anymore. Rejection will not kill us, no matter what the lizard brain keeps shrieking. And while the lizard brain is powerful, it’s also primitively dumb. Which means we can trick it.

There is a reason why pretty much every notable book on the art and craft of writing will have a chapter or a section which says, essentially: half the battle is getting your arse in the chair.

It’s because, a great majority of the time, getting started really is the biggest hurdle. Once you’re actually slapping some words onto a page? It may be painful, it may present its own challenges, but it usually doesn’t require as much effort as just. Getting. Started.

As the number of days you spend not writing builds up, the act of writing - even the mere thought of it - becomes more and more psychologically loaded, more threatening to your sense of self. ‘YOU’RE GONNA BE REJECTED AND STARVE TO DEATH IN THE DESERT,’ says the lizard brain. The more rational part of your brain says, ‘You’ve spent all this time not writing. When you finally summon up the power to do so, by some act of God, it’s going to come out mediocre, at best, because you’re out of practice. Why bother?’

And, look– to be honest, rational brain will probably be right regarding your restart writing attempts coming out mediocre. But it’s wrong about it being pointless to start.

Because here is something else you should tell yourself: writing is not just the words you publish. It’s not even just the words you publish plus the words you wrote in draft and then killed because you realised they were darlings. It’s not even all those words and the time you spent brainstorming and outlining. It’s all those words plus that planning plus the emotional work you go through - in character and as yourself - to get those words and ideas out.

Don’t get down on yourself if you have only one hour to write and you spend fifty of those minutes psyching yourself up to write. Psyching yourself up to write is part of writing. You’re getting your arse in the chair.

So, sure, maybe on day one you’ll spend just ten minutes getting some words out. But on day two, when you sit down again, you’ll remember: I did this for ten minutes yesterday. I can do it again. It’s like a gradual stretching and strengthening of a muscle. You should– no, you need to take your time, because writing is a years-long (ideally, lifelong) journey. You’ll need to pace yourself accordingly.

I’m not saying it’s easy. I have spent years devising weird tricks, strategies, and schedules to fool my lizard brain into viewing the act of writing as non-threatening (and sometimes I still fail and will stop writing for a couple days). I know it’s not easy. But it’s doable - you just need to find the right set of tricks and strategies that will fool your lizard brain.

EVERYTHING THAT I, SIB, HAVE PERSONALLY DONE TO FOOL THE LIZARD BRAIN

1. Automate that shit - COME UP WITH A VERY, VERY SIMPLE PRE-WRITING ACTION

Okay, so at this point, you might be going, ‘Great, Sib, but how do I get myself to start?’

And I say: ‘Automate that shit’. You can make the initial action (usually the action that requires the most effort) more likely to happen by making it very, very simple.

For (a non-writing) example, I have a weird thing about dishes. I don’t like doing them. What I don’t mind doing, however, is clearing the dish rack. But what tends to happen is, once I’ve cleared the dish rack and find myself standing beside the sink, I think, ‘well, since I’m already here…’

That’s what you need to trigger with writing - that casual thought of, ‘well, since I’m already here…’. The point of the pre-writing action is to trick yourself (or, at least, your lizard brain) into perceiving writing as being so simple, so easy and non-threatening, it’d be almost silly to not do it. This is especially important if you haven’t written in so long that writing has come to resemble a nigh-insurmountable mountain or a time bomb strapped right against your heart and your sense of self-worth.

Even if you don’t do anything else that I suggest (seriously, you don’t have to, I’m just listing everything I’ve tried on the off-chance that it might work for you), I’d say this is the strategy to try. The whole point of it is that it should require almost no effort to perform. Why not do it?

My personal pre-writing action is fifteen minutes of free writing/journalling (‘I’m not writing, lizard brain, I’m just talking to myself’). You don’t have to do that. But whatever action you choose to go with, make sure it’s easy and flows on automatically to writing. The point isn’t to force yourself. If you’re forcing yourself, the action is too complicated. You’re removing the automaticity of the process, and the whole point is automaticity.

Examples of pre-writing actions you could do:

1. Sitting in your dedicated writing spot. Just sitting there. You don’t have to write. But since you’re already there…

2. Summarising the last scene/chapter you wrote. You don’t have to write anything new. But since you’ve already picked up that pen or typed out that sentence…

3. Making a cup of tea (or coffee or whatever) and thinking about your writing as it steeps. You don’t have to do anything with the idea you came up with. But since it’s already formed… ;)

I know it can be embarrassing to set your bar so ‘low’, because it feels like you’re admitting you’re incapable. But you’re not incapable. You’re just human. You have multiple responsibilities, coupled with limited time and limited resources, both physical and mental. You’re doing the best you can with the time, ability, and energy you have. No one can expect more of you than that. You, especially, should not expect more of yourself than that.

2. Grab a notebook or open a document, and DESCRIBE YOUR PROCRASTINATION BEHAVIOUR(S) IN SPECIFIC, OBSERVABLE TERMS. Don’t just say ‘I avoid writing’ - be specific (says Arthur).

For example, here are some things from my list:

I open up my WIP, stare at the cursor, and tap the page up/down/delete/backspace keys for thirty minutes

When my reminder alarm for writing goes off, I open up my WIP, then open tumblr in another browser

I do all the household chores when it’s time to write

3. Take that list of behaviours and WRITE DOWN AT LEAST ONE SPECIFIC, ACTIONABLE SOLUTION FOR EACH BEHAVIOUR. You may come up with more than one solution for each behaviour. It’s fine. Write all of them down.

Here is what I came up with for the above:

Staring at the cursor:

Pull the page up/down and backspace keys off the keyboard (this didn’t work for me.)

Free write for fifteen minutes before starting ‘real’ writing (which has, yes, become my pre-writing ritual. It works beautifully for me because, after 5-10 minutes, it tends to segue into ‘real writing’. As in, I’ll start off writing like I’m telling a friend about what should happen next in the story - complete with tangents and sentences full of ‘and then he’s like, you know, completely aghast’ - and then as I relax and get more into the story, I drift into draft prose and dialogue.)

Opening tumblr at the same time as my WIP:

Install Clear Focus on my phone and StayFocusd on all browsers, and put a strict limit on tumblr

Write longhand in a notebook and then transcribe (this is my go-to solution these days)

Doing household chores instead of writing:

Schedule writing time only after I finish all chores (this is a meh solution for me - I can always find new things to clean, if I’m really, really trying to avoid writing.)

Write one hour before bed/when exhausted (this is like the non-alcoholic version of the apocryphal Hemingway edict ‘write drunk, edit sober’. Exhaustion gives you all the benefits of writing without your conscious filter with none of the cirrhosis or other alcohol-related diseases!)

Stick these lists up wherever you tend to write. Now whenever you catch yourself engaging in one (or more) of these procrastination behaviours, you also have a solution (or solutions). Again, it will not necessarily be easy. But in knowing your bad habits and being prepared for them, you’re setting yourself up for a much better chance of success, and reducing the likelihood that you’ll slip down the procrastination shame spiral. The rest is the unglamorous process of trying, maybe failing, and then trying again.

4. On the cognition side of things, ASK YOURSELF: WHY DO YOU WANT TO WRITE?

Why, given all the frustration and fear and isolation (because writing is a bit of a lonely thing, at times), do you keep trying? Write every reason you have down, and be honest about it. No one is going to see this list but you.

The reason I suggest you do this is because there will be days (or weeks, or months) where it feels like all you’re doing is eking out paragraph after paragraph of dreck. It’ll feel awful. And if you don’t know why you’re writing - if you have no goal to set your sights upon, or no internal touchstone to remind you why you’re putting yourself through this - it’ll be so much more tempting to give up.

5. I’ve said this to you before, but I’ll say it again because if you’re anything like me (and I’m still riding on the assumption we’re at least a little alike, because every message you send me I’m like, ‘ah, man, yeah, I feel you, I feel you’), some advice requires repeating before it sinks in. Especially when the advice is unglamorous. So. SET YOURSELF A SMALL, ACHIEVABLE WRITING TARGET, be it a word count or a set amount of time each day.

And when I say small, I mean small. If writing 100 words a day feels uncomfortable, set your target at 50. If writing for one hour is exhausting, set your target at 30 minutes (or 15, like I did! :D).

ONE MORE THING

Writing requires discipline.

There is the discipline of sitting down and doing the work, every day, even if you’re not feeling it, of course. We’ve all heard that advice, and we’ve all (at some point or another) gotten royally pissed off at it.

But there is another sort of discipline, one that flows on from doing the work every day. In working through the fear, you teach yourself that these periods of mediocre writing or zero writing are temporary, just little halts in your overall writing journey. That’s a kind of discipline, too - training yourself to believe, heart and mind, that the fear will pass, and the words are always with you, even if they’re not coming out the way you want. It’s just going to take time. Be patient, and be kind to yourself (which I know can be hard).

You’re not useless. You’re not failing at anything by being afraid, because the fear - and learning to work through the fear - is as much a part of the writing process as getting the words down. And the value of writing for a writer is not in the finished result, not really. It’s in the act of creating, in being willing to start, to try. If you’re psyching yourself up to try, then hey. That’s half the battle already.

You can do it, anon! I’m still rooting for you!

(P.S.: You’re more than welcome to message me off anon using tumblr’s chat function

#writing #writing is hard #do it anyway #text post #very very long post #writing anon #anon #anon reply

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