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@hahaheretic
YOU WOULDN'T GET IT.
Extremely private, mutuals only RP blog for Arthur Fleck of JOKER & FOLIE À DEUX. Portrayal has no connection to DC comics or other Batman media and relies on the two films' worldbuilding only. Linked to adoptedbat.
PM me if you'd like to interact. Writer is 21+ and pro-fiction, pro-ship, anti-anti, etc.
Bruce's gaze shoots up towards Arthur's as he begins to apologize, feeling the tears he's tried to keep down beginning to rise up. He's heard the man go through some low moments, but he's never heard Arthur sound this badly.
Bruce never thought his heart could ever shatter into so many bits.
"No, don't... don't apologize. You don't have to apologize, Arthur, I swear. You wouldn't have any way of knowing," the younger man begged softly, his voice cracking as the unshed tears continued to claw their way out of his throat.
His stomach turns as he looks Arthur over, hating what he's done to the most important person in his life.
Though, when he asks for him to let him hold him, he lets out a strangled sigh of relief that he still wants him around. The tears began to fall onto his cheeks as he nods and follows the tug.
Words have failed him, but at least Arthur's arms are around him once more.
At least he's where he belongs.
His poor baby. Arthur pulls Bruce to him, ignores that he's touching him with hands stained in sex, and regrets his own dismissiveness. Bruce loves him, too-- and he chose that all on his own. Who is Arthur to change his mind? Who is he to try to? If nothing else, Bruce's confession is utter proof that they're meant to be together forever.
"Shh," he murmurs, guiding Bruce until he's sitting in his lap. In the wake of his masturbation the proximity tickles at the half-hard state of his cock, but Arthur's head dips so he can kiss the boy's hair as innocently as he can.
"Shh, shh... I love you too, Tiny." Bruce's neck is warm beneath his palm. Arthur holds him by the nape, and uses his other arm to wrap protectively around him. "I love you more than anyone in the world.
"And I want you to be mine, too."
It makes him shiver to say it aloud, as if fearing some divine retribution. But God doesn't strike him down with lightning, and the world doesn't implode.
Arthur laughs again, halfway to delirious, but manages to swallow the rest of his insanity down. He pulls back, and the hand on Bruce's neck slips to cup his cheek and guide him to look up at him.
"Can we start over?" he asks, stroking the trail of a tear off the boy's face. "Can I say 'I love you', and then you can say 'I love you, too', and then-- and then we can kiss, and touch, because we love each other so much?"
The touches were welcomed; as Arthur had learned during their time together, Melissa enjoyed that proximity. It felt fitting for a relationship that began with a sudden, unexpected physical connection: the witch grabbed his hand inside a haunted house attraction of a carnival that visited the city a couple of years ago, followed by cryptic and distorted words that had clearly been a prophecy. Arthur could have fled then, spooked by the strange woman that looked more like an employee stationed at the ride than a guest herself.
Instead, he accepted all the mysterious appearances that followed - not once questioning how Melissa seemed to find him whenever he needed her.
There was a nod to symbolize her consent - Melissa wanted nothing more than help him; it was clear as the day that her goddess had meant for them to meet and bleed into each other's existences, melting into a single combined fate. Arthur Fleck would be someone of magnificent importance to the city, the country - perhaps even the world. The witch was confident it was her job to make sure his path remained clear and unobstructed, transforming her own dreams into a beautiful, blazing reality.
No wonder one so cold like a corpse felt drawn to his warmth, humor and devotion - Arthur was special and Melissa adored him for it.
The laugh was one of her favorite things about the man - unrestrained, raw and so genuine. As an outcast, Melissa lacked the unfavorable bias many people showed towards him - he was just perfect the way he was, and the sound of his voice (now distorted with joy, perhaps a bit of madness) was like music to her ears. She much preferred that to the opposite - the stifled crying and the pained murmurs whenever he was abused just cut through her heart in an unpleasant way.
(Surprising given how high her tolerance for pain was, physical or otherwise.)
"Kill them," the brunette hummed, not at all appalled at the suggestion. Melissa's voice was calm and collected as if they had been discussing the weather, but it did make her move away from his chest. Any fears that Arthur might have harbored of her being uncomfortable were dismissed as soon as her hands found his face - the witch merely raised her head to look at him, content to remain on her personal throne made of bruised flesh and open wounds, tracing his visage with a delicate touch - particular the curve of smiling lips.
That was a much, much better look on him. He deserved to be happy.
"I would help you do anything, my fallen angel. How would you prefer to do it?" Melissa's honeyed eyes were just twin pools of affection; she meant every word, "I have learned much that can help," the woman inched closer, gingerly placing a kiss against his lips that was so light that one could have believed it to be an hallucination. "But I wonder if they are worthy of torture - I will trust your judgement above anything else."
A small, small part of him had feared Melissa wouldn't understand. It wasn't unreasonable to believe that murder would be where someone drew the line, and even before he spoke his question Arthur knew just how insane it was going to sound.
But instead of turning away, Melissa held his face as he laughed. Shaken, Arthur's shoulders shook as his smile grew sharp enough to cut, and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes deepened into something real.
The fingers on her thigh curled in tighter, blunt nails digging into cloth and flesh all at once. I would help you do anything, my fallen angel. Arthur's forehead bumped against Melissa's own as his laughter dimmed (you're the only one who'd call me an angel), and with the kiss to his mouth he relaxed entirely. By now his wound was starting to bleed freely once more, and it soaked his shirt like a blooming flower.
"I don't know how to torture anybody," he whispered, exhausted by the abuse and his own manic laughter. "But I think you're right.
"I want them to die fast." Green eyes met Melissa's, and the flare of yellow around his pupils shrank as his pupils widened at the look of her. "Mick deserves to die bloody. I want to-- to cut his dick off, and rip his tongue, and gouge his eyes out, and break every finger he has."
Arthur swallowed with a click. "But Mom..."
How did his mother deserve to die? With how often she disappeared into herself, the thought of affording her the same accountability almost felt wrong.
...and yet. She was supposed to be his first line of defence, and he never got that from her, either.
"It has to... I gotta look at her face when I do it. She's my Mom." Arthur's eyes met Melissa's own, his tongue wetting his lip (and then, in a mix of shy and sheepish, licking at Melissa's like a dog).
He kissed her, soft, and his cheeks warmed with it. The hand on her waist drew needy circles with its thumb, and continued to even when Arthur pulled away to look Melissa in the eye.
"How do you kill someone nicely?"
Joaquin Phoenix as Jimmy Emmett in To Die For (1995) dir. Gus Van Sant
"I'm not a child, Arthur," Bruce begins, the slight bite to it getting lost before the words even have a chance to leave his lips. He can't figure out why Arthur's not understanding when he tells him he loves him or even what the kiss, no matter how unplanned, meant. Granted, Bruce recognizes his own inexperience and can't help but wonder if there's something he's not saying.
The frown is evident in every part of his expression, and he looks down at his palms in his lap, watching his fingers as they pull at hangnails nervously.
Maybe if he makes it all explicitly clear and lets Arthur know that nothing is impuslive in this moment he'll understand.
"Jenny from school- my lab partner in physics- she asked me to ask her out a few months back. I told her I couldn't do that, and when she asked why, I told her there was somebody else," Bruce admits, feeling his stomach twist violently in his gut as he face flushes once more. "She thought it was this other girl in our gym class, but it's not. It's not anyone who goes to school with us."
Bruce's lower lips trembles with a fear he's yet to know as he forces himself to meet Arthur's gaze.
"I... I didn't want to tell you about it because I was worried you'd tell me I should've taken her on a date. If you had, I-" his voice breaks and he looks down at his picked-at fingers again. "You're the only person who matters to me, Arthur. You're the one I love and the one I want to spend my life with. You're the only person who's made me feel safe and loved and wanted and- and I don't know what I'd do without you if we..."
The thought of being apart is too much for him that he can't even utter the words.
"I want to be yours, Arthur. It's what I've wanted for a while now."
Why? is the first thing Arthur wants to say.
For a second, he fears everything he must have done wrong. And then, lips pressing together tightly, it occurs to him that not for a second did he ever want to be his mother's, not like this.
Is that what makes the difference? Is that what makes Bruce's decision his own, and not an obligation of family? Could it be possible that someone good like Bruce could want someone as broken as him entirely out of his own free will?
"I'm sorry," he says again, and this time he struggles to keep the self-loathing out of it. "Oh, I didn't mean... I'm sorry I dismissed your feelings, Tiny. Oh..."
Arthur aches. This whole time he's wanted to cry, and now he sits on his legs and looks at Bruce and feels so unbearably defective it makes him want to jump out the window.
Instead of doing any of that, though, he reaches out, curling his fingers tentatively into the hem of Bruce's shirt. Pulling.
"Come here?" he implores, throat hoarse. "Bruce...
"Come let me hold you. Please?"
I take good care of my mother.
Elizabeth did not like unseen circumstances. She, in fact, hated beyond anything in existence when something went outside of what she'd planned, or at least outside of what she tried to expect from the unexpected.
Arthur ending up at the elevator after she'd tried so hard to keep enough distance to ensure he wouldn't see her landed in that terrible moment of the unexpected. And in this terrible moment of the unexpected, her chest seizes with the most violent heat, it's unbearable.
Her throat tightens and it's suddenly impossible to breathe. She can see his mouth moving. She knows he must be saying something, but all she hears is his voice and none of the words they say. When he moves, everything else halts entirely. Elizabeth knows she should move, too. Step away. Exit the elevator - Go about her ❝ day ❞ since she'd been coming down anyway. It's like a scream for survival from every end of her nerves and every single one of them go ignored. Fuck... Fuck!
Fuck.
A headfirst collision with a semi-truck would've been more merciful than the so very innocent brush of Arthur's hand on Elizabeth's sleeve. It undoes every careful, crafted piece of control she had left. It undoes her entirely. And fuck, she wishes she could undo what she's just done in response...
It was instantaneous. Destructive. Her hand seizes his wrist ( it was so painfully delicate... ) and grips enough that her fingerprints could have embedded themselves in the skin. She has more strength than her petite frame gives away. A dangerous amount of strength. Elizabeth hardly has to use any of it, though. Arthur was so wiry compared to her... she pulls and she creates a new collision.
Her teeth and his trapezius.
Elizabeth grabs him by the back of the neck to anchor them together. The sound that escapes between his skin, muscle, and her teeth is something almost animalistic - It's filled with so much more need than anything else, though. Her jaw tightens, her teeth sink deeper, and she's met with a rush of red. The tang splashes over her tongue, fills the spaces around her teeth, and she almost feels sated...
"Wh--" Arthur can feel that uncontrollable laughter struggling to escape him, watching in slow motion as the woman yanks him. "What're you--"
And then there're teeth where there shouldn't be. His shirt and jacket have been tugged, the doors of the elevator have slid closed, and Arthur's lips part around a clipped noise of pain.
"Why're you-- HA!-- why-- hhhfff--"
The elevator has never been slower. It rises at a crawl as Arthur bursts into laughter and bleeds at a remarkable rate. Slamming his hand against the wall to steady himself, Arthur's incapable of muffling the noise, and he laughs and laughs and laughs until the doors, finally, slide open.
He needs to get her off of him. Tears dot the corners of his eyes, heat flares in the back of his neck, and he cackles hard and fast even as he pulls away with all his might. There's a genuine tear then-- her teeth held fast, and she takes flesh with her as he shoves her back-- and even as Arthur turns to face her, a hand pressed protectively to the gushing wound, that terrible noise persists.
"HAHAHA! HAHAHAHAHAHA!"
The tears have started falling despite his best intentions. Arthur should run, he thinks. He should bolt, should get himself fixed, and yet he can't tear his eyes off of her. Feeling a wobble in his knees, he presses his back to the wall of the elevator and sinks slowly until he's sat on the floor.
The doors shut again with a scraping noise, and Arthur keeps laughing. As his palm presses blindly to his leaking wound, he struggles to speak around the noise; "why" is choked out between peals of laughter, however weakly it comes.
Why would you do that. Why would you hurt me. Why would you hurt me like that.
"Why-- gahahahaHAHA! Why!? Whyahahahaha--"
Arthur's mentioned to Bruce that there are times he'll burst into a fit of laughter for seemingly no apparent reason, but he hasn't really seen it before this moment. Granted, it's not the giggles that cause any of the aray of emotions, but rather the words that came out of the mouth he's silently wanted to kiss for so long.
Humilation, worry, hurt, concern- they're all there, but none moreso than rejection.
"Do you really think I kissed you just to make you feel better?"
Bruce's voice is so small as the words come out, a part of him isnt even certain Arthur can hear it over the chuckles coming out of him. Though, he's partially doubtful that things will get any better if he can.
Despite his own feelings, though, he knows he loves Arthur and Arthur loves him no matter what.
Even if he doesn't actually want Bruce the way Bruce wants him, he'll be there for him in whatever way he needs.
A tender hand raises and delicately strokes the long strands on the back of his head.
"You don't have a problem, Arthur. I promise. I love you so much and everything here is fine. We're okay. Nothing has to change if you don't want it to." Bruce keeps his voice kind and soft as he reassures Arthur, despite the fact he's wants to scream his love for the man. But Arthur's having a rough moment, and having to deal with Bruce's own feelings isn't fair to him.
Bruce is so naive, so sweet, and Arthur wants to shove his own head into a microwave. Oh, it would be a dream for the kid to feel the way Arthur does-- in that adult, taboo, you're-for-me-and-I'm-for-you way-- but there's no way he understands what it means. In the haze of Arthur's unreliable memories he isn't sure he ever meant it when he told his mother he loved her, that he was for her, that there would never be anyone else.
But he didn't know any better then, did he?
"It's not-- HA!" Arthur lifts his head and immediately slaps his palm over his mouth, muffling every harsh, desperate peal of laughter. He's never felt this bad in front of Bruce; he wonders, briefly, if this behaviour is scaring him.
"--n-not about what I want-- Bruce, I'm in love..." Laughter, again. "In l-l-love..."
It takes three minutes for Arthur to stop, and by then his stomach aches and his erection has flagged to half-mast. The muscles of his face hurt. He looks up, blearily, and almost cries because Bruce never left him.
"B-Bruce." Everything hurts. The fear that Bruce is simply being good instead of honest makes his lip quiver. He'd never do anything to hurt him, and in that reality Arthur fears Bruce would hurt himself for it. "Bruce...
"I love you like I want to marry you." Whispered and clumsy, Arthur sounds defeated, but honest. He feels stripped raw. "I love you like grown-ups do, but I... I don't want to hurt you. Do you understand?"
Pulling the lower petal of lip between his teeth, Bruce worries on it as he sees how withdrawn Arthur becomes. It's all Bruce's fault he's like this, too. He wasn't even supposed to be home yet. But then he heard a strangled call for him and he was so scared Arthur was in pain.
Bruce lets out a soft sigh, the shock slowly draining from himself as he takes a few steps into the room.
"It's okay," he finally speaks up again, though, the words are timid. Throat clicking loudly as he swallows his nerves down, he moves onto the bed before Arthur, taking his face in his palms to have their eyes meet. He's gentle in his touch, pads of his thumbs lovingly stroking along his cheekbones. "You have nothing to be sorry about, Arthur."
Truthfully, it's a bit of a relief seeing him like this. There's been plenty of those kinds of dreams on Bruce's end- especially since turning seventeen- but he'd never admit it out loud. He's always been too ashamed to let Arthur know about his feelings for him.
But in this moment, without a shred of thought behind it as he gazes lovingly into the man's eyes, Bruce leans in and presses a slow, loving kiss.
There's a deep flush on his cheeks as he pulls back after realizing what he's doing, and he can't do much more than stammer out an apology as he gazes at him with wide eyes.
"No," Arthur starts, "no, it's not okay--"
But he finds himself silenced, immediately, when he feels the bed dip under Bruce's weight. Wide eyes watch him move, and though a part of him begins to form the words for get away from me, the feel of Bruce's hand on his face placates him.
And, inevitably-- because Arthur loves him more than anything else in the whole, wide world-- makes him whimper as he leans into the boy's touch.
Bruce says he doesn't have to apologise, but as tempting as it is to just listen, Arthur knows he shouldn't. Bruce doesn't know any better. Bruce is too young to know any better. Arthur shouldn't be thinking of him like this, not when the kid's twenty years younger than him, and he opens his mouth in a feeble attempt to correct him when--
oh
--Bruce's lips meets his instead.
It's... clumsy, for one thing, which is a relief. When Arthur was Bruce's age he was great at kissing for the worst reasons in the world, so he's glad all Bruce does is press against him. It's exactly the kind of innocent thing Arthur wanted from him. It's sweet and it's soft and the fact Bruce is blushing when he pulls away and stammers makes Arthur's heart sing.
"You shouldn't be the one apologising," he says, and though he means it to be scolding, there's a laugh bubbling up his throat. "Bruce... oh, you don't have to kiss me to make me feel better..." Arthur's thighs shift, trying vainly to press together and hide the swell of his still-erect length. He wants to touch Bruce in turn, but knows he might just do something stupid. Something bad.
Arthur's fingers dig into the sheets, desperate. "You're the sweetest boy in the world, Tiny. I'm the one with a prob-- p-prob-HA-lem-- pffhahaha--"
The laughter starts, exacerbated by the mix of guilt and shame he feels. Arthur's head ducks and he shoves his face into the mattress in an attempt to muffle the sound, but his shoulders keep shaking.
He's still hard. God, he's still hard.
The sound Elizabeth just barely traps behind her throat almost makes her throw up entirely. The sensation doesn't leave. In fact, it worsens as she watches Arthur make himself smaller to fit into the vast space of the empty elevator save for herself. Is he talking? Everything was static the second he brushed against her sleeve. Her fist tightens so quickly it almost hurts, the stretch of her skin over her knuckles straining so suddenly. She wanted to grab him by that same hand and bite through his bones. Sever the fingers from him to keep forever as a part of herself. Unfortunately the only tang of iron in her mouth is her own, biting down on her cheek enough to get the taste. All of this turmoil and not a shred of it to be known, though.
Her expression is plain and serene, just as it always is. The side-step is casual enough, polite in the way that she was getting out of his, letting him further into the elevator. Every bit of herself - Her expression, her movements - had been rehearsed and continues to be carefully executed. She lifts her eyebrows so very delicately, eyes coming up with them as if his own shared revelation has sparked something of her own.
❝ Shit, ❞ she breaths, the word just barely a puff as her hands start patting into her own pockets. A glance is spared down to her search, head shaking before a new little puff passes her lips. This time, it's laced with light amusement. Lips lifts like her eyes do, an innocent embarrassment the new tune her face plays. ❝ .. Guess we're both making dumb mistakes. ❞
A turn-out of her pockets shows she's left her wallet back in her apartment. A happy little accident considering she'd only expected to follow him to the mailbox and maybe trail him elsewhere before going about her day again. It churns and tightens her stomach to be interacting with him so closely - so personally... but she'd get over it. She was already starting to with how light she felt, watching his eyes now that they could look at her and she didn't have to worry about ducking away. The act continues nonetheless. There was no getting what she wanted if she slipped now...
❝ Same floor? ❞ Elizabeth's tone is light and easy, like she's making a guess more than an observation.
Arthur laughs, and because it's real, the sound comes out soft. Somewhere on the edge of joyous. Truthfully, he's just happy she's responding to him at all.
He nods at the question-- yeah, we're on the same floor. He knows that for certain now that he sees the light by the number she'd pressed.
The doors slide closed, and he stands there with his hands in his pockets, still wearing that pleasant (somewhat stupid) smile. What a lovely breath of fresh air for an otherwise horrible morning; sometimes he felt only the worst people lived in this dirty building.
"I'd say I'm sorry you're in the same boat," he starts now that they're alone, "but a selfish part of me's just glad to talk to someone else from around here.
"It feels like there aren't a lot of friendly people around any more, you know?" Arthur shakes his head, as if mourning better days. Considering he can't remember a good chunk of his childhood-- time just goes so fast-- he suspects they must have been better simply on principle. "It's crazy out there."
Once the raggedy old elevator reaches their floor, it dings just as sadly as one would expect from a building like this one. Arthur hits the button to hold the doors open for the woman to go through, then gestures with his free arm for her to go on ahead of him.
"After you."
Bruce knows he should be used to it by then, but every time he sees just how frail Arthur is, he feels his heart shatter all over again. Arthur is always making certain Bruce has enough to eat, and that he's as healthy as can be. Yet, to do this, he's constantly putting his own well-being on the back burner.
Bruce really needs to figure out how to get Arthur to take better care of himself.
As much as he loves sleeping on his chest, the other's fragility makes him choose, "Hold me." Fortunately, he loves being wrapped in Arthur's warm and loving embrace, and he likes to think Arthur likes to hold him, too.
It also means Bruce won't have to worry about inadvertently hurting him during the night.
And, as rough of a day as it had been, being able to cuddle Arthur during the night in his favorite pair of pajamas- black plaid cotton lounge pants with a plain yellow shirt- made it all worth it.
Bruce answers him and Arthur doesn't argue at all, more than happy to curl an arm around that slight frame and press his chest to Bruce's back. He loves this: when the world boils down to just them, and he can kiss the back of Bruce's neck and smile into his shoulder.
"M'kay..." The only reason he releases him is because he remembers, tangentially, to pull the covers up. Bruce is nice and warm, but this time of year is just about when it starts to get chilly. Bruce has never been sick since coming into his care, and Arthur isn't about to let that change any time soon.
Softly, he whispers, "Tomorrow we go on our date.
"So get some good sleep, Tiny."
The routine after that is standard fare, regardless of whether Bruce shares a bed with him or not. Arthur never lets a day go by without telling the boy I love him and sweet dreams; he is, after all, the most important person in his entire world, and Bruce just promised he would never leave.
Fingers tightening slightly in Bruce's t-shirt, Arthur sighs peacefully against him. Sleeping always came easy with Bruce in his arms, and now is no exception.
The moment the door opens, Arthur's fist tightens so hard it makes him wince in pain. But what hurt he might have felt is nothing compared to the humiliation of @adoptedbat seeing him like this: his right hand and knees pressed to the mattress, his head bowed and spine curved, and his left fist a replacement for a warm, willing hole.
His heart was hammering in his chest already, as it's wont to in moments like these, but now it races for an entirely different reason. With cheeks flushed red, Arthur shuts his eyes, letting out a soft: "Are you real?"
But then Bruce speaks, and his voice is so small when he asks--
"You want me?"
There isn't a good answer for it. Arthur's cock still throbs in his hand and leaks at the slit, and he'd been crying out Bruce's name up until the kid barged in. Postured like this, and with his dick still obviously hard, it wouldn't take a genius to figure out what he was doing.
Arthur shivers, releasing himself slowly and reaching for the pants that're pooled around his thighs.
"Yes," he answers, cringing. "I'm sorry." Even with his sweatpants pulled up, his erection is still fat against the cloth-- evidence of his degeneracy.
Arthur keeps his head hung, ashamed. "I-- you weren't supposed to know. I'm sorry, Tiny."
therapy but theres an audience that laughs at you
Melissa stayed silent, as if beholden to Arthur's voice and an unspoken vow to listen to him. He wasn't wrong - she would never abandon the man to his own luck and terrible fate, particularly when it caused her body to gasp and retch as if she too was living under the toxic control of those tasked with a duty to protect. The fact that Arthur was the only one talking, however, didn't mean that Melissa was not focused on him - there was no shyness in accepting his gestures of affection and care, with the witch cradling her skull to better fit in his grasp.
"I am real, my dark terror. I do so enjoy you think me warm; not many do," she murmured, ever fascinated by how differently Arthur had always viewed her. He was probably the only friend she had outside of outcasts; led to him by her goddess and iron-clad certainty that their destinies had been unequivocally intertwined.
The witch sighed sweetly when he asked to be held, eyes melting into a loving expression for him. Melissa tossed the long hair over a shoulder, sliding over the stairway they had been occupying and then climbing over Arthur as if reshaping the darkness around them. The woman's clothes had always been pitch black, with extra fabric trails from sleeves and skirts creating an illusion of shadow tendrils enveloping the surroundings - and as she settled on his lap, Melissa's dress hid most of Arthur's figure from the world.
The woman encircled the fragile, battered body with both arms, as if a hug could heal the cuts more aptly than bandages and rest. Melissa lowered her head next, pressing another kiss to the delicate skin of his jaw - just where one might nick himself shaving, but there was no blood on that day to be collected on her tongue. Inhaling his scent for a moment, the brunette then rested her skull against his shoulder, shielding Arthur from the world.
"They are not listening to you. Talking is sadly not going to be an option," she said, voice never going above a whisper. Melissa's tone was always quiet, with an ethereal quality to it - as if she spoke from far away and yet could make herself perfectly understood. "I believe this calls for drastic measures - magical or not. Being no siren, I cannot influence their actions," the brunette pondered, speaking of the supernatural as if it was nothing but mundane, "But I can help you, Arthur. Whatever you need to break free of these shackles - I will devote my magic to that."
Arthur enjoyed everything Melissa had to give him, whether it was the certainty of her touch or her mere presence in the same room. This-- the weight of her on his lap, the feel of her arms around him, and her head so firm on his shoulder it felt like destiny-- made him so happy he almost wanted to cry.
Men didn't cry, though, and so he steeled himself, opting instead to wrap a possessive arm around her back. His other hand rested on Melissa's thigh, holding her to him in deliberate, wanting proximity (and imagining, even if for a moment, what it would be like to feel the skin beneath her skirts).
"Is that really what you want to do?" he asked, resting his cheek against the top of Melissa's head. The tips of his fingers stroked inconsequential shapes into her leg, round and curving and wisping like a dream. "Help me? When there're so many other things you can do?"
Then again, there were so many other things Melissa could do now, and here she was sitting on his lap in the stairwell to the prison that was his building. Every breath Arthur took carried Melissa's scent with it, and nothing could make him feel more at home.
With her by his side, he could do anything. He could heal from these stupid wounds, he could become a better version of himself, and--
"Hah." The laugh, however disjointed, left him suddenly.
--fuck, he could give his mom and her boyfriend exactly what they deserved.
And so Arthur kept laughing, shoulders shaking all the while. His grip on Melissa didn't relent; the most important thing in the world to him right now was making sure Melissa stayed with him, safe and sound on the throne his lap provided. She never minded his condition, accepting his uncontrollable laughter as much as she did him, and he was sure now would be no exception. In Melissa's presence, there was no reason to stifle anything that made him him.
Including the cheery, and yet entirely sincere suggestion of: "Would you h-help me kill them, Mel?"
God, everything ached, and yet Arthur couldn't stop laughing.
[ @stingslikeabee ]
@hahaheretic. ⸻ °｡
A strange part of Lee always felt as though she'd end up trapped here. She just never thought it'd be like this.
She can still hear her mother's voice. The blast of the shotgun and the ringing in her ears. The way her blood hit the window...
Lee can still feel the pistol in her hands... Hands which she promptly, quickly, begins to wring and worry the sensation out of her nerves. As far as inmates and patients went, Lee was isolative of her own accord. Kept to herself in every way possible, any way possible. A few of the guards and a handful of the staff made attempts with her to be friendly. All were swiftly ( but politely ) dismissed. It didn't matter to her how alone she'd be here. She knew she wouldn't be leaving any time soon, and a large part of her wasn't sure she ever wanted to leave. It'd become obvious, after some time, that she simply wasn't meant for the world as it was. She was better off in this muted prison, where she knew none of the haunting could catch up to her in a way that mattered.
Recreation had begun and, as always, Lee parks herself at the farthest window with an equally distant gaze at what sky peaked out from over the institution fences. The T.V. simply becomes static in the back of her head. Everyone's voices drowned out with it.
They brought a woman in here.
Technically it isn't strange; the few days Arthur spent in the other ward implied that division by sex wasn't high on Arkham's priority list. But in a ward defined by the physical violence its inmates inflicted historically, Arthur found that he was less concerned that she would get attacked (the stereotypes of mental institutions were scarier than the truths) and more curious about what she did that was so horrible.
Out in the real world, where things move too fast and people are too horrible, Arthur would never walk up to her the way he does now. But he got two cigarettes from Jackie for managing to sing an Eric Clapton album from memory, and he figures he might as well ask--
"Do you smoke?"
He doesn't wait for the woman to turn towards him, comfortable with walking up to her with his hands in his pockets. Arthur moves slowly, though, when he reveals what's in them-- he has two cigarettes between the fingers of his left hand, and a matchstick between the fingers in his right.
"I got an extra one from Jackie today." A beat. "And it's cold outside."
Immediate relief that he'd heard her and managed to catch the elevator door on top of that. There's even a happy little breath that escapes her in her hurry, ushering Junior through the doors first so he can jump to hit their floor button. She gives him a quick cooed praise, ruffling his curls before the same hand reaches to pull the strap of her bag further up her shoulder, other arm hiking her groceries up her hip.
❝ Thanks - You're a life saver, ❞ she breathes. Her attention is being delicately balanced between Junior toddling around her legs and the groceries she's exchanging her grip on. It's not until he speaks up ( Fleck, right? Down the hall? ) that she lifts both her brows and her eyes up his way, like the question itself surprised her.
Bless his heart, he looked like he was being brave about offering. A few bats of her lashes and she catches up with the moment. Another small smile is warmed up on her lips, shimmying one of the grocery bags out from her arm to offer forward to him.
❝ I'd appreciate it, yeah.. - If it's not any trouble. ❞ Minding her own manners, of course. Junior doesn't seem to mind anything in that moment. All he does is watch as his Mama exchanges bags with the man, inching closer behind one of her legs to observe in his own comfort. A passing thought on whether that meant the man was cooking the dinner they'd just bought, and it's gone as quick as it'd come in favor of one of the charms hanging from his Mama's bag. Now with a more freed hand, Emily reaches to sort her hair out from her face, like it's a relief to not have it sticking to her cheeks and forehead thanks to both a slight sheen of sweat and the ever persistent humidity that clung to Gotham's polluted air. ❝ I tell myself I'll get it delivered and never do. - I swear, it's like I like punishing myself, ❞ Emily attempts at a bit of humor, chuckling to herself as she finally finishes her preening.
E. Brass actually replies-- not just to delicately deny him and ignore him the rest of the trip, no, but to take him up on his offer. Arthur's heart skips a beat and his arms move almost on autopilot, taking whatever bags she'll give him. He generally tries not to have too many things on him-- Arthur's innate clumsiness and the fast pace of the world around him makes for a terrible combination-- and for once, it actually plays in his favour.
"No," he says, just to make sure he's made himself clear to her that, "it's never any trouble, Ms. Brass."
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Arthur prays she'll correct him and say her first name. God knows he's spent long enough wondering.
"How reliable is delivery, anyway?" he asks, arms secured beneath E. Brass' things like there's never been anything more precious. Arthur's gaze drops briefly to the kid that's looking at him so he can smile and nod in greeting; he's not scary-looking, surely. Not when he's supposed to spread joy and happiness to the world.
"A city like this... you never know if someone's just gonna take your stuff and go." He shrugs. "I don't blame you for going yourself.
"Besides" -- just to make sure the kid feels included, Arthur acknowledges him again with a bow of his head -- "if Momma goes shopping herself, you get to go on an adventure with her, don't'cha, pal?"
