#joaquinphoenix

I started this blog terrified of posting fic, a low self esteem. I started with a Joker fic and you all welcomed it so well, and the fandom grew, the stories grew, more characters. I became a pro of Commodus fics, startes to write a bit of Agamemnon too. I'm so proud of what we have built over these 5 years ❤️

6 years ago today Arthur Fleck was being introduced to the world. Getting to know Arthur felt like finding my soulmate here on earth, whom I had been with spiritually for as long as my soul existed in this universe. Him being considered a fictional character in this timeline I am currently making this post in didn't hold me back from dedicating my life to him and living with him every single day ever since. I dedicate my time to loving him the way he derves to be loved,even tho I feel like it's never enough. No words could ever express what Arthur has given to me over the years. He is the light of my soul. I've witnessed people trying to break him and worse. I witnessed people trying to deny his true self and make him a person he never was. I've witnessed people letting him go and coming back. Or leaving..... I stayed within him and he stayed within me ever since.

Size 90 x 70 cm

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Size 90 x 70 cm

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Thank you for requesting! I just realized I actually never posted any fic related to Willie (except from multi HC) even though I love him! So here is the first and not the last I will post! enjoy <3

A = Aftercare Willie can’t leave you like that, he’s too wrapped up in you. After the heat dies down, he kisses your skin like he’s saying a prayer. Cleans you up with hands that tremble just slightly, presses his forehead to yours like he’s grounding himself. “You okay, baby?” he’ll ask, voice low, rough, but gentle. “Still with me?”

B = Body part (favorite) Your eyes. He stares like he’s trying to read your soul, like the world doesn’t exist unless you’re looking back at him. He’ll cup your face in both hands, kiss you slow, worshipful, even if five minutes earlier he was fucking you like a man starved. “Don’t look away from me.” he murmurs. “Not when I need you like this.”

C = Cum It’s not just release for him, it’s connection. He likes to finish with your bodies pressed tight, cheeks flush, eyes locked if you’ll let him. The way he groans your name into your skin feels like a confession. If he pulls out, he’ll run his fingers through the mess, paint it over your skin like a mark.

D = Dirty Talk His voice is thick with emotion when he talks. It’s not just filth, it’s reverent. “You don’t know what you do to me,” he growls, lips brushing your ear. “You make me feel like I can’t breathe without you.” When he gets really gone, he’ll murmur things you weren’t meant to hear. “Mine. Always mine.”

E = Experience Willie’s been with people, sure. But you, he wants to know what makes you gasp, what makes you cry out, what makes you melt under his touch. He’s learning you like a man learns a song by heart, slow, deliberate, devoted.

F = Favorite Position Anything that keeps you close. He loves when you ride him, your hands in his hair, his arms around your waist, keeping you locked in like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. Or missionary, but deep and slow, his forehead pressed to yours, whispering your name like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

G = Goofy (How much he jokes during sex) Willie isn’t the playful type in bed. There’s a weight to every moment, a heat that doesn’t leave room for giggles. But once in a blue moon, if you say something that makes him laugh, he’ll smirk, real low, eyes hooded and say something like, “You’re lucky I love you.” The kind of smile that makes your spine tingle, like he’d kill for you just as easily as he’d kiss you.

H = Hair (Grooming habits) He keeps it natural. A little rough around the edges, just like him. Chest, trail, a little underarm sweat when he’s worked up. He doesn’t care to clean up unless you ask. Then he’ll do it, but slow, like a ritual. Like it’s something intimate he’s letting you control. And if you run your fingers through the hair on his chest while he’s inside you? He’ll break, just a little.

I = Intimacy (How romantic he is during sex) It’s overwhelming. Intensity you can’t run from. He looks at you like he’s carving your soul into memory, like no one’s ever made him feel this way. His hands shake sometimes, not from fear, but from how hard he’s trying not to lose himself in you. It’s worship, yes, but desperate; dark. Like if he doesn’t give you everything, he’ll die from the weight of what he feels.

J = Jack off He tries not to. Not when you’re not around. It makes him angry restless. If he has to, it’s always thinking of you, always rough and punishing, biting his knuckles to keep quiet. He’d rather wait and take it out on you properly, pressed against the wall, fingers digging into your hips like you’re the only thing keeping him from snapping.

K = Kink Possession. Marking. Biting. He needs people to know you’re his, even if they don’t see it directly. You’ll catch him pulling you into his lap at a party, hand under your shirt, fingers pressing just hard enough on your side to leave the outline of his grip. Later, behind closed doors, he’ll fuck you slow and deep while staring into your eyes, murmuring, “You’re mine.”

One night, after a fight with someone who looked at you too long, he pulls you into the backseat of his car. Windows fogged, your back against the leather, and he takes his time, makes you moan his name loud enough that if anyone passed by, they’d know. He finishes by painting his cum across your stomach with his fingers, whispering, “They don’t get to look at what’s mine.”

And the next day? A bruise on your hip. His name in your ear like a vow.

L = Location Private, dark places. He doesn’t need fancy. A locked door. A parked car. A back room where the only light is what spills in from under the door. Somewhere he can let go, where the world shrinks down to just your breath and his heartbeat thundering in your ears. But his bed? That’s sacred. That’s where he loves you.

M = Motivation (What turns him on, gets him going) It’s not just your body, it’s the way you look at him. The way you trust him when you shouldn’t. When you reach for him even when he’s sharp, silent, shaking. That’s what unravels him. He wants to be the one who ruins you for anyone else and still be the one you run to when it all burns down. That need? It eats him alive.

N = No (Something he won’t do, turn-offs) Humiliation. Not toward you. Never. He might growl, grip too tight, get a little rough but degrade you? Call you names? Make you feel small? He’d rather die. If he crosses a line and sees your eyes darken with discomfort, he stops. Immediately. “Tell me no.” he’ll whisper, voice hoarse. “If you say stop, baby, I swear I’ll listen.”

O = Oral (Giving and receiving) Willie’s dangerous down there, not just because of his tongue, but because of the way he does it. Like it’s penance. Like you’re something holy and he’s starving. He grips your thighs and buries his face like a man possessed. Receiving? He growls if you tease, grabs the back of your neck and groans out your name. He likes watching you take control, but only because it’s you.

P = Pace He doesn’t do things halfway. It’s either slow and punishing, holding himself back with trembling arms, or it’s fast, rough, desperate, like he’s chasing something that’s slipping through his fingers. When he’s angry, he fucks to forget. When he’s in love? He fucks to remember. Every thrust, every kiss, seared into memory.

Q = Quickie Sometimes he needs you. Now. Doesn’t care where. Bathroom wall, alley behind the club, the car with the windows fogged up. But even his quickies are never careless. He’ll pin you in place, kiss you hard, fuck you like it’s the last time. And then he’ll pull you close, breath still heavy, whispering, “We’re not done. Not even close.”

R = Risk Willie lives for danger, but when it comes to you, he’s calculated. He won’t risk your safety but he will push the limits of privacy. He’ll slide his hand under your clothes at the bar, fingers brushing where they shouldn’t, whispering filth in your ear while the music masks your breathless sounds.

Once, at a party, someone flirted too long with you. Willie didn’t yell. He just took your hand, led you into the hallway, pressed you against the wall, and kissed you like he was staking a claim. His knee between your legs, his hand around your throat, lips brushing your ear as he growled, “Let ‘em look. Just so they know who owns you.”

S = Stamina He can go for hours if he’s lost in you. And if he’s been away, physically or emotionally it’s like a storm breaking. He doesn’t stop until your voice is hoarse, until your body shakes against him, until he’s sure you feel how much he needs you. And even then, he’ll pull you into his chest, lips brushing your neck, whispering “Again.”

T = Toys Willie isn’t one for toys unless they serve something, unless it’s about control, teasing, or making you lose your mind. He prefers his hands, his mouth, his body. But if you bring it into the bedroom, he’ll learn. And once he knows what makes your breath hitch or your back arch? He’ll use it until you're wrecked and begging.

U = Unfair (How much he teases) He can tease, sure but only when he’s craving the reaction. If he pins your wrists above your head and grinds against you slow, it’s not because he’s playing a game, it’s because he’s addicted to the need in your voice. But too much denial? Nah. He needs you undone too bad to drag it out too long.

V = Volume (How vocal he is) Willie’s not silent, never was. He growls your name, moans low, breathes curses like confessions. When he’s deep in it, the things he says get raw “You feel so fuckin’ good!” “You’re mine...” “I need you” and if you whisper his name back just right, you’ll hear him break. Just for you.

W = Wild card (A random headcanon) Sometimes, after sex, he just stares. Not in a creepy way, more like he’s stunned you’re still there. Still choosing him. He’ll run his fingers down your arm, lips parted like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how. It terrifies him, how deep he’s in. But it also makes him fight harder to protect it.

X = X-Ray (What’s under the clothes) He’s built like a man who’s fought to survive, lean, hard muscle, scars he won’t talk about unless you touch them soft enough. He’s thick, uncut, and knows how to use it, slow or rough, but always with intention. His whole body reads like danger, but with you, it hums with hunger and heat.

Y = Yearning (How much he wants you when you’re not around) It’s not just want, it’s ache. Willie gets restless when you’re not near. Can’t sleep, can’t focus. He’ll replay your last kiss in his head, hand buried in his sheets, whispering your name like a ghost. When you come back? He won’t say much. Just pull you in and make love to you like he’s putting himself back together.

Z = ZZZ (How he sleeps after) He holds you. Always. Doesn’t matter if it’s hot, doesn’t matter if he’s pissed. You’re in his arms, or against his chest, or tangled up so tight he could stop breathing and not even care. And if you shift in your sleep, he stirs, lips brushing your shoulder as if checking you’re still there. Still his.

The Joker played by Joaquin Phoenix.

Size 200 x 130 cm