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Joker almost always takes the same route to his tent, though there may be the occasional morning where he'd take the long route—past Natalie's tent. Well, Natalie's... and Sergi's.
It's taxing on him, sure; a stroll is not something he cares for on days when his leg is especially bothering him. But, any time spent with her is worth the agony, so he will brave any weather and simply curse his body along the way for trying to convince him otherwise. Besides, for those few seconds that he creeps by that tent and feels her presence, all of his pain seems to subside.
This morning, his leg is not bothering him so much, so he will take the journey and spend a few more moments in the warmth of the morning sun. It's when he reaches that oasis that he is pulled from his thoughts by the soft moaning spilling from within those thin walls.
Surely he could take a moment to peer through the slit of that tent flap, just to make sure she's not in any pain. It might even be wrong for him to not stop and pinch that fabric between his clawed fingers to grant him that perfect sliver of view. Thank the gods there are so many structures around her tent, or his shadow standing before those walls would betray his curiosity.
The song that slips through his ears and floods the wrinkles of his mind is coming from that woman, but a small piece of him notices the absence of Sergi's undesirable accompaniment. Sure enough, as he peers into the room, he's blessed with the image of Natalie, alone in their bed, with her fingers buried between her perfect legs.
To back away now would be an unforgivable crime and he would spend weeks tearing himself asunder over what could have been. Quickly, he scans the walkway for any other performers before continuing his innocent observation.
When she twists her neck against her pillow and curls her back, there's a cruel throb between his own legs. Every moan, every breath that's held between her teeth brings a thunderous pulse below his stomach. Is he sick? It would be sicker if he were to stop his hand from fulfilling its purpose and slipping down to palm himself.
Sergi—Where is he? He's not performing today, thankfully, so perhaps it's his turn to suffer the duty of procurement. Either way, he'll be gone long enough that Natalie can unbottle that blissful release. Joker would be more than happy to share in the celebration of such a wonderful pause in the chaos—out of her view, of course.
Her fingers dip inside of herself so smoothly, he's sure she's thinking about someone other than her husband. What images tickle her mind when her body's gripped by such a delicious pleasure? What thought does she cling to as she takes herself over the edge?
It's as graceful and romantic as a painting, and he'd think it one if she didn't vocalize so much. He knows she can be loud whenever she's beneath that fool—and in those moments, Joker had absolutely been serenaded to pass by their tent especially slowly—but the tantalizing sounds that she pulled from her own self were another story.
Does it feel good, Natalie? To be alone, rocked by those delicate fingers, a lyre whose strings are plucked with all of the expertise of the nymph that she is. How his stomach aches and cock itches to be buried in the cavern filled by those plunging fingers. It feels amazing, doesn't it? To not have that beast Sergi drooling above her, pounding dryly and watching her writhe under the pain of a loveless injection.
As if she can hear him, her moans only grow louder and breathier. He jumps when her head suddenly turns to face the tent flap—but her eyelids kiss her cheeks so tightly, as if promising to keep her ignorant to his presence. Her messied hair curls about her face like that of a cherub, dark brown vines decorating and sticking to the skin of her face by her sweat. He's transfixed by the shine as it coats her forehead, her neck and he'd give anything to be able to run his tongue over her throat and taste that salty elixir even just once.
Her fingers, on the other hand, are drenched in a different ambrosia entirely. With absolute certainty, he would endure any brutal immolation or excruciating impalement if he could put his lips around those fingers for even a second. There's no better taste in the world than one so unfathomable, the mystery of it only makes him harder. Agonizingly so, to the point that she couldn't possibly blame him if his fingers happen to slip past his waistband and curl around that hardness.
As he touches himself, his bottom lip wedges between his teeth to trap all sound. He could lose balance so easily and reveal himself to her, so his legs remain tensed and back curved to make himself smaller. He has to breathe quietly, soft through his nose and only through his mouth when he's getting close.
Natalie, however, is much more picturesque in her strokes. Her hand fits so well between her thighs which spread wider, her hips lifting off of the bed just mere centimeters when she hits that sweet spot. That's how he knows she's nearing her limit, when her fingering becomes more vigorous and determined, and Joker will follow suit. He'll keep his eyes wide open lest he miss one arch, one curl of her toes or batting of her eyelashes. He'll imagine that the fistful of fabric wedged between her white knuckles was replaced by his clothed manhood and wish she'd grip it with just as much abandon.
His every pump is so intentional, carefully measured to match her pace and play to her rhythm. If nothing else, it brings him closer to her, sated to pretend it was he who was pulling those sounds from her with his fingers in the way that a husband should. When has Sergi ever given you attention? Has it ever truly been his sword that you yearned to sheathe for to reach that beautiful, messy, petrifying death? The rhythm at which she pleasures herself is one so refined and poetically slow—one Sergi couldn't come close to replicating. At least, not as well as Joker could.
It's a scene he's played out thousands of times in the safety of his thoughts: Perhaps he'd catch her changing in the dressing room and with flushed cheeks she'd beg him not to run off just yet. Or, overwhelmed by the messy backstage, she'd trip and fall into a deep infatuation as she landed in his weak arms. Maybe it'd be as easy as a silent glance after a few swigs; or as involved as a full-blown affair that chipped away at her sensibilities every time he'd show her what true affection is. No scenario is his favorite, for he'd rather experience all of them and more.
If only it could be him, dear Natalie—your somber-faced disciple who'd rather stop his own heart than endure one minute of silence from yours. He would run breathlessly to carry you away from that vestigial marriage and melt the wax between his feathers to bring you to skies you never thought reachable. To be grinded down by the passionate churning of a man who only thrives under your light is a sensation you could only dream of—And oh, how you've dreamt. You're always in another world beyond Hullabaloo, your dead eyes fixed onto something miles ahead of you. That must be why you can't see the answer which stands only a few feet away from your squirming body, just on the other side of the pinched flap. If it feels incredible now, he'd give everything he had and was to bring you that same bliss tenfold. Enjoy every pulse, Natalie, every pleasured pang that flushes your chest and your mons with deserved excitement and let Joker study it with his starving eyes.
When her knees knock together, thighs squeezing–Oh my God...–like they were desperately trying to hold onto that euphoria, he groans.–Ohhh...–Her last moan is more of a cry, a high-pitched squeal that has his knees buckling.–F-Fuh...–It's so delicious, so gratifying it takes every bit of willpower in him not to tear open that flap–Fuck...–and put his face between those thighs,–Oh, Natalie, I'm so close...–to skirt his tongue through those folds and–Fuck, Natalie!–suck out all of the poison that Sergi left there.
And suddenly, the antidote, white and thick, spills onto his hand so ungracefully. His hips jerk just a little bit, chasing the thought of crashing against hers. Between the cracks of the hand smothering his mouth come heavy, satisfied breaths. He pictures himself collapsing on top of her, a contented blanket that could drip over every inch of her body and be fused to her silken skin by that crippling, post-orgasmic haze. His breathing slows with his heartbeat.
His fingers stroke down the hem of the tent flap before letting go, delicate and tender, treating the fabric as though it was an extension of the blushing body laying on the other side. Like a fox, he sneaks off, low and away from her tent... from her. A second wind has him thinking he could even circle back when the time is right, when Sergi returns and she is desperately looking for other company. Phantom pain, muscle aches, neither hold meaning to him now, for his leg has never felt better.