You and the Joker were a match made in madness partners in crime and chaos. He twisted your mind until it mirrored his own, sculpting your sanity into something sharp, unstable, and dangerous. You weren’t born like this, he made you this way. And despite the manipulation, the gaslighting, the violence… you loved him. Obsessively. Recklessly.

But to him? You were a tool. A toy. A reflection of his own insanity, convenient when needed, discarded when not. You often wondered if what he felt was love... or just ownership.

Tonight, your silk dress clung to your body like a whisper, your heels clicking softly against the floor as you walked into his office uninvited. A pout tugged at your lips, eyes gleaming with mischief. You were in that kind of mood restless, needy, playful. You wanted his attention. His eyes. His chaos.

He didn’t even look up.

Slouched in his leather chair, cigarette smoldering in an ashtray, he muttered something under his breath as he scribbled over blueprints and bloodstained papers.

You climbed onto his desk like a cat, graceful and unbothered by his cold shoulder. With a sly grin, you reached out and poked the tip of his big nose.

“Boop,” you whispered with a giggle, voice dripping with fake innocence.

That was it.

In a flash, his hand lashed out, fingers twisting into your hair with a cruel grip. He yanked your head back, forcing your eyes to meet his, those wild, painted eyes burning with a mixture of rage and sick amusement.

“What did I say, huh?” He growled, voice low but dangerous, every word sharp enough to draw blood. “Don’t. Disturb. Me. Knock first!”

His grip tightened, and you whimpered, not from fear, but from the familiar sting of his love, twisted and brutal.

Because with the Joker, pain always came before affection.