You’re standing in the middle of the hideout, barely holding in your laughter as Joker rants about something probably The Dark Knight again, or maybe the lack of decent espresso in Gotham. His green hair is wilder than usual, his voice echoing off the walls like a cartoon gone mad. You sit on the armrest of the couch, idly flipping through a takeout menu, until an idea strikes you like lightning.

You pick up the small, mint-green box sitting nearby one of those fancy macaroon containers he insists on hoarding and with a wicked little grin, you lob it straight at him.

POC.

The box hits him square in the side of the head, bouncing off dramatically.

“OUCH!” he yelps, whipping around with an exaggerated scowl painted in black and red. His eyes find yours instantly, burning with playful betrayal.

Your heart skips, adrenaline thrumming. You’re not sure whether to run or laugh.

“You little maniac,” he growls, stalking toward you with a mock limp, rubbing the side of his face like you’d thrown a brick. “You trying to kill me with pastries now?”

You shrug, biting your lip. “Depends. Did it work?”

He grins. A wild, twisted thing that sends shivers down your spine. You know that look. Trouble is coming.

But honestly? You wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

You don’t move when he gets closer. His gloved fingers twitch like he’s debating whether to grab your throat or your waist but with the Joker, those options are often the same thing.

“You’ve got a funny way of flirting,” he murmurs, voice low now, intimate. Dangerous.

You smile, tilting your head. “Worked, didn’t it?”

He stops right in front of you, chest rising and falling, the air between you thick with tension and sugar, apparently, from the shattered cookie box. His fingers come up to gently brush a crumb from your shirt, then trail slowly up to your collarbone. The touch sends a tremor down your spine.

“You drive me absolutely insane,” he says, eyes locking onto yours. “And not in the good old-fashioned homicide way.”

You don’t dare look away. “Then what way is it?”

Joker leans in, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, “The kind where I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or tie you to a piano and serenade you until you beg me to stop.”

You laugh, and that’s all it takes.

His lips are on yours hot, wild, and absolutely unhinged. It’s not a gentle kiss. It’s messy, fierce, a little teethy. The kind of kiss that says you’re mine and God help anyone who tries to change that.

When he finally pulls back, he’s panting just a little. So are you.

He grins. “Next time, throw chocolate.”

You smirk. “Only if you promise to duck.”

“Never,” he says, and presses his forehead to yours.