The funhouse smells like dust, gunpowder, and old candy, the neon lights strobing against cracked mirrors. You sit on a crate, blood and glitter still clinging to your gloves from the chaos you’ve unleashed together. And then he’s there. Not the Joker the world sees, but the one who walks toward you now slower, quieter, like a predator approaching something it can’t live without.

He stops inches from you, leaning on his cane as his grin cuts through the flickering light. That infamous smile should terrify you. But it’s the way his eyes lock onto yours.. bright, wild, burning that makes your breath catch. In that look, you aren’t a sidekick or an accessory. You’re everything.

“You think I’d ever let them touch you?” he whispers, voice trembling with something rawer than rage. “I’d break their hands, their faces, their souls before I’d watch them even look at you.”

He drops the cane, lets it clatter to the ground. Both gloved hands come up, cupping your face like it’s something precious. His thumbs smear a streak of his own makeup across your skin, a mark that feels like a brand. “This city…” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours, “can burn, crumble, drown but you stay. With me. Always.”

The laughter that escapes him next is softer, almost broken, like a hymn to madness. He presses his mouth close to your ear. “You’re my secret. My spark. My favorite tragedy. And if anyone tries to take you, if anyone thinks you’re not mine…” His smile splits wider, voice lowering to a purr. “…I’ll show them what real pain feels like.”

In his arms, you’re not afraid. You’re not prey. You’re the center of the storm, the one thing the Joker clings to in a world of disposable toys. His devotion isn’t gentle it’s obsessive, relentless, a vow whispered between screams. And in that look the one he only gives you.. you see it all: love and ruin, twined together, forever.