The night creaked.
Somewhere in the shadows of Gotham's underbelly, in the back of a half-burned-out warehouse that reeked of gasoline and gunpowder, Joker sat with a cigarette burning low between his teeth. The walls were peeling, the floor was concrete stained with secrets, and the silence between the two of you was thick enough to choke on.
You watched him. Perched on the edge of a mattress that had seen better days, you were wrapped in his shirt, bare legs curled beneath you. Candlelight flickered, casting warped shadows over the tattoos that decorated his skin like warning signs.
J smiled, but it wasn't real. Not the kind of grin he wore when he was about to pull a trigger or laugh over something burning. This one was empty. Cold.
"You should get some sleep, doll," he said, voice like broken glass and velvet. "Gotta get an early start."
You blinked, your naive little heart stumbling. "You're not staying?"
He stood up, brushing off his trousers, slipping on that purple trench coat that still smelled like blood and aftershave. "Got some business. Won't be long."
But you knew better.
Something had shifted. You'd seen it in his eyes earlier — like he was thinking too hard, like he was... feeling. Something he didn't understand. Something dangerous.
"J..." Your voice was a whisper. "Are you leaving me?"
His hand paused on the doorframe.
He didn't look back. "I don't do feelings, baby. Don't make this hard."
It shattered you.
But the thing about soft girls is — they break loud.
You jumped up, barefoot against the cold floor. "You said I was yours."
He turned now. Slowly. Head cocked, like a predator studying a wounded animal. "You are mine. But I don't keep pets that make me feel like my ribs are about to crack."
"I won't—" you hiccupped, eyes brimming. "I won't hurt you."
He laughed. Loud, sharp, echoing off the steel beams like a gunshot. "That's exactly the problem."
He moved toward the door again.
That's when you saw the pistol tucked in the back of his belt.
Something unhinged in you.
You darted forward, fingers light and desperate, yanking it from his waistband before you could even register what you were doing. You stumbled back, arms trembling, breath jagged.
The cold metal shook in your hands as you pointed it at him.
He froze. Blinked once. Twice.
"Oh..." he drawled. "Now we're having fun."
You couldn't stop crying, but you kept the barrel aimed at his chest. "Don't leave me."
His smile grew wider. His eyes sparkled with something dark and unholy. "Look at you," he purred, stepping closer. "My little lamb... finally showing her teeth."
"Don't come any closer!" you snapped, voice breaking in half.
He raised his hands mockingly. "You gone kill me baby? Hmm? Blow a hole in daddy's chest?"
Your hands shook harder. "I'll do it," you lied.
"No," he whispered, grin slipping slightly. "You won't. You need me. You love me. That's the sick part, isn't it?"
The gun lowered a little. "I don't know what this is," you confessed, voice raw. "But it hurts when you leave."
He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "That's what love is, darling. A sickness. A bullet lodged right in the soul."
And then he walked toward you. Slow. Unafraid.
You should've run. You should've screamed. But you were frozen, drowning in him.
He reached you, fingers curling over the barrel of the gun, guiding it up to his own head. "Go on. Pull it. If I'm just gonna ruin you... put me down now."
Your lip trembled.
The trigger was a whisper away.
But instead of pulling it — you let it fall. Into his hands. Into his world.
He laughed as it clattered to the floor.
And then he grabbed your face and kissed you like a war — teeth, tongue, and torment. Like you were the only thing left in this filthy city worth bleeding for.
When he finally pulled back, his voice was a threat and a promise.
"You're mine now, baby girl. All in. No take-backs."
And even though your heart screamed run, your lips whispered:
"Okay."
