Warning: smut ahead
You knew he never celebrated his birthday.
He once told you—amid the low hum of Gotham's distant chaos and a flickering cigarette between his fingers—that birthdays were for people who cared about beginnings. He wasn't one of them. He was more of a "blow up the past, live in the wreckage" kind of man. But tonight? Tonight, you didn't care. Tonight was about him. Because if the Joker—the Joker—deserved anything, it was to be reminded that even monsters could be loved.
You waited until he was gone, summoned away for one of his infamous late-night "meetings." Likely something explosive, probably illegal. You didn't ask anymore—you just kissed him goodbye, your lips brushing the silver grill on his teeth, and told him to come back safe. He smirked, that glittering, chaotic smile that said he'd try, and then vanished into the Gotham night.
And the second the penthouse door clicked shut, you moved.
His penthouse wasn't just any place. It was sleek and luxurious, cold with chrome and dark marble, scattered with velvet, leather, and a collection of weapons that would terrify anyone else but somehow made you feel safe. Tonight, you transformed it into something else. Something warm.
The decorations weren't loud. No banners, no balloons, nothing that screamed "party" in a way that would make him twitch. No, this was for him. Black roses in crystal vases. Deep emerald green candles flickering like witchfire. A small, low table set for two in front of the panoramic window that overlooked Gotham's skyline. And there—on the marble countertop—his gifts.
Wrapped in matte black paper, tied with gold ribbon, each one was something personal:
• A custom gold-plated switchblade, engraved with his name in cursive.
• A sleek leather holster for his favorite gun.
• A rare, vintage comic he once mumbled about in bed.
• And the final one... a simple framed photo of the two of you. One he didn't know you had taken. He was laughing in it. You were kissing his cheek. He looked... happy.
But the crown jewel of it all sat waiting in the kitchen: his favorite meal. Seared steak with garlic herb butter, a side of twice-baked truffle potatoes, and sautéed greens. You even made his favorite dessert—dark chocolate lava cake with raspberry drizzle. You burned your hand on the oven tray and cursed like him. It made you laugh. You plated it carefully, like you were feeding royalty. And in a way, you were.
By the time you finished, your heart was thumping in your chest. Would he like it? Would he hate it? Would he walk in, laugh like a lunatic, and blow it all up just because he could?
You didn't know. But you did it anyway.
It was nearly midnight when the door slid open again. You stood in the center of the living room, dressed in his favorite color—a silk slip in deep purple that clung to you like smoke. You heard his footsteps before you saw him.
He emerged from the shadow like a storm. Black coat still damp from the Gotham rain, shirt unbuttoned just enough to see the silver chain at his throat. His eyes found you immediately—icy, sharp, unreadable. He stopped walking.
"What's all this, doll?"
You stepped forward, a slow smile spreading across your lips. "Happy birthday, Daddy."
He sneered out a laugh, rubbing a hand through his slicked-back green hair. "You know I don't do birthdays. You forget who I am, hmm?"
