💜 Joker TDK 💜 She/Her, Fic writer, Dark romance fanatic Current Fic: A Poison I Can’t Resist Personal Blog: whisperingwillowe
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This is amazing 😍🔥🔥🔥🔥
#So hot#Love the fit on that suit 👀#heath ledger joker#clown daddy#jorny#dark knight joker#joker tdk
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.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.
Chapter 27: Ghosts and Scars
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter Word Count: 6,880
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, mentions of child abuse, dead dove do not eat
A/N:
Ok my loves. I know I said Chapter 25 ("Say it Again") was my magnum opus but… I lied.
This is it. This is the one.
Prepare to die a little from how devastatingly broken, beautiful, and painfully perfect these two are for one another 😭💜
This chapter wrecked me to write—so I hope it wrecks you to read!
Enjoy. 🖤
P.S. I'm SO sorry this took so damn long. I totally underestimated how much editing I had left.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 27: Ghosts and Scars
His gaze faltered—just for a second.
But it was enough.
Enough for her to see the shift. The crack.
He didn’t answer right away.
Just stared past her, not really seeing.
“That photo…”
His voice was thinner than usual—subdued, like the words were pulled from somewhere swallowed and forgotten.
“She used to sing to me on that porch.”
A bitter sound escaped him—almost a laugh, but there was no humor in it. Just hollow. Distant.
“Swore the swing could fly if we believed hard enough.”
His hand twitched in hers—not pulling away, just tightening, like something inside him flinched.
A breath.
“She called me her golden boy.”
The words hung between them like dust in a shaft of light—weightless, yet crushing.
Then… nothing.
Like the rest had turned to ash in his throat.
Alina didn’t speak. Didn’t ask for more. She only nestled in closer, her cheek finding his chest again, anchoring herself to the rapid thud of his heart.
Her hand moved slowly along his arm, fingers brushing over the taut muscle and tension coiled beneath his shirt.
Still, he didn’t retreat.
Instead, he pulled her in tighter—his hold shifting, protective. Like maybe if he held her close enough, the memories wouldn’t win.
His hand found her hair, threading through it with aching gentleness.
And for a while, they just breathed.
Until finally—
She took a shaky breath, the weight of his silence pressing into her ribs.
“Jack…” she whispered, testing the name again—careful, quiet.
His eyes flicked down to hers, darker now—but not cold. Just... guarded.
She looked up at him, hand still moving softly along his arm.
“Earlier… when I drew that picture—I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Her voice was soft at the edges, but steady underneath.
“It just… came out of me. I wasn’t thinking, not really.”
She glanced down, then back up again.
“I think I… just felt something. For her.”
A pause.
“For you.”
The light shifted in his eyes.
Like memory. Like grief.
His hand cupped her cheek—slow, careful—like he wasn’t sure he should touch her… but couldn’t help himself.
Then—
“I know, sweetheart.”
He exhaled slowly.
“But there’s nothing in those memories worth keeping,” he murmured, bitterness curling through the words.
“Just the pieces I had to bury a long time ago.”
“What if I want to know those pieces?” she whispered, her hand reaching up to trace the jagged line of his scar.
“What if I want all of you, even the parts that hurt?”
He looked at her—and for a moment, it was like the world stopped breathing.
No mask. No defense.
Just a man flayed open by kindness he didn’t know how to hold.
His gaze dropped—briefly—before finding hers again. Darker now, like a shadow falling.
“I was nothing back then,” he said quietly, the words like gravel.
“Nothing but a scared kid with too much darkness to fit inside.”
He exhaled hard, like the memory tasted rotten.
“And that picture… that’s all it is now. Just a ghost.”
Silence settled between them.
She could feel the war inside him—how badly he wanted to retreat, to lock it all back down.
Her hand tightened over his, reassuring. A silent reminder: I’m here. I’m not leaving.
“You’re not a ghost to me, Jack.” Her voice was just above a whisper—vulnerable, but certain.
“Every part of you. Even the broken pieces… I want them. They’re real to me.”
He stared down at her, eyes dark, flickering between wariness and something softer—something fragile, like he was daring himself to believe her.
He let out a slow, uneven breath, and for a moment, his face betrayed the ache underneath.
“When I was a kid…” He paused, swallowing as he looked away. “There wasn’t anyone who wanted those pieces. Not like you’re saying you do.”
The words came low, rough—a confession torn from somewhere smothered under years of hurt.
“I learned early on that hiding was the only way to survive—to stay safe. To keep what was mine without anyone else tearing it apart.”
Alina's hand rose to his chest, settling over his heart, feeling the way it kicked beneath her palm.
“I meant it,” she whispered. “I want all of it. I want you.”
He stared at her then—silent, searching. Like he was bracing for a lie.
But it never came.
Instead, he pulled her close, his lips brushing her forehead, his hand cradling the back of her head in a touch that was both possessive... and unbearably tender.
She felt the breath he released against her skin—uneven, shuddering. Like it carried years he’d never let himself exhale.
His gaze drifted past her, unfocused.
As if something long-buried had just clawed its way back to the surface.
“My father…”
His voice was low, rough—like he had to dig each word out of old wounds.
“He wasn’t just any kind of bastard. He was cruel. Drank himself half to death every night and took the rest out on me and my mother.”
He paused, jaw tight, breath unsteady
"It was just the three of us, and she… she loved me.” A bitter laugh escaped him, his eyes darkening.
“But love doesn’t mean shit when you're weak.”
Alina stayed silent, fingers brushing lightly over his hand.
“She wanted to protect me, but she couldn’t. She’d try to keep him away, you know? Stand between us. And for that, he punished her. And I—I tried to protect her, too.”
Anger simmered beneath his expression, the helpless rage of a child who’d known too much pain too young.
“But that only made it worse. I’d take a beating one day, she’d take it the next...”
He sighed—deep, weary.
Then—
“She died not long after my 11th birthday.”
Silence fell. Heavy. Unsettled.
“I don’t remember it clearly. Not like a movie. Just flashes.”
He exhaled, jaw twitching.
"His hands around her neck... Me, trying to pull him off. His back—immovable. Like stone..."
"Her face—She was looking at me… and then she wasn’t."
"Just gone."
"Just quiet."
"And then—him. Dragging me away like I was a goddamn suitcase.”
He swallowed hard. His breath clipped short.
“I didn’t cry. Not once. Not even when he locked me in the basement so I’d ‘learn to be quiet.’ Not even when I begged him to let me go back to her.”
His eyes were somewhere else now. Distant. Too still.
“But there was no back. No her. Just the dark. And silence.”
His gaze found hers.
“And you wonder why I burn things down now?”
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Her throat thickened, chest twisting like she could feel it—him—as that boy in the basement, swallowed by darkness.
Her hand moved before her mind could catch up, reaching for him. She cupped his face, gentle as a prayer.
Her thumb brushed beneath his eye like she could erase the ghosts.
“Jack.”
Her voice cracked around his name—fragile, aching—like it had to push past the lump in her throat just to reach him.
He looked down at her, something fierce and vulnerable in his gaze, as though her sympathy was both balm and salt to an open wound.
“That was the night I learned the truth,” he said quietly. “Love makes you weak. And weakness gets you killed."
His fingers twitched in hers—just once.
“So I shut it down. All of it. Stopped loving. Stopped hoping. Stopped needing anyone.”
His eyes fell to their joined hands, almost surprised, as though he hadn’t expected her to stay, to keep holding him even after seeing all his jagged, broken edges.
Alina’s fingers squeezed gently, her eyes searching his.
“You didn’t deserve any of that,” she murmured, her voice steady but soft. “No child should have to go through that kind of hell.”
She paused, feeling the weight of his pain, of everything he’d lost and guarded ever since.
“You’ve carried so much for so long… and I know you’ve survived by not letting anyone close.”
She held his gaze, steady and sure.
“But I'm here, Jack. As much as you’ll let me be.”
His grip tightened, just slightly.
“Maybe,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her knuckles. “Or maybe I’m just a fool for letting you in this close.”
She shook her head, burning with something unnamed—something that had been building since the night he'd first wiped the paint away and let her touch the man beneath it.
“You’re not a fool. And you’re not alone anymore.”
The way he looked at her then—intense, awed—hit like a tidal shift.
And in that shared gaze, they both felt it: a connection forged not in light, but in pain.
Stronger than fear.
More enduring than silence.
Inevitable.
His thumb drew slow circles over her knuckles, gaze dipping, shadowed now with something heavier.
He stayed like that for a beat, silent, as if weighing the cost of what he was about to ask.
Then—softer than she’d ever heard him, voice stripped of all sharpness—he asked,
“What about you?”
His eyes lifted again, slow and steady, catching hers with a quiet kind of ache.
“What really happened… with your aunt? With Marlene?”
The air held still.
Then—careful and low, like the question had been breathing in the silence all along—he said,
"What did she do to you, sweetheart?"
Alina's chest tightened, breath stalling halfway.
The question wasn’t sharp. Wasn’t mocking. It was gentle—which somehow made it worse.
She looked away.
For a moment, all she could hear was the sound of their breathing. The hush between them stretching tight.
Then, softly—more to the dark than to him—she said,
“She made sure I knew I was unwanted.”
Her voice was quiet. Soft. But steady.
“She never screamed. Not really. It wasn’t loud like you’d expect. That would’ve been easier, I think...”
A pause.
“Life with her was cold. Icy. Everything was said with a smile or a shrug. Like my existence was an inconvenience she’d just learned to live with.”
She blinked—eyes glassy but dry.
“She didn’t hit me often. Only when I really stepped out of line. That’s what she’d say, anyway. That it was just discipline.”
Her fingers curled slightly in her lap.
“She once slapped me so hard my ear rang for hours. Said I was ‘getting mouthy.’ Another time she broke a wooden spoon over my back for spilling juice on the floor. Told me to clean it up while I was still on my knees.”
Her jaw clenched.
“She always made sure to do it where the bruises wouldn’t show.”
A silence fell between them—heavy and still.
Then—
“She’d lock the pantry when she was mad. Sometimes the whole kitchen. I learned to make crackers last three days. Learned how to eat quietly, move quietly, exist quietly...”
A breath. Shallow. Jagged.
“She told me I was selfish. That I killed my parents. That if I hadn't begged them to go out that night…” Her throat tightened, but she didn’t stop.
“She said God took them because I didn’t deserve them. That he left me behind as punishment.”
Jack didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
And she didn’t dare look at him.
“I thought if I could just be good enough—quiet enough, helpful enough, invisible enough—maybe she’d change. Maybe she’d love me. But she never did.”
Her voice dipped to a murmur.
“One time I cut my leg bad in the woods behind the house. I came home covered in blood. She looked at me and said, ‘Don’t get it on the carpet.’ That was all. Just walked away.”
A beat passed.
“I didn’t cry either. Not even then.”
She finally looked at him.
Eyes darker now. Tired. But honest.
“I started leaving scratches on myself. Just to feel something. To remind myself I was still there. That I wasn’t just… her shadow.”
She exhaled, but it felt too sharp, too hollow.
“I still flinch when someone slams a cabinet. Still brace for impact if someone raises their voice.”
A pause.
“I hate that.”
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Just stared at her—unblinking. Unmoving.
Like if he breathed, the moment might break.
Then, finally, his voice cut through the silence. Low. Measured.
“Give me her name.”
Alina blinked, startled. “What?”
He leaned in slowly, like a predator scenting blood.
“I said,” he murmured, tone dangerously calm, “give me her fucking name—her full name.”
His thumb dragged slow along her knuckles—tender, reassuring. A lover’s touch, but his eyes stayed feral.
“She doesn’t get to walk around untouched after that.”
Alina’s breath hitched. “She’s—she’s gone. Dead.”
Something flickered behind his eyes. Not disappointment.
Frustration.
“Shame,” he muttered.
“Would’ve liked to make her scream.”
She didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Because there was something terrifying—and terrifyingly comforting—in the way he said it. Like he meant it. Like if she hadn’t been dead, she wouldn’t be for long.
Then, softer now—dangerously soft—he added,
“You deserved better. And if I’d known you then…” He paused, eyes narrowing. “I would’ve burned that fucking house down with her in it.”
She flinched—not from fear, but from the truth in his voice.
He meant it. Every word.
His gaze pinned her, unflinching. “You hear me, sweetheart?”
Alina nodded—barely.
“Say it,” he ordered.
She swallowed hard. “I hear you.”
“No,” he murmured, his hand rising to gently grip her chin. “Say you deserved better.”
Alina hesitated, throat clenching shut.
“I—”
He leaned in closer, lips near her ear now, his voice dark velvet.
“Say it, or I’ll say it for you.”
She exhaled—shaky, frayed.
“I deserved better.”
“Damn right you did.”
Then, slowly, he leaned back, his thumb ghosting across her lower lip—far too tender for the look in his eyes.
“You deserved love that didn’t hurt. A home that wasn’t a prison. Someone to fight for you instead of break you down. And if no one ever told you that—”
His gaze seared into hers, unwavering and absolute.
“I will. Again. And again. Until it sticks.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Just a trembling breath—like the words he’d spoken had shattered something in her.
And now the pieces were sharp inside her chest.
Her throat tightened, eyes burning, but she didn’t look away from him this time.
Not now.
Not after that.
Something inside her was still raw and shaken… but beneath the wreckage, something else stirred.
Something fierce.
Pride.
Because he—this man, all sharp edges and chaos and power—was furious for her. Was soft with her. Like her pain meant something. Like she meant something.
A shaky breath left her lips, half a laugh, half a sob.
“You really care, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer.
Just stared at her—gaze wild, unreadable, burning into her like he wanted to scorch every wound from her soul and carve his name into the empty spaces.
Then his hand slid over the small of her back, fingers splaying wide as he pulled her closer—not rough, but absolute—until there wasn’t a breath of space left between them.
Her thigh shifted higher over his as she melted into him, feeling the solid weight of his body, the heat of him anchoring her, grounding her.
Then he bent his head. His mouth brushed the curve of her ear—breath warm, lips grazing the shell.
“Yes, sweetheart,” he murmured, the words scraped raw from somewhere deep.
“More than I ever fucking wanted to. More than I know what to do with.”
She felt it vibrate through his chest—through hers—the confession threading heat through the hush.
“It makes me want things I shouldn’t,” he said, voice rough, lips brushing her temple.
“Makes me need things I have no business needing.”
His palm drifted lower, settling over her hip—his thumb stroking bare skin where her nightgown had ridden up. The touch was soft.
Steady. Possessive.
“It makes me want to keep you like this,” he breathed. “Tangled up in me. Safe. Mine.”
His voice dropped—dangerously soft.
“So nothing—no one—can ever touch you again.”
His chest rose beneath her cheek—uneven, like every breath was a battle.
Like he was unraveling, one heartbeat at a time.
“You make me crave things I shouldn’t. Ache for things I swore I buried.”
He went still, just for a second—like the truth of it startled him.
Then—
“You bring it all back,” he whispered. “Shit I buried so deep, I forgot it ever had a name.”
She didn’t speak.
Just shifted closer, nuzzling into him like she could disappear into his warmth—like she could press herself into the quiet between heartbeats and stay there.
Her hand drifted up, slow and tentative, settling over the rapid thud of his heart.
Then she tilted her face up, eyes searching his—like she wanted to hold the pain for him, carry it if he couldn’t.
The silence pulsed, thick with everything she didn’t know.
And then, her voice—barely above a breath, thick with feeling:
“What happened to you?” she whispered.
A beat.
“After your mom… after everything?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw.
For a moment, she thought he might not answer—that he might retreat behind that grin and chaos, the armor he wore like a second skin.
But then—
His breath hitched.
And when he spoke, his voice was low, like gravel scraping memory.
“They charged my father for her murder,” he said—rough-edged, each word clipped and bitter. “No bail. Trial set. He was staring down a life sentence.”
His gaze drifted—distant, unreadable.
“But he didn’t make it that far.”
A pause—just long enough for the air between them to thicken.
“Hung himself in county lockup before the trial ever started.”
No emotion. Just ash in his tone. Like it had burned out long ago.
Alina’s hand found his—fingers lacing through, warm and steady.
He didn’t pull away.
“After that, I got dumped into the system. Foster homes. Group homes. One after the other. No one really wanted me. I was just a paycheck. Another broken thing to manage.”
A bitter laugh scraped from his throat.
“Too angry. Too quiet. Too much baggage. I figured it out pretty fast—don’t ask, don’t hope, don’t need.”
She could see it now—him as a boy. Small, furious, aching. Trying to disappear before the world could throw him out again.
His voice lowered, roughening.
“When I turned eighteen, I enlisted. Thought it was a ticket out. Joined the army. Figured maybe I could be someone else.”
A pause.
“Wear a uniform. Salute the flag. Take orders like a good little dog.”
His mouth twitched—but it wasn’t a smile.
“Thought maybe I’d find something real. Belong somewhere...”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It pulsed—heavy with memory, with the kind of hurt that doesn’t bleed out so much as fester.
Alina reached out, her fingers brushing his arm—light as breath, but steady.
“And was it?” she asked gently, like she already knew the answer.
But still—she gave him space to say it. To be seen.
He stared down, eyes unfocused—like he was watching something crawl out of the past and into the room.
“At first… yeah,” he muttered. “I thought I’d found it. Belonging. Brotherhood. People who didn’t flinch. Who knew what it meant to carry darkness and not look away.”
A pause. His jaw clenched.
“Felt like I could finally trust someone.”
He gave a low laugh—dry. Brittle.
Alina’s fingers tightened around his, grounding him, even as something colder crept into his voice.
“But trust…”
He tilted his head, eyes sharp now, like glass catching the light.
“Trust’ll gut you deeper than any enemy ever could. Because it comes dressed like a friend. Like family.”
A shiver traced down Alina’s spine.
The darkness in his voice wasn’t just anger—it was grief, laced with something old and razor-sharp.
He looked at her then.
Eyes gleaming—haunted.
And when a smile flickered across his lips, it wasn’t joy—it was a ghost.
Thin. Joyless.
A dead thing that didn’t belong on his face.
—
“Wanna know how I got my scars?” he murmured.
Soft. Icy.
The words slipped out like a blade being unsheathed.
Alina’s heart skipped.
She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Everyone in Gotham knew that line—whispered like a warning, a prelude to horror.
The stories always changed. Twisted. No one ever knew the truth.
But this time… maybe.
The tension cinched around her lungs, cruel and slow.
Her pulse thrummed in her ears. Her fingers trembled where they rested on his arm.
Still, she didn’t move. Didn’t look away.
Finally—she nodded.
Slow. Breathless. Eyes locked to his.
A silent invitation:
I'm here.
Say it.
“I was part of a special unit,” he began, voice low. Distant.
“Elite force. The kind of guys who did what no one else could stomach.”
A smirk tugged at his mouth, but it wasn’t humor.
“People said we didn’t exist. That was the point.”
He glanced at her then, and something flickered behind his eyes—grief, memory, fire.
He inhaled through his nose.
“We were trained to erase lines. Morality, conscience, empathy… all optional.”
He tilted his head.
“We justified it. Said it was for the greater good. For the mission. To protect. Prevent worse things.”
A low breath left him—half scoff, half regret.
“But ‘worse’... that's just a matter of perspective.”
He leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper that felt too close.
“Then one day, we got orders—real ugly ones. No logic. No threat. Just cruelty wrapped in protocol.”
His jaw flexed.
“I said no.”
A pause.
“I said fuck no.”
He let the words hang in the air like smoke.
“And my brothers—the ones I bled with? They laughed. Said I was soft. Said that war had finally cracked me.”
“And maybe they were right. Because I didn't let up. Tried to explain. Thought I could make them see it.”
He let out a hollow laugh—sharp and bitter.
“Turns out, loyalty doesn’t run uphill. They made an example out of me instead.”
His finger lifted, tapped along the edge of one scar.
“Called it a warning. Said if I was gonna be soft—bleeding-heart soft—then I’d wear it.”
His smile returned then—slow, joyless. Like the memory still tasted like ash.
“Each cut a reminder. A little love letter from the people I trusted most.”
Then—quietly—he looked back at her.
“And the best part?” His voice turned silken, dangerous. “They called it mercy. Said they could’ve done worse.”
He leaned back just slightly, but his eyes stayed locked on hers, black and endless.
“They thought they broke me. But all they did… was finish the job.”
The words hung there—heavy, unpolished.
Alina swallowed, her gaze never leaving him.
She’d seen glimpses of the man beneath the paint before—raw, volatile, broken. But now...
Now she understood.
The betrayal hadn’t just marked his skin—it had rewired trust into something toxic, belief into a liability.
And in the ruins left behind, he’d built something darker:
A man who laughs at tragedy—who breaks the world before it can break him.
She felt her chest tighten—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
Recognition.
Because now, she could see the shape of him clearly.
The pattern beneath the chaos.
The boy who was punished for feeling, beaten for saying no, left to rot for being human.
And maybe that was the part that undid her most.
Not what had been done to him—
But the cruel, bitter logic that followed.
The way it made sense.
Her hand lifted before she could stop it—reaching for him.
She traced the jagged line on his cheek, slow and delicate, like she could smooth out the violence, smooth out the pain.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t move.
Just let her touch him.
As if some part of him had been waiting for it.
His eyes found hers—dark, unreadable—and for a moment, there was no mask.
“And now,” he murmured, “every time someone looks at me—every time I look in the mirror…”
“I’m reminded what trust cost me.”
A breath. Slow. Heavy.
“They see the scars. The freak. The nightmare.”
He shrugged.
“But they don’t see the moment that made me like this.”
His voice went thin.
“They look at me like I chose this—”
“Like I wanted to become what I had to become.”
The ache in his voice made her chest twist. It wasn’t loud or obvious, but the grief was there—threaded beneath every word.
She felt it in the way his voice tensed… then trailed off.
Like it didn’t matter.
She reached for him, gently tucking a stray curl from his face.
Her fingers lingered, smoothing back his hair with a tenderness he didn’t shy away from.
“I see it,” she whispered. “All of it.”
He studied her, eyes narrowed slightly—as if bracing for the inevitable recoil. The disgust.
But it never came.
Just her voice, steady. Sure.
“I don’t care what they see when they look at you.”
“I know what made you—”
“And you didn’t deserve any of it.”
Her gaze didn’t waver.
“Not a single second.”
She said it like truth.
He looked at her for a long moment—like he wasn’t sure she was real, wasn’t sure she’d said anything at all.
Then, he leaned in, his breath warm against her skin, his voice low and laced with a raw vulnerability he couldn't hide.
“You’re dangerous, you know that?” he murmured, his thumb brushing over her bottom lip, his gaze dark and unflinching.
“Making me reveal things I swore I'd never speak about… making me feel things I buried a long time ago.”
Her heart pounded as his words sank in, the intensity in his eyes holding her captive.
He pulled her closer, fingers tangling in her hair as though he needed to feel every part of her to believe she wasn't just a ghost.
“I didn’t want this,” he said quietly, voice frayed. “Didn’t think I’d ever let anyone in again...”
Her heart folded in on itself.
There was something in the way he said it—so unguarded, like it hurt to admit.
Like it terrified him.
Like maybe, saying it out loud made it real.
Before she could speak, he cupped her chin, his touch unexpectedly gentle, and pressed his mouth to hers.
The kiss was soft. Intentional.
Nothing wild or demanding—just the quiet press of lips that trembled with restraint.
As though he was trying to memorize her. As though one wrong move might send her running.
She kissed him back, her fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, her body aching with the need to be closer.
He held her like he meant to stay.
And when he pulled back—just barely, just enough to look at her—what she saw in his eyes hit her like a wave.
Something raw.
Unmasked.
A fragile, almost frightened kind of awe, like he couldn’t believe she was still here. That she’d seen the worst and hadn’t turned away.
It shattered something in her.
She couldn’t hold the pieces in anymore. Not in the face of that look
Not when he’d stripped himself bare and handed her something so sacred, so real.
She needed him to see her too—all of her.
The parts she’d buried. The truth she’d never dared to speak.
Her throat went tight. She blinked fast.
And then, unable to help it, she lowered her head and pressed her face to his chest, tucking herself in like she was trying to disappear into him.
He didn’t move at first.
Just held her there—tight against him, his breath stirring her hair.
Then his hand slid up her back—slow, steady—his fingers curling gently at the nape of her neck.
“Hey…” His voice came low, quiet—rough around the edges, but tender in a way that made her ache. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
Her fingers twisted into his shirt. She didn’t lift her head.
"What's wrong, dollface?"
“Jack…” Her voice was small. Unsteady. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I’ve never told anyone.”
A pause. She breathed him in like it might give her the courage.
“Something I’ve kept buried so deep I barely let myself believe it happened. But it did. And it’s worse than my parents’ accident. Worse than the guilt.”
His arm tightened around her, the other hand rising gently to stroke her hair.
“Tell me,” he said simply.
She swallowed hard, like the truth itself might choke her.
“When I told you my aunt was dead… I didn’t tell you how.”
Silence pressed in. Thick. Cold.
“She had a heart attack.”
The words came quick, like if she said them too slow they’d destroy her.
“It happened right in front of me. She hit the ground—hard—and she was gasping, grabbing at her chest, trying to speak.”
Her voice started to shake.
“Her mouth kept opening and closing like a fish. She looked at me—eyes wide, terrified. Tried to say something."
"She choked out one word...”
Her throat closed.
“Please.”
A pause.
“I’ll never forget that sound.”
Tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t move to wipe them.
“And I just stood there.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper.
“I watched her die.”
A breath. Shallow. Unsteady.
“She’d told me my whole life I was a burden. That I ruined everything I touched—and I.”
"I hated her for it."
She looked up at him finally.
Her face was pale, gutted—but steady.
“So I let her die.”
“I let her beg.”
“And I watched her face twist with panic. With pain.”
A beat.
“And I did nothing.”
Silence swallowed the room.
“And I didn’t feel sorry.”
“Not then—”
“I felt powerful.”
Her breath hitched—just once.
“I felt free.”
She gave a short, brittle laugh—like the sound had nowhere else to go.
“And then…” Her voice dropped to almost nothing.
“When it was over... I felt like I’d burned away the last good part of me.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Just looked at her—like he was seeing her for the first time.
Not the girl who sat in his warehouse. Not the trembling hands or the tear-streaked face.
But the fire beneath it all. The kind of pain that didn’t fade. The kind you learned to live with by becoming something else.
Slowly, he reached for her—fingertips brushing her cheek, like he couldn’t bear not to touch her now.
“You didn’t kill her, doll. She did that all on her own.”
His voice was low, steady.
“All you did… was stop saving someone who spent her life trying to destroy you.”
A breath. His brow furrowed slightly, like the weight of the truth was pressing on his ribs.
“You think that makes you a monster?”
He caught a tear with his thumb, smearing it gently across her cheek like paint.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “that makes you real.”
A pause.
“Do you know how many people dream of revenge and never take it? How many freeze, or flinch, or beg someone else to pull the trigger?”
He tilted his head, his voice soft and terrible.
“But you didn’t run.”
His eyes searched hers, dark and cutting.
“You stayed. You watched. You made the world answer for what it did to you.”
She shook her head, a soft, broken sob escaping—but he leaned closer, his breath ghosting against her skin.
He brushed her hair behind her ear—slow and achingly tender.
His hand lingered at her jaw.
“You weren’t the villain in that room,” he whispered. “You were the verdict.”
And somehow, the way he said it—quiet, worshipful, awful—made her cry harder.
“But it was cruel,” she choked. “It was evil.”
He shook his head—slow, certain.
“I know monsters, doll. Hell—I became one on purpose.”
His voice dropped.
“But you?”
His eyes softened.
“You’re not one of them.”
She looked down, ashamed, tears spilling silently.
But he reached out, cupping her chin—gentle, firm—tilting her face back to his.
“You were a child,” he said, voice low. “Hurt. Cornered. Alone.”
His hands framed her face—so careful, it almost broke her.
“And you survived.”
He looked at her like he was memorizing something sacred.
“You wanna know what I see?”
He waited. Just long enough for her breath to catch.
“Someone who was never loved right. Never protected. Who had to crawl through hell and still somehow…”
He swallowed hard, something breaking loose in his gaze—something unbearably soft.
“…still came out with something left to give.”
Her heart stuttered. The truth of it struck too deep.
He wasn’t just seeing her. He was knowing her.
And it undid something at her core—
Something knotted and silent for years—
Unraveling in the most terrifying, beautiful way.
She’d never wanted him more.
Never felt more real.
Never been more certain of anything.
“Will you touch me?” she whispered, the words barely there—but charged with need so raw it felt like a wound opening.
He froze, gaze locked to hers like he was staring into something he couldn’t afford to want.
“I mean really touch me,” she whispered. “Not to mark me. Not to own me. Not to hurt—”
A pause.
“But because you see me. Because you want to.”
His jaw tightened. His throat worked around a breath.
She tilted her face up, lips barely brushing his.
“Because—"
A trembling breath.
"I want you to.”
And then—
“I want to feel what it’s like… when you’re not trying to ruin me.”
She looked up at him, eyes glassy but unflinching.
“Touch me, Jack.”
A plea. A command. A surrender.
“I don’t want to feel like a ghost anymore.”
And there it was.
His hand lifted—shaking, hesitant—as if touching her now might shatter the world.
The shift.
She felt it in the way he breathed—slow, uneven, like whatever came next would rewrite the lines he’d carved into himself to survive.
But he did.
And when his palm found her cheek—so gentle it hurt—her eyes fluttered closed.
One breath.
Then, his lips found hers.
Slow, unhurried—but she could feel the tension thrumming beneath restraint, like he was holding back a storm.
Then, he deepened the kiss.
Not with hunger. With ache.
Like he’d been waiting his whole life to be invited instead of forcing the door open.
Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt—desperate for something solid to hold.
And when his hand cradled her face—thumb stroking just beneath her eye—her breath stilled.
No rush.
No firestorm.
Just this—this unbearable tenderness between them.
When he finally pulled back, his lips hovered a breath above hers.
Their foreheads touched.
Their eyes didn’t part.
And in that hush, she whispered:
“Will you stay?”
His brow twitched. His fingers tightened ever so slightly at her jaw.
“I’m right here, sweetheart.”
“No,” she breathed. “Stay… like this.”
A pause. Her voice frayed.
“I want to feel something real. I want to feel you.”
And the look that crossed his face—
Worship and ruin.
As if she’d reached into his ribs and offered him back a heart he thought long gone.
He didn’t speak.
Just nodded—barely.
Then he moved with quiet purpose.
His hands found the hem of her gown, lifting it slowly, giving her time to stop him.
She didn’t.
She watched him instead, eyes wide and shining, as he stripped her bare inch by inch—not like he was taking something, but like he was unwrapping a gift he didn’t believe he deserved.
When she lay back against the sheets, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths, he hovered above her—his palms planted on either side of her head, his gaze raking over her with something between reverence and disbelief.
“You don’t even know, do you?" he murmured, voice rough with awe. “How fucking beautiful you are.”
His hand came up, cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing her lips.
“Every time you look at me like that… I forget what the hell I was doing.”
She leaned into his touch, trembling now for a different reason.
He noticed—of course he did—and kissed her again.
Softer this time.
Slower.
Like she was something rare. Breakable.
Sacred.
His hands came up, tracing her hips, her stomach, her ribs—like she was a painting and he was trying to memorize every stroke. Every curve. Every hollow.
Then his mouth followed.
First her collarbone. Then lower. Then—
“You don’t hide from me, sweetheart,” he murmured against her skin. “Not anymore.”
Each kiss, each drag of his tongue, was slow. Deliberate. Like he wanted her to feel every second of it—not as conquest, but as knowing.
As promise.
Not marking her with pain, but with reverence.
With truth.
With him.
His hand slid to the curve of her waist. The other drifted up, fingers spanning the side of her throat, his thumb stroking beneath her jaw.
Her pulse raced beneath his touch, delicate and quick—fluttering like a bird in his palm.
“Let me see you,” he whispered. “All of you.”
Then his mouth was on her again—collarbone, sternum, the soft swell of her breast.
He kissed her like scripture.
His tongue followed after, like he needed to taste every inch just to believe she was real.
Her hands fisted into his shirt. She didn’t even remember grabbing it—only that she needed more. More of him. More of this.
He hesitated.
And for a brief moment, her mind shot back—to that night he first let her see beneath the greasepaint.
The first time he'd taken her without violence, without cruelty. Just need.
The way he’d stopped her when she’d tried to undress him fully.
The roughness she’d felt beneath her fingertips—scars she hadn’t dared to ask about.
Now, as his hand hovered at the hem of his shirt, her breath faltered.
Had she gone too far? Pushed past the fragile openness they’d only just found?
Their eyes met in the dim light—hers wide, searching. His... unreadable.
A beat.
Then he moved.
He pulled the fabric over his head in one clean motion, and even in the low light—too dark, too fast—she saw enough. Scarred skin. Lean muscle. Shadows carved into him like a history no one had ever been allowed to witness.
It hit her like a wave—how beautiful he was in all his wrongness. How human.
He caught her staring and his gaze broke from hers, something flickering in his expression—soft, uncertain.
Not quite shame.
But close.
She didn’t speak. She just pulled him down, her mouth meeting his with hunger and need.
This kiss wasn’t soft.
It was a plea.
And he answered it, groaning against her lips as he settled over her, kissing her slow and deep, while his hand drifted down, skimming her ribs, her stomach, then lower.
When his fingers finally found her, her back arched.
“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing the side of her throat. “You’re shaking sweetheart.”
She was.
She was shivering beneath him, not from fear—but from the unbearable way he touched her, the way he saw her.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “Just feel it, doll. Let me take care of you.”
His mouth trailed lower, leaving heat in its wake. When his lips brushed between her thighs, her breath hitched—then broke. He didn’t rush, didn’t tease.
He devoured.
Every sound she made, every stuttered breath and grasp of his hair, only seemed to make him hungrier. Like she was the answer to some long-buried question, and now that he had her, he’d never let go.
And when she came, trembling and gasping, he didn’t stop touching her. He kissed the inside of her thigh, murmured something filthy and reverent, and climbed up over her again, settling between her legs.
Their eyes met.
No walls. No masks. Just them.
Her fingers curled around his jaw, pulling him in, and she whispered, “I want all of you.”
He went still—like the words broke something open inside him.
Then, in a voice so low it trembled, he said:
“You already have me.”
And when he pushed inside her, it wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast.
It was slow. Devastatingly slow.
He held her gaze, buried to the hilt, breathing hard like he’d been struck.
For the first time, there was nothing between them.
Skin against skin. Heat against heat.
Her breasts brushed his chest—bare, unshielded—and the contact made her breath catch. His skin was warm, almost feverish, and rough in places where scars had never fully healed.
She felt everything—every inch of him, every ounce of restraint.
It wasn’t just the heat of his body. It was the way he trembled when she touched his side.
The way he buried his face in her neck like he could disappear there.
The way his heart beat against hers, frantic and real.
It wasn’t just sex.
It was surrender.
His lips brushed her temple. Her cheek. Her mouth.
“I’ve never—” His voice broke, just barely. “Not like this.”
Her breath caught.
“Me neither,” she whispered.
Her fingers tangled in his hair, her body clinging to him as he moved inside her—deep, measured, overwhelming.
When his weight pressed against the raw ache of her freshly bandaged skin, she didn’t flinch.
The sting only pulled her closer, grounding her in the reality of him—the wound, the mark, the vow he’d carved into her flesh.
A scar of surrender. A brand of devotion.
And she welcomed it.
The pain. The pressure. The way he filled her like he was trying to rewrite every hollow part of her.
And somewhere in the rhythm—in the burn and the surrender—something shifted.
This wasn’t about possession.
Or punishment.
This was something holy.
This was home.
And in that breathless hush between heartbeats, she knew—finally, achingly—that she wasn’t lost anymore.
She’d been found.
And neither of them would ever be the same again.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N:
*Deep breath*
😭😭😭 I genuinely cannot handle how much I love these two. Writing this chapter destroyed me in the best way—I had actual butterflies writing that final scene. I hope it stirred something in you, too 💜
I really hope J’s backstory landed. I agonized over it—truly. It’s something I started outlining nearly a year ago, and I’ve rewritten and reworked it more times than I can count. My goal was to make it feel real—something harrowing and believable enough to shape someone into the man we see in TDK.
Believe it or not… Part One of their story is winding down. 🥀 I’m still deciding whether to split it into a sequel or just let this story grow into a full-blown epic. Either way, there’s so much more to come.
The next chapter is written in pieces and currently looks like a crime scene. I’ve been slower with updates because life has the audacity to speed up when it’s warm outside. But I promise I’m not going anywhere! These two have me in a chokehold and I like it. 💀
As always… scream at me in the comments. I live for your reactions!!!!
With all my twisted, romantic little heart,
💜💚🖤 JesterFairy
P. S. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on the last one!!! They gave me life and so much motivation to get this one finished ☺️
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness
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#dark romance#trauma bonding#gothic romance#bad boy x good girl#villain gets the girl#predator x prey#A Poison I Can't Resist#stockholm syndrome fic#dead dove fic#dark fic#kidnapper x victim#stalker kink#angst and hurt/comfort#joker x oc#Joker fanfiction#Joker fic#joker tdk#Heath ledger joker#the dark knight joker#toxic romance#unhealthy relationships#psychological romance#joker smut#smut with plot#Joker x Alina#soft villian kink
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I FINALLY FINISHED 😭😭😭
🔪 CHAPTER 27: “Ghosts and Scars” 🔪
Tonight, Jack unravels.
Alina confesses.
Scars are revealed.
Secrets come clawing to the surface.
And what happens between them…
might just be the softest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever written 😭💜
This chapter is a slow-burn exorcism. All dialogue. All ache. All devastation.
Your soul will be fed. And then ripped out gently, with love 🫠
Coming later tonight.
Pepare your snacks and emotional support pillows. 🖤💚💜
#angst and hurt/comfort#dark romance#toxic romance#gothic romance#joker fanfiction#heath ledger joker#tdk joker#joker fic#dark fic writer#dead dove do not eat#a poison i can't resist#joker x female oc#joker x oc#kidnapper x victim#bad boy x good girl#soft villian kink
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Hey my loves 💜
I’m so sorry for vanishing after that cliffhanger and promising a quick update—turns out I once again grossly misjudged how much editing I had left. Also turns out writing while going to bed at a reasonable hour is way harder than writing in a sleep-deprived 3am fever dream where I am merely a vessel for Joker’s voice and chaos. Who knew trying to practice better self care would put such a damper on things!
This next chapter is straight-up monumental. Like, I wish I were kidding. It’s basically a 7,000-word emotional boss battle made entirely of dialogue, tension, and micro-expressions I’ve rewritten so many times I see them when I close my eyes. Joker’s lines are eating me alive. I want them perfect. I want them razor sharp and true to the film and dripping with twisted tenderness and I just—AHhhhhh!!! 😩
But I swear, it’s nearly done. And it might be my strongest chapter yet. I am feral. I am foaming. I am crawling across the floor whispering “almost there” like a cryptid. I cannot wait for you to read it. Thank you from the bottom of my unhinged little heart for being so patient with me. 💜
It's coming, and I promise—the wait will be SO worth it 💀💚💜
#Heath ledger joker fic#Dark knight joker fanfiction#joker tdk#clown daddy#joker fanfiction#gothic romance#a poison i can't resist#jorny#dark fic writer#dark romance fan fiction#dark romance writer#twisted love#toxic romance#stalker romance#kidnapper x victim#Good girl x bad boy#joker x female oc#joker x oc#unhealthy relationships#joker headcanon#joker backstory
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Heath Ledger (Prague, Inkjet Print on Paper) by Bruce Weber, 2000.
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What’s your opinion on the military backstory theory for J?
Ahhh, the military backstory theory 👀
I think it’s one of the most compelling out there. There’s something deeply unsettling about the idea that order—not chaos—created him. That maybe the Joker didn’t just snap, but was reshaped by systems that promised structure, protection, purpose. That somewhere, a younger version of him really tried. Wanted to belong. Wanted to matter.
It also tracks eerily well with how he moves—his weapon proficiency, his tactical precision, his disturbingly acute understanding of human fear and psychological warfare. Like someone who was trained to neutralize threats… and then became one.
It adds this extra layer of horror… like, what if he didn’t emerge from randomness, but from the very institutions meant to keep us safe?
That said… I do have some thoughts I’m exploring in my fic—but I won’t spoil them just yet. Let’s just say… the timing of this ask is wildly uncanny 💀
Stay tuned! 💚💜
#joker tdk#Joker theory#Joker headcanon#Heath Ledger Joker#the dark knight joker#Joker backstory#Clown prince of crime#joker fic#joker fanfiction#a poison i can't resist#dark knight joker
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love when fictional men are so devoted to their partner it makes them dangerous and insane. very slutty behavior keep it up king
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.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.
Chapter 26: The Altar and the Offering
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter Word Count: 3,925
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat
A/N: Hey friends, sorry for making you wait so long for this. 💜
I was completely wrecked after the last one and needed time to recover!
This chapter is a shorter one, quieter and intimate, but just as meaningful.
Rest assured, the next one is nearly done, and I promise not to make you wait long this time.
Enjoy! 🖤
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 26: The Altar and the Offering
He scooped her into his arms, her spent body falling against his chest as he carried her toward the alcove, each step slow and careful. With a soft brush of his shoulder, he parted the burgundy curtain, stepping over scattered books and discarded clothes.
The bed lay before them—an altar drenched in shadow.
He laid her down gently, carefully, like placing something stolen back in its rightful place.
The mattress gave beneath her—soft and saturated with him. Smoke. Leather. Gunpowder. That feral, masculine heat that lived in her lungs now.
It clung to the sheets. To her skin. To the inside of her thighs.
She sank into it—into the same bed where she’d curled up alone just hours ago, shaking, aching for the feel of his hands.
Now she was here—with him. Branded. Remade.
Her body still hummed from the violence of his worship—from the way he’d held her open, like something he had every right to take. Her hip throbbed with the ghost of his name, carved in pleasure and pain. And her mouth, swollen and bruised, still tasted of him—salt, smoke, and sin.
He didn’t speak—
Just knelt beside the bed like a man in prayer—silent, slow.
And the way he looked at her—
Like she was both altar and offering—
It made her breath catch.
The old lamp on the crate beside them flickered low and warm, casting its light across the tattered curtains and bleeding over the stone walls, where shadows stretched like reaching hands.
It caught on the sharp angles of his face—the hollows beneath his eyes, the disheveled curls, the brutal, beautiful scars that marked him.
He looked carved from ruin and reverence—a man scorched down to the bone and still burning.
Dangerous.
Devoted.
Undone.
And in that breathless hush, nothing moved.
Just his eyes.
Consuming her.
Dragging slow over every curve—every mark he’d made—as if still convincing himself she was real.
His.
And finally, exactly where she belonged.
She felt it—the heat rising off him. The hunger in his gaze. Like he could still taste her. Like he was already wondering how long he could wait before sinking back inside her.
His hand lifted—hesitated. Like even the thought of touching her was something to savor.
Then, at last, he reached for her.
A slow drag of fingers over her temple… down her cheek… tracing the curve of her jaw like something stolen and beloved.
He said nothing.
But his silence radiated heat. Devotion.
Madness.
Like a man teetering on the edge of restraint.
Like a creature who had devoured her and was still starving.
His touch slid lower—over the delicate slope of her neck, to the hollow at her throat, where her pulse fluttered like a butterfly trapped beneath glass.
She stared up at him, breath shallow, nerves fraying.
His gaze locked to hers, dark and searching, like he was trying to memorize her—brand this moment into something permanent.
And then his fingers slipped lower—along her collarbone, slow as dripping wax—before brushing the swell of her breast with maddening care.
Barely a touch. More like a test. As if checking to see if she’d break beneath it.
She didn’t.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t look away.
She just lay there, chest rising and falling beneath his hand like a tide giving in.
His gaze didn’t waver.
She felt bare under his eyes in a way she hadn’t even minutes ago. And yet… safe. Held in the hush of something unspeakably rare.
Despite everything they’d done—everything he’d taken—this silence felt more intimate than all of it. Like some invisible thread had pulled tight between them.
And neither of them dared breathe, afraid it might snap.
Then—
His gaze dropped.
His hand followed.
His fingers trailed down the slope of her waist—slow, savoring, possessive—until they reached the hem of her nightgown.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t ask.
Just slipped his hand beneath the fabric and dragged it upward—inch by inch—until it bunched at her hips in a soft, wrinkled pool.
The fabric whispered over her skin like breath.
His knuckles grazed her thigh, leaving a trail of heat in their wake.
And then the mark was bare.
The raw, searing wound—still swollen, still bleeding faintly.
His eyes locked onto it like he’d been starving for the sight.
Something dark flickered across his face—hunger, awe, something unholy.
He didn’t touch it.
But the heat of his hand hovered there, radiating over the wound like a fever.
She felt everything.
The sting.
The burn.
The throb of her pulse beneath broken skin.
And him—watching her with the focus of a man on the edge of something feral.
His jaw clenched.
His fingers twitched.
But still—he held back.
She could feel it in her bones—the violence of his hunger coiled just beneath the surface. A need so sharp, it felt like a blade resting at her throat.
But his restraint held.
His gaze stayed locked on the wound like it was sacred. The most beautiful thing he’d ever made.
And despite the pain—
She wanted more.
Wanted his mouth on it.
His hands.
His body pressing her down until the pain blurred into something darker.
Possession. Obsession.
And he wanted it too.
She saw it in the hitch of his breath.
The flare of his nostrils.
The tremble threading through his stillness.
He was unraveling.
For her.
Because of her.
And that—that was almost more intimate than the mark itself.
Then he leaned in.
She braced for the break—for him to lose the battle with himself.
But instead—
He kissed her temple.
Soft.
Quiet.
A breath of reverence pressed to her skin.
“I’ll be right back,” he murmured. “Stay.”
Not a request. A command.
She nodded, but the moment he stood and left her side, the cold swept in like grief.
And then he was gone—vanishing behind the curtain like a ghost leaving a dream.
She lay still, the silence folding in around her.
She tried to focus on the ceiling—on the way the shadows stretched and swayed. On the feel of the sheets. Soft. Safe.
But the images came anyway.
Fast. Vivid. Relentless.
The knife.
Her knife.
The gleam of its blade. The heat of it sinking into her skin.
His mouth, catching her blood like sustenance.
Like something precious.
Her surrender. Her silence. The way she didn’t fight.
The pain—sharp, searing—had felt almost like rapture.
And the horror—like some twisted act of devotion.
The violence.
The tenderness.
Every nerve alight.
Every boundary long since blurred.
She’d told him she was his. Whispered it like a vow.
And in the moment, she’d meant it.
But now—
That voice, buried deep, clawed its way to the surface.
What are you doing?
Her fingers twisted into her scalp pulling tight.
This was the same man who’d locked her away.
Who'd starved her.
Who’d humiliated her and made her feel like nothing.
And now here she was.
Lying in his bed.
Letting him touch her like she belonged to him.
A flush of shame crept up her chest, crawling like fire up her throat.
She had sworn—sworn—she wouldn’t fall for it again. Wouldn’t melt the second his hands turned soft.
But she had.
Like sugar in fire.
And worse—she wanted more.
Wanted him to come back.
To lose control all over again.
God, what was wrong with her?
Her fingers curled into the sheets.
She hated the broken part of her that wanted to believe the tenderness was real. That beneath the monster, something human might be reaching back.
But shame couldn’t drown the truth—
Something inside her had already surrendered.
And there was no crawling back from it now.
The silence pressed in, broken only by the sound of her own breath—too shallow, too quick.
She didn’t know how long she lay there, caught between self-loathing and longing—until finally, the curtain whispered open again.
She turned her head—
And there he was.
Backlit by the low golden lamplight, his shadow stretched long across the floor. A rusted first aid kit dangled from one hand, the metal clinking softly as he crossed the room.
He set it on the crate beside the bed without a word.
And her chest pulled tight.
It shouldn’t have meant anything. It was just a box. Just gauze and alcohol. But the sight of it—the quiet, almost careful way he handled it—knotted something in her throat.
He knelt beside the bed again, fingers working the latch with a steady ease.
She watched as he pulled out a bottle of alcohol and a folded pad of cotton. His hands moved with the practiced familiarity of someone who’d patched himself up more times than he could count.
And now he was going to do the same for her.
That knowledge—it did something to her.
Something sharp. Something warm.
Something dangerous.
“This might sting,” he murmured, his gaze flicking to hers, a quiet warning.
She felt the cool press of the cotton against her skin, followed by the sharp burn, but it was his careful hands, his focused gaze, that left her breathless.
The mark he was tending to had been his doing—a brutal brand, a declaration of his hold on her. Yet here he was, caring for that wound with a gentleness that defied everything she thought she knew about him.
She watched him, marveling at the dark paradox of his touch, as though the violent act and this tender care were woven from the same thread of possessiveness.
And still... She wanted to ask him why.
Why he’d left her like that days before—torn her apart with savage words, then locked her away like she was nothing.
But her voice tangled in her throat.
Because now… he was here.
And his hands were gentle.
And she didn’t want to lose this—whatever this was—by reminding him of who he’d been just days before.
So she swallowed it down. Along with the ache.
Along with the memory.
And told herself that silence was safer.
After cleaning the brand and applying the ointment, he placed a soft gauze over the wound, taping it down with painstaking care.
His thumb lingered over the bandage, and his gaze locked with hers, something fierce and possessive simmering there.
“It’ll heal,” he murmured, his voice as soft as it was dark, “but the scar… that stays."
His thumb dragged over the bandage again—slow, final.
“A reminder,” he said, each word thick with meaning, “of who you belong to.”
Her pulse quickened, the weight of his words sinking in, thrilling and terrifying all at once.
Then he tossed the kit aside and stood.
For a long, loaded moment, he just looked at her. The faint light caught in his dark eyes, and she couldn’t tell if it was want or warning glinting back at her.
And then—
He climbed into the bed.
Slow. Controlled. A shadow sinking into shadow.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight.
The air shifted—tight, expectant.
Without a word, he pulled her close.
His arm came around her, steady and sure, and her body curled into the heat of him like it had always belonged there.
Her cheek found his chest—solid, warm—the thrum of his heartbeat echoing beneath her ear.
And he held her.
Not roughly. Not possessively.
Just… held her.
One hand found her hair, stroking slowly, hypnotically—his fingers slipping through the ash-blonde strands like they soothed something inside him.
His other arm stayed curled around her back, hand splayed between her shoulder blades—like a quiet vow not to let go.
Her breath stuttered. Her heart stumbled.
It felt good—so good—to be held by him again.
Not because it was safe. But because it was real.
He wasn’t harmless. He never had been.
He was danger wrapped in warmth. A storm that knew her name.
But he wasn’t pretending.
And maybe that was why, pressed to his chest—heartbeat steady beneath her ear—she felt steadier than she had in years.
As if the monster everyone feared had curled around her like a shield—and for once, the world couldn’t touch her.
His voice broke the silence, low and almost gentle.
“I love this hair of yours,” he murmured, fingers slipping through the loose waves.
“Like starlight in shadow. Cold, soft… beautiful. A little twisted.” His lips curved faintly. “Just like you.”
The words lingered between them—dark silk and smoke—too soft to be safe, yet unmistakably him.
She felt her breath catch, melting into the quiet, careful way he touched her.
"I always thought it was too dull, too ashy. When I was a teen, I’d put lemon in it, try to get the sun to bleach it," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
He gave a low, almost disbelieving scoff, his fingers still toying with a strand.
"Dull?" he murmured, his eyes flicking over her hair with a kind of fascination. "You’d try to change this?"
His grip on the strand tightened slightly, possessive, as though daring her to ever doubt it again.
"I don’t think you get it… it’s perfect. Just like every other part of you."
His hand moved to cradle her face, his thumb brushing her cheek with a gentleness that made her chest ache.
His gaze lingered—intense, unreadable.
“Every inch of you,” he murmured, his voice a low rasp, “feels like it was made for me. Like you were carved to fit into my hands. To walk beside me.”
He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just let the words fall like a weight.
“Like the world finally got one goddamn thing right.”
Something sharp curled in her chest, vulnerability crawling up her throat as his fingers kept moving—slow, steady—tracing the curve of her cheek, the line of her jaw.
She could barely look away.
Trapped by the weight of his words.
By the sense that he was uncovering parts of her she hadn’t even known were there.
He leaned in slowly, his breath a hush against her skin. Fingers lifted beneath her chin—light, but inescapable.
He tilted her face toward his, and for a breathless moment, his eyes searched hers—dark and burning, but softer somehow. Like something in her had knocked him off center.
Her pulse fluttered.
That look—bare, unguarded—unraveled her more than violence ever could.
“You still don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, his thumb brushing along her lower lip in a slow, claiming sweep.
“What you’ve done to me.”
His voice wavered—just slightly. Like the words tasted foreign on his tongue.
Too real.
Too much.
And far too late to take back.
She didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Something in him was unraveling right in front of her, and it held her in place like gravity.
“All the things that used to matter—the thrill of chaos, Gotham’s slow decay, my dance with the Bat...”
His smile twitched, fractured, brittle.
“It’s all hollow now. Dull.”
His eyes flicked to hers—then held.
“Every day since I took you… the rest of the world’s been fading.”
The air shifted.
His gaze sharpened—too sharp. A blade unsheathed.
There it was.
Something wild.
Something cornered.
Something raw.
And in that flash of feverish clarity, she saw it—
The terror beneath the hunger.
The resentment braided into reverence.
He was drowning in her—
Just as much as she was in him.
He cupped her face, his thumb brushing beneath her eye, so careful it broke her.
“You don’t have to hide any part of yourself from me,” he said, voice rasping low.
“Whatever you’ve buried—whatever pieces you thought no one could want…”
His knuckles grazed her temple, soft. Slow.
“I see them. All of them.”
Her breath stilled.
“And?” she whispered.
His forehead pressed to hers.
“And I want them,” he said. “Not despite the damage—but because of it. Because they're real. Because they're yours.”
The words hit like a blow.
Not soft. Not kind. Just honest. Like everything about him.
Her voice cracked. “I’ve spent years thinking if someone ever saw all of me, they’d run.”
The admission burned in the quiet. It felt like peeling back skin—too raw, too revealing.
But he didn’t flinch.
“I’m not someone,” he said, pulling her in tighter. “I’m the one who found you. Claimed you. You think I’m letting you go now?”
The weight of those words—dark and quiet and shatteringly sure—
Cut through her like heat from a struck match—sudden, consuming.
She swallowed hard. Her gaze didn’t leave his.
The way he touched her—gentle, unflinching—it scraped against every wall she’d spent a lifetime building.
“I’ve spent so long pretending,” she said. “Shoving down pieces of myself like maybe they’d disappear. Like maybe no one would ever look close enough to notice.”
Her voice faltered.
But his eyes stayed locked to hers. Willing her. Holding her.
And slowly, she breathed.
“But with you I feel…” Her hand hovered before it landed, the barest touch over his—light as breath, trembling. Her thumb brushed the jagged scar along his knuckles, and something in her came undone.
“I don’t know why,” she whispered, eyes fixed on their joined hands as if afraid to look up, “but… maybe I don’t have to anymore.”
His jaw tightened, and his grip on her hand shifted—firmer now, like the thought of her ever hiding from him stirred something raw.
His gaze burned, not soft but searing, carved from possession and ache.
Then, his fingers laced through hers, steady and strong.
“You never have to hide from me,” he murmured.
“I like the parts that scare you. The ones you flinch from.”
A breath.
“I want all of it. Especially the mess. Especially the cracks. That’s where the real you lives.”
His lips hovered near her ear.
“And I want her more than anything.”
In that moment, something cracked open inside her.
Not from fear. From recognition.
She didn’t care anymore—about the life she used to fake her way through, the dead-eyed routines, the mask of normal she wore like armor.
It all felt miles away now. Like a ghost of someone who’d never really lived.
He’d shattered that version of her.
And she wasn’t mourning the wreckage.
Her heart pounded—not with panic, but with something sharper. Wilder. Like every nerve had lit up at once, sparking in the places she used to keep numb.
For the first time in years, she felt awake.
Because he—this brutal, broken man—he didn’t flinch from the mess of her. Didn’t ask her to smile wider, cry quieter, pretend.
He wanted the whole fucked-up picture.
He wanted every piece of her.
Even the parts she thought no one could ever love.
Especially those.
Her hand still wrapped around his—tighter now—her voice low, breath catching as her eyes met his.
“Before you…” she said, the words raw in her throat, “I was just going through the motions. Waking up. Existing. Going to sleep. Repeat. Empty. Meaningless.”
Her laugh came out bitter and quiet.
“I didn’t even realize how little I was living... until you tore it all down.”
He looked at her, the usual sharpness in his gaze softened by something she could almost believe was understanding, maybe even… pride.
Something shifted behind his eyes—like the truth of her was hitting somewhere he didn’t expect.
“You make me feel alive,” she said, quieter now, but not softer. There was steel under the rawness, an ache that wanted to bleed.
“And it’s not some sweet, soft kind of alive. It’s sharp. Loud. Like I’ve been sleepwalking my whole damn life and you just—breathed the air back into my lungs.”
Her grip on his hand tightened.
“You see me. All of me. And I don’t care what it says about me that I want this—"
A breath. A tremor.
“That I want you.”
A flicker of something sharp crossed his face.
Something in him stilled.
Then he reached up, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes flicking over her like he was trying to memorize this version of her—unguarded, alive, his.
“That’s the first time you’ve said it,” he murmured—low, almost disbelieving.
“Without me having to tear it out of you.”
His hand curled at her jaw.
“You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, doll.”
She blinked, like waking from a trance. The room hadn’t changed—but she had. Something fragile had cracked open inside her, and there was no shutting it again.
“I was afraid,” she said. “Afraid that if I said it out loud, it would be real. And if it was real... it could be taken away.”
Silence. Brittle and thick.
He pulled back slightly, but his thumb still swept along her jaw like he couldn’t quite stop touching her.
Then, softer than she'd ever heard him—
“This was always real. From the moment I saw you.”
A breath. A tilt of his head.
“You just didn’t wanna see it.”
A pause. His eyes flickered.
“...And you know what? Neither did I.”
His knuckles brushed her cheekbone, like he was grounding himself in her skin.
“When I took you, doll, I told myself it was just a game. A diversion. Something to pass the time.”
A pause.
“But that was a lie. One I clung to so I could keep my pride intact.”
Her breath caught, but his gaze didn’t waver.
“But it didn’t stop me. Couldn’t. Because you—”
His jaw tightened.
“You were real in a way nothing else ever has been.”
His voice dropped lower, darker—something feral edging beneath the reverence.
“You’re not some toy I dragged in off the street, doll. You’re mine because I saw you. All of you. First. Deepest.”
He leaned in, close enough to steal the air between them, his eyes glinting like broken glass.
“And I’d burn this whole fucking city before I let anyone—”
A breath.
“Even you—undo that.”
She didn’t speak right away.
Just stared at him—at the man who had unraveled her life thread by thread and still, somehow, made her feel more whole than she’d ever been.
Her grip on his hand didn’t loosen. If anything, it tightened. Like she was holding onto something she wasn’t ready to lose.
Then, slowly—like he might vanish if she moved too fast—she leaned in. Her nose brushed his, her lips just a breath from his cheek.
She rested her forehead against his, and everything in her went still.
Grounded.
Soft.
“You scare the hell out of me,” she whispered, barely audible.
He tensed—just for a moment—then exhaled a breath that feathered against her lips.
The hand she held curled tighter around hers. Protective. Possessive. Like he wasn’t ready to let her go, either.
Then, softer still—her lips brushed the corner of his mouth, not quite a kiss. More like a vow.
“But I’d rather be scared with you… than empty without you.”
Her hand slid up, fingers ghosting the edge of his jaw. Like she needed the contact to anchor her. To anchor him.
“I’m not afraid of being yours,” she murmured.
“I’m afraid of not knowing you. Of only ever getting the parts you hide behind chaos and cruelty.”
She felt it. The sharp inhale. The way his fingers tensed against hers.
She pulled back just enough to see his face, her palm still resting lightly against his cheek.
“I know there’s more,” she said. “More than the man who tears things apart.”
Her thumb traced the corner of his mouth—his scar—so gently it made his eyes darken, like smoke curling through water.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
She swallowed. “Will you tell me about him?”
His brow twitched—just barely.
“Who?”
Her voice dropped to a hush, but it didn’t shake.
—
“The boy in the photo.”
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N: Sorry for the cliffhanger 😭 but don’t worry—I’ve got you, fam. The next chapter will be up by the end of the week, just as soon as I finish my micro edits.
And oh man… you’re not ready.
It’s going to shatter—but not in a painful way. More of a “lord, I love them so much it hurts” kind of way. A “these poor broken souls were made for each other and now I’m screaming into my pillow because they’re so messy but so perfectly beautiful together” kind of way.
AHHHH!!! I seriously can’t wait to share it with you.
Until then, please feed my writer heart and let me know what you thought of this chapter? Your comments mean the world to me and fuel every word of what comes next. 💀💜
Love you lots!
- JesterFairy 💚🖤💜
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity @readingafterdarkness
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#dark romance#trauma bonding#gothic romance#bad boy x good girl#villain gets the girl#predator x prey#A Poison I Can't Resist#stockholm syndrome fic#dead dove fic#dark fic#kidnapper x victim#stalker kink#angst and hurt/comfort#joker x oc#Joker fanfiction#Joker fic#joker tdk#Heath ledger joker#the dark knight joker#toxic romance#unhealthy relationships#psychological romance#joker smut#smut with plot#Joker x Alina
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Ahhhhh!!! I cannot wait to drop the next chapter—it’s nearly ready. A few more tweaks and it’ll be in your hands.
And the best part? The next, next one is already written and mostly edited too!!!
I’m telling you right now: these chapters will shatter you. You’re going to scream, cry, clutch your chest, and maybe light a candle out of sheer emotional overwhelm.
Because these two broken souls? They were made for each other—and this is the moment it hurts to love them.
Get your affairs in order. Hydrate. Hold someone’s hand.
I don’t even know how I wrote this. But I did. And it’s everything I've ever dreamed of. 😭💜
#Joker x Alina#joker x oc#dark romance fan fiction#joker fanfiction#joker fic#the dark knight joker#dark fic writer#dead dove fic#extreme angst#angst and hurt/comfort#Soul wrecked#a poison i can't resist#heath ledger joker#joker tdk
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Hey loves, just a little check-in!
Chapter 26 is absolutely killing me to write—not in a bad way, but in that “too much dialogue and every line has to be perfect” kind of way. It’s intense, emotional, and I want to make sure it lands exactly right.
On top of that, the weather’s finally beautiful here, and my little one is fully feral and constantly on the move outside. I’m running on fumes most days!
Thank you so much for being patient. I promise I haven’t abandoned our twisted little love story. I’m chipping away at the chapter, and it will be worth the wait.
Also—thank you for all the love on the last chapter. That one took so much out of me, so hearing that it landed with you means everything. 💜
Love you all endlessly.
— JesterFairy 💚💜🖤
#heath ledger joker#clown daddy#joker fanfiction#joker fic#a poison i can't resist#joker tdk#the dark knight joker#dark romance#gothic romance#joker x oc#joker x female oc#dark fic writer#dead dove fic
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Yes, God yes. I never realized what a damn blessing this was. 💜🙏💚
Everyday I thank God that Nolan let us see the Joker dressed like this. Like he's so crazy handsome here. The neatly done tie, the vest, the shirt giving a glimpse of his lean muscular body underneath. If he had his sleeves rolled up I'd probably die
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Yes
writing is 10% storytelling and 90% rearranging three sentences for an hour like you're trying to solve an ancient curse
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I love shipping. I'll never not ship characters. the 'they're so siblings coded' propaganda won't work on me. they fuck nasty cause I said so.
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.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.
Chapter 25: Say It Again
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter Word Count: 7,312
Fic Summary: Alina Vale dreams of escaping her dead-end life as a diner waitress, finding solace in painting Gotham’s haunting shadows. But when a routine trip to the bank turns into a living nightmare, she finds herself face-to-face with the Joker—a man as captivating as he is terrifying.
As his twisted games unravel her defenses, Alina is forced to confront the pull he has over her, a collision of fear and desire she can’t control. Trapped in his world of chaos and power, survival means facing not only him but the darker parts of herself he’s brought to life.
A story of obsession, control, and the intoxicating allure of letting go.
Genres: Dark romance, Gothic romance, Stalker romance
Pairings: TDK Joker x Female OC
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: non-con, extremely dubious consent, violence, psychological manipulation, kidnapping, stalking, slow-burn, toxic relationships, trauma bonding, childhood trauma, graphic sexual content, stockholm syndrome, dead dove do not eat
A/N: Alright, here it is—my magnum opus.
I don’t think I’ve ever poured so much of myself into a chapter emotionally, and that’s really saying something.
Warning (not that you need it if you’ve made it this far): this one’s dark. Deliciously messed up. But also—somehow—achingly tender and devastatingly beautiful.
I truly hope you enjoy it. 🖤
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Chapter 25: Say It Again
Alina shoved the knife back beneath the pillow and slipped out from behind the red curtain, her pulse thundering.
Just in time.
The mechanical door groaned shut—an ugly, monstrous sound of iron grinding against iron.
She stood frozen, breath shallow, willing her expression to stay calm, unaffected.
The Joker entered, his gaze sweeping the lair with surgical precision before landing on her.
A flicker—surprise, maybe—crossed his face, but it vanished as quickly as it came, smoothed over by that maddening mask of unreadable calm.
He arched a brow.
His gaze dragged over her, slow and measured—cataloging every twitch in her stance, every shift in her expression
“Didn’t expect you to be waiting for me,” he drawled, voice smooth but laced with suspicion.
Her heart jumped. But her face remained still. Blank.
She met his eyes and said nothing.
He cocked his head, something sly and unspoken flickering behind his gaze. A smirk tugged at his mouth, cold and knowing.
“You’ve been exploring.”
The words didn’t bite—they coiled, smooth as smoke and just as suffocating.
Alina swallowed hard. The space between them pulsed, electric with the weight of unspoken consequences.
“I got hungry,” she said evenly, her voice steadier than she felt.
His gaze flicked past her, to the curtain.
Then back.
“Didn’t realize hunger led you to my private quarters,” he murmured, stepping closer—silent, unhurried—until he loomed over her like a shadow with a pulse.
The sharpness in his voice was barely leashed, tense beneath the surface, but his tone stayed quiet—almost intrigued. Like he wasn’t asking for an explanation.
He was watching for a confession.
She cleared her throat. “I didn’t go in there,” she said carefully, forcing the tremor from her voice. “I just... got hungry, like I said.”
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just watched her—eyes bright, too sharp. Peeling her open, as if he already knew.
Then, he turned and slipped past her.
Straight toward the curtain.
Panic gripped her chest like a vice. She stood rooted in place, every second stretching taut.
Flee or stay frozen?
Either choice could betray her...
Behind the curtain, silence.
Then movement.
She could hear it—the soft rustle of fabric, the scrape of something displaced.
He knows.
He has to.
Her pulse spiked when he finally reemerged.
But it wasn’t his expression that stopped her heart.
It was the way he looked.
His makeup was gone.
His face—bare.
The scars, angry and jagged, slashed across his skin like old warnings.
But without the paint to shield them, he looked devastatingly human.
And somehow, more dangerous than ever.
He’d changed into worn grey jeans and a black thermal that clung to his chest and shoulders in a way that made her breath catch for reasons she didn’t want to acknowledge...
No armor. No performance.
Just him.
And it made her skin prickle.
Her gaze lifted to his face—and God, it wasn’t fair. Scarred, merciless, and still—
So handsome it left her breathless.
His hair, tousled and pulled back into a low ponytail, only emphasized the brutal geometry of his features.
But it was his eyes that undid her—dark and endless, fixed on her—flickering with something that made her stomach flip.
He didn’t look like a monster.
He looked like sin incarnate—haunting, hypnotic, and beautiful in a way that hurt.
She looked downward, heat flooding her cheeks.
And then—she saw it.
Her blood turned to ice.
In his hand, held loosely, deliberately—
Her sketchbook.
He glanced down at it—almost thoughtful—then back at her. His eyes were unreadable, but a glint shimmered beneath the surface.
Something darker. Something... curious.
“You know,” he said softly, his voice laced with that low, dangerous calm, “if you’re going to leave pieces of yourself lying around in my space…” He lifted the sketchbook slightly.
“You might want to be more careful where you wander.”
He let it fall open in his hands, flipping through the pages with maddening slowness. His gaze tracked every line, every shadow she’d carved into the paper—silent, methodical, like he was dissecting her soul one stroke at a time.
Then he found it.
The drawing.
The one that had damned her.
His mother’s portrait.
His gaze lingered, unreadable, jaw ticking ever so slightly.
Alina couldn’t breathe.
He regarded it a moment too long. Then, slowly—inevitably—his eyes hardened.
Her heart stuttered, dread pressing hot behind her ribs. She braced for it—for the lash of his fury, the scorn in his voice.
But instead—
“You really believe in this, don’t you?” he said quietly, lifting the page. “These little chains you wear. Empathy. Guilt.”
He scoffed—low, almost pitying. His mouth curled into a sneer.
“Why cling to something so pathetic?” His eyes locked onto hers, sharp, invasive.
“Why pretend it matters?”
The words stung. They always did. But it wasn’t just pain that bloomed in her chest this time—it was heat.
Defiance.
Fury that he could call something so essential pathetic.
“Why do you keep trying to make me numb like you?” she asked, voice trembling but steady.
“Why does it bother you so much that I feel things—that I care?”
His grin vanished.
And in its place—
A cold, razor-edged glare.
For a moment, he didn’t speak.
The air between them stretched thin and sharp.
“Because it’s weak,” he said finally, each word clipped, venom-laced.
He stepped back towards his desk like the words had cut too close.
“Empathy. Caring. That guilt you carry around like a badge…” He shook his head, eyes narrowing.
“It’s a trap. A muzzle that keeps you small.”
He paused, his tone turning darker.
“The second you stop pretending it matters,” he murmured, “you realize there’s nothing holding you back. You get to live without fear. Without chains... You get to be free.”
Alina stared at him, pulse roaring in her ears, her fists clenched at her sides.
And then her voice cut through the silence—fierce. Raw.
“I want the chains,” she snapped. “I need them. My empathy, my pain—they’re what keep me human.”
Her voice cracked on the last word, but she didn’t flinch.
“You think I want to be like you?” she went on, shaking her head. “Someone who burns everything down and feels nothing?”
The Joker laughed—sharp, jagged, joyless.
The sound scraped through her like steel dragged across bone.
His gaze snapped to hers, narrowed. No amusement. Only something darker.
“Oh, Alina,” he said, voice low and frayed at the edges. “We’ve been over this, haven’t we?”
He tilted his head, slow and dissecting. “You still think I don’t feel?”
His voice dropped—softer now. Dangerous in its quiet.
“You think I don’t know what it’s like to hurt?”
He stepped in close, his presence crashing over her like a tide—silent, suffocating. And for one breathless second, she saw past the mask:
The flicker of something ruined.
Furious.
Barely breathing beneath the surface.
“I wish I didn’t,” he whispered. Each word like a blade, drawn slow.
"I wish I could bury it. Kill it. Burn it out of me... But I can’t.”
His jaw tensed. And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a snarl.
It was a confession.
“I’ve tried everything. Noise, carnage, fire—I've drowned cities trying to smother it.”
He paced a step, then froze—shoulders coiled, hands flexing like claws.
“And still, it beats. This… thing.” He slammed a fist lightly to his chest. “Feeling. Memory. Whatever’s left.”
He sneered at the floor, then met her gaze.
“I’m still human, Alina. And I hate that more than I hate anything.”
The words hit her like a blow—stole the breath from her lungs.
She wanted to look away. Wanted to run.
But she couldn’t—the force of his honesty pinned her in place.
Too honest. Too real.
“I feel more than you think,” he murmured, eyes burning. “And it disgusts me.”
He leaned in, voice rough—taut with loathing. But his eyes...
They were earnest.
“Feelings are a cage,” he said, softer now—deadly soft. “They make you weak. Make you soft. Leave you exposed. That’s what you don’t understand, sweetheart.”
For a moment, he looked almost desperate—imploring.
“You’re clinging to the very thing that’s going to break you.”
Her chest tightened. She could feel his pain—his desperate need to make her see, to pull her down into the truth that had kept him alive.
But she could never see the world that way.
“Then I’d rather be broken,” she said, voice trembling but sure. “I’d rather feel everything—even if it ruins me—than become like you.”
She held his gaze, unflinching.
“Whatever you call freedom… it’s not living. It’s surviving. Barely.”
A beat of silence stretched between them—taut, electric.
His lips curved into a cruel smile, empty of joy—only understanding. A dangerous kind of recognition.
His eyes locked to hers, voice a low whisper, dripping like poison.
"That's the point, Alina,” he murmured. “Living is for people who still think there’s something to lose.”
His eyes flashed—wild, brilliant. “I lost everything. And I liked what I found in the wreckage.”
He stepped closer, and the air between them snapped tight.
“You want meaning,” he murmured, eyes raking her face. “But meaning’s just the lie they sell to keep you compliant.”
His grin turned slow, hungry. “I gave it up. Now I get to do whatever I want. That’s not surviving, doll. That’s power.”
Her fists clenched, nails biting into her skin as despair and exasperation surged to the surface.
“What’s the point of surviving then?” she demanded, voice cracking, heavy with emotion.
“What’s the point of any of it, if the price is burning away every piece of yourself that still cares? Without connection—without love or pain or hope—it’s all just... Meaningless.”
His expression didn’t change, but something flickered—just for a second—in his eyes.
Something fractured. Bare.
And then it was gone.
His grin twisted, his gaze darkening.
Then, slowly, he stepped toward her.
“Meaningless?” he echoed, voice low.
His hand rose—fingers skimming her jaw before tipping her chin upward.
Her breath stuttered—sharp, reflexive.
It was the first time he’d touched her like this in days. And her treacherous body remembered.
Warmth surged beneath her skin, rushing in where cold resolve had once lived. Her chest lifted with a shallow inhale, heart hammering like a war drum.
She hated how much she’d missed this—hated how a single touch could unravel every night she’d spent trying to forget what his hands could do to her.
But it was there.
That flicker.
That unbearable ache she didn’t want and couldn’t deny.
And he saw it.
His thumb drifted along her jaw—slow, calculated.
His gaze swept over her: her racing pulse, her trembling lips, her eyes that barely dared to meet his.
He smiled.
But there was no warmth in it.
Just knowledge.
Just power.
“That’s the point, sweetheart,” he murmured, as if her reaction had proven something.
“Life is meaningless. Love, connection… all those pretty lies we tell ourselves to make it worthwhile? They’re illusions.”
He leaned in, voice low and dark. “You stop lying to yourself…” His eyes glinted. “You stop being disappointed.”
She shivered under his touch but didn’t look away.
“I don’t believe that,” she whispered. “You hide behind your chaos like armor. But it’s fear. You’re afraid of love—because you think it makes you weak.”
His sneer twisted slowly across his face, cold and razor-edged. His eyes flared.
“Afraid?” His voice dripped with mockery. “You think I’m afraid of love?”
He laughed—a jagged, hollow sound that split the silence wide open.
“Love is a leash, Alina. A chain that drags you down.” He closed the distance between them, breath caressing her cheek, voice dropping to a whisper.
“I’m not afraid of it. I survived it. And now…”
His mouth brushed the shell of her ear.
“…now I’m free.”
Something shifted between them—too quiet to name, too loud to ignore.
Alina’s heart hammered as their eyes locked, and she wondered if he saw it too: the pieces he’d tried to bury still shining through the cracks.
Then, without a word, he reached out—fingers catching a strand of her hair. He studied it with an odd, quiet focus, like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Like she was.
A shiver stole her breath
His hand moved slowly, brushing the strand back before trailing down—fingertips grazing the pulse at her throat.
Alina froze, but the fire in her chest only blazed hotter. Her body ached with the contradiction—fear and longing twisted into one.
“You call it freedom,” she said, voice tight, trembling, “but you’re trapped. Trapped in your own nightmare, cutting yourself off from everything that matters.”
His grip shifted—fingers curling along her jaw, firmer now. Unforgiving.
Her breath caught.
His eyes burned.
“You think I don’t know that?” he growled, the sound low, splintered. “You think it doesn't haunt me—every goddamn day—?”
His voice faltered, just for a moment. And the smirk vanished.
“I wish I didn’t, Alina. I wish I could cut it out. Burn it clean.” His tone dropped, almost hollow. “But I can’t. Not completely.”
She didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths as he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
“You’re right,” he whispered, soft as smoke. “It’s all meaningless.”
But the menace lurked beneath the softness—still coiled, still watching.
He pulled back just enough to look at her again, and she saw it in his eyes: not apathy, but exhaustion. Fury. Grief, buried beneath ash.
“The world’s too cruel for love,” he murmured, his breath brushing her cheek. “Too cold for anything soft.”
He shifted closer, so close she could feel the heat of his body melt into hers.
“You can fight it all you want, dollface,” he whispered, lips grazing her ear. “But in the end… it always wins.”
Alina trembled.
Her mind screamed to pull away—but her body… didn’t move.
It leaned into him. Into the wicked warmth of the man she should’ve feared, should’ve hated.
His fingers drifted from her jaw, sliding to the side of her neck, slow—calculated, every inch of contact unraveling her nerves like thread.
“You feel it too,” he murmured, lips dangerously close now. “The pull. The darkness. The temptation to just—let it all go. You hate it… but you can’t escape it.”
His hand slipped to the back of her neck, drawing her closer until she could feel his breath on her mouth.
“Just like me.”
Her skin burned where he touched her. It infuriated her—
How easily her body remembered him—
How instinctively it still ached for more—
Because the truth was—
She did feel it.
That slow, magnetic current winding through her blood. That darkness she tried to bury, reflected back at her in his eyes.
It wasn’t just chemistry. It was gravity. A twisted, undeniable tether that pulled them together even as it threatened to tear her apart.
His other hand slid around her waist, guiding her flush against him.
Her mind screamed to push him away. To resist.
But instead—
Her fingers curled into his shirt, clinging to him like he was the only thing holding her upright.
His breath ghosted over her lips, and for a second—a cruel, aching second—she thought he was going to kiss her.
Her pulse stuttered, eyes fluttering half-shut, every nerve wound tight in anticipation.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he let the moment hang between them, then leaned just slightly to the side—his mouth brushing her cheek instead, not quite a kiss, sharp with restraint.
The whisper of what could’ve been twisted inside her.
Then his voice—low, cutting—broke the silence.
“What’s the point of living, you asked?” he said, mockery coiling beneath the softness. “What’s the point of crawling through this hellhole of a world if it means nothing?”
A bitter chuckle scraped from his throat.
“Maybe it’s not about love. Or meaning. Or any of those sweet, pathetic illusions.”
His hands moved to her face, fingers brushing her jaw as he tilted her head to face him. His eyes locked on hers.
“Maybe it’s about the thrill. The power. The control.”
Then, without warning, he moved—hands gripping her as he lifted her onto his desk, scattering blueprints and tools in a clatter.
The breath punched from her lungs as she landed, his body closing in like a storm cloud.
His grip was firm, unyielding, pressing her into the wreckage of his plans—his breath hot, his gaze devouring.
And for a split second, she couldn’t tell if it was fear or desire that made her pulse shatter in her throat.
“You’re part of this now,” he murmured, his voice rough, soaked in possession. His hands slid down her sides—slow, precise—dragging sparks in their wake.
His lips hovered at her neck, skimming her skin as his fingers slipped beneath her nightgown.
“Every inch of you,” he breathed, “wrapped up in my chaos. Mine.”
His body was a furnace against hers, his touch igniting something terrible—something electric—that warred with the fury burning beneath her skin.
He had locked her away. Starved her. Treated her like something to be used and discarded.
Controlled. Broken.
And still—a warm shiver worked down her spine, helpless against the storm he stirred inside her.
His fingers traveled up her thighs. The elastic of her panties caught beneath his knuckles.
He paused.
Looked at her.
Eyes dark. Intent.
And that was when something snapped.
No.
Not like this.
Not after everything.
Alina’s breath hitched—sharp, involuntary—as panic twisted through the heat building in her chest.
She shoved against him, bracing one leg against the desk, the other pressing into his abdomen.
“Stop—” she gasped. “Don’t—”
Her voice cracked on the words, more fury than fear.
"You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to throw me away and then touch me like I’m yours.”
But he didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
His grip tightened—firm, commanding—as his hands seized her thighs and forced them apart, pinning her with terrifying ease.
“I do,” he said, low and guttural, eyes burning.
“Because you are mine.”
He leaned in, his breath brushing her cheek, voice dark and sure.
“You hate that it's true—but you want it anyway.”
She shook her head, barely. Her voice scraped out:
“You don’t own me.”
He chuckled, low and smug. “Don’t I?”
Then—slow, devastating—his hands slid up. Hooked around the elastic. Peeled her panties down, inch by inch.
She felt every second of it. The humiliation. The fury. The sharp, traitorous ache he awakened with every touch.
She should’ve slapped him. Screamed.
But she just sat there, trembling, hating herself for the part of her that burned.
That remembered.
That wanted.
He let the fabric fall to the floor.
The sound was barely a whisper, but it landed like a gunshot.
Her eyes filled, lips trembling—not with surrender, but with rage. With grief.
She had sworn—sworn—she would never let him touch her again.
Not after what he’d done.
Not after the days of silence. Of hunger. Of being discarded like nothing.
“I don't want this,” she whispered, even as her body betrayed her in a thousand small ways—breathless, flushed, undone.
And he saw it.
Of course he did.
Every flicker of doubt. Every fracture in her defenses.
Every unspoken desire she’d buried so deep it no longer had a name.
That was the cruelty.
That he knew her too well.
Knew exactly which part of her would always reach for him—
Even as the rest of her tried to run.
He tilted his head, studying her with maddening calm.
“Liar,” he said softly.
Not cruel.
Just certain.
Like he could hear the truth in her breath. See it in the heat staining her cheeks. Feel it in the tremble that ran through her when he touched her.
His hand slid up her thigh again—slow, certain—claiming her inch by inch.
And this time, she didn’t try to stop him.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
He knelt before her—controlled, unhurried—his palms gripping her thighs, calloused fingers biting into sensitive skin.
His eyes never left hers.
The weight of his gaze made her breath stutter.
There was nothing playful in it now. Just hunger.
Possession.
He spread her open with a steady, ruthless grip, taking his time, savoring the sight of her laid bare.
Her skin flushed under his stare, her breath shallow, trembling.
“You hate this, don’t you?” he rasped, his voice velvet-wrapped in danger. “Hate that I make you feel like this.”
She clenched her jaw like it could hold back the truth.
Because she did. She hated the way her body burned for him, how it ached in all the wrong ways.
But she wanted him—wanted this—with a hunger that had nothing to do with reason.
And he knew it. Of course he did.
“But you won’t stop me,” he whispered, leaning in, his breath a brand against her skin.
“Because you can’t.”
His mouth found the inside of her thigh—slow, worshipful, obscene.
"And deep down, sweetheart…”
Another kiss, higher this time, hot and slow and cruel in its softness.
“…you don’t want to.”
She tried to twist away, but his hands dug deeper into her thighs, held her open.
Firm.
Final.
His mouth returned to her skin, lips trailing heat—his scars dragging coarsely in their wake.
Then—his tongue. Higher. Slower. She shivered, breath catching in her throat.
He ascended with deliberate cruelty.
And then—he hovered.
Right there.
Breath hot. Intent unmistakable.
But he didn’t close the distance.
Not yet.
He let the anticipation bloom—savored the tremble in her thighs, the helpless rise and fall of her chest, the way her body betrayed every last shred of resistance.
Her fingers dug into the desk, nails leaving crescents in the wood. She clenched her jaw, tried to look away—but her body was already betraying her.
Another kiss. Obscene in its softness.
His hands stroked her thighs, thumbs dragging gently across her skin, his mouth barely grazing her, maddeningly light.
A flick of tongue.
A breath.
A pause.
Then his mouth found her center.
No warning. No words.
Just heat.
Sensation.
Devastation.
A sound slipped from her lips—soft, involuntary—like a confession.
He grinned against her skin.
“There’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice thick with possession.
His hands clamped down, holding her in place as he devoured her.
Every stroke precise.
Every flick engineered to destroy.
Pleasure crashed through her—sharp and sudden—making her hips jerk, her breath hitch, her fingers claw at the edge of the desk.
But he didn’t falter.
His pace stayed steady.
Merciless.
Working her open with maddening control.
Each pass of his tongue dragged more resistance from her bones. Each press of his mouth rewired her nerves into want.
Her legs trembled.
A whimper escaped—high and helpless.
She clenched her teeth, trying to hold on, to stay upright inside herself—but he was relentless.
One hand spread over her belly, keeping her pinned. The other curled hard around her thigh, dragging her closer with ruthless intent.
Her back arched, hips stuttering as pressure coiled tighter—slow, rising, unbearable.
Her hands flew to his hair, gripping tight—whether to push him away or pull him closer, she didn’t know.
She was close.
So close.
And holding on was torture.
Then he moaned against her—low and starved—and the sound split her open.
And when it hit—when the pleasure tore through her like a lightening strike—she didn’t cry out his name.
She bit down on her lip, hard, choking on her breath. On the truth of it.
That she’d given in.
That she’d wanted this.
That no matter how much she hated him…
She could never hate this.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were glistening—his eyes lit with something dark and profane.
Her chest heaved, every breath fractured—still trembling in the wake of a pleasure she never meant to feel.
He looked at her like a man who had stolen a secret from her soul… and had no intention of ever giving it back.
And then—
He smiled.
Wicked. Lazy. Smug.
Like her unraveling was his proudest accomplishment.
“Tell me again,” he rasped, voice low, thick with satisfaction,
“how much you hate me.”
For half a second, she wanted to kick him in the face. To scream. To claw her way free and never look back.
But her legs wouldn’t move.
Her breath wouldn’t come.
All she could do was glare at him—rage swimming in the wreckage of her gaze.
And he drank it in like it was the sweetest thing she’d ever given him.
His fingers ghosted along the inside of her thigh—light now. Teasing. Cruel.
Then—
He rose from between her legs—slowly, patiently.
But what burned in his gaze wasn’t mockery.
Not even triumph.
It was something far more dangerous...
Worship.
Alina leaned back on her elbows, trembling. Wrecked.
Her breath hitched as her eyes met his.
And the way he looked at her…
It sent a fresh shiver skating down her spine.
“Doll,” he breathed, like a secret he couldn’t hold in, “the way you come apart for me… it’s fucking perfect. I missed it. Missed you.”
Her heart stuttered.
Then his hand came to her cheek, fingers brushing the heat there—almost tender.
Almost.
“I could ruin you a thousand times,” he said, like a vow murmured in the dark, “and you’d still be the only thing that makes me feel real.”
Her breath caught like a sob.
She should stop this. Shove him away. Scream. Run.
But her body still burned for him—traitorous, starved, and aching.
And somewhere beneath the shame and heat, a darker truth whispered:
She didn’t want him to stop.
Not now.
Not ever.
And then—
Before she could steady herself, he straightened to his full height—looming, hungry.
That familiar gleam returned to his eyes like a storm breaking.
His hands went to his belt.
The sharp snap of it unfastening sliced through the haze between them.
Her gaze dropped—drawn down like gravity.
Watched him shove his jeans low on his hips.
And there he was—hard, thick, aching for her.
The sight made her pulse stutter. Made heat flare low and deep, curling through her like fire licking up dry leaves.
He leaned in, bracing one hand on the desk beside her, the other cradling her jaw, his breath hot at her mouth.
So close she could feel the shape of the kiss he hadn't given her.
“You think we’re done?” he rasped, voice dark silk and smoke.
His thumb stroked her lower lip.
“We’re just getting started, doll.”
And then—he gripped her hips, dragging her to the edge of the desk in one swift motion.
The surface rattled beneath them, blueprints and tools scattering like fallen debris.
His hands slid under her, lifting her with practiced ease.
Aligning her. Holding her in place.
Owning her.
And when he pushed into her, her breath caught—not just from the sensation, but from the way his eyes flickered for the briefest moment.
For a second, she saw something—something more than power, more than control.
Something raw, unguarded, buried deep beneath the madness.
But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the familiar predatory gleam in his gaze.
He moved slow at first—deliberate, punishing.
Drawing every inch out like torment, like worship wrapped in control.
His hands pinned her hips with ruthless precision, anchoring her to the desk as he sank into her—claiming, commanding.
His gaze never wavered. Dark. Blazing. Feral.
Daring her to look away.
Daring her to forget who was in control.
Alina couldn’t breathe. The stretch of him, the weight of him, the way his eyes burned into hers—it was too much. Too deep. Too knowing.
Her fingers curled tight against the edge of the desk, knuckles white, back arching helplessly as pleasure crashed into pain and spun it into something more
A wicked smile curled at his lips as he leaned in, lips brushing her cheek, breath hot against her ear.
“This,” he whispered, dark and consumed, “is the thrill I live for.”
A slow thrust.
“Taking you...”
Another.
“Breaking you.”
He stilled, just for a beat—letting the pressure bloom, letting her feel the way he filled her, claimed her.
“Feeling you tremble,” he breathed, “while you try to fight how much you want this.”
Then he moved again, deeper now, his voice a low rasp.
“Making you forget every line you swore you’d never cross.”
He dragged his tongue slowly over the hollow of her throat, then sank his teeth in—just enough to make her gasp—
“You can hate me later, sweetheart. But right now…”
His voice dropped, dangerous and soft—intimate like a secret, damning like a vow.
“…be mine.”
Her breath hitched, ragged and shallow, as he pushed deeper—primal and slow—like he meant to bury himself in every hollow she’d tried to keep untouched.
Every nerve was fire. Every thought was ash.
She told herself to push him away. Tried to remember why—
But instead...
Her hips rose to meet him.
A sob tore from her throat—half pleasure, half fury at herself. For needing him. For loving how he took her.
How he pushed past all her defenses.
How he forced her to accept him.
His mouth found her throat, lips and teeth dragging over skin as his hands slid beneath her thighs, angling her exactly how he wanted.
“You feel this?” he growled against her pulse.
“This is the truth, sweetheart. This is what’s real. Not your rules. Not your pretty illusions.”
His breath burned.
"Just your sweet little cunt,” he rasped, “gripping me like it never wants to let go—like it knows I belong here. Like you do.”
She tried to block it out—the filthy words, the way he said them.
But they echoed in her bones, curling low in her belly.
Her body clenched around him, and she knew he felt it—felt her unraveling for him.
And worse… he was right.
This was the truth.
Her hands found his shoulders, nails sinking in—half plea, half punishment.
But he didn’t stop.
Didn’t ease up.
He just moved—rougher now, claiming, consuming—and she let him. Let him take her under, past every line she’d drawn in the dark.
Because the worst part wasn’t that she couldn’t stop him.
The worst part was… she didn’t want to.
He lowered his mouth to her neck, his scars dragging along her pulse—rough and unyielding.
Then he angled his hips, slow and intent, finding that perfect spot inside her that made her gasp—
Made her toes curl—
Made her forget where she ended and he began.
Because it wasn’t just the way he moved.
It was the way his breath stuttered against her throat—hot, uneven. The way his mouth grazed her skin like he was tasting something forbidden.
A kiss here. Another there.
Open-mouthed.
Hungry.
Devout.
His grip was firm—possessive but tender.
And his voice—what little of it there was—was broken between breaths.
“Fuck…” he murmured, barely audible, more exhale than word. “So perfect…”
Another thrust—deeper now.
She felt his shiver. Felt the restraint in his body fighting against the need to lose himself in her.
Then his hand slid beneath her, cradling her lower back, pulling her flush—deeper—like he needed her under his skin, like distance itself was unbearable.
The rhythm he found was slow, relentless. Every deep stroke a brand. Every aching grind—a vow he didn’t know how to speak.
And then—God, then—he exhaled against her collarbone.
Not a moan. Not a growl.
A sigh.
Soft. Shattered.
Like something inside him had broken.
The sound undid her. A wave surged through her—hot and breathless and deep in her bones.
It felt good. So good.
Her body clenched, trembled around him, nerves burning. Her fingers tangled in his hair, clutching like a lifeline.
He was inside her—everywhere—in her blood, in her breath.
And in that helpless, aching second, her heart split wide open.
It slipped from her before she could stop it. A whisper, wrecked and breathless—
“…Jack.”
The word hung in the air.
And for one chilling second, everything stopped.
His body went rigid. His gaze locked onto hers—feral, unreadable.
A flash of fear surged through her—she’d crossed a line. Dared to reach for the man beneath the madness—
She braced herself for the snap. For the punishment. For the mask to slam back into place.
But instead—his grip tightened. His breath hitched. And in his eyes—burning, wild, unholy—she saw it:
Hunger.
Raw. Uncontained.
As if she’d struck a nerve so deep, he didn’t know how to bury it.
His voice dropped, low and rough, edged in something primal.
“Say it again,” he growled.
Her breath trembled.
“Jack,” she whispered, her fingers rising to touch his face—hesitant, aching. And beneath her touch, she felt all of him: the man, the monster, the legend.
His eyes darkened. Not in anger—but recognition.
A shared secret. A surrender.
With a guttural sound, he crushed his mouth to hers—fierce, consuming.
Her thoughts dissolved into heat and hunger and ruin.
His hands.
His mouth.
His body driving into hers like he could drown inside her—like he wanted to.
And in that moment, every last resistance shattered.
Everything fell away.
She didn’t care anymore.
Not about the things he’d done.
Not about what he was.
Because in his arms—brutal, consuming, real—
She finally felt alive.
His pace turned feral again, every stroke harder, deeper, until she could do nothing but shut her eyes and drown in the feel of him—inside her, around her, consuming her.
And then—just as she hovered at the edge of breaking—she felt it.
A sudden bite of cold kissed her skin.
Sharp. Metallic.
Pleasure stalled—then crumpled, twisted into something jagged and wrong.
Her eyes snapped open.
And found his.
Locked. Ravenous.
No chaos. No grin. Just—intent.
The kind that made her pulse veer sideways, her breath vanish.
There was something behind his stare.
Something sacrosanct—
Adoration twisted into ruin.
A vow etched in madness.
He moved—just slightly.
The pressure at her hip returned. Deeper now. Insistent.
Her gaze dropped.
The air stilled.
And she saw it.
A flash of silver.
Her knife.
In his hand.
A tremor gripped her ribs.
And for one breathless second—
She thought he might kill her.
End her.
Cut her open from the inside and leave her hollow.
And the worst part?
It didn’t feel as terrifying as it should.
Not entirely.
Because there was something haunting in the stillness...
Something intimate in the idea of being taken by him completely.
The thought horrified her… and yet, some quiet part of her didn’t resist it.
The ending.
The unbearable intimacy of being his—down to her last breath.
When her eyes snapped back to his—
He knew.
She saw it in his grin—slight, sharp, unholy.
He’d felt the way her body froze.
He’d seen it in her eyes—that flicker of terror, the primal shudder of prey accepting its fate.
And God—
He liked it.
“Shh…” he murmured, voice low, indulgent—like a lullaby made of razors.
His fingers brushed her hair from her face, tender. Almost worshipful.
“It’s alright, sweetheart.”
A kiss to her temple.
Soft.
Gentle.
And it undid her.
Because as the sting flared deeper—sharp, unmistakable—heat and hunger poured in after it.
Flooding her. Consuming her.
He was still inside her, still moving.
Slow. Precise.
Each roll of his hips paired with another shallow drag of the blade.
Every cut a vow.
Every thrust a brand.
Pain and pleasure fused, indistinguishable now. Twisting together in something holy and profane.
Her body trembled—not from fear—
But from the terrible clarity of it.
This was how he loved.
Through madness.
Through ruin.
Through the kind of devotion that destroyed.
And God help her—she wanted it.
All of it.
The way he moved within her now—slower, deeper, more deliberate—was no longer about dominance.
It was devotion, carved into rhythm.
Possession, laced with reverence.
Her head tipped back, breath splintering as the sensation overtook her—not just the wound. Not just the fullness.
But the act itself.
The domination.
The devotion.
When the blade finally left her skin, he stilled—deep and unmoving—his breath ragged, chest heaving, hands gripping her like he might disappear without her.
Her body trembled against him.
Open. Marked.
His, in every possible way.
Then, slowly, he leaned down.
One hand braced on the desk, the other still gripping her waist as he dipped his head, pressing his mouth to the fresh wound.
She gasped at the contact—at the shock of lips on torn skin—as he kissed it, slow and consuming, sealing the mark with a tenderness so violent it felt sacred.
Then he sucked.
Deeply. As if he wanted to drink her in—her pain, her pleasure, her surrender.
He pressed one last kiss, then he rose—eyes blazing—and began to move again, rougher this time, like kissing the mark had awakened something deeper. Darker.
Like he’d baptized her in pain—and now, he was rejoicing in it.
His mouth crashed into hers, stealing what little breath she had left.
Brutal. Claiming. Absolute.
The taste on his tongue was sharp—metallic, copper-laced.
Her blood.
She broke the kiss, eyes locked on the red streak smeared across his lips. Her heart thundered—terror and exhilaration tangling as one truth settled into her bones.
He had taken something no one else ever had.
And she had let him.
Her gaze dropped.
There it was.
A single, jagged J, carved just above her hip.
A brutal brand.
Hallowed.
A vow, written in flesh.
The pain bit deeper with every pulse of her heart, a crimson ache that throbbed in time with the gentle rhythm of him inside her.
Fear flickered—shallow, distant—eclipsed by something darker.
A wicked thrill blooming beneath the pain.
The sharp burn melded with the aching fullness of him, until she couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.
And she wanted more.
More of him.
More of this madness—
This brutal, aching tether that bound her to him in ways she didn’t understand and didn’t care to question.
When she looked up—
He was staring at her.
Eyes burning. Chest heaving.
No words. Just breath. Just heat.
And something inside her snapped.
No hesitation. No thought.
She reached up—hands shaking—fingers curling into his shirt, dragging him back down to her like she couldn’t breathe without the weight of him crushing her.
Like he was gravity. And she was done resisting.
Their mouths collided.
Not a kiss.
A collision of breath and teeth and heat.
A raw, open-mouthed consumption.
She moaned into him—low, wrecked, helpless.
And he growled in response, hips grinding deeper, hands clamping down on her like she might vanish if he didn’t hold her hard enough.
Her legs wrapped tight around him before she even realized she’d moved.
Her body took over—desperate to keep him, to hold him there, inside her, until the world fell away.
When their mouths finally broke apart, breathless and shaking, his eyes were wild.
Starved.
Like she was the only thing in the world that could satisfy the hunger clawing through him.
He leaned in, breath ragged, lips parting against her throat as he followed the rhythm of her pulse—tongue first, then mouth—dragging devotion up the line of her neck like it was a thread connecting her body to his.
Like her heartbeat whispered his name.
"You're mine, Alina," he growled, voice rough against her ear. His breath was hot, every word a shiver down her spine as he buried himself deeper, his fingers digging into already-bruised skin.
"Every part of you, every breath, every heartbeat, every whispered plea—it’s mine. Forever."
His hand slid along her waist, fingers curling tight as he hauled her closer—rocking into her like he wanted to etch himself into her bones.
“No one will ever know you like I do,” he murmured, voice thick with something almost sacred.
“No one else will ever touch you like this.”
His mouth ghosted along her jaw.
“Do you understand?”
She didn’t speak at first.
Just stared up at him—eyes wide, lips trembling, breath catching like her body was trying to understand what her heart already knew.
Then—slowly, helplessly—she reached for him again.
Her hands found his face, palms soft against the sharp lines of his scars, as if memorizing the shape of him.
Then gently, she drew him closer—until their foreheads touched, breath mingling in the quiet space where neither of them could hide.
Her lips brushed his.
“Yes,” she breathed against his mouth. A vow. A surrender.
Then—she kissed him.
Not gentle.
But slow. Possessive. Like she was claiming him back.
And when she broke away, her breath still tangled with his, she whispered it:
“I’m yours.”
He stilled. Just for a breath.
Then she felt it—his smile, curving against her skin.
Crooked. Dark. Possessive.
It spread against her mouth as he exhaled like she’d carved his name into his ribs.
His arms wrapped around her tighter.
And he sank deeper into her—harder—like he needed to live there. Inside her.
“Fuck, doll,” he rasped, voice wrecked with something raw and endless.
He crushed her to him—one arm tight around her back, the other sliding down to anchor her hips—and moved with a reverence that bordered on violent.
“You’re perfect,” he growled, lips searing a path along her jaw, her throat, every word soaked in awe and obsession. “So fucking perfect.”
The praise hit her like lightning—bright, brutal. Her whole body trembled under him, undone by the heat of his devotion, by the unbearable ache of being seen like this—of being wanted like this.
His mouth dragged over the hollow of her neck—lips rough, unbearably gentle—sending shivers through every place that still remembered how to ache.
And then—
"Alina."
Just her name.
Whispered like a prayer.
Her chest stuttered.
Because it wasn’t just dominance in his voice anymore.
It was need.
Raw. Starved. Worshipful.
His grip tightened—not to hold, but to keep. And when he moved again, slow and deep, it wasn’t to break her.
It was to stay inside her. To belong.
“You feel too fucking good,” he choked, the words wrecked on his tongue. “Like you were made for me.”
Her hands found his back, fingers clutching him like a lifeline. His pace slowed—not gentle, but aching. Measured. As if every thrust was something he’d never let himself have before.
He groaned her name again—broken, pleading—his mouth brushing her jaw, her cheek, her throat, as if he needed her just to keep breathing.
And the way he said it, it was too much.
Too tender.
Too honest.
Her body arched, her cry ripping from her throat—his name breaking free like a confession.
Her nails sank into his skin, clutching him like she could hold herself together if she just held on hard enough.
But the wave crashed anyway—violent, consuming—dragged from the deepest part of her by the man she swore she’d never need again.
But she did.
God, she did.
He groaned in answer—raw, feral—and pulled her closer, his grip almost bruising.
He buried his face in her neck like he could vanish there.
Like if he held her tight enough, close enough, he could fuse them together and never come apart again.
“My sweet doll…” he breathed—wrecked, adoring—his voice cracking as he drove into her one last time, spilling into her with a shudder that felt like surrender.
She clung to him, lips at his temple, heart pounding against his as he came undone inside her—no chaos, no mask.
Just heat.
Just truth.
When it was over, he didn’t speak. Just rested his mouth over the rapid pulse at her throat, his breath warm, anchoring.
Around her, his arms stayed firm. Possessive. Protective.
She sat trembling against him, still poised on the edge of the desk where he held her—stunned by the tenderness coiled beneath his brutality.
Her body knew only him.
The heat of his skin.
The weight of his claim.
And when she finally dared to meet his eyes—
Dark, endless, unblinking—
She knew.
There was no going back—
No freedom from the chain he’d wrapped around her soul.
And the worst part was…
She didn’t want to be free.
Not ever again.
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
A/N: So… are we okay?
Did we make it? Emotionally?
Physically? Spiritually?
(I’m barely clinging on over here.)
If there was ever a chapter I’ve been aching for comments on, it’s this one!
This chapter nearly broke me to write—and I mean that in the best, most unhinged way. The knife. The name drop. The worship in the wreckage. This is where their descent turns sacred, where ruin starts to look like love, and where pain tastes a little too much like devotion.
I poured my whole twisted, tender heart into it—trying to get every word just right. If it moved you, even a little, it would mean the world to me if you left a comment. Truly. Knowing someone connected with this insanity? There’s no better feeling 🖤
Or just leave an unhinged keyboard smash. That works too. ☺️
I’ll be over here. Recovering. Maybe. Probably not...
Chapter 26 is already drafted, and edits are underway.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for feeling.
You make this madness worth it!
— JesterFairy 💚💜
___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___
Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)
@furisodespirit @blackholeofcreativity
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#dubcon#dark romance#smut with feelings#trauma bonding#gothic romance#bad boy x good girl#villain gets the girl#predator x prey#A Poison I Can't Resist#stockholm syndrome fic#dead dove fic#dark fic#kidnapper x victim#stalker kink#angst and hurt/comfort#joker x oc#Joker fanfiction#Joker fic#joker tdk#Heath ledger joker#the dark knight joker#toxic romance#unhealthy relationships#psychological romance#joker smut
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“I could ruin you a thousand times,” he said, like a vow murmured in the dark, “and you’d still be the only thing that makes me feel real.” 💚
Chapter 25: Say It Again
drops tomorrow night.
I promise you—
you are not ready. 🖤💀💚
#dubcon#joker x oc#dark romance#heath ledger joker#joker fanfiction#joker fic#gothic romance#joker tdk#predator x prey#kidnapper x victim#toxic romance#obsessive love#pain and pleasure#Villain love interest#Stalker romance#Knife play#enemies to lovers#dominance and submission#Cnc#a poison i can't resist#dark fic writer#dead dove do not eat#dark knight joker fic#power dynamics#joker x female oc#villain gets the girl#villain boyfriend#Worship#Praise#Dark obsession
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Guys… Listen. I’m a humble lady. I swear. But holy hell. I’m halfway through writing the next chapter and I’ve already died and come back at least three times. My brain? Absolutely fried.
The dialogue, the rage, the smut, the achingly dangerous tenderness—I am being emotionally waterboarded by my own story. And loving it. (Help.)
Whatever you think is coming? You’re not ready. I promise.
💀💜🖤💚
#This isn't healthy#And that's the point#Be still by trauma bonded heart#dark romance#heath ledger joker#joker fanfiction#joker fic#gothic romance#a poison i can't resist#joker tdk#dark knight joker#predator x prey#stockholm syndrome fic#kidnapper x victim#joker x female oc#toxic romance#unhealthy relationships#unhinged joker#Dark obsession#dead dove do not eat#dark fic writer#whump#yandere male#Joker is a possessive psycho#stalker romance
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