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jesterfairy · 2 months ago

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.♠︎.💜 𝐀 𝐏𝐨𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐈 𝐂𝐚𝐧'𝐭 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭 💚.♠︎.

Chapter 21: Beneath the Mask

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter Word Count: 6,668

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—Chapter 21. Deep breath.

Not gonna lie, I’m so nervous for you to read this one. It hits different.

This chapter changes everything. It’s raw, it’s vulnerable, and it’s been living in my head for months.

I truly hope you enjoy it! 🖤

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Chapter 21: Beneath the Mask

Alina sat alone in the cold, dim room, her body aching, her breath still uneven from the brutal exchange. The silence pressed in from all sides, thick with the echo of his last words.

Her skin throbbed where his hands had held her, bruises blooming like dark marks of possession.

And yet—beneath the ache, beneath the humiliation—something darker began to stir.

Not fear. Not sorrow.

Longing.

It coiled through her like smoke from a fire not yet put out. The tremble in her bones wasn’t just from what he’d done—but from the sick, aching truth of what it had meant to her.

She had wanted it.

The rage. The power. The unholy clarity of being coveted—not just as a person, but as a possession, a fixation.

It should have repulsed her.

It had—in some small, trembling corner of her soul that still remembered the difference between love and violence.

But the rest of her? The wounded, hollow, starving part?

That part had craved it.

She’d pushed him. Prodded. Not just to punish or provoke—but to reach him. To claw beneath the grin, the mask, the chaos. To see what lived behind the painted eyes and blood-streaked mouth. Even if it tore her apart.

Because she needed to know: Was there a man beneath the monster?

Not for mercy’s sake.

But because, if there was, she wanted to understand him. To own him the way he had started to own her.

And that terrified her more than the violence.

Because when he touched her—when he finally lost control—it wasn’t just pain she felt.

It was something holy. Something obscene. The sacred rush of a sinner being seen by their god and not turned away.

It wasn’t the brutality she craved.

It was him.

All of him.

His rage. His ruin. His impossible, terrible attention.

She wanted the Joker, yes—but she wanted the man beneath him more. The one who trembled when she touched his face. The one who made this room a sanctuary and a cage. The one who turned back in the doorway like it meant something, then left her bleeding with his absence.

She wanted to see all of him.

Even if it destroyed her.

Especially if it did.

Because for one breathless, godless moment, with his body moving inside hers and his voice a low whisper in her ear, she hadn’t felt like a prisoner.

She had felt chosen.

---

The next morning.

Or what she guessed was morning.

Time meant nothing in this place—no sunlight, no clock, no way to mark the hours. Only the hum of silence and the hollow ache in her limbs.

Alina hadn’t slept.

She’d tried—tried to lie still, tried to close her eyes—but every time she did, she felt his breath on her neck again. Heard his voice.

You’re mine.

The words echoed. Burned.

She expected him to stay away. To punish her with absence. That would’ve been his style.

Let her rot in shame and silence until she begged for the sound of his footsteps.

So when she heard the lock click—her entire body went still.

Already?

Her breath caught in her throat.

The door creaked open—quiet. Deliberate.

And then he was there.

Stepping into the room like a specter from a fever dream.

No coat. No gloves. Just him.

Shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow, faint paint smudges on his collar.

The stark pallor of his face caught the low light—ghostly, jarring. Black ringed his eyes like bruises. That red mouth, sharp and crooked, carved across his skin like a warning.

His gaze swept the room, then settled on her—curled on the edge of the bed, bruised, raw, breath stuttering in her throat.

He didn’t speak.

He didn’t need to.

He crossed to the table, placed a brown paper bag beside the old breakfast tray with precise, quiet movements—like he wasn’t even sure if she was real.

Alina didn’t move. She watched him like an animal watches a predator—heart thudding, nerves pulled tight, not knowing if this was mercy or something worse.

And when he finally turned, when his eyes met hers—

It was like the room shifted.

A new kind of storm.

"Looks like you got what you wanted," he said, voice low and cool—like the fire had burned out overnight and left only ash.

"All that screaming for attention…"

A pause. A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Not a smile. Not really.

"Did it feel good, doll? Getting me to finally give you what you were begging for?"

Alina’s mouth parted, but no sound came.

She wasn’t ready for this—not the casual cruelty in his voice, not the way he looked at her like she was already dissected, categorized, understood.

She’d expected silence. Maybe days of it. Expected to be left alone to unravel.

But here he was.

Feeding her again. Like nothing had happened.

Like her body wasn’t still bruised from where he’d held her down.

She swallowed hard.

When she finally spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper.

“I thought you’d stay away.”

He raised a brow. Tilted his head slightly, like a curious fox examining a cornered rabbit.

“Why would I do that?”

His voice was soft. Too soft.

“To give me time to think...” she murmured, wavering. “To punish me.”

The truth slipped out before she could catch it.

He smiled—slow, sharp, dangerous.

“Punish you?” he echoed, dragging his tongue slowly across his lower lip.

He took a step forward. Then another.

Unhurried. Measured.

Predatory.

“I don’t need distance to punish you, doll.”

She flinched.

He saw it—

Smirked.

Something twisted inside her. Fear laced with heat.

And the awful, aching thrill of knowing: If punishment meant his hands again… maybe she didn’t want to be spared.

He stopped just shy of her, the heat of him bleeding into the space between.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he said, leaning closer—slow, deliberate. “Don’t pretend you weren’t waiting for me. Sitting here, wondering when I’d come back… hoping I would.”

Her fists clenched at her sides.

She didn’t want to give him the satisfaction—but she couldn’t lie to herself. Every cell in her body had been waiting for that door to open. For him to come back. To see what he’d do. To see if she still mattered.

She drew in a slow breath, trying to steady the rush in her chest.

“All those things I said last night…” Her voice faltered—then firmed. “They weren’t just to get under your skin.”

His gaze skimmed her like a blade—cool, unreadable. Waiting for the twist.

“I needed to see what’s under all this.”

She gestured vaguely—at him, the tension, the silence between them.

“To know if there’s anything real behind the performance.”

A breath.

"I needed to know that you could actually... feel something."

His expression didn’t change much—but something behind it flickered. A twitch in the jaw. A darkness in the eyes that wasn’t rage, but something older. Heavier.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low—measured. Bitter.

“If I didn’t feel,” he said, “you wouldn’t be here, doll.”

Flat. Calm.

But beneath it—something simmered. Quiet. Volatile.

The words wrapped around her throat like velvet and wire.

“You think I keep you here for fun?” Another step forward. Slow. “You think I feed you, clothe you, keep you close—because I feel nothing?”

The air thickened. The silence pressed inward.

Then he leaned in—close enough for her to feel the tension coiled beneath his skin.

“Oh, I feel, sweetheart.” His voice dropped—low and lethal. “And after last night…”

His gaze dragged down to her mouth.

“You’ll never forget it.”

Her breath trembled.

Then, softer. Darker.

“But let’s not pretend.”

He leaned back just enough to trap her in his gaze.

“You wanted my hands on you. Wanted me inside you.”

A pause. A smirk like a blade.

“You were just too proud to ask.”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful.

“So you slipped into that silky little number… sharpened your claws… picked a fight. All so you wouldn’t have to beg.”

His mouth curved—dark, wicked.

“But you did. Oh, you begged. Didn't you, sweetheart?”

Her throat tightened. She didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch.

But her eyes betrayed her—just for a second.

And of course, he saw it.

His smile deepened.

Slower now. Savoring.

“It scared you,” he said softly.

“How much you liked it.”

Alina’s stomach twisted.

The words hit deep—ugly and honest.

No mockery. No cruelty.

Just truth—delivered like a knife to the ribs.

She turned her head toward the far wall, like maybe it could hold her together.

Too tired to fight. Too raw to lie.

He let the silence stretch. Studied her.

Like a man admiring his favorite pet.

Then, without ceremony, he reached into his pocket and pulled something out:

A small, weathered sketchbook and a bundle of graphite pencils bound with a fraying ribbon.

Used. Familiar. Hers.

He tossed them onto the bed beside her like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

"Draw," he said simply.

She blinked, stunned.

“What?”

“Draw. Sketch. Make sense of that fucked-up head of yours. Just…”

A pause.

“Don’t stop creating because of me.”

There was no tenderness in his tone. No apology.

Just that same maddening, unreadable something buried beneath the words.

And maybe—just maybe—that was his apology.

A gift from the monster who didn’t know how to say sorry.

Her fingers moved slowly, brushing the cover like it might vanish if she touched it too fast.

She looked up at him, voice low.

“Why?”

His jaw ticked.

He hesitated.

Then—quietly, like the words cost him something—

“Because I want to know you.”

Her heart stuttered.

He didn’t look at her when he said it. His gaze stayed fixed on some distant spot on the wall—like eye contact might make the words unravel.

“Not the version you show the world,” he said, voice low.

“Not the polite little ghost sleepwalking through her life..."

"I want to know what’s underneath.”

Then—he looked at her.

And it hit like a blow.

“You draw truth, doll. Even when you lie with your mouth, your hands don’t know how. I see more of you in a charcoal line than I’ve ever heard in your voice.”

He turned toward the door, not waiting for a response.

But before he reached it, he paused.

Didn’t look back.

“You wanted to matter,” he murmured.

A beat.

“You do.”

Then he was gone.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, like a closing confession.

Alina sat still—alone—with the sketchbook and pencils in her lap, her fingers trembling.

She mattered.

But to who?

To the man who saw her?

To the monster who broke her?

Or to the broken, beautiful thing that lived somewhere between them?

---

For a long time, she just sat there, staring at the sketchbook like it might bite her.

Her fingers hovered over the cover, then pulled back. Again. And again. Like she couldn’t bring herself to open it—not yet. Not with her heart still raw and her pulse still echoing with his voice.

Eventually, though, she gave in.

Her fingers hesitated, then flipped it open—not to the blank pages, but to the old ones.

Sketches from another life.

The coffee cup at her diner job. Her reflection in the train window. The solemn face of her favorite cemetery angel...

A world that felt lightyears away.

It hadn’t even been that long—a month, give or take a few weeks. She only knew that from the news clip he made her watch.

But it felt like a lifetime.

She didn’t know that version of herself anymore.

The girl who filled these pages hadn’t been seen, hadn’t been claimed. She’d drawn the world from the outside, always looking in.

Now…

Now she didn’t know who she was at all.

And for a moment—just a breath—

she was afraid.

Afraid she couldn’t draw like that anymore.

Afraid she’d lost the part of herself that saw the world gently.

Afraid that her next drawing would be something else entirely.

Something darker—

Something shaped by him.

Her hand hovered over the page, hesitating.

Then—

She turned to a blank one. And picked up the pencil.

At first, it was nonsense. A crooked chair. The corner of the bedframe. The shape of her own bare knee tucked beneath her.

Nothing meaningful. Just motion.

But then—something shifted.

Her hand trembled.

The graphite tip snapped.

She grabbed another pencil and started again—faster now. She didn’t even know what she was drawing until the shape began to form.

Eyes.

Not hers.

His.

Wild and watching and full of something too ancient to be called rage. Not quite human. But not quite monstrous either.

She drew until her hand cramped.

Until her breath slowed.

Until the rest of the world—the walls, the silence, the memory of his voice—melted into shadow.

Line after line, she bled herself into the page, letting the graphite speak where her voice couldn’t.

Only the shape of him existed now. The only place he couldn’t touch her.

Or maybe the only place he could.

But somewhere between one stroke and the next, the pencil slipped from her fingers.

Only then did she feel it—

The stiffness in her neck. The numbness in her legs. Muscles aching from being held too long in the same position.

Her fingers trembled, refusing to obey.

Finally, she set the pencil down.

Not because she wanted to stop—but because her body demanded it.

She leaned back slowly, pressing herself into the thin pillow, the sketchbook still resting open across her lap. Her fingertips hovered just above the page, smudged with graphite and something more intimate—something raw.

She stared at the drawing.

Then past it.

Her limbs felt too heavy to move.

Her breath had evened out without her realizing it.

The edges of the room began to blur, softened by exhaustion and the strange, terrible comfort of creation.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But her eyes slipped shut anyway.

And the last thing she felt was the weight of the sketchbook rising and falling with her breath.

---

Alina awoke with a jolt.

Not because of a noise—but because of a presence.

Her eyes fluttered open.

And he was there.

Sitting in the chair across from her.

Watching.

The sketchbook remained open across her lap, pages half-turned, her hand still curled loosely around the pencil. The light in the room hadn’t changed.

But something else had.

The air felt thicker.

Charged.

She stared at him, breath catching in her throat.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just sat there, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on her face like he’d been studying it for hours.

“How long have you—”

“A while,” he said.

His voice was quiet. Not mocking. Not cruel.

Just there.

She glanced down and saw what was on the page.

Not just the eyes.

His face.

The real one—scarred, unmasked, human.

Rough, imperfect lines—shaded quickly, but not carelessly. There was something fragile in it...

Something reverent.

Like she hadn’t just drawn what she saw…

But what she felt.

He leaned forward slightly, eyes never leaving hers.

“You see too much,” he murmured.

She swallowed. “You said you wanted the truth.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“Still do.”

Another pause. Then—

“You dream about me?” he asked.

She froze.

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“I watched you,” he went on, tone lower now, slower. “Your face changed. You twitched. You said something once—couldn’t hear what. But I think you were dreaming.”

His gaze dipped briefly to the sketchbook again.

“Could have sworn you said my name.”

Her pulse flickered, but she said nothing.

His gaze returned to her—steady, quiet, too deep to breathe under.

“Was I in there, sweetheart? Did I follow you into the dark?”

She tried to sit up straighter, to gather her thoughts, but she was still half-caught in sleep—adrift between warmth and dread.

“I don’t remember,” she whispered.

He tilted his head.

“Liar.”

Then he stood.

Not fast. Not threatening.

Just... purposeful.

He crossed the room in two strides and sat on the edge of the bed beside her.

Too close.

Always too close.

“You draw me when I’m gone,” he said, eyes locked onto hers. “You dream about me when you sleep.”

His voice dropped lower.

“What happens when I’m here, Alina?”

The question hung between them like smoke.

Her pulse stuttered.

The sketchbook slid further down her thighs, forgotten.

She could barely breathe.

He was so close. His scent curled around her again—smoke and leather and something warmer beneath it. Familiar. Like skin and heat and the memory of being held too tightly.

Her chest tightened—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.

Want.

It bloomed through her like a bruise—tender, unshakable.

Her lips parted. The answer was there—throbbing in her throat—but it took a moment to find her voice.

“When you're here...” she said softly.

“All I want is to see you.”

He tilted his head—that slight, twitching motion, like he was listening to a sound only he could hear.

She hesitated, her gaze drifting to the edge of his jaw—the place where white paint met skin.

“I don’t mean the suit. Or the laugh. Or the mask.”

A shallow breath.

“I mean you. Just you.”

The air grew heavier—her truth bleeding into the silence like ink into water.

His gaze held, steady but strained. A flicker beneath it. A flinch half-hidden. As if her words had reached somewhere buried, and pulled.

His jaw tightened. Hands curled into loose fists.

But he didn’t move.

“I don’t know why it matters,” she continued, voice lower now, steadier. “But when you look at me... when you push me to feel, to create... you see something in me no one ever has. And... that means something—whether I want it to or not.”

Her voice softened to a whisper, intimate and steady.

“I think maybe I wanted you to see me. The real me.”

She lifted her gaze to his.

“Just like I want to see you.”

His expression shifted—the smirk gone, replaced by something taut. Unreadable. His shoulders tensed, like he was bracing for impact.

Unsure whether to strike or surrender.

He didn’t look away.

But he didn’t move closer either.

When he finally spoke, his voice was low. Rough. Measured—like a blade drawn slow across skin.

“Careful, doll. You’re walking on dangerous ground.”

A shiver slid through her—but she didn’t pull back.

Her breath trembled, but her gaze held steady.

Unflinching. Sure.

“Maybe that’s exactly where I want to be.”

He looked at her for a beat too long.

Something unguarded flickered in his eyes.

Then it was gone.

He leaned back with a dry laugh, his voice sliding into that familiar sardonic drawl.

“You say you want the real me,” he said. “That’s cute.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Think I’m hiding some tragic, broken man under all this? That if you scrub hard enough, you’ll find a redemption arc?”

He clicked his tongue.

“Sorry to disappoint, sweetheart. I’m not your pet project. There’s no tender core under the rot. I’m not waiting to be saved. I like what I am.”

His gaze pinned her—sharper now. Meaner. But behind it, something quieter stirred.

“It’s easy to want this when I’m dressed like a nightmare. That’s a fantasy you can survive…”

His voice dropped.

“But take off the paint, and I’m not myth anymore. I’m just a man."

"Scarred. Ugly. Real.”

He looked at her.

Really looked.

And for a moment, all of it—mockery, cruelty, control—slipped.

“You still think you want that?”

Silence.

A flicker in his eyes. Barely there.

“Believe me,” he murmured. “You don’t.”

She didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch.

Her heart was pounding—not from fear, but something deeper.

Recognition.

Because beneath the bite of his words, beneath the snarl and swagger—

He was scared.

Not of her.

But of being seen.

The truth hit her slow and sharp, like a bruise blooming beneath the skin.

He wasn’t pushing her away because she couldn’t handle the darkness.

He was pushing her away because he couldn’t bear to be understood.

Not the pain buried in his past. Not the truth beneath the carefully constructed chaos.

But the fact that—despite everything—there was still a man beneath it all.

A man capable of needing.

And if she looked too closely, touched that truth gently enough…

He might shatter.

And still—God, still—she ached for him.

Not out of pity.

But from some deep, impossible place inside her that recognized him.

The urge to reach out—gentle, human—rose inside her like a tide. Instinctive.

Her hand moved before she could stop it.

Slow. Careful.

A breath suspended between them.

She was afraid—of rejection, of rage. Of crossing a line she couldn’t uncross. But the need to connect—to show him she understood—was stronger than the fear.

His hand rested open between them, unaware.

She reached out… and curled her fingers around his.

Warm.

Tense.

Real.

He stiffened. A flicker. A breath caught between instinct and disbelief.

But he didn’t pull away.

He just looked at her like she’d touched a live wire.

Like her gentleness was the most dangerous thing in the room.

She swallowed, voice soft.

“You don’t have to pretend with me.”

And the way he looked at her then—

Like she’d laid her hand over a wound he hadn’t realized was still bleeding—

It nearly undid her.

Then—slowly, deliberately—he reached up.

Her breath caught.

But he didn’t touch her.

Instead, his hand hovered near his jaw, fingers brushing the edge of the smeared paint.

A pause.

Then he dragged his thumb through it, streaking it down his cheek in a crooked line.

Alina couldn’t look away.

He smeared again—rougher this time. As if trying to erase something more than just makeup.

And then, in a voice so quiet it barely existed, he said,

“You want the truth?”

She nodded, too full of breath to speak.

His eyes searched hers—and for once, there was no mockery.

No grin.

Just that same impossible ache blooming in her own chest.

“Then look.”

He stood and walked to the corner of the room where the basin sat.

His movements were precise. Careful.

Like he’d rehearsed this moment a thousand times—

And still wasn’t sure if he’d survive it.

Alina didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

She watched as he poured water into the bowl, the sound sharp and startling in the hush.

A faint tremor moved through his hand as he dipped a cloth and wrung it out—

Slow. Deliberate.

Like every motion cost him something.

He stood there for a moment.

Unmoving.

Head bowed. Cloth dripping.

She felt the hesitation in his stillness—

The battle he was waging with himself, right there in the quiet.

Hovering on the edge of letting her in.

The mask he wore wasn’t just paint.

It was armor. A fortress.

Built to keep the world out.

And now—slowly, silently—

He was unraveling it.

For her.

Finally, the cloth rose to his face.

His shoulders shifted—just barely—as he began to wipe away the greasepaint.

Color bled into the fabric, streaking into the basin below.

Alina’s heart pounded.

They had crossed a threshold now—quiet, irreversible.

A choice he couldn’t take back—

Not even if he wanted to.

He stood still, cloth dripping at his side. The room held its breath.

His shoulders were rigid, the silence around him taut with hesitation.

Alina watched, every nerve awake, sensing the war behind his stillness—the instinct to retreat, to stay hidden behind the mask.

But then—

He turned.

Slow. Careful.

Like the act itself might break him.

And as his face came into view—stripped of paint, stripped of myth—

She didn’t see the monster.

She saw the man.

Unmasked.

Raw.

Real.

Her heart stuttered.

He was...

Beautiful.

Not in the way people meant when they said the word.

Not soft. Not polished.

But something deeper.

Something truer.

His skin was pale, almost translucent in the low light—but alive.

There was warmth beneath it. A fragile, flickering heat beneath the harsh architecture of his face—

High cheekbones, a strong jaw, the faded ghost of youth still etched in the hollows and shadows of him.

And then—the scars.

Jagged. Violent.

Cutting from the corners of his mouth like cruel punctuation marks. Twisting his lips into the distorted smile that made Gotham tremble.

But here—In stillness, under her gaze—

They weren’t grotesque.

They were human.

Symbols of pain carved into beauty. Of survival, not savagery.

And they couldn’t erase what remained—

The full mouth, the proud line of his nose, the impossible, devastating brown of his eyes, still faintly rimmed in black.

Eyes that held too much.

Madness. Yes...

But also memory.

Sorrow.

And something heartbreakingly close to longing.

As she looked at him, she forgot the myth.

Forgot the mask.

Forgot the chaos he wore like armor.

And all she saw—

Was the man.

Devastating. Beautiful. Real.

Not beautiful like symmetry.

Beautiful like a lightning strike—wild, blinding, unavoidable.

She stared at him like he was a painting come to life—brutal, aching, holy.

And he let her.

Tense. Still.

Breathing through clenched teeth, like her gaze was something he had to endure.

And she thought—God, he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what I see.

Because beneath the silence—she saw it.

The bracing.

The way he held himself, barely breathing.

Waititg—

For the flinch.

The wince.

The recoil that said: there you are—and I can’t bear the sight of you.

His eyes never left hers.

Watching.

Reading.

Fearing.

He’d shown her the truth.

And now he was waiting for her to run from it.

Alina rose from the bed.

One step. Then another.

Until she stood before him.

He looked down at her, suspicion flickering in his eyes—every inch of him drawn tight, coiled, bracing for the blow.

He thought the scars would scare her. That once she saw what he really was, she’d flinch.

Pull back. Turn away.

But the truth was…

She had never wanted to touch him more.

She lifted her hand—then paused. Her fingers hovered just above his cheek, trembling with hesitation.

Her voice barely breached the silence.

“Can I?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her—guarded, unreadable.

Then, at last… the smallest nod.

Permission.

Fragile. Reluctant.

But real.

Alina stepped closer, heart pounding, her breath shallow and slow. Her hand moved—tentative, deliberate—as though the space between them had turned sacred.

Her fingers brushed the edge of one scar—rough, raised, angry against his skin.

His jaw tensed, but he didn’t move. As though he was willing himself to endure it, waiting for her to recoil.

But she didn’t.

Her thumb traced the line with aching gentleness—reverent.

Then—without fear—she rose onto her toes and pressed a kiss to it.

His skin was warm beneath her lips. Warm and human.

The scar was rough—but the flesh beneath it alive.

He went utterly still.

She didn’t retreat.

Instead, she let her forehead rest lightly against his temple.

Let herself breathe there, in the quiet, charged stillness between them.

Her cheek brushed his.

Skin to skin.

The smallest touch—

But it felt seismic.

And then—slowly—she turned her head, just enough to meet his eyes.

What she saw there undid her.

Rawness.

Hunger.

That terrible, fragile longing he never let anyone see.

He looked like a man on the edge of something violent—

Not rage.

But surrender.

And maybe for him, that was worse.

Her hand slid to the other side of his face.

She leaned in—so close she could feel the tension vibrating through him—

And she kissed the second scar.

Slow. Certain.

Not out of pity.

But out of something deeper.

Fierce. Intimate.

She lingered there—lips against him—her other hand sliding to the back of his neck, as if to hold him together.

She wasn’t repelled.

She was drawn in.

And he knew it.

Felt it.

Because she wasn’t just kissing the parts of him that had been broken—

She was cherishing.

Claiming.

Every broken line.

Every wound he thought would send her running.

And maybe that was what undid him.

Because in the silence that followed—He broke.

No warning.

No mercy.

His hands found her waist—rough, desperate—pulling her into him like he couldn’t breathe without the press of her body.

Then his mouth was on hers.

Not gentle. Not hesitant.

Just need—wild, aching, holy in its ferocity.

It wasn’t sweet.

It was raw. Shattering.

Real.

And it was everything.

—

He kissed her like he was falling—and she was the last thing he could hold onto.

And she kissed him back like she was drowning—and only he remembered how to breathe.

Her fingers slid into his hair, tugging him closer, and he groaned—deep and low, like the sound had been locked inside him for years.

It hit her like a drug—sweet and shattering—curling her toes against the threadbare carpet, setting her nerves alight.

All she wanted was more.

More of that sound.

More of him.

More of this holy, aching unraveling.

She gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed it greedily, like her breath was something he needed to survive.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders—not to hold herself up, but to keep him here.

To claim him.

And he held her like he’d never known softness until now.

Like every inch of her skin was something sacred—

Something he didn’t know how to touch gently, but wanted to.

The tension didn’t snap. It melted—molten, inevitable—until they weren’t kissing anymore, they were fusing.

Each breath stolen.

Each kiss a confession.

No performance. No control.

Just need. Honest and bare.

When they finally parted, it wasn’t with reluctance, but with reverence—

Foreheads resting together, the space between them too electric to break entirely.

His eyes stayed shut, his breath ragged against her lips.

Like the world had gone too quiet and he didn’t dare open his eyes in case she disappeared.

But she didn’t move. Didn’t pull away.

She just reached down, hand trembling slightly—and threaded her fingers through his.

His eyes opened—startled, searching—but he didn’t pull away.

She gave the faintest tug.

An invitation.

He followed.

She led him to the bed, step by step, her fingers never leaving his. When they reached it, she turned to face him.

She could see the flicker of surprise in his eyes, the hesitation, as if he was still half-expecting her to recoil, to realize he wasn’t what she wanted.

But she didn’t falter.

Alina’s hands moved with a quiet purpose, her fingers reaching up to his jacket, pushing it off his shoulders with a deliberate slowness.

The fabric slipped down his arms, pooling onto the floor.

She paused.

Looked up at him.

Giving him the chance to stop her. To mock. To run.

He didn’t.

He just watched her.

Like he didn’t know how to breathe.

She reached for his vest.

No hesitation. No theatrics. Just quiet purpose, her fingers slipping each button free, one by one, until the fabric gave

It slid from his shoulders and hit the floor with a whisper.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just stood there—still, watching—like he couldn’t believe this was happening, or that he was letting it.

Then she reached higher—fingertips grazing the knot at his throat. His tie.

Slightly askew, half-loosened, but still there. Still a barrier.

She worked it free slowly. Unwinding it with care. The silk whispered through her fingers as she pulled it loose, then let it fall.

He stood frozen, eyes fixed on her quietly—like she was undoing more than fabric.

Her hands lifted again, slipping beneath the hem of his shirt.

Skin. Heat.

Tension wrapped tight around bone.

He was coiled, restrained—muscle taut beneath her palms, like he was holding himself together by sheer force of will.

Trying not to break.

Her fingertips traced the hard lines of his abdomen, the scarred edge of a rib. Then another. Her hands moved lower—slow, reverent—over the raised, uneven ridges she hadn’t expected to find.

He stiffened.

She eased her hands back, slipping them out from beneath the fabric. Then, without a word, she reached for the buttons.

One.

Then another.

Her breath hitched as the space between them thickened—charged, trembling.

And then—his hand shot up.

Caught her wrist.

Not rough. But definite.

A boundary.

His fingers trembled around hers. Not with fear. But with something deeper—

Something older. Like he was holding shut a door that, if opened, couldn’t be closed again.

She met his eyes.

There was no mask now.

Only the man beneath it.

And he looked…

Wrecked.

So she nodded. Didn’t push.

She wanted to see all of him. But she would wait.

For this.

For him.

Her hand dropped lower, sliding down his chest, over his stomach—slow, steady—until her fingers found his belt.

He inhaled through his nose. Sharp. Contained.

She undid the buckle, the sound of leather catching the air like the snap of a live wire. Then the button. The zipper. The soft, scraping hush as she drew his pants down.

She stepped back—just enough to see him.

And it hit her—not like a fantasy, not like a scene in her head, but like truth.

Unvarnished. Real.

He wasn’t beautiful in the way people meant when they used that word.

But he was devastating.

All that restraint. All that power. And underneath it, something exposed. Not soft. Not safe. But human.

And still—he didn’t move.

He just watched her, eyes dark and quiet and aching. Like if she turned away now, he’d break.

But she didn’t.

She stepped closer, her breath unsteady, and reached for his hand. Their fingers met—tense at first, uncertain. But she threaded hers through his, soft and sure, like an anchor.

Without a word, she guided him backward.

To the bed.

She sat beside him first. Still. Silent. Letting the moment stretch between them like a held breath.

Then she looked down at him—and the air caught in her throat.

Something in the sight of him—laid out, waiting, watching—hit her like a blow. It wasn’t just lust.

It was want.

Hunger.

Reverence.

Something primal and impossible to name.

Her hands moved with purpose, slow but sure, tracing the sharp line of his hip bone. Every touch coaxed a reaction, every inch of skin she claimed unraveling something in him.

And he let her. Laid there, tension simmering just beneath the surface, like he was daring her to keep going.

“Alina,” he said—low, strained. A warning wrapped in longing.

There was control in it, fraying at the edges. A reminder: letting her lead was not surrender. It was a choice. A thin wire of tension pulled tight between restraint and need.

She didn’t back off.

Her hand rose to his face—worshipful, steady—fingertips grazing the jagged path of his scars.

He flinched—barely—but he didn’t stop her.

She leaned in, her breath brushing his lips. She kissed the corner of his mouth first. Then the scar carved down his cheek.

And when she kissed his lips, it was slow and unyielding—a test and a promise all at once.

He didn’t move at first. Held himself there—taut, trembling—like a man caught between fight and surrender.

Then he broke.

His mouth crashed against hers—wild, claiming.

His hands gripped her waist like they were the only tether he had.

She climbed over him, straddling his hips, her nightgown shifting as she moved. She gathered the fabric, rising slightly—her breath catching as his hands slid to her thighs.

Hot. Steady. Trembling—just enough to betray the depth of his restraint.

Her body ached for him. Every breath a pull toward surrender.

But somewhere deep, a quiet voice whispered:

He’s still him.

The man who shattered her world. Who rewired her body to crave the very hands that hurt it.

She wasn’t sure if this would heal her or destroy her completely.

But either way—

She had to know.

And then—she sank down onto him.

Slow. Deep.

Her gasp caught in her throat as their bodies locked together.

His head tipped back, jaw clenched—a guttural sound rasping from his throat. Half growl, half breath. Like the feel of her around him had stolen the air from his lungs.

She moved with intent. Slow, deliberate rolls of her hips that sent sparks down every nerve.

And she watched him—watched the tension flicker across his face, the way his fingers flexed against her thighs, how his breath caught every time her hips shifted just right.

He was still trying to hold it together.

Still trying to stay in control.

But she felt the unraveling—

In the strain of his muscles.

In the wild beat of his heart beneath her palms.

In the way his eyes stayed locked on her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

For one aching, exquisite moment—she had him.

The myth stripped away.

The man beneath revealed.

Raw. Wrecked. Hers.

And it thrilled her.

Made her hips roll just a little slower, a little deeper—reveling in the way his composure frayed. The way his jaw ticked. The way he gritted his teeth, like her body was undoing him in real time.

But it didn’t last.

She saw it in his eyes—the flicker, the shift—just before he moved.

Something primal broke loose.

His hands clamped around her hips—rough, sure—and in one fluid motion, he turned them, flipping their positions with a force that knocked the air from her lungs.

She landed beneath him with a soft, startled sound, breath catching, legs trembling.

He hovered above her, chest heaving, eyes devouring every inch of her like he was desperate for the sight—like he didn’t know if he’d ever be allowed to look again.

And then—that smile.

Slow. Sure. Hungry.

Not cruel. Not mocking.

Just the smug, quiet satisfaction of a man who knew he’d just claimed something exquisite—

And had no intention of letting it go.

His palm slid up her thigh—rough, warm—fingertips pressing just enough to make her toes curl. His other hand braced beside her head, muscles taut. Like touching her wasn’t just instinct.

It was need.

His gaze locked on hers—wild, unwavering—burning with something raw. Not just awe.

Something darker.

Worship, laced with obsession.

Then he dipped—mouth brushing her cheek, her jaw, her pulse, the hollow beneath her ear—his breath hot against her skin.

Her body reacted before thought could catch up. A shiver. A gasp.

He drank it in like a man who hadn’t had water in days.

That smile deepened. Twisted.

And then—his mouth claimed hers. Deep. Devouring. Swallowing every broken gasp like he was starving for the taste of her.

With steady hands, he guided her onto her stomach, his grip firm as he held her in place.

Goosebumps prickled across her skin as he shifted, positioning himself behind her—each movement deliberate, reverent—but pulsing with a raw intensity that made her tremble.

His hands traced the curve of her back, then slid down, pulling her hips up to meet his—his touch rough, yet careful.

And then, with a low, guttural sound, he pushed into her. Slow at first. Then deeper—rougher—like holding back had become impossible.

He tried to go slow. He meant to.

But the sound she made—the soft gasp, the way her hips pressed back—ruined him.

He gripped her tighter, thrusting harder now, until it was no longer about control.

It was instinct.

Hunger.

A brutal, aching need to lose himself in her.

She felt it in the way he moved—frantic, like he was unraveling from the inside out.

Like this was the only way he knew how to be close.

Like if he stopped, he’d fall apart completely.

And she was slipping, too—every thought dissolving, every sense blurring into the heat of him, the rhythm of him.

There was only sensation.

Her fingers fisting the sheets. Her body arching to meet him.

His breath at her neck, ragged and near-feral.

Her moan—half-broken—as he drove them both past the edge.

And in that moment, she would’ve given anything—her name, her soul—just to keep him here, with her, within her. To make the world stop turning.

Nothing else mattered.

No past—

No future—

Just this.

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

A/N: Phew.

If there was ever a chapter I’m desperate to hear your thoughts on—it’s this one.

Letting the Joker show real vulnerability was one of the most terrifying things I’ve ever written. That “No I’m not” moment after Gambol calls him crazy is the closest canon ever comes… and even that was layered with performance. So giving him space to unravel for real—without breaking character—was an incredibly tricky line to walk.

I just hope it landed. I hope it felt honest. I hope it wrecked you, just a little.

Because somehow, even though I made this twisted, toxic relationship up…

I ache for them. It’s so wrong—but god, it feels so right. 😭💜

If you’re feeling things too, I’d love to hear from you in the comments! Truly. I need someone to scream with.

Thank you again for all the love on Chapter 20—it seriously lit a fire under me.

I’m already halfway through the next chapter, so expect it in about a week!

With all my love (and questionable moral stability),

💜💚🖤

—JesterFairy

___. ♡ ✦ ♧━━━♢ ✦ ♠️ ✦ ♢━━━♧ ✦ ♡. ___

Taglist: 💚 (please let me know if you'd like to be added)

@furisodespirit

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