I should have known Daddy would want his turn. I had just drifted off to sleep when I felt him roll me onto my back and climb on top of me. He entered me quickly, thrusting his entire length inside in one motion. Thick fingers wrapped around my neck, squeezing harshly and I opened my eyes to look at him.

"You were a very good little girl tonight."

"Mmmm," was the only reply I could make.

"I enjoyed watching you with him, Pumpkin." He held my neck so tightly I could barely pass oxygen through my throat and I loved the pressure. His lips lowered to meet mine and he continued to pump in and out of me. "I love to see you in your element. My Queen."

His fingers tightened and my eyelids fluttered under the intense pleasure of his grip. I love this feeling – his hands on my throat, his squeeze that blocks all oxygen. He held me so long I felt that trippy cloud descending and that's when he released me, allowing that slam of air to fill my lungs and oxygen to hit my brain and drawing out a cry as I felt my first orgasm hit me.

"There's my good girl."

"Oh, Daddy," I groaned as another climax began building in me. He knows how to make me stream in a way that no one else can. Coming down from the high is always an impossibility with him.

It's the submission. With everyone else I take charge - I'm in control, even when I let them think they're running things. But submitting to my Daddy is the best. I let him take me, demand my obedience, engage in breath play. We've never made a safe word, because I know we don't need one. My submission allows for my death. I've done it once and I would do it again. I've lost the attitude I felt after my drowning. The little girl and the monster enjoyed it so much, they want it again. I think I want it again. At the very least, I wouldn't mind. If that's what he wants, if he requires the end of my life, I give it freely. My submission allows for blood play, though disappointingly he hasn't used a knife on me yet. He could burn me, beat me bloody, and I would cum from the pain. My submission gives me life.

He is everything.

I closed my eyes, focusing on the feeling of his skin on mine, his cock thrusting in and out of my cunt, his breath on my face as he bent to kiss me. And when he did, he tightened his grip again, squeezing viciously. Unbidden, my throat gurgled. He gave a little shake to my head, just violently enough to really feel amazing.

When he spoke, it was in a rage, "I'm not supposed to love you."

I opened my eyes and looked into his. And I communicated everything he needed to hear.

But you do. And that's ok.

You give me life, take it if you wish.

I wasn't supposed to love you either.

The transference wasn't just on his part back at the asylum. I was just as deep in it as he had been, and my obsession started long before his did. My research into the Joker started before he became my patient. It started as soon as he'd arrived in Arkham. I spent nearly six months scouring every corner of the internet and printed word about him. I don't know what it was that drew me so intensely; maybe my heart recognized its other half. Maybe we've always been fated, destined to love and fight and unite against the world. Maybe he was right when he said he would find me in every universe and make me his. Maybe there are a million versions of Earth, and we're together in all of them.

He released my neck completely, air slamming into my lungs once again. I sucked in harshly and he covered my mouth with his, kissing me roughly. His tongue thrust into my mouth, dancing with mine and drawing it into his. His pounding grew harsher and he fucked me ruthlessly, sucking on my tongue before swirling his against it again.

Again and again I gushed my climax, feeling delirious from the bliss. He wanted it rough, gripping my tits and twisting viciously before grabbing tightly and pulling on them. I moaned, the pain only serving to drive me higher. And then he slapped me so hard I saw stars. It was glorious, the pain that traveled down my spine to coil in my cunt. Everything I could ever want and more. He slapped me again and I moaned.

I wrapped my arms around him and dug my nails into his back, drawing them down like claws. His head rocked back and he came with a loud growl. But he didn't stop. He just kept fucking me.

"Roll over," he ordered, pulling out and shoving my legs to the side, slapping my thigh twice as he did. I followed his instruction quickly and he was thrusting into me again, in and out wildly.

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and shoved my head into the bed, pushing down harshly. It felt so good, the pressure on my skull, knowing it was what he wanted. With his other hand he scratched down my back like I had done to him. I came hard, the wet squelching sounding louder with each orgasm. I felt my juices dripping down my thighs and my eyes rolled back in my head, the lids closing automatically. He scratched me again, still pressing me into the bed. I don't know how long we stayed that way, him pounding my cervix, my cries of euphoria filling our room and probably the entirety of the Penthouse. My mouth grew dry from my gasps and groans and he began to quicken his thrusts even more. He yanked on my hair savagely and we came together.

He dropped onto me, the both of us sweaty and gulping air, trying to slow the overzealous beating of our hearts.

When he rolled off me, I turned on my side, facing him. I shifted closer, placing my forehead against his. "I love you," I whispered.

He paused, just long enough to make me think he wasn't going to answer. But then he slowly did, "I love you too, Pumpkin."