Arthur Fleck and Joker Imagines

Joker and the Hatter

Warning: All Smut!!!! Daddy kink and mention of gun fire. A self-inflicted injury.

In front of the psychiatrist sat a young woman, she'd only just been brought into Arkham and this was their first session; but the doctor already knew she was going to be difficult. He studied her carefully, she looked in complete contrast to her file. She looked like the classic girl next door, she was healthy and looked quite strong but also very feminine, her supple curves were obvious even under her Arkham issued clothing. Her skin was pale and her eyes dark both of which stood out more due to her long hair that was dyed a vibrant red.

"(Y/N)." The doctor looked at her waiting for an answer.

"(Y/N)." Still nothing. She never even moved her eyes from the table, focusing her gaze on the cuffs that attached her to it.

The doctor removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Hatter!" With that she looked up and smiled wildly.

"How are you today?" The doctor asked watching as her eyes dated around the room taking in every detail.

"Well doctor, apart from being stuck in this shit hole and being forced to talk to assholes like you, I'm fine thank you." The doctor was taken aback by her response which caused the woman to chuckle happily, an evil grin forming on her face.

The doctor opened up her file. "(y/f/n) (y/l/n), 27 years old, IQ 197 with an eidetic memory." He looks up from the file, "You're a very intelligent woman (y/n)." she said nothing, not even seeming to register that he's even speaking.

"It says here that you have a been diagnosed with a number or conditions; schizophrenia, dissociative identity disorder and PTSD just to name a few. How do you feel about your diagnosis (y/n)?"

The woman says nothing.

"Hatter! How do you feel about your diagnosis?" She stares at him, her dark almost black eyes eating their way into his soul.

"My diagnosis? Oh, you mean those labels that people such as yourself like to pin on others because they are so scared of the unknown, the different, the unusual; scared of truly gifted people such as myself. Do you know that Voltaire described doctors as? Men who prescribe medicines of which they know little, to cure diseases of which they know less in human beings of whom they know nothing? You use those "diagnoses" to make yourselves feel better, it's a security blanket. You think if you can diagnose it you can fix it. Well some of us don't want to be fixed doctor; some of us are more than happy with the way we are." She yawns and moves in her seat, bored of the conversation.

"Happy? How can you be happy with what you've done?" The doctor asked incredulously.

"You started a turf war between two of Gotham's deadliest gangs, and then you and your people gunned down each and every member resulting in you taking over the businesses of both gangs. You are the strongest, deadliest and wealthiest kingpin on the east side of Gotham. God help those that upset the Hatter, because you kill without mercy; you are the textbook definition of a psychopath."

The doctors voice wavered a little as she moved in closer, "I'm not "a" psychopath, I am "the" psychopath, and everyone has to have a hobby doc." He combed his fingers through his hair in frustration.

"What made you do what you did?" This time she actually sat up and took notice.

"They were bad people, they deserved what they got. The wicked deserve to be punished don't you think doctor?" Her eyes sparkled mischievously in the lights of the bright white room.

"But you're a bad person (y/n)." The woman stood up abruptly pushing back her chair violently back into the wall behind her, before trying to lunge at the doctor; the man frantically pushing on the emergency button under the table.