Hey y'all! So, this is another something I had worked on before and decided to post. It's not terribly long, but is instead terribly dirty. I know, I know, I should be working on Murdoc's Victory not this Joker smut, but I would have it posted on my site so I figured, why not now? Perhaps that is why my mind is so distracted as of late, because I'm trying to get rid of other ideas and stories. So here's my attempt to clear my mind and bring you something new. Enjoy! I'll be posting the chapters with even intervals, though I'm not sure what they will be just yet. I'm just hoping for some interest in this and we'll go from there.

I don't quite understand how I had ended up with the position I now held and quite frankly I don't care. If you looked at me now, you'd think it's perfectly reasonable– or at least as reasonable as it could get– for someone like me to become the infamous Maestro of Mayhem. No, what is really mind-boggling is how a once eager-to-learn little girl striving to get out of the ghetto with her musical talent had ended up in the grasp of the Joker. Let alone in his bed. It wasn't how one would expect that it happened either. No gang involvement, no late night kidnapping or mugging, far from the sort.

The first time we noticed each other, or at least the first time that I had noticed him because one can never really tell who he knew about, was in the middle of a lavish concert in downtown Gotham. It was my first time playing as concertmaster for the large and talented ensemble, and needless to say I was nervous. Everything had started rather smoothly, I entered through the side door of the large stage, the audience clapped– I'm still quite sure I remember hearing someone giggle from the front row but I ignored it and made my way quickly to the first seat in the Viola section after having bowed to the conductor. I was to play Handel's Concerto Grosso No. 1, which had proved difficult since it was not originally intended as a Viola solo accompaniment piece but luckily I had worked hard enough in my music career that when I was given the title concertmaster the piece had been presented to me as an opening into the real musical world; an induction of sorts.

I couldn't have been more proud of myself as I glided my bow across the strings of my beloved instrument. The one that had, through many different physical bodies of instruments, been the gate from the unwanted world of wild Hispanic parties, liquor, and pregnancies to the beautiful heaven I was in. Of course, just because I loved the ambience of the orchestra and I didn't want to live the life of my mother and family didn't mean I hated that life. There was always something waiting to happen but what I did know was that it wouldn't always be something I wanted. It could just as well been my brother killed in a drive by as my 14 year old niece getting knocked up or as my mother finding the love of her life–yet again.

No, I wanted more a satisfaction this world couldn't bring me and with the help of this instrument I now proudly played I had made it to where I had only dreamed. But I should have known that we were all meant to be were we were born and there was no changing it no matter how much we followed the rules of change. I had heard the giggle again and as I raised my eyes to see the conductor's arms waving the tempo, I couldn't help but take notice of the man who undoubtedly didn't belong there. He was dressed like every other there, but his person didn't fit; the intensity with which he fidgeted in his seat in such a childlike manner. I looked back to my music but not seconds later I was drawn back to the man who was now imitating the conductor's wild arms strokes.

I felt myself smile at his antics and before I knew it the piece was over. I stood up and bowed to the conductor, the first violin, and then the audience. But I could notice him, although it was hard not to when he was clapping obnoxiously loud and giving me thumbs up. I laughed and my smile became all the more sincere as I bowed again towards the audience and returned to my seat to play for the remainder of the concert.

This had proceeded for several evenings, every time I would play in a concert I saw him there, sitting front row like a child unwillingly dragged by his parents to the Met. But every time the concert ended he would undoubtedly bring a smile to my face with the enthusiasm he showed in my music. If only I knew it wasn't just my music, maybe I wouldn't have been dragged towards him.

But I don't regret it now, after all there's no use crying over spilt milk.