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I lose her before we even make it inside.
One second my best friend’s glitter jacket is right in front of me, the next it’s gone, swallowed by fog and joyful screams and six different men dressed like nightmares.
“Stay put,” she’d said. As if that was possible. The line to get in wraps halfway around the fairgrounds. And I’m only standing in it because I promised Mia I’d be more social, which apparently means waiting while surrounded by half the city cosplaying as murderers and the other half being murderers. Or at least, there’s a good chance.
And I’m supposed to trust which ones I can buy a pretzel from.
Because Halloween isn’t about traditions in Gotham. It’s about one thing and one thing only, plausible deniability.
You can wear a mask, smear on some greasepaint, and pretend you’re just another thrill-seeker whilst simultaneously committing unspeakable crimes against humanity. This year, the Hollow Grounds Festival promised “safe fun for everyone.” Which is code for: we’ve doubled the body bags.
And despite the various warnings scattered throughout the company’s website against bringing children, no one really follows the rules. Hell, nobody really enforces them either.
For example, it’s not even dark yet, and I’m already being frisked by a man dressed as a zombie cop.
To be fair, he’s actually a cop. GCPD badge and everything, but his face paint really sells the bit. It’s meant to be festive, I guess, but the pistol on his hip ruins the effect. His partner is currently wanding down my bag like it’s wired to explode.
“Ma’am,” the zombie cop says, squinting at me, “you got any sharp objects or firearms in here?”
“No sir,” I shake my head. I don’t have the heart to tell him I always keep a knife hidden in my pocket. Not that it matters, GCPD couldn't afford metal detectors here if they tried. A makeshift security tent will have to do.
He rifles through my bag: wallet, portable charger, granola bar. The line behind me shuffles forward, and I can already hear the muffled bass from inside the festival grounds playing something electronic and vaguely haunted.
“Lots of security this year,” I say, mostly to fill the silence.
He glances up. “After last year, you’d do the same.”
I bite my cheek at the thought. No one wants some Joker wannabe turning the corn maze into a crime scene.
The city’s gone all out this year, all things considered. Giant inflatable pumpkins, half a dozen food trucks, a haunted maze and, of course, the most popular costume theme of the season: The Joker.
One would think after last year’s incident involving live hyenas and several explosives, Gothamites would’ve picked a less triggering motif. But no. Purple suits and green wigs are in. It’s impossible to tell who’s dressed up as a joke and who’s…well, the joke.
God, I feel bad for security.
The zombie cop waves me through, and I step past the barricade. Someone at the gate gives me a wristband and a half-hearted “enjoy the festival.” Fake fog curls between my ankles, pumped from rented machines that look one bad fuse away from catching fire. The air smells like kettle corn and smoke. It’s all very festive.
It’s all very likely to end up on the news tonight.
Adjusting my jacket, I glance around with a mild sense of relief that I’ve worn something practical. Black skirt, braided hair, spooky face paint. Simple enough. Minimal chance of attracting the attention of homicidal clowns.
I step out of the crowd flow to check my phone, trying to get a hold of Mia. The whole point of me coming here was that she wouldn’t abandon me in favor of her vices. Mainly liquor and masked men. Can’t say I blame her there.
No signal. Naturally. Gotham throws a million into fake decorations but can’t get a working cell tower past the city limits. I hover near a booth selling glow in the dark corn dogs (the less I think about that, the better) and tap the little red exclamation mark beside my message until it feels personal.
God damnit. It’s useless.
I give up on getting service and look around again, scanning the moving wall of people for glitter or temporary neon hair dye. Nothing. With my luck, she’s probably already halfway through a churro, blissfully unaware that I’ve been circling the same food stalls, lost as fuck.
Every few steps give me another false alarm. Someone the right height, the right appearance, right up until they turn and it’s a stranger.
The Ferris wheel looms closer, bulbs stuttering between orange and white. Crowds here are thicker, slower. Everyone’s queuing for rides or food, pressed shoulder to shoulder. And I have to mentally remind myself that the screams I’m hearing are part of the show. Probably.
The crowd shifts without warning, or maybe I’m just not paying attention, because someone slams into me. Hard. My breath catches, shoulder accidentally colliding with something solid. Fabric. Warmth. Someone’s chest.
“Sorry,” I start, turning around to apologize for being so utterly uncoordinated, but the words die when I look up.
Forget the half assed makeup. Forget the cheap purple coat. This man is madness.
His suit’s deep plum velvet, perfectly fitted. It doesn’t look new, as if it were bought from costume stores uptown. His green hair is expertly slicked back, and his skin is pale without looking like he’d dipped his head in flour. He isn't wearing a cheap rubber mask; his smile looks genuinely carved. The kind of detail you only get with professional prosthetics.
And he smells like he shouldn’t be here. Expensive cologne with something sharp underneath. Ozone. Gunpowder.
I immediately dismiss him as a scare actor, maybe someone hired by the festival to be the premium menace. Has to be. Nobody puts this much effort into a costume for fun in this city. Still, the accuracy is uncanny.
His hand finds my arm, light pressure through the glove. “Careful,” he purrs, voice low and oddly calm. There’s something off in the cadence. “Wouldn’t want ya gettin’ hurt. Not tonighT,” he licks his lips, emphasizing the “T”.
The way he says tonight sticks. Drawn out just enough to sound intentional.
I manage a small laugh, the polite kind you give to strangers who make you uncomfortable but don’t quite qualify as a threat. “Whew,” I breathe out, giving him a lookover. “They’re really upping the costume budget this year.”
He smiles wider, narrowing his eyes as if to study me. “Festival spir-it. You, uh, like it?”
“Love it,” I lie. “Almost had a heart attack.”
He hums, thoughtful. “Almost’s a shame.”
What the hell is that supposed to mean? I freeze. The crowd keeps moving around us, but his presence cuts straight through the noise. My pulse does a weird stutter in my throat. He’s still holding my arm, padded thumb just barely brushing against the inside of my wrist. Not tight, not rough, just aware.
I blink at him. “Okay, creepy,” slips out before I can stop it. Then I try to cover. “You’re part of the show, right?”
He tilts his head, chin dipping just enough to catch light on the crimson red lipstick cracked only at the corners of his mouth. “Mm, everyone’s part of the show!” he says finally, albeit, with some dramatic flair.
Definitely an actor.
His grip loosens slowly, like he’s savoring the pause before letting go. That kind of steady confidence always reads wrong to me, like someone who’s seen enough chaos to stop being impressed by it.
“You’ll do fine,” he nods. The tone is soft but distant, like he’s speaking to himself more than me.
I blink, caught between confusion and the kind of politeness that feels automatic. “Right,” I manage, stepping aside to give him room. “Well, enjoy the festival.”
“Already am,” he murmurs. He turns his head like he’s already dismissed me, eyes flicking toward the crowd. It shouldn’t sting, but it does, in some weird, misplaced way.
And then he’s swallowed up within seconds.
I exhale slowly, trying to let the air settle back into my lungs. My pulse doesn’t get the memo. It’s still thudding in my ears, that post-adrenaline hum that feels half like fear, half like disbelief.
It’s nothing. Just nerves. That’s all.
Maybe he’s one of those method actors, the kind that takes Halloween as an excuse to be unsettling in public. Gotham breeds them like pigeons. The real one’s probably locked up somewhere or dead or whatever people tell themselves when they need to sleep at night.
A tap on my shoulder makes me jolt hard enough to nearly drop my phone.
“Jesus-”
“Relax,” Mia laughs, stepping into view, glitter jacket flashing under the orange lights. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
“Close enough,” I mutter, pressing a hand to my chest. My pulse is still racing. “You cannot disappear on me like that. Where the hell were you?”
She grins, unapologetic. “I was in line for drinks. Priorities.” In her other hand, two plastic cups of something radioactive slosh dangerously close to the rim. “Here. I brought you one. It’s called a Poisoned Apple or something.”
“It’s questionable, is what it is,” comes my immediate response.
She thrusts it toward me until I take it. “You’re supposed to be having fun, remember?”
I glance toward the crowd where my mystery Joker impersonator vanished. Nothing but citizens of this city having a good time. Maybe I should learn a thing or two. “Yeah,” I say quietly as I swallow a large gulp. “Fun.”
“Come on,” Mia says, looping her arm through mine and practically towing me across the lot. “The guy at the hayride said it’s actually good this year.”
“You realize that’s what they always say?”
“That’s the fun part.” She shrugs, unbothered. “Besides, you need a little fear in your life. Builds character.”
“I live in Gotham,” I groan. “My character’s already built.”
By the time we head over, there’s a line already forming. A mix of teenagers, couples, and the occasional parent trying not to look terrified. A few people are in costume, but most just wear casual clothes.
The line inches forward faster than I thought it would, and a guy working the gate waves a flashlight at us. “Groups of four!” he shouts over the carnival music. “Four to a wagon!”
“Perfect,” Mia says, scanning ahead. “We’ll just pair with someone.”
Before I can object, someone calls out behind us. “You ladies heading in?”
Two men step out from the queue. The one closest to Mia is tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a dark jacket and a smile that reminds me of a piranha. The other man hangs back half a step, hidden behind his friend, head tilted, hands in his coat pockets.
“We’ve got room on our ride,” the first one says. His tone’s easy, practiced. Too practiced.
Mia grins, already sold. “Lucky us.” She shoots me a look. “You coming?”
I glance between them, that unease stirring again. But the music swells and before I can find a reason to say no, the gate attendant waves us forward.
Our wagon’s wooden sides creak under our weight as we climb in, hay scratching against my legs. Mia settles beside the tall guy, already deep in conversation. I take the end seat. The other man follows, settling next to me without a word and I force myself not to look.
Someone near the front cracks a joke, someone else randomly screams for comedic effect. None of it helps me relax. The engine sputters to life as the hayride ride jerks forward into the dark. I catch a whiff of faint metal under the diesel and straw.
The lights from the festival fade fast, swallowed by shadows of prop gravestones. I can hear chains dragging somewhere ahead, part of the show, probably, but it sounds too heavy to be fake. Shrieks drift up from somewhere ahead of us and I try to match the mood, to pretend my pulse isn’t stuttering.
The man beside me hasn’t said a word, but I can feel him. It’s darker now, only a few hanging lanterns swinging overhead, turning everything gold, then black, then gold again. Light catches on his jaw, on the clean line of his cheekbone, on the faint white of skin.
Oh no. No way. I know that face.
It’s him. The man I quite literally bumped into earlier. Great.
I should look away. I don’t. My eyes drag over the side of his profile, the cut of his mouth. He tilts his head just enough to meet my gaze. The corners of his lips twitch like he’s been waiting patiently for me to notice.
“You again,” I say before I can stop myself.
“Small city,” he tsks.
Up ahead, the trail bends toward another scare zone. Blue lights strobe over the crowd, catching flashes of painted faces and fake blood. I glance toward Mia, she’s practically in that guy’s lap, drink in hand, glitter makeup smeared, oblivious. Typical. My fingers tighten around the cup in my lap, knuckles pale in the pulsing light.
I clear my throat, making a split second decision that I’d rather have conversation than sit here in awkward silence. “You’re committed to the bit, huh?”
“Bit?”
“The Joker thing,” I nod, gesturing at him like it’s obvious. “You look, yeah, you really look like him.”
His mouth twitches. “Do I?”
There’s something about the way he asks that makes my skin crawl. Like he’s testing the words on me.
“You’ve seen the videos, right?” I casually lean back in my seat. “The news footage? You’ve got the whole thing down. The mannerisms, the-”
I stop myself before I say smile.
He hums softly, gloved fingers drumming once against his knee. “Maybe I, uh, just have one of those faces.”
“One that makes people cross the street?” I find myself making a joke before I can stop myself. Christ, how much alcohol was in that drink I downed earlier?
He laughs, low and almost genuine. The sound punches right through my chest. I’ve heard it before. Not live, but through shaky cell phone recordings, late-night newscasts, clips people replay with captions like this is the sound of Gotham losing its mind.
I turn to look straight ahead, pretending not to feel him watching me. If this man is who I think he is and I’m not being paranoid, I’m well and truly fucked.
The wagon rattles over uneven ground, and the motion forces our shoulders to brush. It’s the smallest touch, but it feels deliberate, like fate is testing how far I’ll lean before I pull away.
I don’t move.
The air feels too thin. My heart’s beating so hard I can hear it in my ears, and the logical part of my brain is screaming at me to stand up, to do something. But I can’t, because if I’m right, then I don’t want to acknowledge it aloud and break whatever trance is currently keeping me alive.
If I’m right.
I sneak another look. He’s watching the rest of the riders with faint amusement, eyes flicking from one face to the next like he’s counting them. There’s a restless energy to him. He doesn’t belong here. Not in the way the rest of us do. He’s too comfortable.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a moment, turning his attention back to the dark path ahead. “Most people talk too much when they’re scared.”
“Who says I’m scared?”
“Your pulse.”
My chest tightens. “You can’t hear that.”
“Mm,” he hums. “You’d be surprised what I can hear.”
The wagon dips again, throwing us both forward by a foot. My hand lands on his knee by accident in a poor attempt to steady myself. Warm fabric, solid muscle beneath. I start to pull back, but he covers my hand with his before I can. Just the faint pressure of his glove over my fingers.
“You’re a jittery one,” he says, tone almost mocking.
“Yeah, well,” I swallow, “you give off a lot of… energy.”
“Energy,” he repeats, amused. “Haven’t heard it called that before.”
He drums his fingers once against my hand before letting go. I glance forward again, searching for Mia in the blur of lights and bodies. I spot her, barely, pressed against the tall guy she met in line. She’s got her lips on his neck, head tilted back, laughing like she’s invincible.
I shake my head. “Of course,” I mutter.
He follows my gaze. “Friend of yours?”
“Yeah. The unreliable kind.”
He hums, low, like that’s the most interesting thing he’s heard all night. “People like that,” he says after a beat, “they don’t get it. They think the world’s all…brighT. Never stop to wonder what’s hidin’ in the dark.”
I glance at him. “That supposed to be deep or just depressing?”
He shrugs. “Guess.”
The light hits his face just right as he looks back at me. My chest tightens. I swallow hard, trying not to stare. Maybe it’s just a really good costume. That’s all. Gotham’s full of freaks with too much time and not enough therapy.
He chuckles, quiet and throaty, like he’s reading my mind. “You’re tryin’ real hard not to ask.”
“Ask what?”
“What I’m supposed to be.”
I snort. “Pretty sure I already know. You’re every guy at this festival who thinks he can pull off purple.”
I expect another retort. A glare. But there’s a pause where his eyes stay on me. Green, sharp, assessing. And for the first time all night, I forget to breathe. My pulse is too loud in my ears. He doesn’t blink. Just tilts his head slightly, watching. Waiting.
I should pull away. I don’t.
Up ahead, Mia’s laughter cuts through the noise again, high and stupid and happy, and I feel something between embarrassment and defiance twist in my chest.
He catches the look on my face. “She’s havin’ fun,” he says. “What about you?”
“I’m… getting there,” I answer, voice rougher than I intend.
He leans forward a little, elbows on his knees, voice low enough to blur against the sound of the wheels. A challenge. “Doesn’t look like it.”
I can feel him watching me the way people watch car crashes. Not because he wants to help, but because he likes the moment before impact.
I should roll my eyes. I should tell him to mind his own business. I should do literally anything else.
“You’re right,” I concur, and before I can stop myself, before I can think about what I’m doing or who the hell he might actually be, three seconds pass and my lips are on his.
I don’t even remember deciding to do it. One moment I’m thinking about how much I hate this festival, and the next I’m leaning forward like the world’s finally gone quiet.
It’s quick. Thoughtless. Heat, breath, and the faint sting of metal where his mouth catches mine. Cold at first, then warmer than it has any right to be. His lips don’t move much, but the sound he makes, that low, amused hum against my skin, makes me feel something I’ve only ever imagined.
He breathes out a quiet laugh, all teeth and delight as he pulls away. “Oh, that’s… funny,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in ya.”
Before I can answer, the wagon screeches to a stop. And then the screams start, but they sound different this time. Real. Pure, unfiltered terror.
My chest lurches. I’d thought it was just a costume. Just some guy playing the part. But now… it’s all too precise, too familiar. My stomach twists, a sudden churn that makes me dizzy.
I feel my lips, still warm from the kiss, and a slow dread coils up my spine. How recklessly, stupidly, I’ve just put myself in the same orbit as him. Every instinct I had, every warning I brushed aside, flashes through my mind with sharp clarity.
The wagon screeches to a halt before I can speak, and the screams rise, raw and jagged, slicing through the festive noise. My heart hammers, and I realize it’s not just the carnival thrills this time.
The Joker beside me straightens, grinning wider. “Aaand there it is.”
Then the first gunshot cracks the night open.
I choke on a gasp, yanking my hands from the pristine white of his vest. “You..you’re not…”
A low, throaty chuckle escapes from his throat. He leans in, ignoring the sudden rush of bodies fleeing past us toward the exit, ignoring the sound of actual, real-world panic now drowning out the calliope music, and presses his lips to my ear.
“Not an amateur? No,” he finishes my sentence, his voice so distinct it sends a shiver of true, terrifying recognition down my spine. “Not in any sense of the word.”
Oh, fuck this.
Panic surges. I shove past him and jump off the hayride, boots skidding on the damp dirt as I clutch my bag tight. The crowd is a stampede of screaming, shoving bodies, flashlights slicing through the smoke. My head whirls. Mia, where is Mia? I can’t see her. Can’t hear her.
A group of people careens past, brushing me almost violently. I need to get out of the chaos, out of the open, somewhere I can catch my breath, gather my bearings.
That’s when I see it: the haunted house. Its side entrance is dimly lit, tucked behind some stacked crates and hay bales. Perfect. Not an obvious escape, but it offers cover. Somewhere to hide from a rain of bullets and watch the crowd to see if Mia comes.
If anyone comes.
I slip behind the crates and press myself against the wall, heart hammering in my throat. Dust and fog cling to me; the rough wood scratching my palms. I dare not breathe too loudly. My eyes scan the chaos outside, but every second feels like an eternity.
A hand clamps over my wrist before I can take another breath. I twist, but the grip is iron, yanking me into the shadowed doorway. A strangled yelp leaves my lips but strong arms pull me sideways as I’m dragged further inside.
And then there’s that all too familiar voice.
“Guess who?” Joker purrs.
The heat of him is immediate, a tantalizing, maddening closeness that presses against my senses. My hands tighten instinctively against him, both in defiance and something I can’t quite name.
His fingers skate up my arm. Slow. Deliberate. The hallway behind the funhouse is a throat of black light and distant screams, the festival’s bassline thudding through the walls like a second heartbeat.
“Scared, doll?” he murmurs, breath hot against the shell of my ear.
I squirm, fighting against him as I make a vain attempt to reach for the switchblade hidden in my pocket, but no use. I don’t feel anything, shit, it must have fallen out when I hopped the wagon. My fists hurl against his chest but I may as well have been punching a wall as he laughs, delighted.
“Thought so.”
He spins me, back slamming against the plywood wall painted with cartoon ghosts. The impact rattles my teeth, but his mouth is there before I can gasp, swallowing the sound. His tongue sweeps in like he owns the place, because he does. Tonight, this corridor, me.
I taste copper where his teeth nick my lip, and the sting only makes him kiss me harder.
His hand slides under my skirt, calloused fingers dragging up the inside of my thigh. The cheap fishnets rip under his grip with a satisfying shrrrip that echoes louder than the funhouse music. Cool air kisses the new tear, then his palm cups me through damp lace, and I hate how ready I am, how my hips rock into his touch like I’ve been waiting for this.
My body betrays me.
“Wet already,” he croons, voice syrupy with mockery. “And here I thought you were a, uh, good little citizen.”
That does it.
I bite his lower lip. Hard. He growls, shoving two fingers past the lace and inside me without warning. The stretch burns, perfect, and my head thunks back against the wall as he curls them, finding that spot that makes my knees buckle.
“J—” The name dies in my throat; I won’t give him that. Not yet.
He pumps slow, cruel, thumb circling my clit with the same rhythm he uses to cock a gun. Every stroke winds me tighter, the distant pop-pop-pop of the festival’s shooting syncing with the slick sounds between my legs. Someone screams outside, close, too close, and the risk spikes adrenaline straight to my core.
I’m a terrible person.
“Gonna come for me right here?” he whispers, teeth grazing my throat. “While the whole city’s dressed up and dying?”
I claw at his vest, nails scraping the buttons. My orgasm hits as strong as a firecracker and I bite down on his shoulder to muffle the cry, tasting leather and sweat and him.
Joker doesn’t let me sag. In one motion he yanks my panties aside and frees himself; hot, hard, painted smile smearing across my cheek as he lines up. The head of his cock nudges my entrance, his other hand coming up to squeeze at my breast.
“Say it,” he hisses, hips rolling just enough to make me whine. “Say you want the clown to fuck you in the dark.”
I meet his manic eyes with a glare of my own, still stubborn as ever.
“Fuck you, Joker.”
He pushes inside me, hips nearly flush to mine, but he doesn’t move. My back scrapes the wall with every breath; the plywood is warm now, soaked with our heat. His thumb circles my clit, feather-light, maddening.
“Say it,” he snarls. Greasepaint smears across my cheek like warpaint. “Tell me you want the Clown Prince of Crime to ruin you.”
I clench around him deliberately, a silent fuck you. The corner of his mouth twitches in a half smile.
“Stubborn kitty.” His hand leaves my breast, trailing cold absence.
I hear the snick before I feel it: the metallic kiss of a barrel against my inner thigh. My breath hitches. He drags the gun up slowly until the muzzle nudges the soft skin just beside where we’re joined. The metal is hot from his pocket, slick with condensation and something that might be my own wetness.
“Still shy?” he asks, conversational, like he’s offering me a cigarette.
And then, the gun cocks with a sound that punches straight through my spine. Click. One in the chamber. Safety off. My pulse spikes so hard at the raw danger of what he just did. I don’t know why I expected anything else.
He presses the barrel flush against my clit (not hard, just there), both a promise and a threat. The steel is a shock of heat and cold at once, and my hips jerk involuntarily, grinding down on both him and the gun. A low, filthy laugh rumbles out of his chest.
“There we go. Honest little thing.”
I swallow a moan. My hands fist in his coat; the buttons biting into my palms.
“Words, doll,” he says, voice smooth as silk. He eases the gun in a slow circle, mirroring the thumb that’s abandoned my clit. “Or I, uh, paint the wall with your pretty brains and walk away whistling.”
The threat should terrify me. It does. But the danger coils low in my belly, twists with the stretch of him inside me, and I’m suddenly, dizzyingly close again.
I meet his eyes and let the truth spill out raw. “I want it,” I rasp. “Want you. Ruin me.”
The grin that splits his face is all teeth. Joker tosses the gun aside and it clatters into the shadows like a discarded toy. He slams into me so hard my vision whites out. The plywood cracks behind my shoulder blades.
“That’s my girl.”
He fucks me like the world’s ending. Fast. Hard. Merciless. The bite on my neck reopens under his teeth; blood and sweat mingle. I moan.
“Listen to you,” he murmurs, voice velvet-rough. “Little heartbeat in your cunt, saying my name without words.”
I clench deliberately, and his hips jerk, just once. The movement grinds the base of him against my clit, and sparks shoot up my spine. My nails dig into the lapels of his purple coat; the fabric is worn silk, slippery under my palms, smelling of smoke and old stage lights.
Outside, more bullets fire into the crowd and I know I should wince but all I can focus on is how good this feels. The sound still slices through the wall and lands between us like a blade. Joker feels it too, his shoulders tense, then relax into something predatory.
“Better be quiet, kitty,” he whispers. “Wouldn’t want my men finding you stuffed full of clown cock.”
He pulls back an inch then sinks in again, deeper this time, like he’s screwing me into the wall. My thighs tremble. The torn fishnets catch on his belt buckle, the metal cold against the heat of my skin. Each roll of his hips is measured, a metronome of torment: out until only the head kisses my entrance.
I can’t breathe right. Every inhale drags the scent of him deeper: gun oil, sweat, something chemical and sweet like melted candy apples. His hand slides up my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast through the thin satin of my shirt. He finds the edge of my bra, shoves it down, and my nipple pebbles instantly in the chill.
Then he pinches. Hard.
The sting arrows straight to where we’re joined. I choke on a moan, hips bucking to meet his next thrust. I don’t respond. He knows I can’t. Joker rewards me with a faster rhythm, still controlled, but the slap of skin on skin starts to echo down the corridor. Somewhere, a door creaks. Footsteps.
He clamps a hand over my mouth, fingers tasting of latex and copper. His eyes glint, fever-bright.
“Shh. Hold still.”
The footsteps pass and the second they’re gone he snaps. Hips piston, punishing, perfect. My spine bows.
I’m climbing again, embarrassingly fast. He knows. Of course he does. His free hand worms between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. He circles once, twice – lazy figure eights – then presses down and holds.
“Don’t you dare,” he warns, voice shredded. “Not until I say.”
I whimper into his palm. My thighs shake; sweat beads between my breasts, trickles down to where his coat rubs my skin raw. The pressure coils low, vicious, a spring about to snap.
He slows again until I’m sobbing against his hand. Only then does he lean in, lips brushing the corner of my mouth.
“Beg.”
The words rip out of me, muffled and desperate. “Please, fuck, Joker, please—”
He slams home, thumb flicking my clit in a blur. The orgasm crashes over me like a rogue wave, vision whiting out. I clamp down on him so hard he curses, a sharp, filthy sound that vibrates through my bones.
But he’s not done.
He rides me through it, relentless, chasing his own edge. His rhythm stutters, once, twice, then he buries his face in my neck, teeth sinking into the tendon there as he comes with a guttural snarl vibrating against my throat when he spills deep.
We stay locked like that, panting. Finally, he pulls out slowly, tucking himself away with lazy efficiency. My legs barely hold me; he steadies me with one hand at my waist.
I allow myself a breath. He doesn’t move right away.
Joker’s forehead drops to mine. His own exhale trembles, actually trembles, and the sound he makes is half-laugh, half-growl, like he’s surprised.
“Happy Halloween, doll,” he says, voice soft now, almost tender. He presses a kiss to the bite mark blooming on my neck, then steps back into the shadows.
By the time I find my bag and stumble into the festival lights, he’s gone. Only the ache between my legs and the faint taste of greasepaint on my tongue left to prove he was ever there.
The funhouse doors wheeze open when I finally spill out into the midway, legs jelly, skirt twisted. The festival lights strobe red-blue-red across the fog, and for a second everything stills.
Mia barrels into me before I can orient myself.
“Jesus Christ, there you are!” She grabs my shoulders hard enough to bruise. Her makeup is smeared, face paint streaked with real tears, looking just as bad as I do. “I thought – someone said the Joker torched the hay ride, and then the lights went out, and I couldn’t find you.”
Her voice cracks. I taste copper; my lip’s split. The bite on my neck throbs under the collar of my shirt like a second heartbeat.
“I’m okay,” I croak. It comes out hoarse, used. “You?”
She scans me with a nod, really scans, and her eyes snag on the torn fishnets, the smear of white and red across my throat. Something flickers across her face: suspicion, fear, maybe recognition. But the crowd surges around us, sirens dopplering closer, and the moment folds in on itself.
Mia pulls me into the flow of bodies moving toward the gates. I let her. My thighs ache with every step, bruises probably starting to bloom under my skin. The night air is colder now, sharp enough to cut through the haze.
At the exit, floodlights sweep the parking lot. Cop cars idle in formation, radios crackling. A news chopper thuds overhead, searchlight carving white tunnels through the smoke. Mia’s still talking, something about her phone dying, about losing me in the blackout, but the words blur.
I glance back once.
The midway is emptying, game booths shuttered, prize plushies staring with plastic eyes. In the distance, the Ferris wheel turns slow, empty cages glinting like teeth. No fire. No Joker. Just the echo of that warped carousel tune looping in my skull.
Mia tugs my sleeve. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
I nod, but my fingers drift to the bite mark, pressing until it stings. The gates clang shut behind us. Gotham swallows the festival whole, lights winking out one by one until the only glow left is the city’s own sickly amber.
And I bet the Hollow Grounds Festival will still open up next year.