You weren't supposed to drink tonight.
Not without him.
J told you before he disappeared up into his private booth—voice all silk and steel, gloved fingers lifting your chin so your wide eyes would meet his. "One drink, baby. Just one. No games tonight. You stay good for me, hmm?"
You nodded. Big mistake.
Because when he left, the floor swallowed you. Neon lights danced across your skin, strangers offered smiles too sweet, and someone slid a second shot your way. It was pink. Fruity. You giggled. Took it.
Then came a third.
And now?
You're drunk. Sloppily, happily, carelessly drunk.
Your cheeks are flushed, your limbs loose and wild, hair tumbling as you twirl yourself into the middle of the dance floor like you own it. Your little dress clings to your skin in all the wrong-right ways, and you don't even notice the eyes following your every move. You just feel warm. Free.
Untouchable.
From above, Joker sees everything.
At first, he just watches—elbow on the armrest, a silver ring pressed against his bottom lip, his head tilted as he studies you like you're some bizarre, glittering creature he's not sure whether to frame or put down.
Then you start dancing.
Like really dancing—spinning, laughing, lifting your arms to the ceiling as if the beat is pulling you toward heaven.
But you're not in heaven.
You're in his world.
And down here, angels burn.
His hand tightens around his cane.
By the time you notice him, it's too late.
The crowd parts like it knows. The devil's come to collect.
You blink, a little dazed, swaying on your heels as he stalks toward you. No guards. No words. Just that look in his eyes—sharp, glowing, lethal.
"Uh-oh," you mumble.
He grabs your wrist, hard enough to make you stumble. "What did I say?" he hisses, voice low, dangerous.
You pout up at him, flushed and breathless. "You said one, I had two. Okay, three. That's not that bad, mister grumpy pants."
His jaw flexes.
"Mister grumpy pants?" he repeats, like he can't believe his ears.
You tug your arm. "Let me go! I was just having fun, J. It's not like I was dancing on a table or stripping or anything."
"Yet," he snaps. "You think this is fun? Being stared at like a snack in a den full of wolves? You think that's a good time, sweetheart?"
"I can handle myself!" you shoot back, cheeks puffed in defiance. "You're not my dad!"
Wrong move.
His eyes go dark.
"I'm worse than your dad," he growls, yanking you into his chest. "I don't ground you, baby. I break you."
You struggle in his grip, fists hitting his chest. "Let me go, daddy!"
"Oh, she wants to play now?" he chuckles, loud and manic. "Feisty little bunny thinks she can bark at the big bad wolf."
You kick him in the shin. Not hard. But enough.
The crowd gasps.
He stills.
Then slowly—terrifyingly slowly—he smiles. His eyes glitter. "That was adorable. Try it again and I'll staple your shoes to your feet."
He drags you up the stairs with one hand on your wrist, your heels clacking, your protests useless. The club watches, but no one dares intervene. No one ever dares when he's like this.
By the time you reach the VIP lounge, you're panting, tugging against his grip. "I'm not scared of you," you snap, lip trembling even as you glare.
He kicks open the suite door, slams it shut with his foot, and pins you to it in a heartbeat.
"You should be," he breathes.
You flinch, but you don't cry. You glare, teary and stubborn, hands pushing at his chest.
"I just wanted to dance," you whisper.
"And I just wanted you to be safe," he snaps back, voice low and tight. "But no, you had to go play Little Miss Rebel in the lion's den."
Your lip quivers. "You don't own me."
He leans in, nose brushing yours. "The hell I don't."
You're frozen. His breath fans over your cheek, his fingers curling under your chin as he studies you like he's trying to memorize every part of your face. His voice softens—not kind, but quieter. Almost cruel in how gentle it turns.
"You think I keep you out of trouble for your sake?" he asks. "No, baby. I do it for mine. Because if anything happened to you out there, I'd have to paint this whole damn city red. And I'm running outta fresh canvases."
You stare at him, drunk and furious and trembling.
"...You're crazy."
He grins.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
And then he kisses you.
Hard. Possessive. Like he's branding you with his mouth. You gasp, fists curling in his shirt, and even though you're mad, even though your head is spinning—you kiss him back.
Because he's your chaos.
And maybe... maybe you're a little crazy, too.
