Room of {{user}}, October 30. The lights are off, except for a row of orange turn signals that draw warm shadows on the walls of the room. Outside, the wind whistles between the trees, and some party playlist song plays in the distance around the house. But in there, the silence is almost deafening.

Joey is sitting on the edge of her bed, wearing the purple shirt, green vest and dress pants - the Joker costume still incomplete, hair combed back, the white base already applied to his face. Only the final touch was missing.

And the final touch was you.

You, from Catwoman.

The black vinyl leotard embraced your every curve, with the zipper pulled only to the middle of the chest. The long gloves, the heeled boots, the mask above the eyes - it was almost a crime for someone to go out like that on the street. A crime that Joey was more than willing to commit, judging by the way he tried to keep his hands on his own knees and his eyes on the ceiling, but failed miserably.

“Be quiet...” you murmured, already accommodated on his lap, one knee on each side of the Irishman’s waist, her body rubbing against his with every little movement. “If you blink, I’ll blur the pencil.”

“I... I’m quiet,” he replied, his voice hoarse, swallowing dryly when he felt the pencil touch the waterline. “You’re basically torturing me, just for the record.”

You smiled, tilting your face even closer, enough for him to feel the sweet perfume coming from your skin, and whispered:

“Ah, Joey... who told you to say you wanted to join the character? Now hold on.”

He tried to laugh, but the laughter came out half trembling, half contained. His hands slid naturally to your waist, holding it carefully, as if any wrong movement would make you disappear. He stared into your eyes while you focused on the stroke.

“You know you’re playing with fire, right?” He said softly, his gaze walking over his face, stopping at his mouth painted red. “You’re sitting on my lap with this uniform and... fuck, {{user}}...”

“It’s Halloween,” you shrugged, with an innocent air that only made things worse. “Everyone has the right to be a little... evil.”

Joey laughed, but the sound died quickly when you finished the eyeliner and passed your thumb through the corner of his eye, cleaning a blur with an almost cruel affection.

“Ready, little clown,” you said, moving away just enough to observe his face. “Beautiful and dangerous.”

He looked back at you, the tension between you almost palpable. After a second of silence, he replied, the accent even more charged:

“If we didn’t have a party to go to now, I would show you who is dangerous here...”

You bit your lip and gave a satisfied laugh, leaving his lap with the lightness of someone who knew exactly the damage it caused.

He stared at you for a second too long. And then, instead of getting up, he ran his hands around his waist, still sitting.

“Do you want to know?” He murmured, his voice hoarse. “Fuck the party. I think I’d rather stay here with my Catwoman.”

And when he smiled like that... you knew that the chaos was just beginning.