(Author's Note: This is going to get sexual in the next chapter. This is my first-ever fic written from Mistah J's viewpoint, so… Let's see how OOC it got, I guess? I don't know, I needed to make it two chapters because I needed to take a break from writing this. Writing from Mistah J's point of view makes me anxious, cos I have to go into a super dark headspace for him, and it makes me intensely uncomfortable? I just… ugh. Spooky scary skeletons. Okay! Reviews make me a happy gumdrop. This is dark, btw, so trigger warnings abound.)


There was something almost soothing about the smell of gunpowder, something that reminded the senses of a barbecue, or a crackling fireplace. Of course, the soothing quality could be rapidly diminished depending on what side of the gun you're standing on. Or just on your point of view. It took a truly enlightened man to laugh when he was looking down the barrel of a gun, let alone close his eyes and let the cards fall. And nobody was better at playing 52" pickup than yours truly, the one, the only, Joker!

He really needed to stop narrating his own thoughts. It was tacky, and anyway, wasn't that what he kept Harley around for? One of the various few tasks that she wasn't entirely terrible at? Speaking of, where was the little minx? "Harley?" The Joker's voice raised, piercing the night, reverberating off the tall buildings that surrounded him. "Five… Four… Three…"

Like magic, she appeared almost instantaneously, bouncing around nervously. It was always so easy to summon her-just like a child, all one had to do was count down from five, and she'd be begging for forgiveness before you hit one. Pathetic little thing that she was, he tolerated her more annoying moments for the memory of the sound barrier breaking in her rush to appeal to him.

"Yessir, Mistah J, what do I need t'do?" It was the moments like these, when he'd surprised her, that the Brooklyn accent came out in full force. The Joker adored those moments, when he'd broken down the last of an incapacitated Harley's walls-the only one she ever managed to build back up again-and she slipped into that full-on, unabashed, thick New Yawk drawl. It wasn't often that he coaxed it out of her without alcohol, exhaustion, or some form of lust; he did not take these moments of weakness for granted.

The Joker looked at his harlequin impassively, forcing his mouth to stay flat. It was always a little workout to keep a smile off his face, and he tended not to do it for anyone but Harley. She was squirming under his gaze, obviously uncomfortable with the prolonged silence. His poor little girl; with her lowered self esteem and heightened anxiety, his quiet was another form of torture (well utilized by, once again, yours truly). Her cheeks were flushed red enough that he could see the glow through the greasepaint, and it brought the smile involuntarily back to his lips.

"Moonlight isn't bad lighting for you," he commented, eyes darting past her, like there was something far more interesting just over her shoulder. "It makes your skin glow."

That happy little squeak always made the corners of his lips tug ever upwards. Something about the fragile innocence of such a sound… beautiful, especially from his twisted little monster. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up a single finger. "Ah ah ah! Did Daddy give you permission to talk?"

A quick shake of the head sent her liliripes bouncing, and he had to fight the urge to grab them, to forcibly bend her to his will, whatever that might be. No. There'd be time for that later. "Good girl. See, good girls only speak when spoken to, hm? They don't waste my time with idle chit chat." And she really was almost perfect when she didn't speak. Without her screechy little voice, her constant chattering, the idiotic pet names; without all that, she was almost tolerable. One of these days, he'd have to get around to cutting her tongue out, or sewing her mouth shut… Though it would be a shame to lose her skill for sucking cock, filthy little whore that she was (filthy little whore who unapologetically slept her way through med school). And he did sometimes enjoy her praise… Hm. Well, taking away her voice permanently could wait. These brief sessions of blissful quiet would do for now.

(Deep down, he knows that this is all conjecture. Despite his idle thoughts, he will never take her voice away, and that disturbs him. He tries not to think about it.)

"Now. You're going to get in the car, and drive me home, and you'd better go fast." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "You never know, I may no longer be in the mood to fuck you senseless if the drive takes too long." Harley's eyes widened behind the mask, and she let out another one of those delightful squeaks.

(Something about that noise is so… endearing. When it comes from her, he can almost see her, back when she was untouched, so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. He can see her behind her desk at Arkham, that dainty blush on her cheeks as he flirted unashamedly from his chained position on the couch. He can see a ten year old, so bright and beaming and beautiful, hanging from the rings while she trained. He can see a little girl, a six year old Harleen-"Call me Harley! Everyone does!"-with gap teeth and innocent eyes. He can see her, and he wants to hate her for it. He thinks he does. He tries to, at least.)

"Yes, Boss!" Immediately, Harley clapped a hand over her mouth, a look of abject horror on her face. The quickness of her guilt pleased him, almost made him want to give her a reprieve. Almost.

One pale hand shot out and cracked across her face, and she was crying before she even knew what hit her. And God, the way she looked at him after a smack, that hurt and betrayal that simmered in her eyes… Her tears streaked her makeup; he loved it when he destroyed the image that she oh-so-carefully put together for him everyday. Showing her, once again, that her efforts to impress him were all for naught. He knew her far too well. He knew what she really was-a pathetic, submissive, worthless little whore-and she could do nothing to change that image. You could almost feel sorry for her.

(And he does, sometimes, at night. He lies in bed and stares up at the ceiling, and he feels her warm softness beside him, and he listens to her breathe, and a feeling that he dimly remembers as guilt threatens to throttle him. And no, he doesn't feel guilty, actually. Not unless he thinks about it. But while he usually thinks of his relationship with Harley as having taken a bright candle and starting a forest fire, sometimes, when he's alone with his thoughts, he wonders if he really just snuffed it out. If his Harley is a real person, or more of a… twisted reflection of himself. Again, he tries not to think about it.)

(There's too damn much he has to try not to think about these days.)

"Now, now, Harley-girl. I don't want to hurt you again. Don't give me a reason to." The Joker leaned in, then, and he flashed her a shark's smile-accompanied with those same cold, dead eyes. Wide, menacing, blindingly white teeth, hands folded nicely behind his back, he knew what he looked like, and drank in her fear.

(Is it better to be feared than loved? Well, for the rest of Gotham, the answer was a resounding yes, and usually Harley's fear came with love to spare. But… there were times, right after he'd really hurt her, where he'd reach for her, and she'd… flinch.

That flinch always hurt more than he thought it would.

There was no flinch this time.)

Harley stared up at him, and there was a hint of reproach there. Like she was angry with him. Like she got to be angry with him. Who the hell did she think she was? "Car, Harley." he growled. "Now." She wanted to be upset? She wanted to bitch about how he'd hurt her ickle-wickle feewings? She wanted to play victim? Hah. Then he could play villain.

She got up, slowly, and the Joker dimly marvelled at the fact that he'd slapped her hard enough to knock her over. There was a strange look on Harley's face, like she wanted to say something but thought better of it at the last second. She walked to the car, and moved to get into the driver's seat. "Backseat." He snapped his fingers and pointed, raising an eyebrow pointedly.

Harley shrugged, hand slipping off the door handle and moving back one, sliding into the backseat. He followed her, uncaring that they were still at a crime scene, uncaring that dead bodies littered the ground outside the car. If the Batman was going to come, he would have already. Must have been having an off night.

Harley looked at him, and that odd look was gone. Back to the usual simpering expression, the one that made him want to take her by the hair and just slam it into a wall until she stopped fucking looking at him like that. (He finds himself angry at her for letting him treat her like he does, these days. You were so bright, Harleen, you had your silly little book and your silly little life, and you would've died without ever getting the joke. And maybe… Maybe that would have been better for her. He's turned the brightest mind at Arkham into a twisted little fuckpuppet, and she let him do it. It makes him seethe.)

"Do you know why we're back here, Pooh?" The Joker forced his voice to be calm and measured. Lull her into as much of a sense of security as he could, before tearing it away again. The little hurt looks he got after that emotional betrayal, now those were ambrosia.

"I have two ideas." How novel-more than a singular thought in that dizzy skirt's head. (Except she's no dumb blonde, is she? That's what drew you to her in the first place.)

"Go on."
"Either you decided you wanted to fuck me here-" And she looked up with such a hopeful expression. God, he wanted to cleave her face in fucking half, send her as a little present to Harvey. Maybe he'd enjoy her stupid infatuated schtick. (Except he won't and he knows it. The idea of anybody else touching her like he has physically revolts him.) "-or I'm in trouble." Harley's face drooped, her lower lip jutting out in a definite pout at even the prospect of being punished. Cute. Real cute.

He pretended to think about it, tapping a finger to his chin with a quizzical expression. "Mm, well… I think it's a little bit of both, Harl." He'd pretended to think about it, tapping a finger to his chin with a quizzical expression.

Harley looked down at her hands, which were resting oh-so-demurely (who did she think she was kidding?) in her lap. "Yessir, Mistah J," she said softly, and any resistance that may have lit her belly earlier was gone. His lips peeled back in a proud grin, and he tousled her hair almost (definitely) fondly. She peeked at him with a tiny smile, which grew at the sight of his own. "What do you need from me?"

He thought for a moment. Though the Joker was usually a proponent of making the punishment fit the crime, he couldn't think of a way to fit that sassy look that didn't involve Smilex or gouging out eyes. Neither of which sounded particularly appealing. A furtive sweep of his surroundings, searching for inspiration… Ah. Ooh, now that could be fun. Take one aroused Harley, add life threat. Result? A fucked-out, guilty little pliant toy to bring home. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. Serve to taste. Yes, he liked this plan a lot.

"I need you in my lap." He kept his voice light, silky, like this was all still just a bit of fun. He didn't have to tell her twice-the benefit of keeping her nigh constantly starved for attention. She was in his lap before she could blink, intertwining around him, making sickening little cooing noises. He shuddered; didn't bother to suppress it. Let her feel it. Let her know what her clinginess did to him. (Just don't let her know that sometimes you need it. Keeps you grounded. Keeps you real. This is real.)

"Mmf." She buried her face in his shoulder, and he could feel her start to wriggle against his thigh. Oh, that wouldn't do at all.

Grabbing the back of her neck firmly, he shoved her face into the car seat, pushing away from her so her legs toppled onto the floor. There was the sick thud of limb against mat, and she let out a little whimper. "Dirty. Little. Slut." The Joker spat, punctuating every word with a minute tightening of his grip. And then Harley was up, scrabbling to get away, trying desperately to get the door open. As a reward for her efforts, he managed to slam her skull into the side of the car door, a gentle reminder not to try to get away. Next time, he wouldn't be so forgiving. Not like he didn't already want to smack her again and again and again until she stained his hands and the screaming stopped and she got out of his head (but you can't do it, can you, Jack?)

"That's not. My fucking. Name." he growled, and there was a gun in his pocket (or was he pleased to see her?) and then there was a gun in his hand.