[Disclaimer: I don't own Batman in any of its glorious forms, nor do I own these two marvelous mountebanks. You can tell because they never fuck in the TV show.]
There's only one way that this ends, and she's known it for as long as she can remember. The day that he pushed her (or did she jump? It's all a bit of a blur) into that vat, the day that she was reborn-since then, she's known.
Not that it's exactly hard to figure out-he'll mention it offhandedly sometimes. "Oh, Harley, what will I do without you?" Little comments like that. Or on the rare occasions that he feels like touching her for more than a few moments, it'll be a form of foreplay.
Harley can't complain. There are worse things to hear (and worse ways to go). She'l be privileged if the last thing she sees is Mister J's smile, burned into her retinas.
"Harley." The two syllables of her name sound so much harsher when whispered in the dark. Like rapid-fire gunshots. The quick one-two, setup and punchline all at once.
She props herself up on her elbows, stretching her spine in a feline fashion. Squinting in the dark, she mumbles: "Yeah, Puddin'?"
It's a silly question, really-her Joker has always been more show than tell. There's a strong grip around her wrist, and then it's pulling and she feels her arms fall out from under her as he tugs her to his side. Face-down in the bed, Harley waits. And listens.
"You know how I'll kill you, Harl'?" The lazy drawl of his voice does nothing to make these words less threatening.
"No sir, Mistah J." Her voice is muffled by the mattress, and she can hear him laugh just a touch.
"Roll over, idiot." Fond exasperation; is it her birthday or something? She can't remember the last time he sounded like he cared about her. Harley complies with his orders; now she's staring at the pockmarked ceiling.
"Yessir, Mistah J." she repeats, quieter now.
The Joker smiles to himself; she can just make out the gleam of his white teeth. "Wellll..." He draws it out specifically to tease her. His hand releases her wrist and moves down to her collarbone, delicately stroking the skin there. "I haven't made up my mind yet... But you've always been a semi-decent sounding board." High praise, coming from him. Harley wriggles in delight, thankful that the darkness masks the colour in her cheeks.
Mister J's hand dips down lower, pressing his thumb gently into the hollow of her throat. Harley shivers, her mouth going dry, and he has to have noticed this because suddenly his thumb digs into her trachea, just enough that she can't breathe without a faint wheezing noise.
"Stop interrupting with that awful noise, pet," he reprimands her. She stops breathing entirely, all at his command. "Anyways, I have too many ideas for you. I can never settle on one for long. But don't worry, whatever I choose is going to be... spectacular." And he releases Harley's throat. She sucks in lungfuls of air as he blithely continues: "After all these years at my side, you've earned that much."
She glows at this, and he must notice, because he now looms over her. Most people would be menaced by this-hell, she still kind of is. But she ain't exactly most people, and she's plenty happy for him to lean down and kiss her.
Mister J is the most amazing kisser. That's not Harley's bias talkin', neither. She's been around the block, and nobody even comes close to comparing. Her Joker knows exactly what to do to drive her wild-starting with that bruising, forceful kiss. A bite to her lower lip, not so much requesting as demanding entrance. The minute her lips part, his tongue is flickering into her mouth, and she can feel him smiling against her. She loves him for it, the sheer delight he takes in breaking her down again and again and again. She is not expected to reciprocate the savagery of his kiss-in fact, he discourages it by holding her head still. He is her king, and he believes in a very base and vile form of conquering, and she is merely a receptacle for whatever he wants to give... And an offering of whatever he wants to take.
When it's over, Harley is a panting mess, but Mister J is as put-together and unflappable. As always.
He jerks his head ever so slightly to the right, an unspoken command for her to lose the clothes. She hastens to comply, and for a moment the only sounds in the world are those of the harlequin shucking her clothes, and the clown's even breathing.
"I won't use a gun. It's too impersonal. Too boring and predictable. Your death need not be funny, Pooh, but it must be... intimate." He won't put as much effort into ending her as he will with Batman. That's how it's always been. There is only room for one great love in the Joker's life, and that is the game. "The same goes for dynamite, explosives, anything of that ilk." The cold air prickles against Harley's skin, and she can't suppress a minute shiver. Her nipples harden; she bites her lip self-consciously, hiding behind her hair.
Mister J reaches out and caresses her right breast with the back of his hand, like he's reacquainting himself with it. He takes her nipple between his thumb and forefinger and rolls it as he speaks, ignoring Harley's squeaks and whines of pleasure. "I might choke you. One of these days, when we do it for play, I just... won't let go. See what little colour you have left leave your face, feel your pulse slow beneath my fingers, watch your eyes dull... I'd wear those leather gloves that you like, and leave you a parting gift of a lovely little strand of purple pearls." He giggles to himself, but doesn't clue her in on the joke. "The best part of it is, you'll let me do it. Sure, you might struggle at first... That's human instinct. But at some point, I know that you'll just stop. You'll surrender, and look up at me wif dose widdle baby blues, and you'll die with a smile."
The worst part of all of this, Harley muses as the clown's hand trails down to her stomach and elicits those delightful little shivers, is that he's right-and he knows that she knows it.
"Or, continuing in that vein, I might snap your neck." With his free hand, Mister J pantomimes a violent twisting motion, complete with cracking sound effects. His hand ghosts over her ribcage, and she can't help but whine. The tingle between her legs is becoming unbearable, but she knows better than to touching without permission. She grits her teeth against the arousal building in her stomach. "I could do it during one of those disgusting little embraces that you make me do every once in a while. Or while you're facing away from me. So many possibilities... And I'll have to make these decisions at a breakneck speed!"
Harley huffs out a laugh in between breathy moans. Mister J's smile simply grows wider at the noise, appreciating her dedication to his ego. As a reward, perhaps, his hand dips down to the insides of her thighs, making the muscles in her abdomen clench in the most dizzying way. She's getting close, and he hasn't even touched her where she wants it most.
"I would enjoy that," Mister J says, and his voice is thick with arousal. "Feeling your bones give way beneath my hands, knowing that I've done you the greatest deed I could."
"What's that?"
"I let you die thinking you're loved." He gives her a smirk and a blasé shrug, and suddenly she is clenching around nothingness and there is fluid gushing down her thighs and she is gasping for air as her pulse sounds in her ears.
"Mistah J!" she groans as her back spasms, and all she can hear is him laughing, and Harley knows that they are a long way from done.
There's only ever been one way that this could end. Harley knew that coming in, and she knows it now. One of these days, the Joker will kill her.
She doesn't really mind, and that's the truly disturbing thing. She's dedicated her life to him-of course he can end it whenever he pleases. And one of the only alternatives is living without him.
Harley'll die on that high of being by his side.
What more could she ask for?