This fic is based on two pieces of art, which can be found through the following links:
www. livejournal .com/puregasoline/pic/00004xya
www. livejournal .com/puregasoline/pic/00003cfr
This is mature, friends. You have been warned (or perhaps teased? :D )
When J's ready, she's learned, he's ready.
Since he's the opposite of every man she's met before, she can barely tell that he's interested at all, banging on the door of the room as he is, not bothering to explain why. She used to care about these things, care about what was coming next and the how and the when, but if J's taught her anything, it's that he can't stand those who want to control something.
She's tried explaining that she doesn't want to control, but just know. It never goes well. She traces her scars while he bangs on the door, his fingers creaking in the tight-gloved fist. Through an excruciatingly fast series of events both bloody and exhilarating, they've ended up at a motel whose exact placement she doesn't even know – they could still be in the city, but she's spent so long looking down, eyes locking onto victim after victim, that it's never lately occurred to her to look up.
They're on the second floor. Below, cars pull up, people get out very briefly to talk and exchange suspiciously long handshakes, and then they're gone again. Men pull up and park, hastily taking women with no wifely appearances into rooms. Children wait in the backseat of some cars, looking out forlornly in the distance, like mother said she'd be right back but hadn't been seen for hours.
She's disgusted. These people don't deserve to live, but one crack upside their heads and she'd be the bad one. She cackles and is immediately shushed, a hand going over her mouth.
No answer at the door, and his fidgeting and sighing are forcing her to a breaking point. She goes into the standard bashing pose, one hand just beneath the head and one near the base of the handle, a pose associated with fighting, fucking, and now, smashing down doors. She swings it back, ready, but he catches her on the way forward, making her stumble.
He's smiling, and beneath it is an emotion that she'll continually deny is nervousness. She stares back, her stomach tightening deliciously, and she can hear what he doesn't need to say - if you do that, it's going to destroy what I had in mind for us, Harl.
She takes the sledgehammer from his grip and puts it back on its perch on the ground, leaning against it. With the next bang on the door, she watches his shoulders beneath the filthy jacket, broad and hunched, and licks her lips. She finally hears rustling inside the room, and can sense confusion. "What the fuck?"
J makes a face like he's surprised to have woken him, and she giggles. He bangs again, and she hears the man walking toward the door. "Jesus Christ, how hard is it to read do not disturb?"
The footsteps stop, and the door doesn't open. "What the hell do you want?" She can hear more rustling, like he's putting on clothing or shoes.
J starts to talk, but she takes over, making her voice shrill and heavily accented. "Mint for pillow?"
"What?" the man on the other side blurts out, and J's eyes are lit up in surprise and mirth. He's holding back giggles, seemingly forgetting what he'd been wanting to do instead, and she's urged on.
"You need more pillows?" she says, trying not to laugh at her own act. "Towels for bathroom?"
There's silence at first, like the unfortunate occupant is still trying to think of a way to respond, and J bangs on the door again to fill the gap. "Jesus Christ," she hears muttered again, "two-thirty in the goddamn morning and I've got the illiterate maid banging on the fucking d –"
He finally opens the door in mid-sentence, and J shoves him straight back into the room. She follows quickly, slamming the door behind them, and knows that now is the time to watch and learn. The occupant is young, his brown hair mussed with cowlicks and sleep, and he's shaking all over from what's probably a mix of fury and confusion.
The room has only one lamp, and she can only barely make out the ashen walls, stained chair and light blue coverings on the bed. The carpet doesn't look inviting, also stained and riddled with cigarette burns. It's a fitting environment for both the hopeless and the careless, and a man dumb enough to answer the door in the middle of the night here certainly fits the bill.
In a moment of weakness, she feels sorry for what's about to happen, but she figures that anyone staying here has either fucked up royally or given up hope. J is walking toward him, forcing him into a corner, and the man cries out, hands shaking. "What the hell?"
"We, ah, needed a room, but believe it or not, this little rathole is completely occupied," he says. "And, frankly, it's hard for me to get any sympathy, even with my dear pregnant wife here." He waves absentmindedly in Harley's direction, and she juts out her stomach, rubbing it and making a few moans of discomfort. Sledgehammer, knives, outfits and all, the man actually seems to believe him for one short moment.
"You…your wife…you need a room?"
"That's correct," J says, twitchy, flushed, and behind him she's already turned on, waiting for him to take care of this moron in their way. "I am truly sorry to have disturbed you at this time of the night, but the wife, she just can't take much more."
The man's worked himself out of the corner, and she and J are both following him now, giving the impression of walls closing in. "I…I'm sorry, but you can't…"
She takes the cue and moans again, going to sit on the creaky bed and letting the sledgehammer drop to the ground. J looks at her, a barely perceptible wink flashing at her, and she knows this man doesn't have much time now. He sighs heavily and keeps following him, his fingers working around the knife that he's taken from one pocket. The man spots it and tenses, looking around the room like he's got a weapon but unfortunately forgotten it, leaving himself vulnerable to the two intruders. "Please don't kill me."
J tsks and twirls the knife in his hand, glancing at her and giving a fake look of reassurance. "Oh, honey, you don't want me to kill him, do you? You just need a place for tonight."
"Oh, just a place to rest my feet," she wails, rubbing her empty belly. The tension's building, knotting, filling her up, and she's itching to finish the man off. She watches J, nervous energy bundled up and she knows that he wants her, though the game they play is always bloody and interminable.
Any trust the man had in their crude story is gone, and he's trying to keep J at arm's length, grabbing his bicep before the knife can get closer to him. "Just back the hell off – I'll call the police, I swear to god."
J cackles, and the man winces at the sound. "Call them to do what?" He looks at her briefly to get a smile. "What is it that they say about the police? I always forget."
She stands up and takes the sledgehammer, giving the dead man her darkest look. "When seconds count," she says, "the police are only minutes away."
"Christ," the man whispers, shuddering and holding back a sob. "Just go, please, whoever the fuck you are!"
"We're not leaving," J says, "but I doubt you want to stay for this."
The man's face drops in relief, like he thinks he's about to be kicked out instead of killed, but J suddenly has him against the wall, knife pressed tightly against his sweaty throat. He chokes, trying to wriggle out but just manages to slice his skin instead, the blood trailing down to his undershirt.
"Please don't kill me," he whines, sobbing openly now, "I'll leave, you can have it, I swear to g-"
J snaps his fingers and her reaction is instant, swinging the sledgehammer back and then into the man's knee. He screams, the sound drowning out the sickening crack, and he falls from J's grip. The knife skirts along his face as he falls, slicing a stubbly cheek. When he hits the ground he's moaning, trying to clutch both his leg and his face as she and J hover over him.
"Oh, god," he sobs, his shirt soaked in blood. He can't stand, though he tries, his leg buckling and crunching beneath him. She looks at J. He's shrugging out of his long jacket, those broad shoulders teasing her again while she waits, eager to finish the man off. J doesn't like it when he can't get the last laugh in, despite her skill at delivering a fatal blow.
J tosses the jacket to the floor and cracks his neck back and forth. She shudders, the unbearable tingle going through her. Even if this is quick, what's coming next won't be.
He kneels down before the man and puts the blade of his knife in the corner of their victim's mouth, smiling. She gazes at both of them, the man's sweaty brown hair to J's limp chartreuse straw, the rumpled underclothes to the meticulously tailored suit, and the look of anguished desperation to that of utter confidence. She loves seeing him like this, his every action setting him apart from the men who aren't worth her time. He pulls the knife harder against the corner of the man's mouth, a chuckle rumbling in his belly, and her fingers are twitching on the handle.
He licks at his lips and works his jaw, and she senses another story coming forth. She doesn't want to wait for that formality this time, already wet and ready, and in the end, the only scar story that she knows to be true is the one surrounding her own.
Like he can already hear it, he looks at her and smiles. "I, ah, think I've had my fill of this one, Harl."
Swinging the sledgehammer again, she's smashing the man's face as J falls back to avoid shards of jawbone and teeth. Blood covers the man, the floor and J's front, staining and immediately darkening fabric and skin. The face is crushed and bloody, his throat cut and hands twitching – there was no scream that time.
She and J look at each other, and she laughs, still holding the slippery and heavy weapon. "A shame," she says, flipping the sledgehammer over so that the head's resting on the floor. "It didn't have to be that way."
"If only he'd had a bit more sympathy," J says, standing up. Their victim's gurgling, muscles torn and bones crushed, and they ignore him like he's dirt on the floor, barely noticeable without close inspection. She watches his fingers flip the knife, making it dance between his knuckles and she's finally just got to pin him down with sharp, biting kisses, tearing at the scars while he grunts, pulling her against him. Hours of practice have taught them both that there's no point in doing something if it's not done well or thoroughly, and she knows she'll be well-used by the end of this.
He's so close that it hurts, his hipbones and knees and other things hard digging into her and she can't push back, instead digging her nails in tight until he does the same, tearing at tender flesh. He's warm and moving and strong and demanding, his mouth devouring hers and she feels the scars rub together briefly, dead and mangled skin somehow feeling everything. This man has consumed her figuratively and nearly literally, twisting her brain and making her think and do things she thought outside of the spectrum of human emotion and ability, just doing and feeling and laughing. There's no time to ponder or weigh. No time, no need. She finds that she doesn't mind, for being without him and normal is worse than being with him and deranged.
She thrusts against him before she can restrain herself, and he laughs into her ear, hot and wet. Each time that she steps it up, he pushes back, the bastard, always laughing at the flush in her face while she's clawing at him. He grabs her hip and thrusts back, laughing deep in his belly where she can feel it. She moans, takes his face and kisses him again, forcing herself into stale breath, dry skin and clumping paint – it's been a long night.
His hand is moving beneath her blouse, fingers just working under her tight bra to graze the nipple and she's lifting herself into the embrace when it's quite clear that their victim is still not quite dead, shaking and feebly attempting to lift himself from the ground. She grunts in frustration – how could he be so rude – and falls against J, sighing. He makes a small sound of annoyance and shoves her off.
She can feel her face heating up, sweating, and she wants this man to die, quickly, painfully, now. J's roughing him up, yelling and dragging his near-corpse across the floor. She kicks at what's left of his face, the shrill howl ringing in her ears and she doesn't care, just desperate to rid the room of this stupid intruder. There's blood everywhere, against the wall and smearing the carpet, and her heels slide a bit in the fluid while she's watching J work. He kneels down, grabs a wrist and cracks.
A gurgled scream comes out, nearly silenced by ruined muscles and vocal chords, and she shivers all over. J does know how to do it right. There's still that moaning, and she gets up to grab the phone, hammer out of reach. One, two, three, four whacks with the receiver, and the moaning stops.
He looks up at her, face sweaty, and she knows to come down to help, shoving the man's broken body under the bed. If he won't die, he surely can't be allowed to watch. There's still breath, rattling and wheezing, and she finally tires of moving him even though the hands, bloody and crooked, still peek out from the stained bed skirt.
Frustrated, she grabs at J again, hands on his cheeks while she explores the inside of his mouth, his tongue thick and pushing back at her. When she has to come up for breath, she starts to stare down at the bloody mess beneath, J's pants soaked with red and his shoelaces dripping. There's barely any sound in the room now, no moaning or fighting or even the sound of an irritated occupant to the left of the right, banging on the wall to tell them to keep it down.
On their knees, facing each other, it hits her again just how much she loves him.
Swift, nimble, he buries his face in her neck to bite and kiss as he pops open her blouse impatiently. Their arms are tangling as she tries to undress him at the same time, yanking his tie so that it tightens briefly before loosening, stealing his breath from him. He bites her harder for that and tears open her bra, chuckling as he takes a mound of the flesh in his hand, her moan all the encouragement he needs.
J is by no means gentle or considerate, she knows, but he is the only man she's ever known to cling to her so tightly, and to make it so clear that she's not going anywhere. Loved, warm, safe, she clings back, eyes closed as he explores every inch of her body with gloved hands. He's unzipping her skirt, working it down her hips and trailing his hands over the flesh exposed, moving so close between her legs but then swiping past, her whole body shaking and wanting and ready. He kisses, going deep and then pulling away, planting them on her cheek instead. He stays there, forehead resting against hers, and she barely wants to move for fear of ending it.
He kisses her ear, gives one barely perceptible flick between her legs, and she's soon tearing at her boots, peeling the hot leather away from her calves after unzipping the sides. He's still too well-clothed, too much flesh covered by pinstripe and silk, but he's not yet interested in anything but stroking her, it seems, her lower half now completely naked. He pins her arms to her sides, predicting the next move and licks her instead, his tongue trailing from her navel to the valley between her breasts, sighing when he can pillow his head against them.
She wants so badly to start this, have him inside her as her legs wrap around him and she can draw him in deep, but she puts her hand in his hair instead, keeping him close to her.
He suddenly bites her and she's back in the moment, pushing him down and fighting back. He laughs, slipping in blood, and to her continual frustration and sudden amusement he starts to draw with it. She holds onto him, grinding against his leg as she rests her head on his shoulder, staring in wonder at what's got his attention now.
DO NOT DISTURB. He laughs, the gleeful kind where he's not even opening his mouth, and the childlike amusement in such a gruesome task is unsettling enough to bring a new rush of warmth to her, ricocheting off every nerve when she straddles his leg and grinds as hard as she can. He keeps drawing as she clutches him, hips grinding against his leg and side while she works a hand beneath his shirt, feeling the scarred, hot skin beneath. There's blood all over his gloves as he continues writing, the words spilling out without a filter, the product of a mind overflowing with thought and emotion. He's drawing hearts in between questions, laughter in between admonishment, hugs and kisses in between the broken hands peeking out from beneath the bed.
She thinks she's about to come when he draws the heart with an arrow, drawing out her name with long strokes inside the heart, and proclaiming Harley Loves Me. It's not a question, and it's not a guess. She moans against him, almost there when he shoves her off with a laugh, cruel and playful. Taking the lead, she struggles to her feet and climbs onto the bed, tearing off the last of her clothes in the vain hope that they might finally begin for real.
He laughs and smacks one bare ass cheek as she flops on the bed, mussing the blankets, silently pleading with him to come down and join her. He smacks her again, the flesh heating up, and plants a few kisses there, sucking and biting and burrowing his face into the soft skin like he's already trying to get inside of her. One hand moves up and down her thigh while he picks up her white jacket, his gloved hands staining it with red before he tosses it to the chair across the room.
Completely nude now, she simultaneously winces and wriggles while he's exploring her. There's barely a second to blink in between each kiss and stroke and squeeze, and she cries out fully when he slips a finger into her. He pushes in and up, pressing the one spot that makes her practically freeze with ecstasy, and she tears at his hair, impatient. Her nipples are next, quickly bitten and then soothed with a blood-red tongue, the cold air bringing goose bumps all over. She pulls on his lapels to bring him closer, needing his warmth both physically and mentally, and she could cry when he strokes her inside and kisses her, for once not forcing anything more.
She actually yells at him when he suddenly gets up. "J!" she cries, frustrated, giving up and stroking herself as his back is turned. He's distracted, far too occupied with something other than her, and she barely knows what he's doing as he yanks the phone cord from the wall. In his haste, he bumps the lamp, and he barely catches it before it crashes to the ground. He turns and looks at her, gaze drawn between her legs as she strokes and teases herself, daring him to come back.
He coughs, like he's embarrassed, and coughs again. "One, uh, minute," he says, walking away from the bed and to the door. She squeals when she feels air from the outside come in, the door now wide open to the world outside, and covers herself with the thin blanket.
"What are you doing?"
He turns and gives her a real smile, holding a dog-eared and entrail-stained Do Not Disturb sign. "Wouldn't want anything to get in the way of this, would you, Harl?"
She huffs. "You're doing a fine enough job yourself."
He giggles and shoves the sign onto the door handle before slamming it shut. "You," he begins, rolling up his sleeves, "have never learned patience." He's standing above her now, looking even more domineering as she lays beneath him, vulnerable to whatever's brewing in that head. She strokes one breast while teasing her clit with the other, sending the message that if he's not going to make up his mind, she'll gladly start the party on her own.
She hears him drop to the ground on his knees, and his hands are on hers now, spreading her legs apart. She scoots forward to get closer, moaning as he kisses her inner thighs, hot breath and wet lips getting closer until he's finally there. The feel of his tongue is too strong at first, making her cry out, and she holds back a sob, trying to endure it. His nose bumps her clit and she pushes forward, trying to rest her calves on his shoulders. He's licking and sucking, probing his tongue into her while she strokes her belly and breasts, her cheek pressed to the sheets while her muscles shake, struggling to cope with every sensation.
His nose bumps again and finally he kisses her clit, sucking the sensitive tip into his mouth, all of that nervous energy finally contained and concentrated as he flicks it, tonguing and swirling while she kicks and flails, crying out. He repeats the same motion over and over, drawing her closer and she can feel herself get more wet as he strokes her thighs, burying his face deeper into her scent.
She's almost numb when he finally changes the rhythm, licking and sucking around her entrance. His tongue slips in briefly, making her gasp, and he replaces it quickly with a finger, then two. She feels like she's a step behind each movement, her brain latching onto a sensation just before he changes it again. This time, he's tonguing her clit while thrusting two fingers in and out, drawing her closer and closer until she finally has to pull away – he'll never let her live it down if she ends her part now.
He stands up – on shaky knees, she notices, trying not to giggle – and hastily undoes the buttons of his vest, not tearing his gaze away from her. She struggles in getting up and finally manages a sitting position, watching him toss the vest into the half-open nightstand drawer. When he begins to take off the shirt, she kisses each inch of flesh as it's exposed, lingering over scars and weals while the muscles vibrate beneath her lips. The suspenders graze her scalp as he shoves them off, and the shirt soon joins the vest in the drawer.
He draws her so close that she nearly falls off the bed, her face pressed against his cock, hard and pulsing underneath the fabric. She's stroking his hard thighs, never content with how close they are no matter how much they try, and she works the zipper of his pants while he's removing one shoe with the other. When they're both off, he throws them aside, shaking while he shucks off his pants. She can't stop kissing, licking and working at the waistband of his boxers, and it's obvious he's standing on two wobbly feet.
She licks the line of hair between his navel and his waistband, stroking the outline of his cock through his boxers. He tangles a hand in her hair through the pseudo-handjob, groaning when she grabs his ass and works the muscle. A few more seconds and she's rubbing herself again, wet in anticipation of everything he's about to do to her, and he has to force her to lean back when he's ready to remove the rest of his clothes.
He kicks off the boxers, and she's immediately got his cock in hand, grabbing the base and licking the head while he momentarily stumbles. She teases, fluttering her tongue against the head while stroking him in a slow, tight grip, pulling a groan out of him as he pulses in her hand. He grabs her by the hair again to force her to take more, and she sighs around him, every inch hot and hard and yet still soft, the delicate skin lightly grazed by her teeth on each stroke. She's just shy of choking with each one, and a small sound on her part leads him to back off slightly. Her hands flail, resting on his ass, hipbones, thighs, before stroking the patch of hair above his cock, her tiny fingers trailing through the wiry thatch.
She needs to breathe, so she backs off, letting him slip slowly from the warm haven of her mouth. When her head's no longer swimming, she kisses and licks him again, tasting musk and precum on the hot flesh. After a few seconds, he's pushing her back away, coaxing her further onto the bed.
Before she can adjust, he's covering her body with this, his cock and every joint and hard bone pressing into her, filling her everywhere but where she needs it most. They're crying out against each other, his groans rumbling while she sighs and moans, urging him onward. Fingers dance over sweaty flesh and he flips her onto her side, pressing his cock against her back. She can feel every vein and thinks that he must be so hard it hurts, and grinds against the bed, feverish with lust. He kisses her back, neck, caressing her breasts before squeezing and rubbing.
She's hot, wet, ready, can't wait, and takes his hand so that he's rubbing her clit again, teasing it before rubbing her wet folds, keeping her ready before he finally enters her. She thrusts against his hand and sobs openly, needing it like she's never imagined, loving him like she never thought it possible.
He lifts her thigh, his hand so hot against her skin, and teases her entrance with the head of his cock, laughing when she moans. He slides along her folds, holding her painfully tight with his arm beneath her, and she urges him on with half-words and pleas. She needs it now, she's not complete without this man inside of her, this man so misunderstood yet so powerful and confident that everyone else seems pathetic. His fingers dance over her folds while his cock is so close to entering her, and if even one more second goes by, she knows she'll burst.
He thrusts into her suddenly, forcing her to spasm and accommodate him, and she cries out in sheer relief. Once he's in, he can't stop teasing her by going slow, too slow, pulling out nearly the entire way and then shoving back in again, laughing each time she grunts and shivers. Normally he might speak, taunt or try to mock her, knowing she's under his spell, but he seems to sense the urgency and kisses her cheek, giving her respite at least this once.
She clutches at the sheets, his hips connecting solidly with hers, and his fingers are warm on her clit as they rock together, forgetting the surroundings, the blood, the degenerates outside and the dead man beneath them. The mattress creaks, expelling dust and other things she can't even begin to contemplate with J against her, filling her up until it almost hurts. He hasn't let up his grip, holding her so tight that she's beginning to have trouble breathing, and her gasps become a mixture of pleasure and asphyxiation while he thrusts, ignorant of whatever discomfort he's bringing.
She knows that he doesn't mean to, of course, it's only a momentary action brought on by passion, and she endures it, pushing back into him. Heavily expelled breath moves the sheets beneath her, and when she tries to press her face to the pillow he's pulling her back, twisting her breast painfully. The brief release of the grip allows her to take one deep breath before he's clutching her again.
He never lets her forget that she's his. That she's him.
The game that they play somehow manages to be both predictable and spontaneous – she knows what he'll do, but the reason always seems to be different, and the method is often even crueler. He'll keep her on the edge until she's sobbing into the pillow, her resolve broken. She's always just convinced herself that she's as hardened, insane and malicious as he, but he certainly never sobs like this, or lets himself be taken as she does every time.
Try as she might, she fails, and she doesn't even know why it's so important to succeed.
He grunts, she cries out, and he suddenly pulls back, leaving her cold and wanting. She hides another sob beneath a growl, and he laughs behind her, tugging painfully on her hair like he's trying to spark the fight in her. She's learned that he both hates and loves when she does what he wants, and she's long since given up bothering to stay on the thin line in between. She doesn't know if he's done this to anyone else, and doesn't plan to find out, but when everyone else in his path winds up dead, she's not going to risk tampering with whatever reason he has for keeping her alive.
She tells herself that he keeps her so tight because he can't live without her, but she's not so sure that's a compliment to her.
He tugs at her hair again and she flips around, punching him soundly in the jaw. He only needs a second to recover, and is soon laughing at her, mocking, daring her to try it again. She settles for a slap, long fingernails making a point of scratching the scars, making it as painful as she can. He does hiss at that, lunging at her while she jumps back, heart missing a beat. She's quickly consoling herself , saying that the revenge will be bad but the eventual reward so sweet, and he'll never – of course he won't, no – kill her.
Her head smacks the headboard and he won't give her a moment's rest before holding her down, twisting the arm with the hand that scratched him so, pinning it down so that she can only flail at him with the other. She kicks up, just missing his erection, and he laughs harder.
"Harley…you wouldn't really want to hurt me there, would you?"
His smile, the real smile, is so sweet, and she's rendered helpless by his charm. Oh, her J.
She makes a soft noise and turns her head, exposing a neck covered with faded bruises and broken capillaries, and waits for him to calm. After a few seconds, his weight gets heavier as he lays against her.
She lets him explore, jittery hands skipping and jumping over bare flesh. She wiggles and jumps, each movement a surprise even though she's watching him. When he reaches her face, his eyes nearly shut completely, as if he's trying to heighten the sensation of her scars beneath his skin. Her eyes begin to flutter closed just looking at him, and it's like he's completely overwhelmed by the idea of what he's done to her. She hadn't asked for it but hadn't stopped it, slowly falling and becoming convinced, inch by inch, that it needed to be done, that she was destined to be just like him, that she was special, the only one even close to understanding the world in the way that he did.
He wants to experience it again, she knows – the sensation of taking her over and laying claim to what he's entitled. She's at peace with the fact, and would have it no other way.
He leans down and kisses her gently, his grip on her wrist tightening. She's motionless, letting him take the lead, grateful that she doesn't have to do anything. When they kiss it's like the wrong ends of a magnet trying to press together, repulsing each other until sheer brute force overrides nature. It's terrible, all of it, the both of them amplifying every single negative quality of the other until it's positive (though a small nugget of sanity is screaming out that there's nothing positive about them at all). She breathes out against him, smelling his breath, his teeth, the sweat tracking his makeup, and it's the sweetest aphrodisiac she could imagine.
A kiss to her cheek, and it's getting far too mushy for her. When he's still hovering over her, she digs the nails of her free hand into his side, forcing eye contact. "Stop screwing around," she demands, and his responding groan brings a delicious grin to her face.
He flips her over, grabs her hips, and she goes on all fours, sighing helplessly when he tugs at her hair, his throbbing erection pressing into her. They're so alike, so in sync, so melded together that it's painful to be apart, and the cries that escape her when he's stalling behind her reflect the utter agony of separation. She's convinced they're the same, two souls split apart and sewn roughly back together, messy scars and blood the product of a hasty reunion.
He finally takes her hard, not waiting for her to stretch and accommodate him before thrusting roughly. She hides a sob, then moans genuinely, gasping when he strokes that spot within her. His hands don't leave her hips while he pounds, and her arms start to shake from the force of staying on all fours. He's not talking, forgoing mocking and taunting, the dry slap of skin replacing speech. She claws at the sheets, her breasts starting to ache just a bit, and she curves her back like a cat, reveling in every feeling he's bringing to the surface.
He slows a bit and she takes that moment to grab the headboard, needing balance, and he follows when she moves just those few inches. The momentary lack of thrusting leaves them both breathless, wanting, and she nearly screeches when he starts up again. The headboard's banging the wall as he thrusts roughly, bones colliding and bringing more pain than pleasure. She's been with men before, of course, but she can never remember feeling everything this much, like J's finally giving her something after taking everything. Her skull connects with the headboard and J doesn't even stop, laughing instead.
His nails on her hips are just pure pain now, and she coaxes him to knead her breasts instead, sighing happily when he caresses them, the pressure alleviated. He pinches and works and strokes while she clenches her muscles around him, smiling when he groans. The slow thrusting and pleasuring leaves them both quieter, the bed making only small squeaks, their breath slowing.
Her arms are starting to ache, and she pushes back. He's thick and solid and strong behind her and it's not easy to coax him away from her warmth, but he finally slips out and she feels the bed shift as he sits back. She turns and he's watching her, working his mouth like he tends to do, and the action almost always succeeds in drawing pity. He wasn't born like this, it's not his fault, and she's the only one with empathy. When she gets close enough, she reaches out to touch his foot, his skin still so hot against hers.
She strokes his skin, locks her gaze onto his, and explores, feeling every hair and scar and imperfection. They're so alike that she knows what's coming with each second, where he will twitch and jump, where he will say he's not ticklish even though a real smile tugs at his face, where he'll be rendered helpless when she even dares to pass her hands over him. Her hands are going over his thighs, nails digging in briefly to make sure he's paying attention, leaving faint half-moon marks on taut muscle.
He's shuddering ever so slightly when she makes a point of not touching him there, stroking the sharp angles of his hipbones instead. At his side, pressing her palm above his heart, she smiles when she feels it pounding. Over him, she can still see the limbs of the dead man from underneath the bed skirt, stiff in rigor mortis. But J's alive, nervous, surprisingly patient and undeniably erect.
She can't get close enough to him. He doesn't touch back when she kisses him, pushing their faces together painfully, but she barely notices. She moves to his cheek and trails her tongue over the scar, thick and braided, and slips her tongue into his ear. He jumps at that and she sucks on the lobe, grunting when he finally touches her thigh. One hand moves up her thigh to her sex, so close that she's shaking, and she plants a few last kisses over his face before she has to turn away.
The room's at a suffocating level of hot now. J's clawing at her, turning her this way and that and she just does as he directs, moving around and then back, the sheets popping off the corners of the bed. Leftover blood is trailing and being ground into the sheets with their movements, and the coppery smell is an intoxicating accompaniment to J's sweat and musk, far more prominent now. He's flat on his back, legs spreading, and she stumbles a bit, falling onto him and leaving bloody handprints.
They're facing opposite directions, her straddling his face, and he breathes out hotly against her moist folds. She tries to find a comfortable position, kneeing him a few times before they can both reach the appropriate parts, and knows she'll have to hurry before he gives up, tossing her aside in frustration.
She finally takes him in her mouth as he slides his tongue along her folds. After only seconds, he's practically feasting on her, enthusiasm peaked while she tries to take in more of him, squeezing and stroking what she can't fit in her mouth. She rocks her hips when she feels only the bare edge of his tongue against her clit, trying to seek out more. His hips thrust at the same time and she stops stroking his length, caressing his balls and squeezing to give just the right amount of pain.
They finally reach a rhythm and he pushes her off.
Keyed up, sweating and pissed off, she kicks him in the face.
Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach, but he's only briefly clutching at his nose. She quickly realizes, should have known, feels stupid for not being aware that he loves every moment that she's frustrated or angry, ready to take her revenge. Anyone else would have taken his teasing with gentle good humor, but that's not what he wants.
She can't take much more. The room is sweltering, dust floating in the air between and the blood still sticky on the sheets, decorating their bodies as they play, tease and fondle. She feels so engorged that it's itchy and painful, needing him inside for just a few moments more to bring her to completion.
But she knows he'll test her just one iota more.
"Harley," he finally says, breaking the silence that she had been too distracted to notice was even there, "are you, ah, ready to begin the foreplay, now?"
She slams her head back onto the pillow, her howl of frustration mirrored by his uncontrollable giggles, and she knows he's broken her again. She dares to look at him, his makeup half gone and smeared, and he makes a show of licking his lips. Oh, she wants more of that, but she knows that his tongue will be rough and jittery, just begging her to lose control.
In one more second he's on his front, his face buried between her legs, and she can feel tears streaming down her face, joy and agony fighting for superiority. She undulates, twists, thrusts, jumping around because she doesn't want it to end this way, for reaching it without him inside her feels so cold and incomplete.
Her gasps get higher and she can feel every sign of it coming. It can't be. Won't be. With all of her remaining strength, she bucks up, not caring that she's smacking his nose again.
Before he can react, she's ordering him to sit so she can straddle him. His eyes are dark, would be even without the black smeared around them, and she feels tingly all over with the power she's currently wielding. She sinks down onto his length, the painful void within her finally filled.
Though he'll never admit weakness, she knows he's ready for the end as well, his breathing ragged while she rides him. She clutches at his shoulders, leaving bloody marks while she works feverishly to her own completion. Breasts bouncing, aching, her thighs shuddering from long exertion, she knows this will be a good one.
In her frenzy, she doesn't mind his growling and resistance, and even despite it she knows that hatred mixes in with their love, always brewing beneath the surface. One and the same, each flaw complements every point of pride, and when the flaws meet, it's like acids and bases.
He tugs at her hair. She hisses, working away from the hand, and undulates against him, moving one of her own hands from his shoulders to rub her clit, almost almost there. She knows she's sweaty, dirty, smelly, but doesn't care, so close that she's almost left her body. His hands go to her waist and he kneads his knuckles into her hips. It builds, getting more intense, spreading outward in near-release and she presses her entire self against him while he thrusts up harder and harder and she throws her head back, clutching the back of his until –
She screams, the sound ripped from her throat while she keeps her hold on him, her entire body shuddering and spasming and it's so wet, the intensity of her release undulating in waves that nearly hurt with each crash. He's groaning and shaking, his length being massaged by the spasms inside of her, and she cries out again when she feels his release come. He stills her shuddering hips to bury himself as far as he can, and she doesn't know if it's ever going to end.
When it finally does, she falls back, every muscle in her body still shaking. She's experiencing every emotion at once, ecstasy and sadness and contentment and trepidation, but she won't act on any of them, feeling like it's a struggle just to breathe. J's face is slack, his eyes fluttering shut as he slowly crawls forward to stretch out beside her.
They both lay there, truly exhausted, mindless of the disarray around them and the authorities most likely headed in their direction. She knows they should go but she couldn't move unless someone worked her limbs for her. J won't cuddle and won't let her rest, this much she can expect, but tonight has to be different.
After a few long moments punctuated by heavy breathing, J is slowly sitting upright and then swinging his legs over the side of the bed. She doesn't know how he can even move, let alone start reaching for his clothes, and starts talking while closing her eyes. "J, we don't have to…"
"Gotta move, Harl," he grunts, turning and pulling up his boxers. She's at least grateful that he doesn't immediately want to have a tumble again, but still can't imagine getting up. He straps his knife to his thigh while she watches and yawns.
She's jolted awake when he sits down on the edge of the bed again to pull on his socks. She smirks when he yanks them up tight and stretches out his leg to wiggle his toes in the air, then attaches the tiny garters, an archaic accoutrement but one perfectly fitting with the rest of his ensemble.
He finally turns around when he realizes that she hasn't yet made a move to get out of the bed, and frowns. "Harley. Get up."
He's already angry, already impatient. She still doesn't move except to touch his hand. "I can't."
He lets out his breath in an angry whoosh and stares at her. "We're going to be late."
She doesn't even remember what they have to do next, and still doesn't care for having everything so goddamned planned and organized. "They can wait."
She feels him get up in a huff and peeks one eye open to watch him try to continue dressing, attaching his suspenders to his boxers in haste and pulling on his gloves before he even starts on pants and shirt. She giggles at the unintended comedy act and stretches out.
J looks at her, gaze traveling over her sweaty face, sticky thighs and flushed skin, and she fixes her most pleading look back at him. "I'll just stay here, then."
She turns onto her side, tugging the stained blanket up to her waist and closing her eyes. Her heart's still pounding, preparing for the inevitable burst of rage that will come as a result of her disobedience. There's shuffling, grumbling, and finally the bed sinks a bit with his weight. His back is to her when her eyes open, and her heart pounds this time with something else. Her J is erratic, vicious and hardened, but no one will convince her that he doesn't also love her.
He starts to turn, and she closes her eyes again before he can see that she's still awake. The bed shifts and creaks as he lies beside her, knees bumping hers while he finds a position. She can feel his face close to hers, stale breath on her cheek, and she makes a small noise when the sharp point of his elbow digs into her side.
She feels a tug on her hair and realizes that he's playing with it, the sharp smell of blood still lingering on his gloves. He keeps doing it until she's moments from real sleep, his breath still filling her nostrils and the light from the lamp bright behind her eyelids. The bed creaks again when J turns over. It starts to shake and it's disconcerting enough to force her eyes open again, wondering what he's up to now.
He's on his knees, marking the headboard with fresh blood whose origin she doesn't know – the bed, the floor, the gloves themselves, perhaps. She smiles at the new show of childish wonder and marvels again at the contrasts contained in just one man. The headboard clunks against the wall when he comes back to lay beside her, and she doesn't have the energy to turn and see what he's done.
More soon than she would have guessed, she hears a snore and throws her left arm across his back, snuggling closer, taking advantage of his warmth now, during one of the few times that she can. She tangles her legs with his and finally drifts into sleep.
When she wakes up a few hours later, she realizes it's the first time she's the one watching him.
Now she's the one getting up, dressing in a hurry, tossing on blood-stained clothing while stepping around the cold blue arms peeking out from the bed. Her boots are smearing the writing on the carpet while she shakes J awake. "J, we gotta go."
He moans and turns his face away from her like a petulant child, and she lifts up one leg to poke him in the back. "Thought we had someone to meet, dear." Damned if she knows what they've got in store – plans are J's territory, and not knowing the moves at least adds some excitement to the concept of a plan. Knowing him, the room will soon be filled with henchman and slack-jawed brawn, staring googly-eyed at her while J begins plotting their swift death. She imagines a wet splatter of blood, smiles, and pokes J again. "Hey, you, what's next?"
The sun's peeking through the shreds of curtain on the streaked window, lending a strange reality to the room that unsettles her. They both prefer the night and while she can't see the point of leaving now, they're already probably well behind. He's still not moving, so she snaps the suspenders against his back, making him jump. "Let's go!"
He slowly sits up and balances on his elbows, looking to the window and then to her. He works his jaw before speaking. "And, ah, do what, exactly?"
She swings the sledgehammer back and forth like a pendulum and puts on her most impatient face. "Whatever was so important last night."
He coughs and stretches, clasping his hands behind his back and then shaking his head. She tries her best not to huff more, even though he's still not making any move to get up. He turns to her, his cheek resting on the pillow. "It can wait."
He reaches out to stroke her thigh, moving his hand quickly up and she doesn't need much encouragement, falling back down onto the bed and crawling on top of him. His hands are beneath her skirt, stroking as he kisses her disheveled hair and glowing face, and she starts to mentally prepare for another round –
There's a sharp knock on the door. She sighs in frustration, straddling J, his erection pressing up between her thighs underneath the fabric of his boxers. He makes a nod of his head in the direction of the door and gives her the look.
She licks her lips, and he groans.
When she opens the door, sledgehammer in the action grip, the maid hardly seems fazed. "You need sheets changed?"
Harley takes the battered sign from the door, stained with blood, and gives the maid her most menacing glare. "Can't you read?"