She was red hot fury. Veins burning with a potent, vile rage, that had her fingers trembling, her heart hammering. She had screamed, cried, smeared her once immaculate make-up, thrown her favourite bottle of perfume and let Bud and Lou feast a frenzy on his extensive collection of footwear. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to wreck havoc on his and her belongings, pent up in the penthouse alone and stewing. She needed to see him - hurt him - just as he had been hurting her.
She didn't believe it at first. The newspaper article, the photo print, of none other than her puddin' stirring chaos in the city. And if she hadn't been admiring him so, she would of missed the most important detail, the thing that had made her blood boil and her jaw clench tight. As beside him stood a woman civilian, red-headed, red-lipped, wrapped up in his free arm, awfully, dreadfully, close to her one and only. And Harley squinted, further studied the photograph, donned her glasses, and had spotted then, how her puddin's hand was around the wench's wrist. How they were together admist the carnage. Together. How the snapshot had caught him in the act.
The lyin' cheatin' sleazy good fer nothin' son-of-a-bitch!
Harley tried to tell herself briefly, that it was purely coincidence. That the circumstance must have been different. It was funny if you'd been there - that kinda thing! To save herself the heartache. To try and stop the floods of tears that were prickling behind her searching eyes. It's not what it looks like, she told herself - not what it looks like MY ASS - and she couldn't stop her imagination running away, just like J had clearly been doin' with his HUSSY, parading around the town as they would do. Probably having taken his new squeeze to their local haunts too, kissing under neon lights, just like their kiss, arm in arm, once upon a dream. And captured in the lens, it was undeniable evidence! Not dissimilar to the many clippings that donned the wall of their bedroom. Harley's loving memoirs. HA HA HA. She seethed.
A few hours had been spent solely dedicated to tearing up said bedroom, since he was absent and she couldn't tear at his STUPID FACE. She'd screamed and screeched and sobbed so hard that it had pained her. Her chest splitting and heaving with anger and grief. She'd thrown herself onto their bed, only to throw herself back off again, and had fought with the sheets like a rabid animal, in the throes of her despair she had decided, there was no better time for revenge.
She couldn't let another minute pass by, leaving him to think and gloat on how he'd fooled her. Harley was no idiot, and she was going to prove to J just how quickly she'd caught him at his little game. And so, clad in nothing but a thin nightdress, mascara running, tiny heels, she took his favourite car and sped recklessly, dangerously, stupidly to his bar, accompanied by a small ball-hammer placed delicately upon the incriminating newspaper in the passenger seat.
Harley parked (horrifically!) with no care in the world of who or what she damaged, bumping three other vehicles and scoffing at the sound of paint peeling under pressure. She inched the car crunch-crunch-CRUNCHING into it's space. J loved that car. She loved J. Fortunately cars were much easier to fix than broken, battered hearts. And soon to be broken, battered bodies. She got out, SHATTERING the windscreen with one grand and gratuitous SWING! Laughing through hysterical tears, Harley stormed towards the back door of his club. Her heart bled, and his would too before the night was done.
The doorman, dressed like a clown, looked less of a fool than she was feeling. And she glared at the goon from behind watery eyelashes, demanding simply, "where is he?" Her tone was low, and with a fist around the handle of her hammer, had him stammering.
"Ahh - hey Quinn, you know - Jay don't want no visitors tonight -" his gloved hands were up in surrender to the scorned woman at his station.
"Why, is he fuckin' her?"
The clown's brows raised high at the question, the face-paint couldn't hide the confusion. But Harley didn't need clarification. He was fuckin' her. Just as they would do in the private intimacy of his office, when the simple order would circulate: Do not disturb.
"He is fuckin' her ain't he?"
"Woah - what? Look, Quinn, no offence to ya' really, you know we love ya', but this ain't the first time you've come knockin' with questions like this. This is Jay we are talkin' about here-"
What was his point? Yeah it was J she was talking about. Who else other than the cheatin' back-stabbin'-
"Look, Harley, I'll do you a favour and let you inside, but you can't tell the boss that I did."
So, Harley's most beloved was screwin' around on work time (quite literally!) couldn't this clown see she had more pressing problems to deal with, than his career concerns? "It'll be our little secret," she told him, barging through.
The thrumming of loud, steady music, the murmer of the punters, dancers, criminals and celebrities alike, ebbed through the brickwork and through to the back. Harley weaved through the narrow corridors, manned by all manner of lackeys, recieving nods of recognition and respect. This was, after all, just as much her place now, as his. They'd been together long enough that every door, every meeting, every nook, every cranny of Joker's nightclub was open and accessible to none other than the notorious Harley Quinn. It was their empire. No secrets. Or so he'd said. FUNNY GUY. Real funny.
Though anger spurred her onward to his office on the third floor, a feeling of utmost dread weighed heavy in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't prepared for the scene she was conjuring, and it bought with it more tears, more pain. So much pain! If the scarlet harlot was in there, with him, legs at his hips and back pressed against the desk - there would be a crimson crescendo before Harley was done.
She booted the door, one bold, brave move. Her breath hitched, crying, cringing, tensing for the moment her heart would be torn wide open. Her hammer poised to strike rested at her cheek and Harley charged into his office in one rapid movement, a manical mess spilling forth.
What Harley saw then, shocked her more than all of her impure imaginings. The Joker, her Mister J, the light and love of her life, sat, alone and contemplative. And he smiled at her, gladly, despite her unexpected entrance. A single brow raised as he noted her attire (or lack thereof) and cocked his head curiously at the weapon she was wielding.
"Harley, baby!"
He went to stand, arms wide and beckoning but Harley ignored him, bewildered, eyes darting the room, desperately seeking what she had been certain to find. Where was he keeping his floozy? Had the men given him time to usher her into a hidin'? Had he been warned? Prepared? Were there accomplices in this bitter and twisted betrayal?
"Looking for something?" Joker asked, and watched as she pulled open his wardrobe, tugging each and every suit jacket off of it's hanger and onto the floor. "Baby?"
"I'm lookin' for her!" She snapped, turning to shove the newspaper clipping into his face - "where are you hidin' her huh? You think I wouldn't find out?" Harley's breath was ragged and she shook with fury as he surveyed the article, squinting at the image therein.
J sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, "not this again -"
"Well?" she wanted an answer, or would find it herself! And took to pulling out the contents of his glass cabinets, knocking down vintage drinks and shattering tumblers. She began to work around him at his desk, unsheathing every drawer and emptying every last sheet of paper, every pen, every paperweight.
"Who do you think I'm hiding Harls, Tinkerbell?" He barked a laugh, but she could tell from his tone he wasn't amused. Funnily enough - neither was she.
Harley turned her warpath onto him - THIS AIN'T THE TIME FOR JOKES - and threw her hammer onto his desk, freeing her hands up to grapple at his throat. She took J by surprise and pinned him instantly, easily, pressing hard upon his adam's apple.
"Harls -" he choked, "sweetness, it's not- what you think!"
"Sure, it ain't Mister J!"
"I don't know - who she is!" His voice was high and cracking under the tightness of her grip. "Honestly - I was just - gonna kill her." It sounded like something J would say, it sounded a lot like somethin' he'd do too.
"Gonna?!" Harley searched his humoured features, even with her crushing his windpipe, he still smiled for her. "Is that before or after ya' decided to fuck?"
He blinked. "What? No - I didn't get to kill her - cause of - cause of the Batman." He gave a limp ( ing) shrug.
Funny. She had wanted to question his swollen lip and busted brow, and the purple, yellow hues that clouded around his bloodshot eyes. Her hold on him eased slightly, and her temper faltered.
"C'mon Harley, you know - I've only got eyes for you!"
How many times had she heard him say those words? And yet, every time, her heart skipped a beat. It skipped a beat now, no matter her anger, her hurt or embarrassment. She sniffled, and drew away from him. "Y-you really mean it?"
He ran a hand through the tangled matt of her hair, wiping a fallen tear with the soft pad of his thumb. "Harley, Harley, Harley," he tutted, "what am I gonna do with you?" He spoke with a soft endearment no matter her behaviour. He seemed to have some idea on what to do, however, planting a firm kiss upon her cracked lips.
She melted, despite herself, despite all her doubts and displeasures. Harley could not resist his gentle eyes and gentle touch. When he was with her, like this, in a way he was with no one else, she could not fight her endless and insatiable love for him. Anything goes.
Harley's wrath turned to wanting, and she flung herself into his arms, reciprocating his kiss with a fiery hunger. She was already fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, and he, his belt. Hell, maybe he could fuck the mania out of her. And could keep on, keep on, trying.
Neither of them bothered to get undressed, Harley's nightgown ridden up to her belly, as J swung her around and onto the desk, a cold hand pressed against the liquid flesh between her thighs. She gasped, giggled, and guided his palm against her pussy. She twitched, involuntary, as he slipped away two fingers and she rode against the curve of his wrist, having known, enjoyed always, the uncomplicated manner of their love-making.
His lips were at her ear, at her neck, and sent tingling pleasure to the tips of her toes, and she turned her head aside to give him more skin to traverse. He took a nipple in his mouth and shocked her with a sharp nip of his teeth. Harley thighs tensed, and she pulled him closer with the wrap of her legs. And he left small, peppered apologetic kisses all along her throat.
His fingers curved inside of her, a slow and deliberate motion, both frustrating and fulfilling, as she teetered on nearness of an orgasm. But it didn't come, she didn't cum - and she grinded harder, pressing on his hand with her own and eager to reach that level of ecstasy. PLEASE -
J removed his hand then, to fuck her instead with his cock. The sudden change of rhythm, sensation, fulfillness, sent her reeling from her first climax. She took a fistful of his hair and tugging. And he winced, but he did not stop, hooking one of her legs up and over his shoulder. Harley gasped against his open mouth, urging him to kiss her as deep as he was fucking her. Please just love me.
His hands were careful with her, compliant, calm. Cupping her face and kissing with a practiced tenderness. Harley, however, was fervent beneath him, clawing at his shoulders, she savoured every slightest touch.
When he was mad, he fucked like a madman, left bruises and marks in his wake, but when he was placid, he fucked with a deliberate, conscious care that was far more torturous, more delightful, more dangerous. And he refused to quicken his pace, or match hers, no matter how much she squirmed and rocked against him. He drew her pleasure out and out, until she were about to explode. That her pussy would ache with want even though it had got. That she would ride on the edge of climax after climax, until the extent of her pleasure turned into delirium, and all her thoughts were of fucking, of how good it felt, and how it was never going to end.
She just wanted him to choke her, slap her, do somethin' to wake her up from her haze of endless indulgence. And her body was shaken, shaking, from a countless string of orgasms. He muttered quiet nothings against her chest though she was too far gone to hear them. And Harley moaned in her many defeats beneath him.
His breath was ragged, rough, hot air against sore cheeks. His mouth lingered over hers, rewarding each of her long and lingering kisses with tiny pecks of his own. She was driven mad by the sparing contact, that only her pussy was being plowed, forcing her wave after wave, despite exhaustion, the agony, to cum.
Her thighs were slick with her own juices, and she clung to J as though her life depended on it. She wanted to stop - not to stop - to keep goin' - for him to let her go - her back arched and she pulled him inward, felt his cock nudge the tender hilt of her cervix. FUCK.
With her free leg, Harley trapped him, tight as she could against her hips, so that each thrust, deep or shallow, hit the same sweet spot that had her pussy soaking. She desperately wanted him to kiss her further, flick a breast with his tongue, or suck on her neck but he deliberately ignored each and every one of her erogenous places, except for her neck, and obviously her pussy, and a thumb gently teased from her clit, another painful (perfect) orgasm. She groaned for him to cum - PLEASE - she couldn't go on.
He fucked Harley harder, nudging her once to keep her from slipping away and into a state of total sensory overload. But she couldn't keep focus - another orgasm had her lower body rigid - and it hurt, so good, she cried out for him, her voice cracking.
She wasn't conscious when he came, and her limbs were limp and useless. Though J kissed her into rousing and helped to get her cleaned down and coherent. They both drank deep from a bottle of Jack, the only bottle she hadn't yet smashed. And luckily, since her thirst was immense after their intense bout of sex.
"You're the only one for me," he hushed against her hair, and after some time for decompression and many a softly spoken reassurances, J sent her on her merry way again. Face flushed and vibrant having had the fury fucked out of her system.
And a month passed by, another honeymoon period, after another, after another. And Harley sat, clacking away at her keyboard, browsing the internet, online shopping, and quickly reading the news - just in case she'd got a mention or two - and there, illuminated on the screen of Gotham City Network, was another photo of her Mister J, suited and booted, with a gun pointed to an older woman outside a large and lavish jewellery store, a dashing smile etched across his face. And Harley pondered, for a moment, the image in front of her. And had to stop, think, and quell her instant jealousy. This time she knew - just knew it was harmless. But was there also any harm in making sure of that? She turned to the ball-hammer on her left, and his office keys beside them, pressed print on the article and prepared for another round.