CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Week Fifty-Two: Session #102 – The Joker
The Joker had ants in his pants.
He'd been such a good boy. Really. It had been years since he'd killed – or even maimed – anyone. Or maybe it was only months. He wasn't sure, exactly, how much time had passed since he began playing with Doctor Quinzel – time was such an abstract concept that he didn't bother overmuch with it unless it could do him some service – but at any rate, it felt like years. Or how he imagined years would feel if he paid real attention to them.
He was very proud of himself. Really, it just went to show exactly what a fellow could accomplish once he put his mind to something.
Especially when that something had been so delightful a diversion as Doctor Quinzel.
After all, anyone could maim, murder and mutilate, he told himself. Killing was easy, once you found out how much fun it was.
But what he'd done with Doctor Quinzel – now that was a true tour-de-force. Not everyone – not anyone could so deliciously twist and distort a sweet, tender little mind in the fashion that he had with hers. He couldn't wait until Batsy found out. Not yet, though, not yet. He wasn't quite done with his masterpiece and he wanted her to be absolutely perfect. And she was bound to be useful, very, very soon.
But – but when the world did find out…
It made him giggle and squeeze his toes at the thought. When the world found out, what things they would say about him then!
And Batsy would absolutely blow his biscuit!
Nonetheless. The Joker had ants in his pants.
And Doctor Quinzel wasn't helping. Not when she sat there, with her pretty white throat and her adoring blue eyes, and her lovely blond hair.
He imagined wrenching back on that hair, pulling it out at the roots, pushing her eyes out with his thumbs and strangling her as the sockets gushed blood.
He shifted uncomfortably on the couch as the guards exited. How much longer could he trust himself with her? He really, really wanted to show her off to the Dork Knight, but he wasn't sure if he was going to make it that far! A horrible yearning sensation was coiling in the pit of his stomach, making him feel sharp and furious with need.
He imagined her throat collapsing beneath his thumbs, the way his laughter would ring in her dying ears, biting her cheeks and tongue as she sweetly expired.
And she would expire so sweetly. Of that he was sure.
Doctor Harley was peering at him curiously, noting the tension that riveted his body as one leg jiggled and he wrung his hands hard together. He flickered his glance up to her, grinding his jaw, and she must've seen the hunger in his eyes because her lids suddenly lowered and a silly little smile sidled up the side of her face.
Of course. Trust her to entirely get the wrong idea about what it was he wanted to do.
"I've missed you so much…" she breathed, one hand fluttering to the buttons of her blouse, toying with one suggestively.
He imagined her head snapping back as his fist connected to her jaw, the crunch of bone on bone. Of ripping her blouse open and scooping into her chest cavity with his bare hands, the way her breasts would bounce as she convulsed, how the blood would spatter and burn his face.
"Lock the door," he snapped at her quietly. She blinked at him, glanced at the door. He snapped again: "Now."
She jumped. Then leapt up to comply.
Nincompoop. Did she really miss the warning?
Or – a far more tantalising thought occurred to him. Did she like the warning?
His eyes glittered as Doctor Harley quietly clicked the lock over, before stealing back to the couch to sit down beside him. She was nervous, he could see, nervous and excited and in love.
He recalled how quickly she'd gotten her rocks off that first time he'd told her to jill off for him. She'd been so embarrassed about it, sitting up quickly afterwards and tugging her skirt down, her lovely cheeks flushed. But that had been part of the thrill for her. That had been fun. Heh.
Turning his head to leer down at his daffy Doctor, he lifted one arm and dropped it around her shoulders. She swallowed hard.
She knew. She knew things were different, somehow, that day. She knew and she was unsettled.
And she still didn't get up and run.
"So Harley," he whispered, smiling, "it's just you and me in here."
She beamed, despite herself. "Yes," she chirped, "just the two of us."
He lifted his arm, stroked his fingertips over her hair. The thing about Doctor Harley was he rather thought she might've, in her ardour, forgotten who he was.
He couldn't have that.
"Don't you ever get frightened of me?" He continued softly, stroking strands of hair away from her forehead, flickering his eyes over her face. "Knowing my history?"
Immediately she started in with the whole misunderstood and ignored bit. Oh sweetheart, they just don't understand you're trying to make a difference to the world, you're so sensitive and damaged and they just hurt and disregard you. It annoyed him. He was still what he was, and that was perfect. She should be frightened. Despite all else.
He shushed her with a finger pressed against her lips. They were partway turned to each other on the couch and he bent towards her, noting the way her breathing picked up when he got closer, how her nipples were peaked beneath the thing fabric of her blouse.
"Misunderstood, yes. That's true." He whispered, because it was. "But that doesn't change what I do. You remember what I said to you once – how death is my gift to the ordinary?"
She blinked rapidly, her forehead creasing. "You said I wasn't – or – ordinary."
He had the feeling her breath hitched not so much from fear but from the dismay he might think her one of the lemmings after all.
He chuckled. "No," he whispered, bending closer still. "You're not. For you it would be something… special. Death would only be the end. Just imagine it…"
He paused and let the silence grow as her eyes darted about in her head, her imagination going crazy over all the things he could do to her. Of course, they were nothing compared to the things he came up with. Oh no. She didn't have that much imagination.
And oh, yes. Yes, her eyes were widening. She started to tremble. She had gotten past it, past remembering his dangerousness. It was nice to remind her once more.
He pressed his forehead against hers, as close as when they kissed. He considered this a more intimate moment.
"Have you ever thought about it – really considered how much trouble you might be in – if I had a little – mood?" He couldn't keep the teasing from his voice.
"You – wouldn't do that to me." She gulped. Her eyes were bright. But she wasn't just scared. Oh no. There was something else in those blue depths.
He grinned. "You really think so?" He lifted a hand and stroked her throat. He could feel her pulse fluttering within it, doubled. It tripled as he stroked his fingertips along it. Delicious. She was a bit of a tease herself, Doc Harley. Here she was, practically within the grip of a notorious mass-murderer and she still couldn't bring herself to move away from him. One could be forgiven for thinking she had no survival instinct at all. It was naughtiness. Sheer naughtiness.
He felt his grin widen as he sidled his eyes up and down her transfixed little face.
"You're a bad girl, Harley." He said nastily. "You wanted to write a book about me."
Her eyes brimmed, and he could see the distress that welled in them. "I thought – I thought you – for – forgave – "
"Stand up, Harley."
His voice was his instrument and he used it to perfection. From soft and caressing, he made it cruel and frightening in an instant. He had seen the way the altered timbre of his voice had terrified others, startled and shocked them into compliance.
Harley was no exception. She started, leapt to her feet, trembling before him.
Even standing, she stood barely a head over him. He tipped his head back and smiled up at her, loving the sight of her quivering shoulders and trembling lip. She was terrified, oh yes, but she was miserable too – she didn't want him angry with her.
Slowly, nonchalantly he stood, unfolding his long body until he was towering over her.
She quaked beside him, confused and miserable, terrified and – and excited. Yes. He could see it in her eyes, a tiny sparkle there beneath the fear. He smiled to himself.
"Bend over, baby." He breathed. He made his voice tender, so tender he might've strangled her – it sounded all the more like a threat. She hesitated.
He pressed the fingertips of one hand into the small of her back and down she went, her hands coming forward to rest on the couch, balancing her. He stood back a little, peered down so he could see her face in profile. Her eyes were darting about anxiously, her brow furrowed, as she waited for what he would do next.
He dropped a hand to her back and stroked the small of it, gently, felt her tremble through the fabric. He smoothed his hand back over her rear, watching the way the fabric of her skirt indented beneath his fingertips. Her bottom was curved and firm and he cupped it gently and squeezed, listened with satisfaction to the shark intake of breath that came from her then.
He knew she was going crazy. She couldn't help being aroused and yet she couldn't be certain he wasn't going to really hurt her, either. And she still didn't run away. God, he loved it.
He dropped his hand down lower, scooped it under the hem of her skirt then tugged it up. She hitched in her breath a little. Her knees were trembling, the muscles in her long and taut against the pressure of her high heels.
He smiled as the tops of her stockings came into view, attached to a soft cotton garter belt, the kind a girl in the fifties would've used.
He clucked his tongue as he pushed her skirt right up. She was wearing panties. Interesting. Full brief cottontails. After weeks of wearing none, she'd put some back on. Clearly, her little performance the other day had had a lasting effect on her, as thrilling as she might've found it.
He stroked his fingertips over them. There was the squeak of leather as she dug her fingertips into the couch. Her bottom was heart-shaped, softly padded – carrying a little extra fat that seemed incongruous with her muscled legs – the sort of fat an athlete puts on once they stop constant training. Sweet and sexy.
He stood behind her and hooked his fingers under the hem of her panties. She'd put them on over her garters, the way sensible girls do. It saved all the fussing when a girl wanted to use the powder room – or have an illicit tryst in a stall. He sniffed, and then tore at them.
The cotton resisted, then ripped and she made a little noise of terror and pain. One leg had pulled hard at her flesh as it had resisted, leaving behind a red-raw welt that ran from her hip, under one buttock and into the hidden space between her thighs.
He knew she would be wondering what was about to happen – if he was going to fuck her, finally fulfil the fantasy she'd been mooning over for months. But not the way she'd imagined it – not a tender, loving union of two soul mates, but a forced and brutal experience, vicious and terrifying…
Her breath was coming in ragged gasps; he recognised the sound of frightened tears. But that's not all it was…
He breathed in deeply, and caught her scent. He cupped her bottom again, now naked, and almost imperceptibly, she pushed back into his hand, the peachy softness of her buttocks pressed against his palm.
Or maybe it was exactly the way she'd imagined.
He began to stroke her again, softly and gently, tracing his fingertips in wide circles. Her skin was incredibly soft and smooth, creamy-white beneath the dim light overhead. He spoke to her again, his voice quiet and insinuating:
"Do you get off, remembering how you got off for a killer?"
She sniffled and he scowled. She was such a sniveller.
"You're not – " she murmured, " – not just a killer – "
No, he wasn't. That was true. He was so much more.
It's just that he wasn't so much more in the way she believed him to be. Heh. Never mind.
He squeezed her bottom again. "You wanted all my secrets, Harley. You wanted to write a book about me and share them with the world."
He paused and squeezed harder. She choked.
"I've killed people for less than that." He reminded her quietly.
"I'm so-sorry – " She whimpered.
He fisted a hand in her bun, wrenched back so that she gagged, her eyes rolling back in her head with terror.
"You've told a lot of lies."
Her eyes darted about, staring up at him fearfully. "Yes," she admitted.
"Used people."
She hiccoughed. "Yes."
"Manipulated the system."
"Yes."
"You fucked your way here."
"Yes. Yes I did." There was a new note in her voice. Something faintly triumphant. He smirked, yanked back harder.
"Really?" He sneered. "You're not ashamed anymore?"
Something glittered in her eyes. Something altogether new – and interesting. "No." Her voice was strong.
He drew back his free hand and then brought it down with a loud smack on her rear. She yelped, her body rocking forward, then jerked back by his grip in her hair.
"Not even a little?" He growled at her, unable to help loving where this was going.
Her voice was stronger still. "No. I did what I had to. To get what I want." She stared at him defiantly, no longer quaking.
He smacked her again, harder. She bit her lip to choke back the yelp. Ha. She was still protecting him from the guards' attention.
"Shameless little brat." He sneered cruelly, vaguely mocking, his voice dripping with derision.
She sniffled and a fresh tear rolled down her cheek – but a smile played about the corners of her mouth as well.
"And that book?" His pretext for this little venting session. Might as well keep up the pretence.
She pressed her eyes shut and smiled. "It brought me here."
He whacked her harder.
She gulped, but her voice did not waver. "To you."
And harder again.
"I'm not sorry." She hissed through clenched teeth, her eyes squeezed shut.
Still with his fist knotted in her hair, he raised his arm over her head, forcing her neck to wrench at an awkward angle, the crook of his elbow now pressing against her throat. He belted her hard and repeatedly and she rocked back and forth with the force of the blows, her hands leaving the anchoring stability of the couch to clutch desperately at his arm.
Without the couch beneath her palms she stumbled forward as he hit her, lurched drunkenly, but she did not let go of him, her fingertips digging deliriously into the white flesh of his arm
It was her comfort, he realised, holding onto him like that while he hurt her. Yes, despite it all, she still didn't have the sense to run from him.
When he stopped, her bottom was bright red and already beginning to bruise, faint blue-black rising beneath the mottled red flesh. Her back heaved as she breathed in ragged lungfuls and she snuffled, swaying slightly, held up only by the arm he had wrapped around her neck and fisted into her hair.
He bent at the waist, over her back, his groin digging into her hip, to bring his face down right next to hers, the better to see her agony.
"Harley, I have to be honest: I really don't want to stop. You have no idea how much I've needed this. But I think you've reached your limit. Is that right?"
"I h-have." She sniffled.
Cheeky. He jammed his arm hard against her throat and she whimpered, gagged.
"I suppose you have," He whispered so softly, watching her shiver as his breath tickled her ear. "It's a shame, because I was having so much fun. I'd love to keep going. But I guess I should stop. Should I?"
For a moment she was silent and he waited, a delighted grin stretching up his face as he watched emotion flicker across her profile as she wrestled with the choice, between the pain flooding her and doing what he wanted.
Finally she squeezed her eyes shut tight and spoke:
"No."
Her voice was so soft when she spoke it wasn't entirely sadistic of him to ask her to repeat herself. Not entirely.
"What was that, Punkin?"
"N-no." A little louder, but not enough.
"No, what?"
"No… no, don't stop."
He pressed against her throat again, ground his hips against her rear, loving the way she jerked back at him, her whole body a confused mess of fear and desire. She'd take anything. Anything, so long as he wasn't angry with her.
"Don't stop what?"
He wanted to hear his name on her lips as she gave in, once more. Unpeeled one more layer of her sanity and gave way to his chaotic order. He expected he'd have a little more fun teasing it out of her, that she'd begin with Mistah J, or Puddin', stupid little twit that she was, and he licked his lips in anticipation of breaking her down, further, further, further.
Suddenly her forehead cleared and her eyes snapped open and she glanced sideways at him, her expression glittering with wickedness.
"No, don't stop, Daddy." She breathed coquettishly.
He felt his eyes bug, his jaw drop. Felt his grip loosen on her hair and the treacherous betrayal of his body as he got hard and keen for her.
It took him absolutely by surprise, the sudden overwhelming lust he felt to tear her apart, do unspeakably perverse things to her tender body, hear her moan in agony and pleasure. His hardened cock was all too aware of the close proximity of her rear, of the dark, warm place between her thighs that was so hungry for him.
The only thing he could do in response was rear back and belt her again, and she choked and sunk her teeth into his forearm to keep from screaming. He didn't mind. He didn't notice.
He was grinding his teeth, sweat flying off his forehead as he whaled on her and when the first shock of his anger and lust subsided, he pushed her away so she fell over the couch and sprawled.
It was a delicious sight; that pretty, dainty little girl-woman sprawled so ungraciously over the couch he was supposed to be strapped down to, the torn remnants of her cottontails twisted around her ankles, her hair dishevelled and her face all red, gazing up at him with a mingled adoration and fear – and some sort of mischief as well.
He turned quickly away from the sight; aware he was still all too visibly aroused by her, that she might mistake this as some sort of power she had. Yes, she thought this sort of thing was power, that's what she'd learned from high school jocks and college professors.
He wondered how powerful she'd feel if he fucked her until she bled, until she wept and begged him to stop.
He half-laughed to himself, lifting a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, push his hair off his forehead. He turned to look slyly at her and his hand twitched to slap the mischief from her face.
"I don't think you've learnt your lesson at all," he repeated.
Then she was smiling, just a little, blinking at him from lowered lashes.
"Well." She purred. "I learned something."
He boggled at her again. "Heh," he said in surprise.
She certainly had. The little tramp. He was angry, furious at her, but somehow he was titillated as well. Somehow, she'd forced some perverse respect from him, taking him by surprise, pushing for the next level. A stupid thing to do with someone like him. She was frightened, but she liked it. Liked the pain and the humiliation. Was this something latent he'd awoken in her, or was it more oriented simply around him?
She had pushed herself into a sitting position, was weakly bending over to tug her torn panties up, her hands trembling. He paced forcefully over to her, coming to an abrupt half and she looked up at him in apprehension.
"Did I tell you to do that?" He asked her gently. No need to shout, to snap, to scowl. She blanched before the quietness of his voice, more menacing than any scream could be.
He lifted his hands, began to play them softly over her head. She shuddered and shut her eyes.
"Have you thought about these things before, Harley?" He was curious. "Have you enjoyed these sorts of games with others?" He got a sudden image of the no-doubt banality of such games as played by some mundane thug – dressing her up like a schoolgirl and binding her with fluffy handcuffs. He shuddered. How dreadfully dull.
"No," she breathed to his immense satisfaction. "It's just you. Just you. You're the one who rules my soul. "
A bad song lyric. But he liked it anyway.
He knelt down before her, and grasped one of her wrists, his long fingers circling it entirely, forcibly shoving it up beneath her skirt, jamming her fingertips into her moistness.
"Tonight when you think of me," he sneered at her as she gasped, unable to tear her eyes from his even as she so desperately wanted to. "Think about me as I am. As I was today. If you love me, you love all of me. Don't you?"
"Yes." No hesitation there.
"You are mine." He hissed, holding her gaze in his.
"Yes." Or there.
"You belong to me."
"Yes. Yes." She breathed passionately. Ooh, double for nothing. Her eyes were beginning to glaze and he was hardening again. How wonderfully he had her. Owned her. Possessed her. He could feel the force of the energy between them, almost overwhelming in its power, the passion that drove her forward to him, how strong his control of her was and how he had consumed her.
He pulled her hand out, held it up between them. He could smell her, fragrant and sweet.
"My little Harley Quinn." He whispered, drowning her wet blue eyes within his. When he said her name, she quivered and slumped, all too clearly acquiescing to him, to whatever he wanted. Another sort of need rumbled in his gut.
He had been going to make her suck her finger, but instead found himself leaning forward, pulling the slim digit into his mouth, caressing it beneath his tongue before releasing it slowly, arresting her eyes in his all the while. She tasted like sugar.
Harley gasped hoarsely, gulped and stiffened, biting her lip hard as she twitched convulsively for a moment.
He grinned at the sight of her orgasm, laughed softly at her embarrassed flush then took her face in both his hands. Her lower lip quivered, her eyelids drooped. He came up close to her and she trembled, leant forward to kiss him.
He jerked away.
"Now, now," he hissed. "Bad girls don't get any sweets."
--
Okay you lot, after all your cries of teasing and too-short chapters, that oughta keep you all happy for a while! ;)
Have you all seen The Dark Knight? I've seen it twice so far. I absolutely love it. The whole movie is magnificent, but The Joker in particular is sheer perfection. I'm just – overwhelmed. I won't say anymore, so as not to spoil it for those who haven't seen it, but by Joker – SEE IT SOON. It's amazing.
On another note, I feel like maybe it's time I shared the truth about this fic with all of you. Maybe you will all hate me after this!
The truth is, this fic has been finished since April. Yes, all of it.
I decided to release it slowly, chapter by chapter, to make it easier for everyone to read. Reading thirty chapters in one go is time-consuming and would even be off-putting to many. I figured that if I released a chapter a week people would find it much easier to get into. Plus it would let me build up suspense, and a little anticipation alongside the impending release of the Dark Knight.
I have made tiny little adjustments, additions and edits to some of the chapters since I wrote them back in April, but it's been pretty much finished otherwise.
Don't hate me! Face it, releasing it this way was much, much better. Suspense is fun! :)
