Author's Note: Some of the content in this chapter is beginning to get quite strong. You have been cautioned.
---
Harley had clearly been worried about him getting bored.
She'd bought him a chemistry set (over 250 amazing experiments! The box boasted) an electronic project lab and a fuel cell car kit.
For a while he contemplated just stacking them all in the middle of her living room, setting them on fire and seeing what happened as the various ingredients and tools in each lit up and interacted with each other, but then he figured he might as well play a little.
Harley had, of course, shopped for his SmileX ingredients many times in the past. He noted with a mingled amusement and irritation that she had not provided him with all of the sufficient materials. He'd toyed with the idea of lacing the pizzas downstairs with a syrupy form of it, a way of spreading a little joy to let the yawning bumbling swathe of Gothamites know he was back in town to entertain them all once more. And just think what it would do for the pizza joint!"Guaranteed to put a smile on your dial!" Heh.
But, it was for the best he supposed. He really needed to plan something utterly magnificent for his grand comeback. He wondered if Batsy had begun to relax. If he really had disappeared, then there was no way dear old Dork Knight would assume he was dead. Oh-ho no. He'd be constantly wound up, waiting, waiting, waiting. Aw. Joker felt very fuzzy and benevolent at that thought, at imagining his nemesis spending sleepless days, sweating and turning in his 3000-thread count sheets, wondering when Joker would return to wreak havoc once more. He really does love to hate me, Joker mused.
While he munched the last of his toast and hollandaise eggs, he toyed with a nasty corrosive he had managed to concoct with the chemistry set, testing it on his knife and fork. The steel slowly blackened then began to bubble. Not bad, not bad. Not very quick acting though. Could be good for torture though. Where was Harley?
He swivelled his head around looking about the apartment.
"Harley!" he shouted. "Harley!"
No answer.
Well, just because she had this cockamamie idea that she didn't belong to him anymore didn't mean she couldn't answer him when he called!
He got up and strode through the living room and into the bathroom, calling for his girl as he did so. He checked the linen cupboard and under the bed. At some point he forgot his original purpose and figured they were playing hide-and-seek. This necessitated sneaking around on tip-toe and "pouncing" on the hiding spots before he abruptly recalled that Harley had left sometime earlier.
That really annoyed him. He really was rather resentful of this "new life" Harley had, it seemed to require all sorts of outings and duties that had absolutely nothing at all to do with him. Which was stupid. And patently pointless. True enough, she hadn't once come home without something for him, but it was never something he'd sent her to get. And that was just wrong, wrong, wrong.
They had a simple life, really. He wanted things; she got them. It worked for both of them. Well, it worked for him. And that was all that was important.
He was interrupted from his reverie by the sound of voices in the alley below. He went and peeked out of the window. Super Mario was there calling out after a beautiful teenaged girl with long, curly dark hair and enormous brown eyes. She was properly dressed in a long skirt and knit-sweater, little ballet flats on her pretty brown feet.
"Angelina, you gotta be home by six, okay!"
"Okay Papa!" Angelina struggled to keep the exasperation from her voice.
"And call at three, okay!"
"Yes, Papa, I know!"
"And be careful, Angelina, don't be talkin' to no strange people!"
"Papa, I know, okay!"
Joker chuckled and drummed his long fingers on the window frame. He wondered if Angelina would wait until she got to her friend's place before kicking off the flats and putting on the low heels she doubtless carried in that over-sized purse slung over her shoulder, or if she'd do it as soon as she got out of Papa's sight.
Joker never slept very well. In fact, it couldn't really be said he slept at all. He reclined and rested, he even sort of blanked out. But sleep was not something that was natural for him. His mind was too busy at all times, pulsing and pumping with far too many different thoughts and ideas, swirling and entwining and waking him up in a fit of inspiration, scrabbling about for something to write the latest stroke of brilliance down with. The number of near-illegible notes Harley had found in blood on the doorframe, in chocolate sauce on the table, in soap on one of his dressing gowns… at any rate, he'd been pacing up and down in the dark in Harley's room last night when there'd been a sound from outside. Peeking out, he saw the same lovely brunette sneaking carefully amongst the garbage bins, her shoes in one hand, wiping lipstick off her face with the back of one hand, silently letting herself in to through the backdoor.
He wandered back into the living room and cast an imperious glance at his little experiment, the knife and fork smoking quietly in the morning sunshine cast in through the window.
Boooo-ring.
He got out Harley's laptop and looked up the pizzeria on the Whitepages website. Harley's little pink plastic phone sat, covered in a thin film of dust, on the little table next to the television set.
After three rings, he was answered by an abrupt and disinterested voice.
"Picasso Pizza, we not open until five."
Joker lowered his voice a couple of notches, gave it an edge of uncertainty.
"Uh, is uh. Angelina there please?"
He could practically hear Super Mario stiffen on the other end. In the short silence that followed, Joker stifled a giggle.
"No, Angelina's not here right now, I take a message?" Super Mario's voice was crisp and curious.
"I'll call back later," he mumbled into the phone and quickly hung up before erupting into merry laughter.
He began to work with the electronics set, assembling a rudimentary electric shocker. The voltage was hardly enough to make it really interesting of course, but maybe he could rig it up to the sofa, or the kettle or something, somewhere Harley could get a pleasant little surprise when she got home. Ha! That was it! The toilet seat! That would be perfect! Give it enough to knock her off. The image of Harley with her knickers around her ankles splayed on the tiles of the bathroom sent him into fits.
When he calmed down he picked up the phone again and redialled Picasso Pizza. The same man answered.
"Yo, Angelina home?" Joker lifted his voice this time, adopting what he thought was a reasonable facsimile of a skater's accent.
"No she isn't, who is this?" Super Mario sounded very curious this time.
"No sweat dude, I'll try again some other time."
He dropped the receiver into the cradle and giggled wildly a bit more before dancing off to Harley's bedroom again.
He fingered his way through her things, entertaining memories of Harley courting his attention. At the time it all seemed infuriatingly annoying, but he felt a certain sense of nostalgia for it now. At least when she was dressing up in stupid frilly scraps of lace she wasn't questioning where she belonged, or fighting it. The attempted seductions never really worked; he was more inclined to get in the mood after she'd killed someone on his behalf, fallen flat on her face whilst scrabbling desperately to catch something he'd thrown at her or guiltily ignored Pammy in the rec room at Arkham. She hated ignoring Pammy, but if he gave her a certain look she knew that's what he'd wanted and although she'd sit there mournfully, casting sad little glances at Pam every so often, she'd do it. Joker wondered why she couldn't see it bothered her more than it did Pammy. He knew she drove Pam just as nuts as she drove him – more, in some ways, because really, he personally thought he appreciated Harley on many levels Pam was incapable of (although he'd wager there were a few she'd like to…heh). Pam was even more of a loner than he was and couldn't appreciate the joys of a cuddly and completely devoted little harlequin who was always with a smile, or failing that, a scream. Pam just didn't know how to appreciate anaudience like he did.
Anyway he'd always reward her by letting her sneak her hands into his Arkham pyjama bottoms. And that always cheered her back up.
That was, of course, until they started separating their common-room times. Apparently he was a bad influence and – heh – detrimental to her recovery – hee hee!
The grin abruptly fell away from his face. Cretins.
He tossed her clothes about.
The lingerie didn't interest him. He liked the cottontails better, the full brief cotton panties with the cartoon flowers and Little Miss characters painted on them. He liked Harley's full retro-skirts (women really knew how to dress in those days…) and little knit-sets. They were so… proper. Proper was interesting because proper, more often than not, concealed all sorts of decidedlyimproper secrets. He wondered if all the happy people who smiled at his girl as she skipped down the street in her neat little flared skirts and sweaters had any idea of the sordid past she hid – of the valuables she'd stolen, the buildings she'd destroyed – and the lives she'd taken. He had a misty memory of Harley in her tight little harlequin outfit, a positively psychotic, and dazzling, grin on her face, flooring the gas as he leaned out the window, of barrelling through red lights and pedestrians going left, right and twenty feet in the air, like pins at a bowling alley. "Ya shoulda listened to the lollypop lady!" she screeched at them and he'd laughed beside her, even though it wasn't that good a joke. It was more the hysterical glee in her voice as she said it, even the genuine edge of indignation – like it really was theirfault for stepping out in front of her.
He picked up her medication bottles and rattled them, wondered if she'd been taking them while he was there. They had her so doped up it was no wonder she was so… restrained. Almost as much as she had been as Dr. Quinzel, but without the veneer of pretentiousness. He was a little surprised by how much he wanted her. He'd been vaguely aroused all morning, touching Harley's things and thinking of the number of hours and effort that had gone into making this little puke-pink house so perfect and how soon it was all going to be meaningless, nothing more than empty relics.
He lay back on her bed, settling his head amongst the half-dozen pillows there, and enjoyed the feeling. He didn't need to do anything about it, didn't even need to touch himself. He just luxuriated in the sensation. Tonight was the night, he decided.
"Picasso Pizza, we open at five,"
"Could I please speak to Angelina?" Polite, posh-boy accent for this one.
"Who is this?"
"I'm – " Nice long hesitation. " - a friend."
"You a friend huh?" Super Mario did not sound impressed. "Well you listen to me, you little boy, you come near my daughter and I'll – "
"Salvatore!" A woman's voice called out in distress from the background and Joker covered the mouthpiece with one hand and snorted. Recomposing himself he spoke down into the mouthpiece again.
"Could you please let Angelina know I'll meet her at midday tomorrow? Thanks."
"Now you listen here – "
Clunk.
The front door shut with a bang.
"Mistah J – Joker – " She was still giving it a red hot go! " – I'm home!"
"Baby!" he cried and sprang over to greet her, grabbing her by both wrists and spinning her into a dance, humming loudly along to the Cole Porter CD he had playing.
"Oy, quit it!" she grimaced. He ignored her and spun her out then brought her back in. Once upon a time he'd actually succeeded in teaching her some basic eight-beat steps but they'd clearly zapped that sort of important information out of her in Arkham. She stumbled over her kitten heels and squealed as he drew her tight against him, his hand enclosing hers tightly. He dipped her, sweeping her feet off the floor and she shrieked as the world rushed past her.
"C'mon Harley-Girl, you've plunged from greater heights than that," he teased and she pouted.
"Spoilsport," he sniffed and whipped her back up to her feet, sent her spinning away again then let go so she tripped and splayed over the armrest of the couch. He laughed and she struggled to sit up once more, glaring at him.
"Gonna finish it off with a pie to the kisser?" she snapped and he rolled his eyes. Was she still sore about that? "And what have you done to my apartment!" she screeched and he blinked rapidly and looked about him.
She'd provided him with a packet of markers and lots of paper. He loved to draw and the carpet was strewn with multi-coloured pictures of death trap ideas, Batman on the cross with Robin weeping to one side and Babs Gordon sprawled at his feet on the other (with her wheelchair tipped over behind her), a couple of startlingly good sketches of the street outside, with everyone rendered with huge smiles and bleeding eyes, and a few renditions of a few dream-like thoughts he had during the sleep-like rest periods he spent in bed, looking like something out of a Marx Brothers film crossed with a H.P. Lovecraft story. Only trouble was, the pieces of paper she'd provided him with were too small for one especially beautiful idea he'd had so he'd taken it to the deep-pink feature wall on which had hung Harley's sanity certificate.
He'd thrown that across the room and then used the glass from the shattered frame to tear strips of paint off the wall, adding the final touches to his grand vision – a landscape of an unknown land, where locusts blotted out the sky and maggots squirmed out of the earth and people's vital organs where laced around their necks and mothers were constantly calling for their lost children and men saw in each other nothing more than their own pointlessness and fell shrieking to the earth.
He thought he'd done a pretty good job of depicting it actually.
He broke out of his admiring reverie to find Harley still glaring at him, a cross little pout twisting her mouth. He debated between laughing at her or punching her, or doing both (both would be great!) then decided to reason with her.
"Well, Harley," he pointed out to her reasonably. "You didn't want me to get bored, did you?"
She paused at that. Then shrugged and sighed and went to her utilities closet.
Meanwhile he moved to examine the groceries she'd brought home and crowed with delight when he found another Betty's box in there. Good girl.
She started to clean up and although she made sure to let out a loud, exasperated sigh every now and then she also started humming and a soft little smile played about her mouth.
"Oh, Mistah J," she said in an indulgently scolding tone when she discovered a small, semi-melted pile of her silverware on the windowsill and he grinned between mouthfuls of banana cream pie. He obligingly threw up his hands in an aw shucks, doll gesture, and she shook her head despairingly, unable to keep the little smile from her mouth. He was glad he'd given his girl something that could make her feel like she was actually useful in the world.
Which reminded him…
He sat down on the couch with a plateful of pie, put his feet up on the coffee table and watched her tidy up, waiting for his opening.
It came when she discovered her smashed sanity certificate frame. She stared at it, aghast for a moment, then knelt down by the wreckage, chin wobbling.
"Mistah J…" she sniffed. "How could you?"
What a stupid question to ask him! It was like she didn't know him at all!
"Oh that," he replied dismissively. "I didn't do it on purpose, Pooh." Which was true, he hadn't. It had just been in his way, so he'd thrown it over his shoulder. He wasn't responsible for what happened to it once it was out of his sight, after all.
She was snuffling and picking up pieces of broken glass and the sound made him angry. This whole thing had been going on far too long. Okay, so it had been kinda fun, but it was beyond a joke now. She was going to play things his way – whether she liked it or not.
"It's not like it means anything, Baby," he said, syrupy sweet and she sat back on her haunches and stared at him with distraught wet eyes.
"It means something to me!" she cried and he clucked his tongue.
"Nothing means anything, Honey." He said gently. "Take you, for example. Take you and this little charade you're calling a life."
"No," she choked, but he continued.
"Just what were you trying to accomplish, anyway? You haven't found it, have you? You thought you would. Find meaning. Find a new life. But it's all a sham isn't it – a great big farce you're carrying out."
"Stop it. Shut up." She was hiccoughing through her tears, her hands on either side of her head, fingertips digging into her scalp.
"Oh, no, Baby Cakes, I don't think so. Cold truths are hard to hear, but Punkin, I only tell you because I care."
She darted him a look filled with desperation and horror. He grinned widely at her, enjoying the way she seemed to shrink in front of him and continued, leaning forward to rest one hand on his knee, holding her eyes in his.
"You thought joining a cheerleading team and working as a stripper was going to bring you fulfilment? What, the great, crushing, sweaty crowds appreciate you because they cheer? Taking cooking classes a few times a week and going to Beauty School is a constructive way to spend your time? Give me a rest, Harley. Your phone never rings. No one emails you. And I know why. It's because every day you wake up, and you put on your happy face and you pretend like everything's okay and you pass the day feeling empty and hollow and wondering why you can't just enjoy it all like they do. Then you come home, and eat something pointlessly healthy, and hop into bed and cry and wish that you could feel alive again. And you can't figure out why this existence seems so crushingly empty, why you can't go out on dates with Guy or to the movies with Kathy or for coffee with Brad and Janet. There's only one thing you've ever really been truly meant for, and that's me. There's only been one time in your life you've ever been truly alive, and that was by my side. You know your life is with me. You know I'm the only thing that really means anything in the end. I give you purpose, I give you meaning. I might not give you stability or the promise of a comfortable future, or a 401k plan, or hell, even respect – but there's one thing I give you no one else on this earth ever has. I give you truth. I give you reality. What you have with me is pure, and that's why you couldn't give it up until you thought I was dead – most of the miserable crawling insects on this earth never have anything near the sort of purity you and I have. And that's why you'll never get away from your love for me."
He sat back against the sofa and lifted his arms above his head, beaming at her where she knelt on the carpet; her shoulders hunched downwards, her hands limp between her kneeling legs.
"That's the real reason you weren't keeping anything around to remind you of me. It's not because you've moved on. But because so long as you didn't have to think about it, you could pretend that you have. " He stood, towering over her, as she slowly bent further and further over, gradually curling into a little ball at his feet, sobbing quietly. "That it doesn't matter. Anything else would make you realise how empty this so-called existence you lead is. How meaningless. How pointless."
He crouched down and placed a gentle hand on her head, his fingertips gently stroking through her hair, feeling the tremors as the sobs wracked her body.
"Oh Pooh," he crooned, "Why fight it? Daddy's here. I'll make it all better again. I'm waiting for you."
He stood up straight, took a moment to enjoy the sight of her wretchedness, and then went down into the bedroom. He sat down on her bed, with his back against the headboard, propped up against her pillows and crossed his ankles.
And waited.
He knew the loneliness of being despondent on the floor would be too much for her to handle, as the truth in everything he'd just said overwhelmed her.
And knowing he was there, that she could be close to him, the way it had always driven her crazy to be – she wouldn't be able to fight it anymore. He'd seen her sometimes, when he'd been working on something and ostensibly too distracted to notice her. Seen her reach out a hand and draw a fingertip oh so carefully and oh so softly along the sleeve of his jacket, or the cuff of his pants or the leather of his shoe, and the dizzy, soft, blissful look that would come over her face when she did so. Of the way she'd shut her eyes and take a deep, long, breathe in through her nose, smelling him. Of how she would put a dazed hand to her cheek after he'd struck her, feeling the reverberating sting of his fist, and smile goofily. Of how, in moments of tenderness her bliss was so intense it was almost excruciating for her. He knew his hand in her hair at that vulnerable moment would've elicited those thoughts. That her pain and her misery would be too ripe and bright by now for her to offer much resistance.
Yes, he could wait.
And then the door opened, and she moved in quickly, her face down in shame, her shoulders curled inwards.
"Come to Daddy, Baby" He opened his arms and she flew across the room into them. She curled herself into him as far as she would go; her face buried in his chest, and held him just a little too tightly with her enhanced strength. And he petted her head and stroked her hair and shushed her in all the right ways.
I still got it, he thought smugly to himself.
---
Like all truly great liars Joker was capable of near abhorrent honesty with himself. He couldn't identify exactly what it was he was starting to feel when she was around he was quickly associating it with the fact that sometimes it was nice, or fun, or even desirable to dance with her by the docks or tell her wild stories of his past exploits while she rubbed his shoulders or tickle her until she stopped breathing or threw up, or wet herself.
He was puzzling over the strange feelings, trying to decipher their mystery, but it was difficult because his mind didn't like to focus itself on any one thing for too long, and then he'd thought of his Vengeful Dark Knight, of course, he usually did several thousand times a day, give or take, and he had felt his heart give a little flutter, the all too familiar feeling of excitement and adoration.
That had made him sit up straight. That little flutter - why, if it wasn't almost exactly like the little prickle he was starting to get around Harley. What Harley caused was a lot less intense and compelling, but it was there nonetheless.
That was when he knew the girl had to die.
The only trouble was, she really was very useful. She adored him, utterly and without question. Every action she took was designed to make his life easier in some way. He'd always frightened or intimidated his mooks into doing that sort of thing for him. But she brought something different with it. Her willingness made her more switched onto his finer needs, and more passionate about seeing them properly met. In short, she paid attention to the little details. Like during the colder months how she would press his slippers between her thighs in the last hour before they got out of bed so they'd be warm for his feet, or getting up early and sitting on the toilet to warm the porcelain seat for him. She always made sure his favourite sweets were on hand, organised the appointments with his tailor and kept a drawerful of clean spats and gloves. In the warmer months, she kept damp rags ever present for his forehead and neck, and icy-cold lemonade with extra sugar by the bucketful. And the best part was he didn't even have to ask. She just… somehow, she just knew
And whilst that was very useful and convenient, it was also extremely bothersome.
Because… it was possible… he might've let her have one too many liberties with his mind.
So, what the hell. Why not do things properly! One last time. Some of the guys passed the nights with drugs they somehow managed to get together (even in No Man's Land, heh), ecstasy and GHB, ice and coke. He appropriated a couple of pills, knowing it would make it all a bit easier.
Sure, he knew how to pretend these things. He'd done it before, with that producer woman that time. Soft hands, but strong ones. Harley liked to be guided, directed, controlled. And she wanted to kiss, deeply and long. Fine, fine, he could do that. Yes and the caressing and fondling and all the other rigmarole regular people got in such a tizz about.
The e didn't have much effect on him. Most drugs didn't, considering his chemically altered blood, which wasn't that great when he was in pain, but he didn't think he felt pain as much as others did anyway. But she was swooning heavily, gasping at every stroke of his fingertips, clutching his shoulders, her head lolling. The champagne knocked her even further for a six and it kept her mostly still and her mouth off him so he could get down to things (quite literally… when he did things properly he did things properly and her reactions were rather adorably hilarious at any rate.). Then, once she'd loosened up a bit he started doing what he needed to to really get into it himself and, as expected, she began to respond very favourably.
With the drug in her system and drunk on her love for him, pain became just another intense sensation and if he was the cause of it, she learned to find ecstasy in it. She hadn't been a masochist when she came to Arkham as an intern, but she was well on her way to becoming one. How flattering it was, really, that she adored him so much she forced her body to learn to respond positively to his every touch, whether soft or harsh. Pity really he couldn't play this game a bit longer and see how far it was going to go…
And that was really the problem. That he was even thinking that way. Afterwards, with Harley curled up around him, her nose bloody, bite marks ruddy on her breasts and neck and an expression of sheer, contented bliss misting her features, he realised he'd enjoyed it a little too much.
That he'd even like to do it again.
That there were actual good qualities to taking precious time out of his days to indulge in this sort of stupid degree of physical interaction with a twitty little blonde.
It strengthened his resolve. The girl. Had. To. Die.
He'd had everything all set up for a couple of days when he realised she was beginning to get dangerous. Hey, he always did things properly. He decided there was no point in delaying it any further - the sooner she was toast, the sooner he could get back to normal.
Anyway, it wasn't like she'd be gone, gone. He would always have the memories of her, after all. And he'd treasure those. In fact, as he penned her the note, he couldn't help but have a snicker over them. That lovely little doctor with her round glasses and prim little bun, coming all undone beneath the ministrations of his hands. Oh yes, he had some wonderful memories of her. All in all, it was for the best. Let's face it, he would kill her eventually anyway, in a fit of temper or boredom. This way was clearly the most apt – a beautiful big send off, worthy of that strange and uncomfortable tenderness she'd so unexpectedly elicited in him.
Oh, but then that had made him angry, his hand twitching as he lay the note down on the pillow next to her head, and he'd gently cupped her cheek, feeling the swelling there. And just why in the heck would such a little ninny make him feel this way anyway? How dare she? How had she done it? She was trouble, she was. Couldn't be trusted.
Oh yeah. The girl had to die.
Except she hadn't.
It was vexing and very irritating and yet also oddly endearing. Kinda like ole Bats with his tenacity.
(Well, he knew in theory he wanted Bats to die but he was always secretly thrilled when he didn't. It really meant he had to keep upping the stakes. And he'd been trying to see how far he could push Bats for yeeeears. Was he really always going to keep that 'no killing' rule? Joker really wanted to know. He wondered exactly what it was going to take. He kept trying and Bats just kept on resisting. He thought for sure offing Jason would seal his fate, but even that he'd resisted. Then again, little Jase had been a bit of a bad boy. He wondered if Bats was perhaps secretly relieved. Heh. That'd be a scream.)
So Harley hadn't died and somehow they'd wound back up together and, well, she'd survived so - well.
He wouldn't try to kill her again straight away. No Man's Land was so boring, on the whole, and she was at least more interesting than the dullards he surrounded himself with, and now that Pammy had juiced her up she was even more useful.
Sometimes he would kiss her softly and constantly, until she bruised. Other times he'd gnaw her so that she bled. He loved to thrust his tongue as far into her throat as he could, liked to fantasise about her one day choking on it. That would be fitting.
He'd left her behind in Metropolis once and she'd been furious, tracking him down in Gotham City, declaring her intentions to rend him limb from limb. He secretly thought it was hilarious whenever she threw a fit like that - as if, had she ever even conceivably succeeded, she would be able to live with herself. Even if she killed him, he'd end up killing her, indirectly. Sometimes he even slightly hoped she'd go through with it, to see it happen.
How did she think he'd gotten such a hold on her at Arkham had it not been for his ability to analyse and dissect her every vulnerability immediately?
"Baby!" He'd declared when she entered, costume hanging in tatters off her bruised body, eyes wild and teeth bared, "Thank goodness you made it! I was just about to send the boys out after you!"
That had brought her up short. "You were?" and the wild look had been replaced by a tender sort of hopefulness. Thing was, Harley was never really angry at him.
Oh, no. She was angry at herself. For not being able to keep up. For not keeping his interest focused. For not being enough. And what was anger, anyway, but fear dressed up for a night on the town?
And that's what it always came down to. Her fear. Fear of losing him. Of not being good enough. Not keeping him satisfied or happy.
He'd surveyed her with feigned dismay. "Oh, Punkin, what happened to you? You're in such a state! Do you need Daddy to kiss your boo boos?"
And she'd melted. He could actually see it. Her spine was as floppy as a piece of over-cooked spaghetti and a silly little grin had spread up her face.
"Hyeah," she'd said dopily and he wrapped her up in his arms, pressed her head firmly against his chest and felt her go all soft.
It had been easy to tear her costume off. Lexie's Brutal Broad had certainly done a number on his dame, and it had irritated him a little. Really, if anyone was going to make such a mess of her, it should be him. He'd wasted no time in covering up the bruises and grazes she'd left with savagery of his own, and Harley had blossomed beneath it, squealing contentedly.
He'd grasped her throat in both hands and begun to squeeze. Asphyxiation was a nice, intimate way to kill someone. It felt so personal, so close, especially when he was inside her like that, feeling her all hot and wet and gripping, the softness of her breasts against his chest, the way her throat quivered in his grip. Beneath him Harley had choked, squeezed her eyes shut and he had moved one hand up to flick at her eyelids with his fingertips. She opened them again and he went back to strangling her.
She could kick him off. There was the rub, wasn't it. It wouldn't be difficult for her. She was stronger than he was, much, much stronger, thanks to dear ole Pammy and her special brew. Kick him off and kick the stuffing out of him. That wasn't the question.
No the question was… would she?
She had gasped, gagged and thrust up with her hips. He had felt her muscles tighten around him and thrust a little harder. Ooh. That was nice.
Her throat was soft beneath his hands, her hair tangling over his fingers. Her hands came flying up to her neck, her fingers scrabbled over his as she wheezed and then she let her arms flop back down by her side. He saw the change in her eyes. The sudden surrender. There was no resignation or despair in those baby blues, oh no, no. She relented to him with brutal willingness, her gaze soft with love and agonised bliss. If I'm going to die, I'll do it happily, that look seemed to say.
Now that was sexy.
He had come with a loud grunt, his grip on her neck then so hard he thought he might kill her after all. Not that he cared much in those few blinding moments of bliss. Maybe, since he was going to kill her one day after all, this would be the way to do it. She'd probably appreciate it.
But she was tenacious as Batsy, his little Harley Girl, and afterwards she had lain there and stared at him with such utter adoration it made him feel at once slightly perturbed and righteous. She loved him, as he knew he deserved to be. And he'd felt quite proud of himself and the hat trick he'd worked on her. Nothing but the best for The Joker.
Then she had started talking again.
"That was wonderful," she said it deliriously, slurring the word 'wonderful', which was a bit of a feat. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his hands pressed together between his splayed legs, enjoying the little aftershocks in his muscles. But you know. In the state she was in, Harley was ripe for a little afterplay. So he'd shrugged.
"Well. It ate up some time."
Her face had fallen immediately. Wonderfully, completely into abject despair and she'd sat up, despite the fact it must've hurt a lot in a lot of different places and crawled over to his side.
"What can I do better?" she implored, immediately knowing it must be some way in which she was lacking. He toyed with the idea of pushing that idea home a little more, but then decided it was as good a time as any to really start her training. To share a few real truths with her.
"Harley, sex is ridiculous. The desire for it is ridiculous. The obsession with it is utterly ridiculous. Oh sure, as a physical act it's a pleasant enough experience but it's so messy and coarse and isolated, and all that grunting and sweating and thrusting about - how very silly people look!" And he'd chuckled to think of how he himself must've looked pumping into her. Ironically, he'd been left in a good enough mood by it to skim over the fact she'd been making him look ridiculous. She'd chewed a fingernail, bruised lower lip slack, eyes wet.
"You seemed to enjoy it… during." She whispered meekly and he rolled his eyes.
"Well, of course I enjoyed it. Have you ever noticed me doing anything I don't enjoy? It's just… there are things I'd enjoy …" and he'd fixed his gaze out across the dark room, a dark, close-mouthed smile stretching his mouth wide. "…more."
"Like what?" and her little paw was on his shoulder, clutching at him. "Tell me what. I'll do it. I'll do anything." Such raw desperation in her voice. He'd swivelled his head to look at her, feeling his grin become more sly and satisfied.
"Anything?" He repeated, and she'd nodded her head briskly, her brows creased together, her eyes wide and hopeful.
"Uh huh. Anything."
And he'd showed his teeth.
"Well." He hissed, "When you put it like that…"
Not too long after that, they'd stood together before the mirror, him with his hands resting gently on her shoulders, over a head above her, she naked and leaning back against his chest. He'd stroked her shoulders gently, reached up and brushed her straw-blonde hair off her forehead, smiled at her with as much tenderness as he was capable of.
Together they'd looked at the marks she bore:
One eye was swollen nearly shut and her nostrils were rimmed in blood. Her lower lip was fat, a little cut in one corner. Her neck was a strange tie-dyed pattern of red and purple. He had to admit to a preference for choking her. There were swollen, dark bite marks on her arms and breasts, spotted bruises where he'd gripped her hard.
Her eyes had flickered upwards in the reflection to meet his, a question in them. He'd nodded, his hands on either side of her head, softly stroking the lobes of her ears.
She'd reached forward onto the dresser and picked up the old-fashioned razor blade, raised it up to him, her head turning to look up at him as she did so.
He gently turned her head back towards the mirror, then took the razor from her fingers.
The first cut made her whimper and he savoured it like it was a cry from Heaven. It made him shiver, that little noise, coupled with the way her terrified, anxious eyes remained fixed on their reflection, the way she strived not to tremble, how she leaned against him.
But most of all how she didn't flinch away. Her hands actually rested against his thighs, her fingers curling just a little against his flesh, as though for support, for comfort. Really! He thought he might've had to work her a little harder before this, but, well… Harley had surprised him again.
He was, after all, The Joker. He was just as likely to slit her throat as trim her hair or cut off her nose and she knew it. One could never predict exactly what he might do, what whim might take him and whether he would follow it through. But there, she was trusting him. Crazy, crazy, delightful little girl.
He made the second cut a little deeper and she'd hissed in a sharp breath, pressing herself back against him, shutting her eyes. He lifted his free hand to her face and squeezed her cheeks together.
"Open those pretty eyes, Cupcake. Daddy wants to see them burn for me."
Blood was pouring down her stomach in sticky, luscious streams and he wiggled the handle of the razor in between his forefinger and thumb as she obeyed him, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. He'd grinned darkly at her and bent a little to place his mouth by her ear.
"See," he breathed. "This is sexy. This is wild. This is interesting." He let his hips bump against her rear, so she could feel he was rock hard. She immediately tried to twist around, making a grab for his cock. He batted her hand away and slapped the back of her head.
"Don't ruin it." He snapped. "You're too attached to the physical."
The sudden movement had made her swoon anyway and she stayed very still after that.
He kept the cuts precise and neat, perfect. He didn't want to disfigure her after all, and a messy job would do just that. He'd have to recut it over the next couple of weeks to ensure it would scar, of course, but the bloody mess then was a delight to look at.
A beautiful, curling 'J' right between her perfect, perky breasts.
Well, he did like to sign all his work.
Slicing someone's flesh was not like hitting them. For some reason they tended to go into shock faster. It was the shattering sensation of the cut nerves, the rush of endorphins exploding to battle against them, the disbelieving shock of seeing such copious amounts of one's own blood pouring out of one's flesh, he thought. Harley had swayed, her eyelids half shut, then she'd passed out and he'd let her drop to the floor at his feet, crumpled into a pink and white little pile, one hand tossed up over her head, her face in an attitude of distressed rapture.
He stepped over her prone body and then crouched down and ran his tongue up the length of the cut; her blood sweet and hot. Then he'd grabbed her by the hair and dragged her over to the bathroom, whistling with gratified contentment, dumped her into the tub and switched the cold water on.
Later on, with a mess of padding strapped to her pretty little breasts, she'd looked at him mournfully from the bed, all tangled up in the purple satin sheets and keeping very, very still so as not to cause any further aches and pains.
"What is it?" he'd snapped irritably. He'd been lying back, head in hands, staring at the ceiling, letting his mind chase little thought clouds, making shapes and pictures out of them, some part of him still enjoying the knowledge she would let him scar her body, perhaps slightly intoxicated on the extent of his power over her. Maybe next time he'd push it even -
"You didn't - you know - "
He rolled his eyes. "Yes, I did." He said shortly and she'd looked down to his groin where he was still hard, riding high on the smell of her blood in the air.
"But you're still - "
How could she not get it?
"That's irrelevant. It's meaningless." And he turned to her with one of his most especially beautiful smiles and patted her knee. "I got there, baby. I always get there."
The Joker didn't need to mess his pants to find bliss. Orgasm for him was a full body experience, which rarely involved ejaculation of any kind. Men often reported a moment of total blankness at the point of orgasm. For Joker it was a moment where everything around him increased in intensity. Every sound, sight, smell and taste became amplified even more so than it usually was, a barrage of sensation that had his head spinning. It was beautiful and fun, a bit like going on a roller-coaster when the track was out and the gears jammed on turbo speed. He loved it, but he didn't have to be thrusting his cock into something to achieve it. He could achieve it in all manner of ways. And sure, sometimes he just got off in the traditional sense, but life, death, mayhem, chaos and the glorifying of his name and the incomparable sight of his handiwork brought it to him just as easily.
Harley never quite understood. Even when he showed her how to get there without the reliance on touching or traditional foreplay, she still hungered to be close to him, to have him touch her, to have him put bits of himself inside bits of her. He came to realise it was a fundamental part of her nature but he figured with enough time he could rub it out, as he'd eroded everything else about her.
But even though he trained her well, so much so that so eventually just brushing his fingers across the back of her neck brought her to the cusp of orgasm, that she could get off on the ritual of kneeling by his side and polishing his shoes, or shiver convulsively from a certain look he gave her, she never really got it. She seemed to want to continue to walk the lines between the two worlds.
Of course, it probably would help if he himself could stop the ridiculous rolling about and thrusting in the bed with her. Trouble was, it really did feel awfully nice.
Well, whatever. So long as it was ultimately all about him, he didn't care.
And that was the best thing about Harley. In the end, it really was all about him.
---
She wasn't convinced they should sleep in the same bed. He knew that once she crossed that line, there would absolutely be no going back – not ever – and she seemed to know it too.
And she had worked so hard for her freedom and independence after all. Maybe it didn't mean anything without him, but she clearly didn't want to give it up without a fight.
And, really, he knew that was because the greater the struggle she put into holding onto it, the more giving it up would mean – in a few months time she could spin out romantic little fantasies in her head about how he'd just swept her away, her fighting all the way.
But he wasn't spending another day in her apartment alone.
"I feel bad about you sleeping on the couch, Pooh." He said with deep concern. "It's only a little couch."
"I'm only a little girl." She retorted meekly, wiping her splotchy face with one hand.
"But you've put a crick in your neck, I can tell." He said coddlingly, and she lifted a hand absent-mindedly to her neck, confirming it for him.
"Here!" He said, as though struck by inspiration, "We can lay the pillows down the centre of the bed like this, see. " He gathered a couple up and placed them down the middle of the bed. "And then this can be your half and this can be my half." He gestured with his hands and beamed at her. "Come on, Harley! You need a decent night's sleep!" He was careful to keep his coaxing voice just slightly entreating, with the merest hint of honey, and he saw her resolve falter.
"A – all right," she said, a little puzzled frown between her brows (so cute!).
She changed into her pajamas in the bathroom and he hopped into bed and curled up beneath the blankets, giggling to himself in anticipation.
She came back in and switched off the light, got under the covers and curled up on her side, as close to the edge as she could manage without falling off, tucked into a foetal position.
He lay on his back with his head turned towards her and waited.
He forced himself to be patient. It was difficult. Only the thought of her yielding everything she was to him once more made it possible.
He knew she was lying there awake, painfully aware of his proximity. Doubtless she was thinking about him, his body and how it used to feel when she curled herself up around it, his hands on her neck, on her face, his mouth on her stomach and ears.
After a couple of days of this pretence she was going mad, he was sure of it. Tingling with the urge to touch him, telling herself it was wrong, which would only be heightening her desire. That was the thing about Harley - she wanted to be good, but being bad felt so much better!
When he figured that – at least – ten minutes had passed he groaned and rolled onto his side, away from her.
He felt her turn to look at him. He made a little moan again and drew his knees up to his chest, muffling his giggles. Harley turned away once more.
He let another ten minutes pass, still having to silence the little bursts of laughter that shook up through his body. Then he flopped onto his back, raising both hands to his face and clawing at it. By now her eyes would've adjusted to the dark and she'd be able to see the gesture. He thought of her, lying there awake and wondering what he was thinking and what he was going to do – that would be killing her, knowing something was coming but not knowing what.
It made him hard and he decided to act.
He rolled to her and wrapped himself around her, pulling her close against him, her rear end straight in his groin, his face in her hair, his hands running up over her hips, her taut stomach, cupping her soft breasts. She gasped in shock and squirmed and he breathed into her ear:
"Oh Harley, Harley, I just can't help myself with you so close to me like this!"
"No, Mistah J, we can't." she said feebly, struggling against him.
"Why not?" He asked and nipped at her ear.
"Because…" She was desperately trying, fumbling weakly with his hands as they roamed her body, her voice breathless and catching, "Because we're not together anymore. We have different lives, different needs…"
He chuckled, deep and low.
"Oh Harley," He slipped his fingertips beneath the waistband of her pajama bottoms, grazing her pelvic bone so that she gasped. "I think we still share at least one need." He kept his hands soft, but drove his crotch harder into her and was gratified by the moan she made, raw with desire.
"No - - " She managed, her legs twining with his, pushing back against him with her rear end.
"And," He licked his lips and pressed them against her neck, breathing against her. "We were always dynamite together."
And that was true.
He felt her falter, her body tremble, the relaxing of her muscles as she came close to relenting. Then she tightened up again, continued to try to pull away from him (oh, but she could, if she REALLY wanted to, couldn't she?) and he couldn't help but grin a little wider. It wouldn't be as much fun if she gave in too easily. And he wasn't having to fake it now; he was excited and aroused by her tenacity, her determination to maintain the boundaries between them.
She wasn't going to.
"Harley, I have to have you," he whispered, and pulled her onto her back, their breath coming ragged and hard in a syncopated rhythm in the darkness, and he tugged at her pyjama bottoms. "And I'm not going to take no for answer." She didn't know how true it was. Eventually, he was going to have all of her.
"Nooo…" She moaned softly, but lifted her hips as he pulled her pajama bottoms off.
When he had her lower half bared, he pulled himself out through the fly of his pants and stretched himself out on top of her. She was still struggling and pleading with him softly, saying they couldn't, that it was wrong, but her thighs parted of their own accord and when he brushed himself gently against her opening he could feel the wetness there.
And even though he always thought people were far too attached to simplistic physicality, he had to admit it felt quite delicious.
She pushed up at his shoulders and he caught her wrists and pinned them down. The whole thing was hot, hot, hot. He hadn't figured he'd find it so, but her faked resistance was really turning him on. She could kick him across the room, if she really wanted to. He knew it, and she knew it, and she knew he knew it. But she still needed to tell herself she didn't want this, had to pretend she was being coerced into it. He'd play along, he didn't mind. If it made her feel better. Hey, he always tried to make his girl happy! Well – never mind.
And now, the killing blow, he thought, wishing he had a drum roll to accompany this moment.
He bent down through the darkness and found her lips with his own. He brushed them softly, tasting them, flickering his tongue against them. He felt her body twitch beneath him. Then he kissed her properly, capturing her mouth into his own, gratified by the deep, thrumming groan that rose up from her throat as he did so.
He had to fight back to the urge to fill her lungs with his laughter when she raised her hips off the mattress, trying to urge him inside her. He teased her a moment longer, just letting himself press softly against her wetness, until she thrust up again, more desperately this time, even as he held her head firmly with one hand and her wrists up above in the other and devoured her with a kiss. Then he pushed inside her.
"Oh," he said surprised, breaking the kiss. "This is very nice." He'd forgotten.
It wasn't the all over intense body pleasure he got when she pleased him in other ways, but it was pretty damn good.
He kissed her, nibbled her neck, squeezed and sucked on her nipples; did all the things he knew would be meaningful to her, that she'd enjoy. It would've been boring at any other time, but at this time, when she was still trying so hard to resist, it piqued his interest. He forced himself not to go too slow and to keep up a constant thrusting – whereas for most men the desire was to go quickly, to reach orgasm, that point was of so little importance to him that he could often forget about it during and get distracted by other things. Harley actually seemed to appreciate that, but he didn't think now was the time. She had started to make a great deal of noise beneath him and he'd let go of her hands so she could entwine them around his neck. Now that they were really down to things, she'd given up on pretending to resist and squeezed her legs tight around his waist, urging his butt downwards with her ankles, her hands moving frantically through his hair, down over his neck and back, pulling him hard and close against her. He enjoyed the feel of her need, of her trying to devour him through touch, her mouth against his ear and cheek, desperately against his own.
Of course, the real litmus test of how much work he had left to do was how long it would take her to…
Even as the thought passed, her hips bucked up, she squeezed his shoulders tight, her head tipped back and a little moan rose in volume as her muscles contracted rapidly around him. Oh. That was almost disappointingly easy. At the same time, it was immensely gratifying, the all too visceral experience of his hold over her.
He revelled in that power for a while when she was done, feeling it around him in waves, palpable and delicious, dancing off his skin. He laughed and he felt her smile through the darkness. It brought him joy, then.
His thrusting grew more regular and a little quicker. It wasn't bad at all. In fact, hell, it was great. She was crying and clinging to him, and asking him to go a little harder, a little faster.
She came again before long and he laughed and she shivered at the sound and her head rolled about deliriously.
Right. Perfect. Now, if she would only stop crying.
In a way it was enormously gratifying, to have the warm little bundle pressed tight against him, absolutely quivering with need while he took pleasure from her. But the weeping was tiresome.
"Please." She begged him, all pride lost. "Please, don't ever leave again. Please. Please."
He lifted her face up and kissed away her tears, then kissed her. That made her quiet.
"Please, Daddy," she murmured and he bit her lip hard and tasted blood, twined his fingers in her hair, wrapped his other hand around her throat, feeling her pulse beating rapidly. He imagined crushing it, stopping it altogether, silencing her heart for good and he thrust harder. One day he would.
When he came, everything stopped for a moment and he felt arrested in time, gripped there with Harley wrapped around him, absolutely bombarded with an assault of sensation, curiously focused and isolated, but delightful nonetheless. He revelled in it for several long moments, vaguely aware that he was smothering Harley, was pulling at her hair too hard, biting her cheek far too sharply and it occurred to him he was very generous to share so much of his ecstasy with her.
When he was finished he slumped down on top of her and felt her shift just a little, turning her face inwards to his neck, pressing feather-light kisses there, her fingertips shifting gently through his hair.
He rolled off abruptly snapped on the bedside light then looked at her.
She was absolutely dishevelled, her neck red and her cheek and lip bleeding, her hair in disarray, stuck up at odd angles all around her head. She also looked unutterably contented, her face smeared with bliss, eyes half-lidded and a silly little smile on her face. Now, there was his Harley. He felt very proud of himself.
"I been waitin' for you to do that since the second ya walked in." She drooled and he pounced on her pinning her shoulders to the mattress.
"What?´ he screamed, "Why didn't you say so?"
Her face was stricken with fear and alarm as he gnashed his teeth in her face, livid with rage.
"I'm s-s-sorry, Puddin'!" She gasped. "I was just so – so – so confused and all!"
He abruptly relented, his snarl becoming a smile, relaxing his grip and sliding back beside her.
"Well, Pooh, it wasn't all bad, I suppose," he chuckled, thinking of the Ciccolinas downstairs and the girls on Harley's battered women's forum, as well as some of the fun he'd had toying with Harley's own 'sane' mind (sane, phah! Those doctor's should really all have their licenses revoked. Then again, perhaps it hadn't been a fair fight, going up against him and his handiwork). Beside him Harley blinked uncertainly for a few seconds, before visibly relaxing. He looked at her and pinched her cheek. And what they'd just done had definitely been hot. Probably that was why he was going so easy on her. He'd maybe enjoyed it a little too much though – better keep on eye on her over the next week. It might finally be time to dispose of her permanently.
Harley snuggled close to him, nuzzling at his underarm and reaching up to toy with one nipple. She looked all loose and floppy and he wondered if she was capable of walking. Well, one way to find out…
He lifted a hand to her breast and traced the scarred J that was there. It was fainter than it had been a few years ago. When he touched it a strange look transfixed Harley's face, one of sheer subservient bliss
"I think perhaps we need to do this again, Pet."
She didn't even hesitate, just nodded, looking up at him with stupid, trusting blue eyes. He leaned in close to her and breathed:
"Go get Daddy something sharp, Punkin."
---
To be continued…