Permission to archive: Yes, just tell me!
Category: Drama, Romance, Sex, Horror…the usual.
Rating: M. As far as I’m concerned, you should be 700+ years to read this.
Summary: Joker was not someone you could leave unless he specified so.
Keywords: Joker, Harley, Two-Face, Break-Up, ECP (suggestive)
Spoilers: None. Set after Mad Love and their many adventures.
Disclaimer: I know you’re surprised, but I don’t own the Batman franchise (yet). It’s the strict property of DC Comics until I get insanely rich and/or blow the editor’s brains out.
Author Notes: This one had no category. It’s a depressing style that draws in despite its lack of explanations…See end notes.
“HARLEY! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR! NOW!”
“FUCK YOU!Take the goddamn money and leaaaaaaaave..!”
She resumed hiccupping and drowning in tears, her main answer since the half a horrible hour, and Joker punched the wood enough for it to crack, but quite not break. Bills of 100$ were dusting at his feet, untouched since the moment Harley threw the bag at his face and locked herself in the bathroom, for eternity, it seemed.
The present situation aside, all began rather simply. Unpleasantly, yes, but simply. He was taking coffee and reading the funny papers when title
more or less jumped in his face. Not that he cared, but the way Harley whored herself on Harvey’s possessive arm on the picture below was rather infuriating. It was enough he was now deemed “safe” by statistical 18-30 years old ladies on the rape meter of crime thanks to her and the “matched psychopath” etiquette it gave him without adding prejudice with a blatant treachery and a happy smile. Harley couldn’t be happy without him. She couldn’t leave him, simple as that.
Because he was not someone you could leave unless he specified so.
The bitch. The damn bitch, trying to make a fool out of him. He’d bring her back like a potato bag on his shoulder if he had to, but he wouldn’t stay idle while Miss exacted her petty revenge via the medias.
Of course, if he had considered the situation a bit more carefully, he wouldn’t be wasting his spit talking to Two-Face’s hide-out bathroom door now. It was just like him to forget that all the sugar talk of the world wouldn’t work on Harley unless he could put the finger on what displeased her in the first place. Not that he cared why--hahaha--but it midly annoyed him to realize that the strongest string binding him to his puppet was the only one he couldn’t quite control. Suppose he guessed she was upset because he didn’t remember their first date, he could always pretend the stunt he pulled that day was for it and she was just too damn stupid to realize it. That would be romantic--big killing mess for her. That would settle it. In the meantime, Harvey was smirking in his back and she continued to weep loudly that he was the worst lover in the world, another one he’ll make her swallow back with acid.
“Open. The. Door” he gritted through his teeth.
“Harley…I’ll say it one last time. Don’t force me to.”
“I warned you”.
Of course, the perceptive reader will not wonder why Joker didn’t just shot on the doorknob and be done with Harley’s little whim at the beginning, but remember that barging in like the typical Mafia Henchman dramatically lacks style and totally misses the objective of showing the leaving Flipping Coin Audience that he didn’t share his toy. Which was, theoretically, wrapped around his little finger and should have welcomed him with enamoured eyes and sin-deep kisses, but heh, he wasn’t famous for how smoothly all his shows went, after all.
His first intent was to slap her hard enough to make teeth fly—but her mournful, resigned look iced all the fun the idea could bring. She wasn’t a harlequin, just a wreck kneeling in a little ball in the corner, her eyes dull, her anger tired, her pigtails pitifully hanging while she continued to sob in what looked vaguely like the plushie he gave her two…no four…no six…years or months ago, clutching to it like it held some Sacred Promise about a Better Future.
“Harley”, he said as softly as possible, crouching in front of her, which was damn difficult considering that the bathroom was barely big enough for a chopped dwarf. “I didn’t forget”.
“You did. Go ‘way”, she sniffled, burying her face in poor Barney.
“Harley”, trying to lift her chin to kiss her, getting angry when she avoided his touch, “don’t ever do that again”. His hand went to her throat and slammed her head once against the wall, succeeding at keeping her still and securing her attention. “I want to kiss you, I do, you say “thank you Puddin”. Get it? I want to slice your face, I do, you say again. I want to bite your tongue, what do you do, baby slut?”
Slowly, so slowly, trembling, Harley drew out her tongue. “Bide my dongue, Buddin’, bleaz”, she added after a moment, her voice breaking under his hateful gaze.
“Keep your fucking eyes open while I do it or believe me I’ll give you a real reason to scream after”.
The sound of Harley’s scream could be heard three blocks away—but it’s not like anyone stayed close to Two-Face-now-Joker’s hide-out, even less when the typical psychopathic lover’s quarrel was unfolding.
“I didn’t forget”, repeated Joker soothingly after a deep breath. “I never said that, you know it”.
“That’s always what you say”, she countered feebly, her body a pliable doll while he arranged her in his embrace, her back pressed on his chest, his hand rubbing her stomach while he renewed smile on her ear, shushing her. A false movement and the handle of his gun pressed in her shorts, making her miss a beat.
“You liked that.”
“I think you need to remember why you love me.”
“Make a nursing rhyme out of it, Harl.”
Always & Never-End
I hear you. I know. It’s weird. Confusing. Incomplete. It has no head, no tail, no special rhythm, the end is like a fall’s rush, nothing like I wrote before. It’s just depressing and twisted, and the Joker doesn’t even laugh in it, and Harley isn’t cheerful, and I love abstraction way too much. In fact it just refers to my theories—I could argument a lot of my idea of the stage/backstage of JHQ—but for this time, I guess I just wanted to spoil myself. Sit in front of my cpu and let my fingers dance on the keyboard. Sorry if you don’t like; I’m quite proud of it, for it’s the closest I ever came to putting my mind on paper without an additional 3 hours staring blankly at my screen trying to shape it artistically.
That and my mood is really a slow fuel gas death. Goodnight everyone.