Home, Sweet Home! [Harleykins]

[Harleen Quinzel]

“How do we know the world won’t come to an end? ... ’Cause its round.”[/color]

It took her a moment to understand the joke, but it finally sank in and she began to laugh softly and to herself. She was happy that he said something finally. Though it wasn't much, it was still enough for her to live with.

But soon, it didn't matter. She watched the Joker, eyeing his every move. To her surprise, he rested his head into her stomach. She smiled down at him and then let her eyes glance over at the tv.

"Eep!" she felt a ticklish prodding in her side. Soon, she was echoing with laughter. Curling her spine, she twisted and turned and in the end, hit her head on the side table.

Her vision went fuzzy for a moment but she just wanted to get up. It hurt and she felt as though there was a little bit of blood staining her blond hair. It had been a rather sharp corner. She got up, her hand on her head, and tried to get out of the room. Maybe to a bathroom to clean up her head.

She felt the Joker pounce on her and she fell to the ground, under yet another tickle attack. Harley laughed and laughed, thrown in a giggling fit of her own. "Puddin'! Stop!" she said through her giggles, but she didn't mean it. She was just saying it to see if it would make him stop.

[jackz]

“Your lips say no,” He mused out, “but your smile says YES!”

He continued to move forward with is tickle attack, his hands roaming around her body to her many specific tickle points, her knees, her feet, even her kidneys. He even playful ruffled his long fingers into her hair just to mess it up, and felt a slight bump where the table had hit her.

He looked down at the carpet and found nothing had stained, everything was completely fine and he continued to tickle her.

There was something very delightful in her smile, something very enticing in the music of her high pitched laughter that most people would find obnoxiously annoying, and something intoxicating in the way she smelled, a mix of blood, sweat and sugar.

It made the crevices of something deep within him well up to the point where his tickling reached almost dangerous heights. It was incessant, and persistent, that every time Harley batted away a hand, the other would come zooming in to take its place. She practically laughed her little pink lungs out and was beginning to pant and wheeze at the lack of oxygen.

He felt a twinge inside him. The twinge. Like a germ that's been planted inside of him and feeding, so foreign it could be death.

No, he's more familiar with death.

He continued to barrage her with tickles, but soon they gave way to something much more serious. As the tickles soon became pokes, and pokes became rough horse playing; he was not smiling anymore, his eye gleamed with something different.

Like a mad beast he picked her up from off the floor and dragged her to the love sofa. He ferociously plopped her into the couch not caring if she was hurt, and only hearing her small gasps of air as she finally received some much needed air.

She drives him crazy. And that's why she drives him crazy. And it won't be smothered.

He went out of the room, and sifted through the linens closet till he found, to his surprise a fluffy pink pillow that he stuffed under his arm and stomped back into the room. He saw Harley still on the couch. The pillow moved out from under his arm into his hands.

So instead he smothers her.

He came up to her with such a rush that shoving the pillow into her face made her head fall back into the cushions of the sofa. With one powerful hand he held her head in place, and felt her body flailing beneath him as he pinned her down with his own weight as he jumped on top of her. But it wasn’t enough to see her struggle for air, and with his other hand he felt his fist ball up. He pounds out his rage onto her body.

Branding her with it so that she will see and he will see and neither of them will ever forget.

He'll never forgive her for this. Not for this.

He fists beat into her flesh, and he sees each muscle in her body contract with spasms from his fists. Cream skin blistering red and black beneath his blows. The blink of broken blue eyes split into adoration and fear.

In these moments, so broken, so beaten, so bloodied and bruised. She is most perfect.

And it stirs again. And the process of his hits pool out for longer amounts of time.

She may have his heart. Stirred it. Woken it. Made it bloom, an ugly blood-black nightshade painfully twitching in the hollow of his chest.

But she'll never stop paying for it.

And once his arm began to ache, and his fists quenched with enough beaten flesh, and the fliailing died down till he could almost feel her lose consciousness. He let her go. His let his hands fall to his side. His panting was rhythmic and precise, and he didnt bother to move the pillow from her face as he got off of her. Without a word, he walked into the kitchen again.

Water was heard gushing out from the sink in waves. And within a few moments the water stopped running. He came back into the room with his hair damp and his face still. He didn't look at her as he got back onto the couch, ploping himself next to her.

He flexed his fingers and heard them crack all over again. And it reminded him of Harley and he looked over at her to find that she was still breathing. He also remember hearing something crack beneath his fist.

He threw a look at her, eyes narrowed. "Broken?" the enquiry was snapped and devoid of compassion.

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley kept giggling and giggling. She couldn't breath, she was laughing so much. And she was soon gasping for air. She tried batting his hands but to no avail. Bat one, the other starts to attack her.

She gasped and wheezed. The tickling became harsher, more painful. And soon, it was no longer tickling. It was pokes and hits, hurting her. The moment it stopped, she thought that he was completely done.

She felt him pick her up and drop her on the loveseat. She laid there, heaving and cough as she filled her lungs with oxygen. Harley just laid there, letting herelf breath in and out, slowly.

Suddenly, she felt a hand press something soft into her face. Harley tried to twist and turn, though it didn't do much. She was struggling to breath, and she oped that it would have ended there. But of course, like all of the other times this had happened, he didn't. She felt him strike her repetitively. Her eyes grew dark with fear, and yet, she still admired him.

Small tears of pain filled her eyes. It didn't take long for her to go unconscious.

[jackz]

He watched her lay there in silence.

Her breathing steady, and after a laborious hour of laughing heartily at the movie Animal Crackers, he gathered it was time to get their weary bones into bed.

Turning off the TV, and the only slivers of light coming from the first few rays of sunlight, he got up, stretched some more, walked around the entirety of the house (finding the hyenas had burrowed themselves into the attic where Mrs. Flannigan was now digesting in their stomachs) before coming back into the living to find a perfectly sleeping Harley.

He towered over for a moment, looked at it, scrutinized and analyzed, till finally he slid his hands underneath her petite frame and picked her up into his arms.

Slowly he began walking to the stairs, and careful not to ruin dear Harley Quinn’s sleep, he took great care in each step he took up the winding stairs.

Once reaching the second floor, he opened the bedroom door with a foot and the two of them quietly entered the carefully (or perhaps not so carefully) decorated room of the master bedroom. He plopped Harley on one side of the bed and rolled the covers over her body and tucked her in like a child.

He shifted a little to look at her where she lay, snoring softly. In sleep her face looked cherubic, her lower lip slack and moist. Her hair was tied back into two plaits, strands of it disheveled around her face, and her hands were curled up under her chin, her knees drawn up to her chest.

A smile slid up his face as he watched her, a smile brimming with malice.

She was desperately cute. Really. Quite the little picture.

He turned his head to look at the room. On one side of the wall there was a punched in cuckoo clock. He remembered splintering his fists against it earlier that week because of it’s infernal racket – at every goddamn hour! Though the spring wire was sticking out of it with the bird ripped out and lost somewhere, at least the actual clock was still ticking. He looked at the time, four o’clock A.M.

In about three hours – he was going to need to get going to class! Immediately flabbergasted about all the little time he had left (yes, he indeed used up all three hours to get read) he began to get to work. First, he rummaged through the old dam’s deceased husband’s drawers. He found a beautiful lot of extraordinarily boring clothes that fit the school atmosphere quite nicely. A blue button up shirt, a stiff red tie, and crotch pinching chinos – all completed his days dress. His laid them all out on the floor in front of him as for him to see the set up before he placed it on the canvas of his body. H pulled out black socks and regular brown dress shoes before being fully satisfied with what he picked out for today.

He then went to the bureau, the smashed mirror reflecting his face a million times over in distorted images. He liked it that way. And he pulled open the bottom drawer and pulled out his large box of make-up. This was his night time make up though, indeed he had DAY time make-up.

In order to fully capture the essence of “Jack Napier”, scars stretching from the side of his face would not due. Lifting the lid up, another, less cracked, mirror lay within the lid’s interior, Pulling out clear facial putty to fill in the gaps of his scars, grabbing a tube full of light fleshed colored paint, he was able within an hour or two to completely make his scars invisible. Being holed up long enough with clay face and other inmates at Arkham to specialize in facial alterations, he was able to pick up a few tricks.

Satisfied with his smooth face, he went to the bathroom, washed out the last few strands of green hair and finally took a good look at himself in the mirror.

He hated Jack Napier as he scowled at his reflection.

He pulled out his small bottom of eye drops, dropping in a few into his sleep deprived eyes. He then walked out, undressed, and began putting on Jack Napier’s clothes. A tedious business that at times he felt like it would be easier to be incarcerated in Arkham than having to go through all of this bologna.

He went down stairs, back into the kitchen, and immediately slapped two piece of bread onto the frying pan, both heavily greased and lathered in rich butter. The smell and crackling wavered up into the air, and his stomach rumbled, he didn’t realize how hungry he was. He dropped in a few pieces of bacon, let them fry and then pulled out some peanut butter. Once the toast was done, he slopped out a thick helping of peanut butter onto each slice and slapped on top of them the cooked bacon.

Mmm. A delicious and highly nutritious meal.

He bit down into one of them; an interesting explosion of flavor came into his mouth. He poured himself a cold cup of chocolate that had been left over from last night.