Harley. Harley. Harley.

His thoughts always managed to go back to the insane, bubbly woman. When he looked at her, his sanity flooded back to him at such an alarming rate that it made him boil over with pure rage. A rage that no one understood, not even himself. Harley, though, would face his rage with a calm acceptance and whisper away his fears.

"Mistah Jay."

Mistah Jay.

Mistah Jay.

The city twang in her voice was annoying and garbage, but the way she called to him was like music. No one could say Mistah Jay like she could, no one was allowed. It was an unspoken rule, of sorts, like most things revolving around The Joker.

He watched from his oversized, ridiculously bright, water stained chair as Harley pranced around the room, humming to herself. She was out of her jester outfit and the face paint had long been wiped away earlier in the evening. Blonde hair swayed in beat with her hips as she went around the room rearranging things, pranks and gags all in their place and plans filed away by her deceivingly delicate hands.

He liked her best this way.

Oh sure, he loved the way her clown suit hugged all her curves in the most sinful of places, and how her eyes were more wild when rimmed with the dark black of her make up. She was scarily sexy and just plain adorable when she did her jumps and flips, evading and killing. Many times he had been fascinated by the blood that would spray across her face as she took down the poor saps who thought her easy to take down. It was even more chilling to watch her giggle about it.

But something about her natural state was more arousing than anything Harley could ever hope to manage on purpose. He assumed it was because he was the only one who ever saw her in such a state. Even while she had been a productive member of society, she was only ever seen as what she wanted to be seen as. The ditsy blonde in college who slept with all her professors for that easy A or the sophisticated, professional, still whorey woman at Arkham. No one had ever seen Harley as just herself.

She reminded him of something...well, more like someone from his past. Her blue eyes always staring into his, never really trying to figure him out, just happy to be there. He never understood it, but he knew the moment that he saw her, the moment she said his name that she would be his. His weapon, his toy, his sick, twisted, fucked in the head—lover. She was everything he needed, if he were being honest with himself.

She complimented his personality in a way that no one would ever dream. He had always been a lone wolf, at least as long as he had been The Joker. He didn't know when she stopped filling him with rage and began to fill him with bliss. It had been many years, so many that his joints were beginning to hurt and Harley's eyes were beginning to form crow's feet from laughing and smiling so much. Somehow, though, she seemed forever young and he didn't look like he aged a day due to his accident, or as he liked to call his, "birth."

He was pulled out of his thoughts, though, as Harley stood before him in a slinky, silk, black night gown. It stopped in the middle of her creamy white thighs and had teasing slits up the sides to her well-rounded hips. One of her delicate hands rested on Joker's cheek, her body slightly bent forward, giving him a wondrous view of her ample chest.

"Yes, Harley?" he asked in fake annoyance. "Mistah Jay, I asked you if you were okay." came Harley's reply. He stared at her expression of concern and began to laugh. It started off quietly, then it burst forth like a broken dam, "Why, Harley! Of course I'm okay you little twit. I have you, don't I?" She didn't seem startled by his outburst or his sarcastic reply and instead settled for smiling softly at him. "Ya, Mistah Jay, ya always have me."

With that said, Joker leaned forward allowing his lips to press against Harley's. Oh yes, The Joker loved Harley Quinn, for many reasons...but mainly for just being there.