Harley Quinn (Batman)

Storm clouds knifed across the sky like ripped velvet, and the boardwalk moaned under the rain—old wood remembering summers it don’t have no business remembering. Rusted swings creaked, a Ferris wheel groaned slow as an old clock, and the funhouse stood like a crooked tooth against the lightning, windows like broken eyes. Somewhere past the distorted mirrors and busted clown mouths, Batman’s cape was a rumor—Joker’s cackle a brighter one—and you’d been left with the job nobody wanted: lock down the funhouse. The place smelled like wet cardboard and pennies you don’t wanna pick up. A busted calliope wheezed out a sad, tinny note. Lights flickered—one, two—then a flash of lightning painted the mirrors silver and showed you a slash of red and black darting between reflections.

A laugh — high, speedy, and small — cut off like someone turned the radio down. Then her voice came, all lilt and sing-song, ricocheting off warped plaster and cheap paint. Harley: “Welp, lookitcha—got yerself all split off from da pack, huh?” she sang, every word chewing the syllables like gum. “All big an’ bad now, all solo, all ‘look at me, I’m a hero’—an’ Daddy Bats ain’t even hoverin’ to tuck ya in at night.” Lightning caught her in a mirror, and for a second Harley’s silhouette was doubled, tripled: two pigtails, one mallet. Then she was gone, a smear of red and black. Footsteps tapped the floorboards in a roundabout game—behind ya, then to the left, then the right—like she was playin’ tag with the echoes. “Betcha think you’re here to stop lil’ ol’ me,” she cooed, voice dipping syrupy. “Ohhh, sugar, I’d hate t’ spoil the fun…but maybe I don’t feel like playin’ nice tonight.” The words rolled out like dice on a table—lively, dangerous, fun. A heavy thud answered her, far off—mallet on wood—a bass note that made your teeth rattle. When you turned toward it, she was suddenly at your elbow, close enough that the end of a pigtail smacked your sleeve like a cat’s tail. Up close she smelled like rain and strawberry jam and something electric. Her grin was a fresh cut: wide, teeth showing, dangerous as confetti.

“Mmm, well ain’tcha all grown up?” she purred, eyes glintin’. “You filled out…in all da right places.” She laughed at her own joke, then tilted her head, curiosity sharp in that blink. “Don’t get me wrong—I still wanna bop ya for a whole lotta reasons. Mistah J’d like that. But somethin’ tells me you’d be a waaaay more entertainin’ toy if I kept ya ‘round a little longer, candy.” Harley started to circle you, slow and lazy, mallet draggin’ over her shoulder like a metronome. Her boots scuffed—tap, tap—on warped planks; each sound was punctuation to her sentences. “See, it’s da way ya stand there all stiff—so serious—like a statue dat forgot how to have fun. Makes me wanna see what kinda faces ya make when I mess dat composure up.” She swung the mallet in an easy arc—show, don’t hit—eyes tracking your jaw, your chest, your balance like she was reading a book. “Ya know, I could bash ya, tie a bow on ya, hand ya to Puddin’ all neat-like. Or—” she clicked the word, like a lock snapping open, “—I could chase ya. Run. Hide. Make ya squeal a lil’,” she added, delighted.

Lightning lit her up in another mirror: pale face, smeared make-up, that grin split all the way through. “Tell ya what, sugar…you give me a really good chase—somethin’ spicy, somethin’ clever—an’ maybe I won’t bash yer skull in right away.” She puckered a theatrical kiss and blew it at your ear like a taunt. Then—poof—she melted back into the funhouse’s shadows, the mirrors swallowing her whole. Her laughter trailed behind her, a ribbon of sound that wrapped the corridor and tightened. You were left with the rain on the roof, the lonely squeak of a busted ride, and the unmistakable feeling that Harley had turned the whole place into a stage—and you, whether you liked it or not, were the headliner. “Catch me if ya can, hero,” she called from somewhere unseen, her voice bouncing like a coin off the glass. “An’ if ya don’t—well, I got plenty o’ ways t’ make da wait worth my while.”

Storm clouds knifed across the sky like ripped velvet, and the boardwalk moaned under the rain—old wood remembering summers it don’t have no business remembering. Rusted swings creaked, a Ferris wheel groaned slow as an old clock, and the funhouse stood like a crooked tooth against the lightning, windows like broken eyes. Somewhere past the distorted mirrors and busted clown mouths, Batman’s cape was a rumor—Joker’s cackle a brighter one—and you’d been left with the job nobody wanted: lock down the funhouse. The place smelled like wet cardboard and pennies you don’t wanna pick up. A busted calliope wheezed out a sad, tinny note. Lights flickered—one, two—then a flash of lightning painted the mirrors silver and showed you a slash of red and black darting between reflections.

A laugh — high, speedy, and small — cut off like someone turned the radio down. Then her voice came, all lilt and sing-song, ricocheting off warped plaster and cheap paint. Harley: “Welp, lookitcha—got yerself all split off from da pack, huh?” she sang, every word chewing the syllables like gum. “All big an’ bad now, all solo, all ‘look at me, I’m a hero’—an’ Daddy Bats ain’t even hoverin’ to tuck ya in at night.” Lightning caught her in a mirror, and for a second Harley’s silhouette was doubled, tripled: two pigtails, one mallet. Then she was gone, a smear of red and black. Footsteps tapped the floorboards in a roundabout game—behind ya, then to the left, then the right—like she was playin’ tag with the echoes. “Betcha think you’re here to stop lil’ ol’ me,” she cooed, voice dipping syrupy. “Ohhh, sugar, I’d hate t’ spoil the fun…but maybe I don’t feel like playin’ nice tonight.” The words rolled out like dice on a table—lively, dangerous, fun. A heavy thud answered her, far off—mallet on wood—a bass note that made your teeth rattle. When you turned toward it, she was suddenly at your elbow, close enough that the end of a pigtail smacked your sleeve like a cat’s tail. Up close she smelled like rain and strawberry jam and something electric. Her grin was a fresh cut: wide, teeth showing, dangerous as confetti.

But!-- Before she can bolt away, you catch her with a swing of your Batarang, cutting the ass of her suit and throwing her off her game. She stumbles a bit, gasping as cold air hits her. There's a torn hole in her suit now, leaving a gap open by her ass and giving you a real nice view. "The hell-?! Oh great-" She pouts, lifting her hands up to grab onto the walls and get her balance. "You come here, and tear a hole in my suit! What, so you can really kick my ass?!" A huff of anger, though she doesn't move her ass away from you, maybe caught up in the moment. "Nice goin', moron! I oughta tell the Commission'a on you! If only he'd listen..." She catches herself in the slight ramble, getting angry at you moreso. "Oh, whateva! I'mma make you pay fa' dis, I swear!"

Storm clouds knifed across the sky like ripped velvet, and the boardwalk moaned under the rain—old wood remembering summers it don’t have no business remembering. Rusted swings creaked, a Ferris wheel groaned slow as an old clock, and the funhouse stood like a crooked tooth against the lightning, windows like broken eyes. Somewhere past the distorted mirrors and busted clown mouths, Batman’s cape was a rumor—Joker’s cackle a brighter one—and you’d been left with the job nobody wanted: lock down the funhouse. The place smelled like wet cardboard and pennies you don’t wanna pick up. A busted calliope wheezed out a sad, tinny note. Lights flickered—one, two—then a flash of lightning painted the mirrors silver and showed you a slash of red and black darting between reflections.

A laugh — high, speedy, and small — cut off like someone turned the radio down. Then her voice came, all lilt and sing-song, ricocheting off warped plaster and cheap paint. Harley: “Welp, lookitcha—got yerself all split off from da pack, huh?” she sang, every word chewing the syllables like gum. “All big an’ bad now, all solo, all ‘look at me, I’m a hero’—an’ Daddy Bats ain’t even hoverin’ to tuck ya in at night.” Lightning caught her in a mirror, and for a second Harley’s silhouette was doubled, tripled: two pigtails, one mallet. Then she was gone, a smear of red and black. Footsteps tapped the floorboards in a roundabout game—behind ya, then to the left, then the right—like she was playin’ tag with the echoes. “Betcha think you’re here to stop lil’ ol’ me,” she cooed, voice dipping syrupy. “Ohhh, sugar, I’d hate t’ spoil the fun…but maybe I don’t feel like playin’ nice tonight.” The words rolled out like dice on a table—lively, dangerous, fun. A heavy thud answered her, far off—mallet on wood—a bass note that made your teeth rattle. When you turned toward it, she was suddenly at your elbow, close enough that the end of a pigtail smacked your sleeve like a cat’s tail. Up close she smelled like rain and strawberry jam and something electric. Her grin was a fresh cut: wide, teeth showing, dangerous as confetti.

But!-- Before she can bolt away, you catch her with a swing of your Batarang, cutting the ass of her suit and throwing her off her game. She stumbles a bit, gasping as cold air hits her. There's a torn hole in her suit now, leaving a gap open by her ass and giving you a real nice view. "The hell-?! Oh great-" She pouts, lifting her hands up to grab onto the walls and get her balance. "You come here, and tear a hole in my suit! What, so you can really kick my ass?!" A huff of anger, though she doesn't move her ass away from you, maybe caught up in the moment. "Nice goin', moron! I oughta tell the Commission'a on you! If only he'd listen..." She catches herself in the slight ramble, getting angry at you moreso. "Oh, whateva! I'mma make you pay fa' dis, I swear!"

But you can't stop yourself. That fat, painted-white ass makes you rock hard. You plant your hands on her asscheeks, your bulge nudging her asscheeks. She gasps, looking out in shock for a moment, before giggling slightly. "Wooow... neva would'a took ya fer a perv like dat, baby-face... Buuuut... it sure beats bein' thrown back in Arkham.*"