A Life in DC
Chapter 7 - Part 2
She sent a quick text to the group chat: "Cute. My turn next."
Then she started gathering what she'd need—vines, a few choice toxins, and a small vial for collection. Scientific curiosity and raw want mixed together until she couldn't tell which was driving her. Didn't matter. She was going to have him again.
Ivy slipped the vial into a small pouch at her hip and turned toward the greenhouse exit. The vines parted for her like obedient pets, leaves brushing her bare arms with soft, almost affectionate touches. She could still feel the aftershocks of her orgasm low in her belly, a warm, liquid throb that made her thighs press together as she walked. Part of her wanted to hunt Vieri down right now, wrap him in thick green coils, and ride that blessed cock until the Green sang loud enough to drown out Harley's smug little video. The scientific side of her brain was already planning the next encounter: how to collect a fresh sample of his cum, how to test its potency on different strains, how deep she could take him before her body gave out again.
She smiled, slow and green-tinged. Harley had won a battle. Not the war.
***
Meanwhile, deep in the rotting guts of the old Ace Chemical plant, the Joker paced.
The place still smelled like burnt rubber and cheap bourbon from his last tantrum. Shattered glass crunched under his purple shoes with every step. Half the catwalk railing was bent where he'd thrown a goon through it two nights ago. The remaining henchmen kept their distance, clustered near the far wall, pretending to check equipment while they shot nervous glances at their boss.
Joker was ranting again. Not the fun, theatrical kind he usually did for cameras. This was the ugly, low, spitting kind that made even his own men want to disappear.
"—and the Bat thinks he's so clever," he snarled, waving the half-empty bourbon bottle like a conductor's baton. "Always swooping in at the last second, cape flapping, voice like gravel in a blender. 'I am vengeance. I am the night.' Please. You're a rich boy playing dress-up in a cave because mommy and daddy got turned into red paint on the sidewalk. Pathetic."
He took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his glove, and kept pacing.
"Sidekicks aren't any better. Nightwing flipping around like some circus reject. Robin with his little swords and attitude. They all think they're hot shit because they wear the bat logo. But they're just props. Background noise. The real show is supposed to be me and Harley. Me and my little Harlequin. Chaos and mayhem, side by side, painting the town red and green and purple until the whole city laughs itself to death."
His voice dropped, turning bitter.
"But noooo. She got bored. Decided to play house with the plant bitch and the kitty cat. 'Queens of Crime.' What a joke. A gardening club with attitude. They probably sit around drinking tea and talking about feelings while I'm out here trying to make art."
He stopped suddenly, staring at the detonator in his other hand like he'd forgotten it was there. His painted grin twitched.
"I'll show them real chaos. Something big. Something loud. Something that'll make Harley come running back when she realizes how boring her new friends are. Maybe blow the whole river district. Or spike the water supply with something that makes everyone's face melt into a permanent smile. Yeah… that has potential."
One of the goons dared to speak up. "Boss, we still got those laughing gas canisters from last month—"
"Shut up!" Joker whirled on him, bottle smashing against the railing. Glass exploded. "I'm thinking! The great Clown Prince of Crime is formulating! You don't interrupt genius, you mouth-breathing—"
His phone buzzed loudly in his pocket.
Joker froze mid-rant, eyes narrowing. He fished the cracked device out and stared at the screen. Unknown sender. Video attachment. The thumbnail was blurry, but he could make out red-and-black pigtails and a whole lot of bare skin.
His grin returned, slow and dangerous.
"Well, well. Speak of the devil and she sends you a little present."
He tapped play.
The video started. Harley's face filled the frame first—mascara running, lipstick smeared, that manic grin she only got when she was having fun. Then the camera pulled back. She was bent over a car console, skirt flipped up, ass high. A thick, veined cock was slamming into her from behind, stretching her pussy wide with every brutal thrust. The sounds were raw and filthy: wet skin slapping, Harley's broken moans, the wet squelch of her cunt taking every inch.
"Fuuuuck yes, Daddy!" Harley wailed in the video. "Split this little clown cunt wide fuckin' open!"
Joker's grin froze. His hand tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked.
{R-18 Scene Vieri x Harley Quinn aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Joker stared, breath coming faster. Rage boiled up first—hot, acidic, burning through his chest like acid. That was his Harley. His chaos. His toy. And some nobody was balls-deep in her, making her scream like a cheap whore in the back of a shitty car.
He hurled the bourbon bottle across the room. It shattered against the far wall, spraying glass and liquor everywhere. One of the goons ducked too late and got a cut across the cheek.
"Boss—?"
"SHUT UP!" Joker screamed, voice cracking into something ugly.
He kept watching. The video showed Harley getting railed harder, her ass rippling with every impact, tits swaying heavily as she got folded and used. Her moans turned into desperate, broken sobs of pleasure.
"Daddy—fuck—Daddy—I'm yours! All yours!"
Joker's free hand slammed into a metal table, sending tools and half-built bombs scattering across the floor. He grabbed a nearby chair and hurled it into a stack of gas canisters. Metal clanged. Something sparked. He didn't care.
The sounds kept playing from the phone speaker—wet slaps, Harley's filthy begging, the low growl of the man fucking her.
"Cum for me," the voice ordered. "Show them what Daddy does to his little clown."
Harley screamed through another orgasm, body convulsing, pussy milking the cock buried inside her.
Joker's rage twisted. His cock was hard in his pants—traitorous, aching, throbbing at the sight of Harley getting absolutely destroyed. He hated it. He loved it. The contradiction made him laugh, a short, broken sound that turned into a snarl.
He yanked his zipper down with one hand, still holding the phone with the other. His cock sprang out—pale, already leaking. He started stroking roughly, eyes glued to the screen as Harley got pounded in the back seat, legs shaking, cum starting to leak out around the thick shaft.
The video ended with Harley's wrecked, grinning face. "ladies… i win 😏"
Joker came hard, a weak, angry spurt that splattered across the phone screen, coating Harley's frozen smile in thick white ropes. He kept stroking through it, breath ragged, until the last weak pulse dribbled over his knuckles.
Then the rage came back full force.
He smashed the phone against the railing—once, twice, three times—screen cracking, casing splitting. The video sounds cut off mid-moan, Harley's voice dying in a jagged electronic squawk. He threw the broken remains across the room. It bounced off a rusted pipe and landed in a puddle of spilled chemicals with a wet hiss.
"TRAITOR!" he screamed. The word bounced off the corroded walls and came back at him like a slap. "My Harley—my perfect little monster—riding some nobody's cock like a back-alley slut!"
The bourbon bottle was already gone, so he grabbed the next thing his hand found: a heavy wrench. He hurled it at the nearest goon. The man ducked; the wrench punched straight through a metal locker door and clanged to the floor. Joker didn't stop. He swept an arm across the workbench, sending half-finished bombs, glass beakers, and syringes flying. One canister hit the concrete and started leaking a thin green vapor that made the air taste like metal.
A metal cabinet went next. He kicked it hard enough that the doors flew open and tools spilled out in a noisy avalanche. A workbench flipped with a screech of bent legs. Gas canisters rolled across the floor; one of them struck a spark off a fallen generator and a small blue flame licked up the side before a goon stamped it out.
The henchmen scattered like roaches, diving behind whatever cover they could find—overturned crates, the remains of the catwalk stairs, even each other. No one was stupid enough to try calming him down.
Joker stood in the middle of the wreckage, chest heaving, purple coat torn at one shoulder, paint-smeared face twisted into something that wasn't quite a grin anymore. His cock was still half-hard, a wet spot cooling on the front of his pants. He tucked it away roughly, wiped his hand on his jacket, and left a smeared white streak across the lapel.
"Fine," he hissed, voice low and dangerous now. The manic edge had sharpened into something colder. "If she wants to play house with the Queens… I'll burn the whole board."
He started pacing again, boots crunching over broken glass. Every few steps he kicked something else—a loose pipe, a shattered monitor, a stack of Joker cards that fluttered like dying moths. The destruction continued, slower now, more deliberate, like he was clearing space for whatever came next.
The chemical plant groaned around him, metal creaking, distant pipes dripping, the low hiss of leaking gas mixing with the sound of his own breathing.
He stopped under one of the few working overhead lights. The bulb flickered, casting his shadow long and jagged across the floor.
"Batman," he muttered, almost conversationally. "Always Batman. Thinks he's the main character. Thinks he owns the night. I'll give him a night he'll never forget."
He snatched a fresh notepad off a surviving shelf—pages already half-filled with doodles of exploding smiley faces—and started scribbling. His handwriting was jagged, ink bleeding through the paper.
"Step one: make it personal. Not just a bomb in a bank. Not just laughing gas in the subway. Something that hits him where it hurts. The cave? Too obvious. The mansion? Too easy. No… we go after the people he pretends he doesn't care about."
He tapped the pen against his chin, leaving a blue ink smudge on the white greasepaint.
"Nightwing. Robin. That new one, whatever her name is. The whole little bat family. I'll set up a trap that looks like it's for me, but it's really for them. Something big enough that even the Bat has to come running. And when he does…" Joker's grin returned, slow and ugly. "I'll have the whole river district wired. Not just the plant. The bridges, the ferries, the water treatment intake. One big domino chain. Press the button and half of Gotham lights up like Christmas in hell."
He ripped the page out, crumpled it, and kept writing on the next one.
"Harley's new friends get dragged in too. Make it look like the Queens are behind it at first. Plant some of Ivy's vines, leave a few of Selina's claw marks. Let the Bat chase the wrong cats while the real punchline drops. By the time he figures it out, the city's laughing, the Queens are scrambling, and Harley…" He laughed once, short and sharp. "Harley will see what real madness looks like. She'll remember who taught her how to smile while the world burns."
Another canister rolled past his foot. He kicked it hard; it clanged into the far wall and burst open, releasing a cloud of harmless purple smoke that smelled like cotton candy and regret.
"Need bigger toys," he muttered, pacing faster now. "The old laughing gas won't cut it. Too small. Too yesterday. I want something new. Something that gets inside their heads. Maybe a fear toxin remix—my own special blend. Make the Bat see his parents again, but laughing. Make Nightwing watch his old circus burn while everyone claps. Make the little bird boy remember what it feels like to lose everything and still smile."
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