Title: Performance Art

Rating: Rated M (For dirty alley sex acts and some smacking around)

Summary: After a fantastic heist, Harley's ready and willing to play
her part in order to receive the reward... (Joker/Harley, ECP)

Disclaimer: DC owns all these characters and WB owns DC and Time Warner
owns WB and I'm pretty sure the rest of the world. Also, I stole this
disclaimer from Amanda.

Author Notes: Finally, it's complete! I'd like to thank Gladrial for
bugging me to write, WittyFae for encouraging me even after seeing the
unfinished trainwreck, Dreamlandburns for inspiring me midway with her
smutty goodness in all it's cigarette burning glory, Nanocyte for
wanting to actually read the damn thing enough that it spurred me on
through three whole paragraphs, and TheMadPuppy who started this whole
mess with her brilliance. All of these people were what made Backalley Blowjob happen!

Also, sincere apologies to Paul Dini. I'm sorry I make your darling
character have abusive sex in alleys! Really, it's an act of love on my
part. Honestly.

Re-edited 3/2/11: I could have changed this significantly at the end. I could have lessened what happened, made it a bit more subtle. But I would prefer to leave this as it is, as I wrote it when I was certain this was my masterpiece. Would I do it differently, now? Yes. Of course, in another five years, I would just change it again to suit my current tastes, so this is for the best. The words are still beautiful to me and that is all that matters.

And no, I don't know why the hell it is structured like this, in a column on one side of the screen. Formatting gremlins, I suppose.

It had been a spectacular escape that night. They'd left Guanoman
stumbling out of his busted car by the docks after leading him through
a lengthy car chase that spanned the stretch of Gotham itself. Her
Puddin' had even gotten in a couple of good cracks at Bird Boy's leg
during the fight out of the country club.

"Did you hear the way that nine iron smashed against his kneecap,
Harley-girl? I don't think we'll be seeing him for a few months!"

The Joker's cold laughter rang through her ears like beautiful music,
and she nearly dropped the bag of priceless crystal golf tees,
stumbling over herself while getting out of the car. Harley giddily
scurried down the alleyway after him, knowing that she'd be rewarded
for her good work in smashing Batgirl's head against the Bobby Jones
statue.

However, he stopped her short of the hideout door, wrapping one of his
large hands around her arm and pulling her back towards him.

"Dontcha wanna go inside, Boss?" She put on her cutest puzzled
expression, playing her part perfectly. Harley knew full well what was
about to happen and just the thought of it made her ache with
anticipation.

Her darling flashed her a rakish grin and responded, "I think we'll
enjoy the fresh air tonight, sugar."

Of course, in the ghettos of Gotham there was never any fresh air to be
had, but they were pretending. And part of pretending with her Puddin'
was that you never spoke out of turn, which was very good advice most
of the time anyway.

But it was her turn now, and Harley had to suppress her squeal of
excitement. "What are we gonna do out here, Puddin'?"

His wicked smile gleamed from the shadows and the time for talking was
officially over. The Joker leaned comfortably against the brick wall of
the alley and gave Harley a brief kiss on the lips before applying
pressure to her spandex clad shoulders. Knowing what was expected of
her, she obediently fell to her knees.

One of the things about Joker was that he tended to repeat himself. A
lot. It wasn't his fault really, how was he supposed to remember every
little thing he said? However, there was a phrase he used more
consistently than anything else: "If they're watching, give 'em a
show." It was the way he expected all associated with him to act.

Especially Harley Quinn.

She was his living doll, the pretty toy he broke into a million pieces
and reassembled by hand, made in his own twisted image.

His.

That single word was what had Harley kneeling in front of this
criminal. This genius. Performing in the wide open of Crime Alley...it
was to show her off, not to anyone really, just on principal. And as a
reminder.

She was owned.

Her usually nimble gloved fingers fumbled at the opening of his garish
pants, the fabric slightly singed from the hilarious blaze they had
left the golf museum engulfed in. Effortlessly, she slid into her all
too familiar role, the moves coming as easily as her rigorous
gymnastics training used to. The flips and tumbles replaced by
encouraging caresses and twists of her tongue, but it was the same
feeling of weightlessness. Accomplishment. Discipline.

Joker's long fingers were pressing incessantly on the back of her head
and she knew the marks would bruise. But Harley didn't care, nothing
else mattered. Nothing existed but him and her and the warmth in her
hands.

Harley remembered the first time she had done this for him, shortly
after joining him in his life of crime. How he had marveled with
perverse delight at her painted face pressed against his thigh,
watching himself disappear between her full, black lips. She had felt
powerful and wanted, as if she was giving him something no other dared.

Of course, there was already one thing that Harley knew only she could
give him best: Utter and complete devotion. No one else had ever given as
much as she had and didn't deserve to even touch her magnificent man.
This was her rightful reward.

He was close, she could feel it in the way his nails dug into her and
how the pulse in her mouth began to pump furiously. The din of nearby
traffic was distant in Harley's mind...only her darling's harsh
breathing and groans reached her ears. This was the part she lived for,
the one moment when he let go completely and allowed her to release all
of his frustrations with the world. She quickened her pace.

It was like bringing a god to his knees, Harley thought dreamily as he
emptied himself into her with a gasping shudder. The bitter tang burned
as it poured down her throat, something she had become accustomed to
long ago. Seemingly recovered, Joker unceremoniously wrapped one of his
hands around an ear of her costume and slammed her head against the
brick wall. He grinned fiendishly at the sickening crunch the
connection made.

"Good routine, Harl. Needs a bit of work on the delivery though," he
commented casually over his shoulder to the dazed form slumped on the
ground.

She staggered to her feet after a few moments, numbly noticing the
wetness spreading down her face from the wound. Looking around blearily
for the Joker, she realized he must have already gone inside. It was
left to her to pull the bag of crystals into the hideout, the feeling
of nausea overwhelming her senses. As she stumbled dizzily towards the
door only one thought penetrated the fog of her oncoming concussion...

One day, I'll love him so much that it's going to kill me.