Swipe to see who's online now!
- Audio
- Multiple Choice
Info
PUBLIC BETA
Note: You can change font size, font face, and turn on dark mode by clicking the "A" icon tab in the Story Info Box.
You can temporarily switch back to a Classic Literotica® experience during our ongoing public Beta testing. Please consider leaving feedback on issues you experience or suggest improvements.
Click hereSummary: Harley Quinn gets another reminder that Love isn't blind.
It's crazy.
Oh fuck, Puddin's angry.
I can feel it coming. He's about to hit me again. I'm on the floor, and he stands above me. It's ok. I can take it. It's a Mallet in his hands. My Mallet. He's coming towards me, his giant smile a frown when ...
Bam.
Mr. J's gun. The red flag, with the aforementioned "Bam!" is sticking out of it, smoking. And Mr. J's head's blown up better than a piñata beaten into cotton candy confetti by small children looking for sugar candy on the Day of the Dead. How sweet ...
My eyes are wide. She looks up, at the shooter, to see ...
Mr. J?
He's ... different. This Mr. J. That's the only word that comes into my shocked mind. This Mr. J's thinner. More ... threadbare. His hair's more dyed than pure green. Blue triangles trail down his eyes, and brown eyebrows rise above them incredulously. There is a sadder, almost beatific look in the way the light reflects off his sweaty face, and a sensual mouth painted with a dried red.
I turn to the body on the floor with its garish purple coat, its trick flower, its striped pants, and back to the raggedy figure looming over me.
He, Mr ... J. He slowly, tentatively lowers himself to the ground, his hands on his knees, looking at Mr. J ... the other Mr. J. My ... Mr. J?
"Hee." His laugh starts small. Almost plaintive. "Hehehe ... Hah. Hah." He wipes at his eyes, smudging them further. Then, he shakes his head, and looks directly at me.
I flinch, but I can't help it. He killed Mr. J. But there's something in that gaze, something I've never seen in Mr. J ... in the dead Mr. J.
He leans forward. I don't think about scrambling up. Or getting my Mallet back. Or siccing the hyenas on him. Or just running away. He leans forward, and I ... lean towards him. When he kisses me, he tastes like blood and cigarettes, not sardines, like my Puddin. Something jolts inside me, and I feel my face running away with me. I'm very afraid. I know what happens when I let that frown turn right side up ...
He looks away. He's stroking my hair. My tassels ... do I still wear that old thing anymore, aren't there. Then, he does something I don't expect. He takes me. He takes me and holds me. Hard. Whatever he saw, something melts inside of me. He embraces me more firmly, more warmly than Mr. J? My Mr. J? Than any Mr. J ever held me.
"I'm sorry, Darling." He says, his voice so like his, but a different cadence, a different tone, a joke told in a way I haven't quite heard before. "I would've killed to have a girl like you."
I blink. Then I blink again. "You ..." I'm shaking and I realize, after a while what it is, what it's going to be. "... well." I look over at the other Mr. J. "I guess you just did."
Then we regard each other. And then, we begin to laugh. Mr. J,'s laugh is loud, it is in him. It is him. He can't help it. Somehow, I know, deep down, in the churning part of my core in my loins that he's still growing into it. And it's glorious.
"Well." He says, tears of laughter streaming down his face making him years younger, angelic, beautiful, fallen, glorious in an understated way that no melodramatic cackling can even begin to match. "I guess, sometimes I just kill myself."
And this time, it's me that reaches forward and kisses him. Harder than anything else in my laugh. Because, right now, I doesn't just want him to rev up his Harley. I want this Mr. J., My Puddin, to have my whipped cream pie in his face.
Please rate this
The author would appreciate your feedback.
Follow Author
81 Followers
- COMMENTS
Our Comments Policy is available in the Lit FAQ
Post as: