The Ace of Spades was closed, that night.
After the Batman raid, during his last shot at Gotham Central Bank, the Joker was in a very bad mood. No one had dared utter a single sound. Everyone disappeared, even holding their breath, terrified at the idea that the King used them as an outlet for his badly repressed anger.
The lights, usually colorful, were then turned off.

The absolute silence reigned as the clown wandered absorbedly into his own empty and desolate place. No grotesque dancer to perform on the platforms, customers too drunk even just to stand up or characters of the underworld who came there in search of his favor.
Only darkness.

The unnatural quiet was crossed by a rustle. A delicate, hypnotic sound that attracted the attention of the man forcing him to lift his face upwards.
At the center of the dance floor, Harley hung in the air, his eyes closed and his expression relaxed, supported by the long silk bundles wisely woven around his body.

His whitish, naked skin, covered only by the underclothes, created a suggestive contrast next to the crimson fabric in which it was wrapped. His back arched, arms abandoned to the gloomy abyss, silver hair gleaming in the faint light of emergency lighting on the ceiling. His tonic muscles were a real invitation to touch them, scratch and mark that skin in every possible way. It was a divine creature, hurled by the Joker from the skies to the depths of Hell in which he was the absolute master. The only being worthy of reigning on that horde of sinners by his side.

The jester moved, turning so as to fall inexorably downward and face a possible death, braking his stroke with a movement of the foot; the ankle remained trapped in the silk, which supported its weight. His hands found the fabric, wrapping it in the forearm in an intensely colored vermilion spiral. He continued to move sinuous, decisive yet bewitching, bending himself with that scarlet color that embraced him like a lover's limbs. The Joker found himself jealous even of that inanimate fabric, feeling defrauded of the exclusive right he exercised on Harley - body, mind and soul, if he ever possessed one.

The Queen noticed the presence of his King, slipping at the beloved's feet, now beside him.

«Puddin'!» he smiled, ecstatic.

The other drew him to himself, grabbing the silk dyed like blood and making sure that the former psychiatrist adhered to his chest. Harley set his pale palms on his man's white shirt, caressing the straps that supported the holster of the guns he wore. The hand tightened around the handle of the weapon, extracting it and admiring it as if it were a sacred object: white, mother-of-pearl, finely decorated. The revolver drum was engraved with "Love" and "Hate", two sides of the same coin that played a fundamental and inseparable role in everyone's life.

Because of hate, first towards life and then to Batman, Eren Yeager had lost the light of reason or perhaps it was the opposite: too clever to submit to social patterns, so as to cross the line between right and wrong that someone had arbitrarily erected, becoming the dreaded Joker.

Because of love, reserved for the one that he could still see beyond the mad shimmer of those green irises and the criminal who had bewitched him day by day at Arkham Asylum, Levi Ackerman had surrendered himself to a hidden part of his ego: a fragment of his soul strong enough to follow the King of Gotham wherever he was headed, thus turning into the infamous Harley Quinn.

«It's beautiful Puddin'!» he exclaimed as he looked at the weapon. The Joker stared at him, drinking his delicate features like precious nectar.

«It's yours if you want it.»

«Really?»

«Of course sweetness, but as you well know everything has a price...»

What was supposed to be a simple provocation, however, sounded like a warning.

Everything has a price.

Harley's irises shone, already anticipating the conditions he would have to undergo to receive that particular object as a gift. Instead, J did not move. The jester frowned, worried.

«Puddin', what -»

«Sometimes I look at you and realize I'm not looking for you, but someone else» he confessed, his voice calm as if he were commenting on the weather and not talking about such a delicate subject. So dangerous.

Harley's icy irises, in fact, swallowed the pupil, his features hardening when he heard his own man affirming such a thing so lightly.

«Who.»

A single hiss. His was not a question, but an obligation to comply: he wanted the name of the person who occupied the thoughts of the Joker. Whoever he was, that person was already dead.

«Do you remember our speeches in that cell?»
The criminal was no longer talking to Harley who, aware that the other was digging deep into his being in search of his previous self, faded into the meanders of his subconscious, allowing Levi to resurface.

«Yes. Yes, I remember...»

The light in those eyes - in their eyes - changed whenever the carrying personality gave way to the other. Levi's were those of a pragmatic man, who could see fears and insecurities in his interlocutor, using them to his advantage. But they were also those of a person who has been conquered day by day by a convoluted psyche.

The Joker then stroked his chest, rising from the bottom towards his candid neck, surrounding it with the palm of his hand. He could have killed him if he wanted to. The way Levi scrutinized him, however, made him desist from that sick intent.

«You wanted to run away with me» the doctor sighed, lowering his eyelids to better savor his warmth and enjoy those attentions. He knew they would last little.

«I'm not made for domestic-life, I think you understood it already.»

The clown grabbed him by the thighs, lifting it up and colliding their basins, then emitting a murmur of appreciation. Levi, his hands tightly wrapped around the silk flaps, arched up looking for more contact.

«If you had not lived through what marked you, would we ever have a future together...?»

He knew he was hurting himself, asking that question: the Joker had used him, manipulated him, transformed him into something that best suited his needs and nothing more. Instead, the answer he received left him displaced.

«Yes.»

The icy irises of one merged into the emerald ones of the other and, for the first time since they had left Arkham, he saw Eren.

«You attracted me immediately, Levi. But I'm this now, and I like it. You wouldn't have survived, not like that» he told him, watching his eyes fill with tears. «But in you I saw that bit of madness necessary to live in my world, and here you are. Here we are. Is not that enough for you?»

The silver man left the crimson fabric, surrounding the companion's neck with his arms and kissing him slowly, enjoying the forbidden taste that had led him beyond the limits of reason.

«Yes» he mumbled, biting his lips, blinded by the joy of knowing that a part of Eren still existed - that he had chosen him - and that in another life he could have loved him as much as he did. «Yes, that's enough for me.»

The Joker squeezed his firm buttocks, his fingers clawing at his flesh, grunting in his mouth and taking it violently.

«Ah, Puddin'...! Eren!»

Even Harley had emerged from the dark corner where he had taken refuge, participating with Levi in that lustful encounter.

«Take me Puddin', take us!»

The criminal then deprived him of underclothes, grasping the long strips of silk hanging from the ceiling and beginning to tie them around the bust of the silver-haired man. Harley helped him, lifting enough to allow him to tie his thighs and keep them apart. The Joker licked his lips, anticipating the way that sculpted body would bend to its thrusts.

The former psychiatrist, suspended, like an ethereal figure, offered himself to his savior and executioner, caressing his now turgid and throbbing erection.

«Fuck me, Puddin'! Eren, please...!»

The two entities were alternating, seductive and intoxicating, jerking obscenely before him. The clown fell on his knees, starting to lick the small hole that would have sucked him mercilessly making him crazy even more than he already was.

«Ahhh, yes Puddin'! Lick me again, more!» Harley gasped, bending his head back and opening his mouth wide in a satisfied cry. He continued to touch, pumping his reddened cock quickly, while the man with the green strands sucked away even his soul.

«Eren, no-no more!» Levi shouted, coming copiously a moment later and splashing the fruit of his pleasure on his abdomen.

The Joker went to collect his sperm with his fingers, impregnating them and using it as lube, penetrating firmly into Levi's hole making him gasp, while making space inside him.

«So? Is that how you want me?»

«N-no - ah! - inside! Y-your cock, put it inside Puddin'...!»

The criminal freed himself from his shirt, ripping it open, unbuttoning his trousers, allowing his dick to come out into the open.

A single powerful, deep lunge, which struck the point of greatest enjoyment of that unique and special being, born to please him in every way possible. He did not know who was in charge at the time but, from the animalistic verse he gave, Eren could swear that his attentions were more than welcome. He pushed himself inside the jester's body, which tightened his muscles making him growl with pleasure.

«Ah, yes, honey!»

«S-still Puddin'! Ah, Eren! »

«Yes, enjoy it, let me hear you...!»  he grunted on their lips, biting with ferocity and making them bleed. He poured copiously into that hot and damp antrum, the eyes of the former psychiatrist wide open as he shivered in his arms, in the throes of a new orgasm.

The Joker, bent over him, passed his palms discolored on the pale back of his companion, suspended in midair and exhausted, moving languidly in that aphrodisiac body.

«P-Puddin'...» Harley had complete control again, and the King of Gotham smiled wickedly.

He was his prisoner, and forever he would be.