Harley Quinn Seduces Her Stepson

Your mouth goes dry.

Harley Quinn is leaning in so close you can smell her body - something sweet, like bubblegum, with an undercurrent of leather and gunpowder. Her lips are just inches from yours, painted blood-red, curved into a wicked little smile.

Your heart is hammering against your ribs like it wants to escape.

"You’re serious," you say, barely above a whisper.

Harley chuckles, low and throaty. "Dead serious, sugar."

Her fingers trail up your arm, slow, teasing, sending a shiver down your spine. "Puddin’ might be gone, but his legacy? That doesn’t just disappear. And you?" She presses a single red-nailed finger against your chest. "You’re his blood. His flesh. His heir."

You should pull away. You should tell her no.

But you don’t.

Because, deep down, there’s a part of you that’s listening. A part that’s curious. A part that’s wondering what it would be like to say yes.

Harley tilts her head, studying you with those bright blue eyes. "You feel it, don’tcha? That itch in the back of your skull? That little voice whisperin’, ‘What if?’ What if you were always meant to take his place?"

You swallow hard. "I’m not like him."

She grins wider. "Oh, honey, you got no idea what you’re like. Not yet."

She moves in closer, so close you feel the warmth of her breath against your skin. "C’mon, junior. Let me show ya. Let me wake up the real you."

Then, before you can stop her, she kisses you.

It’s not soft. Not sweet.

It’s fire and poison, wrong in every possible way.

Her lips crash against yours, hungry, demanding, her hands gripping the sides of your face. You freeze for half a second before instinct kicks in, before your hands move to her waist, before you’re kissing her back like you need it to breathe.

And that’s when it hits you.

She was his.

She was his woman.

The Joker’s widow. Your father’s wife.

Your stepmother.

She probably kissed him just like this. Whispered to him like this. Touched him like this.

Your stomach twists, your hands twitching at her waist like you should shove her off - but you don’t. Because guilt is a slow poison, and right now, her body is a distraction.

Harley swings a leg over your lap, straddling you, rolling her hips in a slow, deliberate motion. Your head spins. Your pulse is a drum pounding in your ears.

She shrugs off her leather jacket, leaving her in nothing but red-and-black lingerie.

Your breath catches in your throat.

A small, breathy moan escapes her lips, and something primal, something hungry, stirs inside you.

This is wrong.

But it feels so fucking good.

Somewhere, deep in the rational part of your mind, you know this is insane. That this is the exact kind of twisted, depraved thing your mother tried to protect you from.

But right now?

Right now, you don’t fucking care.

Harley pulls back just enough to whisper against your lips. "That’s it, baby... let go. Stop fightin’ it. Fuck me hard... like your daddy used to."

A jolt of nausea ripples through you.

"This is sick," you rasp, but you don’t push her away.

She grins, dragging her nails down your chest. "Oh, junior, we passed ‘sick’ a long time ago."

Harley kisses down your jaw, nipping at your neck, her breath hot against your skin. Your hands grip her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh. She gasps, then laughs, husky and full of heat.

"There he is," she purrs. "There’s my little monster."

Her words sink into your skin, burrowing deep.

Monster.

That’s what she wants.

That’s what he was.

That’s what she thinks you are.

Your stomach twists again, but it’s not revulsion.

It’s something worse. Something dangerous.

Because she might be right.

You don’t know if it’s the adrenaline, the danger, the thrill of her body pressed against yours - but for the first time in your life, you feel something raw. Something real.

And it feels good.

Harley cups your face, her thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. "Now," she murmurs, "Say it."

Your breath is ragged. "Say what?"

She grins. "Say you’ll be my Joker."

The name tastes like blood in your mouth. A title, a crown, a curse.

It should make you sick.

It should make you run.

But you don’t.

You look into her eyes - those wild, electric blue eyes - and something inside you cracks.

Not all at once.

Not enough to shatter.

Just a fracture. A splinter. A little piece of you crumbling away.

It’s not a clean break. It’s jagged, messy.

A slow, painful corruption.

Your lips part.

The words rise, unbidden, unwanted.

A confession.

A surrender.

"I’ll be your Joker."

Harley’s eyes light up, and before you can blink, she kisses you again, harder this time, like she’s sealing a deal.

And maybe she is.

She grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bed.

Her voice is a wicked promise.

"I’m gonna fuck you so hard the bed’s gonna break!"