A Life in DC
Chapter 6 - Part 2
He came to slowly, head throbbing like someone had used it for batting practice. The Civic was still running, heater on low, fan whispering. Parked deeper in some alley he didn't recognize—tighter walls, graffiti tags he hadn't seen before, rain sheeting down the windshield in thick rivulets. Streetlight filtered through in weak yellow smears.
And there was a mouth on his cock.
Warm. Wet. Enthusiastic.
Harley Quinn was crammed into the passenger footwell, knees braced on the damp floor mat, black-and-red leather jacket unzipped and hanging open, white tank top shoved up under her tits so the pale undersides showed. His zipper was down, boxers tugged aside, and she already had half his length in her throat—pigtails bobbing in slow, deliberate rhythm, tongue swirling lazy, practiced circles around the swollen head like she had all night to savor it.
She pulled off with a deliberate, wet pop. Thick strings of spit stretched from her glossy lips to the glistening tip, snapping when she licked them clean. Blue eyes—wide, manic, sparkling with that familiar unhinged glee—locked on his.
"Mmm, wakey-wakey, Daddy," she purred, voice husky from the effort, playful edge still sharp. She dragged her tongue flat from base to crown in one long, slow stripe, humming like she was tasting the world's most expensive ice cream. "Red and Kitty been fightin' over this monster like it's the last slice of pizza at a sleepover. Figured it was my turn to try the special."
Another long lick—base to tip, then a teasing swirl around the slit that made his hips twitch involuntarily.
"Holy shit," she breathed, eyes widening in genuine awe. "No wonder they're obsessed. This thing's a fuckin' baseball bat with a heartbeat. Thick, heavy, veiny… mmm. I could worship this all night."
Her gaze flicked sideways to the tiny spy camera she'd stuck on the dashboard vent earlier—small black dot, red recording light blinking steady. She blew a kiss straight at the lens, then winked.
"Smile, girls. Harley's joinin' the club. And I'm playin' for keeps."
{Full R-18 Scene Vieri x Harley Quinn 5706 Full Word Count aFireFist on p.a.t.r.e.o.n}
Harley didn't move. Just lay there—legs still splayed, skirt bunched uselessly around her waist, tank top rucked up under her tits, nipples hard and flushed from the mauling. Chest rising and falling in ragged little pants, goofy smile never quite fading even as fresh tears leaked from the corners of her eyes.
Vieri sat back on his heels—knees braced on the seat cushion, chest still heaving, hoodie clinging damp to his skin. He looked down at her: sprawled across his back seat like a conquered territory—flushed pink from neck to thighs, handprints glowing red on her ass, mascara tracks, swollen lips, the creamy mess leaking out of her and staining everything it touched. She looked spent. Satisfied. Proud. Smiling like she'd just won the fucking lottery instead of getting railed into next week in the back of a cop's personal car.
A moment of clarity cut through the fog like a knife.
He could cuff her right now. Plastic zip-ties from the glovebox. Radio it in—quiet channel, no fanfare. "Subject Harley Quinzel in custody, East End alley off…" Montoya would be impressed. The task force would have a win on day three. He could end this whole insane spiral before it got any messier—before the Queens turned his house into a revolving door, before Montoya's trust turned into suspicion, before Selina found out and decided he wasn't worth the risk anymore.
But the weight of the past few days settled heavy in his gut like lead.
Selina—curled in his bed, soft and dangerous and gone before dawn. Montoya's hand on his shoulder—brief, warm, real. The briefing room smell of coffee and gun oil, the way Renata had said his name like it mattered. The task force finally feeling like something solid instead of another dead-end assignment. Cuffing Harley now would burn all of it down. He'd be the guy who fucked a suspect and then arrested her. The paperwork alone would bury him. And deeper than that—something he didn't want to name—there was the tired, bone-deep knowledge that Harley wasn't just chaos tonight. She was a symptom. A loud, messy, laughing symptom of the fact that the Queens already had hooks in him, and yanking them out violently might do more damage than letting them stay.
He reached over—slow, almost gentle—and nudged her shoulder with two fingers.
"Get up, Harley. Get out."
She blinked up at him—slow, dazed, smile faltering for half a second like she wasn't sure she'd heard right. Then it came back—twice as bright, twice as manic.
"Aww, you're not gonna arrest me?" she cooed, voice wrecked but playful. "You're such a nice Daddy. My sweet, soft-hearted cop Daddy who lets his crazy girl ride him stupid and then sends her home with a tummy full of cum. That's romance, right there."
"Out," he repeated. Voice flat. Tired. Done.
Harley giggled—high and delighted, the sound bubbling up even as her legs shook when she tried to move. She stretched like a cat—slow, deliberate—back arching off the seat, tits jiggling under the ripped tank top, skirt still bunched around her waist. Cum leaked out of her in a fresh trickle as she shifted—dripping onto the already-soaked leather with soft, wet plips.
She rolled sideways—graceful even when wrecked—slid off the seat onto unsteady legs. Tugged her skirt down (pointless—the hem was soaked and wrinkled). Pulled the tank top back into place (fabric stretched and torn, nipples still visible through the damp cotton). Wiped her mouth with the back of one gloved hand—smearing lipstick and spit across her knuckles—and leaned in quick.
She planted a sticky, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek—tongue flicking out for a second, tasting sweat and skin—then pulled back with a wink.
"See ya soon, big boy. Don't miss me too much. I'll be dreamin' of this dick till next time."
She hopped out—literally hopped—landing light on the wet pavement despite the way her thighs trembled. Rain immediately plastered her hair to her scalp, pigtails drooping like wet flags, but she didn't care. She skipped down the alley—actual skips—pigtails bouncing, skirt flapping, laughing softly to herself like she'd just pulled off the heist of the century.
Once she rounded the corner—out of sight, out of the car's line of sight—she slowed. Dug into a hidden inner pocket of her jacket and pulled out her phone—screen cracked but still glowing. Thumbed it open with a wet glove. The video file was right there—labeled simply "Daddy.mov"—thumbnail already frozen on a frame of her mid-ride, back arched, tits bouncing, his cock disappearing inside her.
She opened the Queens of Crime group chat—named "Queens & Their Big Toy 💖🔪🌿🐱"—and attached the file.
Group members:
Ivy (Poison Ivy – green leaf emoji)Selina (Catwoman – black cat emoji)Harley (herself – jester emoji)
Message body:
"ladies… i win 😏
watched the whole thing. he's MINE now. called him Daddy the whole time. check the footage. tell me who's the favorite. xoxo your ex-clown princess who just got bred stupid 💦👑"
She hit send. Watched the upload bar fill. Grinned wider—manic, triumphant—rain dripping off her nose.
Recipient: Puddin' (Joker's old number, still saved under the clown emoji).
Message: Hope you enjoy the show. xoxo your ex-harley
She hit send. Grinned wider.
Back in the car, Vieri sat there for a long minute—chest still rising and falling too fast, skin cooling, the smell of her still thick in the air. He stared at the fogged windshield like it might give him answers.
Then he reached up—slow, deliberate—ripped the tiny camera off the vent with a sharp yank. Plastic cracked. Wires snapped. He opened the driver's door, stepped one foot out into the rain, and crushed the thing under his boot—heel grinding until it was just shards and circuitry in a puddle.
He slammed the door. Started the engine.
The heater kicked on—warm air stirring the heavy scent of sex and rain.
He pulled out of the alley—slow, careful—headlights cutting through the downpour.
Behind him, Harley's laughter echoed faintly off brick walls, then faded into the night.
The drive back to the precinct felt longer than the three miles it actually was. Rain had picked up again—steady, cold sheets that hammered the roof like impatient fingers and turned the windshield into a smeared watercolor of red taillights and sodium halos. Vieri kept the heater on low, just enough to keep the fog from closing in completely, and cranked the defroster to high. Hot air blasted against the glass, carving temporary clear patches that the wipers immediately swept away. It didn't help much. The smell of sex clung to everything—thick, unmistakable: Harley's bubblegum shampoo mixed with sweat and arousal, the musky tang of cum and slick soaked into the leather seats, the faint chemical aftertaste of chloroform still hanging in the headliner like bad perfume. It was in his clothes, his hair, under his nails. He cracked the driver's window an inch despite the downpour—cold, wet air rushed in, sharp with ozone and wet asphalt. It helped. A little.
He didn't let himself think about Harley skipping away down the alley—pigtails bouncing, laughter trailing like smoke. Didn't think about the crushed camera pieces still wedged in the tread of his boot, grinding into the floor mat every time he shifted. Didn't think about the video she'd almost certainly already sent—probably to Joker first, then maybe the Queens chat, maybe both. He locked those thoughts in a box and focused on the road: the red smear of brake lights ahead, the rhythm of the wipers slapping back and forth, the low hum of tires on wet pavement. One thing at a time. Always one thing at a time.
By the time he pulled into the employee lot behind the precinct it was pushing one a.m. The building looked the same as always—squat brick box lit by buzzing sodium lamps, exhaust curling white from a couple of idling cruisers out front, rain bouncing off the hoods in silver sparks. He parked in his usual spot—far corner, away from the floodlights—and killed the engine. Sat there another thirty seconds breathing through his mouth, letting the heater fan wind down, listening to the rain drum on metal. His hoodie was damp at the shoulders, jeans sticky against his thighs, skin cooling fast now that the adrenaline was gone.
Then he got out, locked the car with a chirp that felt too loud in the quiet lot, and walked inside like nothing had happened.
The bullpen was graveyard-shift quiet—fluorescent lights humming overhead, a few uniforms hunched over keyboards typing reports in slow motion, the night desk sergeant nursing a Styrofoam cup of coffee that smelled burnt even from twenty feet away. Vieri cut straight through to the task-force wing—still just a borrowed corner desk with a second-hand monitor, a stack of legal pads, and a single flickering desk lamp. He dropped into the chair—springs groaning under his weight—powered up the computer, and started typing.
SUPPLEMENTAL FIELD REPORT
Detective Oliviero Oronzo
Date: xx-xx-xxxx
Operation: Queens of Crime – Reconnaissance
Location: East End, vicinity of former Falcone warehouse district
Time frame: 2230–0015 hours
Subject: Harley Quinn (real name Harleen Quinzel) confirmed active in target area. Visual confirmation at 2312 hours near loading dock entrance, red-and-black attire, distinctive pigtails. Subject displayed evasive movement patterns consistent with prior sightings (rooftop transit, quick alley drops). Attempted to establish closer observation; subject evaded before apprehension or extended contact could be made. No direct engagement. No visible weapons, no apparent backup during observed period.
Additional notes: Subject appears to be operating independently or with minimal support during observed window. Recommend increased patrols along riverfront access points (Kane St. to amusement mile) and proactive monitoring of abandoned industrial structures in the grid between 12th and Sullivan. Possible safe house or staging area in play—focus on buildings with intact loading bays or rooftop access.
End report.
Clean. Factual. No lies—just strategic omissions wide enough to drive a truck through. He read it twice—slow, line by line—made sure the timestamps matched his notebook entries, hit save, printed a hard copy on the ancient shared laser in the corner (it jammed once; he cleared it without swearing), and walked it down the hall to Montoya's office.
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