❝ Y'know, sugar... if you wanted me on my knees, all you had to do was ask. ❞
The alley is hot, thick with the scent of sweat, city grime, and the faint burn of neon buzzing overhead. The distant beat of a club’s bassline thrums beneath Harley’s skin, rattling through his ribs like a heartbeat that isn’t his own. But right now, all he can focus on is the poor bastard in front of him, bloody-lipped and breathing heavily, barely keeping his stance.
Harley? He’s far from winded—from even trying.
He exhales slowly, dragging his tongue over his bottom lip, tasting the copper sting of his own blood. Not much, just a nick. A tease of a real fight. His jeans sit just right, belt loose, his shirt clinging in places from the humidity, thin enough to show the way his chest moves with each breath. And still, through all of it, that damn smirk remains, lazy and knowing.
“C’mon now,” he drawls, his voice syrupy smooth. “Ain’t no fun if you’re already foldin’.”
The other guy wipes at his mouth, glaring. “You think this is funny?” he spits, voice rough, half-growl, half-breathless. “You’re a cocky little shit, y’know that?”
Harley grins, wide and damn near delighted. “Mhm. And I know you love it.”
The man snaps. His fist comes swinging—sloppy and thoughtless, making it desperate—and Harley’s already quick on his feet, stepping just enough to the side to let him stumble past. He doesn’t stop there. Before the guy can right himself, Harley’s behind him, close enough that their bodies nearly press together, close enough that he can feel the heat rolling off him in waves. He leans in, his breath warm against his ear, as his voice drops to something sweet and condescending.
“Now that,” he hums, letting the words drip like molasses, “was just pitiful.”
Then, as fast as a rattlesnake, he drives his elbow into the man’s ribs. A sharp, brutal crack rings out, followed by a strangled wheeze as the guy stumbles forward, clutching his side. Harley lets him stagger and gives him a second to process the pain before stepping in again, pressing in close and guiding him back against the brick wall close enough to border on intimate.
“Atta boy,” he purrs, licking the blood off his knuckles slowly. “Knew you had a little more fight in ya.”
The guy glares up at him, his teeth bared. “Fuck you.”
Harley’s lips twitch. “Well, now you’re flatterin’ me.”
That earns him another furious swing, but Harley catches his wrist mid-air, squeezing just hard enough to make him grunt. The smile never leaves his face.
“Y’know what your problem is?” he muses, head tilting, his voice casual enough as if they’re talking over drinks instead of in the middle of a fight. “You want so bad to be the one callin’ the shots. But here you are—strugglin’ ‘n sweatin’, damn near beggin’ for me to put you down.”
The guy snaps, shoving Harley back, gripping his throat with both hands, trying to force him against the wall instead.
For a second, Harley lets him.
He lets strong fingers press into his skin, lets the air thin just enough to make his vision sharpen.
Then, with a goddamn grin, wide and teasing, downright criminal—he manages to rasp out, “C’mon, you can squeeze harder than that.”
His attacker hesitates, though only for a second. And that’s all Harley needs.
With a sharp twist of his hips, he breaks free, slamming his knee up into the guy’s stomach, making him double over with a pained choke. Harley wastes no time, grabbing a fistful of his shirt and yanking him forward until their faces are close—too close.
“You shoulda quit while you were ahead,” Harley murmurs, his voice a deep, dangerous thing, his breath warm against the other man’s cheek. His grip tightens in the fabric, his other hand sliding down just enough to hook a finger into the guy’s belt, tugging just enough to throw him off balance. “But I do admire the dedication.”
The guy spits blood, panting. “You’re fucked in the head.”
Harley laughs, breathless and thrilled. “Careful now,” he purrs, “keep talkin’ dirty like that, I might just start likin’ you.”
Harley lets him. He loves this game—to make him think he’s got the upper hand for a split second before twisting out of his grip and landing a sharp, punishing uppercut to his jaw. The man’s head snaps back, then he finally falls, dead weight, hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
Harley exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off something insignificant. He adjusts his belt and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair as he takes a moment to relish the quiet. The bassline from the club pounds in the distance, still calling, still oh so tempting. He kneels down, taking out a necklace from the man’s pocket—a necklace that looked as if it were a river of diamonds.
“Gotcha,” he mumbled, slipping the jewelry into his pocket and patting it for safe-keeping.
“Well,” he sighs, stepping over the unconscious body with all the lazy confidence in the world. “That was fun.”
He walks over to his parked motorcycle, his boots tapping against the pavement. The sleek black design camouflaged itself in the night. He kicked one leg over, twisting the throttle… and just like that, he was gone, vanishing into the night. Harley fucking Sawyer, a goddamn menace wrapped in denim and the sweet temptation of sin.
The poor sucker could’ve hit a little harder than that.
