The first time Harley had gone to his wardrobe of suits and picked one out for him, he had screeched and beaten her with one of his handmade shoes before noticing the butter-soft leather had indented. His rage at her had doubled and he'd thrown the shoe aside and took to her with his fists while she cowered in a ball, her arms up to protect her head.

The second time she had selected an outfit for him to wear had come via a tentative suggestion after he'd upended the entire contents of one side of his wardrobe onto the floor and kicked furiously at the rainbow pile of tailored silk and linen shirts, complaining bitterly that he had nothing to wear.

Her suggestion had been agreeable and he'd been pleased. So somehow, after that, he'd solicited further suggestions. Time had passed and the suggestions merged into selections. She was so absolutely devoted to him that his appearance was almost more important to her than it was to him, and she took exacting care in her considerations. Everything, from socks to jocks to shirts and tie, was her special delight to mix and match, creating for him an ensemble to dazzle the eye.

Joker was devoted to his trademark thirties-style purple suit, but he had other moods and other suit colours and styles to suit those moods. Certainly, certain occasions warranted a different look. Whenever they awoke, at whatever time of day it was, or he returned in need of a change of attire, or there was a specific event he had to prepare for, Harley developed an almost uncanny adeptness at reading and interpreting his mood and selecting a set of clothes to complement it. At first he had resisted this frankly perturbing ability of hers by throwing her selection to one side and slapping her about a bit, accusing her of terrible taste, only to go delving through his impressive wardrobe and finding himself having to concede her choice possibly was the best.

Not that he ever told her that, of course. Instead it would be framed as a petulant grumble it was the only thing pressed and clean enough, or that it was already out so they might as well save time. He rather suspected she wasn't entirely fooled, but she knew better than to say anything so he was more or less content to keep playing the game that way.

At times it occurred to him to find it somewhat disquieting to what extent Harley had now influenced that aspect of his life. But at least it kept her useful, which couldn't generally be said of the daffy dame. He was often run ragged just thinking of things for her to do. Besides, it made her so happy, and a happy Harley was overall much easier to control. And it wasn't as though she told Kittlemeier exactly what to make for him. He still made all the most important decisions. She just sort of – put them together. A child's game, really.

He would see to his toilet – shower, shave, cologne, pomade – while she prepared his ensemble for the day. By the time he emerged, shining and gorgeous, an equally shining and gorgeous suit awaited him with all the necessary accoutrements that earned him the status of best-dressed man in Gotham. It was an arrangement he liked. One that suited his title as a Prince.

That day had been no different. He'd stepped out of the bathroom, cosy in his slippers and padded silk dressing gown, whistling cheerfully to himself. Harley had stood by their bed like a royal attendant, cheery, adoring smile on her face, hands clasped behind her back. She wasn't yet in her costume; rather in cute satin polka dot shorts and camisole, her pigtails neatly redone after sleep had mussed them. Outstretched on his bed were the pinstripe suit, the Egyptian cotton shirt, the silk waistcoat and tie. He cast a roving eye over them critically, before finally sniffing to indicate his approval.

Harley stood by and watched eagerly. Watching him dress was a favourite pastime of hers. Her eyes seemed to lovingly caress every garment he placed upon his body as though she could imagine how it would feel to be fabric against his flesh. Most of the time she even obligingly stayed silent until he'd finished before telling him how amazing he looked.

He'd glanced at her, at the way she gazed at him so affectionately and with such unspoken longing and abruptly, he'd undone the sash of his dressing gown and threw it from his shoulders, letting it slip to pool around his ankles.

Then he'd waited.

It took her a moment to catch on. At first she just continued to stare, her dopey smile quickly becoming a moue of confusion. He continued to wait, now tapping one slippered foot impatiently on the carpet. Surely she wasn't this obtuse. She understood how things were between them.

He could practically see the thought train chugging behind her eyes. Finally, he gave a long-suffering sigh and glanced pointedly at his waiting attire.

She snapped to then, stumbling over the rug to his side, a frantic sort of grimace twisting her sweet little face. She'd turned from him, to the bed, back to him again as she floundered and he placed his fists decidedly on his hips.

Finally, she picked up the green silk undershorts, edged in purple and gold bands, and awkwardly proffered them towards him, her eyes turning up to his, all round and uncertain.

He stared back at her unforgivingly and she chewed her lip before stretching the waistband open with both hands and bending a little at the knees, holding them out.

Much better. He leant on her shoulder as he stepped into them and squeezed it hard as she brought the shorts gliding up his thighs, settling them into place around his hips, her fingertips just a little cold as they pressed against his stomach. The silk was smooth and caressing around his loins and her hands were soft and delicate in their motions. A delighted little light had brightened her eyes and her fingertips had fumbled excitedly as they'd fastened the buttons of the fly before lingering there until he gave her a light smack over the back of her head and she started and reached hastily for his undershirt.

Soft, fine lavender-hued cotton that she gathered up between her hands and then reached up on tiptoe to pass over his head. He passed his arms through the sleeves and smiled to see the look on her face as she gently tugged the material down, it enveloping his torso like a hug. Her expression was adoring and muted, her wondering eyes soft as she carefully pulled the undershirt straight and neatly over the waistband of his shorts. She took a moment to smooth out a small crease that ran across his chest before turning to pick up his vivid orange shirt.

She was picking it up quickly now, moving behind him after he'd placed one arm through the sleeve to ready the other. The fabric whispered as it slipped over his shoulders, the fine-weave cotton as supple as silk and as loving against his flesh. She passed under his arm and carefully began to arrange the shoulders and collar, pulling the tails down straight before commencing the task of threading the bone-and-gold buttons through the buttonholes. The fabric pulled and slackened as she moved, and the brush of her hands against his chest tickled through the material. When she finished, the shirt fitted him like a second skin, moulding perfectly over his lean, triangular torso, tapering in at his slim hips. Her eyes flitted up to his face and he'd given her a sidling half-smile and a light flush had brushed across her cheeks.

She moved for the trousers first before realising her mistake, hand hovering midair, then reaching for his socks and sock garters. He grinned. Good girl.

She fastened the garters around his calves first and he did not miss the way her fingertips stroked softly against his flesh. They were warm now, and the elastic clung gently to his skin, firm but not overtight. He watched her from above, where she knelt at his feet and carefully ensured the elastic bands were secured and the clasp at precisely the right position, straight down the centre on the outside of his legs. Then she picked up his green and purple diamond-checked socks and gently unrolled them, sucking her lower lip in as she did so. Her hands were trembling.

He placed a hand upon her head as he lifted first one foot, then the other, for her to slip the socks over, their fine wool weave running over his long feet like warm water. Truthfully, he could've easily balanced without her aid, but he wanted to see how she'd react.

She'd shivered, lurched forward a little, and he curled his fingers just slightly in her hair, resting his hand there light enough for her to know he didn't need to, not really. As she tugged one sock up, all the way to the garter clasp, she'd leant in right against him and looked up into his eyes. He'd revelled in what he saw in hers.

The heel and toe of his socks were adjusted to be perfectly arranged, his little Harley-girl accepting not the slightest misalignment, and he'd softly growled his approval, his hand still resting gently on her head. She'd dared place a swift kiss against his inner thigh then, soft and slightly ticklish, before rising.

He let his hand fall from her crown, and she'd staggered a little as she stood. He did not steady her, but stood back and enjoyed the sight of her overwhelmed emotions.

Unsteadily, she'd turned to pick up his trousers, her face smeared with bliss and rapture. She'd carefully unfolded them, smoothing a hand down their sharp creases and his grin had grown wider. She'd learned how to do that early on.

They'd slid up his legs with a whisper, the softness of the worsted wool sheer sensuality against his skin. She'd meticulously tucked his shirt in, devotedly pulling out all the creases and ensuring the shirt remained perfectly arranged, its seams flat against his shoulders, trembling as she leant in close against him so that she could reach around his waist and ensure it was smoothly tucked in that side as well.

Her tiny hands carefully hooked the buttons of his fly up before she stood back and smoothed a hand over his shoulders, her eyes lovingly surveying her labour thus far. He basked in her gaze, seeing his splendour reflected in her eyes.

As she retrieved his emerald-green suspenders he gave himself a vain glance in the nearby mirror. He definitely had the body for the slim-cut thirties trousers, with his narrow waist and flat stomach. His shoulders were broad, that was to be expected at his height, but he was not barrel-chested or over-inflated in the torso, his chest widening instead in the slim flare of a dancer. Harley stepped behind him, making a final fussy adjustment to his shirt before fastening the suspenders carefully to the back of his trousers, and gently passing the straps over his shoulders.

She clipped them to the front then, the elastic pulling down briefly against his shoulders, then ran her fingers beneath them, tongue poking out a little before letting them snap lightly back. She glanced up at him with a soft cheeky sort of smile and he grinned indulgently at her. She shucked one shoulder and moved quickly to pick up the waistcoat, a gorgeous shot-silk creation of green and blue.

Her face misted with sheer joy as she buttoned it up, even moving behind him to tighten the strap there a little, standing back to survey him carefully, ensuring it moulded to his form perfectly. She ran the palms of her hands over the patterned material affectionately, a happy sigh spilling from her lips before bending over the bed to unfurl the vibrant blue tie.

She ran the material through her fingers as she came back to him, peeking up coquettishly from beneath her lashes. He cocked an eyebrow at her and she rose up on tip-toe to turn up his collar.

He did not lower his head, did not bend forward. Instead, she had to strain on her toes to pass the tie behind his neck and over his other shoulder. A sliver of the fabric slid against his neck, drawing gooseflesh and he half-smiled and shut his eyes for a moment. Her breasts and hips pressed briefly against him and he breathed in the scent of her hair before she settled back on her heels and carefully pulled both ends of the tie even.

She had not tied a bow like this before, but to her credit she took her time with it, sticking her tongue out concertedly and slowly, methodically, going through the steps. She finally pulled both loops of the bow tight, then spent some time fussily unfurling the fabric of them, flouncing them up so the bow was full. When she was satisfied, she turned his collar back down, ensuring the bow was placed in the very centre between it, smoothing the orange folds crisp and straight. He could feel the press of her hands beneath layers of material; feel the care in them.

The cufflinks she'd selected for him that day were amethyst set in gold. Tenderly, she pulled the sleeves of his shirt down straight, ensuring that the seams lay flat against his inner arms, before pressing the cufflinks through the buttonholes and carefully fastening them. She fumbled just a little with the first one and had to do it over, but the second was straight and she'd smiled a little to herself, a faint glow of satisfaction on her silly, happy little face. The tiny weight of them tugged just slightly at his arms, a pull he would cease to notice after a few moments.

He put his hands on his hips when she stood back to admire him and noted with satisfaction that her whole face changed; it grew soft and raw with adoration, a slavish sort of devotion burning in her eyes as they trailed him up and down. He could see her nipples peaked through the thin material of her camisole, marked with glee the way she worried her lip with her teeth, how she pressed her thighs together when she picked up his jacket, holding it close against her breast and tenderly stroking its lapel, before stepping across to him and holding it up for him to slip his arms into.

Her eyes glazed, her breath coming in soft gasps, she smoothed her hands carefully over and over the material, pressing it against his body and admiring the way it fitted him to perfection, flattering the subtly masculine shape of his narrow frame. He watched her adore him and felt something within himself swell, satisfied yet furiously hungry. She straightened the shoulders of his jacket, fastened its one gleaming button and then suddenly gripped his lapels, trembling against him.

He remained implacable and after a moment she got hold of herself and picked up his purple kid-leather gloves. He held his hands out to her and watched as she fit the custom-made sheathes over his long, large, lean hands, wiggling each finger right down so that the very tips of his fingers brushed the satin-lined leather they were enclosed within. She turned his hands over, so that his palms faced upwards and stared down at them for a long, hungry moment, running her thumbs across them, the hands that had beaten her or caressed her without warning or provocation. Beneath the leather, her touch was whisper-soft, a tickle against the sensitive nerves and he knew her kiss would feel the same. Knew that she would not place it on his palm, but on his wrist, tugging down the hem of the glove just a little to press her mouth against bare flesh, and that it would be soft and lovely. She turned her face up to his in an eloquent expression of raw lust and unquestioning devotion.

Sweet. But she hadn't quite finished yet.

He stared back at her immovably, a sly grin quirking his features, the sort of smile that told her he could not be swayed.

After a moment, she let out a shuddering sigh, stepped back and dropped down onto her knees, reaching for the beautiful handmade wingtips and soft white leather spats that were the final touch on his glory.

He did not lean on her this time as he slipped each foot into his shoes, instead letting his hands rest carelessly in his pockets, looking above and beyond her to his reflection in the mirror. He could feel Harley pulling the laces tight, carefully tying them as he admired himself. He looked a treat, indeed.

He could feel the slight tickle on his feet through the shoe leather as Harley hooked the spats under the sole and then carefully fastened the small pearl buttons on either one. It was a nice feeling, soft and sensual, making his foot twitch to kick out, to hear Harley yelp.

He looked down to where his girl knelt still by his feet, gently stroking first one foot and then the other, looking at them with dedicated reverence. He chuckled a little and she glanced up at him, a yearning question bright in her baby blue eyes. His answer was a smile, as it so invariably was, and she knew how to read them all.

Gratefully, she bent double over his feet, and kissed them. One kiss, on either shoe, long and firm and even through the shoe leather he could feel the passion in them, ardent and heavy, the weight of her devotion.

She sat up, looking dazed and euphoric, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide and glazed, and he dropped a hand to her head and petted her gently.

"Good girl, Pooh," letting the caressing tones of his praise envelop her, he then sauntered away, wholly satisfied with the proceedings and very much in the mood to get into some mischief. He felt her eyes on his retreating figure, the heaviness of her longing and desire and knew that the second he left the room her hand would be down the front of her pyjama shorts.

He'd rather enjoyed that. Maybe they could do it again tomorrow.