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Fury	By : harley4joker Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 12951 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Batman series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Fury
- 2-Author's Note
- 1
- 2
She awoke with a gasp, lurching upwards so violently the dark room whirled and spun around her head.

For a few moments she sat panting in the darkness, disorientated, her heart pattering out a frantic beat in her ears.

Slowly, as her eyes adjusted to the night, dim shapes took form around her. Her wardrobe doors. Her bookcase. Her desk. Her wheelchair, poised close by and waiting. And in front of her, her bed, where her legs stretched out before her, still and heavy.

What had she been dreaming of, to startle her awake so suddenly?

She was damp with sweat, her nightshirt clinging to her chest and stomach, strands of hair to her forehead. Her throat felt dry. She lifted a hand to her face and rubbed her thumb and forefinger into the hollows of her eyes, groaning quietly. Her head ached.

Then a voice broke the quiet, dark with gently mocking humour.

"Please, don't get up on my account."

She reacted without thinking, her upper body twisting to the side, retrieving her rattan stick from the nightstand by the bed, heard it as it whistled through the air as she spun it, ready, into position.

From the darkness there came a low chuckle and even as her heart leapt to her throat, fury, like molten heat, rushed through her.

How dare he…

She followed the sound of his voice to the corner behind the bedroom door. She could just make out the shape of him emerging in the gloom, tall and lean, sitting relaxed and comfortable in the chair from her desk, one leg crossed at a right angle over the other.

She was so unspeakably furious her voice would not come to her. Her grip tightening on the stick, she swallowed hard and counted to five. When she spoke, it was low and controlled.

"If you think you can take me, then come on."

The figure tsk'd and stood, his shoes making a soft whispering sound on the floorboards of her bedroom.
"Now, now, Ms Gordon. I might be crazy but I'm not stupid. Even able-bodied as I am, I wouldn't be a match for you in armed combat. And I'm no light-weight, as you know."

She did know. He was lean, almost painfully so, but every inch was hard-packed muscle and he was a nasty street-fighter. But she'd still always been better than him. She could take him. Provided he didn't have a gun.

But if he had a gun, he could've just shot her by now.

Which meant he had something worse in store. Something far, far worse.

Or - and her blood ran cold as the thought occurred to her - he'd already done something far worse. And he'd come to gloat. Immediately her mind leapt to her father and a strangled sound rose in her throat.

The Joker had moved from her door, heedless of the way she swivelled at the waist to watch him, her stick ever ready. Moved across the room to her window where he fiddled with the blinds, opening them so that bands of silvery light spilled into the room, dimly illuminating it. He crooked one arm behind his back and smiled upwards towards the moon as he spoke.
"Your mind is racing, isn't it? Pondering the possibilities. Have I come to kill you? But if I have, why haven't I done so yet? And to what point and purpose? Or have I some nefarious scheme to grievously wound the dear Commissioner? Or perhaps… I already have."
He turned to face her, striped silver and black, his leering grin hideously illuminated. Even without her glasses she could see his eyes as cold points of light in the dark. Like they were before… before when he…

She felt her grip on the stick falter, shook her head vigorously to clear it. Don't be thrown by his perceptiveness, she told herself grimly, he's been doing this for years. He knows how people think.

"Let me put your feverish mind at rest, dearest. Daddykins is fine. The Bat-Brood are untouched. Fair Gotham sleeps peacefully this night."
And he placed his hand upon his chest and made her a slight bow.

She narrowed her eyes, squinting at him, trying to figure out his next move. Even given her disadvantages - the dark room, without her glasses, in an awkward position - she had confidence in her ability to take down most intruders with a minimum of effort. But The Joker was not most intruders.

For the first time she noted he was not clad in his usual custom-made purple suit. But in a pair of shorts and a casual button-down shirt - decorated across the chest with palm trees. Her stomach churned. He was wearing the exact same garb as the night he - the night he -

And once again, black fury clouded her mind, blurred out her dull vision.

As the night he shot her. The night he crippled her. Assaulted her.

"What do you want?" She spoke through gritted teeth and The Joker leaned up against her window frame, crossing one ankle over the other, shoving a hand casually into the pocket of his shorts.

"A simple thing, Ms Gordon, for which I require merely your indulgence. I would like to talk."

Nothing could've prepared her for that. Despite herself she made an audible sound of surprise, a little cry in the back of her throat and Joker again chuckled in response.

"You don't believe me, of course." Like Hell she did. It was never that simple with this freak. "But it's true. " You're lying, you sick monster. "My latest sabbatical at Arkham incurred a period of deep thought and contemplation over some of my past deeds, prompted by a rather adorably decorated scrap book of news clippings an ardent admirer posted to me." Take one step closer and I'll break both kneecaps, you son of a bitch. "And there you were. Or rather, there your father was. Front page news, in all the locals it was. My little play date with your dear Daddy. And you, you merited at least a paragraph in all of them. Sometimes two."

She froze, and it wasn't until she did that she realised she'd been gripping her stick so hard, so poised with fury and the need to strike that she'd been shaking, her muscles quivering from being tensed so long.

She let out a long, hissing breath and relaxed.
"Joker." She said quietly. "Either make your point, or leave."

Joker took a step forward, sitting on the edge of her nightstand. Moving away from the dim light of the window, he was once more cast into darkness and she felt herself begin to tense again. Adrenalin began to flow once more into her coiled muscles and her head continued to pound.

"But that is my point," his voice was a slippery whisper in the dark stillness.

She waited for him to say something more, but he was silent. A breeze rattled the blinds of her windows, a trickle of sweat snaked its way down her neck and between her shoulder blades. She began to more fully comprehend the strange danger of the situation she was in. As Barbara Gordon, she didn't expect to be attacked in her bedroom in the dead of night, and certainly not by one of the world's deadliest men. Why would she? With her identity as Oracle a well-kept secret, her only significance to the kooks and creeps was who her father was. And his - his was really only his connection to Bruce. Joker could have all manner of nasty surprises concealed in his pockets. God, what more could he do to her? Her blood was still hammering through her head, making it throb in pain. Why was he here? What did he want? What the hell was his game?

And should she play?

"I don't understand," she said finally, wearily.

He was silent another long moment and when he spoke he was smiling. "No." he said warmly. "Why would you? It's not adding up, is it? I've already used you to strike at my dear, Dark Knight. What could I want with you now? Have I come back to finish the job? I haven't, my sweet. I promise you that I haven't. I am here, as I originally said, merely to talk."

She wanted to scream then. To scream and fling her stick at him, to throw herself at him. But she couldn't do that, could she? No, he'd seen to that. He was the reason she was here, disabled. Even as rigorously as she had trained, as powerful as her upper body was, in this position she simply couldn't launch herself at him.

She hated him so much and here he was, not five feet from her, and she couldn't even close her hands tight around his neck.

It struck her then. She had not been face to face with him, without a thick pane of glass between them, since that night.

Indeed, she had never encountered him like this. When he had not been making threats or in the throes of some hideous scheme, laughing maniacally and cracking disgusting jokes about the murder and mayhem he caused. He seemed almost - still.

His energy was magnetic enough that it seemed to crackle through the night, making him a heavy and almost luminous presence in the dark of her room, where he sat on her nightstand, his long legs stretched out in front of him, his weight on the palms of his hands. But he, himself, was so quiet.

It was all the more terrifying.

She felt fear then, fear beginning to overwhelm her, and fought to overcome it. Don't allow him to confuse you, were the words now going through her mind. You know him. You know his ways. You know his games. You know him.

But did she?

Oh she had read everything in Bruce's files, of course, hacked into Arkham's records and every police and government record possible and learned everything there practically by heart.

But in reality, her encounters with him had been few. Largely they consisted of her incapacitating his muscle, or knocking him down alongside the rest of the team. Not like the ones Bruce had had. They had never been very intimate.

Except for - and once again, she found herself back there again. Except for that night.

But that night she had not been Oracle. Or Batgirl.

She had been simply -

"Barbara Gordon." The Joker spoke, his voice was slippery as an unwanted caress. "Brilliant. Beautiful. You skipped many grades in high school. Genius level intellect. You were a star athlete. Martial arts. Gymnastics. You had it all. "

Is this all it was? It seemed too - pathetic.

"If you're just here to gloat, you've missed your chance." Her voice was ice. "I came to terms with what you did a long time ago."

"Did you?" He sounded only mildly curious. He continued before she could answer. "You know, practically everyone thinks I raped you, that night." He chuckled and she felt nauseous. "Everyone - from rookie cops to the underground mob, to even my fellows at Arkham. Can you believe that, darling? Just because I relieved you of your clothing and took a few happy snaps, people assume we took our relationship to the next level. Haven't they ever heard the term 'everything, but'?"

She felt more than sick. More than furious. There were no words for the churning emotion that rose within her. She struggled to keep her voice even.

"You did rape me."

She saw his head move, glance towards her. "I suppose I did." He acknowledged, just vaguely airy. "In a manner of speaking. But not in the traditional fashion. Not in the way they all think!" And he pushed himself off her nightstand and strode a few steps forward, one hand waving about in the air. "Dullards. They all think it was the worst thing I could do to you. Can you imagine? How unbearably common. Yet another example of why I leave them all choking on my dust, time and time again. Their pitiful little minds simply lack scope."

She felt herself stiffen, go still within and although she knew it was unspeakably dangerous, she shut her eyes and centred her breathing, although her head continued to painfully pound. He was just here to poke fun at her. It was simplistically base, for The Joker, but there it was.

"You didn't win." She said plainly. "I still have my brains. And I use them. I'm still beautiful. And even you acknowledge that, useless legs or not, I could still kick your pasty white ass."

Joker laughed properly for the first time, a delighted, wicked sound. "And you certainly didn't lose your spunk!" He said approvingly. "I'm so glad. Beautiful Ms Gordon, you always were such a pleasure to dally with."

She could swear her heart stopped. She could not keep the stammer from her voice. "Wh-what?"

Joker was at the foot of her bed now, gripping the baseboard in his large, thin white hands, leaning over it into the pool of silvery light cast onto her bedspread from the window. He was smiling, but it was grim and tight-lipped.

"Did it ever anger you?" he whispered, his voice sending chills down her spine. "Does it anger you still? That that's the way it ended for you? No blaze of glory, no great heroics? No front page blaring your magnificent deeds, celebrating your name? No 'Batgirl sacrifices herself to save Gotham'? Just a paragraph. In an article. About your father. The Batman. And me."

She did not notice that her grip on the rattan stick had loosened, that one end of it had tipped downwards, lightly touching the mattress by her dead legs.

The Joker continued to gaze at her, his purple eyes hard gunmetal grey in the moonlight, captivating and consuming.

"Because that's what it all came down to, isn't it?" He continued and under that penetrating gaze she felt more naked than she had even been that night. "You were not Batgirl, one of the city's great defenders. You weren't even Barbara Gordon, star academic and athlete. You were just Gordon's tragically crippled daughter. No one saw you, they saw only what you represented. What you represented in relation to your father. You were reduced. To nothing more than a symbol. People wept over you, yes they did, but they didn't weep for you. They wept for Daddy. How tragic, was what all the papers cried, what the reporters said, what the Government and the Mayor and the GCPD all released in their statements, that dear old Commissioner should know something so horrible as his daughter's assault at the hands of a madman."

Her breath was coming in short, sharp gusts. Her eyes burned as he held them tight within his own.

"They all forgot you, didn't they. Not just Gotham, and all its pitying strangers. All of them. Even Daddy. Even the Bat. Daddy cried and tore out his hair. He was by your side every available moment. But it was always about his grief, wasn't it? Not what it meant to you. But what it meant to him. And the Bat. All the more unforgiveable because he knew who you were. He knew what Batgirl meant to you. He knew what it would mean to be cut down like that. Not in the midst of battle. But unexpected, with a cup of cocoa in your hands, answering the door without checking because you couldn't anticipate it would ever happen like that."

In a far corner of her mind, Oracle was frantically reminding her that if he knew she had been Batgirl, then he might know that she was also Oracle. Or - even more unthinkable - might know that Bruce was Batman. But that voice was being drowned out by Joker's words, smooth as cream, and soft in the moonlit room.

"And what did he do, when he finally caught up with me? He shared a joke with me. Did you know that, darling? Did they tell you of how he was found, laughing with me in the rain, his hand on my shoulder? Did he tell you that we shook hands? Did he have that much grace? Or did you have to learn of it afterwards, through whispered rumours amongst the schlubs running around beneath your father? Yes, Barbara darling, I offered him my hand and he took it. There, in the rain, in that rotting old carcas of a fairground, while you lay in a hospital bed, a silenced, crippled object, no more than a pawn in a game between madmen, he shook the hand of the man who crippled you."

Tears had blurred out her vision. In another second they would spill down her cheeks.

Joker had slipped around to sit on the end of her bed, the springs creaking softly beneath his weight, never taking his piercing gaze from her. In the moonlight his hair was dark teal, his skin so white it seemed ghostly. A smile seemed to play about the corners of his mouth as he spoke and his voice floated gently on the air between them, coming to skim along the hairs of her body. He seemed utterly otherworldly, and magnificent.

"That's what they've all failed to understand. All of them. Raping you wasn't the worst thing I could've done to you. Neither was stripping you and taking graphic photographs of your naked, wounded body while you convulsed in pain. No, no, no. It was that I used you. Used you to get to your father, and through him, the Bat. It was never about you. And no one ever knew. Batgirl simply vanished one day. Not in the midst of an epic battle twixt good and evil. She just stopped being seen. And meanwhile, you suffered through the humiliation of dependency and the knowledge that your life had been torn from you, not because of who you were, but because of what you meant to others."

He was leaning forward, his eyes gleaming brightly in the shadows, something keen and hungry about his angular face. He was close enough now that if she took up her stick she could hit the side of his head in one, hard blow that would render him utterly unconscious.

But the rattan stick lay, unfelt and forgotten, on her lap, one hand curled only loosely around its end.

Joker smiled, close-lipped, his mouth curving upwards, knowing and smug.

"I know you hate me for that. You'd be crazy not to. But my question, Barbara darling, is - don't you hate them a little, too?"

It all seemed too unreal. Here, in the silvery darkness, with the man who had crippled her. Listening to him spin a spell with his vile, vicious words while her legs lay useless in front of her.

Again, in that far corner of her mind, Oracle spoke: His actions are his own. He will rationalise them how he will. He will twist the deeds of others to suit that. You can hold no one responsible for what he did but him. He is the only one.

But the nagging, rhythmic throbbing in her head rose to drown it out and the bitterness of the years that had passed - of the horrible, revolting truth in some of what he had said - rose like bile in her throat.

The memories flooded back in, along with all of the old bitterness and rage. Of lying, limp and forgotten in a hospital bed while Bruce and Dick played on the streets above, while her father continued to go to work. Of physical therapy and how even years of gymnastics had not prepared her for the dead weight of her legs beneath her. Of not being able to control her bodily functions. Of friends being suddenly awkward and very, very, very busy. Of no longer being Barbara Gordon, star academic and athlete, not being Batgirl, vigilante and defender of Gotham City - but of just being that poor little crippled girl in the wheelchair. Of having to cope with the flood of attention on her father, and Batman, and what the Joker's actions meant to them, while she was glossed over. Like Joker said, no more than a pawn, an object.

And before she even knew that she would, she heard herself speak.

"Yes."

Her voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, the scraping of fingernails against her throat in the night. Joker's eyes did not waver. She swallowed.

"Yes," she said again and this time her voice was firmer, louder.

Joker sat still for a long moment as her tears finally spilt, trickling hot down her cheeks. She did not move to brush them away, but held the monster's gaze as he blurred before her.

Then he shifted, moving closer to her over the bed.

"No apologies. No explanations. No vindication. Just the admission, and no more. I like that." He crooned. "And why shouldn't you? You were forced to make the ultimate sacrifice for them - you didn't even have a say in the matter. Why, I bet you were even sitting here frantically wondering that if I knew you were Batgirl then I might know who Batman plays during the day. Weren't you?"

She felt a hot flush flood through her, remembering her thoughts of only moments before. How could he know these things?

"Always making sacrifices for others. Always giving your all for them. And what do they give you in return?"

She wanted to speak, wanted to say that it wasn't like that, that she made the choice to be Oracle, to devote so much of herself to the task. No one else could. But somehow, she couldn't speak around the lump in her throat.

Joker's hand crept over the mattress, brushed against her own. She started. His touch was like ice. She knew it was dangerous, deadly to let him be this close to her, but she couldn't bring herself to care enough. She blinked, and her head swum, still aching. Joker's fingertips traced a light pattern on the back of her hand.

"You're so beautiful." He murmured. "Beauty doesn't mean to me what it does to others, I'd be lying if I told you it did. But I perceive beauty and I understand it. I know that you are very, very beautiful. But the disabled are often seen as no more than children in our society, aren't they? If they are not rendered invisible altogether. Isn't it funny how a disablement can make all the difference in how people respond to you?"

His voice droned on and on, hypnotic. She'd never noticed before, just how melodic his voice could be, how he lifted and dropped it to accentuate his words, the emphases he used, as delicate and finely arranged as a symphony. Was this how he'd gained the trust of so many hapless doctors and guards and lawyers? She should resist, should shake him off, shout at him, but between the strange surreal quiet of the night, his arresting voice, her headache and the unexpected sharpness of her old, long-buried anger and resentment, she couldn't find the will.

"What was it like? To go from being the girl who turned heads to being the girl people struggled not to look at? Because that's what happened, didn't it Barbara darling?"

How, how could the hatred be so fierce still, after all these years?

"The men who once flocked around you like bees to honey were suddenly no where to be found. If you went out for coffee or a stroll in the park or even for a drink at a club, you received pitying stares in place of admiring ones. Did you want to scream at them, sweet Barbara?"

She had. She remembered one man who'd approached her in a coffee house, playfully chatting her up. Sweet, charming. Until she'd pushed her wheelchair back and saw the shock on his face. He hadn't noticed the chair. And he'd remembered an appointment he was late to and beat a hasty retreat.

The fury was hideous, as hideous as The Joker himself. That creep had not been the only one.

Even Dick in the beginning - goddamn him, even Dick had treated her like she was suddenly a mystery, a puzzle he didn't know how to figure out.

"The disabled are made sexless by society, denied the right to physical pleasure, rendered infantile and helpless by overbearing carers and parents. "

And her father, any time she might actually have scored a date, how insanely protective he would become, as if she were suddenly more fragile, less capable of having a relationship.

"You're expected to be ever cheerful and content with your lot, forever more a child, accepting that romance, passion and sex are no longer elements of life you are entitled to. You're disabled now, they say, such things are not for you. As though those desires are as dead as your crippled limbs. "

How strange, they'd all been, tip-toeing around her, gazing at her with dismay, choosing their words carefully, trying not to do anything wrong because in their heads, she was all wrong now. How many times she had wanted to scream I'm still me. I'm still Barbara. I still have the same needs and desires and longings I ever did. Why can't you understand that?

Joker's hand slipped up and over her wrist, slid down, curled around the rattan stick and gently slid it from her grasp, placing it lengthways on the mattress beside her.

"They see you as - an other - outside of what they are. Outside of their realm. Outside of normalcy. You're no longer really one of them. You're not among the active and the able. " She didn't really notice he had ceased to use the past tense, didn't recall that she had proved all this wrong to everyone already. The frustration and anger of the past was too sour and strong to permit her to rationalise. It flooded through her veins like a drug, hot and bitter. "You're something else. Something they're afraid to understand. To fully acknowledge or accept. It would be hard for anyone, to swallow this sour little pill, but for Batgirl, it must surely be all the more vile. " He shifted again, and now he was right alongside her and she was glaring at him with all the hatred she felt, not just for him but for all of them, for everyone who'd ever fumbled over their words to her, or glanced at her with pity, or dismissed her ability. "And who, at the end of the day, my darling Barbara, is responsible for this, this cruel and unfair twist your life was bent into?"

He leaned forward in the dark, his face barely half a foot from hers, his breath warm as it gusted on her cheek.

She knew she should say You. You, you sick, fucking freak. You vile monster who should've been put out of our collective misery a long time ago.

What she said instead was: "Him."

And Joker smiled, showing his teeth.

Yes. Him. Bruce. It all came back down to Bruce. Somehow, he was always at the heart of it all. He inspired her to become Batgirl, encouraged and manipulated her into his ways but never really trusting or respecting her. Then she was shot down because of him, while he still walked around, active and free, and the monster that crippled her lived and breathed, breathed on her, in her bedroom in the middle of the night. And still, he continued to use her and her skills and knowledge, never fully appreciating her as he never had when she was Batgirl, never appreciating the depth of what was taken from her when she lost that. Never once acknowledging that she'd just been a toy in this mad game he continued to play with the inhuman creature who sat on her bed and placed a cold hand on her cheek.

She couldn't help the harsh guttural cry that broke out of her throat at the touch of Joker's hand. Even to her ears it sounded sick, so twisted was it with the hatred and anger she had so suppressed.

And why the hell did I suppress it, she thought furiously, for him, and for them! Always for them! What about me? What about ME?

"Let it out, darling," Joker spoke again, leaning closer still, his eyes cast into dark pools, faint flickerings of light reflecting off his teeth. And then his hand dropped, slid down her neck, to the collar of her nightshirt where his fingertips toyed with the top button.

His touch was sickeningly gentle, faintly tickling and she felt repulsed by it. Disgusted by his hand upon her. Yet somehow, she didn't want to tell him to stop, to knock him away and knock him out. Somehow, that hand - which was now unfastening the top button of her night shirt - felt almost cleansing.

Of them all, he'd been the only one to acknowledge it to her. Maybe the only one to even see it.

How could that be?

She finally found her voice again, her voice strained and gasping through the tide of her hatred. "Ho - how can you - be - so perceptive - understand - human psyche so well - and - and yet do such evil?"

His chuckle was low and amused. "I am all that it is within my nature to be, and no more."

And he bent through the darkness and pressed cool lips against her throat. It was unspeakably disgusting, all the more so because it felt simply good. He did not tear at her, bite her or maul her. Instead his mouth played tenderly across her skin, teasing, his breath hot and his lips gentle. She flashed back to that night, of lying there absolutely helpless, of how the savage realness of the pain was utterly surreal, and of this creature bent over her, methodically stripping her. Of being so helpless and thinking she was about to be raped by this evil creature and then how it had been so much worse, when instead he had begun posing her, making appreciative remarks on her body, admiring the way she 'worked the camera', his laughter like the ringing of a bell, echoing up and down her shattered spine.

Joker had undone the second and third button and the fourth was almost there.

She threw back her head as his moved lower, his lips playing now over her collarbone, and gripped the pillows on either side of her tight. She was no longer helpless. He was close enough now that she could grab him, knock him out. Hell, she could even snap his neck if she wanted to. Maybe she should. Maybe it was time someone finally did.

Joker undid the sixth button, and the seventh, pushing the sheets down and away as his hand moved to the eighth, and final one.

How humiliating it had been. Naked and helpless, utterly helpless, while he took those photos. It was beyond anything she could have imagined. And what came after - being discovered, of the examinations, the news, of realising this had been done to her just to get to Batman. At the thought of him, her hatred welled again, boiling in her heart.

Joker's hand slipped upwards and pushed aside her nightshirt, baring one breast to the moonlight. His hand moved to cup it, thumb gently grazing the nipple. How could a beast like this know so well how to touch her? Did he know - did he understand that it was worse, even more repugnant than if he had been brutal with her?

He pressed light kisses over her sternum, downwards towards her other breast, shifting his body so that it lay beside her. His lips teased her nipple lightly for a moment, barely touching before letting go again, repeating that several times, before he closed them over it and she couldn't help the sigh. Her nipple hardened in his mouth as his tongue flickered over it and she wanted to scream.

It was so wrong. So revoltingly, horribly wrong, what was happening.

That he was touching her. That she was letting him. That she was enjoying it.

"How long has it been, Barbara darling," Joker murmured against her breast, nipping it lightly so that she hissed and one fist tightened on a pillow. "Since someone really appreciated you?"

She thought of Dick, the only real lover she'd had since she'd been crippled. It had been a long time since they last fucked. Dick, who had taken so long to get used to the idea that they even could, who had treated her like glass for so long and needed so much fucking instruction before he could show any sort of confidence or ability.

Joker didn't suffer from that. He didn't pause to ask her if this was okay, or if she could feel that, or what she wanted him to do. It seemed that other parts of her body had grown more sensitive since she lost the use of her legs. Her skin responded hyperactively to the lightest of touches. Her nipples had grown even more sensitive. She could come now, just from them being sucked on. And Joker seemed to guess, intuitively, his mouth moving to her other breast, his sucking and nibbling growing a little harder now and more earnest, so that she was gasping, jerking a little, feeling it in her clit, like there was a chord strung between it and her nipples and he was plucking on it. His hand dropped to trace teasing patterns over her stomach and hip, making her shiver, coming tantalisingly close to the apex at the centre of it all, but not quite touching. She felt it growing, between her legs, hungry and furious. Need. Raw. Animal. Amoral.

It had been too goddamn long.

Joker closed his lips tight over her nipple and then pulled off, letting it slide out of his mouth. She moaned. If he kept that up much longer, she would come.

But he only did it twice more before his mouth suddenly trailed downwards, grazing over her ribcage, tickling her belly.

She lifted her head to look at him, at that strange, white skin and angular face, the long red lips, black in the darkness, pressing against her creamy flesh.

It was filthy. Filthy and disgusting and wrong. This man had shot her in cold blood. This man had killed her step-mother at point-blank range. This man had killed hundreds of people. And thought it was a joke.

It was there, in its very perversity, that she was able to do it, she realised through the foggy haze that had overtaken her head, which still throbbed persistently. There was something in its very wrongness that compelled her to allow it. That made it enjoyable and pleasurable. Why, why? She tried to focus, to unravel the mystery, knew that it lay somewhere in there and her anger at Bruce and her disbelief that Joker, of all people, could understand so well what she had thought and felt.

But then Joker was licking the spot where her thigh met her groin and the thoughts fled away, brightly coloured dancing kites scattering behind her eyes, blotting out.

Joker kicked the sheets off her and she heard him chuckle again as he wrapped a hand around either of her thighs and lifted them, spreading them apart. As the cool air hit her bared pussy, she realised how wet she was and was overwhelmed by the very perversity of her arousal.

God, what's wrong with me? She wondered, unable to help lifting her head to watch Joker take his position between her legs, his face hovering mere inches from her pussy. What am I about to allow him to do to me? Why, why, why? Then Joker lifted his eyes to hers, and even in the darkness she could see the amusement in them, the wicked triumph. You evil creature, she thought and her cunt clenched in response.

He dropped his gaze again, and brought his face closer still, the tip of his long, aquiline nose just barely brushing against her mound. She felt him blowing then, softly, along her slit and her breath caught in anticipation. She couldn't move her legs. Couldn't shut them. Couldn't kick him away. In some ways, she was as helpless as the night he had shot her. And there was a prickling behind her clit as it sensed the proximity of pleasure and tingled for satisfaction.

After what seemed like an eternity, Joker brushed his lips against her. Off and on, soft and gentle. It was maddening. Her clit tingled furiously, desperate for more. He began playing his lips on it, much as he had with her nipples. Just closing them lightly around the little bud, then releasing. The cruellest of teases. Then he licked her, from the end of her slit to the top, and again. She shuddered violently and felt her hand leap up, coil itself in his hair before she tore it away and buried it in the pillows again. No, not that far. She would not touch him. She felt the beat of his breath as he laughed softly to himself, then he was flickering his tongue against her clit, so soft and deliciously that she wanted to scream. Pleasure rose up through her pussy and out, the familiar coiling, tightening feeling in her clit that hungered to be undone. Christ, if this is what he does to Quinn, no wonder she stays with him, she thought crazily.

Then softly, softly, he closed his lips fully around her clit and massaged it with his tongue, his breath hot on it and the combination of sensations nearly drove her over the edge.

But it wasn't until he pulled off, lips still puckered around it, that she felt the first rising wave of her impending orgasm. He repeated the action again and again and her muscles tensed. He pressed a finger against her opening, not shoving it viciously in and upwards, but once again seeming just to know that playing it gently in soft circles around the very opening was what would drive her crazy.

And, at this moment, was what would get her off.

She had resolved to stay quiet when she came, to not give him the pleasure of her moans, but as ecstasy crashed through her she couldn't silence the guttural cry that rose up from her throat. He did not stop what he was doing as she climaxed, but continued to lightly suck on her clit and she felt her muscles contracting tight and hard around the tip of his finger. Her orgasm seemed to go on forever, long and intense and shamefully delicious, and as it abated she slumped back against the pillows. She continued to twitch with little aftershocks as the enormity of what had just happened threatened to flood through her and she lifted her hands to her head and knotted them in her hair, disbelieving.

Joker sat up, grinning softly at her, and sucked his finger. Her pussy twitched again when he did, and she wondered over how easy it had been, how she was still tingling from it, how it hadn't seemed to satisfy her hunger, but only sharpen it.

As if he knew, Joker reached down to the fly of his shorts and fumbled with the fastenings, reaching in and pulling out his hardened cock. A crazy memory flashed into her mind, of her roommate Annie in college and giggling over what kind of men had what kind of dicks and how Annie had always sworn up and down that tall skinny men were always hung like donkeys. If she could see Joker now, she'd cite him as further proof of this theory. It was long, and thick and white and it wanted her and somehow, that made her feel a surge of power as Joker lowered himself on top of her, his ghastly, other-worldy face coming down close to hers, still smiling, one hand stroking her cheek.

The tip of his cock brushed against her pussy and she longed to be able to wrap her legs around his waist and urge him into her. God, it had just been too damned long. She wanted the sensation of a hard cock filling her up and right then she didn't care that it belonged to the monster who'd shot her. He seemed to be the only one capable. The only one who got anything.

His cock, pressing gently against her entrance, was such an almighty tease that she felt orgasm begin to build again. She struggled not to show him how bad she wanted it, how much she wanted to scream at him to fuck her, even as his tongue, tasting of her, licked playfully at her mouth. But her pussy tingled and throbbed in anticipation as he thrust his hips gently, pushing just a little more inside and she groaned in spite of herself.

Then he spoke again.

"Now, now, honey lips," he teased. "I don't want to overstep my mark here. I want to hear it from you. Tell me, honey lips. Do you want it? I have to know I have your consent. It's just not the same otherwise.

And he pushed forward again, nudging just a little further. She thought she would go mad.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "Yes." She hissed and he bent his head still further, his nose pressed against hers.

"What was that, honey lips?"

She opened her eyes to meet his, an inch from hers, drowning in their dark, bottomless depths, devoured into them. "Yes." She said fiercely.

"Yes what?"

She swallowed, hard. Damn him. Damn her. "Yes, fuck me."

And he caught up her mouth with his own and laughed into her throat, simultaneously thrusting his cock deep inside her.

She groaned at the feeling, at the sense of completeness of having him inside her, at how vile it was and yet how needed also. Joker thrust into her hard and strong, kissing her viciously, his tongue shoving its way into the back of her throat, possessing her.
Despite herself her arms snaked around him and she kissed him back and felt her mouth begin to bruise beneath his assault.

She lost track of how long he fucked her, except that it seemed at once eternal and far too short and when she cried for him to go harder, he obliged with the quietest of chuckles, tucking his hands beneath her hips to lift them to meet his thrust, pounding into her so violently the bed creaked in an unsettling manner and scraped against the wall.

It wasn't enough for her. She gripped his shoulders and cried for him to go harder and amazingly, he did. She knew he was strong but she was still surprised at how strong, how inhumanely strong, it seemed. Her legs, useless and unmoving, bounced against the mattress in rhythm to his thrusts and she clawed at him and hissed: "I hate you, you fucking son of a bitch, I hate you, I hate you." And was not sure who she was even talking about.

She came again, and once more before he sped up, before he suddenly had one hand wrapped around her throat, holding her head still and forcing her to look up at him, staring at her with a crazed half-grin and a savage glint in his eye.
"I was right about everything, wasn't I?" he hissed.
She thudded one fist hard against his shoulder.
"Yes," she spat and he came, his other hand twisting in her hair, grunting viciously against her cheek, his eyes never closing but remaining fixed and cold on hers. She felt the pulse ebb through his cock as he spilled himself into her and she grew giddy, light-headed on the knowledge that the Joker, one of the most wicked men to walk the planet, had just come inside her. With her consent.

What the hell did this mean for the future? Christ, what was this going to mean?

And suddenly, full comprehension of the whole evening flooded through her and she was shaking as the Joker slumped against her, his grip on her hair loosening, his cock softening inside her. Tears were welling up in her eyes again and nausea was churning her belly. Christ, what had she done? The throbbing in her head started up again and she let out a great shuddering breath as she struggled to deal with her insane, irrational actions.

Then Joker was softly laughing, propping himself up on his hands, nuzzling her cheek.

"Now Barbara darling, sweetest honey lips," he purred into her ear cruelly. "This was really the worst thing I could do to you."

And she screamed and thrust up against him, thrust into space, her arms flailing wildly at the air as the world tipped around her and she was panting, sitting up straight in bed with the morning light pouring in the window and her room silent and empty save for her.

She twisted around frantically, looking from one end of the room to the other, choking and gasping, her heart pounding madly.

Just a dream, she realised.

Her stomach twisted and with one heave of her powerful upper body she was in her chair and wheeling straight into the adjacent bathroom, where she lifted the toilet seat lid and was violently ill.

After that she splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth and sat for several moments with her face in her hands, coming to terms with her realisation.

She couldn't help but check her nightshirt, noting that all the buttons were done up. She was slightly damp between the legs, which made her feel queasy, but not in any suspicious way. It just meant that - sickeningly - the dream had turned her on a little.

Christ, what was behind all that? She thought as she wheeled herself back into the bedroom, noting her rattan stick undisturbed on the nightstand. Maybe she needed to think about going back to therapy for a few sessions. It would sure seem like some suppressed emotion was fighting its way to the surface in her subconscious.

Still, it was just a dream. A sick, disturbing dream. But just a dream.

Then she saw that the chair from her desk was shifted, across the room to sit behind her bedroom door.

Heart leaping into her throat, she spun the wheelchair around to the window where the blinds were opened, letting in rays of golden light. But she was sure she'd shut them tight, like she always did. She didn't like to be awakened by the sun.

Her hand crept to her throat as her stomach churned and her heart began to thud. It was just a dream, she told herself firmly.

Wasn't it?

---

Hey all! Hope you enjoyed that! Sorry if the ending is a bit of a cop out, but I don't honestly believe that Barbara could ever fall for Mistah J's schtick and genuinely end up screwing him. Unless she were drugged, and I hinted throughout that was a possibility too (her headache).
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