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Scarred	By : harley4joker Category: DC Verse Comics > Batman Views: 10887 -:- 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-Scarred
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This fiction contains a graphic depiction of a consensual BDSM D/s relationship involving blood play. If you don’t understand what this is, this fic might not be for you.

Her sleep was dreamless.

It was a dark cocoon of oblivion that was slowly being stirred. Awareness poking her consciousness like morning sunlight filtering through the blinds.
She resisted.
She rarely got sleep this good anymore. The lithium at the asylum made her feel groggy and confused when she woke up. On the lam she was often too jumped up with adrenalin and sugar to easily rest. Even keeping herself break-neck busy seeing to Mistah J’s needs and wants didn’t send her off to peaceful slumber the way it had in the beginning.
She was aware someone was near her. Someone was idling their fingers through her pig-tailed hair. It tickled a little; insistently drew her out of her rest.
She was still asleep, but conscious enough to hear herself snore, feel the drool on the pillow under her cheek. Another time she might’ve giggled to hear herself, or sat up straight in embarrassment, but right then she was too comfortable – and still too asleep – to care.
The stroking of her hair continued and reflexively, one of her legs kicked backwards. She was lying half on her stomach, head turned to one side, a fistful of pillow in each hand. She could feel the softness of the mattress, the moth-eaten cotton sheets pressing against the bare flesh of her neck and arms and belly, where her Arkham pyjamas had ridden up.
Slowly, steadily, she continued to wake and now she did flit half-in and out of dreams. It was last night again, the rain as bitter as ice, breaking out of the Asylum. But the rain wasn’t outside. It was coming in through the roof of her cell. Her and Mistah J were hiding in two of the big kitchen pots while guards examined bags of flour and rice, looked for them in the fridge. She distinctly felt the fear of discovery as they passed by. Suddenly the pot had shrunk. She was sitting there in a corner of the kitchen with her head clearly poking out of the pot, certain at any moment the guards would see her. She stayed as still as she could. The pot was in the corner of Dr. Arkham’s office then and Dr. Arkham was asking the chef to take it down and make some stew. She was terrified she would be put in the stew, but couldn’t risk calling out to them in case they noticed her.
Suddenly there was a wrench in her hair, her head was yanked violently backwards and she gasped and shrieked from the searing pain in the roots of her blonde locks, ripped through the office wall and back into the motel room where she found herself pulled half off the bed, staring dazedly at the grungy dark blue pillow below her.
Confused as she was, she lashed out, struggling against whomever it was who had a hold on her. The Bat? The pulling in her hair got worse; she suddenly thought her whole beautiful mop might be torn out and whimpered, thrusting an elbow back in a move that would’ve been painful to the recipient, had it hit anyone.
It hadn’t.
Her Puddin’s laugh broke the quiet dark of the motel room and then she was abruptly let go so that she slammed back down into the mattress. It didn’t so much hurt as it smarted, but she didn’t have a chance to worry either way as Joker wasted no time with any further niceties. She was awake now, and she understood the way they would be playing tonight and so he would continue as it pleased him.

She perceived all of this within seconds after she heard his laughter and even as she whimpered, even as he roughly grasped one of her arms and twisted it up behind so she cried out, she thrilled within.
It had been a particularly long and lonely stint for her in Arkham. Eight months, separated from her Puddin’. He’d still been on the loose when she’d been recaptured and though she’d toyed with the idea of making a real stab at rehabilitation this time, when she heard he was recaptured, some five months ago, she just couldn’t concentrate on the idea anymore.
But they had kept them strictly separated and not even her Mistah J plushie could get her through the long Arkham nights after a certain amount of time had passed.
Now, as Joker drove a knee into the small of her back, pinning her to the mattress, as he wrenched her arm up higher so that she muffled another cry of pain into the pillow, she was secretly squirming with delight. He’d missed her as well. That much was clear. He wanted her just as badly as she wanted him.
It was confirmed when he bent in close to her and whispered savagely in her ear, his breath hot and moist against her: “You’re a very bad girl, Harleykins. I can’t quite stress just how bad you are.”
His voice was angry, furious even. He wanted her and he resented her for it. And she was going to pay for it.
She couldn’t wait.
However many hours ago it had been, when they’d first arrived at the motel to wait out the initial heat, both soaking wet from the bitter rain outside and spattered with blood, she’d felt a little shy around her man. Eight months was a long time, and her Puddin’ still managed to overwhelm and awe her, especially when he looked so sexy, and yet so sorta vulnerable as well, striding around the small, dingy room with his hair plastered down over his forehead, thin limbs trembling with adrenalin and cold.
She was already in the bed, having retrieved the two worn blankets from the small closet and wrapping herself in them, the comforter and the sheets. She’d hemmed gently and pushed wet strands of hair back over her head, trying to pose as seductively as she could from her cocoon of covering.
“Why don’tcha come over here and let me warm you up, Puddin’.” She’d suggested coyly.
He’d shot her a look of such blistering fury she’d felt her very soul blanch. She’d said nothing further, but meekly huddled into the bed and lay there, still and tense, hoping he would not decide to take whatever rage he was experiencing out on her. Then, before she’d realised it, she was asleep.
She’d figured she was in for a long wait. She had been before. Once, after a five month forced separation, she endured an additional agonising two months in his company before he’d finally looked at her with a bizarre realisation one day and thrown himself upon her.
So as he snarled then and nipped at her ear – not playfully, but with pure cruelty – she couldn’t help but feel anticipatory delight, a pleasurable warm sensation spark between her legs as though a match had been struck there.
The pain in her arm was throbbing, the pressure on her back was making her breath come shallow and ragged but still she felt herself grow wet, felt a dizzying delirium flood her. She worked hard to suppress the moan of pleasure that sprang to her lips. Unwittingly, her Puddin’ helped her as he bit viciously at her neck next.

“Ahh-oowww!” She exclaimed, his frustration all too evident in the force of the bite and he jammed her arm up a little higher still. She felt a thrill of panic course through her next. Love-making with her Puddin’ when he was in this mood could be dangerous to her health – but somehow that made it all the more exciting.
She was released suddenly, blood rushing painfully back through her arm, which tingled, and then she was grabbed again and spun over.
She relished the first sight of him, as furious and snarling as he was. His Arkham pyjamas were skewed on his body, stained with the blood of guards he had maimed and murdered as they escaped, his arms long, lean sinew, his green hair dried and unruly.

He straddled her at the waist, trapping her beneath him. She wanted to dare a glance downwards, see the way his pyjama bottoms tented outwards, betraying his need, but couldn’t take her eyes off his furious beauty. His eyes were crazed, one pupil dilated larger than the other, blood-shot and wild on her as he drew back a white fist and she readied herself for the blow.
It cracked hard against her jaw, sending her head spinning, stars bursting before her eyes. She’d concertedly relaxed her neck and apart from the bloom of pain where his fist had made contact, it wasn’t so bad. Still, she knew her role.
She let a deliberate sob escape her lips and he growled softly in response and back-handed her from the other direction. Her head snapped back the other way and more stars exploded, the filthy little room beyond them blurring in and out.

“Please Puddin’,” she sobbed and even as she pressed her thighs together and felt the way her clit tingled, there were real tears in her eyes. “Don’t hurt me.” She swallowed and tasted blood. He would like that.
Above her Joker stilled and she blinked rapidly until her vision came back into focus. He was staring down at her very quietly, one hand fisted in the collar of her pyjama top, a knee pressed hard into the mattress on either side of her waist. Terror, real terror, washed through her like ice water as he stared at her with a quiet, still expression.
He bent over her, leant down into her face, and she flinched back into the pillow.

“Now Harley,” he hissed meanly. “You know it hurts my feelings when you fake it.”

Her heart lurched and she fought against blind panic as he leered at her, all his white teeth bared in the mirthless grin.

“I’m sorry.” She gibbered. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. Not when he was glaring down at her like that.
He grinned again, somewhat placated by her genuine fear, but nowhere near satiated. He wanted her and he blamed her for it, for this betraying need that was so foreign to him. He desired her and she would pay for it.
Those were the thoughts that spun around her head as he hauled her upwards and drove a fist into her stomach and she gave a little whuff of shocked pain and doubled over. Despite herself, despite her joy at being touched by him, despite her need for him, misery began to overwhelm her.
She’d failed him again. Played the game the wrong way. As he gripped one messy ponytail and yanked backwards before driving her forehead into the headboard of the bed, she found herself lost to a barrage of self-recrimination. There were times he wanted her to enjoy herself and times he didn’t. This was one of those latter times. Times he wanted to hurt her, to punish her for making him weak. Not that he was weak, but need made him feel weak and that was unforgivable.

She could have the good grace to endure the pain, instead of savour it.
He’d hit her a couple more times, then pinned her up against the headboard, crushing her between it and his body, and now her wretched, ragged sobs were real. They poured over swollen cheeks, mingled with the blood dribbling from her mouth and he paused to savour them, breathing outwards in a satisfied hiss.

“That’s it, baby,” he said tenderly, his lips brushing her reddened cheek. “You’re so pretty when you cry.”

She was crying not for the pain, but for the failure. She thought he knew it too. He usually perceived such things.
But the pain helped.
“I’m s-s-sorry.” She whined in a high, thin voice and he chuckled against her cheek, it vibrating powerfully through her. His cruel, strong hands groped at her body now, savagely pulling at her small breasts beneath the scratchy cotton of her pyjamas, tugging painfully on her sensitive nipples. His tongue snaked out and lapped at her tears. The tears were scalding on her smarting cheeks; his tongue was warm and soft. Combined with the strange, vibrant pain in the nipple he was twisting, it was horrendously erotic.

Pain and pleasure intermingling, making her quake with desire she was helpless to resist, though she tried. Her pussy ached, begging for attention and a low moan of protestation escaped her mouth. No, no, she couldn’t. She wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t supposed to feel good. He was angry at her. This was her punishment.
It was a mistake thinking in that term. Punishment. It thrilled her, deep within, a glorious chord struck that reverberated down through her loins and up through her heart, making her tremble with need.
Then he was ripping at her pyjamas. The rough fabric resisted, but The Joker was inhumanly strong when the mood took him and it eventually tore with a shriek of protest. Then something glittered, flashed in the dim light of the bedside lamp and she realised it was the knife he’d had in the asylum.

She gasped and held as still as she could, watching with euphoric excitement as he plunged it into the fabric and cut it savagely off her body. The knife nicked her flesh once or twice and she jerked while he growled, and continued tearing. Her breasts were bared to the chill room and then the rending tear of the pyjama bottoms split the night and she was lying before him, exposed and vulnerable.
He paused, panting, staring down at her with teeth bared and eyes frantically flickering over her nude form. She couldn’t stop herself from letting her legs part a little, inviting him despite herself and his lip curled. Then he reared back and slammed down with all his force, sinking the knife into the pillow beside her head. She shrieked as the cruel metal sparkled in the half-light, then stared at the hilt mere inches from her face with a relief that was mingled with terror not quite dissipated.
But then he was fumbling with his own pyjama bottoms and she was distracted by trying to catch a glimpse of him, hard and angrily erect. She didn’t quite remember to be subtle about it; lifting her head from the pillow and staring downwards so that he slammed her head back down by a hand brutally closing around her throat, and snarled at her.
Asphyxiation had too long too often been eroticised for her in the games they’d played and she could not react with resistance, fear or pain enough for him. Instead her eyes shut tight in bliss and her hips bucked up, the hot wetness of her pussy sliding briefly against his cock. His eyes bulged, his rage further piqued by the sensations that caused in his body and he let go her neck to punch her once, twice across the face.
She moaned, ragged and delirious, then coughed and spat blood onto the pillow, her head swimming, sweet blossoms of agony throbbing viciously in a dozen different spots. Above her he grunted, then grabbed her knees and roughly split her legs apart before entering her forcefully to the hilt in one hard thrust.
She had to struggle against orgasming right there and then. The euphoric nerve endings his cock had awoken by brushing against them all shrieked in delirious recognition. Her entire body adored and worshipped him and what he could do for it, how he could awaken and delight it as no one else ever had. How he had taught it to find as much ecstasy in pain as pleasure.
It felt too damned good to have him inside her again. She couldn’t quite focus, her head still lurching drunkenly, but she could feel him. He was so hard and her heart leapt to think of how badly he’d needed this, needed her. It pattered out an ecstatic rhythm to muse over how the pain he’d given her that night had further excited and aroused him. She had done this to him. She. He wanted her. He needed her.
As he began to viciously pound her, mustering all the force he had in his painfully lean but never frail body, she delighted over how much he hated her right then. Because he loved her.
She had done this to him.
His cock slid roughly in and out of her, searing her tender inner walls, jarring her spine. He’d gripped her hips in either hand, lifting her buttocks off the mattress, positioning her so that he could go deeper.
She was delirious, drunk on the sensation of him fucking her. Eight months. Too long without her fix. It was always hardest in the beginning. The absence of him worse than withdrawal. But even though she learnt how to endure it, by the time they reunited she was all too aware the need for him had anything but dissipated. And whenever he had her again, she knew she couldn’t ever live without it.
He bent down to her neck, bit her savagely, and she moaned and yelped, no longer caring if he heard the note of pleasure beneath her pain, no longer even caring that she wasn’t taking her punishment the way she should.

Then he lowered his head to her nipples, snapping them between his teeth, making her cry out and grip his shoulders, digging her nails into the hard flesh and muscle there, unable to move from the way he held her and fucked her.
She felt orgasm begin to mount in her body and bit down hard on her lip, trying to suppress it. Not yet, not yet, she thought frantically.
He was brutal in his fucking, pistoning the full length of himself in and out of her and at the angle he held her, while deeply satisfying at first, it began to hurt. Discomfort, bright and hot, flaring at the core of her, where the head of his cock kept banging.
She bit her lip and whimpered, felt fresh tears spring to her eyes. She wiggled a little, just to reassure herself she couldn’t get away. He abruptly let go of her hips and pinned her down hard by the wrists, growling into her face. Oh yes. She was trapped. She felt orgasm approach again with that assurance and her pussy contracted hard once around his cock.
His eyes narrowed to slits above her and he let go of one wrist to hit her again. Once more she felt blood well between her lips and at sight of it he growled again, louder, hungrier.
He dropped his head; let his nose press into her cheek, murmured against her, a coda to his previous utterance: “And you’re so sexy when you bleed.”
Her pussy contracted again, delicious thrill flickering in her clit. His tongue darted against the corner of her mouth, lapping her blood and she heard a ragged moan rise from her throat. She couldn’t hold back much longer…

“Please, Puddin’,” she whispered and he sneered and chuckled.
Suddenly, he grasped the knife again, pulling it free from the pillow so that a small cloud of stuffing flew up from the hole it had torn. In one fluid motion he drew the blade quickly across her chest, inches below her collar bone. Pain flared, white hot, then dissipated to a sting and she bucked up against him as he continued to pound her, without slowing his pace in the slightest.
It was only a superficial cut, but blood spilled from it rapidly and viscously. She felt it trickle backwards, up towards her shoulders. She gasped and looked downwards, watching her own blood run across her flash. Above her, he let out an excited grunt, eyes shining and euphoric on the fluid. He lifted his free hand and smeared it down over her breasts. The cut stung again as his fingers pressed against it and she moaned and lifted a leg to hook around his back. He responded by fucking her harder still and she let her head loll, relaxing her body utterly and simply giving into whatever he wanted to do to her.
She was in a state of ecstatic bliss, no longer bothering to try and conceal it from him. He didn’t seem to care as he lowered his face to the wound and ran his tongue across it. She yelped and bucked at the pain, a hand flying up to snarl in his hair. She knew what the sight and smell and taste of blood did to him, how it excited and delighted him and she revelled in the knowledge it was her blood he was enjoying.

In a sudden frenzy, he rubbed his face straight into the wound, into her blood, licking and nipping at her, sucking her breasts into his mouth, lapping the blood from them.
He sat up and she gazed at his face, his perfect, beautiful face, covered in her gore, and knew delirium. She couldn’t help the smile that sprang to her face then, nor the hand that lifted to cup his cheek, feeling the delicious thrill of his skin beneath her fingertips even as she continued to rock with the force of his thrusts, as her body tossed between pleasure and pain and both became the other.
His eyes glittered and he grinned slyly back at her, and then lifted the knife again, his crazed eyes rolling downwards to her chest, to the spot between her breasts.
Her heart leapt and she squealed, squeezing his hips with her thighs. Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes.
After eight months without a recutting, the ‘J’ between her breasts had faded to a pale pink scar. Joker’s knife poised just inches above her flesh, jerking dangerously back and forth but he didn’t slow his pace or his force. She thrilled watching the blade descend, held so firmly in his large, thin hand, blinking in joyous anticipation as it hovered, then plunged.
The first cut did not register as anything but bliss. Watching the top stroke of the ‘J’ torn open by the unforgiving blade, combined with the blood-hungry, gleeful smile on her Puddin’s face and the staggering rush of endorphins in response to this much deeper cut was simply too much for her. As the blade descended again to cut out the final stroke, her body was overcome by a violent orgasm.
Pleasure shattered her body, crashing upwards from her loins in brutal shocks, the kind of orgasm that was half-pain it was so intense. Her pussy contracted hard and fast around him, biting down on his cock and holding him deep within her. She bit her lip so hard she split it with the effort to keep her body still and not ruin the cut. As the orgasm invaded every inch of her body, her nerves tingled and broke, spilling tiny waves of euphoria in every direction. She vaguely felt more blood run down her chest, was half-aware her darling had blindly tossed the knife to the side and had buried his face between her breasts, slurping up her blood, distantly realised he’d gripped her hips again and resumed the savage fucking. Every sensation now was just one more element building on her ecstasy and she rocked and revelled in it as her Puddin’, almost unbelievably, sped up even further, lifted his blood-smeared face to hers and kissing her viciously.
She lapped her blood from his face and lips, sucked it off his tongue and then he was stiffening, grunting loudly, biting her hard, his grip on her hips feeling like it might dig through the flesh. She felt him pulse as he emptied himself deep inside her, and sighed in pure contentment.
Sometime later she got up to pee. Her Puddin’s usual good humour had seemed restored after their little play and she was immensely grateful to see him once again cheerful and chipper, finding an old black and white film on the ancient television set to watch, and pulling her close against him to regale her with tales of the mischief he’d been up to in the asylum, making her laughter another ache to add to her impressive collection of the evening. Things just weren’t right if Mistah J wasn’t happy.
After she’d finished and flushed and stood at the basin to wash her hands, she caught sight of herself in the cracked mirror above it. She found herself arrested by the sight, unable to help staring for a moment.
Her left eye was swollen. The right of her face, from the top of her ear to the end of her jaw, was a pattern of blue and purple bruises. Her lip was split and crusted with blood. Her neck had two ugly, raised, vivid black bite marks on it. The cut across her chest was already beginning to scab.
The one between her breasts, the ‘J’ that branded her as His, was proudly red raw, slightly bloody still, deep and angry looking.
She smiled contentedly, her eyes lidded. Oh yeah, she was back with her Puddin’ again.
***

Author’s Note: I hope you all enjoyed that. Please do leave a review, concrit and feedback.

Harley’s not a clueless idiot. She’s a smart girl and a lot more aware of what’s going on than most people think. Joker is also a complex guy, and his stake in the relationship is greater than most people think. I think there is argument there for the relationship being mutually loving (if very reluctantly so on Joker’s end) and for there being a consensual abusive BDSM element to it.
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