Hematolagnia
This will be a series of Joker/Harley scenes, tracing from their sessions in Arkham to later escapades. I've noticed that a lot of the fics out there are from Harley's POV, and since I wanted to try my hand at this universe/ship, I thought I'd take the plunge even further and write from the Joker's perspective.
Each chapter will be pretty short, with just a few scenes, although they'll probably get longer as the story progresses. I'm going to try to keep the progression of each scene easy to follow, but they're somewhat abstract.
In closing: this will eventually be rated M, although I'm keeping it T for now. Look up what the title means on Wikipedia. If you don't think you can handle this story, then let your search turn elsewhere.
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That's what she calls it. And it's not even in the dictionary. I tell her she can't make up words, can't come up with these false psychological disorders that don't mean a damn thing.
"I'm not making it up. And anyway, you should trust me when it comes to…"
She trails off, but I know what she's thinking. Psychological disorders. I always know what she's thinking. I can tell she's just trying spare me, trying to be sweet, that sickly sweet that makes me want to snap her thin little neck between my fingers.
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She says it again, a few days later, and this time I can hear blood dripping off of each syllable. It rolls around my tongue like I wish her fingers would. I taste copper and salt, copper and heat, copper and cyanide. It tastes like her, like I imagine you and your sweat and your tears, Harley, and suddenly I want to spit it out.
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She watches me with those dark eyes. Her apprehension is almost palpable, and I want to twist myself around it and breathe it in. She's just like her wrists—God, I hate them—all cream and sensuality, weak to the core. Thin as the paper she makes little notes on. Are you writing love notes today? Are you pretending to take interest in 'how the patient responds to questions about his past'?
I realize I've been watching her, too, and she's not leaning forward in her chair anymore. Harley watches me, beautiful, damned Harley, why won't you let me call you Harley?
I can't decide what I want to force into her mouth, my tongue or my knife. I grin, feel withered skin cracking along old scars, and I run my tongue across my lips. Your eyes are back on me now, aren't they?
"Don't fucking look at me like that."
They're the first words I've spoken to her today, and I know they'll be the last. She doesn't deserve the answers she wants so desperately, not when she's staring at me like that. You'll beg before I tell you anything, and you'll let me call you Harley.
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She keeps bringing up that same word, the one that tastes like copper. This time she tells me what it means.
"Are you calling me a vampire?"
"I didn't say drinking."
I just want to see you bleed. I want to see a little red on that icy skin, see it trickle down her cheek and—
I'm speaking out loud, I realize, and her eyes are wide with fear. But there's something else there, a glimmer behind the veil. She wants to know what it would feel like. I taste copper again, I taste her again.
"Tell me you want me, Harley."
She's calm, as always. The only one who ever is. "That's not my name. Don't say inappropriate things like that, or I won't help you." But she's trying not to smile.
I can't hide my smile.
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Mydnyte Houre Strikes Again.