Harley Quinn and the Joker definitely have a sick relationship and I wanted to explore the idea of her staying in it as a form of masochism/self harm in a super quick drabble ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ this probably shouldn't exist tbh
PLEASE NOTE: This isn't condoning abusive relationships/violence against women and I hope it isn't interpreted that way. This story is coming from the perspective of an unreliable narrator, so please keep that in mind.
WARNINGS: Implied sexual violence, domestic abuse, sexual content, yadda yadda.
Harley loved being bruised.
She catalogued the marks, lying on still-damp sheets in an otherwise empty bed, her fingers playing over stained skin. She caressed them all. The black marks on her skinny knees; the orchid fingerprints on her hips, her wrists. Eyes closed, she traced the swollen shadow of her orbital socket, hissing pleasurably against the hot pulse of pain. She stretched her arms out far past her head, relishing in the soreness of muscles long clenched, the gaseous popping of stiff joints. She rolled over, rested her chin on a fingernail-ravaged palm, the bloody crescents smearing scarlet on her sharp jaw.
Her gaze set on the figure hunched over the desk in the corner of the room, his pale skin unmarked but for the raised crimson claw marks running down his back.
Harley cleared her throat, a smirk embedded in the sound.
She wanted him to turn around and actually see her, just this once. Her, his battered but unbreakable queen, still thriving in the wake of his defilement. In the beginning he never thought she would last; now she lived to prove him wrong.
He glanced over his shoulder. She held his gaze.
"Ready for another round, Mista J?"
He stood, padded across the soiled carpet to their bed. Harley sunk back into the sheets, put her watercolor skin on full display. He touched her lip, bloodied and split by his own sharp teeth.
He did not feel remorse.
"Anything to make you happy, Harls."
They resumed. Battled. Bled.
Harley finally came when the Joker wrapped his hands around her throat and she pictured the livid indigo marks forming beneath his fingers.
She loved being bruised.