Chapter Text
Bruce had always thought that Arkham Asylum was the worst place he had ever had the misfortune to visit while wearing his Batman costume.
Just the smell inside those walls was enough to give him that impression. There was the smell of desperation, the smell of fear. Bruce had never quite decided whether that odor came from the inmates or from the guards watching over them. Probably a mix of both.
For years, therefore, Bruce had been certain that this was the worst place a human being could encounter on their path. But then he had been sent to hell on earth: Arkham City.
The playground of pain run by Hugo Strange and secretly financed by Ra's al Ghul was truly hell brought down to earth. Within its high walls total anarchy reigned, with the Tyger guards more than happy to let the men inside slaughter each other like animals just to gain an extra inch of territory.
Gotham’s worst gangs clashed to penetrate enemy turf: Two-Face’s crew in the courthouse district, Penguin’s based in the Museum, and Joker’s in the industrial zone.
Not to mention the lone operators. If you weren’t careful where you stepped, you risked a bullet from Lawton (better known as Deadshot) in the skull, your skin carved up by Zsasz, or ending up as one of Crane’s—the Scarecrow’s—lab rats.
Even after Strange’s death and the defeat of the worst bosses, with Joker dead, Penguin locked in a display case, and Dent knocked out by Selina, things unfortunately hadn’t changed all that much.
So it was no surprise that Bruce was anything but happy to be back there. Only a few weeks had passed since he left the theater and then the prison carrying Joker’s body in his arms, yet it might as well have been just a few hours.
Maybe it was grief that made him feel this way. He wasn’t grieving for the Joker, obviously, nor entirely for Talia. He was grieving for himself.
It was as if a part of him had died that night—a part that went far beyond what happened in that theater. How many innocent men, placed there only because they dared to contradict Strange or because they knew too much about the truth behind the former Arkham psychiatrist, had died that night? How much blood stained the hands of the world’s greatest detective?
So much that Bruce couldn’t even count it anymore. That was the truth. And it was depressing—truly depressing. The guilt… the guilt was his, and there was nothing he could do to change it.
But of course, that still didn’t explain why he was back in that godforsaken place—if a God even existed somewhere up in the heavens. Bruce had become an atheist right there in Monarch Theater, on a night when that neighborhood looked very different from how it did now—walled off by towering, impenetrable barriers—when a simple crook looking for quick cash had left an eight-year-old boy an orphan right before his eyes.
His faith had died that day, and from its ashes, like a dark and unquenchable phoenix, Batman had been born—the cowled knight who would haunt the dreams of men and women who wished to harm the innocent.
Bruce was back in Arkham because of one of the few truly dangerous people who had once populated it and was still inside those walls: the widow of his greatest enemy, Harley Quinn.
The partner-in-crime of Gotham’s most dangerous clown always left a bitter taste in Bruce’s mouth. Every time he looked at her, he remembered the woman who treated the maximum-security prisoners at Blackgate and how, one Christmas Eve, she had been assigned the one prisoner she should never have been allowed near.
That was the beginning of the process that turned Dr. Harleen Quinzel into the fearsome criminal known as Harley Quinn—a process that was completed the moment the Joker was assigned to her again as a patient, this time at Arkham Asylum.
And now, the already dangerous Harley Quinn was no longer just a formidable woman, but also a grieving widow (even though she and Joker had never actually married), seemingly prepared to do anything to get her revenge.
Bruce allowed himself a regretful sigh beneath the cowl as he gazed at the familiar silhouette of the Sionis Steel Mill. Despite the death of her partner, Quinn hadn’t abandoned the operational base she and Joker had established in Arkham City. Now she commanded the forces that had once been loyal to him.
Bruce’s goal was to stop the plans of the psychotic blonde, rescue the agents she had captured and was holding hostage, and finally put an end to the nightmare that this damned prison-city had become.
The words of Alfred, Tim, and Jim echoed in his head: “It’s a trap.” Bruce was fully aware of it, but what else could he do? He couldn’t hide and let honest, innocent officers die just because he was avoiding Quinzel.
Sometimes doubts gnawed at him, making him wonder if he was doing the right thing, if his way of operating—alone, never relying too much on anyone, never letting anyone fight for him—was truly the best choice. But then he would look in the mirror, see the scars on his own body, and realize that his actions had kept those same scars off Tim’s or Dick’s bodies, and a sense of peace would settle over him.
That was the fate of the cowled crusader. There was nothing else to be done.
---
“Rise and shine, Bats.” The female voice snapped him out of his sleep, bringing his senses back as a bucket of ice-cold water hit his face, fully banishing any trace of drowsiness from his eyes.
It took him a few moments to remember who he was and where he was. That damned place never stopped hitting him where it hurt and getting him into trouble.
Standing in front of him, of course, was the target of his visit: Harley Quinn, wearing the same red-and-black outfit she had on the last time he saw her—tears in her eyes, horrified, carrying her partner’s body out of the theater in her arms.
Unlike last time, however, the blonde now had red-rimmed eyes from crying and enormous bags underneath them that even her makeup couldn’t hide.
“She wants people to see them,” Bruce realized. “She wants everyone to know she’s a grieving woman.” He assessed the situation he was in. He was on a bed, arms and legs tied to the headboard. His costume was gone; the only thing left was the cowl. For some reason, Harley hadn’t removed it.
“Harley,” Bruce finally said, his tone light, as if they were old friends meeting at a bar for a drink rather than two enemies bound only by violence and blood.
“Heya Bats, long time no see, huh?” she asked with her classic manic grin—though this time, unlike all the others, it didn’t reach her icy blue eyes that stared at him coldly, almost frozen.
Bruce didn’t answer her rhetorical question. Instead he tried to better understand where he was. It was clearly the Steel Mill, no doubt about that, but he hadn’t seen this particular room during his repeated visits a few weeks earlier.
“You’re no fun, you know that?” Harley said, taking a step closer. “A lady asks you a question and instead of answering you start looking for escape routes? That’s really rude.”
“What do you want from me, Harleen?” Bruce asked, strangely neither scared nor uncomfortable despite his current helplessness. The cowled crusader had long ago stopped feeling fear in situations like this. It came with experience, probably.
“We’re on a first-name basis now, Bats? How sweet,” Harley replied, dodging his question, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Afraid I can’t return the favor. I don’t know your real name,” she added, crossing her arms over her prominent chest.
“You could have found out if you wanted to,” Bruce pointed out. “You had me completely at your mercy. All you had to do was take off the cowl.”
“Mister J was right,” she explained, reading the question in his mind. “I don’t care who you are anymore. I’d rather think a monster with bat ears killed my puddin’ than find out who the person really was that took the man of my life away from me.” Her voice cracked on the last words.
If it had been any other woman, Bruce might have felt pity for her. And to his own surprise… he actually did feel a little. Not much, considering who the man she was mourning was, but enough to surprise even himself.
“Anyway, you still haven’t answered my question,” Bruce pointed out, drawing the ex-Arkham and Blackgate psychiatrist’s eyes back to him. “If you wanted to kill me, you’ve had plenty of time. So clearly you want something else… What do you want, Harleen?”
“Always the detective, huh Bats? Ever thought about studying psychology? You’d have gone far, I’ll give you that,” Harley said before letting out a joyless laugh. “Though honestly you’re more likely to end up sharing a cell with us in Arkham, considering you’re clearly not right in the head if you run around dressed as a bat every night.”
Bruce ignored the insult—he’d heard it plenty of times from her late ex-boyfriend—and simply kept staring at her in silence.
“Do you know what you took from me, Bats? Do you know about the crime you committed against me—one far worse than anything I’ve ever done?” Every trace of playfulness vanished from Harley instantly, replaced by cold, hard rage directed at him.
“Joker basically committed suicide,” Bruce said then, his voice low as he told the truth about what happened in the theater for the first time since it occurred. “I had the cure in my hand and he stabbed me, making me drop it… He died laughing.”
Lifting his gaze to the blonde again, he saw her staring at him with watery eyes, cheeks even paler than usual—and this time Bruce was certain her daily makeup wasn’t the cause.
“It doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter,” Harley said, shaking her head rapidly as if trying to erase the effect his words had on her. “I’m not talking about Mister J,” she continued in a trembling voice, placing a hand on her stomach.
It didn’t take a genius to understand what that gesture meant, and for the first time that night Bruce felt genuinely heartbroken.
“I was pregnant, Bats,” Harley whispered, her voice barely audible despite the silence in the room. “A beautiful baby boy… or maybe a little princess… was growing inside me… and you tore it away from me.”
Rarely had Bruce felt so awful as he did in that moment. Perhaps only when Talia fell backward into his arms asking forgiveness for not seeing the Joker’s plan sooner, or when he knelt in what was now called Crime Alley, his mother’s pearls digging into his knees as he looked up at the sky asking silent gods for answers.
“Maybe it was the grief, maybe it was when you slammed me against the church wall—I don’t know. All I know is that the test was positive before… and then… then it wasn’t anymore,” Harley continued, unaware of the storm she had unleashed inside him.
“I’m sorry, Harleen. I’m truly sorry,” he said then, his voice a whisper as well, unable to speak any louder because of the sorrow weighing on him.
“I’m sure you are,” Harley replied with dry, painful irony. “But the truth is it doesn’t matter how you feel—at least not to me… I didn’t bring you here for revenge. No. I brought you here to make you pay compensation.”
The blonde’s words stunned him, leaving him speechless for a few moments while she went on explaining.
“You tore a child from me. You took a baby from my womb because of your actions,” she stated the obvious. “And it’s only fair that, just as you took one away, you give me another. You’re going to get me pregnant, Bats. You’re going to do it right here, right now, to make up for your crime.”
Bruce realized he was in even deeper trouble than he’d thought until that moment. And there was no alternative.
---
In any other moment of her life, Harley might have felt extremely proud of herself: she had managed to surprise the great Batman. And all after catching him off guard and capturing him—something even Joker, in his most glorious moments, hadn’t been able to do easily. It wasn’t a small feat, and the blonde was perfectly aware of it.
Yet, for the first time in her life, Harley struggled to find anything to laugh about in that moment. Mister J had taught her that there was always something to laugh at, that no moment was too serious for a good cackle, and yet right now Harley just couldn’t do it.
She felt as though she were betraying her beloved puddin’s teachings by behaving this way, but the only emotions ruling Harley in that instant were rage and pain. Rage for J’s death, but above all rage for the child who had never been born—another soul lost in the hell that was Arkham City.
If she could, Harley would have taken her revenge on the three men she held responsible: Quincy Sharp, the damned former director of the Asylum and short-lived mayor before that night took everything from her; Hugo Strange; and Batman himself.
The first two were out of reach. Sharp had been thrown into a cell—ironic, considering how he had done the same to them—and Strange was nothing but ashes in the wind, disintegrated, much to Harley’s satisfaction.
But Batman? Oh, Batman was very much within her grasp. You see, no matter how fearsome the cowled crusader might be, he was also… well, predictable. Extremely predictable. Harley had learned that by watching Mister J in action.
Whenever the Clown Prince of Crime had needed to lure him somewhere, he had always used hostages. Grab a civilian, a doctor, a cop, whatever—chain them up, let Batman know where they are, and boom, here comes the cape and cowl on schedule.
Knocking him out had actually been easier than expected too. As smart as he was, Batman could be incredibly dramatic when he wanted to be. He simply couldn’t resist throwing himself in front of a bullet aimed at one of the captured agents. All it took was loading the round with enough sedative to put a bear to sleep, and voilà—Batman was hers.
“You can’t be serious,” Bats asked in that frustratingly serious voice of his, looking at her with an expression she assumed was meant to be unreadable. Hard to tell with the cowl still on.
“I haven’t been this serious since I worked at the Asylum,” Harley answered with absolute certainty. It was true, of course. Normally it was all jokes, pranks, and smiles—things she’d learned from Mister J—but right now she was more serious than she had ever been.
“I don’t care whether you agree or not, Bats,” she said, bringing her delicate fingers—nails painted alternating black and red—toward the Gotham superhero’s boxers. “You owe me,” she growled those last words, teeth gritted from the storm of emotions inside her.
And then she yanked the boxers down, sliding them along Batman’s muscular legs. And in front of her… in front of her was the biggest cock she had ever seen.
Not that she had seen many, to be honest. She’d had a few one-night stands back when she was still Dr. Harleen Quinzel, and then there was Joker’s. Mister J was… well, not exactly asexual, but he usually wasn’t very interested in sex. They only did it as a sort of reward after a plan went perfectly.
Harley had gotten pregnant when Joker rewarded her for the great job she did kidnapping Nora Fries and forcing Mr. Freeze to work for them in search of a cure for the illness eating away at her beloved clown.
But even then—and it pained her to admit it—Joker’s cock seemed tiny compared to the sheer majesty of the Dark Knight’s.
“What’s wrong?” Batman asked, noticing her stunned expression. “Not so eager to play with the big boys’ toys anymore?” There was the faintest hint of a smirk on his face.
Batman had just made a joke? Okay, the apocalypse was definitely coming, Harley was sure of it now. Instinctively, the blonde felt the urge to shut him up—both verbally and physically—and decided to go with the latter. She parted her pitch-black lips (thanks to the lipstick she’d chosen) and took Batman’s cock into her mouth.
“Hmm, fuck,” Batman groaned almost instinctively. The sound of his teeth grinding from the sensation made her smile for the first time that night. Even the Dark Knight couldn’t escape the pleasure Harley could give a lover.
“I’m more than capable of playing with the big boys’ toys, just so you know, Bats,” she said with a provocative grin, every thought of grief momentarily banished now that the challenge stood right in front of her. “And I’m about to take care of this big cock the way it deserves, trust me.”
With those words, Harley went back to licking and sucking the pillar of flesh as if it were an ice cream cone. It was simply insane how good it felt to suck Batman’s cock, of all people.
She could feel its size filling her mouth, the way it throbbed and stiffened, growing even bigger thanks to her efforts. Was this why certain women—like that cat slut or the crazy ninja—couldn’t keep their legs closed around Batman? Well, Harley could definitely understand them now.
Licking and sucking, Harley slipped into an alternate dimension—one where there was no Arkham City, no beloved dead, no revenge to take. There was only the huge cock in her mouth and the full balls swinging beneath it.
And Harley Quinn was many things, but a bad lover was not one of them. She turned it into a challenge: how many moans could she draw from the usually stoic superhero? And she succeeded beautifully, much to her satisfaction.
The same grunts she normally heard from him in combat—when he was raining punches down on her and her men—were now tied to the pleasure her mouth was giving him. And that was more than enough to set Harley’s senses and passion ablaze in a way they hadn’t been in weeks.
Judging by the way his body soon stiffened, Batman hadn’t taken very good care of himself lately either. In no time at all, the Dark Knight’s cock began to pulse, racing toward what promised to be a massive orgasm.
Needless to say, Harley took immense pleasure in denying it to him. She stopped just a second before the contents of the Dark Knight’s swollen balls could spill into her warm mouth and straight down her throat.
“Ah-ah, Bats,” she scolded with a growing smirk, more and more like the classic Harley Quinn. “Your cum is way too precious for that. It belongs in one hole only… and it’s not my mouth.”
With those words, Harley slid her pants and stockings down her slender, creamy legs, freeing her soaking wet pussy to the cold air of the Sionis Steel Mill.
And with one sharp movement, she took Batman’s cock inside her tight cunt, with only one thought in her mind: it was time to get herself a baby.
---
Batman had never been in such trouble before. Not because he was tied up, obviously—no… the trouble was moral. Yes, because no matter how conceptually wrong what was happening was, a part of Bruce was more than tempted to just let go, to let Harley do whatever she wanted.
Maybe it was the guilt that made him think this way. Or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t had any female company since well before the disaster known as Arkham City began looming on the horizon. And yet here he was, trying his best not to come while the tight pussy of one of Gotham City’s most dangerous women clenched around him frantically, trying to milk the seed from his throbbing balls.
Being Batman was really hard sometimes. Over the years he had several times wanted to… abandon everything he believed in and be selfish, just once. He had done it a few times during his superhero career.
He had done it after Bane discovered his identity and nearly killed Alfred. He had done it after Jason’s death—a fact that still emotionally tormented him. And he was doing it now, with Harley Quinn’s pussy bouncing on his cock.
After everything that had happened in that damned place, after all the blood that had ended up on his hands, Bruce felt he deserved at least a little healthy selfishness, just this once. And his inner rebellion manifested itself through his acceptance of what was happening, allowing Harley Quinn to fuck him as if he were nothing more than a flesh dildo and a breeding stallion at the same time.
“Fuck, you’re so big,” Harley moaned, her tongue lolling out of her mouth in an expression of pure pleasure and satisfaction. “So much bigger than… Mister J.”
Bruce shuddered at the blonde’s words. The last thing he wanted was to learn about the sexual habits of the late Clown Prince of Crime. At the very least, he got off watching other people scream in pain and be tortured.
“If I had known earlier I would have kept you all to myself in the Steel Mill, fucking you over and over again… Who cares about running a criminal empire when you can have a cock like this destroying your pussy?” Harley asked rhetorically, panting breaths and moans continuing to spill from her lips.
With every bounce on his cock, with every collision of their hips, with every wet sound of his shaft inside her cunt, Harley seemed to progressively slip back into her usual version of herself—the crazy one, always ready with a quip and certainly not grieving. It was almost as if he had fucked the grief right out of her body, as bizarre as that sounded.
“Fuck, Bats, I… I’m gonna come,” she warned, her bounces becoming erratic from the pleasure and probably also from the burning in her thigh muscles. “Please, Bats, fill me with your hot, virile cum, make me a mother like I was always meant to be.”
And Bruce had always been far too weak when a woman in need asked for help—especially when that help was well within his reach, ridiculously easy for someone like him to give.
He surged upward, snapping the ropes that bound him as if they were mere decorations on his arms and legs. Bruce rose, taking the blonde woman with him, and wrapped one hand around her throat.
“As you wish, Harleen,” he said in a low voice, beginning to fuck her with everything he had to give while her eyes lit up in a mixture of alarm and excitement as she realized just how easily Bruce had turned the tables.
If the sex before had been incredibly stimulating for both of them, nothing could compare to what was happening now. Bruce didn’t concern himself in the slightest with the blonde’s well-being. He didn’t love her and certainly had no intention of holding back.
Instead, he fucked her at maximum speed, making her body shake with the power of his thrusts. Her moans turned into screams of ecstasy, which were pure music to his ears.
“Did you really think it would be that easy to keep me trapped? Did you think it would be that easy to submit me?” he whispered in her ear in that low tone that, when he wasn’t wearing the mask, made the panties of dozens upon dozens of Gotham’s high-society women wet.
“Come for me, Harleen,” he ordered, using the same tone he used when telling criminals to surrender. Which was more or less what he was doing right now—only instead of asking Harley to surrender to the police, he was asking her to surrender to his cock.
And Harley happily obeyed his command. With a high-pitched scream—the same type of scream he had heard from her many times before, only angry rather than aroused—Harley Quinn, formerly known as Harleen Quinzel, came hard around Batman’s cock.
And when she fulfilled his request, coming like the good submissive she was, Bruce fulfilled hers in return. With a low, hoarse, deep groan that said more than a thousand words, Bruce released all the stress that had built up inside him over the past weeks.
And for the first time since he had set foot in Arkham City—dragged there by Tyger guards—Bruce allowed himself a sigh of relief as he filled the blonde’s pussy.
Life was really strange.
---
“I was starting to get worried,” Jim Gordon said with a sigh of relief when he saw him emerge from the gates of Arkham City for the second time in just a few weeks. Bruce acknowledged the commissioner’s feeling with a respectful nod before raising his eyes to the man standing next to Gordon.
“Robin, everything under control,” he greeted without emotion, not wanting to show how much the presence of his adoptive son affected him. Evidently, after twenty-four hours without any response, Alfred had decided to send him to Arkham City. Thank God he hadn’t been forced to enter that hell himself.
“Good, Batman,” Tim replied, stepping closer and glancing at the woman tied up beside him. “She seems… tame. At least by her standards,” he noted, raising an eyebrow.
Bruce didn’t answer Tim’s implicit question, knowing full well he had no plausible response to give. “She’s tame because I just fucked her brains out” was not an acceptable answer.
“She’s all yours, Jim,” he said instead, turning to Gordon before turning his back and preparing to head toward the Batwing waiting not far away to take him home.
“Bats.” Harley’s faint voice stopped him in his tracks, making him turn toward her. She was looking at him with wide, confused eyes. “If you could free yourself the whole time, why didn’t you? Why did you let me take what I wanted?”
Harley’s question was legitimate, but once again Bruce didn’t answer. Instead he walked toward the Batwing, with Robin at his side staring at him with evident confusion and curiosity written all over his face.
The truth was that even in this case, Bruce had nothing to say. And maybe, the next time he saw her, he would have found an answer to the blonde’s question.
Who knows.