The Joker Diaries

A series of glimpses into the life of Joker, before and after he met Harley Quinn. Suicide Squad-verse. Based on Jared Leto's portrayal. Joker x Harley/Harleen. Joker-centric. Many thanks to user Cvioleta for your transcription help!
Warning: Contains explicit descriptions of violence, smut and gore.

1. Nothing To Lose

"A cornucopia of opiates have flooded my head
I am insane, I am smart
All it takes is a spark to ignite my bad intentions
And do what I do best to your heart"
Raised by Wolves - Falling in Reverse

He was awake again. Sleep was tricking him, running away in front of his eyes every time he thought he would finally grasp it. He wanted to squeeze it in his hands until it gave up and took him away. Cold streams of sweat ran down his rigid body. He was sitting up with his arms between his knees, clenching his fists and grinding his teeth. A metallic grating sound floated out in the room, like rubbing two metal spoons together.

Harley always slept like a kitten at night when she thought he was asleep, completely unfazed. It only made him more frustrated that she was unaware of his agony at a time like this.

He wanted to roughly shake her awake, but couldn't find the energy to. She had a stupid dreamy smile on her face, her body curled up around one pillow the same way she usually latched onto him, as if she wanted to choke him out of love. I should give her a new smile. His muscles, tense as rubber bands about to snap, jerked at the sudden impulse before it drifted away.

He toyed with his favorite knife, feeling it sit in his tight grip as if it was a part of him. He let it run in patterns across his skin, dipping the tip against his scars, until tiny red drops appeared, crimson against chalk white. He closed his eyes in complete satisfaction. His knife danced faster with every stirring thought that blasted through his mind on maximum volume. Like cutting the shadows away if they dared to come too close, he stabbed them one by one.

A wide, grinning, red mouth in his mind. Where is your smile now, pretty boy?

He jerked forward so violently the knife all but tore right through his radial artery.

His muscles were aching but he couldn't separate his jaws enough to take a proper breath. Running empty on alcohol, he couldn't focus. Blinding images started to pile up at the horizon, invading him.

His life consisted of loose pieces; no consistency, no red thread that kept it nicely together. No beginning and no end. Like a playing deck, every single card represented one event, one person, in one way. Red cards for spilled blood and Harley, black cards for a kill. He was the Joker, the Jack and the King one day at a time.

Every separate piece made him who he was, when pieced together. They buzzed through his brain at a million miles per hour, a broken record going on and on and playing the most unbearable songs and he wanted to smash it.

One memory returned with the force of a derailed train: that certain night.

.

The body was hanging upside down, the feet tightly bound together with a rope that was attached to the ceiling. One clean cut at the throat from ear to ear had left the man bleeding out like a pig at the slaughterhouse, ready for dismembering. The blood had collected in a puddle on the concrete floor underneath his head. It was thick and drying up already, spreading across the warehouse, but the Joker was annoyed. His new boots had soaked up the fluid. Hell, those shoes weren't cheap!

He had tried to cheer himself up by cutting up the man's face, too, giving him a splendid Glasgow grin, but that didn't help much. It was an unusually boring kill.

Humans needed to fill the black void that they all felt inside of themselves, with drugs, alcohol, sex, food, or violence. Despite not feeling human, knowing he was just an idea and a horrifying rumor at this point, Joker was no different. He had tried everything.

The cocaine was his favorite, but it wasn't quite enough. He didn't mind the murderous mania it brought him – nothing was funnier than dressing up like a mixture of a Bat and a Penguin and shooting into crowds - but he wanted to feel like himself at all times. The blow brought him off track.

Sex was another unsatisfying pastime. He had tried with different women; the expensive ones that were hard to find and some cheap ones, just like the other mob bosses who imported young girls for themselves. When his cock was in a warm, inviting mouth, he physically felt great, but inside he felt nothing. The flashing of their fake eyelashes or their big doe eyes as they performed fellatio just frustrated him. Several times he had reached for his gun instead, it was time for him to give them head. One head less.

Some of them managed to get him to cum and when he pushed them away and saw his cum running down their chins, he was bored. He never actively sought the physical release. It was just a way to pass the time while waiting for something bigger to happen, something funny and something worthwhile.

Even his unusual killjoy had left him today; he couldn't be bothered to enjoy this. He needed to do something different, something that would set him apart from the rest of the thugs. So that no one would ever fail to recognize him.

"Boss?" Jonny Frost asked and brought him out of his thoughts. He was the newest dog Joker had picked up from the street, always ready to prove his worth and loyalty. He had proven to have a brain, and that was all that mattered.

"People are coming," Jonny informed him, one hand beneath his suit as his eyes anxiously checked the doors. "What are we gonna do?"

Joker opened his arms wide with a grin as he stepped toward the main exit. He took his time, skipping every so often.

"Let them come," he said. "It's time to rock the boat."

Giggling to himself, he stepped out into the night, with his guns firmly placed in their holsters and his knives in his pockets. He had better things to do than to play tag with the little mob bosses. Gotham was his. He was the executioner, the emperor, he was death and he was the world. The only one worthy of his attention was the Batman, because everyone else were simply so boring.

In the end, when all else failed to distract him, there was only one thing worthwhile, and that was spelled c-h-a-o-s. Overturned cars, sirens in the distance, people screaming and running for their lives, not knowing where he would strike next, and everyone cowering in fear. The imprint of a bullet in a skull.

It always put a smile on his face.

.

That night turned out to be his last, as if fate had decided to finally grant his wish. ACE Chemicals had been the nearest place to run to when Batman struck and the police closed off the streets. A planned raid, hmm, Commissioner Gordon was getting some brain cells. Finally.

ACE was a place that Joker knew well. It was almost too easy to break in undetected and climb to a safe place.

He knew that he was immortal, there was nothing that could ever bring him down. But if they caught him, and it had been a close call tonight, his empire would fall and he would have to start over again. He had seen it happen many times. Running from a fistfight with the Bat was harder than he had expected. Joker had faithfully been trying to push him, to break his rule, but still he refused.

Batsy was hovering somewhere in the tall ceiling, looking for him, waiting to bring him into a cell and force him to face himself. It couldn't end like this.

A plan formed in his head as he hid on a platform above the churning liquid. He had been there many times, just watching the chemicals move like a hellish brew.

Nothing mattered anyway.

With this thought, he dove into the chemicals.

His plan had been to stay there, holding his breath, until Batman left. But the sensation that hit him was soft, inviting. He opened his mouth and eyes, letting the acid flow into him, swallowing him up whole. Green and yellow bubbles dancing around him, heat on his skin, a complete breathless feeling. He sank deeper, feeling something loosen from his body – pieces of fabric falling away into the depths.

It was the most exhilarating thing he had ever felt. Floating bare-naked as every cell of his body soaked in chemicals.

He could stay there forever, but his lungs started screaming. He brought himself to the surface, it was shallow enough to stand.

The first breath scorched his lungs and mouth. He spat and he vomited, but he felt more weightless than ever before. His skin was corroded, bleached sickly yellow-white, his nails broken and bleeding. His scalp and eyes burned. A bubbling sound was rising from his chest, deep and shrill, hysterical laughter spilling out.

Everything in him had drowned; the memories had been corroded away from his mind, images bleaching into nothing.

He was free.

.

Another memory hit him like a shallow wave, of a certain event one year later.

It was hilariously rainy that day. Mud flowed in rivers down the street and soaked his pants as Batman pushed him down into the ground. Joker was grinning wildly, despite being manhandled so roughly by the vigilante. He was always eager to play, and Batsy didn't disappoint.

He didn't put up much resistance, pretending to be unusually docile. He didn't have the luxury of a mask keeping his sight clear, nor a glorified wetsuit protecting him.

He had not planned for it to end up this way, with his men scattered and running away like scared little dogs, but how could he complain? The heist had gone wrong, but in fact he was enjoying it: to be all alone with the Bat, before the GCPD could interfere and ruin all the fun.

Despite the pouring rain and his hair falling into his eyes, he saw the expression in the Bat's intense little eyes. He was furious, and it made Joker so much more delirious. The vigilante seemed content just pressing him down into the mud and snarling. Whatever floated his boat.

"Give up. You're on your own," the rodent hissed.

"Can't really trust anyone around here," Joker agreed, grinning and flashing his teeth. "A little bird told me you're feeling alone lately. Maybe you should start hiring!"

Batsy stared at him, stone-faced like usual. Joker decided to help him out.

"What was his name again? Robert?" He cackled.

The first punch hit him square in the face and sent him down onto the ground again. Joker coughed and sat up. He had hit a tender spot, indeed, and this was going to be fun.

"You think you're getting away with that?" Batman snarled, leaning over him, spit from his words landing on his face.

"No, not at all," Joker smiled. "I'll happily take credit!"

The second blow came right across his mouth and he felt it all the way into his teeth. Joker started cackling wildly as he heard the police sirens in the distance, approaching fast, and he knew they wouldn't have much time left alone.

"Who needs a bird anyway?" he gasped, hardly aware of the pain spreading on the inside of his gums. "Bye-bye, Robin!"

With a roar, Batman jumped on top of him and pressed him back down into the mud. His large clothed fist hit Joker's face again and again, each strike more forceful than the last. Joker felt the metallic taste of blood in his mouth, filling it up and constricting his breathing. Still, it couldn't keep him from laughing.

Every time he giggled, Batsy seemed to get even more furious. His punches got harder and Joker saw stars. All he felt was wet rain, hot blood and Batsy's weight on him, pushing his back into the mud like an aggressive bull trying to mate.

"Come on!" Joker gasped, spitting the blood onto his mask. "I can take it!"

The police sirens broke through the ringing in his ears. He heard the screeching of tires, doors being forcefully shut, but Batman wouldn't stop. The police officers shouted at them.

Joker enjoyed the pain. It was heavenly, it was funny. It was so nice in this downpour, cold against his cold skin, and the weight of the overgrown rodent on top of him. It was hilarious, and he let him know that, almost choking on his laughter as the blood gushed down his throat. Something bony was left on his tongue, something sharp and hard, after another punch made his jaws collide.

Who knew he would have hit such a tender nerve? Killing the little birdie boy had just been one of many games. The little thing had been so weak, so easy to kill it wasn't even funny, just a regular flex of his muscles. Robin had put up almost no resistance at all, as if he hadn't learned anything from his mentor. The Bat was anything but easy, and that made him so much more interesting to be with. Like a tough and chewy beef Joker liked to tear apart with his teeth, piece by piece, something he had to work on.

Yes, Robin had been too easy. A strike with a crowbar and out went his life, just like that, before Joker even had time to savor all his death throes and all his little squeaks as life drained from him.

Swift kills were such anti-climaxes. He had left a bloody mess behind; a message to the Bat to find. A present, a gift if you may, to remind him.

And now this game of cat and mouse was coming to an end, as he was surrounded by the police and their drawn weapons, screaming at Batman to get off. He was caught like a fly deep down in the honey.

Finally, Batsy decided to stop trying to crush him with his weight. He jerked him upright and held him firmly with his arms twisted behind his back, almost breaking them in his forceful hold.

The Joker smiled, with blood dripping out of his mouth, spitting out two pieces of broken molars and the rest of his broken teeth on the ground.

He had made Batsy fall a little more down, and victory tasted better than fresh blood.

"What are you going to do?" he taunted. "Give me a free trip to Blackgate? Another paid vacation?"

"No," Batman growled. "You're going to Arkham."

.

.

The braces were uncomfortable, pressing onto his broken, swollen lips. It was a cheap, quick job, made by hospital personnel who would rather have liked to pull his remaining teeth out with a pair of pliers, even if they didn't get paid for it.

A large part of his body was covered with bleeding bruises, and his overexerted muscles ached every time he moved. It didn't particularly bother him. He rested on a small, hard bed in a windowless room. Bare walls and floors and a bed bolted to the wall – it was the standard for GCPD custody.

They wouldn't keep him there for much longer, but until then he would make sure the officer on duty got a single ticket to the emergency psychiatric ward. Normally that would be enough to keep his mood bright, but something else irritated him.

He was constantly distracted by his tongue, running over his bare gums in some places where new teeth would never reappear.

His beautiful teeth. His pride. His smile. The shark grin or wolfish smile that he could scare anyone with, make them cower in fear. What was he without it? It had been his signature, and Batsy had taken it all away from him. It filled him with a creeping uneasiness.

A tooth for a tooth. The irony in the whole thing was laughable.

But he was a man with a plan. Bored out of his mind and waiting for his official trial, he had acquired a pen with black ink.

He would soon be shipped off to Arkham and spend an undetermined time locked away in a straitjacket, until some of his goons would manage to get him out. And they would, sooner or later.

He could count on Jonny, but the henchman needed to assemble new people first. That could take time, because most of his henchmen were idiots, no-brainers, and they needed somebody with intact brain cells, like Jonny Frost to lead them. He had already found out that most his previous crew had been picked up by the police the night before.

With his pen in hand, he started tracing his skin. He needed to show the world what he was, and what he wasn't. He needed a new smile.

Using the needle he had stolen at the hospital, he let it dip under the skin and welcomed the ink.

.

.

Harley stirred in bed, woken up by his violent movement. He felt her small hands creeping up his back and shoulders. A part of him wanted to shove her away, right off the bed, but found no strength. He purred silently as she massaged his tired muscles and whispered meaningless, sweet words.

She traced every tattoo, every memory, every scar that bore witness to his life before her, the life he thought he had forgotten.

Incoherent, broken impulses, remaining like muscle memory. Right now someone didn't wake up from an overdose. The helicopters circled above. The psychosis, the rough asphalt, the white poison in plastic bags. Right now he was floating away on that dark wave.

His grip tightened around the handle of the knife, despite Harley's whining attempts to get his attention. He traced the bleeding spots, deepened them. Relief. It spread through him, beautiful tall red marks, like cobwebs.

He wasn't aware of how she did it, madly persistent as she was when she had her mind set on something, but she managed to pry his fingers open. She took the knife away from him, pressing a kiss to his tense neck.

At first he ignored her, until he felt the smell.

Harley opened up a wound in her palm, letting the sharp blade gyrate, penetrating it deep and good. Then she grabbed his hand, and pressed their palms together.

He was stiff, fascinated by the enthusiastic way she had stabbed herself – that's my girl – and then his fingers intertwined with hers. He held her hand, just like she held his, as their shared blood dripped down on the sheets.

She looked into his eyes, locking their gazes, her breathing loud and wild and something crazed in her eyes.

Something overcame him, an incoherent feeling reminding him of pride. He placed his free hand in her messy hair, then roughly pulled her closer and kissed her hard. Her soft lips tasted of bubblegum – he forced her eager tongue back with a slight grunt, invading her mouth with his own. An electrifying sensation traveled down his back.

He was hard, and when she broke their joined grip to put both hands around his head, he pushed her onto her back with a strong snap of his hips.

He covered her completely, dominating her body with his own. She felt soft and warm against him. It reminded him of that boiling heat running across his skin as he pulled her up from the chemicals, for the first and last time, giving her life in his arms.

Jumping after her had never been a conscious choice. As if she was a magnet frantically pulling him down into the hellish vat, he has just let his body act. Now, looking up at him with her hair streaked across her forehead and patches of blood on her cheek, from his bleeding hand, she looked equally delirious.

He pulled her legs apart and entered her with one sharp thrust, gripping her wrists firmly and pinning them against the bed.

Her eyelids fluttered shut and she whimpered. She was already dripping wet. She always got something feral in her when she was, and it awakened something sinister in him. Her mouth sought his aggressively, and he pressed her down as he pumped in and out of her. He was harsher than usual, and she seemed to enjoy it.

The feeling manifested in his spine, spreading across his whole body. She was already running through his body, finding a way to sneak into his blood stream and shut down every part of him that wasn't obsessive about her. He let go of her wrists just to be able to squeeze her body.

He moved them so he was sitting on his knees with her in his lap. She was moaning loudly into the air, grasping his shoulders and leaving bloody stains on his skin.

He grunted when she clenched her body around his length, rocking back and forth. She squeezed his body with an iron grip at the same time, as if she was drowning and clinging onto him for dear life.

He snickered. His little psychiatrist gone crazy.

Her hands were flailing around, trying to find something to hold on to and landing in his hair, messing his hair up desperately before she found his earlobe and bit down hard.

He slammed her back against the headboard with a growl, but couldn't stop the deranged smile on his face. Fucking little vixen. Her head hit the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of her. He used the distraction to capture her mouth with his and kiss her forcefully until she was gasping for oxygen.

He was ravaging her, trying to mold them to one. Every time she moved she clenched up around him around and he knew she was doing it on purpose to get back at him. She giggled in a way that tempted him to put his hand around her throat and squeeze. He pulled her back harder onto his cock.

"What do we say?" he purred into her ear, letting his teeth run down her neck.

Her entire body spasmed in his grip and her hips collided with his violently. A shiver ran through her and she moaned out loud. He almost came himself, seeing her like this and feeling her grow so tight around him. Her voice was high pitched and strained. "J!

He pushed her back against the wall, fucking her until he came within her. Harley was attached like a leech to his body and made him groan. A few moments later he pulled out of her and rolled away. She remained outspread on the bed, a crazed smile on her lips and her eyes distant.

He pulled his pants back up, ignoring the mess of their fluids and blood. He leaned back in the bed, letting his gaze rest on the bullet holes in the ceiling. Harley crawled to his side and rested her head on his arm, pressing her lips against the tattoo of the dead Robin. A sleepy giggle escaped her. He must really have fucked the living daylight out of her.

He grinned into the darkness, his body relaxed and the images in his brain slightly numbed.

There was always something to laugh about. Harley choking on her bubblegum, the weed lady in a padded cell, testing Jonny's sanity.

He slipped one arm around Harley's waist and let sleep finally catch him.

If I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice.

.

To be continued.

Author's note: I would very much appreciate your feedback on this!

Love,

Crystallinee.