Weekly Poll #1 - OC / Harley Quinn {Story #2}
Decided to post this one as a free full story here since this is the runner up in the 1st Weekly Poll Story. Thank you for the Support!
The air in Dr. Cullen Carwyn's office was thick with the scent of old paper and stale coffee, a deliberate olfactory shield against the institutional stench of disinfectant and madness that permeated Arkham Asylum. Cullen adjusted his glasses, the rectangular frames doing little to sharpen the image of the file on his desk. The name at the top was typed in a stark, unfeeling font: QUINZEL, HARLEEN.
The file was a nightmare of red flags. A brilliant mind, a promising career in psychiatry, all sacrificed for a homicidal clown. The recent capture had been almost anticlimactic. No grand chase, no explosive finale. Just Harley Quinn, sitting on the gargoyle-adorned roof of Gotham First National, weeping into her jester's motley after the Joker had pushed her from the getaway car. She hadn't even put up a fight. The GCPD found her catatonic, murmuring about "Puddin' not wanting her anymore."
A sharp buzz from the intercom shattered Cullen's thoughts. "Dr. Carwyn," the guard's voice was a flat monotone, "Your 2:00 is here."
"Send her in, please," Cullen replied, his voice betraying none of the unease coiling in his gut.
The heavy steel door groaned open, and two orderlies flanked a slight figure. Harley Quinn shuffled in, her once-vibrant costume now a dull, grayish version of itself, the colors bled out by repeated washings in the asylum laundry. The bells on her jester hat were silent, their muffled clinking absent without her characteristic, energetic movements. Her face, usually a canvas of theatrical white and red makeup, was scrubbed clean, revealing pale skin and puffy, red-rimmed eyes. She looked less like a supervillain and more like a broken doll.
She didn't look at Cullen. Her gaze was fixed on the floor, her shoulders slumped in a posture of pure defeat. The orderlies guided her to the plush armchair opposite his desk, unstrapped the restraints from her wrists, and retreated, the door clicking shut with a final, resonant thud.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Cullen let it hang. He knew better than to rush a patient like this, especially one whose entire identity had been shattered.
"Harleen," he began softly, using her given name. "My name is Dr. Carwyn. I'm here to talk."
She didn't respond. She just sat there, picking at a loose thread on her jumpsuit.
"I've been reading your file," Cullen continued, leaning forward slightly. "It says you were a very gifted student. Top of your class. You wanted to help people."
A humorless, breathy laugh escaped her lips. It was a dry, rattling sound. "Yeah, well. Look how that turned out." Her voice was a hoarse whisper, devoid of its usual manic energy.
"Helping people can be a dangerous business," Cullen conceded. "Especially when you start to believe you're the only one who can help them."
Her head snapped up, and for the first time, her eyes met his. They were a startling shade of blue, but they were clouded with a profound, bottomless sorrow. "You don't know nothin'," she spat, the venom in her voice a ghost of its former fury. "You read your little papers and you think you got me all figured out. 'Abandonment issues.' 'Codependency.' 'Trauma bonding.'" She listed the clinical terms like they were curses. "He didn't abandon me. He... he just... forgot."
The words hung in the air, fragile and pitiful. Cullen understood then—this wasn't a wound born of betrayal, but something far crueler. Indifference. To the Joker, she hadn't been cast aside in anger or spite; she had simply been forgotten.
"Forgot you?" Cullen asked softly.
"Why wasn't I funny anymore?" The question echoed between them, small and broken.
And then something snapped.
A terrible light flickered behind her bloodshot eyes, manic and sudden. The slump in her shoulders vanished, her spine locking straight with a rigid, predatory intent that was far more unsettling than her usual hunch. A slow smile carved its way across her mouth—sharp, deliberate—but it never touched her eyes.
"I know exactly how you'll be able to help me," she said, her voice suddenly clear, slicing through the silence like glass.
Before Cullen could process the change, she moved. It was a fluid, shockingly fast motion. She stood up, her hands going to the waistband of her gray jumpsuit. With a single, decisive yank, she shoved the coarse fabric down to her ankles, followed by her plain white underwear. She kicked them aside, leaving her naked from the waist down.
She planted her hands on the edge of Cullen's heavy oak desk, leaning forward, her expression a volatile mix of challenge and raw need. "Make me feel good," she commanded, her voice low and intense. She gestured with her chin toward the chair she had just vacated, then back to herself. "Right here. Right now."
Cullen's mind went blank, a sterile white void of pure shock. His eyes flickered from her exposed form to the small, dark dome of the security camera in the corner of the room. He stared at it, a silent, desperate plea in his mind: *What the hell is this sudden shift? This craziness?*
Harley followed his gaze and laughed, a dry, brittle sound. "Oh, they're watching, alright. But they won't stop me." She straightened up, her hand snaking down to her own throat, her fingers pressing against her carotid artery. "You do this," she said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "or I'll jam my thumb right through my windpipe before you can even hit that panic button. They'll find me dead on your floor, Doc. How's that gonna look in your little report?"
The threat was absolute. Cullen could see it in her eyes—the complete, unwavering willingness to do it. The professional, the doctor, the man, all warred inside him, but the primal fear of having a patient die on his watch, of that failure, won. He swallowed hard, the sound loud in the silent room.
"Alright," he breathed, the word tasting like ash. "Alright, Harley."
He stood on shaky legs and moved around the desk, his movements stiff and unnatural. He knelt on the floor before her, the cold linoleum a jarring contrast to the heat radiating from her skin. He leaned in, closing his eyes as he pressed his mouth against her.
Harley gasped, a sharp, ragged inhale. Her hands, which had been ready to strike, flew to the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. The initial shock gave way to a wave of intense sensation that flooded her system. It wasn't about the Joker anymore. It wasn't about being funny or being wanted. It was just this. Pure, physical feeling. Her body began to tremble, a deep, uncontrollable shudder that started in her thighs and radiated outwards. A choked sob escaped her lips, but it wasn't a sound of sadness. It was a sound of release. It was the best thing she had ever felt, a blinding, momentary eclipse of all the pain.
Cullen's world narrowed to the sensory overload of the moment. The first thing that struck him was the heat, an intense, living warmth against his lips and chin that was starkly different from the cool, sterile air of the office. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to retreat into the blackness behind his eyelids, to separate his mind from the grotesque reality of the act. He could still smell the faint, antiseptic scent of the asylum, but it was overwhelmed by the musky, intimate aroma of her body—a raw, human smell that felt invasive and deeply personal.
His tongue moved, tentatively at first, then with a forced, mechanical rhythm. He tried to make it clinical, a procedure, but his body betrayed him. He could feel the texture of her skin, soft and yielding, the delicate, folded flesh reacting to every touch. He felt the fine, almost invisible hairs that prickled against his face. His jaw began to ache from the unfamiliar position, the muscles screaming in protest. He was acutely aware of the hard floor pressing into his knees, the unforgiving surface a constant, grounding reminder of his submission.
He fought to keep his thoughts blank, but they intruded anyway. He thought of the security camera, its unblinking eye recording every second of this. He thought of the file on his desk, of the career he had meticulously built, now being irrevocably compromised. He felt a wave of nausea, this wasn't helping a patient; this was a violation, a surrender to madness.
Then, something shifted in him. He looked up, his eyes opening for the first time. Something shifted in him, he saw her face—not the defiant, threatening mask she had worn moments before, but a canvas of raw, unguarded agony. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming silently down her temples, her mouth parted in a silent sob. This wasn't a power play anymore. It was a desperate, pathetic plea from a woman who had been shattered into a million pieces. The clinical, detached part of his brain, the part that had been screaming in protest, suddenly saw a different path. This wasn't about harm done to him; it was about her craving to be seen. It wasn't coercion, but a frantic, ill-formed reach for connection—any connection that existed outside the Joker's shadow.
A strange, powerful sense of purpose washed over him, eclipsing the fear and self-disgust. He stopped. The sudden cessation of movement made Harley's eyes snap open, a flicker of panic in them. "Don't stop," she whimpered.
"I'm not stopping," Cullen said, his voice a low, steady rumble that was surprisingly gentle. "I'm starting."
He leaned back in, but this time, his movements were not mechanical. They were deliberate, focused. He wasn't just performing an act; he was tending to a wound. His tongue moved with newfound intent, exploring, learning, responding to the subtle shifts in her body. He was no longer a pawn in her game; he was an active participant in her healing. He could feel the minute tremors that ran through her, the way her breath hitched when he found a particularly sensitive spot. He felt a strange, protective surge, a primal need to give her this one moment of pure, uncomplicated pleasure.
For Harley, the change was seismic. The initial shock of his touch had given way to a tidal wave of feeling, but this was different. This wasn't just a physical sensation; it was an emotional one. The deliberate, attentive nature of his new actions was something she had never experienced. It wasn't the chaotic, selfish passion of the Joker, which was always about his amusement. This was about *her*. The low, deep thrum in her belly intensified, no longer just a physical reaction but an emotional one. It was a warmth that spread through her chest, melting the ice that had formed around her heart.
Her fingers, which had been clenched in his hair, relaxed their grip, instead cradling his head gently. A different sound escaped her lips, not a guttural moan, but a soft, breathy sigh of surrender. The tightening coil of pleasure built not with violence, but with a powerful, overwhelming tenderness. Her body arched, not in a spasm of agony, but in a graceful, yielding curve. The shaking that consumed her was no longer a convulsion, but a deep, rolling tremor of release. As the wave crested and broke, it wasn't a shattering explosion, but a long, drawn-out crest that left her limp and gasping, a profound sense of peace settling over her. For the first time, she felt seen, not as a sidekick or a toy, but as a woman. And in that moment, Dr. Cullen Carwyn truly began to help her.
The waves of pleasure were still receding, leaving Harley limp and breathless against the desk. Her body hummed with a profound, unfamiliar warmth, a blissful silence where the Joker's mocking laughter used to be. For a moment, she simply existed, her mind a placid lake. But stillness was never her nature for long. The energy, the spark that had never truly been extinguished, flickered back to life, fueled not by aggression, but by an overwhelming, almost desperate wave of gratitude. A slow, genuine smile spread across her face. She pushed herself up from the desk, her movements regaining their fluid grace.
Cullen was still on his knees, looking up at her with a dazed expression. Her eyes gleamed with a soft, appreciative light. "A doctor's work is never done," she purred, her voice a husky, grateful rasp. "But a patient's work is just beginning." Before he could react, she moved. Her hands were gentle but insistent as they found the front of his trousers. With a quick deliberate motion, she undid his belt and pulled his pants and boxers down to his knees. Cullen gasped, his head swimming. The suddenness of the reversal, the raw sincerity in her touch, sent a jolt of pure emotion through him.
"And now," she said, sinking to her own knees before him, her face level with his hips, "let me show you my gratitude." There was no hesitation. No teasing. She leaned in and took him completely into her mouth in one, shockingly deep motion. Cullen's breath hitched, his hands flying out to brace himself against the floor as his entire body went rigid. The sensation was overwhelming—a wet, engulfing heat that was both impossibly soft and intensely reverent. He could feel the head of his cock hit the back of her throat, and she didn't even flinch.
Then she began to move. This wasn't a conquest; it was an offering. Harley's hands caressed his thighs, her fingers tracing patterns on his skin as she set a worshipful, attentive rhythm. She moved on him with a focused, dedicated pace, each downward stroke a deep, grateful acceptance. Her throat constricted around him in a way that made his vision blur, a silken, perfect pressure designed to give, not to take. It was an act of pure, unadulterated appreciation. She wasn't just pleasuring him; she was thanking him, showing him with her body the depth of the release he had given her mind.
Cullen's mind shattered. The clinical observer, the compassionate healer, the reluctant participant—all of it was swept away by a tidal wave of raw, profound emotion. He could only feel. The wet, loving sounds filled the small office, mingling with his own ragged groans. He looked down and saw her, her eyes locked on his, the corners crinkled in a genuine, adoring smile even as her mouth was full of him. The sight was his undoing. It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing he had ever seen.
He felt the pressure build to an unbearable peak, his body tensing as a guttural cry escaped his lips. He spilled himself into her mouth, a hot, powerful rush. Harley took it all, her mouth working gently as she milked him for every last drop, swallowing his essence as if it were a precious gift.
Only when he was completely spent, limp and trembling, did she slowly pull back. She opened her mouth, showing him her empty tongue, a proud, beaming smile on her face. "See?" she said, her voice thick with satisfaction. "I'm a very grateful patient." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, her chest heaving. "I can't wait for more of these 'sessions'," she said, her voice dripping with warm promise.
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