Fan Fiction Friday: The New Harley Quinn in “Suicide Skank”


?It appears I was not the only person perturbed by Harley Quinn’s new, more revealing Suicide Girls Squad outfit in the DCnU. Fan fic author Salarta is also upset — but while I did a mean-spirited post on it and promptly forgot all about it, Salarta decided to write this story (sent in by Topless Roboteer JM), in which — heck, I’ll let Salarta explain it:

Author’s note: DC is redesigning “Harley Quinn” for their Fall 2011
reboot. And I hate the redesign. It goes against everything about the
character and her theme, to the point where it’s not even her anymore.
It takes a character that had a harlequin theme and makes her look like a
random wannabe-goth skank. This is a lot bigger than just some minor
thing like a woman putting on some pants (Wonder Woman), in comics the
visual is important, and this redesign demolishes a huge chunk of her
character identity. But the more I looked at it, the more I realized: I
really, really want to fuck with it. This Harley deserves to be mocked,
and I’m going to do it in my own special way, the way that draws on the
impulses DC hopes will sell this version of her and takes them to their
logical conclusion. This isn’t about slut-shaming a change of clothes.
If she started out this way, or even if she showed the same amount of
skin but retained her harlequin theme, I’d be fine. This is about me
mocking a character’s identity ripped to shreds by editorial mandate.

What is the new Harley’s “logical conclusion”? I’m so glad you asked, puddin’. Although I doubt you will be. 

There she was, laid out before her. The Dominoed Daredoll.



Bullshit. No one calls Batgirl “the dominoed daredoll.” (looks it up on Google) Holy shit. They do. That’s the worst superhero nickname ever.

With a slicked-down, skintight leather bodysuit, the redhead crawled her
bloody way toward the flickering streetlight in the distance.

Harley, the new and “improved” Harley, grinned at the erotic sight of
her prey’s ass waving in a wormlike dance to freedom from the alley, her
torn-up black and purple cape doing little to assuage a dimly lit view
of Batgirl’s shiny backside at brief motes of light.

Because what’s more erotic than a dancing worm?

With a wicked,
crazed black-lipsticked grin, she gingerly hopped on over to the hero
and slammed her boot dead-on between Batgirl’s firm cheeks.

There are Japanese salaryman who would pay good money for someone to do that to them.

“NGH!” Batgirl cried.

She tumbled forward, the new ache in her full ass throbbing as cool
night air swept down the anal cleavage left by her tormentor’s swift

“Anal cleavage”? Anal cleavage “created” by a boot to the anus? DOES NOT COMPUTE

In the flapping flurry of her trashed cape, she banged against the
nearest dumpster. Darkness, the kind promising the relief of
unconsciousness, left her when Harley grabbed an ankle and dragged her
back. Rough concrete scraped against her sore, exposed bubble gum

I assume the author means her nipples were bubblegum colored and not, say, so flexible AND chewy you could blow bubbles with them. Although admittedly with FFF authors you never know.

Just when the pain felt unbearable, eyes clenched and teeth
gnashing, her foot dropped like a rock. A hand in her hair clutched and
tugged on her luxurious orange mane, ripping her into the sight of that
garish freak who abandoned the theme of her codename to become something
far more disgusting than the lowest, most diseased of Gotham’s red
light whores.

Kevin Smith?

Harley squatted before Batgirl. Rocking her ass side to side in her
panty-sized shorts, her real black panties slipping out on the edges,
she tapped her black thighhigh boots on the pavement and rubbed her
sopping wet crotch.

“What have we here?” Harley said. “A good, upstanding lady, fighting for good and common decency?”

Hey, remember the other day when I ran that video revealing that Harley’s motion capture person in Arkham Asylum was a dude? That’s going to seem like a gentle hug compared to how Salarta’s going to make you think about Harley.

Batgirl gagged at the stench wafting through the woman’s shorts and out
her deeply exposed cleavage, the strings of her corset loose enough to
grant a view of Harley’s all-black nipples.

I thought at first the odor was coming from Harley’s vagina and her chest, but now I think it’s coming from her ass, and the author is just obsessed with “ass cleavage.” Whatever that is.

The sick sight of her
deformed privates couldn’t compare to the deathly white skin she openly
bared for the public eye, more ghoulishly obscene than a month-old

Um, I’ll take looking at pale skin over a deformed vagina any day of the week, please. And I’m going to go out on a limb and say most people would probably agree with me.

The pallor of a wide toothy grin and pointy nose in Batgirl’s
face burned the image of the witches of old in her brain, Harley’s
soulless black eyes surrounded by a false mask of black eyeshadow and

You know, all those witches of old and their stinky, deformed vaginas.

The barely-there cape on Harley’s back ridiculed the very idea
of modesty, as if a red cloth halfway down her back forgave the
worthless corset on her chest.

Okay, the mini-cape is stupid. I will grant you that.

Bringing her arm behind her head, Harley ruffled through the red half
of her black and red hair, producing a large knife and lifting it…
then stopped. She sniffed, burying the full length of her nose into her
ghastly, stretched armpit.

Raise your hand if you’re Sure!

Hard as it was to believe, the corners of her
lips spread farther, delight clear as she cackled madly.

“Ehehe, I’m the nastiest piece of ass in all of Gotham. Wanna smell?”

I know you read that in Arleen Sorkin’s voice. I’m so sorry. I’m also sorry for everything else you’re about to read in Sorkin’s voice, too.

Batgirl’s nose crinkled disgust. Her attempt to pull away from the
pale, rancid pit was swiftly met by a hand to the back of her head,
smearing her face into its deep recesses. One whiff of the foul toxins
of Harley’s body, and she reflexively gurgled at what invaded the
sanctity of her nostrils.

“Ugh, you STINK. Get away from me!” Batgirl demanded.

As nerds, we’ve all had the misfortune of encountering people whose body odor is off-the-charts terrible. But have you ever smelled anyone you would describe as “rancid”? I mean, I’m sure Harley is pretty stinky, but unless she’s using a decomposing rat corpse as a roll-on deodorant, I’m pretty sure Batgirl can handle it.

“Now now, Batgirl, you can’t be a naive little girl forever,” Harley
teased, a cruel smile laced in her voice. “Though I do find it really
hot and pathetic that you let a woman younger than you take the mantle
of Batwoman. What are you, thirty?”

“Fuck you, Quinn. I was Oracle at the time. Go shove Didio’s face into your armpits if you’re so upset about it.”

“I’m-” Batgirl clamped her mouth shut as she caught onto Harley’s plan.
In this small way of resistance, she shoved the conversation back on
Harley. “What happened to you? You were never like this.”

“Why, the New 52 happened to me! On sale now!”

“Never like what? A bitch and a whore?” Harley giggled at the scowl
painting Batgirl’s face from such coarse terms.

Excuse me, BARBARA GORDON WAS SHOT IN THE SPINE BY THE JOKER. I imagine she can handle a little foul language.

“Who cares! I look like a
nasty, half-dead poser skank that gives goths a bad name. As long as
boys and girls get their rocks off looking at my tits and buy more
issues of the Gotham Gazette just to find out what a gross slut I was
the night before, that’s all that matters! If you’re a woman, you can’t
sell yourself on an endearing and likable personality, you need to sell
yourself with your body!”

What a second. Did Frank Miller write this?

All this dirty talk, much to Batgirl’s disgust, revealed a trail of
goosebumps along Harley’s exposed flesh. The snap of a belt drew her
gaze downward, to see Harley’s hand removing her metal waist-bandolier
and ripping off the flimsy excuses for clothes she kept on her lower
body. She grimaced at the rising scent of Harley’s wet arousal, puddling
between the villain’s legs like toxic sludge.

toht face melting.jpg


I could handle the smell and the deformation, but the idea of Harley’s vagina leaking like a garden hose finally got me.

Then, realization hit her. She darted her gaze from Harley’s right hand
at her nether lips, and her other one clutching her knife inches above
her head. Free from the woman’s grip, Batgirl threw herself back.

“Oh no you don’t,” Harley threatened. In one swoop, she clasped
Batgirl’s cowl, slammed her once against the side of the dumpster and
rammed her face back into her stinking corpse-pits. “For that, you need
to lick it. And if you don’t obey me, I’ll slit your throat and fuck the

Right now, Babs is wondering why this kind of shit never happens to Tim Drake.

Batgirl’s blue eyes went wide. The ghoulish slut’s threat rang with
intent, every flowing saucy fiber of her body oozing for an excuse to
commit the act and prove herself as the nastiest, easiest bitch in
Gotham. This wasn’t Harley. This was a disgusting whore, ready to commit
to any and all sick, twisted fetishes anyone could imagine.

You know, I’m starting to think that the author isn’t a fan of DC’s new take on Harley. It’s a bit subtle, but I think I’m starting to pick up on a hint of disapproval.

Batgirl shuddered, her tongue revolting to its stinging, sour taste
right from her first lick. Hair stubble flicked against her quaking
upper lip, the bristly feel committing brand new horrors to memory.

I’ve been running FFF for over three years now, and every time I feel like I’ve read every horror fan fic has to offer, I come across an incredibly detailed description of Batgirl licking Harley Quinn’s unwashed, unshaved armpits. 


“Ehehe, how does defeat taste, little girl? I’ve built up a lot of funk
in there for you to lap up. No sense washing up when desperate bastards
and bitches will still flock to fuck a loose, half-dressed freak like

Suddenly, MTV executives appeared out of nowhere and asked Halrey if she’d like to star on the next season of Jersey Shore.

Through watering eyes, Batgirl glanced at the permanently grinning
white harlot with revulsion, sinking lower and lower under the freak’s
orders. She groaned through her open mouth.

“What was that?” Harley asked. “I couldn’t hear you over the sound of
my biological clock ticking faster at how good it feels to have you
licking my rank armpits.”



So… Batgirl licking her unwashed armpits is making Harley Quinn ovulate. Gotcha. You know, there have been many, many FFF authors who have had no idea how a vagina works, but I believe this is the first time an author has had zero idea what a “biological clock” represents.

To expound her point, Harley viciously tugged Batgirl’s hair back, away
from her sweaty, saliva-drenched corpse-pit. She waited for her toy to

“I said nothing,” Batgirl bluntly answered, spitting excess Harley-scum from her mouth.

Harley flashed her pearly whites, first from Batgirl’s response, then
from a thin wave of stink-mist wafting from her armpit.

The hell? Harley’s leaking all over the place. The Joker needs to get her to a mechanic, stat.

Inhaling the
lusciously foul stench of her own body through her nose, Harley once
again smashed Batgirl against her in the hungriest place of her body:
her sticky, sopping wet pussy.

“Now you’ve done it, girl. I was going to use you as a warm-up before I
make my rounds in the sewers tonight, but forcing you to pleasure me is
too damn hot. Get crackin’. If you do a good enough job, I might spare
your life so I can keep beating the shit out of you over and over until
you become as much of a disgusting slut as I am.”

Again — I can’t say for certain, but I feel like the author just doesn’t care for the new Harley. If you read between the lines, that is. The lines about Batgirl giving cunnilingus against her with to Harley’s genital disaster area.

What choice did she have? At Harley’s mercy between a knife and a
rotten place, her tongue darted into Harley’s huge, gaping cleft. Old,
flaking cum scattered about her cheeks, an unclean sense to match the
acrid funk waterfalling from Harley’s corpse white pussy. Once the
former harlequin’s clit rubbed against the roof of her mouth, fierce
orders from her horny mistress had her gnawing gently on the small nub.

“Oh yeah, that’s the shit. That’s the shit right there.” Harley giggled.

“I mean literally, that’s shit. I had Two-Face take a dump on my pussy an hour ago.”

Lowering her knife, the slice of metal to string burst the tiny corset
clean off her body with her bulging bust. The knife dropped to the
ground with a clatter, her hands sprung to roughly grope her own tits,
pinching the twin peaks with enough force that if she had normal skin
color, they would have passed from light pink to deep, dark purple in
seconds. Her bucking hips wrapped her legs around the Dominoed
Daredoll’s head, trapping Barbara to her fate.

Honestly, learning that Batgirl was once actually called “The Dominoed Daredoll” may actually be the worst part of this story for me.

“Wanna know how I became a freak? Do ya Batgirl?” Harley teased, waving
her pussy against Batgirl’s face. “Alright, I’ll tell ya. One day, this
voice popped in my head that started telling me things like ‘Harley
Quinn needs to look like a slutty juggalo, a female Joker that dresses
like she’d fuck anything that moves.’ And you know what?

“That voice was Jim Lee’s.”

The more I
heard the voice, the more it sank in that it was right.”

As she talked, Harley’s eternal grin opened to throw out a hot, horny
moan, puffing into the cold night air. Taking one final whiff of putrid
pit, she snatched up her knife, spun it to hold the blade and jammed the
handle deep between Batgirl’s bubbly butt. The delicious cry of her
plaything’s anguish sent a pleasure pulse to her pussy. She swirled the
knife around for more, blood dripping onto Batgirl’s ass cheeks from
tiny knicks and cuts in Harley’s fingers.

Somehow, I don’t think “Women with knife hilts stuck in their asses while being forced to give oral sex” will be replacing the phrase “women in refrigerators any time soon.

“The voice was right,” Harley continued. “All these years, I’ve been
charming my way into the hearts of people and getting fans because they
liked who I was for me, when what I should’ve been doing was charming my
way into the pants of horny little boys and sick freaks that would
sooner fuck a corpse than a woman.”

“Harley, that’s not-” Batgirl rose up and began, only to be forced back down to her place between the slut’s legs.

“Harley, that’s not at all accurate,” is what I imagine Batgirl is trying to say. “Yes, you look like a slutty Insane Clown Posse fan on that Suicide Squad cover, but you don’t look like particularly corpse-like. I mean, DC has its problems, but trying to make you appeal to necrophiliacs is not one of them.”

“Little girls shouldn’t speak. Where was I? Oh yes. Over time, the
voice used some kind of magic to turn me into the least respectable…
THING you could imagine.

What spell do you think Jim Lee used? A Harry Potter-esque “Lindsaylohaniarmus!” or a more traditional “Yelrah Yfittuls!”?

Now look at me. I look like a tryhard poser
goth skank, I taste every bit as foul as I smell, and I’ve never felt
looser in my life!”

Batgirl wanted to vomit. The running dialogue of Harley’s self-absorbed
slutdom was hardly a fair distraction from wave after wave of the
woman’s slick, sour juices. Right as she thought the danger of hurling
might eclipse her restraint, Harley shuffled from her low squat to a
full stand.

God help me, I had a brief second where I thought the author missed an opportunity to have Batgirl vomit on Harley Quinn’s vagina and have Harley excited about it. If you’ll excuse me I need to throw myself out my 8th story window immediately.

A pull upon Batgirl’s tattered cape lifted and dangled her
in midair, the knife still buried into her throbbing anal folds.
Harley’s ghastly visage hovered before her, gloating through her grin.

“What did you think, Batgirl? Did you enjoy getting one step closer to becoming a Batwoman at the ripe age of thirty?”

A girl performing oral sex on a girl does not a Batwoman make, Harley. Although I guess I can see where you’d get the idea.

“I think… I’m sick…” Batgirl groaned.”

Harley viciously giggled. “Don’t worry, I don’t have any STDs… yet. I
may be the skankiest, scummiest scum of Gotham, but believe it or not
Gotham’s criminals refuse to piss in my slutpool. Condoms every time.
But, I think they’ll make an exception for a good little girl like you,
and I’ll need every STD known to man inside you if I’m going to top what
the Joker did to sweet little Barbara Gordon.”

Holy shit, I think Fank Miller did write this. I think we’ve stumbled across the script for a new issue of All-Star Batman and Robin.

And with those final words, Harley Quinn carried the kicking, freaking Batgirl over her shoulder to her horrid fate.

And that horrid fate… was reading the new Hawk & Dove #1.

I kid, I kid! The end. For more adventures of Harley and her bodily odors and fluids, check out Suicide Squad #1, on sale now! I won’t, because seriously, I’m throwing myself out the goddamn window. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll land on Didio.