Pain Is Pleasure


FANDOM: Birds of Prey TV

PAIRING: Barbara/Helena

RATING: PG-13 for some language and sexual comments.

DISCLAIMERS: a) If I owned the BoP, things would be a lot different. But, I don't that wonderful honor belongs to the notoriously stupid WB, who has canceled the show. But that won't stop me writing them as love slaves to each other!!
b) Some people can't read fanfiction; it just isn't their thing. That's cool. Some people can't read BoP fanfiction, and that's cool. Some people just can't read BoP fanfiction that has to do with two women in a sexual relationship and/or in love, and I'm okay with that too. You're allowed your own opinion. Just don't go yelling at me if you read something you didn't like. You've been warned.

SUMMARY: Helena's thoughts on herself.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Can you tell I have this thing with pain? (check out Musings if you didn't). This fic deals with a serious psychological issue that is very real, and may be very personal to some of you. This problem is not uncommon, even though I've given it a little bit of a twist. I'm sorry if reading it makes you uncomfortable.

FEEDBACK: I wouldn't say no. Please send to

ARCHIVING: Delphi_Mainframe.


When people first see me, they tend to think I'm a sadist. I'm not, though; I hate causing the people I love, or even people I have no real opinion of, pain. Despite the way I sometimes act towards people who annoy me. You have to hurt someone before I'll hurt you. But people still think I'm a sadist; probably because I tend to dress like a dominatrix.

People who know me better just think I have anger issues. They think I like to break things, such as people's noses or anything that gets in my way. And granted, I do have issues, not the least of which are my daddy and abandonment issues. But I fight crime, so they accept it as an outlet for my anger.

But when I go out and destroy things, I also destroy myself. I've broken my knuckles more times than I can count hitting people with hard heads. I've cracked ribs, received multiple concussions, twisted ankles and fractured legs. It's a good thing I heal quickly; otherwise I'd have my very own room in the hospital. Not to mention the fact that scars are so last year.

And it's fantastic. Each crack, each head-splitting contact, each step is like scratching an itch that's been bugging you for years. It's such a relief to feel that pain, such an utter release, that it makes me moan sometimes with the pleasure of it.

Barbara used to say that she could tell how injured I was by how pleased I acted when I would return to the Clocktower. She always thought at first that it was because I had managed to beat up enough bad guys to satisfy my baser instincts.

I had just found a better way to get the pleasure of pain than sneaking into the girl's bathroom during classes and slicing into my arms with my metal ruler. The pain of a good fight was better than the burns I used to give myself on every available hidden piece of skin. It was even better than the orgasms I would have while fucking some guy or girl who had a penchant for knives. How could I tell her that?

Sometimes I think she understands. After she was shot, I would sit in a hidden corner of the gym and watch her push herself to the point of agony, working with her upper body to make up for the lower. When she was done she would drop back in her chair and sob uncontrollably for however long she would let herself go. She still does it occasionally. But Barbara isn't getting pleasure from it; she's punishing herself for not being whole. I hate it when she does that.

If there's one thing I've never been able to stand is Barbara in pain. After everything that had happened, I agonized over her, and for once it wasn't a good pain. She was a complete mess, and I hurt for her. She's the only one who understands me, who's ever guessed about the pain. I see it in her eyes when I come in after a really rough night, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. Somewhere in her mind, she knows. So it hurts me to see her hurting, the woman who knows me so well, and it's a hurt I don't enjoy.

The night I managed to convince her I loved her, she kept insisting I could do better than her, and I knew she meant I could do better than a woman in a wheelchair. When we first made love, she gave me every opportunity to back down, no hard feelings. Even after all this time, I think she still believes I'm going to leave her.

I could never leave her. She's the only one who's ever made me feel like I do when we make love. Because that's what it is, it's making love, not blind, violent sex that leaves bruises and cuts afterwards. She listens to me when I beg for harder, faster, more please, a sweating bundle of raw nerves writhing underneath her, riding the edge of pleasure and pain.

To me, Barbara is whole, complete, perfect. And she makes me whole, makes me able to feel that way that no one else ever has, nor ever could.

She is my pain.

She is my pleasure.

Pain is pleasure.