Title: Concepts and Interludes

Rating: M (For adult concepts, sexual situations, language, violence, and the normalization of an abusive relationship)

Beta: Gladrial

Disclaimer: I own nothing. The owners own. This is for fun, not profit. I've made no money.

Summary: A collection of short scenes and concepts involving the complex relationship between the Joker and Harley Quinn. (JokerxHarley, ECP)

Author's Notes: Snippets of life, inspired by whatever. (Chats with Gladrial, songs I end up with when I have my playlist on shuffle, or the extensively spectacular JHQ research on JokerxHarleyDOTcom.) May add another chapter whenever the mood strikes, so feel free to put it on story alert.

Save the two smutty ones, Gladrial had a significant hand with the development and wording of these. And I was really mad that she wanted me to change a paragraph in the first one (I was sopouty, you guys), but she was right about it. Also, several drabbles were taken out because they got turned into actual fics, which caused me no end of frustration as the trend continued umpteen times. Gladrial had to hear all about that too.

Socks

"HARL, WHERE THE HELL ARE-"

Wordlessly, Harley handed the Joker a pair of freshly laundered argyle socks, the cuffs folded upon each other, and continued placing other clothing from the plastic lime green basket before her into the chest of drawers.

"…Oh," he muttered, staring first at the socks, then at Harley, who was shoving aside a stack of his boxers to make room in the bottom drawer for his undershirts. She moved mechanically, in a way that seemed odd for her. He sometimes forgot how normal she could seem when not bouncing or talking.

Frankly, it bothered him.

Probably feeling his eyes on her, Harley turned briefly to look at him over her shoulder. "You need somethin' else, puddin'?"

No makeup, her limp hair pulled back in a messy bun; she was probably intending to shower next. She was wearing black cotton shorts with the frayed hem and the dangling drawstrings paired with the red, wide-strapped tank with bleach stains on the side, no bra. Completing the eyesore were pink flip-flops that seemed to appear at random hideouts off and on. He vaguely recalled the items weren't so worn once upon a time. The fact that he did only unsettled him further.

A sense of unease crept over his skin, though he shook his head and ignored her perky, "Okie dokie!" response. His mind was spinning with disturbing thoughts regarding the last…how many years? He couldn't remember. Had she become that much of a fixture in his life?

And standing there, in his white undershirt and polka-dot boxers, the Joker numbly clutched a pair of tube socks and tried to recall where they would have come from before.

Unsafe Insane and Consensual

(For Princessebee. I binged on your D/s take for the clowns, and the rest of that site, one whole night. Gave me drive for my new stuff. Thank you!)

One, two, three. He was rough with the movements of his fingers inside of her, as always. Sometimes, she worried he was going to split her open, with such frantic thrusts of his hands. Not that it would matter if he did, because just the feel of his skin on her, in whatever fashion, had her in splendid agony. Four was grinding painfully on the outside of her and his nail met her skin sharply, causing her to let out an elated mewl that was accompanied immediately by the loss of his hand. Opening her eyes, she threw her arms around his neck with a whimper, attempting to regain contact and find completion.

But his damp hand was otherwise occupied, grabbing her chin roughly, fingers pressed with bruising strength that she could feel on the bone beneath the skin. His bloodshot green eyes were lidded from lust, but his smile was ever-present as he handled her. "Naughty, naughty girl," he chided her. "You know better than to be so impolite." His fingernails dug little halfmoons into her face; she could smell herself on him. "Beg Daddy to make it better, like a good little doll."

Her throat felt dry and blood felt like it was pulsing painfully between her thighs. "Please Puddin', make it better," she purred, relieved when he released her. Without warning, the sting of his palm slapped her cheek with enough force to turn her head.

"What do we say, Harley-girl?" He was over her higher now and she knew what to say, putting extra sugar into her tone.

"I'm so sorry for being a bad girl, Daddy." Another slap, much lighter, and the warm sensation of his tongue on the stinging skin. A deep, thankful sigh escaped from Harley and she smiled in anticipation, her arms settling back to their familiar place around his neck.

Good girls get their reward.

Quarter After One

She had to be as quiet as possible. Her breath felt hot and loud in the darkness, mouth pressed hard against the phone she cradled in both hands. There was a noise on the other end, a click; then it was too late to hang up.

"Helloooo," his voice floated from the red plastic, cheery and dangerous. Musical.

She almost couldn't form words. "Puddin'?" It had come out as a breathy squeak, much to her ire.

A dark chuckle followed, one she knew so well. "Harley, what a pleasure."

Harley swallowed hard and managed to choke out, "I know I said I wouldn't...wouldn't call..."

"Yes, you usually do," he sighed. "And yet, here we are." The muffled sounds of voices came from his side, followed by a gunshot. "Look, Harl, as super as this conversation has been, I'm in the middle of some activities-"

"I need you!" she blurted out, tears dripping down her cheeks. She curled her knees under her chin, trying desperately to hold back a sob. "I miss you," Harley added in a whisper. Couldn't let Ivy hear.

Another sigh on his end, another gunshot. "Well, I can't blame you. I'm magnificent."

In the pale light from the street lamp outside her window, his grinning visage stared at her from the Gotham Gazzette that lay on her carpet. "You are," Harley replied emphatically, closing her eyes when the room started to spin. "You are soooo-"

"I know, I know," he mumbled, giving a grunt that was followed by a sickening crunch. "I'm a bit busy here, Harley-baby. But, tell you what-"

"What, what?" Harley asked frantically, making a sudden swaying movement that knocked over her nearly empty wineglass. Red seeped into the newspaper likeness of him.

"Calm down, you loon," he directed, absently. "I'm at the wharf safehouse. Come by when you're sober and be ready to make up this tedious call to me."

The next morning, slightly after ten, Harley breezed past a long awake Poison Ivy, tending to something orange and potted that snapped. "I'm goin' out, Red," chirped Harley, pulling sunglasses from the duffle bag at her side and placing them on her face. "Back later!"

They both knew this was a lie.

"See you, Harley," sighed Ivy, brow furrowed as she watched her friend practically skip out the door. She gently caressed one of the large leaves of her new creation, causing it to vibrate beneath her fingertips.

Well…she did always come back. Eventually.

Glorious Red, Circling the Drain

(Originally, a few years ago, written for Uschi, who is awesome incarnate. All my love, dear!)

She liked making those awful noises. He would think they were worse than the other ones, the talking-type ones, but at least he was getting something done while these were happening. He had pretty good traction from behind and the steady flow of hot water was rather pleasant and, as a bonus, it drowned out the majority of her squeals and moans. She probably thought they were getting him excited or something, but that couldn't be further from the truth.

Ignoring her mild protests when he began pressing her face against the chipped tile of the stall, he thought about a myriad of things: smashing apart the delicate bones of her hands with a hammer into little itty pieces; injecting a cocktail of flesh-eating chemicals into her baby blue eyeballs; stabbing a rusty knife through her creamy throat. Gurgling, wheezing sounds at first, then…No more noises. She was being violently slammed into by him now, his nails digging into her backside. Her wet blonde head turned to avoid smashing her nose on the wall, he could see her biting her lip hard enough to draw a tiny trickle of blood.

Finally, the one thing he never tired of!

Chasing Rabbits

Harley was dimly aware of being led down the familiar stone hallways, a blurry row of cells flashing past. She had a guard on each side, one per elbow. Her arms were wrapped in a straightjacket this time, in response to the cop she had bitten on the hand and the orderly she had knocked out with a punch. She smiled at the memory of her lover's gleeful laughter from within a separate police car, upon her chomping down, leg kicking out in defense to catch the shin of another officer.

She began giggling, causing the guard on her right to tighten his grip. They were almost there, she knew, because they had passed by a bunch of other guards and metal detectors. Her feet got sleepy and Harley felt her legs slump; the guards hurriedly lifted her by her middle and carried her the next few feet.

Joan was there in front of Harley's cell. "Joan, I'm flyin'!" Harley exclaimed.

"Yes, Harley," Joan answered, writing something down on her clipboard. "I see your sedatives took affect quickly. Have you eaten today?"

Harley thought hard, before replying in maybe too loud a voice, "I had chicken nuggets! This morning!" Joan smiled her tight smile and wrote something else down. "Joan, Joan, Joan! Is my Puddin' in yet?"

A frown appeared on Joan's face and she shook her head. "He's not here yet. He's still in processing, I would expect."

Harley erupted in a new fit of sleepy giggles. "I bet Mistah J still hasn't told 'em where those bodies are." The door to her cell was opened, accompanied by electronic beeps and bloops. "Beep beep boop!" Harley told her door in return.

The guard put Harley down on her cot, still covered in the red and black quilt she'd ordered special last year, and Harley fought to keep her eyes open as he undid the jacket. Joan was still outside the cell, talking to the other guard.

After a few moments, she turned to Harley and called that she would see her later. Harley raised an arm from her now horizontal position on her bed. "M'kay," she mumbled, grinning into her pillow. The heavy metal door shut with a heavy metal sound and Harley drifted off, barely coherent enough to hear his cackle begin to fill the corridor.

End Notes: That's all for right now, but I encourage you to drop ideas for future drabbles in the comments or a PM. Nothing extravagant or involved, please. Vague concepts for a scene, a slice of life snippet you want to see the clowns engage in, or even a few brief keywords you want me to use as starters. Perhaps a song you want me to take cues from! Where I take these depends on my muse and the characters themselves, possibly my current mood, but I'll give you a nod after the drabble title.

I will warn you though, that if you give me anything fluffy for these…I will twist it up into something quite unfluffy. Other than that, I would think anything you throw out would likely be useable.

Thank you everyone for your continued support, faves/alerts, and reviews. It always means the world to me.

(Two titles are lyrics from the songs I listened to while writing the drabble in question, "Need You Now" by Lady Antebellum and "White Rabbit" by Jefferson Airplane, in case you were wondering.)