'Swapping your Blood with Formaldehyde [CLOSED.]

[Harleen Quinzel]

A hum was coming from a cupboard. This was no hum of machinery or the buzz of a crystal radio. It was the distinct noise of a human humming, and it was most certainly female. The notes went up and down with ease, though they seemed to peak at high points more than low ones. When she did hit a low note, it lost its hum-qualities and turned into a gurgle of sorts. The notes were sporadic and didn’t seem to follow a beat, pattern, or resemble any sort of song. Every now and then the hum would stop and a rustle of movement would be heard from within the cupboard. Occasionally the hum would slip into a warbling trill of lips (again, the notes seemed to be taking over their own pace and pattern).

Harley was the cupboard’s occupant, which wasn’t all that surprising to anyone that spent the smallest amount of time never her (or in the building that housed the cupboard). She liked small places, and love cool ones. It was sticky and hot out, even in the night (and even indoors). The electricity was so shoddy and tricky that hardly a soul attempted to plug in an air conditioner. Gotham’s skylines grew fuzzy from the heat radiating from the wretched bodies of her citizens. There were a few places within each building that allowed for some relief. In the nearly-condemned Monarch Theater there was a small handful.

The cupboard the blonde resided in now was one of them, but far from the one she’d best prefer at the moment. Her pigtails, up high to prevent the strands from brushing against her achingly hot body, pressed against the top of the cabinet. Her legs fit tightly into the length of the three cupboards put together, with everything pushing out. She’d left a mess in her wake while she’ sought the comfort of the cool and dark cupboards. Mixers, broken bottles, canning jars full of mush, and a bic lighter had been pushed the cracked linoleum floor that had lined the former actor’s lounge-kitchen area.

A mess lay inside the cabinet as well, flowing over her bare and bruise legs. Crayons rolled back and forth along the bare inches of exposed concrete floor below her butt. It was hard to draw and color within the confines of the cabinet, never mind the pitch dark that it (and the long-set sun out of doors) provided. She’d started with the dark colors to the left and the light colors to the right- but she knew somewhere along the lines the greens and reds mixed together under her knees and the purples wiggled away. Her drawing was going to be a mess when she saw it.

Harley was apparently very, very good at messes.

It was why she was in a cupboard anyways. It wasn’t her usual choice of night-time lounge areas. It wasn’t her choice of daytime ones either, though they’d been great for catnaps free from the sun and the light after she’d been released. It was perfectly small. However, it wasn’t her usual choice. If she’d had her way, she’d have padded down to one of the dressing rooms and wiggle in between the (not so clean) sheets she’d be banned from. She’d been forced to pack up her sticks of paint, her baby powder, and a cap as it hit her backside on the way out. Harley didn’t actually remember what she’d done now, but she was very, very sure it hadn’t been good. Well, she was positive it hadn’t been good. It was just how bad she’d been that worried her.

But there she was. Humming and drawing away. Her back was starting to ache slightly from hunching over to fit into the cupboard, and her neck was just asking for her to roll out and give it a nice long crack. She heard a bell tower chime, and swore t rang three times but couldn’t be sure. She halted her humming for the barest of moments, biting the inside of her cheek as she listened when the far-off clanging ended. There was a buzz of some sort of electric thingy- probably a light of the fridge that was temperamental and chose when it wished to work (though, it could be encouraged with the same motivation often used on her- a good kick in the ass). There were no more rustles of movement from the room beyond. The talking had ceased, and there was a deep-grunting snore from one of the men who was supposed to be doing perimeter detail. In times like these well…even the Monarch Theater was fair came to the dejected bastards to roamed Gotham.

Harley reached her finger tips out, pushing slightly on the door of the cupboard. It made a terrible creaking noise that prompted a giggle to rise in her throat. She slapped a hand over her mouth and bit the palm of her hand. If He was asleep, she’d get more than a kick in the ass if she woke Him up. She unfurled the pretzel that was her body, slipping her hands out first and using them to pull her body free from the cupboard.

She surveyed the mess on the floor in the slit of moonlight that shoved through a crack in the wall. Harley lowered the hand from her mouth, raising herself to the pads of her feet and delicately moving away from the mess. Tearing up the soles of her feet on a broken glass was nothing something she wanted to happen.

The humming continued as she made her way through the building, ignoring the cracking and creaking it made as she did so. I was easy, having grown up in a old run down building that did much of the same noise making. The city life noise (gun shots, car backfires, drunken stumbling over words) was blank white noise to her. Harley bit her cheek again as she caught site of herself in a cracked mirror (stained with black lipstick kisses and palm prints of white). Short, pale flesh loomed in the moonlight, decked out in a black short-and-tanktop set of black silk. A red ribbon went around her middle, tied off in a bow under her cleavage.

Her fingers went to her hair as she continued to hum, half making up the tune still and half swearing that it was something she’d heard and couldn’t shake from her mind. Harley fixed her pigtails, licking at her bare lips. Only the faintest bit of black makeup still ran around her eyes, the rest having rubbed off.

Suddenly a loud bang was heard from behind her, caused her to twist around and back herself against the wall. No gun? No luck. Where the buttface had she left them? An image came to her mind of the dingy shower (a hose tied to the wall, surrounded by a wobbly bit of fence) out back. She swore stamping her foot right as a few gruff voices began to speak. There was a familiar intonation that caused her heart to try and steady back to a normal rate. Perhaps she was a bit skittish to be jumping at just The Boys.

And then another bang of a door and a creak of woo resounded and Harley bent to the floor, covering her ears. With her infamous save-my-own-butt-instinct, she spat words to the floor with her eyes closed.

“Wasn' me makin’ the noise, swearsies! No pinkies or toes crossed or nuthin’!” No-siree was she getting into any more trouble. Who knows where she’d be kicked out of then?

Words: 1,269
Muse: Fake Palindromes- Andrew Bird
Outfit: Too Lazy?
Comments: uhh, none at the mo. :D

[/size]

[The Joker]

Peace and quiet were rare commodities these days. Though of course he wasn’t in the most particularly quiet areas of Gotham, nor did the television in front of him provide him with any sort of profound peace, in his mind’s eye he couldn’t be in a statelier place of Zen than he was now. His bum sitting on a plush purple silk covered round bed, with olive green paint chipping from each side of the walls, decked out with mirrors upon mirrors strewn haphazardly around the room to create the effect of a Mirror Fun House. All, if not many, of these mirrors were cracked, just the way he liked it. A billion reflections of himself in his light purple wife-beater, smiley faced boxers, and man-sock-garter belts that held onto his black dress socks, were all staring back him, distorted and loopy just like the contours of his mind.

The room he had made himself comfortable in was once the grandeur of rooms, the room where the lead actor or actress would waddle away time in getting ready for their big events, would hide away from their adoring fans, and would party till the sun came up. It was only fitting that HE would take this room to be his own.

There was a couch that rested off to the side, and since he was often a very restless man, he would change positions from the bed – to the couch – to the floor – to pacing – and then back to the bed again. The television remote was always in his hands, he hated losing it between the couch pillows or underneath the sheets and having his henchmen come into his quarters to help him look for it. Sometimes a few good henchmen were wasted since they were either too slow in their findings or found another remote that was not the one he was looking for – thus giving him false hope – a feeling he didn’t like very much.

As The Joker jumped up and sprawled himself onto the couch like a lazy cat catching the few rays of morning sun, he flipped through the mildly fuzzy stations of his television set to find some good sources of entertainment. Like the days of yore when the vaudeville cast would wile away in here preparing for their shows, he too at the moment was preparing for his big event, well more like waiting for the circumstances of his actions to finally catch up to him. As he dully clicked his remote control watching the images flicker before his eyes, he had forgotten that insolent little brat Bob who was holding his antennae in place.

The only reason he had remembered him now was because he saw a dribble of clear water drip down onto the TV screen. When he looked up to see where the leak was, he was met with the sniveling brat, tears running down his face and nose drippings falling onto his TV. He frowned. And as his bubbling eyes clashed with “Bob’s” (at least that what he called him), he melancholy replied, “I want the news, not the weather, got it?” Immediately, the shook young gentleman nodded his head, wiped his nose and eyes quickly, and firmly held the antennae above his head with shaking hands and arms. Bob wasn’t Joker’s regular guys, in fact, Bob never had worked for the Joker – unfortunately for him – he happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and was forced to keep his television working – lest he liked the idea of being fed to hyenas.

But in any case, Bob, at the moment, blended in perfectly well with the rest of his fuddled and misshapen furniture that he could barely distinguish him from the rug. And as he settled back into a more comfortable state of being, his eyes wandered back down to the idiot box and were met with an image of an infomercial.

“Need cash now?” The woman on the television inquired before pulling out a black plastic bag with the words GOLD written on top of it. “Then send in your used, old and broken golden goods to us and we’ll pay for shipping and handling and give you the price for your old gold! Send it now, and we’ll even give you a fifty dollar bonus!”

The Joker rolled his eyes. “I could make a better infomercial than that,” he began his channel surfing once more. “Need cash now?” He mimicked the woman. “Then send in your old and boring children in a duffel bag! We’ll pay for shipping and handling and give you the lump sum of their body parts! Send them now, and we’ll give you their kidneys for free!” He chuckled as his eyes stopped on a very familiar TV show.

Jerry Springer.

Now he wasn’t very fond of too many talk shows (The Tyra Banks show made him want to vomit his insides out) – but there was something about Jerry that was full of pure unadulterated idiotic mass entertainment. There was no purpose to this show, no one learned or gained anything from it, but the sexual innuendos, the fighting and dramatic white trash storylines made it classic American television. He admired the feeble man to use monstrosity for profits, and even expressed his admiration through fan letters he had sent to Jerry (though he never received any replies – Jer did seem like a busy guy).

And as he guffawed and laughed horrendously as a transvestite and her (his) boy-lover began duking it out on stage - he was soon melded back into his fidgety and irritable disposition when he heard the door to his room open. At first anxious to see who it was, his anxiousness soon melted into annoyance which soon grew into fury in all about five seconds when he realized it was none other than his moll, Harley Quinn.

Wasn’t she supposed to be in Arkham?

As he watched her bounce her petite self into the room, settle herself in, humming all the while, and then speaking about – God knows what. He flipped.

He had been frustrated and at his wits end the entire day; and she wasn’t there – having to see her baby blue eyes stare at him with such mindlessness was the last thing he needed at the moment. He didn’t want to have to grace her with his presence, didn’t want to entertain her with stories about himself, or even wanted to particularly hit her – none the less touch her. She was needed but she wasn’t there and he managed just fine without her (as seen by Bob and the man he nearly beaten to death earlier that day), and now she had the gall to strump her way back into his arms? Oh no, no, no!

He immediately jumped out of the couch, went towards Bob, pulled one of the antennas from out of his hand and began to repeatedly whip and beat Harley from behind shouting at her, “GET OUT! YOU LITTLE TWIT! OUT!” Her cries of pain and bewilderment, usual symphonies of complete pleasure to his ears were now annoying little screeches, as if tiny high pitched forks were stabbing and scraping themselves into his ear drums. Once he had hustled her out into the hallway, he proceeded to throw her stuff out, hitting a few of them onto her person and then slamming the door shut.

He heaved a few heavy sighs, twitched, grumbled something incoherent under his breath, before turning back to look at Bob with a ghastly smile upon his face. The antenna sticking out from his hand and out towards Bob. “Sorry about that old boy,” he waited for Bob to take back the antenna, “You know women.” Bob blinked, he wasn’t sure what had just happened, but as he gingerly took the antenna from the Joker’s hand, it broke in half.

They both watched as the other half fell to the floor, the air in the room went still, and for a brief moment nothing happened. But sure enough, in a blaze of fury, the Joker ripped the broken half from Bob’s hand and stabbed him in the knee with it. He fell onto the floor with a loud thunk and screamed out loud as he cradled his bloody knee in his hands. He was then met with a forceful kick in the face from the wild jester and was repeatedly kicked until unconsciousness. With a final stomp from his heel onto his nose, he took another deep breath, stared down at the bloody mess – and wondered for a brief moment how much the cleaning bill would be to get rid of blood and teeth from the carpet.

Grabbing Bob from both arms he proceeded to drag him out from the room and out into the hallway. He was then met with the loud shrills of Harley’s voice as she cowered in fear of his wrath – but his wrath at the moment was spent, and as he looked down at her with burning eyes he monotonously demanded, “Take it down in the basement.” He prodded Bob’s body with his foot, “And I would ask you to give him those banana flavored formaldehyde coated placebos but – since you’re as reliable as a republican – you’d probably kill him.” He glared down, his stained teeth biting at his lower lip and his hand placed on his hips, and his sock covered feet tapping the ground. He appeared to be in some deep form of concentration, but pulled out of it as he began walking towards the kitchen area.

“I need a drink” he remarked out loud to himself and as he flipped the switch to see the kitchen area with full colored vividness – he was further displeased to find a mess all over the kitchen floor. With such deep and arduous anguish from the pits and bowels of what could only be the deepest corner of his phalanx, he bellowed, “HARRLLEEYYY!”

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley let out a sigh of relief when no form of punishment came her way. Of course, it was double sided. Usually when she was getting the brunt of his anger, his hands were on her. And no matter what they were doing or how much they were injuring her, she enjoyed his touch. The first time Joanie had heard about this phenomenon she’d given it some complex name and nearly wrung her neck (Harley was sure it wouldn’t have the same effect as when her Puddin’ did it) about it. She was bending her body backwards and changing her responses and everything to fit him. Well, what was so wrong with that?

He left her with the man, and her fingers danced slightly over her neck as she watched Him step over the body and away from them. Erotic asphyxiation was nothing she’d experienced before Him, and it wasn’t something she’d even considered toying with. But now? Now fingers looped around her neck pressuring points and leaving bruises was…fantastical. It was intimate and made her stomach twist. Joanie had gotten even more angry at that bit. Perhaps it wasn’t just the breath-holding that made her jones for a fix of her favorite clown, but just the idea of Him touching her for long enough to make her light headed. Anyways, the very memory of Him touching her put a smile on her face as she rolled the fat man down the stairs.

She wasn’t sure who he was, what he’d done, or why the Joker cared to continue a torture session with him- but she didn’t ask questions-especially when she wasn’t in His best o’ graces at the moment. The man’s body thudded with each step it hit. Harley crossed her arms as she kicked him repeatedly, sending him over the next step. Finally, when he reached the poured cement on the basement, Harley dragged him across the room and propped him against the wall. He gave a groan and Harley mimicked in a higher pitched voice as she dug around for the placebos.

“Unreliable, am I?” She asked the man, pulling one out of the torn plastic baggie. It had been tossed neglectfully onto a stained folding table in the corner. She hated the basement. It was full of old props and old settings, making the hairs on her body stand en garde. Eyes everywhere were staring her down, and it was the perfect place for some loony bin in a cape to jump out at her. She swallowed, turning back to him. Harley padded over and pride the man’s jaw open before shoving it nearly down his throat. She didn’t know why she was doing it, but she didn’t ask questions.

“I ain’t unreliable! Yah just gagged an nuthin’ else. Yah kill a guy once, once! And it’s down the tube for yah.” She said, tilting her head at the man. “Yah got it lucky- you didn’t get kicked outta the b-“ But suddenly she was cut off as her name resonated through the entire building and her being.

He had this way of calling her name. She didn’t know how He did it, or even if He meant to do it. Perhaps his vocal cords were coated with some sort of ambrosia. No matter how he said her name- from a slight purr to the positively distraught tones as just then- she got delightful shivers up her back. Sometimes the shivers increased and a smile spread across her own lips. Sometimes, like now, she felt her whole insides droop. Uh-oh. He must have found her mess.

Harley raced up the stairs, tripping over the top step and going flying across the ground. So much for graceful gymnast. She scrambled to her feet, rushing into the kitchen as fast as she could. Indeed he had found her mess, and Harley found herself wrapping her arms around herself. Just because she enjoyed his punishment…often… did not mean she looked forward to being taught a lesson. The light made her blink, her eyes narrowing as she tried to watch his movements for any signs of a strike towards her.

“I was just rearrangin’ some stuff Puddin’!” She said, swallowing and falling to her knees immediately trying to clean up what she could and shove it back into the cupboard. If she was a dog her ears would have been hunched forward and her tale between her legs. “And then the boys got back and scared the beegezes out of me an’ then I heard a bang an’….” She drifted off as one of the boys eyed her from his spot in the hall. She narrowed her own eyes at him before returning to the mess on the floor.

She finished shoving the containers into the cupboard with speed, using her bare palms to wipe the gunk on the floor to the corners and wiping the mess on a wall. A few chips of paint fell to the floor as she did so. Finally she permitted herself to stand up and looked up at him. Her eyes were always wide, always eager around him. She couldn’t help it- she’d tried just to try and please him. Either wide and eager or narrowed in fear.

But they were wide now, her hands playing with each other as she watched his movements. It had been forever since she’d been ‘home’. She’d had to break herself out of Arkham- no small feat for her. He or Red usually helped her out- she was a bumbling mess usually without instruction. This was one of those rare exceptions that proved the rule apparently. Her wide eyes couldn’t resist giving his body a once over, her breath catching in her lungs.

Glorious, down to the sock-suspenders that made her toes curl eagerly.

When she realized how long she’d been openly ogling him, she held her breath and bit her lip. She could feel his eyes on her, making her squirm. “Didja…” She’d almost asked if he’d missed her, but caught the question with her tongue. Later, Harlz ole girl. She rerouted the question. “Didja still wanna drink?”

Words: 1,021
Muse: Fake Palindromes- Andrew Bird
Outfit: Too Lazy?
Comments: Lukewarm feeling towards this. >.>

[/size]

[The Joker]

He twitched in place, feeling his hands curl into fists and knuckles turn white with pure hot rage. He was fuming, and if he here a comical cartoon figure or at most a tea pot – steam would be pouring out from his ears. On top of having to wait, of going hungry, of bumping into annoying people, and nearly getting robbed, this bumbling fool who had the pleasure of being allowed even near him – was creating messes and walking around as if she OWNED the place.

He closed his eyes and put both of his hands to his face and let them slide down in exasperation. Talking out loud, “The clouds opened up and God said, ‘I hate you Joker’.”

Harley, that delusional minx. How dense – how self-centered could one be? Living with him for so long – couldn’t she just TELL that he was in a sour mood? That he didn’t have the time or the energy to DEAL with any of this strenuous business right now? Instead she just poses herself in front of him, opens her mouth, and does little to remedy the situation.

He didn’t know what to do with himself, he wanted to grab something, hurt someone, and do irreparable damage to someone’s vital organs – but instead – he stood there, hands to his side, hunched, and with a creepy crooked back facing his goons who were a little worried about his state of mind. I mean he was indeed a certified whack-job, but his yelling, screaming, hitting and throwing of various objects would at least follow the same repeatable pattern he always did whenever he was angry at someone or something.

But instead he just stood there.

It was about the scariest thing they had ever seen, and some of them had slipped out into the darkness – deciding to come back when the coast was clear. Others stayed behind, those with violent natures, wanted to see the “champagne bottle burst” – as they would say.

There was a rumbling from the stairs, and he heard the loud pitter patter of her footsteps as she ran up the stairs to answer to his bellowing call. Once she had pratfall-ed onto the linoleum floor, usually, he would’ve given a giggle, some sign of ugly and brutal satisfaction at her ungraceful and most likely hurtful skirmish. But not this time, he didn’t even turn around to stare into her very eyes with such intensity so that she could feel the heat of anger burn holes into her. There was only utter and eerie stillness, he hadn’t moved a muscle from the last time she had seen him, and though for the most part Harley could distinguish what it was that he was going to do, whom he was mad at, or what sorts of thing filled him with mirth, at this very moment – his emotional state of being was really all up in the air.

He heard her scramble to her knees, begging him for forgiveness, but this only registered a small flicker of eye movement towards her direction as he watched her from the corner of his eye. He watched her petite form slither and squirm beneath his gaze, like a pestering little worm wriggling from the needle point light from underneath a magnifying glass. He could set her on fire with his look. His brows were furrowed, the curvature of lines on his forehead with grease paint making the line even more prominent, were pulled into a distinguished V shape. His mouth was pulled down from its usual state of beaming grins and turned into a mix of a frown a sneer and a look of utter disgust, a facial expression only he could ever accomplish. Many had the misconception that he had a rictus grin on his face at all times – which was simply not the case. He had a full array of emotional expressions ranging from sadness to complete anger. Simply because the Chelsea grin had led may people to believe he was “permanently” smiling, it was his look, his body language, and entirety of face which would pour out what he truly was feeling at the moment. Even when was not genuine about certain emotions he displayed, he knew how to exaggerate his features in order to make them seem as genuine (or dis-genuine) as possible.

But it was always his eyes. Those green acidic eyes that could ruin an empire, the eyes that held behind them a million of secrets. Even though the light source was behind him, giving his body and even eerier overbearing and overshadowing look in front of Harley as she cleaned up her mess, his eyes still seem to sparkle with the same intensity. Watching her from the deep sunken gaze that his black eye make up accentuated. He could tell his look killed her, in this situation the eye of the master did more than his hands could.

The harvest of a quiet eye, that broods and sleeps on his own heart.

Once Harley had scraped up the various bits and pieces off the floor, talking nervously about – whatever it was she talking about – that didn’t matter – it was the sound of her voice that did. That octave above her normal talking range. He could hear it ooze into his ears like that blood that oozed out form her hands from the places she had cut herself from trying to pick up pieces of glass. Her pleasing intonation and her big round doe like eyes as she stood up to look at him made him want to straddle her beneath his hands and gently pull out her eye balls from their sockets. It was so sickeningly sweet, he wanted to hit her, coddle her, and run her over a truck – and not all in that order.

He heard her inquire about his thirst. And for the first time in a long time he actually gave some sign of vitality.

He cracked his neck and stood up straighter, and then he blinked. There was still some momentary silence between the two, but he could tell Harley was thrilled he wasn’t a stiff cardboard cut-out any more. And her wandering eye over him, her eagerness to touch him and be touched. And at that instant, he knew, he knew how he would HURT her.

He smiled, maliciously.

“No Harley,” he said coolly as he pulled his gaze away from her and towards the refrigerator, walking past her without so much as a look or a touch, just simply movement of air. “I can DO it myself.”

He began to whistle as he opened up the fridge and pulled out a carton of milk and squeeze tube of chocolate sauce. It was the Looney tunes theme song he was whistling too, and his back was now facing the bewildered Harley Quinn. He was brimming with delight now, more than eager to make his own chocolate milk as he proceeded to pour in the milk, followed but a disgustingly sweet amount of chocolate into a mug in the shape of a stout circus clown. His favorite cup. As he stirred the contents together with a long spinney finger, and pulled it out to give it a taste check, he diligently turned around to find that his moll was still in the kitchen. His eyes widened with surprise, “You’re still here?”


Words: 1,229
Muse: B:TAS - Almost Got 'Im
Outfit: I think I already told you in le posts >.>
Comments: I wanted to do this thingy-ma-bob because I thought it looked cool <.<

[Harleen Quinzel]

She hadn’t left. She never left, not willingly. She was as dedicated as the word could imply- under devotion in the dictionary was a little picture of her. She oozed it from her voice, her pores, and her body language. It was what she was known for; it was something she couldn’t help. The way she watched him still, her shoulders hunched and her eyes still wide as blue gumballs, only displayed it more. Her eyes never left him, twitching only when he began moving again. She was so devoted that she was unbalanced by the fact she couldn’t serve him his drink.

She’d been in Arkham for over six months- not the longest for the bouncing blonde, but far from her shortest sentence. Every day was a pain, an ache, and a want to come home. Of course she was fed adequately, healed, and washed, but what kind of trade was that for leaving the man she committed her life to? She’d lay awake at night wondering just who was doing things for him- especially the little things. Who’d clean the stains from his favorite suit jackets? Who’d stay at his elbow in case he even at the slightest titch in his throat and needed a drink? Who knew the right shades of war paint, or how to get it off? Psh, no one could wield cold cream and vegetable oil like she! No one, not a single soul, could keep track of his socks like she did. It was that warm bubbly feeling she got when he needed her that kept her going.

Which is why his comment that he could do it, something so easy she couldn’t be mess up, it lashed and stung. Her bottom lip wibbled slightly and her she blinked slowly. Had she been gone so long that he thought her inadequate now? Another pang hit her heart. Oh her poor, poor Puddin’. He didn’t have a soul in the world taking care of him and his genius mind, and now he felt she couldn’t, wouldn’t, shouldn’t take care of him anymore. If anger wasn’t radiating from his being like uranium bomb she might have thrown herself around him in an attempt to make him feel better.

But she knew better, and had some common sense. You didn’t encircle a crazed, angry clown in your embrace. She knew, usually, when to wait. But when he turned around with one long, pale finger in his mouth her knees nearly buckled. Her worried, woeful expression flickered in the smallest grin. He had a way about doing things- from tasting chocolate milk to giving her a puffy lip- that was just glorious. The smile chanced reappearance when she realized she’d caught him off guard.

She never caught him off guard. He always seemed to be able to register what she was going to say and do five minutes before she did it; to see his eyebrows go up and his eyes show a visible surprise almost chanced a giggle from her throat. Her mind jumped almost as much as her heart, and she could have positively licked/kissed/tackled him all at once. Luckily, she resisted the urge.

“O’course I’m still here, Puddin’!” She said, her tone doing its best to convey just how excited she was to stay there, waiting for his instruction. She wouldn’t have moved for the world, unless he told her to. There was always a chance he could need her for something, or just want her to make the drink after all. It was almost amusing how quickly she’d gone from being somber to being excited again. She licked her lips, the slight grin on her visage slowly growing.

“In case you needed somethin’.” Harley further insisted, moving to put the milk away. It was one of the harder commodities, at least it had been before she’d been shoved back into the Asylum, and she wasn’t going to be the one to go find a new gallon. She pressed the bottle of chocolate syrup to her finger, letting herself have the smallest lick as a treat. She licked the dollop off before returning that container to the ice box as well. Her eyes next left him, though her feet propelled her around the clown and kitchen. Her baby blue eyes continually sought to drink in his figure, like some sort of addict watching his dealer prepare the drug as the guy watched. She could taste the slight coppery taste of her blood mixed with the chocolate. Her finger pulled from her mouth with a slight pop.

She padded over to him, allowing herself within a few inches of his body. His height was almost always daunting to her. He towered over the petite blonde, well over a foot taller than her. She craned her neck to meet his eyes again (well, at least attempt to bring her eyes to his gaze. She was never quite sure he was looking at her unless he pointedly, furiously looked at her).

“Or anthin’. I’d get an’ do anythin’ for you, Mistah Jay.” She said as if she were swearing her life away. In reality she almost was, which was almost life-altering to Harley as eating a potato. She’d done it many, many times over. It wasn’t as if she were swearing off of a 'normal' life this time, either.

Her tongue darted out again, running along the chapped bottom lip that adorned her face. “I’mma make up for blunderin’ and getting’ locked up, swearsies Puddin’.” She promised, nodding three times for good measure. “No more messes.” She heard a snort through the wall from the blundering bumbling boys that had decided to stay, but ignored a temper-filled remark for the time being.

It was the glorious, brilliant clown in front of her who was going to get her undivided attention- just like he deserved.

Words: 977
Muse: So much different stuff. It's why the whole post doesn't flow. >.>
Outfit: Too Lazy?
Comments: wtf is this crap. >.> It's 1 AM and I don't know what this is. My apologizes.

[/size]

[The Joker]

When he leaned himself back into the counter for support and began sipping away at the lobotomized head that served as his drinking cup - he wasn’t genuinely shocked at her presence still being there. In fact, he 100 % expected her to be there, the only reason he had inquired after her was because he wished to add the salt into her wounds. He wanted to hurt her feelings as if he didn’t want or expected her to dote on him any longer. Again adding to her uselessness to his life that he had already established from the get-go.

And though he would never outwardly or even inwardly admit to himself that he “needed” her. To some extent and degree she was a little more than useless to him.

She fed the hyenas, she cleaned up the house, made him his breakfast, lunch and dinner (though she was a terrible cook and the majority of the time this consisted of mundane sugary sweets or things that had strict directions in which she could easily follow - TV dinners, hot dogs, etc.), at times she even took the painstaking task of clothing him and laying out the attire he wished to wear. At times when he was feeling most generous (or perhaps most cruel), he’d let her button him up, fix his collar, zip up his pants - it was very deliciously funny to him to watch her from below his waist line tickle with erotic excitement in dressing him up. And more importantly, it delighted him even more when he had the pleasure to look at himself in a full length mirror as she did so.

Of course, down at the binge when she was still locked up, he knew how to take care of himself. To fetch his own food, to put on his own clothes, to chuckle at his own ingeniousness. For the majority of the time, he was GLAD to get rid of the ol’ ball-and-chain. She was annoying, dull-witted, and overall distracting - she took time away from him to admire HIMSELF. With her gone he realized how productive he could be, how many jokes he could come up with in a minute, how many ways to kill the Batman, and how to make exploding creme-bruelee. But deep within the dark bowels of the night, when he cuddled and wrapped his arms around himself as he was whisked off into delusional sleep, he would sometimes wake up to the scent of her, the sound of her, even more terrifyingly the SIGHT of her.

During the times she was away - were the times he was most busy and preoccupied. Of course one would claim that now that the cancer was cut out - he could live life to the fullest again - but on another level, his job orientation and focus were to the point of being strangely peculiar. Working away at all odd hours of the night - as if trying to avoid something looming just around the corner of his mind - or should we say - someone.

And as he watched her pipe up with pleasantness at exceeding his expectations of “stalking” him - he rolled his eyes. The old bard sometimes just didn’t get it.

And as he finished up the last sugary drops at the bottom of his cup, leaning his head back to shake out the last of it’s contents, he watched with a lazy eye as she began bopping up and down with life again. Eager to get on his good side, eager to please, eager to do anything with her mild-dosages of power to absolve him of any previous stress that he had exhibited earlier. He placed his cup on the counter, his back still leaning onto it as she moved like a busy little bee around the kitchen, putting the milk away, the chocolate too.

He felt the first shreds of anger slip off him like a coat as he watched her wiggle and dance around, putting the items back into their prospective places. There was a small grin on his face when he saw, much like a child, slip some of the chocolate onto her finger and lick it clean off, her face revealing that she had partook some of her salty blood drops into the mix as well. A small chuckle escaped his lips as he watched her baby-blue eyes look up and down his figure, drinking him in, and him letting her admire his physique. He began to laugh when she had vowed to give her all to him, to sacrifice all of her till there was nothing left to give.

She was his creation, his toy, his own personal show. He was the one who knew who she really was, he was the one who gave her life, and he would be the one to eventually take it away from her - one day. His puppet, and he the puppet master - his court jester to his Jokerland. And most importantly, when he looked at her, looking at him, he saw himself as clear as a summer’s day in her wide gyre eyes. He marveled himself in her.

“Of course you will my dear, dear Harlequin.” He said breathily at her last words, she really did pay for all her sins - one way or another. His eyes now only half open and grin now calm and endearing. His demeanor much more softer and playful than it was only a few moments ago. “You always do.” Without a word he pushed himself off the counter and directly in front of her. In one fluid and swift motion, he grabbed onto her wrist with a forceful pinch and slipped his hand around her waist till his bone white fingers tickled delicately on the small of her back. He had now entwined them into a simple dancing position, a Cheshire grin splayed on his face - a knowing smile to something only he could comprehend.

And as he commenced the waltz around the room, carelessly mopping the floor with Harley’s feet as he lead the way around the kitchen, he let his eyes close and his vocal cords hum out a tune to Judy Garland’s “As Long As He Needs Me”. For a demented clown, his suaveness and charm knew no bounds, his dancing skills were optimal as if he had taken lessons, and if he were a sane man - he probably would’ve made quite a heart-breaker. Though at the moment, he was in the business of either pulling out hearts or twisting the knife into this little rag doll he had within his arms.

Words: 1,112
Muse: Judy Garland - As Long As He Needs Me
Outfit: I think I already told you in le posts >.>
Comments: "Ever danced with the devil by the pale moonlight?"

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley’s smile almost faltered when that deep rumble of a chuckle passed her clown’s lips. He’d been livid with her blunders almost a moment before, and she’d been witness to his punishments before. There were different levels, she supposed, of her punishments (Joanie had been livid when she’d used the word ‘constructive’ when describing her wounds when first entered as a patient into Arkham. She voiced it every time with ‘Abuse’). There were times when she genuinely deserved a black eye, broken arm, and a few kicks in the gut, but there were also times when she put up with them for her crazed clown’s relief and enjoyment. He always, it seemed to Harley, was much more terrifying during the latter of the two.

So when that laugh had hit her ears she was unsure if it was going to go her way or not. He could get the mug back into his hand, smashing it into pretty porcelain pieces over her head and then blame her for ruining his mug. He could kick her footing out and let her whole body fall to the ground to take the beating from the shards of glass that still littered the floor. He could do a number of things to her with just his hands. It was funny how one became more adept at noticing things in the room that could cause bodily harm when you spent time with the Joker. All the security guards could do it too, but they were much less creative in how they visioned her puddin’s wit with everyday objects.

But it had gone her way and Harley had let out a little squeak of delight as he pulled her right up against his chest. His words, which had been startlingly and soothing in their own right were drowned out by the feeling of his flesh against her own. The skin-to-skin contact made her heart and breathing falter, skipping beats and breaths as she inhaled the best she could with only shallow breaths to aid her. His arms were encircling her, trapping her (though, without any objections from her part) against her clown. It had been so, so, so very long since she’d been this close to him. Moments like this were not commonplace. Oh no, she had to work very, very hard and on her tip toes for something like this; and intimate embrace, his fingers only slightly tight against her wrist. She could certainly still feel her fingers, at least.

Harley felt her body relax against his with another high-pitched emission from her lips. She could feel his hand pressed against the curve of her spin and his chest rising and falling- proof he really was a man and not the angel in her head. It was tricky when you knew such a genius, such a perfection of man, to think him human sometimes. It was times like that that she became unsure if she even deserved to breathe his air. But then magical, momentous times like this came about; they were perfect together-the perfect couple. Her heart did flip flops in her chest cavity.

He was always such a perfection; so romantic and charming. The way he hummed and rocked her back in forth in some sort of stylish dance (she was content to stumble over the glass littering the ground as he more skill-fully pulled her along) would have made her knees collapse and her body to slump to the floor. He just had this skill, this way about him! The smile on her face broadened as wide as it could. He could romance the degree from a psychologist. Heh. He’d been able to do just that with her; from their very first meetings he’d entranced her; his eyes, his movements, and his method of speech. She was captivated from head to…well bits…to her toes. He was a drug and she had an addictive personality, said nicely. And she did whatever it took for him to want her back- she lived, even know, to please him.

Which worked out just fine and dandy because pleasing him pleased her to no possible ends. She wanted to do things for him, make him content, make him smile. She lived to see to his needs! No longer for her own self did she breathe, but for his. She was a childish, pig-tailed bleach blonde and he was her murdering psychopathic genius clown. How perfectly romantic.

Another lump of glass stabbed into her barefoot and she could feel a warm trickle of blood start to pour out from her wound and flow along the curve of her foot as she tried to keep height and pace with her puddin’. Harley was too far gone to notice, except the little niggle in the back of her mind that reminded her that she’d just promised not to make another mess. Well, blood stains were a mess- but they were one of the few appreciate in this joint. And anyways, if she kept getting her way in this little dandy streak she might not be making a mess in the kitchen for long…if you caught her drift. “Awe, Puddin’, don’t just know howta make a girl’s body turn ta jello.”

Harley inhaled deeply, her stomach, lungs, diaphragm, and very soul filling with his scent. Yet another noise broke past her lips, this time more a breathy, more guttural sigh. He smelled like smoke and gun powder and blood and chemicals and…baby powder! Her stomach did a happy little flop. She smelled like baby powder; she used it in a disgustingly liberal excess. Some part of being hoped, dreamed, prayed that it was because he’d been trying to remember her smell on his sheets or clothing or something. The saner (better of two evils really. It was more like her common sense) part of hoped that it wasn’t because he’d had to have cleaned up a mess caused by her belongings. This wasn’t going to end well if remembered.

She tried to drown that thought out with his voice, closing her baby blues to let the hum of his throat bury itself into her mind and body. The smile that had sunk for just a moment reappeared. “Yah got’cha Harleykins back all for y’rself , Mistah J. No one’s gunna make me leave ya’ side; No sirree.” Harley buried her nose into his chest (as far as she could reach), nuzzling him through the fabric of his wife beater.

Words: 1077
Muse: Harley's playlist.
Outfit: Too Lazy?
Comments: I have no idea why this took so long. I almost had to physically wrestle with the words to get this out. >.> Sorry, love! And I ADORE your pictureee ♥

[/size]

[The Joker]

His emotions and mind were so mercurial, at one moment he could be pounding the snot out of someone and the next laughing with them at the newest fashion faux pas. It was part of the ever intricate and ever complicated personality that was his and his alone. Many doctors had the misconception that he shared a form of multiple personalities, that he morphed himself into a new person each day, that he was even FAKING his own mental case in order to avoid the electric chair. Of course he would never open his mouth to deny or object any of these claims – in fact just to screw around with the doctors and reporters, he would strongly suggest all three of them, and the immediately deny it. It was a no-brainer way to keep himself entertained in the slab.

There were always more fun ways to get some action in there as well. But these involved elaborate schemes that were birthed in the middle of the night in the cloak of darkness. He always chuckled at the idea of always working his hardest at night, most likely because The Dark Knight was working twice as hard as he was to find him. The idea always made him shiver with absolute delight, it was only called for that he had to work double over time during the evenings in order to prepare for the final curtain call when Bat-freak finally found out his humble adobe. Of course, not EVERYTHING would go as according to plan, now that the Bat-side-show had, for lack of better word, expanded, sometimes he would get dropped up by Bat-grill and the Boy-Blunder.

He HATED them with a passion of a thousand suns. And night after night, in and out of Arkham, he would always fantasize about impaling them on plastic giant crayons or bashing their brains in with rock hard cookies that Harley makes. Speaking of Harley, she was a terrible cook, most of the time anything that required instructions or were self-explanatory she could make…most of the time. If he recalled correctly, one time an EasyMac was set a flame within their microwave. How could someone so stupid burn down an EasyMac? The word EASY was clearly printed on the label title so signify it’s simplicity – it’s suppose to be FOOL-PROOF! In this case, apparently, it was not Harley proof. Speaking of which, she was also terrible at dancing. How could someone whose so limber be terrible at dancing? How do they get the raspberry filling into those tiny little milk chocolate people?

After contemplating about this and that he finally opened his eyes, and looked down. He was definitely in this hole he called a home. He was still very much dancing, though the beat now was only within his prefrontal lobe, and yes, the blonde haired, blue eyed, rag doll was still coddling and careening her grape sized little head into his chest, his body now covered in her scent of baby powder thanks to her. He wanted to take both of his massive hands onto her head and squish it till all her green and purple grape juice came gushing out. But instead he opted to continue to toss her around the room, making her hurtfully bump into things, scratch into nails sticking out the walls, and repeatedly stay within the part of the floor where the glass was clearly crunching into her heel. Her blood leaving traces along the floor to mark their path in their waltzing.

Noticing the bloody streaks, he grinned, he began to coordinate their dancing more strictly, pulling Harley straighter up pushing her and pulling her with much more vigor and aim. He could tell by her face she was slightly displeased with the new strictness of their bodies, forcefully removing her way from him, leaving her body wanting and his radiating with such heat that at times she wanted to fall back into his embrace but he would hold her still in place, lest she ruin his work, and it was his art he held with such esteem that he probably would’ve bashed her head open for ruining it.

But exactly what was this art he was creating?

Was it not the rhythmic movements of their bodies to an imaginary tune? Of course not. Dancing wasn’t an art, it was a science. A combination of practiced routines, of formulated laws that were previously created by another, and by the chemistry of two bodies that either made or broke the entire dance performance. Of course, you could always dance by yourself, but that would always lead to the hypothetical view of interpretive dancing – which many found to be in poor taste. Including himself – that was just down right weird. But besides that, it was not the dancing that was his art, it was just the paint brush, or more appropriately, he was the hand and Harley was the brush and the floor was the canvas.

Listening to Harley, and his way with women, he nodded his head in full agreement. Though he didn’t have the mind to actually respond (he was indeed getting the bloody lines on the floor just right) – they both knew that he knew that he was quiet a charmer. On many occasions, he has had many admirers mail him from within the confines of Arkham, on other occasions, when Harley was away, he would have fabulous women flowing from his arms, and sometimes even when Harley was around women flocked to him from all corners of the world. He was still very much a catch even with psychotic status, and the idea of it tickled him so perfectly. Of course all those “good-hearted” people would find him repulsive, at first. He knew how to sway them, how to break that delicate little shell and eat their hearts. It was so simple he hardly did it very often – in fact the last time that idea went hay wired was when Harleen Quinzel decided to take him on.

People often have the misconception that the comedic tragedy lies with her when it actually lies with him. God, granted him the Senility to forget the people he never liked or cared for, the good fortune to run into the ones he did (well in his own demented way of liking and caring), and the eyesight to tell the difference. Unfortunately with this broad, his senility was cured, his good fortune short, and his eyesight blinded. She followed, bounced, and stalked him to the ends of the earth; it was a joke gone horribly wrong, or perhaps horribly right. She was a raging tumor that would never shake off him unless surgically and terminally removed. Though it was only benign and actually looked more like a fashionable birthmark than a horrid boil.

A birthmark on his behind.

He lifted her off the ground, with much ease, and practically tossed her off to the side so her dripping feet won’t ruin his hard work. He had swept, jumped, and jived a perfect circle with Batman’s insignia within. The Joker’s own personal Batsignal right in the kitchen. He bent down to admire it, the perfect circle, even the perfect symmetry of the Bat sign (it was the hardest part), you could tell by his ease in creating it, that he had practiced the drawing on paper a dozen times before. In his eye it was beautiful, and he went to turn to look over at Harley when he remembered something. A squeak, a niggle, a phrase, a sentence, coming from her mouth before he had dispersed her from him.

“…No one’s gunna make me leave ya’ side; No sirree.”

What? No, no, no no no no no no non ono no ononono nononono! No peace? No quiet? No moment to catch wind of his own fabulousness without her ruining it for him? No plush pink furniture and baby dolls to ruin the feng shui of his estate? What about the weed she calls a friend? Can’t she go hang out with her for about – oh a couple of years – till she learns to be less annoying and incessant (though that would probably take her entire life time)? It just wasn’t fair!

He turned towards her, the front of his body now completely facing her. His anguish didn’t etch itself into his face or physique, at the moment he kept it bottled. Her baby blue eyes, her smile, and the lump in her throat rising in expected adoration and praise at his work created from her bleeding feet.

He knew then what had happened, he'd gotten too soft on her. She no longer feared, revered, and hid from him. He had coddled her, let her in, held her, and now even made her a part of HIS art – HIS! She was becoming too comfortable, and though she twitched and pained when he hit her, or bashed her, or even emotionally and mentally lashed her, she would come bounding up around the bend like a rubber band. Why? Because his fear has been dispelled, she thought she could just get away with it, saw him like a big cuddly teddy bear – well he wasn’t! She was pleased to be within his range of destruction, though she always was, but this time, it was as if she had the misconception that he just wouldn’t end her pathetic life! Why he didn’t do it sooner – astounded him as much as it did everybody else! And the anger boiled up within him, his fingers curled themselves, and within the pit of his stomach something sunk deeper within his abysmal bowels, the source of his anger, an unrecognizable fear.

As calmly as he could, he walked up to the counter side, picked up a prop cane and held it within his hand gingerly, letting it bounce up and down within his grasp. He was going to have to put that fear back into her own heart as well.

With rapid fluidity, he grabbed her again, the familiar waltzing stance, but this time his hand slinked back behind her neck roughly and the other held the cane right in the back of her hand, their hands still grasping each other but her knuckles were cradled hurtful by the wooden cane. They began dancing again, though out of the corner reaches of the kitchen, out of the way of the tile and the glass, but farther away from the light. He brought his face close to her, and he let both of their noses touch. “Do you know why I like dancing?” Their lips were so close to one another that when he spoke, it felt like a kiss.

Their feet moved quickly now, basking themselves further and further into the blackness beyond. When she missed a few steps he would either crush her petite feet under him with such force, or squeeze and pinch the back of her neck. But most evident was the crushing pain emanating from his hand. His grip was stronger than it needed to be, and the staff was crushing into her knuckles and her fingers were unable to even move none the less pull away from his grasp.

His question was rhetorical, but he waited long enough to answer it as if expecting a response. “It’s because,” her foot slipped and he squashed her toes beneath his heel. “It’s the first way to learn what a man is going to do before he does it.”

Words: 1,915
Muse: The Little Book of Humorous Quotations
Outfit: I think I already told you in le posts >.>
Comments: Mmmm tofu chicken Mcnuggets <3

[Harleen Quinzel]

Harley was enjoying herself quite nicely. His hands were on her (in a rather unusual fashion- not in harmful manner); he was letting her be close to him. There was nothing, nothing that pleased her more than being allowed the pleasure of pressing her body (even clothed) against his body. It was a pleasure, it was permitted. It was usually only a reward for when she’d do something very, very good (which, by anyone’s account, didn’t happen all that often). There were a great many times they’d return to the ha-ha-hacienda of theirs (his) and she’d be permitted a gift of black and blue spots and bloody noses and torn palms, knees, and cheeks. Those were the usual occurrences. It was a rarity indeed for her to be embraced.

This was the sort of thing she fantasized in her cold, dingy, dark cell at Arkham (sorry, her patient suit. Though why the hell the doctors ever called them suits was beyond her, there wasn’t even a metal rim-less toilet in the corner that the men in blackgate were permitted. Apparently crazies tried to drown themselves in the water or something. She didn’t know, the rooms just weren’t suits by any means of the word- nor were they ‘sweet’). She didn’t lay in bed (highly doped up) dreaming of beatings and head bashings and bruises and cuts and scrapes and asphyxiation as so many doctors seemed to think. Yes, yes. She loved when he placed his hands upon her and punished her- she deserved it. She needed it to fix her. Mostly, she needed him to show that he noticed her in some sort of way. But those weren’t her favorite fantasisies. The ones that played behind her eyelids at night, and day, and whenever she got some time to herself in the showers were much more like this.

He’d dance with her, he’d walk with her on his arm like he was proud, and usually they somehow ended naked on the round bed (or the cold shower attached to the bedroom, or the counter, or a broom closet, or the couch in the common area of Arkham, or even on the dirty floor of wherever they’d last been together. She had a highly active imagination, one that served her well locked up- and one that often got in the way of the real Gotham when she got out.

It had served her well before she’d thrust herself completely into his world and his care. There’d been a time where she’d go home, pull out some sort of trashy romance novel about a hot chick, a hot Casanova, something about a castle, and a whole lotta something about sex and be happy. That she could spring her imagination on, but it was so very limiting. Her first interactions as His doctor showed her just how limitless things could be. It had only gone up (or down depending on who you asked) from there. She’d go home, ignore the television (except for the occasional news sequence about those who were dancing over Gotham in sheer delight, both vigilantes and rogues), ignore her romances, and let her mind spin out of control. It hadn’t been long before she’d jumped from diddling herself over doing her patient right there, on her desk, in handcuffs and a straight jacket to curling up and wondering what a gun felt like in one’s hands.

Knives, she knew he preferred knives. But there was something different between the two methods and means of death. Knives, Harley had always thought, seemed much, much more personal. Much more dirty. Not that she minded dirty, but something about carving up another person like a Christmas ham made her stomach curl into the fetal position and rock back and forth. It was easier to picture the cool metal, the want to pull a trigger on someone’s life. Her mind had danced from there to lighting people on fire, to holding someone’s head under water until they gurgled (that was after another doctor had explained the toilet-in-cell bit), and then to bashing her mother’s brains into a wall using the shiny metal, grooved hammer used to beat tenderness into meat. It hadn’t been long before the very ideas slipped into her mind while she was doing things, like dancing.

And the dancing was becoming much more painful now. His arms and hands had changed their grips- much more deliberate and focused. Much more pain for her. His mood had changed, and Harley bit back her lip to keep in a sigh. It was only for so long that her special fantasies played out. She was hoping she’d be able to finagle herself out of her nighties and show him just how much a gal could miss him. Her stomach flipped as a particularly big piece of glass thrust itself into her heel. Thrust? Ahaha. Why was her mind so focused on sex? Inner Harley was grumbling over that, but probably also over the lack of sex six months of a young woman could do to someone! She had a drive! But that was all about to get squished by pain if she knew anything about well…anything. She let it settle into her stomach as she bashed against a jagged counter corner.

Before she could try something to get the earlier mood back (but would she have, if she did come up with something? Probably not. There was a difference, the bouncing blonde knew, than imagining something and actually doing it. Of course, there was also a huge difference between doing it and the whole plan actually working out in her favor or how she wanted it) she was tossed aside like a broke Rag doll.

A pout formed on her pretty little paintless lips as she pulled herself onto the counter she’d been thrown against. However, a bit of relief sprouted from the pouty nature that was forming rapidly in her chest. She had been given a few moments to think (for she could never think when she was so close to Him) and to examine the damage done to her feet. Hell’s bells, inner Harley swore as she began pulling out the fragments of class with the tips of her finger nails. She needed her feet; that was her point, to dance and flip and move like the little gymnast she was for Him. What could would she be if she got an infection on her feet? And it would be all her fault too. She’d have rotting feet, which would have to be cut off, and then she’d be useless and disfigured all at once. She could picture the gnarled green stumps as she sat there. Sometimes she wished she didn’t have her imagination looming in the back of her mind.

She picked out the larger pieces from her right foot, but looked up to admire her clown as she switched to get the hunks of glass from her left foot. She realized, for the first time that he’d been trying to spread her blood into some sort of misshapen oval. It was then, she realized, that the man responsible for her and this artwork was moving closer to her with a quick, seamless gait- with a perfect beating device in his hand. She gulped just in time for him to yank her from the counter and back into their dancing pose.

Inner Harley attempted to cheer, but she most have been located at the base of Harley’s neck. The cheering began to dimmer as His hand latched to that very part of her neck. Her body visibly shook as the cane bashed against her knuckles- she quickly lost feeling in the digits. Which made her wonder, just a little nip in the back of her head, what were the symptoms of blood loss again? She could have thought it out, but her Puddin’ had them so close she was lucky if she could remember to breath.
Through the pain, through the fear that was beginning to loom as precursor to anything they did together her body was so thrilled that his body was so close again. She wet her lips out of instinct, her big baby blues flashing between his dark eyes and his lovely, lovely close lips.

His warm breath against her lips, his body nearly pressed forcibly against hers, his everything made Harley arch her body for a little more of it. She wished she’d taken more dance lessons, just then. Just for him, only for him. She could have pleased him much better if she’d been able to fumble through classical dance steps. She couldn’t stand the monotony of it- and that’s why she’d picked gymnastics above dance. Nothing was ever monotonous for gymnast. He liked dancing, and she didn’t. And she didn’t know why or how (besides the fact that it made him look suave, romantic, sexy, perfect…the list went on as her bran tried to side track her from the scene at hand) he could. She didn’t have an answer, though there was a little wiggling of an idea at the back of her head. It was something she’d heard once, or twice, or three times and had spurted it as her own wisdom. But his mouth was already moving again, warm words dancing across her lips making her lick them again. His foot smashed into hers, the pain starting to make her cringe.

And she couldn’t hold back her little wiggling idea any longer. The two thoughts were almost the same, almost. If you had a mind like the blonde’s who could twist anything into an innuendo with ease. She took a deep breath, met his eyes, licked her lips, and then spoke.

“I-,” another toe crush before she could continue. “I thought it was ‘cause it showed whata person was like...ya know. In bed.” There. It was out. She’d said it. Inner Harley bashed the little pool of longing in Harley’s belly.

Words: 1659
Muse: I wish i could tell you where this came from. I just woke up, opened the laptop, and wrote. BAM.
Outfit: Too Lazy?
Comments: I'm sorry, darling! This took forever, I don't know what the hell this is, nor why Harley is suddenly so singular-tracked when it comes to her mind.

[/size]

[The Joker]

He was kind.

Far too kind.

He let her BE around him for various amounts of time – to coddle and care for him and she had repaid him by retaliating for something RESEMBLING equality. Perhaps it was all of that Oprah and Tyra Banks he let her watch to ooze and drip from her attention span and leave him to his work. But usually the shows would never entirely erase him for her mind’s eye, which was both good and bad for many of the wrong and right reasons.

As he heard a small crack emanate from her squashed knuckles from the cane he held to her hand – he felt slightly more satisfied. He hadn’t broken it yet, not yet, eventually, when the time was right – he would.

“Un jour cet air me rendra folle
Cent fois j'ai voulu dire pourquoi
Mais il m'a coupé la parole
Il parle toujours avant moi”

He was singing out loud, he hadn’t even noticed. He simply had the idea to hear the song, and with him thinking about a million other things cluttering his mind he hadn’t noticed his own vocal cords had taken the part to fill the room with Edith Piaf’s Padam Padam. Seeing has how Gotham was not necessarily the most French populated area in America – his French was definitely a little rustic as it mechanically grumbled out from his voice box. However, with his photographic memory and mind like a sponge, his French was still very fluent, very harsh, very deep, but very fluent. But there was something very mysterious, becoming and romantic and striking with all the ruggedness. It was all deliciously ironic, so avant grade – that the only piece it was missing was a flying rodent’s presence to interrupt the “festivites”.

He knew what he was doing, down to the perfect pivots, twists and turns, and even the pinches, crushing and the battering. It was all proverbially stroking Harley’s libido. She was simply too easy to NOT want to play with when it came to flirting with the idea of sleeping together. For about 99% of the time, she was willing and able (or perhaps more willing – at times she would be unable – maybe he had twisted her leg, broken a knee, but she’d still want him), and for about 99.5% of the time, he would always deny her. He’d taunt her, make her beg for it, plead, crawl, do things for him, and then at the end get nothing for her work. Other times he’d make her feel stupid for feeling such corporeal desires, desires that hinder him and not help him. And those very, very few times when he actually decided to give her a few “ha-has” – it was dangerous and degrading.

And why would anyone engage in such lunatic foreplay?

He knew why. But what perturbed him was the fact that HE allowed himself an ounce to pleasure her. And though in the eyes of the mundane public it was anything LESS than pleasurable – to him, he knew better. He was a predominantly an asexual, non-sexual, auto sexual (among many other sexuals) creature, that in order to fill his own quirky desires – he could and did use methods beyond the primitive corporeal body. He was of the mind, foreplay was a bloody wrench in his hand, heavy panting was more satisfying after pummeling to death an innocent bystander, and full and erotic satisfaction was climatic when he saw himself on the TV screen – escaping once again from Arkham – on the back of his own intellectual plotting and planning. He didn’t NEED to do the “deed” with Harley, and he didn’t NEED to do it for her either. So then why?

“Il me fait le coup du souviens-toi
Padam...Padam...Padam...
C'est un air qui me montre du doigt
Et je traîne après moi comme un drole d'erreur
Cet air qui sait tout par coeur”

Perhaps he liked the idea of having a Judy to his Punch, a willing and active participant to receive his cajoling, his punches, and jokes. And ultimately, it wasn’t she he was making “yoo-hoo” with – it was himself – in a very indirect way. She was his creation, she was reflecting his perfect and beautiful mind, and it perked his libido. But what made him elicit any sort of pleasure from the whole experience was his capability to inflict any type of emotion he wanted onto her. Of course there was pleasure, but there was also pain when he bit her, hit her, choked her, etc. there was also disappointment and sadness when it was all over, and the look he cherished the most a sickly look of complete adoration – as he mangled her, suffocated her, teased her, and made her do damnable things that people years from now would still be quite shocked to see.

It was that mixture of pain and godly admiration; it was the idea of recognizing how much she didn’t want to do this or that but knowing all the while she was going to do – for him. Just him.

And just thinking about it, her porcelain skin fracturing a million different places with busted capillaries from his fists, made him twitch. She was so pretty when she cried, and so sexy when she bled.

“Je vois s'entrebattre des gestes
Toute la comédie des amours
Sur cet air qui va toujours”

Love really was quite the comedy. He felt Harley slip a step and he pinched the back of her neck so hard he swore he could’ve tore her flesh from right off the bone. He wasn’t so much angry anymore – he knew what he had to do now – what the punishment (and the pleasure) would be. He let his tongue slither out from his mouth to lap at his crimson caked lips and slide along his red gashes. He purposely placed his forehead against hers, making the titillating scene more evident.

He could already see the want in her glazed blue eyes – her poorly written Harlequin romances filming behind her lids like porno flicks. A look he had seen in her eyes many times and a look he most appreciated when he saw her spirits high with yearning and longing - and most importantly hope. A look that drove him just giddy when she had to restrain herself as a doctor and a look that made him watch her now like a mouse, just about ready to play his mind games with her before swallowing her whole. He knew she was particularly susceptible to fantasy and suggestion especially after breaking out – so eager to be a part of SOMEONE’S life, so grateful to not be alone anymore, it was sickeningly arousing – her dependency on him.

“Padam…Padam…Padam”

There was a twirl, which she perfectly executed despite previous mistakes, which he took note of and generously squeezed her bruising hand with the cane. There were fourteen phalanges, five metacarpals and eight regular carpals found within the hand alone; which would make about twenty-seven bones just in the hand a lone. These five metacarpal ends made up the knuckles, knuckles he was now crushing within his massive hand. In order to break a bone, one would need at least nine pounds of force directly smashing into it. But thanks to the laws of physics, he didn’t really need to exert too much pressure just a specific angle movement followed by the laws of giving and receiving. When you push an inanimate object, the inanimate object exerts the same force back. The force he’s exerting onto Harley’s knuckles is the twice the force he’s adding onto it, not nine pounds, but considering that knuckles aren’t the definite ligaments of importance and dexterity, just having it at this specific angle would fracture them to pieces if he so wills it.

And the will presented itself quite clearly as soon as Harley opened her pretty little mouth.

Without a response, without a word, without even a flaring of nostrils, he rolled the cane high up on her knuckles, before crushing it down painfully, hearing four consecutive pops of her metacarpals cracking and crunching under the pressure. There was no remorse in his eye, nor pity, nor – even more oddly enough – glee. Instead there was purpose and focus. A look far scarier than any he usually had on when he was mad or just in the mood to hit something. He was a man of ambition and determination, and whenever he had that look in his eye, that burning, people knew better to stay out of his way, he had dedicated himself to something and he was going to accomplish it whether he had to kill a few thousand people or a few million.

Her eyes grew wide with astonishment, sprinkles of tears forming on the corners of her eyes, her mouth formed into a hurtful and petrified o, the lump of vocal pain rising in her throat, but before it could screech its way out, he muffled it with a brutal and savage embrace. He lips and skin feverish and hot, burned her cool lips, he let the cane drop to the floor as he held her numb hand in his, feeling the liquidity of her knuckles, fondling them, hurting her, and she incapable of retaliating or holding his hand back.

He felt her knees buckle, her body tremble, both from sheer joy, but also sheer pain. His poisonous kiss drained her, as if nourishing himself on her painful screams, and broken knuckles didn't awaken her spirits too much either. He coldly pulled away from her, her lips begging for more tender kisses, but he simply shook her off, he now maneuvered himself behind her and continued to place his hand firmly behind her neck, his other hand still clutching her dead hand, smarting.

From behind her, he began pushing her, her weak knees shaking and tumbling over each other in confusion. He leaned down close to her ear and breathily commanded her, “Move.” And like an automaton, she did. The grip on her neck steering them down the dark hallway and into the pitch black bathroom that blinded her when he flicked on the fluorescent lights.

He shoved her into the bathroom and locked the door shut behind them. Her weary and soppy self, standing between him and the broken mirrors above the sink that hid the tools and instruments he needed for this evenings event. He blinked, grabbed her forcefully by the shoulders and ushered her into the tub, “Stand here.” The curtains were not put up and the shower head was dripping cold water incessantly – it was somewhat maddening but it seemed to suit the mood.

“Good.” He looked her once over, as if he had just placed a critical piece of furniture in the correct spot of the living room before diverting his attention to the mirrored cabinet, opening it up and pulling out tid bits of useless things – things he did not need at the moment. He frowned, and as an aside grumbled, “You might want to sit down, it’s going to be a loooooooooong night.”

Words: 1,843
Muse: Edith Piaf - Padam Padam
Outfit: I think I already told you in le posts >.>
Comments: A plan is forming...
BTW - some interesting notes:
"I am Kind" - Is a Biblical reference to the Devil who often tries to suade people onto his side by often telling them that "He is kind"
French song - LOL! I could go all psychobabble-y about it, but if you want some translation for it I'd be more than happy to give it to you