Prompt: Doll
Title: Great Big Beautiful
Universe: Nolanverse
Genre: drama/romance
Rating: pg-13 for implications
Characters/Pairings: Joker/Harley
Word Count: 385
Warnings: Things are... implied. That's about it.
Summary: He builds her up and tears her down again, like a castle with living walls. The Joker plays dress-up with a living doll.
The clothes come off. They’re discarded in a pile on the floor and she begins to think of them instantly as her civvies- what she wears when she’s not in her official capacity. Which could be comprised of many things and which undoubtedly does not come with a uniform- not the traditional type anyway.
She stands in her bra and underwear before him, shivering in the cold that bounces and echoes off the cement floor and flies back at her like a personal attack. He looks her over with unusual care, like a horse trader searching for tell-tale signs of a mule in the heritage. He’s taking time with this, whatever it is, and this tells her, yes, her reason for being here. Not out of a hankering for absolution, not for any therapy, psychiatric or otherwise, not as a professional confessional. Just pure, unbridled, unadulterated-
He tosses the black and red suit at her so quickly she has no time to catch it before it smacks her in the face.
“Put that on.”
She shrugs into it; it’s tight, pulls a bit uncomfortably in places, and makes her feel like a clown. He stands fingering the bottom hem of his vest till she’s decently covered, then rolls up his sleeves a little higher and steps forward.
“Turn around.”
She does, obediently, and he steps close to do up the buttons on her back, breath rasping on her neck. He finishes dressing her like she’s a doll and can’t do it for herself, then steps back. She turns to face him and he gives a low whistle and grins like a wolf.
“Spin-” he prompts, circling a finger in the air to give her the clue. She does, and starts giggling madly. He joins in after watching her, turning in place with his arms out, rapturous scarred face tipped up to the ceiling. When she stops, and he stops, he surveys her, his creation, and grins.
“You’ll do, toots.” He pats her on the head like a dog, making the bells on the jester hat jingle. “You’ll do.”
He speaks indulgently, as to a child, and just as she starts to think perhaps she was mistaken after all, his eyes gleam from their black sockets and he says, “Now get out of it.”
The clothes come off.
Universe: Nolanverse
Genre: drama/romance
Rating: pg-13 for implications
Characters/Pairings: Joker/Harley
Word Count: 385
Warnings: Things are... implied. That's about it.
Summary: He builds her up and tears her down again, like a castle with living walls. The Joker plays dress-up with a living doll.
The clothes come off. They’re discarded in a pile on the floor and she begins to think of them instantly as her civvies- what she wears when she’s not in her official capacity. Which could be comprised of many things and which undoubtedly does not come with a uniform- not the traditional type anyway.
She stands in her bra and underwear before him, shivering in the cold that bounces and echoes off the cement floor and flies back at her like a personal attack. He looks her over with unusual care, like a horse trader searching for tell-tale signs of a mule in the heritage. He’s taking time with this, whatever it is, and this tells her, yes, her reason for being here. Not out of a hankering for absolution, not for any therapy, psychiatric or otherwise, not as a professional confessional. Just pure, unbridled, unadulterated-
He tosses the black and red suit at her so quickly she has no time to catch it before it smacks her in the face.
“Put that on.”
She shrugs into it; it’s tight, pulls a bit uncomfortably in places, and makes her feel like a clown. He stands fingering the bottom hem of his vest till she’s decently covered, then rolls up his sleeves a little higher and steps forward.
“Turn around.”
She does, obediently, and he steps close to do up the buttons on her back, breath rasping on her neck. He finishes dressing her like she’s a doll and can’t do it for herself, then steps back. She turns to face him and he gives a low whistle and grins like a wolf.
“Spin-” he prompts, circling a finger in the air to give her the clue. She does, and starts giggling madly. He joins in after watching her, turning in place with his arms out, rapturous scarred face tipped up to the ceiling. When she stops, and he stops, he surveys her, his creation, and grins.
“You’ll do, toots.” He pats her on the head like a dog, making the bells on the jester hat jingle. “You’ll do.”
He speaks indulgently, as to a child, and just as she starts to think perhaps she was mistaken after all, his eyes gleam from their black sockets and he says, “Now get out of it.”
The clothes come off.