the picture prompt meme

[socketeer]

the picture prompt meme I — Comment with your character. II — Others will leave a picture (or two, or three...) III — Reply to them with a setting based on the picture. IV — Link to any pictures that are NSFW, please. V — Be aware that this meme will be image-heavy. Link to an image: <a href=IMAGEURL>TEXT</a> Embed image in your reply: <img src=IMAGEURL> Image width and height: <img src=IMAGEURL width=500> OR <img src=IMAGEURL height=INSERT>

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[cowlless]

1 ⊕ 2 ⊕ 3

[vexin]

( Gum smacking, bubble popping, bored, Harley hooks a foot under the rickety chair she teeters at the steep face of a concrete warehouse wall. Wake up, she wants to scream at her prisoner, jerking the chair back as if it might jolt him into consciousness.

This one's all mine, Mr. J warns, conveniently leaving the grunt of the work for his favorite lackey, only to keep her waiting, and waiting some more. At this point she oughta just tip the guy over, plop into the vat of chemicals below, just to spite that nasty clown. Sure he'd let her have it, assuming he could catch her (but even then there's no saying what she might do to him first), but right now Harley can't be bothered to care. the thought draws a whimsical smile, as her grip on her old wooden baseball bat tightens, when finally the prisoner stirs. it's all Harley can do to keep from bouncing around in glee.

Shame on Mr. J for tasking her with something so important.

Harley rises to her feet, and slips in front of him. Itching, reaching fingers are firmly pressed to her side to keep from snatching after that red hood. In the back of her mind, the clown prince chides her, tsk, tsk, tsk, for even thinking about it.

"Too tight?" she asks in reference to to the rope binding his limbs, They're not tight enough, unbeknownst to the young jester, her knot skills need some work. In all honesty it's the toxin she "borrows" from Ivy that packs the biggest punch. The reason Harley is able to drag him where she needs, and also the reason she could bind him without struggle.

The toxin may be wearing off, but that does nothing to dampen her playful, zealous spirit. Harley plops down into the seat of his lap, each leg straddling either side of the chair, and reaches with both hands around his neck. Fingers drumming lightly she hesitates, thinks better of it, and slides her hands back to herself.

Defeated Harley reaches behind her ear for the permanent marker nestled there, Uncapping it, she leans closer to color in the outline of a large heart drawn on the mask to mirror her own. Exaggerated with messy lines, there's hardly a patch of his red mask untouched by her scribbles and doodles. )

[cowlless]

What the …?

( stupid, is his first thought, his second, and his third as coherence returns. after that, his self-imposed curses turn slightly more colourful. he had acted recklessly and out of blinding, white hot anger. that's how he ended up here, he knows. moved too fast, without laying out the proper groundwork, taking his time to observe before engaging, the way the big, bad bat taught him back when he was his, all bright-eyed and ready for fight, convinced nothing could ever hurt him. and now here he is, stuck in a gut-clenchingly familiar situation to the point where he feels fifteen all over again and dressed in grayson's red, yellow, and green hand-me-downs.

needless to say, it isn't a good memory, and it's one that only gets worse as his head stops spinning from whatever beating he doubtless took coupled with any other shit insane clown posse did whilst bringing him here. taking a breath, jason forces himself to focus. from behind the eyeholes of his giant red helmet, he takes a quick sweep of the perimeter, doing a body count and an exit check. next, it's a full 360° — or as much as he can manage, given his circumstances — of the warehouse, looking for anything that he could use as a weapon when he gets free since the clown seems to have stripped him of his, the lack of extra weight on his person a dead giveaway of his numerous firearms and knives having been removed. still, he doesn't need a blade or a gun to be lethal. all he needs is his hands.

twisting at the braided ties, jason tests the strength of his bonds, only to find them looser than he'd expected. i can work with that, he thinks, a smirk settling over his lips, though it disappears in an instant. after all, a little slack is nothing to gloat about. he's still trapped inside a warehouse, reliving the worst day of his life with a psychotic clown. just not the one that fills him with fear and weakness and hate and endless revulsion and volatile anger and murderous rage.

although the moment harley puts herself in his lap, jason feels just about ready to snap. no, she's not responsible for what her puddin' did to him way back when, but her gleeful participation in his capture now puts a black mark against her in the form of a bullet with her name on it. briefly, he wonders if she knows who he is. if crazy, green of hair, and pasty told his toots that they snared themselves a robin.

keeping his head as best he can, jason tips his chin to speak. the permanent marker harley has been using to draw all over him with is, of course, a vexation, but all things considered, it's a minor one. he has other helmets stashed away. though he does find himself taking a mental note to see if barbie gordon can't give 'em an upgrade, making them immune to sharpies, should he find himself in this situation again. )

And here I thought you were a one guy kind of girl.

( he quips dryly, catching part of the doodle heart then rolling his eyes. )

[vexin]

Ahaha hahaha ( she spits in response, mouth spread wide open in a gleeful, pearlescent grin. typical. Harley stops her pen work, placing a hand flat over the eyes in his mask. index and middle finger peeling apart, she speaks quietly into the gap with a mocking, singsong like tone. ) Don't believe everything you hear~

( twisting her palm to grip as much of the mask as her hand allows, she slides backwards off of his lap, taking the wood at the back of the chair with her opposite hand to tip him backwards, letting the seat and his giant presumptuous, giant lust-junked man-head fall carelessly on top of his own hands, only to then tilt him sideways. it's minimal, Harley guesses, compared to the pain his career as a vigilante forces him to endure; and that's not even accounting for the world of suffering in store.

coming to sit on the cool concrete beside him, Harley takes the now flavorless piece of chewed gum from her mouth with the tip of a finger and presses it underneath the seat of the fallen chair, before lying on her side, joined hands acting as a pillow underneath her head. she watches him, unflinching and still grinning, the curve of her lips becoming more defined the longer she stares. )

Mr. J never told me about you. ( not for what he knows Harley can deduce herself, but for his incessant need to lie about everything, and hide even more, never wasting the opportunity to rub just how little she truly understands him in her pasty little face. )

Shoulda known you were one of Batsy's, though. ( she sighs--woulda, coulda, shoulda--but it makes her tone no less whimsical. ) My puddin's fixation on yer daddy might even rival his affection for me. ( this time her laughter is hollow, almost humorless. ) Kinda weird, don'tcha think?

( or maybe it's not, when the whole pictures spelled out, if you're one of those people lucky enough to be in the inner circle... assuming there is an inner circle to begin with. much as she likes to believe she's in Mr. J's, Harley knows it couldn't be further from the truth. she can't help but wonder if Bats shares the grimier details of his life with those marked his protégés? Probably not, she imagines them having to dig and claw their way to much of the information he withholds. unfairly. kinda like her. they're the Harleys to Batsy's J. )

So what's yer story? If things went my way we'd have the little red robin. He's my favorite. Did ya know that? ( Harley laughs, shaking her head, momentarily lost in her own headspace. she wouldn't kill him so much as ruffle his feathers; he is after all, still a kid. and even a girl like her has limits. speaking of which... the longer she's forced the wait the more tempting it is to just spring the Red Hood and slink off somewhere to lay low for a few days. to top it off Harley can't shake the suspicion the Red Hood is due for a chemical bath in his immediate future. all giant, neon signs seem to be pointing in that single direction. it's all well and fine when weapons are being melted into goop in vats of acid, but this is their's. her's and Mr. J's. how dare he try to steal that from her. it's only fitting she rip the opportunity right out from under him. )

[cowlless]

( if he were dealing with the joker, as opposed to his whackjob of a girlfriend — or rather, his on and off girlfriend, their unstable relationship common knowledge to caped do-gooders and homicidal maniacs alike — then by now, he would most likely be unmasked and bleeding out, same as last time. unless the clown decided to take his sweet time. which, really, is just as probable, jason thinks, shuddering — though, thankfully, it's unnoticeable, what with harley treating him like a rag doll of sorts. he's had worse, though. way worse. both pre-death and post-death. this? this is nothing in comparison. and so he endures like the good little brave soldier he is as the clown princess of crime has her fun, teeth mashing in frustration until the chair topples. his jaw unclenches before impact, lest he shatter his whites.

a grunt escapes him, the sound partly stifled by the helmet.

of course, if she wanted to play rough all along, then all she had to do was say. hell, he'd smack her around real good, the way her beloved puddin' does. maybe worse. but for now, he guards his tongue and keeps his thoughts to himself, taking an unhealthy form of comfort in the thought of doing what bruce won't the second he gets free. the fact that he enjoys it is an added bonus. beneath all of that, however, the more he listens to her, another train of thought begins. thinks might be he could use her. after all, joker hasn't exactly been the ideal clyde to her bonnie, now, has he? there's only one problem: he can't go down that road. won't acknowledge the parallels and similarities between them. )

Aw, now I'm hurt. ( thick with sarcasm. ) I mean, it's a pretty good story. Definitely in my top five.

( the joking is a defence mechanism — obviously. something harleen, assuming there's any doctor quinzel left in her, might just pick up on, if she's paying the proper attention. but then, on she continues, her reference to him being one of bruce's unintentionally cutting. because he isn't one of bruce's. was never one of bruce's. sure, for a while he thought he was. kidded himself convincingly into believing it. but it was all just a lie. if he ever meant anything as robin or jason peter todd, his murderer wouldn't still be breathing and tim drake would not have filled his place. exhaling through his nose, he tries the ropes again, working at untying them, giving himself another focus point because nothing good can come from dwelling on the past, especially not when it could repeat itself if he doesn't break free. )

Not really.

( is his brief answer to her observations, biting back his opinion on the matter. how he wants to tell her that she's a third wheel to the messed up relationship between the bat and the clown. that when it comes to them, she will always come second. there's more too, but jason would rather be beaten black and blue by that hard-hitting, decorative bat of hers than have something akin to a heart-to-heart with harley freakin' quinn. )

Huh. Always thought the original Boy Wonder was everybody's favourite flavour. But hey, if it's the latest and greatest until another bitty birdie comes along that you're after, that can easily be arranged, Quinny Quinn Quinn. All you gotta do is untie me.

( he wouldn't really go after drake — again. he already proved his point there, just like he did with bruce and dickiebird. besides, it's tired. they'll never changed. would rather make him the monster, see him as part of the problem instead of the solution. so screw 'em. they don't want to open their eyes, that's fine. jason's done seeking their approval. or so he tells himself. this isn't about bats and birds, though. this is about seeing what will work and what won't. a way to get a better grasp of the clown girl before deciding how best to make his move. )

[vexin]

( pretty good, she muses bitterly. if Joker’s unwilling to divulge, the story is more than likely one of his best; probably even better than the script her and Red are working on. harley’s understands, her puddin’s as selfish as he is sweet, cruel as he is kind, an effortless liar, egomaniac and walking fucking contradiction. at least they have the tingly comfort of laughter and simple flesh pleasures between them. call it the ultimate coping mechanism or the worst worst. whatever. she considers herself lucky to even be a part in this particular adventure. yet still the romantic in harley wonders if Joker means to let his story with this sidekick, a god to honest real one at that, unfold before her greedy little eyes. to take her on a stroll through the past in all its rich 3D technicolor glory because no one puts on a show like Mr. J does, no one. something she thinks her tied up vigilante might know a thing or two about.

ever churning, her mind flits to the image of red hood slumped over her puddin’ while she stands atop his firm back, heel squished into one of those taut butt cheeks. pammy and the red robin each offer her two giant thumbs up, to which she graciously bows. Except… )

No, no. ( she states, banging her head lightly against the concrete. it should be batsy, j, and then>/i> the red hood. ) You’re not thinking big enough, Harl. ( she needs material enough to outshine her leading man, including a finale that knocks the audience right out of their seats, not kiddie gimmicks.

watching him struggle against the restraints in vain, harley inches closer, reaching for the rope to test it with a hard yank. it could be stronger, though she doubts the young hero will be able to break free before Mr. J joins in on the fun. better secure than sorry— not that she can’t take him, she can… sure, he might not succumb to the same sob stories as his daddy, doesn’t make him unworkable. sitting up straight and utilizing the cushioning of her own tush, harley scoots behind her captive, with a light peal of laughter for his deal. mighty tempting, if she’s being honest. )

No… ( she comments, rapping knuckles against the back of his cherry red helmet. ) I bet even a guy like you wouldn’t sell out one of his own. ( contracting common sense, harley makes slow work of unfurling the shoddy knots strapping his torso to the chair, and is even slower about retying them, daring him to make a move, any move. and just because making it too easy would be boring, she tugs on the rope. )

Or you just think I’ll fall for anything. ( still ringing with laughter, her tone betrays the nagging voice of reason residing inside the of her noggin. most do~ and her puddin’s no exception. for all the harlequin knows her beloved clown is setting her up to die, the kind of humor he lives for. underneath the masks they all wore on the outside existed unshakeable facades of carelessness and biting quips, without which they’d become no more than sopping indistinguishable messes. the red hood proves to be especially sharp; only fitting for the the black sheep of such a renowned family. he wears the heaviest armor, not unlike harley, who finds herself having to check in the mirror from time to time to make sure her sanity can still be spotted. )