Title: No Sudden Moves
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~4,900
Characters: Floyd/Harley, background Rick/June, Boomerang/Katana
Summary: The world is backwards because— Well, he's at a cabin in the middle of winter, and he can't exactly piece out when or where or why he agreed to come.
A/N: Very, very AU. Also, a mess.
No Sudden Moves
The world is backwards. Fucking backwards, because—
Well, he's at a cabin in the middle of winter, because Flag's family owns one and threw the keys in his hand and said to not leave the place with too many scratches when they were done, and Floyd can't exactly piece out when or where or why he agreed to come, why he got invited in the first place. Because he and Rick Flag aren't exactly friends, but they're not exactly enemies, either, he guesses. Not at this point. Not when he saved the dude's girlfriend from some kind of, nervous attack, or whatever. If that's what you want to call it—saving her. All he did was follow her out of the club through the back, because she was crying and her makeup was streaked and she seemed like she was falling apart at the seams, and she sort of bumped into him when she was making a run for it. And yeah, maybe he muttered bitch under his breath because she'd spilled his beer all over him, but that was before she slurred out an apology and stumbled out the back and, fuck, he's not as spectacular of an asshole as he lets people think, so he followed her out to see what was wrong or whatever.
He maybe had a little too much fun beating the shit out of the guys that were in the alleyway and decided that they wanted to put a hand on her. She'd screamed.
He broke a guy's wrist, sent him and his friends away with black eyes, and June was trembling and still sort of crying when she collapsed against his chest, unconscious, and fuck, there went his idea that he'd get to go out for once and not have the night end with a trip to the Emergency.
So, he and Flag are good, he guesses. Floyd had been half-convinced June wouldn't remember a thing, but apparently she did, because the next day, she gave him this little smile when he was leaving the lecture hall and she was walking in, and Flag had sort of just nodded at him and almost moved to shake his hand, or something, but thought otherwise.
And apparently, not being a total dick to his girl means that he gets invited to this ski trip, or whatever this is supposed to be, and Floyd – he must've been high to even say yes. June is hot and all, and he's never hated her or anything. He barely knows her, but she works at the coffeehouse down the street from his dorm room and always makes his drink extra hot and doesn't ask when he comes in with bruised knuckles – just hands him a few extra napkins and draws a pretty rad-looking skull on the cardboard sleeve of his to-go cup in a red sharpie.
So, maybe if it had been Flag that asked, not June, he wouldn't have committed to spending the next two weeks in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard just because she said she didn't want him to have to spend their winter break on campus alone.
He likes being alone.
But, whatever. That's not what's backwards about all this. What's fucking backwards is that June Moon is friends with Harley Quinn.
Floyd almost trips over the luggage that Flag is rolling in when sees the two of them huddled together on the huge couch – June sitting back against cushions, her hair out of that ridiculously perfect bun he's only ever seen it in, and Harley laying half on top of her, too much in her space, but June is laughing at something and not bothered by Harley at all, and fuck. He usually doesn't give a shit about the thousands of other students on campus, but everyone knows about Harley Quinn – what parties she goes to, what guys she fucks, and what teachers are trying to sleep with her. Everyone knows her business, and it's weird to him that he didn't know they were friends. He didn't even know that they knew each other.
"High school."
"What?" It takes a second for Floyd to look away, because Harley sort of catches his eyes over June's shoulder, leans in and whispers something into the girl's ear and bears her pearly white teeth at him in a smile, and June shakes her head, amusement touching her expression.
"High school," Flag repeats, tossing the bags he carried in onto the other end of the couch. June looks over at him, smiles a little wider. "That's how they know each other."
Still doesn't make much sense to him, but, whatever.
... ...
Harley has scars on her neck. Thin, jagged, almost silver lines that he thinks no one would catch if they weren't standing right next to her, but he is, because that's what happens when eight people are eating breakfast at a kitchen table with only six chairs. He doesn't really care that he has to stand, or that he's got a bagel without any cream cheese because Harley hopped onto the countertop and leaned over him to snatch the last of it, then smeared some on her thumb and winked at him as she licked it off. She's a foot away from his face, and there are scars on her neck, and she's giggling and sort of shimmying on the marble counter when Boomerang says he likes the color of her bra – scarlet red, with black lace, and totally visible through her white satin slip, and Floyd almost looks down to see if maybe he can tell if her underwear matches (but, it's Harley Quinn, so yeah, of course they're going to match).
June catches him staring, gives him this sad sort of smile that makes his gut do this weird little flip.
He wants to ask, but he also doesn't.
He gets his answer, anyway.
Boomerang (he doesn't want to know how a guy gets a nickname like that, he really doesn't) treks over to the supermarket with Harley and Diablo (and Floyd is pretty sure that's not his name, either, but whatever, it's better than Boomerang) because they're the only three crazy enough to want to go out in this snow. June tries to protest, at least with Harley, and he'd actually been kind of fascinated watching them go back and forth – June, with a worried, exasperated sigh, and Harley with an amused laugh, because the girl likes to be amused – but of course Harley had gotten her way. She'd patted June on her head and told her not to finish her booze, and June had wrapped a pink scarf around her neck and told her to be careful.
Waylon is in the living room, the volume on the TV turned up way too high, which doesn't seem to bother anyone, so Floyd ends up sharing beers in the living room with Flag, June, and Katana – and he's willing to bet that isn't her name either, but, that's what June calls her, so he's just going with it. That's kind of his game plan for the whole vacation.
"So, you saw them, right?" June asks him, looking up at him from under those ridiculously long eyelashes of hers, and so pretending he doesn't know what she's talking about is shot to hell.
"The scars?" He rubs his fingertips over his own neck. June cringes, and Flag tucks her under his arm. "Where'd they come from?"
"From her ex," June says, snarls, and he didn't know that such a sweet face could sneer like that. It's fucking terrifying and kind of fascinating. "He's…"
"Kinky?"
"Crazy," Flag corrects. His tone sounds bitter, too. The thought of Flag being protective of Harley would've been unheard of to Floyd no more than three days ago, because Harley – she's probably the exact opposite of the kind of people that Flag and June are supposed to hang out with. That doesn't mean a damn thing, though. What does is that look of pure adoration in June's eyes whenever Harley walks into the room, or the slight curl of amusement tugging at Flag's lips when Harley makes a gun out of her fingers and points it to his temple and fucking giggles, or the way Diablo leans into her hugs, or the booming laugh Waylon lets out when she plops herself onto his lap. "Her ex is fucking crazy," Flag mutters.
"He in jail?" Floyd asks, because he's curious, and also because the pure disgust in their voices is enough for his own skin to tingle at the idea that he could still be out there.
June nods, tips her beer bottle back and finishes it in a gulp. "Not that that's going to change what he did to her," she adds, brushing her thumb over the smudge of her lip gloss against the rim. "It was a miracle she even made it out of high school after all the drugs, let alone that she got into college."
He takes a swig of his own beer and doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to.
"And how is she now?" he asks, after a long moment. He doesn't want to keep talking about this, but – he still wants to know the answer.
"Better," June says, her voice soft, almost a whisper, and she loosens her grip on her beer bottle. "She's getting better."
... ...
It's pretty easy for him to fill in the blanks from there. That, and Katana tells him the rest – or the abridged version of it – because apparently she knows about it, and he's starting to realize just how much he doesn't know. Her ex – J, is all Katana says when he asks if he's got a name, and Floyd decides that he doesn't care enough to wonder whether there's more to that – poured alcohol down her throat, shot her veins with drugs. He put his hands on her and got her high enough out of her pretty little head that she liked it, and Katana tells him that June had cried herself to sleep for half of their junior year because Harley would disappear for days at a time, then climb up the side of June's house and through her bedroom window and then pass out and not move for hours, and then be gone by the morning. And Floyd feels his gut curling and tightening and burning the more and more Katana tells him.
He hasn't wanted to punch something this hard since—well, since high school.
But then the front door flies open, and he mutters a curse under his breath because, fuck, it's freezing out there, and Harley struts inside, throwing her arms up as if she isn't carrying four plastic bags of groceries in her hands, and he chuckles and hops off of the couch to take them from her before she drops something important. "Well, thanks, pudding," she sings – sings, and her breath smells like the cherries when she leans in and presses a glossy kiss to his cheek, and he rolls his eyes at the way Boomerang smirks and laughs as he walks in.
The guy offers to cook dinner, too, which Floyd would've said fuck no to, but Katana follows him into the kitchen and takes the knife from his hand, and, okay, they may end up with something somewhat edible to eat if she's in there.
Harley is sitting on her knees on the couch behind June, twisting her hair up into this intricate braid, and she rolls her eyes when June says, "Harley, your fingers are cold."
"You're dating Sergeant Stuffy over there and you think I'm cold?" Harley retorts. Flag rolls his eyes. Floyd snickers.
Then she presses the backs of her hands to June's necks and June squeals and practically jumps off of the couch, whining her name. Harley giggles, then whips her head around to look at Flag when the guy lets out this sort of snort, and Floyd swears that the dude almost, almost smiles when he says, "Don't you fucking dare," and grabs a throw pillow, as if that's going to stop a girl like Harley Quinn. She tilts her head, as if to ask, really – then she lunges for him, and Floyd knows he laughs way too hard when Flag hisses her name, but he doesn't care.
... ...
He hears Harley in the kitchen, and he knows that it's her, because really, who else would be humming at three in the morning?
He mutters a curse when he sees her, because fuck, she's standing in just this lacy black bra and striped panties and nothing else, with the fridge wide open as she stands in front of it bent at the hip to peer inside, and he says her name and drags her away, kicking the door closed with his foot.
She pouts at him, crossing her arms over her chest, and yeah, he looks, because she's right there and he can't really help himself, but then the corners of her lips curve into this smile and he thinks that maybe she wanted him to look, too. He's heard the stories about her at those parties, about her dancing on tables and drinking and drinking and drinking, and that's not really his concern because she's a big girl and do whatever the hell she wants. People make their own choices, just like he chose to fuck things up in high school, just like he chose to fix it by going to college, and he doesn't have sympathy for someone who puts themselves in shitty situations, he doesn't, but – he thinks about the one and only party he went to, and obviously Harley was there, and he remembers watching her shaking and shimmying and swaying on top of someone's table as people cheered and whistled. He remembers how people put drink after drink in her hand and she downed them all, crumped the plastic red cups between her fingers, and then licked the cuts that the plastic made on her skin and—
He didn't give a damn about her then.
He does a little bit, now. Maybe more than a little bit.
He doesn't know.
All he knows is that he remembers that, that night, her smile had been bright but her eyes hadn't, and he couldn't help but find that really odd. Her eyes had almost… almost been dazed, dull and glossed over and like she wasn't really there, and then he'd blamed it on the alcohol. That night, he was a little shit that didn't know anything.
June said that Harley had wanted to be doctor when they were in high school. Her parents went insane, and she wanted to help. She played softball and did gymnastics and worked her ass off for her grades because she wanted to do something with herself, she wanted to make things better. She was supposed to go somewhere. He can picture her sitting with June at Starbucks with their colored pens and flashcards and lattes, giggling with their heads huddled over their textbooks, and that was taken away from her. All of that was taken from her.
And it pisses him off, and maybe thinking about it makes his lips press together, makes his blood hot, and they've only been in this stupid cabin for three days, but—
"You keep frowning like that and your face will stay that way," she huffs, a challenge in her tone, because there's always a challenge in her tone, and he has to go and laugh because it's ridiculous. She's ridiculous. This trip is ridiculous.
The fact that he kind of likes that he said yes to coming here is the most ridiculous, though.
"You hot or something?" he asks, glancing over her body again. She's worn shorts and freaking fishnets the last three days, except for earlier, when June had somehow managed to wrestle her into leggings and the ugliest fucking Christmas sweater he'd ever seen, and there had mistletoe in her hair-ties, and she still looked sexy as hell, somehow.
"I don't know," she says, tilting her head, making her hair sort of fall in her face, and her eyes sparkle, and he just stares and stares. "Am I?"
He knows what the easy thing to say is, and he knows what he probably should do. He lets out a breath, tips his head to the ceiling. Counts to five, then meets her eyes again, taking a step back and nodding his head at her. "Good night, Harley," he says, and she looks bemused as he backs out of the kitchen.
Fucking Flag is rubbing off on him. He never saw that coming.
... ...
Harley wants to make snowmen, and apparently that's enough of a reason for the rest of them to bundle up and follow her outside, and he's sort of freezing his ass off as he stands on the patio and squints up at the sunlight and the clearest blue sky he's ever seen.
Boomerang has latched onto Katana, the way he has ever since this trip started, and Floyd thinks the whole thing is weird and pretty fucking hilarious, especially since Katana throws a scowl at him at almost every other word to come out of his mouth and he flashes a toothy smile at her in response, and it's a total disaster that Floyd wants to see unfold. Except, she doesn't seem completely irritated with the fact that he's decided to help her with her snowman, and if Floyd squints, he thinks that there's actually something like a grin on her face as he slips and falls on his ass. So, there's that. Flag and Waylon are sitting on the patio steps and not really talking, but they'll say something to each other every couple of minutes – and Floyd thinks that those two being somewhat friends is probably the least weird thing about this whole trip – and Harley had dragged Diablo to help her and June with their snowman.
He's more than halfway through his second beer when she meets his eyes across the backyard and smiles, getting up and waltzing towards him.
He boots click again the wood of the patio (because of course her boots are heeled, too, and the fact that she can walk gracefully in them across snow is actually impressive) and she sort of sways her hips and blinks her eyelashes up at him. There are snowflakes in her pigtails, sticking to the faded pink and blue tips, and he thinks – he thinks—
He thinks she's really fucking beautiful.
"You want to be a lump on a log forever or something?" she asks with a tilt of her head.
He laughs, his breath coming out in a puff in the cold air. "Flag and Waylon aren't doing anything, either."
"Yeah, but they're not you," she says, voice lilting, almost bouncing, and she reaches for his hand. Her fingers are freezing because she isn't wearing gloves, and maybe he can't quite help the way he rubs the back of his thumb over her knuckles because, fuck, how has she not lost all feeling yet? How did June convince her to wear a coat and not gloves?
June gives him this cute little grin when he crouches down beside her to start rolling the snow together, and he flicks a few flakes in her face. She just laughs and shakes her head.
... ...
She's wearing a slip that night, and it's still pretty damn ridiculous considering it's below freezing outside, but, whatever. At least she's a little more covered up.
They're all sitting in the living room with the TV turned to BET and the bass of some song he hasn't heard in years vibrating through the walls because the volume is up so high, and his conversation with Flag isn't entirely terrible. Harley waltzes in balancing eight mugs of hot chocolate on a tray he didn't know they had in the kitchen, and he sort of smirks at her when he takes a sip and tastes something that definitely isn't just chocolate, and she winks and grabs her own mug and plops herself right onto his lap. "Sorry, Way, but he's much comfier," she says, nudging Waylon with her foot, and he just chuckles and shakes his head and turns his attention back to the TV as she wiggles her hips a bit and makes herself comfortable.
June sort of scoots until she's sitting in Flag's lap, too, and Harley grabs her hand and squeezes their fingers together and they start talking, and he sort of meets Flag's eyes over their heads and Flag chuckles and shakes his head, sips his hot chocolate, and it's weird that this isn't fucking weird at all.
... ...
Their fifth night there, he rolls his shoulders back and feels where it's tender from his crash on the slopes earlier, because Boomerang was a jackass and had to go and trip and take Floyd and Flag down with him, and he landed on a fucking rock and now it's totally tender and, whatever. It's hardly the worst thing he's ever felt, but it isn't exactly pleasant, either, so he goes to turn off the light so he can maybe sleep it off – but then something slender and soft and so fucking cold touches his skin, and he whips his head around to see Harley's face inches away from his. She'd scared the shit out of him. She offers a smile, and this one is a little softer around the edges than all the other ones, and her hair is sort of clipped up in a mess atop her head, and she looks really fucking sexy like this and he – he doesn't know why the hell she snuck into his room while he was in the shower, but, he doesn't care.
Not when her fingers are gently massaging over his tender flesh, her thumbs digging into his muscles, easing the tension from his shoulders, and, fuck. That feels good.
"No sense of balance, huh?" she teases, tilting her head, breath warm as it ghosts over the back of his neck, and he closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out. She smells like cherries and he thought it was her lip gloss, or the gum that she's always chewing, but now he thinks it's actually her shampoo or something.
"Boomerang is the one that doesn't have any balance," he tells her. She giggles, thumbing the edge of the bruise.
"Poor baby," she coos, leaning in, brushing her lips to the back of his neck, and then lower, along his spine, over his bruise, and – fuck. Fuck. He swallows.
"What are you doing, Harley?"
She huffs, her breath rolling over his skin again, and almost, almost shivers, but he's not a fucking pansy, so he straightens his back and glances over his shoulder to find her pouting. "I'm trying to make you feel better," she says, reaching for him again, but he twists around and grasps her by her wrists and doesn't miss the flash of hurt in her eyes. He loosens his grip on her, rubs the pads of his thumb over the insides of her wrists because he wants to make that frown on her face go away. "Guys like it when I make them feel good," she says.
"Guys, or one guy in particular?" he asks. She gives him this sad sort of smile, and no. No, this is definitely worse than her frowning, or pouting.
"You ever been in love?" Her voice is barely above a whisper, and he almost doesn't catch it. He blinks, surprised. He hadn't been expecting that from her.
"No," he says.
"Bullshit." She almost looks upset by his answer, but she doesn't try to pull away, either.
He lets go of one of her wrists, grasps her chin gently with his fingers, lips tugging into a bit of a smirk, or maybe a smile. He doesn't know. He doesn't care. "Any guy ever made you feel as good as you made him?" he asks, and the flash of hesitation in her eyes is all he needs, even if she gives him this little nod. He runs his thumb across her bottom lip. "Bullshit."
When he kisses her, it's softer than he's used to, slower, gentler, and she grasps for the shirt that he isn't wearing, nails scraping gently against his skin as she whimpers, and fuck.
She tastes bittersweet, like the chocolate and booze they were drinking earlier, and he licks at the seam of her lips and then presses his tongue into her mouth as soon as she lets him in. She scrapes her nails lower, lower, lower, scratching at the waistband of his sweats, but he gently nudges her hands away and hooks an arm around her and rolls them over, and her gasp gets caught in her throat because he's tugging the neckline of her slip down and sealing his lips just over the cup of her bra, and, fuck. He hadn't expected her skin to feel this hot when she's been waltzing around in next to nothing all week long, but it's hot, so hot, and he wants more. He fits his hips against hers, rolls against her again and again, as if that would be enough to relieve the pressure that's building and tightening and coiling at the base of his spine, and he tugs her bra aside and closes his lips around her nipple and she whimpers—
And – and, no. No. He wants to drag this out. He wants her to feel, wants to make her feel so fucking good that she's a whimpering, shaking, stuttering mess, and—
Her fingertips sneak their way under his sweats, flexing, dancing across his skin, and he groans and pulls them away, and her little, "Huh?" is so oblivious and so fucking cute that he laughs against the flat of her stomach as he tugs her slip up and over her head. "But, you—"
"No, you," he murmurs into her skin, hooking his thumb under the waistband of her panties, tugging them down her legs. Her breath stutters, and he presses his hand against the inside of her thigh and spreads her wide, wider – fuck, this girl can bend – and smirks at the way her spine arches and she tries to roll her hips up. His hand smooths over the curve of her pelvis, rubbing his thumb there, watching her shiver and grasp at the sheets, and then he flattens his tongue against her, licks a stripe up her center and groans at the taste of her and she gasps again, arches her spine a little more and whines something that sounds vaguely like his name. He does it again, and again, and again, his strokes slow as he relishes in the all of these little sounds that she's making. Then he moves his thumb over her clit in circles, over and over as he presses his tongue into her and curls and her hips jump and—
He expects her to be loud, to scream, to sing, because that's what he knows her for, but this is different.
She whimpers and whines and whispers his name over and over again as he presses and circles and strokes, and she digs her nails into the sheets, spreads her legs even wider and practically grinds down on his face, and he doesn't mind it one bit, especially when she makes this little gasping sound that has his head snapping up, and fuck, it looks like her orgasm takes her by surprise. Her lips are parted and her eyebrows are furrowed and her cheeks are flushed and her spine is arched and she looks so fucking beautiful that he just – watches.
"Floyd," she whimpers after a moment, and that sort of snaps him out of his trance, because he closes his lips around her clit and presses two fingers into her and her body jolts.
When she falls apart again, it's practically on the heels of the first one, her walls fluttering, clamping over his fingers, and her thighs trembling, and the only reason he pulls away is because she sort of sounds like she can't breathe and he slides himself up her body and kisses the column of her throat after he's made sure that she's fine.
Her nails dig into his biceps when she reaches up to grasp at him. He doesn't mind.
"Poor baby," he teases, and she giggles, breathy and raspy and so fucking sexy, and presses her slick heat against the hard front of his sweats.
"More," she demands, pleads, blinking those long eyelashes at him, lips parted and eyes bright and sparkling, and she bends her hips and pushes his sweats down with her ankles and fuck you if you think that's not one of the sexiest things ever.
Her walls are still hot and wet and fluttering when he pushes into her, and she yanks him down and kisses him, gasping against his lips when he's all the way in, and, and—
... ...
He wakes up to the sound of her giggling, the feeling of her soft lips pressing open-mouthed kisses down his neck, his shoulders, his chest, and then winks at him and rolls off of the bed. She tugs his shirt on and waltzes out of the bedroom with her hips swaying, and he knows, he knows that there are bruises and scratches all over him.
Everyone smirks at him at breakfast. He pulls Harley to his chest, kisses her and flips them off behind her back, and, whatever. They've still got a week left at this cabin.
Maybe this trip isn't so ridiculous after all.