I do not own Suicide Squad.

I think I'm a little obsessed right now. Save me?

50 Shades of Mr. J.

The Light and The Laughter

"Good morning, Doctor Quinzel. So glad to see you back."

She gritted her teeth, subconsciously reaching out and grazing the concealed black and red pattern on her forearm.

And turned.

The good Doctor, dignified and composed with his files and his clipboard, bore down on her.

Her, alone in the sparse, white painted hall of Arkham Asylum.

Grinning licentiously.

There was no other way he could grin.

As his eyes immediately traveled down to her breasts, carefully cloaked in her white starched blouse underneath her white lab coat.

"Heard you've been on a little vacation," he continued, coyly attempting casual conversation. "You should have called me. We could have . . . collaborated together over drinks."

Vacation, she thought sardonically. Not hardly.

She kept her face carefully blank as he leered.

"Thank you, Doctor Elderidge," she replied formally. "But I needed time to myself. To gather my thoughts after the Joker breakout."

He nodded sagely.

"Understandable in this profession. Very easy to get too involved with the concerns of our patients. It's happened to me on occasion. If you ever desire a . . . confidante, my door is always open."

Every word was carefully chosen to resonate as professionally as possible. Yet the underlying meanings slithered across her mind like slimy, unwelcome trails of that which he probably wanted to pump her full of.

He was one of the most celebrated doctors of Arkham, yet for all his posturing and apparent professionalism, her childhood-honed senses red-flagged him as one of the creepy, sneaky, perverted scumbags who would bring her mother flowers and lurk in secrets corners for vulnerable little girls.

And at the same time, to openly spurn his advances would be answered with thwarts and stagnations to her career. To her job.

She had to be careful. Choose her words wisely. Her actions.

So she stayed still, waiting for him to go.

Waiting for him to leave her in peace.

He did so.

Moving past her with a warm, wormy nod.

And she began to take a deep, relieved breath.

Too soon.

He brushed a hand casually along her shoulder in concealed invite.

Her thin veneer of professionalism snapped as self-preservation reared its feral, snarling head and she flew into action.

Grabbing his wrist, twisting it painfully even as she brought up her closer elbow and smashed him in the face with it.

He crumpled, blood spurting from his broken nose and she eased him into a nearby wheelchair reserved for catatonic patients, pinching the pentiultimate nerve in his neck that relieved him of his immediate consciousness.

Glancing around, she saw nobody else in attendance in the asylum hallway. Left their papers trampled beneath her feet.

And exited her captive from the building and into the trunk of the waiting car rumbling in the alley.

Approaching the front of the car confidently and opening the passenger door.

Sliding in, she turned to look into his waiting, expectant face.

And beamed happily.

"How did you know I was going to need you to be here now?"

The Joker returned her gaze, as chillingly charming as suited Grim Death.

"Harley, my dear, I told you before. I just had a feeling about you."

And off they sped, leaving in their wake, the stench of smoking, burned rubber.

He drove with mad glee to the abandoned building with its cracked, dirty windows where he had taken her to free her from the constraints of her suffocatingly dull, colorless existence .

Together, they prepared the room.

Strapped the disgusting scuzzbag down and turned on the electricity.

Powered all the way up.

She moved back, ready and willing to watch The Joker torture her nemesis for her, relieve him of his smarmy and lurid self importance.

She had no desire to be on that table again, feeling the sears and shreds and sizzles of pain The Joker had inflicted upon her.

But she did desire that same intense attention, that same lasered focus he had blanketed her with.

When it was only her and him.

And resolved to wait until the time came again.

It did so soon enough.

For when the repulsive, slimy sleaze awoke and began garbling and struggling against his bonds, her heart pounded with a thunderous statacco beat.

As she waited for the marvelously devilish man she loved to begin his symphony upon his prey.

But he did not.

Instead, he turned to her.

A sly grin painting his scarred, ghoulish visage.

"Ready to take the next step, my beautiful harlequin?"

And she felt on fire with excitement. Anticipation. Dark delight.

"I . . . I don't know how, Mr. J.."

He grinned wolfishly.

"I can show you. I can show you how to make him dance for you. How to sing."

She took a step. Then another. And another.

Until she was in his arms.

Facing the helpless, misery-deserving bastard laying there on the table.

And he, her garishly painted creator, was behind her, reaching around on either side of her slender body.

Slipping the electroshock controls into her open hands.

Gently, tenderly guiding her movements.

And surreshing in her ear.

"Make him suffer, my lovely, pale harleyquinn. Make him pay."

And he did, their victim, screaming and bucking and dancing for her.

As she gasped.

Heart racing, blood pumping.

She jerked the probes off his smoking flesh, reflexively bringing them up close to her mouth in shock.

Felt The Joker grinning behind her, gazing at her alit, glowing, open face.

"Hmm, interesting."

The Joker murmured, pointedly sniffing the air and craning his neck toward the trembling, unhinged victim on the table.

"What?" she breathed.

He hmphfed down in his throat, something that wanted to be a laugh.

As of yet unleashed.

"It appears the good doctor does not, in fact, shit gold."

An unexpected giggle, lighthearted and free, burst from her.

As she relished his humor, reveled in the perfection of the moment.

Then The Joker spoke again, focusing solely on her.

Only her.

Of the pale, unblemished flesh.

"Does it feel good? The power? The control? The freedom? "

She didn't speak, couldn't speak.

Only managed a bare nod.

"Good."

Felt him press closer to her.

All of him.

To all of her.

And she, on fire and her own sweet sizzle, pressed back.

"Now," he whispered, lips nearly touching her flesh. "Do it again."

And she did. Again. And again. And again.

To the sweet sound of someone else's agony and pain.

Wrapped in the embrace of the raucously cackling Joker.

Watching the good Doctor Elderidge walk away from her down the hall.

Rubbing her painted forearm.

And daydreaming of seared, sorched flesh.

Yeah, yeah, a bit Dexter/Lumen perhaps. Well, not exactly. But hey, not less wickedly awesome. I hope.

Thanks to DinahRay, asantos11300, KawaiiKitsune13 for continuing to review. Sweeties!