#rickquinn

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Rick and Harley only have eyes for each other, but unfortunately not everyone got the memo

Prompt was jealous quinnflag, sent in by @skyromaniac-05 and I 1000% used it as an excuse to write smutty quinnflag, because I missed it. This one is definitely getting shadowbanned (unless this hellsite surprises me) so I'ma post the link in a separate post so y'all can find it.

Rick’s minding his business on a couch at the former Black Mask club—sipping a beer and watching Harley having the time of her life on the dancefloor—when he’s approached by a random woman. She’s younger, blonde, and holding a glass of red wine. He ignores her at first when she plops down right next to him. She leans close and says, “Hey, I’ve never seen you here before.”

He snorts but doesn’t answer. He and Harley are actually here every Friday since it’s her favorite spot for dancing.

Instead of taking a hint, the lady doubles down on her efforts to engage him in conversation. “Oooh, I like your tattoos,” she comments—tracing her finger around the outline of the one on his right bicep.

He’s trying to think of the most polite way to tell her to back the fuck off and to stop touching him when he sees Harley stalking towards him—a scowl on her face that’s aimed at the woman who’s been trying to talk to him.

He internally breathes out a sigh of relief. Before he can greet her, she’s draping herself over his lap—crashing her lips into his.

He kisses back automatically—one hand going to her thigh and the other to the back of her neck to pull her closer. He vaguely registers whatshername (she may have told him her name, he wasn’t paying attention) storming off in a huff. He’s too busy to really give a shit.

They’re both breathing hard when they come up for air. “What was all that for?” he asks, once his brain is functioning again.

“She was all over you,” Harley pouts.

Oh. Oh! That… explained a lot.

He chuckles and slides his hand further up her thigh under her dress. He rasps in her ear, “Aww, Harls, you know you’re the only one I have eyes for, right?”

She bites her lip and nods. He grins and tells her, “Meet me behind the building in five minutes, darlin’.”

He watches her stand up and stumble towards the door on shaky legs. Oh, this is gonna be fun.

------------

Harley waits outside the club for what feels like an hour but is probably only a few minutes. She’s so horny she could cry and Rick’s taking his sweet ass time.

When he finally appears, she pounces on him immediately—legs going around his waist and lips crashing into his. She feels the rough brick wall on her back as he attacks her neck with nips and kisses—marking his territory.

“Fuck me!” she gasps.

He slides his hand up her inner thigh to her panties—which are soaked through. “Someone’s eager, huh?” he teases.

Oh god, she’s gonna bite his head off if he doesn’t fucking touch her already!

She’s cut off mid-thought when his fingers slip underneath her panties and drag through her wet heat up to her clit.

She moans loudly and encourages him to keep going. She’s so wound up that she comes embarrassingly fast on his fingers—but he’s not done with her.

She can feel his hands between their bodies as he fumbles with his belt buckle, and bites his neck—hard—to muffle her scream as he slams into her.

By the time they’re done, he’s as marked up as she is.

-------------

She’s giggling as they slip back inside the club. Rick’s hair is a post-fuck mess and she’s sure hers isn’t much better. She can’t help but smile smugly when she sees the bitch who was flirting with him earlier—scowling at the two of them while she sips her wine.

She makes a detour to the bathroom so she can straighten out her hair and has to bite her lip to suppress a moan when she sees just how marked up she is. God, she loves this man.

After reapplying her lipstick and putting her hair back up she heads over to the bar for another drink. She’s waiting for the bartender to notice her when she feels a hand grope her ass and a sleazy voice in her ear saying, “Hey baby, lemme buy you a drink.”

She tenses and grabs the hand that’s touching her. “I just want ya to know that my boyfriend is gonna kick your fuckin’ ass if you don’t back the fuck off.”

“She’s right, you know,” she hears, before Rick is shoving the guy away from her and then grabbing him by the collar.

Despite how dark it is in the club, she can see the guy’s face drain of color as he stammers out a half-assed apology.

Rick lets him go but watches him like a hawk until he sees him leave the club completely.

“You okay, Harls?”

“Yes and that was the second hottest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says as she yanks him down by the collar of his shirt. “Take me home, right the fuck now, Colonel.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds with a smirk. “But first we gotta close out our tab.”

Harley shrieks in frustration and Rick laughs, pulling her close and caressing her hip. “Patience, sweetheart,” he whispers in her ear.

They manage to make it back to their apartment building in record time.

But they don’t make it out of the truck.

[jm-chrome]

“You were gonna save me? 🥺”

[birdsofpry]

dissecting rickquinn’s hug again bc i have too lol, and if you look at rick’s face as harley is approaching him, he does like a little sigh and head shake, which leads me to believe that he knows what she’s about to do, he knows what’s coming. he knows she’s coming in for the hug, and that it is going to be very snuggly and tight! and he knows this bc this is NOT the first time harley quinn has bear hugged one rick flag.

[skiplo-wave]

You: Joker x Harley

Me, an intellectual: Rick x Harley

[wolfboywarmachines]

hello!

normally I don't plug these kinds of things but it's come to my attention that harley x rick shippers are not as rare as I thought they were so! I am gonna throw my newly written fic here for you guys. hope you like it <3

[tylerowensrose]

made a harley x rick besties playlist, enjoy nerds xx

[dcbicki]

holding my breath for you (crowd my grave)

A Rick/Harley fix-it fic • Chapter 1/?

To say he’s surprised to see Harley Quinn standing in the doorway of his shabby, middle-of-nowhere motel, in shredded jean shorts and heart-rimmed sunglasses, would be a serious fucking understatement. And it’s not because it’s one o’clock in the morning and the sun went down hours ago.

“How the hell did you find me?”

She shrugs, picking at a long thread on her jacket, “I know people.”

Rating: T/M • Characters: Harley Quinn, Rick Flag, and mentions of others • Read on AO3 or below the cut

“I think I just walked in on someone screwin’ a goat.”

To say he’s surprised to see Harley Quinn standing in the doorway of his shabby, middle-of-nowhere motel, in shredded jean shorts and heart-rimmed sunglasses, would be a serious fucking understatement. And it’s definitely not because it’s one o’clock in the goddamn morning and the sun went down hours ago.

“How the hell did you find me?”

The blonde shrugs, picking at a long thread on her jacket. “I know people.”

“Better people than mine, apparently,” Rick rasps, and he runs a hand through damp hair. Thankfully he’d managed to trade in the towel for sweatpants before she’d started pounding on the door. “So much for flying under Waller’s radar.”

“Nah, you’re good,” Harley says, and the sunglasses slide down the bridge of her nose when she dips her head to shoot him a devilish look, single brow raising, “I promise she don’t know I’m here.” Suddenly there’s a hand in his face and she’s wiggling her right pinkie finger as if that'll prove anything.

She taps one foot against the carpeted floor then, toe of her boot crossing the threshold, and Rick has decided she reminds him of a vampire; one covered in sparkles and tattoos with a pink, fluffy duffle-bag dangling from her fingertips, but a bloodsucker all the same. “Ya gonna invite a girl in or what?”

“You plan on telling me what you’re doin’ here first?” he asks, but then he’s moving out of the way so she can duck under his arm and enter. Harley breezes past him, tossing her bag somewhere across the room, and she plops herself down into the old, worn leather seat by the television. There’s some Spanish soap opera playing to itself on the screen.

“Mi casa es su casa… and all that.” Flag grumbles, pulling the door to a close behind her—but not before shooting a quick look out over her shoulder towards the parking lot. He locks it, then turns and presses his back up against it, hands on his hips.

“You can stop looking so constipated, Flag, I told ‘ya. I’m off the grid myself these days.” She taps the side of her neck twice. “The old dragon lady ain’t coming for either of us.”

“Right.” A nod, then, “Dubois told me about that.” The deal. The squad forcing Waller to meet them halfway and offer freedom in exchange for silence.

(He hadn’t exactly been shocked to find out Dubois was still in possession of the drive. It was a smart move; not the best one, or the right one, and it was a far cry from the one Rick had fucking died trying to pull, but not everybody lived by a code of honor. He couldn’t blame the rest of the team for following suit.)

“Milton knew?! He knew where you were this whole time and didn’t tell me? That mother fucka!” She grits her teeth, nails strumming atop the television cabinet.

(He doesn’t ask about Milton. It’d probably be a long, convoluted story and he’s not exactly in the mood for one of Harley Quinn and her gift of gab. Not that he has much of a choice right now...)

“Now you wanna tell me what you’re doin’ here?”

Ignoring him, Harley takes in her surroundings, chewed-end of her plastic sunglasses between her teeth as she eyes the dingy room. It’s cramped for sure, dull magnolia paint is chipping off the walls, and there’s a queen-sized bed with crumpled up grey sheets and three flat pillows, a sign of recent use. Odd number, Harley notes. Would four kill them?

The little washroom is beside the dresser, and there’s a towel hanging from the bathroom doorknob, wet footprints still clear on the tiled floor. It’s only then that she looks up and realizes he’s shirtless. Oh.

“This place got food? I could so do with a burrito right about now.”

(A place this rundown probably doesn’t even have a cleaning crew, much less any other kind of service. Although, there was half a pack of mints beside the sink when Rick first rented the room so does that count?)

(He’s not ashamed to say he finished them off.)

“I got whiskey and half an eggroll, that do ‘ya?” Rick quips, and there’s a smirk starting on his lips.

He’s still waiting for an explanation as to why the hell she’s here, how the hell she’s here, and what the fuck she thinks she’s doing by checking up on him in the first place. He’s supposed to be laying low—supposed to be dead—and she’s supposed to be free. Or at least as free as someone like her can get, which probably isn’t very free at all.

But there’s something off about her whole demeanor, something decidedly un-Harley, and the man can’t help but feel like he’s just waiting for something. Whether it’s one of Waller’s goons bursting through the door, or Harley herself finishing the job or, hell, Harley breaking down (and God, he hopes it’s not that), he’s not sure. He’s not great with emotions. And she’s without a doubt the most expressive person he’s ever had the (dis)pleasure of knowing.

“Hi, Harley. You know, I’m doing pretty good after havin’ my heart practically ripped apart by a fuckin’ toilet seat. How ‘bout you?” She lowers her voice as if to match the bass in his own and goddamnit he finds it charming.

(He doesn’t have the heart to correct her.)

“You know, a little heads-up that you weren’t DOA might’ve been nice, Colonel.”

“Wasn’t exactly high on my priority list,” he informs her, voice dipping as he nods, slow. “Staying alive kinda won that round. You know, ‘cause of the shit jammed in my chest.”

“They said it came out the other side, ‘ya know. My guys. Wanted to see for myself.” She stands up then and walks to him until she’s about four inches away from his face, taking in the long gash above when his heart lies. “I’m thinkin’ they lied though because that don’t look too deep to me.”

“Yep. Not much to see.” He shrugs, heavy as though there’s weight on his shoulders, casting a glance down at his chest when she raises a hand. She doesn’t touch him; just lets her fingers dance in the air above the skin. “Sorry to disappoint, Doc.”

The scar runs right down the middle of his chest. From left collarbone to navel; a rushed surgery in a (probably, totally) sketchy makeshift hospital. It’s not a good look. But she’s seen worse. “It’s healin’ just fine. I’m getting plenty of fluids and I’m takin’ my meds. Think you can be on your way now you’ve done your check-up.”

“I thought you died.”

“False alarm.”

“You died,” Harley repeats, and there’s an edge to her voice Rick doesn’t recognize. She moves from one foot onto the other, swaying back and forth on her heels, eyes unmoving from off of his chest. “And I didn’t even get a goodbye out of it.”

“Was I…” he pauses, considers the look on her face for a moment. “Apologies.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“The fuck you want me to do? Go back in time and tell him to wait so you can make it about you first?”

“Just think it’s kinda rude for one of my friends to go off and die and leave me alone like that.”

“Tad dramatic, don’t you think?” Rick asks before remembering who he’s dealing with. Harley Quinn is theatrical and melodramatic and showy. Of course, she’d turn this into a whole fucking thing. “You’re a grown ass woman with a criminal record and probably a couple dozen bounties on your head, I think you can handle getting on a plane without a handler.”

She stops swaying. But the look on her face is ice cold and calculating and if he didn’t know her any better, he might be slightly terrified. So this is the infamous killer queen, huh? She wouldn’t hurt him. Maybe once upon a time, a few years back, but not now. Not after… “You’re supposed to be the leader.”

“You had Dubois.”

“But not you. And I know Milton’s a fine leader an’ all, but he’s not exactly a great conversationalist. Or much of a hugger.”

“I ain’t either.”

“But you humour me. ‘Ya put the effort in, Flag.” The blonde pokes his chest, manicured and pale fingernail against his sternum, skin hot to the touch. “And no one else is gonna do that for me, so yeah, I’m kinda mad that you went and got your heart broken into little tiny pieces and didn’t think to let me know you weren’t buried under a fuckload of concrete. Not very friendly of you.”

“And since when are we friends?”

There’s a silence then, and now he’s reconsidering not showing any signs of fear. He’s in no position to fight her. Harley is… Well, one kick and it’d be lights out for Flag.

(Since Waller forced her to take swimming lessons with a mean, ‘It’s a basic life skill, Ms. Quinn. No one else is going to have your back out there'  and he made sure he was her assigned instructor. Even brought her a cute two-tone bathing suit that wasn’t Belle Reve-approved and all. Since everyone in Gotham decided they wanted Harley Quinn six feet under and he let her crash on his couch that one time—those three times—and he made her bacon and eggs in the morning. And he didn’t even get mad when she got ketchup all over his carpet. Since she got drunk that second time and kissed him out of loneliness and he never held it against her.)

“Whatever,” she backs away from him with a huff, but her eyes are still dark; a sure sign that she’s not happy. “I’m starving.”

“There’s a place around the corner.”

“Aces,” she grins, then picks up a discarded shirt from the foot of the bed and tosses it to him.

    There’s no mention of her getting her own room. It goes unspoken: she’ll be staying here with him.

“Not sayin’ this is better than sex, but it’s definitely better than a lot of the sex I’ve had lately.”

“Good for you,” Rick retorts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He glances around the restaurant. There’s only one other patron in there aside from them, and the chef is off somewhere in the back. He glances down at his watch, then fists the napkin in his other hand.

“Am I keeping you up?” Harley jests, curling her legs up beneath her on the stool. It squeaks under her weight, one of the metal legs unevenly balanced on the patterned tiles. “Got plans I’m disruptin’?” She clicks her tongue, a devilish grin in full swing.

“Nope. Just rest ‘n recuperation, right, Doc? That your diagnosis?”

“Prognosis,” she corrects him, then drops the rest of her tinfoil-wrapped burrito onto the little round table, a thin layer of grime coating the surface. “And yes,” Harley says with a light nod,  putting on her best matter-of-factly voice. She feigns pushing glasses up her nose, head tipping back to look down at him for a change. He’s leaning against the table with his forearms crossed, tanned skin pressing against the greasy tabletop as his sharp chin rests on a curved wrist. “Sleep and that bottle of bourbon my little eye spied hiding under ‘ya bed will do the trick just fine, Colonel,” she says cheerily.

He nods, only half-listening. “Can’t wait.”

“You could smile every once in a while, ‘ya know. I came all the way to Ti-fuckin’-juana to make sure you weren’t rotting away and letting yourself go in some ol’ shitshack. Would a little appreciation for the thought go amiss?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” the man tells her, leaning back in his chair. He clasps both hands in his lap. “Matter of fact, I’m still wondering why you did. What’s the deal, you get bored running from the feds for a change? Didn’t think you tired so easily.”

“What if I just missed you, huh? ‘Ya consider that possibility, soldier?” She pushes her hands out, her chair scraping back against the floor again. Harley picks up the rest of her food, casting him a dark look. “You’re no fun.”

“Never have been, Harley, that shouldn’t be news.” He follows after her, rushing to keep the door from swinging back in his face when she exits the restaurant in what he can only assume is anger. Or maybe she’s just messing with him; truthfully, it’s hard to tell sometimes. “You’re not exactly a ray of sunshine yourself, you know.”

“I am a delight,” she says, whipping around to face him, palm flat against her chest. The many rings on her fingers tap against her necklaces, and she stares up at him with furrowed brows. “Everybody loves me.”

“Pretty sure that’s not true, either.”

“OK, well not everybody hates me, how’s about that?” The scowl on her face turns into a smile then, teeth-baring and wicked. Her eyes are blown wide like saucers, and the crimson lipstick on her mouth suddenly becomes the only thing Rick can focus on that isn’t… Doesn’t...  Deranged, he thinks.

Harley Quinn is an absolute basket case and he must be out of his fucking mind for finding her so damn… what? Fascinating? It’s as close as he can get to thinking of a word to describe her that isn’t derogatory. She’s a character and a half, a whole clown car full of crazy jam-packed into one tatted and made-up doll of a woman, but God help him if he doesn’t kind of want to--

“That’s more like it.” She’s probably hard to love, but she’s not easy to hate.

Rick smiles back, finally, then reaches out a hand—tentatively. She’s still her and he’s never a hundred percent certain she won’t slit his throat with a Hello Kitty keyring or something—and wiggles long fingers. “Wanna get drunk and watch god awful late-night television?” He leans down; not too close, not close enough for her to grab, and adds, “Friend?”

Whatever that thing was he’d been waiting for, that unidentifiable something he’d felt looming over them since she showed up in his doorway an hour ago, looking somehow both tired and elated, finally revealed itself; in the form of tears in Harley’s eyes and a shaky hand accepting his.

She nodded and excitedly said ‘yes!’ and then he realized all she’d been after was a friend; the comfort of knowing that there was someone in the world who wasn’t out to get her, who had nothing to gain by being good to her.

And she’d almost lost that. Lost him.

(So when she hogs two of the three pillows on his bed and helps herself to one of his shirts—his favorite, actually. An old wife-beater with torn sleeves and a faded wildcat on the front—Rick doesn’t say a thing. Just lets her curl up in a ball beside him, red tips brushing against his bare shoulder, and rest.)

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

I have so many feelings about them 😭😭😭

He literally spends the whole damn movie trying to protect her!

We’re here to save you. You were gonna save me?  Harley Quinn & Rick Flag in The Suicide Squad (2021)

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Sometimes a family is a girl, her pet rat, a traumatized soldier, and his feral girlfriend

Got a prompt over on AO3 that was basically just Sebastian being Rick's lil buddy and it turned into Rick and Harley accidentally adopting Cleo and Sebastian.

Rick jolts awake at the sound of a soft knock on the front door. He can just make it out over the sound of the torrential downpour that’s going on outside. The knock gets louder. Harley stirs beside him but doesn’t wake.

As a precaution, he grabs her baseball bat from the corner of their room and goes to answer the door. He cracks it open, bat hidden behind the door, and is shocked at what he sees.

Ratcatcher Two is standing out in the hallway, soaked to the bone and shivering. She’s got Sebastian the rat cradled in her hands.

Before he can say anything, Harley comes up and wraps her arms around him from behind. “Who’s at the door, baby?” she asks sleepily.

“Uh… It’s Cleo and Sebastian.”

“Hmm?” It takes a second for her brain to catch up but suddenly she’s wide awake and shoving him aside. “Oh my god! Get inside, hun, you must be freezing!”

Cleo sniffs and tells them, “I had to leave my living situation—it was becoming dangerous. We didn’t know where else to go. Sebastian figured out where you lived a while ago, Colonel Flag, since you saved him from Peacemaker.”

Sebastian waves from his spot in Cleo’s hands and Rick awkwardly waves back. It’s true that they’d saved each other back in Corto Maltese but it still feels weird to be waving at a rat.

He can hear water running and then Harley’s back. “C’mon, sweetie, let’s get ya into the shower so you can warm up. Towels are on top of the toilet and I got dry clothes for ya when ya get out.”

Once Cleo silently slips into the bathroom, she turns to Rick and says, “Baby, I love you but you’re absolutely useless right now.”

“Right, sorry. Lemme get the couch set up for her.”

Harley helps him wrangle a fitted sheet over the couch and stack several blankets and a pillow on top of it. Once that’s done he goes into the kitchen to make some quick breakfast sandwiches—his specialty. He even makes a tiny one for Sebastian.

He brings them out to the living room and he sees Cleo sitting on the couch with Harley. She’s wearing an oversized t-shirt and a pair of fuzzy pajama bottoms. He can hear her saying, “I had to get out of there. We were fine until it started raining and we couldn’t find anywhere dry to sleep.”

“Well you’re stayin’ here as long as ya need to.”

He sets the sandwiches on the coffee table and Sebastian immediately starts eating his but Cleo looks wary. “C’mon, eat up. You must be starving.”

She reaches for the sandwich and takes a small bite. “Thank you, Colonel Flag.”

“Please call me Rick.”

He goes to the bathroom to clean up the wet towels and hang up Cleo’s soaked clothes, figuring that she doesn’t want an audience while she eats.

Harley’s tucking her into bed on the couch when he gets back, Sebastian fast asleep on the pillow next to her head.

She creeps back over to him, flicking the lamp off and bathing the apartment in darkness. They stand there and watch the pair for a second. She leans against his side and sighs, “Can we keep her?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, we can keep her. C’mon, let’s go to bed, Harls.”

----------------

Cleo awakens slowly from the best sleep she’s ever experienced. It takes her a second to recognize her surroundings but then she remembers last night. She stumbles towards the sound of voices and the smell of bacon.

“Sometimes I wish I had two of ya,” she hears Harley say.

As she walks into the kitchen she vaguely registers the couple wrapped up in each other’s arms as Harley sips from a coffee mug. “Why do you want two Colonel Flags?” she asks sleepily.

Harley promptly spits her coffee all over Colonel Flag, which immediately wakes Cleo up. Had she said something wrong? He’s now blushing furiously, which just confuses her more.

“I’ll tell ya when you’re older,” Harley manages to wheeze out once she’s done coughing.

Oh. Oh! That explains a lot.

Colonel Flag excuses himself so he can change his shirt and Harley busies herself with getting a plate down from the cupboard and loading it up with scrambled eggs and bacon. She sets it on the table and says, “Dig in!”

Colonel Flag comes back with a dry shirt on and says, “Okay, so we’re all just gonna forget the last two minutes and focus on finding Ratcatcher Two here a place to live.”

“Oh. No, that’s okay, Sebastian and I will be okay on the streets again.” It’s really all she’s ever known besides the four walls of a prison cell.

“Fuck that!” Harley says. “Sweetie, we can’t in good conscience just let ya be homeless again.”

“Why?”

“You… you literally told me you got threatened with a knife yesterday, hun.”

“Oh well we’re not gonna go back there obviously.”

She’d been squatting at the old orphanage with a group of homeless teenagers and that had been working out fine for the last month. That is, until things turned violent when one of them got too high and had a bad trip.

She doesn’t argue this time when Harley insists that she needs to be off the streets and that she thinks there’s a few units available in their building.

-------------

Cleo trails behind the couple as they make their way down to the leasing office. Her heart is pounding and she’s trying to keep her breakfast down. She already knows she can’t afford a place in this building—she doesn’t even have a job. She’s been resorting to petty theft to stay afloat but hasn’t tried anything big like a bank robbery again. The last thing she wants is to get thrown in jail again.

The property manager—a balding man in an ill-fitting suit—eyes the three of them as they approach. Cleo hangs back in the corner while Colonel Flag and Harley stand there imposingly.

“So, here’s the deal,” Harley begins. “Our friend Cleo here is lookin’ for a place to live. Got any openings?”

He snorts. “Sure, but I highly doubt she can afford them.”

She can feel her face heating. He’s certainly not wrong. She clutches Sebastian tighter, who squeaks at her soothingly.

“How much?”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“Nah, that ain’t gonna work. Here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna rent a place to her for three hundred a month, no more than that.”

“Do you know how much money I’d lose if I did that? I’m already renting to you two assholes practically for free!”

“Ya say that like I’m supposed to give a shit. Listen, we’re the reason you don’t have more supervillains crawlin’ all over this place but if that won’t persuade you, I got a baseball bat with your name on it.”

The property manager pales and manages to stammer out, “Ah, I think I do actually have a unit. But, uh, it won’t be available ‘til next month.”

“Perfect!” Harley chirps. She turns to Cleo and throws her arm around her shoulders. “Looks like you’re stayin’ with us for a couple weeks!”

As they’re leaving the property manager’s office, Harley remarks, “Ya know, I think that License to Kill shirt I got ya for your birthday really helped our case.”

Colonel Flag sighs and says, “Harls, we really need to do laundry.”

“Not it!”

The couple continues to bicker about whose turn it is to do laundry as they make their way back to the apartment.

“I could do it,” Cleo pipes up from behind them. It’s the least she can do to thank them.

They immediately stop arguing and turn to look back at her. In unison, they say, “Abso-fucking-lutely not.”

Harley elaborates, “You’re our guest, hun. We’re not gonna make ya do chores. Especially because it’s his turn to do laundry!”

Colonel Flag pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “Harls, we’ve been over this. I gave you a break last week because you were hungover. It’s your turn!”

“Most of it is your laundry anyway!” Harley whines.

“Because you keep stealing my shirts!”

“… Okay, ya got me there.”

------------------

Cleo wasn’t exactly sure what to expect when she knocked on Colonel Flag’s door. She wasn’t entirely surprised to see him living with Harley Quinn, after their epic love confession in the ruins of Jotunheim. What she was surprised to see was just how domestic the couple’s life had become.

Over the next few weeks she listens to them bicker like an old married couple about some of the stupidest things but she also sees the way Harley comes up behind Colonel Flag for a hug every night while he cooks dinner, and how she’s always making sure he’s taken his meds at bedtime, and the way he carries Harley to the couch when she’s complaining of cramps and just wants to lay on the couch and eat raw cookie dough all day.

He’s even carried Cleo to the couch once when she embarrassingly fell asleep at the breakfast table—she really doesn’t function well early in the morning.

She’d woken up with her head on Harley’s lap and the TV volume on low.

“Mornin’, sweetie! Sleep well?” she’d chirped, just as Colonel Flag was carrying her abandoned breakfast plate over to the coffee table.

Having been homeless or in prison her whole life, she essentially needs a crash course in being a functioning adult in society. She’s never opened up a bank account, learned how to cook, or had a job.

The first order of business is opening up a bank account, which Harley helps her do. Ten thousand dollars magically appear in said bank account the next day and Cleo doesn’t question it. It’ll give her a nest egg to live off of until she figures out the whole job situation—if she even wants one, Harley comments. Being a criminal is a perfectly respectable career, in her opinion. Cleo needs to think on it.

While Harley is dragging her all over Gotham to various stores so she can buy things for her new apartment and clothes and other necessities, Sebastian is having the time of his life with Colonel Flag. It warms her heart to see them interact. Sebastian helps with the cooking and every Friday they watch football together.

“Baby, we’re gonna borrow the d-bag truck. Where’re the keys?”

“Stop calling it that,” Colonel Flag deadpans, without even taking his eyes off the TV. He rummages around in his pocket and tosses the keys over his shoulder, Harley catching them easily.

“Why do you call it a d-bag truck?” Cleo asks as they make their way to the building’s parking garage.

The car they stop in front of is a massive black pickup truck, and suddenly the moniker makes sense.

They come home from furniture shopping three hours later to find the boys sulking.

“Did your sportsball team win?” Harley asks.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Sebastian squeaks indignantly in agreement.

It’s with a mixture of sadness and hope that she receives the keys to her new apartment on the first of the next month. This place has become home for her. She’s never felt safer or more cared for than she has in the last few weeks. She’ll miss watching movies on the couch with Harley and watching Colonel Flag and Sebastian cooking together. She’ll even miss the couple’s constant bickering about who’s responsible for doing laundry (somehow the answer always seems to be neither of them).

The sadness doesn’t last long though. She’s been moved in for two days when the couple shows up on her front doorstep, inviting her over for family dinner, as Harley puts it.

She ends up at their place every Tuesday and Saturday night for dinner going forward.

[birdsofpry]

🥰 meme couple 🥰

[skiplo-wave]

Rick: I wouldn’t say this to her face but Harley most beautiful woman ever

Robert: Why wouldn’t you say that to her face???

[birdsofpry]

How we started:

How it’s going:

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Sometimes brains are assholes, and that's okay

Got a prompt request for a Rick sick fic with Harley taking care of him over on AO3 and this is what I came up with. Not your typical sick fic!

The apartment is dark when Harley gets back from her roller derby match—the first one Rick’s missed since she got out of prison. She’s trying not to be too broken up about it though, he told her before she left that he wasn’t feeling well and was gonna try to nap.

She drops her skates and padding by the front door and makes her way to the bedroom, expecting to find Rick dozing in bed. Except the only thing on the bed is the rumpled sheets that haven’t been touched since this morning.

She starts to panic. He wouldn’t just leave without telling her—that’s not like him.

The only option left is the bathroom. The door is ajar but the lights are off. “Rick? Baby, you in here?” she calls out cautiously as she flicks the lights on—trying not to imagine the worst.

“Ow!” she hears. “Too bright!”

She breathes a sigh of relief now that she can see Rick—who’d managed to squeeze all six foot one inch of himself into their tiny ass bathtub.

She turns the lights off and uses the moonlight shining through the bathroom window to find the tub. She kneels down and reaches out to touch his back. His shirt is soaked with sweat and he’s shaking a little bit. “You okay, hun?” she asks—immediately shifting into what Rick has dubbed her Doctor Mode.

“Migraine,” he grits out.

Ah yes, those pesky migraines he’s been having. Not surprising given the fact that he’s had four concussions since she met him—and that’s just on missions they were on together. He hasn’t had one in a while though.

“Baby, I thought your doctor gave you meds for those.”

“Ran out. Thought I had a refill but I don’t. I’ve been trying to get a hold of him to get an emergency refill but he won’t pick up the fucking phone—as usual. Fucker probably doesn’t even think I need ‘em. And eventually the headache got so bad that I ended up in here.”

Here, meaning where it’s darkest and coolest, she realizes.

“Did ya try the pharmacy?” she asks, as she runs a washcloth under the faucet.

“They won’t fucking refill it unless the doc pushes it through!” he yells, and then moans as another wave of nausea hits him.

She places the cold washcloth on the back of his neck and he lets out a sigh of relief.

“I’ll be right back, hun. Where’s your phone?”

“Living room, I think.”

She kisses his temple before leaving the bathroom. Time to yell at another doctor.

-------------------

Rick focuses on his breathing and trying not to vomit as Harley leaves to presumably yell at another one of his doctors. Honestly, as much as he appreciates her, he’s not really sure how much further she’ll get. He’d been on the phone with the pharmacy and doctor’s office for hours. They just kept putting him on hold.

“How’d I get your personal cell phone number? I’m Harley fucking Quinn, motherfucker! Now push the prescription through or I’ll break your kneecaps—pharmacy closes in an hour.”

Maybe he spoke too soon.

He hears her come back in and feels her fingers carding through his hair. “I’ll be right back, baby. Gotta go pick up your meds.”

The room continues to spin as he lays there pathetically in the bathtub. He’s not sure how long Harley’s gone for—could be hours for all he knows. He’s too nauseous to focus on anything but not puking.

“Sit up for me, hun.”

“I don’t wanna,” he moans. “Too dizzy.”

“I know, baby, I know. But I got your meds right here. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

It takes a monumental effort to sit up but he manages to do it. Harley hands him two pills and a glass of ice water. He throws the pills back obediently and then sinks back down to the floor of the tub, laying on his side since it’s so fucking tiny.

He hears some shuffling behind him and then Harley’s squeezing herself behind him, spooning up against his back and looping an arm around his chest. They both barely fit but instead of feeling claustrophobic he feels comforted, and safe.

“It should kick in faster since I gave ya two,” she says quietly—slipping a hand under his shirt to rub his chest and stomach softly.

He focuses on that feeling as he waits for the nausea to subside and his head to stop pounding.

Next thing he knows he’s being shaken awake. “C’mon, baby, let’s get ya into bed.”

“But I’m comfy,” he whines—and truly, he is. The most comfortable place he’s ever been is wrapped up in Harley’s arms.

“Baby you’re gonna hurt your neck if ya sleep in the tub.”

He complains the whole time but lets her pull him out of the tub, stumbling a little as the blood rushes back to all the right places. She catches him easily and guides him back to their bedroom in the dark. She sits him down on the bed and rummages around in one of his drawers for a pair of pajama pants that she throws at his head. He catches them and manages to change into them without too much trouble.

She ushers him under the covers and slides in behind him—spooning up against his back again and kissing the back of his neck. “Get some sleep, hun, I’m right here. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

“Might need to knock me out with your baseball bat,” he jokes, even as his eyes drift shut.

“Shut the fuck up—I know you’re exhausted, asshole.”

He manages a small chuckle. Just before sleep claims him he feels Harley squeeze him around his middle and hears her whisper, “I love ya, baby.”

He’s too exhausted to echo the sentiment back but grabs her hand and squeezes it in response.

He falls asleep to the feeling of Harley’s breath on the back of his neck and her hand wrapped tightly in his.

[birdsofpry]

thinking about quinnflag’s wasted potential every 4.2 seconds

[skiplo-wave]

Harley: *Leaning against Rick* You’re the only flag that’ll never do me wrong

[sheena-is-a-punk-rocker]

Sometimes a guy just needs his girlfriend to yell at his psychiatrist

So, there's a lot of quinnflag content about Rick taking care of Harley but not nearly enough of the reverse, so I'm fixing that. Harley being Rick's mental health advocate. Got the prompt over on AO3 and technically it was supposed to be the reverse but this is what you're getting instead.

Harley comes back from her lunch date with Ivy to an eerily quiet apartment—which immediately puts her on edge. “Rick? Baby? You home?”

She hears a sob coming from the TV area and finds Rick, curled up in the fetal position in the tiny bit of space between the couch and coffee table. He’s clearly in the middle of a panic attack—shaking, hyperventilating, hands clamped over his ears.

She immediately goes into Doctor Mode and reaches out to touch him just as another firework (or gunshot, who can fucking tell in this god forsaken neighborhood) goes off from the alley below the open window.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he yells, and she immediately pulls her hand back—trying not to feel hurt by his outburst.

She knows this has nothing to do with her and everything to do with his own trauma—both from the Corto Maltese mission specifically, and the rest of his time in the military.

“Okay, I won’t touch ya,” she says gently. “But baby, you’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe.”

“Leave me alone, Harley!”

“Nuh-uh. Not goin’ anywhere until ya breathe for me.”

She coaches him through some deep breathing exercises and slowly, he stops shaking and his breathing regulates. She rubs his back soothingly and this time he doesn’t protest. “You okay now, hun?”

He shakes his head vigorously and then says, “Please… I just need some space.”

It breaks her heart but she does as he asks, wandering into the bathroom to grab his meds for him. She frowns when she shakes the bottle and realizes it’s completely full. He started seeing his psychiatrist six months ago.

After that night when he finally broke down and told her about Jotunheim, she’d helped him get set up with a psychiatrist and therapist but after that she butted out—recognizing that he wanted to be able to handle it himself. It suddenly occurs to her that he may have been so focused on her mental health bullshit that he’d neglected his own, and it makes her heart sink.

She goes back into the living room and Rick’s nowhere to be found. She’s about to panic when she hears him say, “In here, Harls,” from the kitchen.

He’s hunched over the sink, head in his hands, but straightens up when he hears her footsteps. He holds his arms open and says, “C’mere.”

She breathes a sigh of relief and hugs him tightly.

“I’m sorry for yelling at you,” he mumbles, voice hoarse.

She pulls back to look at him and brings her hands up to cup his cheeks. “Baby, you have nothin’ to apologize for. Let’s worry about you.”

She braces herself for the very difficult conversation they’re about to have. “Why haven’t you been takin’ your meds?”

He tenses up and immediately tries to look away but her grip remains firm. Finally, he sighs and closes his eyes. “I was on them after coming back from Qarac, just before Waller put me in charge of the squad. And uh, not gonna lie, the side effects were brutal.”

“So ya stopped taking ‘em.”

He nods. “I asked Dr. Parker to put me on something else but she won’t. So I just… haven’t been taking them.”

Harley rolls up on her toes so she can press her forehead to his, “Thank you for being honest with me. Now will you please let me fix this for ya? This was literally my job at one point.”

When he nods in response, she smiles and then grabs his hand—pulling him towards the living room. She gets him settled on the couch with his head in her lap and asks for his phone.

--------------------

Rick dissociates and focuses on the feeling of Harley’s fingers carding through his hair. He manages to catch bits and pieces of the conversation.

She starts out sounding professional. “Yes, I’d like to discuss a mutual patient with you, Rick Flag.” A pause and then, “Who am I? I’m his fuckin’ girlfriend, you d-bag, and you’re terrible at your job!”

He manages a small chuckle at her antics before another sudden loud bang makes him freeze up. The asshole neighbors have been setting off fireworks all damn day.

Harley pauses in her ranting to grab his hand and bring it to her lips for a gentle kiss. “Stay with me, baby.”

“That’s Dr. Quinzel to you, bitch,” she yells into the phone. “So here’s what you’re gonna do. You’re gonna take him off the meds he very clearly told ya he didn’t wanna be on, and you’re gonna prescribe these instead, and no, don’t argue with me.”

By the time she’s off the phone with his psychiatrist he’s half asleep and she seems to be in a much better mood. “How you doin’, hun?”

He doesn’t answer the question and instead tugs on her hand. “Come over here.”

She takes the hint and rearranges herself so she’s laying right on top of him. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck. The smell of her shampoo and her weight on his chest helps ground him. “I love you,” he mumbles.

She pulls back to smile at him. “I love ya too, baby.”

Baby. He likes when she calls him that. Before he can say anything about it though she’s kissing him. He deepens the kiss and snakes a hand up her back under her shirt.

As much as he would very much like this to progress further, exhaustion hits him like a freight train and Harley picks up on it. She boops his nose. “Get some sleep, hun. We can continue this later—I ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

His eyes drift shut as another firework goes off—and this time he doesn’t even notice.