Disclaimer: I do not own the characters in this story, nor do I claim profit from them.
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The General Rule
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harley quinnxpoison ivy
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It's utterly miserable here. It's the goddamn humidity. Sure, the rainforest is where Ivy's really happy, and yeah, this is where their plans can actually work. Whoo-fucking-hoo, they're savin Mother-fuckin'-Nature. The humidity makes everything hot and sticky and just plain nasty, bugs are flying everywhere and trying to land in her hair but, ha, in their fucking faces, she's got a hat and that makes her hair bug proof, ha!
She's the only one laughing, and that makes it horrible. Goddamn rainforest.
Harley wipes her cheek and when she pulls her hand away, she sees a smear of her face makeup. She lets out another, pitiful whine and calls out, "Reeeed! When can we go hoooome!?"
Oddly enough, Ivy doesn't answer; Harley blinks, swats away the sandfly that lands on her cheek.
"Red?" No answer. "You there? Red?"
The shifting of leaves and the ghostly whisper of an ancient world answer, "Haaarley..."
She gulps and takes a step back. "U-um, Ivy? I don' like this place no more..."
The forest says again, "Haaaarley..." The leaves unfurl and curl toward her like fingers, beckoning her into the depths of Ivy's green happy place.
And it suddenly makes sense. Harley's mind whirls; oh my god, the rainforest ate Red (oho the irony) an' now she's all mulched up and corpsified and dead and it's comin after me next, like this is some bad, teenage slasher movie, ohgodohgogohgod!
And then Ivy's voice bubbles from the forest; sultry; inviting. Sin itself woven into silken strands of pure, molten heat. "Come here," Ivy's voice purrs; ferns once again sway in the non-existant breeze.
"That you, Red?" Harley calls out.
Ivy's smug (and sexy, damn her) chuckle is her answer.
"That better be you," Harley says, shaking just a bit, as she stands up. She steps to the edge of the tropical paradise; the leaves there tug encouragingly at her legs and hands, trying to pull her in. She takes a deep breath for courage, and steps in. The plants shudder and spoon to her back, as if saying Hi we missed you!; Harley's heart melts, just a little.
"Aww," she cooes, reaching up and running her fingers over a thick leaf, "you guys are just too nice some times."
"Harley," Ivy's voice says again, with a bit of impatience slinking in. And an impantient Ivy is an annoyed Ivy, and an annoyed Ivy tends to rant a little more than usual, and Harley doesn't like that.
"I'm comin'" Harley calls back, "hold yer horses, Red, jeez." Pause. "W...Where are you, anyway?"
A flower suddenly pushes its way from the soil, not a foot away from her; it blooms, crimson petals spreading to the canopy, like a rare gem she could steal. And then, in a trail leading deeper into the green wonderland, more flowers bloom and blossom. It reminds Harley of some sort of romantic cliche; where the smoldering temptress lures the hero(ine) into the bedroom with a trail of rose petals.
Harley hates, hates, hates cliches, really she does, but it's sweet and romantic all the same; so she follows the trail of flowers, and they seem delighted. The path isn't well traveled, but the flowers are great markers;she doesn't trip over hidden tree roots; in fact, she's felt them "nipping" at her heels to get her to hurry up. The flowers are growing in numer and their scent is making her head swim a little. Harley feels her heart quicken when the path ends into a clearing, and a curtain of ivy obstructs her vision.
"Harley," Ivy purrs, and her voice is crisp and clear; Harley swallows, "won't you come in?"
The curtain pulls away.
The sight before her causes Harley's jaw to drop and her brain to short out. It reboots in record time, but in stages; the sudden, overwhelming scent of roses and lilacs and iris blossoms and thousands of nameless flora bombard her nose, coating the back of her throat and the walls of her lungs with their perfume. Her ears pick up the bubbling sounds of water flowing over smooth stone; her sternum feels as tight as a coiled spring. She licks her lips, nervously, and tastes the salty tang of sweat on her upper lip (which is kinda, sorta gross, but who the hell cares right now?)
And the sight in front of her? The one where Ivy, so gloriously and obviously naked, sits there in the cradle of a huge flower, in one of the best renditions of a pin-up poster ever? The one where she rubs the petals of said flower while giving her one of those, Hiya Harley, I'm undressing you with my eyes looks? That one? That's the sight Harley sees.
"Guh," Harley manages to gurgle out.
Ivy smirks. She tilts her head to the side, causing cascading waves of fire to slide temptingly over her slender, green shoulders. "What is it, Harley-girl? See something you like?" At this, Ivy props herself up on one hand, trailing the other down, down, down her body and over the sexy curve of her hip.
"Guh," Harley says again. Her jaw is probably hanging.
"I'll take that as a yes," Ivy chuckles. She rises gracefully to her feet; Harley nearly falls down.
"Red," Harley finally croaks, "a-are you on somethin' or what?" Because you should have it more often, she thinks to herself.
"Oh, Harley," Ivy says, almost gushing (and Ivy never gushes, never!), "look at this place! Look at it!"
Harley just looks at Ivy, simply because looking at her beautiful, naked friend is better than looking at the rainforest.
"It's so full of life," Ivy continues, walking closer to Harley, her hips rolling with every, seductive step, "so full of...heat. You understand, don't you?"
"Not really," Harley says. Ivy laughs, though it sounds like a cackle.
"Are you sure you don't understand, Harley?" Ivy stand close, her green fingers dancing over Harley's arms.
Holycrapholycrapholycrap, Harley thinks. "Y-Yes..."
"Oh," Ivy leans in, her lips spreading into a wicked, wicked smile, "I was hoping you would say that." And then they're kissing.
There's a general rule that applies to Poison Ivy; look, but don't touch; because when you touch her, you'll probably "catch something nasty" and your insides will melt and you'll bleed from every orafice on your body, blah blah. Point is, not many people get to touch and kiss Poison Ivy and live to tell about it. But Ivy's got those-phera...pharo..fear-a-moans?-for a reason, and that's why so many men-and a few women- can easily fall under Ivy's spell. They're unable to resist Poison Ivy's toxic touch and kiss, and they probably die with a smile on their face.
Harley can kiss and touch and so much more-if the way Ivy's hips gently surge against her own is any indication of what she wants-because, ha ha Gotham, she's immune. She can hold Ivy's hand or scrape her nails against Ivy's skin, she can breathe in the floral scent of Ivy's hair if she wants to. And god, does she want to.
"Mmm," Ivy mumbles into Harley's lips, "this place just makes me feel so..." She lowers her head and nips at Harley's chin, saying in a throaty whisper, "Alive..."
"Red," Harley squeaks, helplessly.
"C'mere," Ivy breathes, practically plastering herself all over Harley's taller, lithe frame, "let's get this filth off of you." Ivy steps back, her smirk still pasted on her lips, tugging Harley behind the giant flower to reveal a narrow stream. Harley gulps as Ivy's fingers dance over the white collar of her costume.
"I can get it," she protests weakly.
"I know," Ivy says, "but isn't it more fun to have a little help once in a while?" Her left hand starts massaging Harley's lower back.
"Um," is all Harley can manage as Ivy's hand quickly darts up to the back of her costume and latches onto the zipper, pulling it down. The green skinned woman peels it off, her black lips spreading into a delighted grin at the revealed flesh. Her hat is the next to go; her hair, plastered to her scalp from sweat, tumbles down her back, free. Ivy smiles, and reaches up. A leaf, about as big as her palm, flutters down into her hand. She brings it to the stream, dips it in, and then raises it to Harley's face, wiping off the rest of her smeared, white makeup.
"There," Ivy whispers, letting the leaf drop back into the stream, "that's my Harl." Ivy leans up and presses their lips together again, and now there's definite promise in her kiss. Harley moans a little, lets Ivy tug her to the flower bed, letting Ivy pin her there. She gasps in air, air sweetened and thickened with the flowers' pollen, arching when Ivy's lips cross the threshold of her collarbone to her sternum.
"Red," Harley cries out, throwing her head back, "Red, oh Red d-don't..."
"Don't?" Ivy pulls back, her face dark and primal and savage. "Don't what?"
"Stop," Harley finally whines, "don't stop...please..."
And suddenly, Ivy's face is looming over her own, and her hands are on either side of her face. Ivy's eyes are nearly black, and her expression is viciously victorious. She swoops down and mashes their lips together, all grace gone. Ivy is full of reckless energy; Harley can feel it thrumming beneath her light green skin as she grasps at Ivy's shoulders, achoring herself to a reality that she can never attain.
The flowers are suddenly bursting, petals shoot into the air and dace around them like multicolored snow. Harley can't breathe, suddenly, because Ivy's tongue has slipped between the seam of her lips.
Kissing Poison Ivy is like getting into a bathtub full of lukewarm, rose scented water and dropping a toaster and a hair dryer in with you. Just because.
"Please," Ivy suddenly rasps against her lips, her green hands darting between Harley's legs to massage the skin of her inner thighs, "please say my name. Once, just once."
"Ivy," Harley wails into the canopy, her fingernails digging into the tensed muscles of Ivy's shoulders, lunging against Ivy's body.
"No," Ivy whispers, moving to bite gently at the bared expanse of Harley's throat, "the other one..."
Harley takes a moment to gasp in mouthfuls of air. Her lungs are screaming, her heart is pounding and breaking at Ivy's request. She manages to thread her fingers through the curling tendrils of red hair, pulling Ivy's face away from her neck. She stares down at Ivy's eyes, framed by lush eyelashs, full lips, elegant curves. Her eyes are a mix of bright, hues of emerald and jade and rich soil brown; her skin is green too, and the contrast between their skin makes Harley look twice.
Years ago, so many years before that Harley has lost count, Ivy hadn't been green. Now Harley wonders.
It's possible that Ivy's not human anymore; that her crusade for Mother Earth has stripped her bare of everything, her humanity, her ties to sanity, the possibility of children, even.
But now, with those green eyes, bright with something Harley can't imagine-or even doesn't want to imagine-she looks human again.
"Pamela," Harley croons, and Ivy's eyes flutter shut. Perhaps the sound of her old name won't bring back her humanity; but the way Harley says it makes Ivy believe that, had they met sooner, that there might have been a place for Harleen Quinzel in Pamela Isley's life.
Maybe.
"Harleen," Ivy says back, and it makes Harley smile sadly at chances never taken, at a path never traveled.
Then Ivy's fingers are warm as they slide inside, curling and soothing over scars no one had ever seen. He doesn't deserve you, echoes in her head, He'll never love you.
As much as Harley loves her, sometimes her Inner Ivy can be a real, broken record of a bitch.
The truth hurts, doesn't it?
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Later, back in Gotham, things are mostly the same; Ivy is no longer attempting to blatantly seduce Harley (much); Batman is a pain in the ass. A visit to Arkham is due, and soon; sometime this week, maximum.
Well, one thing changed.
"Love ya," Harley chirps, leaning down and swooping Ivy into one of those big, sloppy, kisses suited only for the movies; complete with a super suave dip and Ivy's protests muffled by her lips. Eventually, Ivy giggles and wraps her arms around Harley's neck, her formulas and equtions fluttering to the floor; screw evil plans.
"Mmph oo phoo," Ivy moans into the kiss.
Love you too.
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A/N: Oh my god I wrote a happy ending. Somewhere, a little kitty has just died. Boo hoo.