#poison ivy fic

[acapelladitty]

`♡° kinktober 2024! ---

☆ kink: Forced masturbation

☆ pairing: Poison Ivy/Reader

☆ summary: Drugged by her pheromones, Ivy tells you exactly what she wants you to do.

kinktober '24 ☆ main masterlist ☆ ao3

Glancing around the room with a slow rotation of your head, the fuzziness in your mind makes each of the muted colours look almost muddied together as your back presses against the soft sheets of Ivy’s bed. Senses existing in a place between heightened intensity and muted dullness, each stroke of her fingers along your arm leaves a hot sensation in its wake.

“Ivy, love.”

The words are slurred, dripping free of slackened lips as you writhe in position – enjoying the way that the warm air brushes against your exposed sex as you spread and close your knees with a slow rhythm.

“I’m here, petal,” Ivy replies and you glance to the side to see her laying alongside your body, her attention sharp and intense as she monitors your reactions to her pheromones. “Are you going to do everything I ask you to? Just like we agreed.”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, yes.”

Muttering the words like a prayer as your head moves of its own accord to nod in agreement, you reach out with your right hand and gasp as she slips her fingers within your own. Ivy brings your fingers to her lips and places a gentle kiss to the back of your hand before placing it back on your own body.

“Touch yourself, for me,” Ivy’s voice is like a lullaby, wrapping around your thoughts and sinking any doubts deep into your subconscious as your hands move without thought, “Make yourself feel as good as you can.”

Grinning dopily at her insistence, your hands slips down your body and you sigh as you grope at your own breasts with a firm grip. You pinch your nipples roughly, your preference for a little bit of discomfort to make your pleasure all the sweeter forcing your fingers to pull at the sensitive nubs until they’re peaked and reddened while your breath comes in faster pants.

To your side, Ivy watches you with heat in her emerald gaze. Her own hand is not visible to your eyes but you can see the slight movements in her arm that tells you her fingers and moving slowly against her own sex – pleasuring herself to the show that you are putting on for her.

You drop your hands lower and inhale sharply as you press your fingers between the folds of your cunt. Her pheromones are hard at work and even you are surprised by how wet you are as every slight touch against your heated, swollen skin feels amplified by the drugs which are pulsing through your system like a venom.

Like poison.

A giggle slips free of your lips as you tease at your own hole with two fingers, coating the digits in your own arousal before thrusting them in roughly. Its hot, and clammy and oh so fucking good as you pump your fingers in and out of your hole with a sloppy rhythm that only pauses to allow you adjust your legs for easier access.

“C’mon, petal. I know you can do better than that,” Ivy encourages and her voice ensnares your mind like a vice; your hand moving even quicker in a desperate attempt to meet her wishes. At your side, she smiles and her reddened lips are intoxicating against your shoulder as she kisses the sweat-slicked skin there and mutters, “Good girl.”

Pulse beating in your veins like a drumbeat, every inch of your cunt feels aflame and your fingers only stoke the heat as your forefinger slips higher to rub at your clit. Every brush of sensation against the engorged nub forces a hitch in your breathing as it sparks an intense burst of pleasure which arches your back in position.

Flushing as a low cry snaps free of your throat, you come hard against your hand and your twitching legs are pinned into place by Ivy’s as she hooks her leg within your own and drinks in your pleasure like it were her own. Eyes almost rolling back into your head as the pheromones make every millimetre of your skin feel like it’s being caressed by the pleasure which rolls across it, you keep pawing at your cunt through it all due to Ivy’s insistence.

“Ivy, please.”

“Don’t stop until I tell you.”

Overstimulation making every light touch feel like heaven and hell, your fingers move without thought as they continue to stroke along the walls of your cunt – only pausing to rub messily at your clit as your arousal and release makes every motion slippery and uncontrolled.

“Just like that, baby,” Ivy groaned, her fingers circling her own clit as she enjoyed your delirious suffering. “I’m almost finished.”

You can tell when she’s coming because her grip of your arm grows tight to the point of pain and her heavy pants into your ear get more jumbled and desperate as she rides out her release on her own fingers. Her pleasure is your own and your cunt spasms around your fingers as your second orgasm hits like a truck, tearing guttural noises from your throat until a soft hand latching around your own pulls your fingers free of your twitching sex.

“Relax now, baby.” Ivy purrs, her come stained fingers trailing across your cheek as the scent of her arousal clouds your senses. “We still have all night to have our fun so let’s keep our strength for the moment.”

[applejusue]

Codependence ──  Pamela Isley

tldr; her experiments with sproutling variants didn't go to plan

c/w: light cursing, maternal care, sentient plants

w/c: 1.1k

crds for dividers: @strangergraphics, @sweetmelodygraphics

── Pamela was in her small apartment, vials scattered across the tables she had shoved together. She wasn't allowed into the laboratory anymore, but it wouldn't stop her research from continuing. Her chain dangled from her neck as she leaned over the beaker, watching the minuscule organisms within sprouting and wriggling. It was mesmerising to her, growing the little infants. She grinned softly at the sight, their short tendrils curling and unfurling as the baby hybrids adapted. Pamela knew they needed to be transported out of the beaker and into a proper terrarium since they would quickly outgrow the glass container.

As she brushed past the desk to retrieve a suitable home, her hip bumped against the wood, knocking the beaker crossways off of the edge. Her eyes widened, her vines thrusting past her arms to capture the jug before it could hit the ground. She sighed deeply in relief as her vines coiled around the jar protectively, setting it back onto the table. The little sprouts, while disorientated from the tumble seemed unharmed. Pamela exited the room, carefully this time to retrieve the container.

As she returned with the terrarium, Pamela set it down on the cluttered desk, moving some books to make space. She adjusted the humidity within the box, ensuring the soil was properly damp for the seedlings. After fiddling with the heat lamp she seemed satisfied that the cycle granted enough sunshine to the babies. Pamela then grasped the beaker, gently tilting the jug and allowing the sproutlings to slide down onto her open palm. She often did this bare-handed now that she had no more coworkers to complain about it. She always believed that the little sporelings needed a warm touch as they hit proper oxygen, feeling that it would help with the unease more than a plastic glove would. Pamela smiled gently down at them as she placed them into the terrarium, the plants seeping into the soil curiously.

That night, Pamela was spread across her mattress, faint breaths escaped her lips as she slept, her vines wrapped around her waist. However, she is woken shortly by the soft sounds of mewling, an unusual noise that she barely registers. She rolled over, burying her face against the pillow in an attempt to keep sleeping, but the noise seemed to bother her vines who began to drag her out of bed. Pamela lets out a low groan of annoyance, begrudgingly allowing them to tug her upward. She padded into the living room wearing nothing but a tank top and fleece trousers, her pierced navel glinting in the low light.

Pamela rubbed her eyes tiredly as she manoeuvers through the jungle of foliage, flowers and plants that enveloped the walls of her apartment, searching for the source of the sounds. As she approached the warmly lit tank she noticed that it was the baby plantlings, that were mewling softly akin to some sort of cry. Pamela tilted her head in weary confusion, her tired eyes scanning the little babies.  She could only assume that they were facing some sort of separation issues from their organism and that this was the cause of distress.

Pamela doesn't want to interfere too much, not wanting to risk them becoming dependent on her. She had to ensure that the sproutlings were an efficient organism that could survive without her care. However, she couldn't help but want to tend to them as their little struggles tugged at her heart. Pamela scooped some of them up for inspection, they had gotten a bit bigger in the few hours that she had slept. Her eyes studied the little green tendrils and fluffy leaves that began to curl around her arms and fingers. The babies were quivering against her, as though they were cold. She brushed a hand under the heat lamp, which seemed to still be in working order and was producing a warm beam. Pamela sighed softly, trying not to cave to the little plants. "Now, now.. little ones, that's enough crying.." she mutters, tentatively rubbing down their spines with two fingers.

The contact seemed to calm the babies, some of them burrowing closer to her skin and into the divots of her top. It seemed they craved the heat and affection she was providing. She swallowed deeply at the sight, realising they had a higher sentience than she initially believed, and that they were responding to her as though she was some sort of mother host.  Some of her vines seemed protective of them too, as though they also felt a connection to the little organisms. As a scientist though, Pamela had grown curious. To test their capability and responses, she pries one of the little saplings off of her chest.

She sets the baby plant down on the cool wooden table, wanting to study its response to the change in temperature and verify if it could produce a steady heat alone. However, the little one seems to take this action quite personally, letting out a soft cry and writhing on the table. Pamela's heart dropped at the sound, cursing to herself quietly. She could tell she had upset the small plantling by placing it down. Yet, its response seemed triggered by the abandonment rather than any real harm from the environment.

"Damn it..", She carefully picks the little one back up, holding it to her chest and petting its leafy head with her fingers to soothe the sproutling. "It's alright petal, it's alright.." She murmurs tenderly. The baby plantling cuddles back into her with a soft contented cooe, its small tendrils curling around the straps of her top. It was clear that the sporelings required a maternal host, and that they wouldn't be content with a simple heat lamp. They were becoming dependent on her body warmth, dependent on her.

── "You're all very.. interesting," she muttered under her breath, padding back toward her bedroom as she cradled the little plantlings against her chest. As she sank back into the covers with a deep sigh, she noticed that many of the babies had already begun to drift off, their fluffy leaves gently brushing against her skin. Pamela can't help but gaze down at them with a hint of timid fondness, despite knowing that she shouldn't be providing the small organisms with contact or comfort. However, she couldn't bring herself to let them cry either. One of the little sproutlings gently nuzzles against the side of her cheek, its tendrils curling around a strand of her hair as it cooed softly. She felt a faint smile grace her lips, petting it gently. "Don't worry little one, mamma's here.."

[breannasfluff]

“Tony’s Pizza delivery!” Danny knocks on a door and stands back slightly, waiting for the answer. Silence. He knocks again. “Pizza order! For…” he checks the box, “Rob!”

There’s the thud of footsteps behind the door, but it doesn’t open. It’s like someone walked right up to it and is waiting. The house itself has blacked-out windows and piles of trash on the lawn. Something about the situation feels…off.

Danny pulls out the taser, which he usually keeps in his pocket. The other hand tightens slightly on the pizza box. He doesn’t go intangible, not yet, but his powers bubble around his core, ready at a moment’s notice.

The door swings open. There’s a gun pointed at his face. 

Acting on instinct more than thought, Danny snaps the taser forward and presses the button when it meets the man’s arm. There’s a roar of pain and the gun is dropped. 

Keeping a hold of the taser, Danny drops the pizza box on the steps. “You owe us payment next time you order thank you goodbye!”

He bolts, grabbing the bike and wheeling it next to him instead of jumping on it. Pulling on intangibility it spreads to the bike as well. As soon as he’s around the corner, Danny goes invisible. His heart is hammering against his chest and all he wants to do is curl into himself. 

Still, he keeps a hold of the bike–no good if it suddenly pops into existence–and breathes through his panic. The taser worked. Sure, he didn’t get paid, but he also didn’t get shot. If Tony’s upset, Danny will ask him to take the cost out of his wages. 

After another few minutes of breathing exercises–thank you Jazz–he’s settled enough to flicker back to visibility and bike back to the shop. 

Tony glances up at him when he enters and does a double take. “What happened, kid?”

“Didn’t get payment for the pizza. Sorry.”

The owner’s eyes narrow. “This wouldn't happen to be because someone pointed a gun at you, would it?”

“Er…”

Laughter is not what he expects. Tony just grins at him. “Kid, I just got a call saying the delivery boy had a taser he wasn’t afraid to use and skedaddled without payment.”

Danny winces, waiting for the beratement. 

“Rob gave you a five-star review. Said it’s the smartest move he’s seen in a while. Paid over the phone for once. You’re good, kid.”

He lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Do people often answer the door for pizza while holding a gun?”

A shoulder shrug. “Around here, it’s more common than you’d think. But if you think you’re in danger, you act to protect yourself, got it? The pizza shop will recover if someone decides to order elsewhere. Besides,” and Tony’s grin edges on feral, “they don’t get many other choices.”

Crime Alley residents, Danny decides, are a rare breed of people.

Read the rest here!

[stars-obsession-pit]

Following an accident, Danny wakes up in Gotham City in a DC universe. Lacking any forms of ID or possessions beyond the clothes on his back, he’s forced to commit some crimes to survive. Minor crimes, but still.

And then he gets caught.

During the court proceedings, they come to the mistaken conclusion that he’s a Meta suffering from some psychiatric issues such as Cotard’s Syndrome (a real rare condition where a person holds the delusional belief that they’re dead/don’t exist/etc).

Thus, between his “need for mental treatment” and the concerns about housing someone with his unique physical traits, he is sentenced to spend time in Arkham Asylum. He’s under pretty low security aside from the anti-Meta stuff and has more freedoms than some other inmates, but it’s still not a great experience. Even at the best of times, Arkham is hardly a nice place.

Some of his fellow residents are decently chill all things considered, but lots very much aren’t.

[flwrkid14]

Bruce shares custody of Tim with Harley Quinn

Yeah, you read that right. Gotham’s broodiest billionaire vigilante and the queen of chaotic energy are co-parenting Tim Drake. And, somehow, that’s not even the weirdest thing that's happened to the bats this year.

Why? Two words: Joker Junior.

The details are locked down tighter than the Batcave, but here’s what everyone knows (or guesses): Joker broke Tim in ways none of them can fathom. He didn’t just try to kill him—he tried to make Tim like him. And while Tim clawed his way back from the brink, he didn’t do it alone. Harley was there.

She was part of the nightmare. And then, unexpectedly, she was part of the healing. She stepped in, helped Tim survive when Joker was doing his worst. When it was all over, when Joker was (temporarily) gone, she didn’t vanish into Gotham’s chaos. She stayed.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Tim started calling her “Mom.”

And Bruce didn’t stop him.

Cue the Batfamily losing their collective minds.

Dick is pacing the Batcave, gesturing wildly. “Bruce, this is Harley Quinn we’re talking about! You don’t just co-parent with a rogue! There are laws against this! Or, like, there should be!”

Jason is sitting on the Batmobile, arms crossed, voice dripping with disbelief. “She’s literally a former rogue. She tried to kill you! Like, more than once. This is insane, even for you.”

Steph is perched on the edge of a desk, trying (and failing) not to laugh. “Okay, but, like, can you blame Tim? Harley does make amazing pancakes. Better than Alfred’s, honestly—”

A scandalized gasp echoes from the other side of the room.

Cass just watches quietly, her head tilted, but there’s a small, knowing smile on her face. She gets it. She’s seen the way Tim softens around Harley, how he relaxes in a way he doesn’t around anyone else.

Damian glares at Bruce like he’s lost his last shred of common sense. “Father, you have truly surpassed yourself. Allowing that woman into the sanctity of our home—”

Duke raises a hand cautiously. “Okay, but can we at least talk about how Tim basically has diplomatic immunity now? No rogue in Gotham is gonna mess with him. He’s Harley’s kid!”

And it’s true. Between Harley’s reputation and Poison Ivy stepping in as Tim’s unofficial stepmom (because of course she and Harley got back together), the rogues have adopted a weird kind of reverence for him. Tim’s no longer just a bat to them—he’s Harley’s kid.

Picture this: Tim’s out on patrol, and Riddler has the gall to interrupt with a riddle—only to end it with, “You’re sharper than I thought, kid. Guess Harley taught you well, huh?” before disappearing into the night.

Harley’s brand of parenting is chaotic but deeply personal. She knows Tim’s tells, the way his hands shake when he’s overwhelmed or the too-quiet moments when he’s retreating into himself. She’s the one who sits cross-legged on the floor with him, working on puzzles and cracking jokes until the tension lifts.

She carries extra band-aids in her purse because “Ya never know when a fight with some thug is gonna leave ya with a paper cut!” She also leaves sticky notes on his projects with scribbled messages like “You’re a genius, baby boy!” or “Don’t forget snacks!” They’re goofy, sure, but they make Tim smile when he needs it most. She keeps a stash of snacks in the Manor because Tim forgets to eat when he’s working. She shows up with pancakes at 3 a.m., douses everything in syrup, and calls him “baby boy” in that soft tone that makes Tim feel… safe.

Even Harley’s chaos has an odd kind of comfort to it. She’ll burst into the Manor unannounced, dragging Tim into impromptu “self-care parties” with face masks, bad rom-coms, and every flavor of ice cream imaginable. Somehow, it works.

Ivy, on the other hand, balances Harley’s energy with her own structured nurturing. She insists on “proper nutrition” and occasionally sends Tim home with meal prep containers filled with organic, eco-friendly food labeled things like “Stress-Busting Smoothie” or “Brain-Boosting Soup.” If Bruce raises an eyebrow at it, Ivy simply reminds him that “The human body can only fight crime properly with the right fuel, Bats.”

One time, she cornered Bruce in the greenhouse, pointing an accusatory finger. “If you send Tim out on patrol without a proper meal or at least six hours of sleep, I swear, Bruce, your rose garden is compost.”

And while Harley is the queen of hugs and chaos, Ivy is the one who sits with Tim on the porch at night, talking softly about resilience and regrowth, using plant metaphors Tim pretends not to understand but secretly finds comforting. Once, after a particularly bad night, she gifted him a small cactus with a note: “Even when it feels like the world is trying to tear you apart, you’re stronger than you think. Also, low maintenance, like you.”

Bruce knows the family doesn’t fully understand. But as he watches Harley teaching Tim how to make lasagna one night, the two of them laughing as the kitchen turns into a war zone of flour and tomato sauce, he doesn’t regret it.

Sometimes family doesn’t look like you think it will. Sometimes it’s stitched together from the most unexpected pieces.

And sometimes, it’s an ex-rogue, a traumatized teen, and a brooding billionaire all trying to figure out how to keep the lasagna from burning.

Welcome to Gotham.

[caffeinatedvigilantewriter]

So we’ve all seen the dcxdp fics where Danny accidentally kills the joker with a punch

But I want to see team phantom kill the joker on purpose.

Or at the very least help the bats catch him

I can image Tucker hacking into the batcave/clock tower and leave Oracle or Red Robin a tip about Jokers latest kidnapping plot.

I want to see Dani and Danny stalking observing the joker and accidentally ruin his plot and broadcast his location to Nightwing.

Imagine a team up between Jazz and Jason working together to interrogate any joker goons and Jason passes the information along to Batman and Robin

Ivy teaming up with Sam to get revenge because of all the abusing he did to Harley.

Even better all the ghost of the people that joker have killed being asked by High King Phantom if they want justice and the ghost completely storming his warehouses

Just a thought, but if anyone wants to use this, just tag me :)))

[gothamite-rambler]

Batman grounding his adult kids

Nightwing (fidgeting with his hands): I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—

Batman glared at him, causing Nightwing’s voice to trail off as he hung his head in defeat. With a hand on his hip, Batman tapped his foot impatiently and pointed toward the car.

Batman: Grounded.

Nightwing (surprised, dejected): What?

Batman: You’re grounded. Two weeks. Now go to the car.

Nightwing (this man is in his 20s): But… I have a date!

Batman: Grounded. Now sit in the car!

Nightwing looked around for some kind of support, glancing at the nearby villain and anti-hero for help. Poison Ivy and Harley just shrugged, a muted expression of sympathy on their faces as Nightwing stomped past Batman, his usual charm replaced by a sulky pout.

Nightwing (whining and lying): It’s not my fault that he got away!

Batman (in a stern father tone): It's literally your fault. Keep talking, and I’ll extend it to five weeks.

Fuming, Nightwing huffed and marched over to the car, climbing inside and slamming the door shut with a loud thud.

Harley (perplexed, raising an eyebrow): Did you… Did you actually ground him?

Batman: Yep.

The couple exchanged bewildered glances, raising their eyebrows in disbelief at the absurdity they had just witnessed.

Harley: Okay, correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s an adult, right?

Batman: Yep.

Poison Ivy (defending Nightwing): Dude, that is so mean. He made an honest mistake. Don’t you feel any guilt about grounding him?

Batman crossed his arms and shook his head defiantly, his expression unmoved.

Batman: You're only defending him because you two are 'frenemies'. If three villains escaped and it was my fault, you'd be mad.

Harley (leaning close to her girlfriend): He's got a point.

Ivy nodded, the defiance fading as she recognized the truth in Batman's words, though she still didn't like it.

Harley (to Batman): How in the world did you manage to ground a grown man? He seemed genuinely remorseful, and—I’m confused.

Batman: I’m Batman. Duh.

Harley mulled over Batman's nonchalant response before nodding thoughtfully.

Harley (shrugging): Well… you got me there.

Poison Ivy (crossing her arms, her hip shifting to the side as she glares at Batman): Douchebag is too nice of an insult for you.

Batman: Your opinion doesn't mean much to me. Harley is the one who has to deal with your bullshit.

As Batman turned to leave, he casually patted Harley on the shoulder.

Batman: Good luck with her.

Poison Ivy, feigning innocence, promptly flipped him the middle finger as he walked away, a smirk playing on her lips. Harley rolled her eyes with a smile, shaking her head at the antics of her friends.

[tossawary]

There's a really quick joke in BTAS that genuinely got me. It's in the episode "Eternal Youth", where Alfred and his girlfriend(?) Maggie Page go to a health spa being run by a mysterious woman named Demeter. Of course, this turns out to be Poison Ivy.

And when Batman has to go to this spa to save Alfred and Maggie, and he's confronted by Poison Ivy as she reveals herself, he says (I'm paraphrasing because I can't remember exactly) something like, "Only you, Poison Ivy, would name yourself after the Greek goddess of plants."

Poison Ivy has two henchwomen in this episode (who unfortunately never show up again) calling themselves Lily and Violet, also present. And either Lily or Violet responds, with something like, "Ooh, someone graduated high school literature."

And then the confrontation continues, but that joke fucking got me, because that IS a common level of mystery-crafting in comics and also this show specifically. Superheroes apparently have to know their Greek and Roman mythology (not just because of Wonder Woman's rogues) because there's a high chance a villain is going to pretentiously name some project by looking up mythology in an encyclopedia.

It also makes me think that it must be REAL easy for the Gotham rogues to frame each other for anything, which is sure to cause grudges and fights between them if it gets found out. Everyone has conveniently themed themselves! Maybe it fools Batman sometimes and maybe it doesn't!

"Aha, a green envelope with a purple question mark! It must be the Riddler again," says Robin. "When did he get out?"

But Batman just inspects the card and says, "Wrong type of paper. Wrong shade of green. Nygma is picky about the quality of his printing. Someone picked this card up from the greeting card section of the local pharmacy."

"Oh, huh, you're right," Robin replies. "Holy marketing mistake, Batman, why do they even sell these?"

"I wish they wouldn't."

[corkinavoid]

I'm pretty sure I have not ever posted my art on this blog, so hey, fun fact: I can draw

Credit for pose references goes to @mellon-soup. Thank you very much!

Plant-creature Sam, a concept art for my fic 'Neon Green and Cold Blue' on ao3, here's a link for those interested. It's a cyberpunk DPxDC AU with some mild, errr, mind-connection vibes? It's also a Dead Tired fic, yes.

I have some more art in progress for it, this is just the first page I've finished, more or less. Any tips on how to better transfer drawings from traditional to digital?

[olailamajnoon]

Batman, arresting Harley for the umpteenth time: You're going to prison, Quinn.

Harley: You know what I was thinking?

Batman: what.

Harley: That you don't send me to prison. *grins*

Batman:...

Batman: I have no idea what to say to that.

Harley: No, think about it! I could wear my sexy nurse outfit and you me and kitty could have some fun!

Batman: *sighs* As appealing as that prospect is,....

Harley: *low squeal*

Batman: No.

Harley: You need a therapist who can fuck you and tell you about your mommy issues at the same time

Batman: I don't think anyone ever in the history of humanity has needed that.

Harley: (begging) Come on, Bats. They drug me in there! It gets all...spooky sometimes. Not your kind of spooky, the bad kind.

Batman: *hesitating*

Harley: And they feed me pea soup! PEA SOUP!! *kicks a rock and starts crying*

Batman: Quinn, you should have thought of that before you ran away with Ivy and killed the CEO of FutureTech.

Harley, pleading: That was Ivy, not me!

Batman: Uh huh.

Harley: She said he was a plant murderer. And I gotta admit, I wasn't feeling too good myself about him dumping all that toxic waste in the Amazon.

Batman: When things like this happen, you come to me.

Harley: You've never shown interest in plant shit before.

Batman, pinching the bridge of his nose: I can handle it. I know how important 'plant shit' is to Ivy and you. It's important to me too. That's why, next time, before you murder someone, let me handle it legally by scaring the shit out of them first. Okay?

Harley: *hiccups* okay.

Batman: Now. I'll talk to the Arkham parole board about your early conditional release. But I will make sure they give you some truly, spectacularly, horribly disgusting community service.

Harley, desperate: No. Not the garbage route again.

Batman, smiling grimly: Oh it gets worse. Trust me. *begins typing into his phone*

Harley: Oh my god I think I'll just do my time. I'm not going into the trash cans, you don't know the kind of shit people throw out! I think I'll just take my meds and stare at the walls instead.

Batman, looking up from his phone: I'm afraid that ship has sailed. *smiles evilly*

Harley: Oh my fucking shit you monster!

Batman: Remember that feeling the next time your trigger finger itches to pop off a human being.

Harley, gritting her teeth: It's itching now, bitch!

Batman, smugly: Good.

[libraryofgage]

Harlequin Prince

Part of: Steve Deserves Good Parents, Actually Debbie and Fester Addams One | Two Rick and Evelyn O'Connell One Harley Quinn One (you're here!) 10th Doctor and Rose (on the way! might take a little, I have plans for this one) Scooby Gang (there are also plans for this one lmao, so plz be patient with me orz)

I'm a simple woman who believes Steve deserves to be a little unhinged sometimes, and having Harley Quinn as a mother is the perfect excuse to make that happen lol

Anyway, I know I haven't updated some of my other series in a hot minute; I've just been busy with work and a little sick ngl

If you'd like to be tagged for any new parts in this series, let me know!

And, as always, if you see any typos, no you didn't ;)

-------

Steve's earliest memory is of being tucked into bed with a Batman night light plugged into the wall and his mother squeezed in next to him. She's wearing her softest pajamas, and Steve idly rubs the fabric under his thumb. In her lap is a huge book that she flips through, humming "Pop Goes the Weasel" under her breath before finally stopping on a page. "Okay, Dumplin', let's read about Narcissistic Personality Disorder," she finally says, wiggling some to get comfortable before clearing her throat.

Her voice is soft and a little nasally, and Steve obediently closes his eyes when she starts reading. After a few minutes, she gently cards her fingers through his hair, her palm warm as it slides over his scalp. Eventually, he drifts off, his dream so vivid that he still remembers the oversized hammers with their white doctor coats and floating clipboards.

The first time Steve's mother is sent (back) to Arkham, he doesn't realize anything is wrong until Uncle Bruce picks him up from school. Steve had been waiting long after the other kids were picked up by their parents, a misshapen pink-and-blue coaster for his mother that he made in art class in his hands, when one of Uncle Bruce's fancy cars pulled up to the school.

The passenger window rolled down, and Bruce looked almost pained as he met Steve's eyes. "Hop in," he said, leaning over to open the door from the inside.

Steve walked up to the door but didn't get in. "Mom said I should only go home with her," he said, "unless you know our secret code."

"Cognitive Behavioral Therapy."

Steve stood for a moment longer before nodding and climbing into the passenger seat. He closed the door, pulled on his seat belt, and carefully held the coaster in his lap. "Where's Mom?" he asked, watching as Bruce turned down the radio and slowly pulled away from the school.

"Your mother is....going to be away for a while," Bruce said, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "She did something bad, and now she's going to stay in time out because of it."

"Mom says you shouldn't dumb things down just because I'm young. She says it's not good for my development."

Bruce got a slight smile at that, his lips twitching up as he glanced at Steve. "Is that so," he said, his grip on the wheel loosening some. He seemed to think for a moment before saying, "Your mother blew up a warehouse. She was apprehended by Batman and has been sent to Arkham for a few months. Since I'm listed as your godfather, you'll stay with me until she's released."

Steve didn't reply. He just looked down at his coaster and wondered if he'd be able to convince his Uncle Bruce to visit Arkham so he could give it to her.

He did not, in fact, get to visit her at Arkham during that stint. But Steve did get to visit on her next one, which was almost three years later to the day. Steve's first visit to Arkham was on his 8th birthday, and he was chaperoned by Uncle Bruce and Nightwing (he wasn't allowed to call Dick by his real name when he was in costume, so Steve just didn't call him anything at all).

That was also the first time Steve truly experienced Arkham's lax security. Through no fault of his own (and he would continue to argue this point; how did two superheroes let an 8 year old wander off?), Steve had somehow ended up in another part of Arkham altogether.

This hallway had large cells with reinforced glass walls that allowed Steve to look inside. He could name most of the people he passed, recognizing Killer Croc and Riddler and the Penguin by his mother's descriptions of their defining features. Most of them tried talking to Steve, but he pushed ahead, eager to see if his mother was at the end of the hall.

She wasn't. Instead, Steve found another woman. She had green skin and bright red hair and Steve hadn't been able to contain himself. He'd practically squished his face against the glass and asked, "Are you Poison Ivy?"

"Oh, her he talks to," the Penguin said, his tone mean and his voice carrying.

Poison Ivy ignored him, choosing to instead open one eye from where she lay on the bed. She stared at Steve before sitting up. "Do I know you?" she asked.

"Nope! But my mom knows you. She talks about you all the time. She said you're the baddest badass to ever badass," Steve said.

"Oh. You're Harley's kid," Poison Ivy replied, walking over to the glass and crouching down to meet his gaze. "What are you doing all the way over here?"

"It's my birthday, so Uncle Bruce said I could see Mom."

"Well, happy birthday. Now, what are you doing here?"

Steve blinked, looked around the hall again, and realized for the first time that he was, in fact, a bit lost. "Uh, I'm not sure. I was with Uncle Bruce before."

A moment passed between the two of them in which Poison Ivy said nothing while Steve tried to remember how, exactly, he'd ended up here. When he came up blank, he simply shrugged and looked back at her. "Hey, you like plants, right?" he asked.

"Yeah, kid, I like plants," she said, her tone taking on the same inflection his mother's did when he asked something she thinks is obvious.

Steve didn't linger on the tone. Instead, he dug around in his coat pocket for a few seconds, pushing past candy wrappers and erasers until his hand closed around an acorn he'd picked up off the ground a few days ago. He pulled it out and presented it to Poison Ivy on his palm. "Is it still a plant if it fell off the tree?" he asked.

"Yeah," Poison Ivy said, her voice soft like she was staring at something unbelievable. Steve watched as a huge grin spread across her face, her eyes lit up, and she pressed her hands to the glass. "Can you do me a favor, Steve?" she asked.

"Sure! Mom said you're a person I should listen to," he said, starting to close his fingers around the acorn. Now that he was thinking about it, he didn't actually know how to give the acorn to her with the glass between them.

"Your mom is right. You should always listen to me. And her. But mostly me right now," Poison Ivy said, her gaze a bit softer as she looked at Steve. "So, go ahead and put the acorn on the ground and stand as far away as possible."

Steve didn't question her. Whatever Poison Ivy wanted to do would probably be fine. After all, Uncle Bruce didn't warn him about talking to her like he had about the Joker. So, Steve put the acorn down and hurried to the other end of the hall. "Now what?" he shouted.

The only response he got was the acorn shuddering, spinning across the floor, and then bursting open. In the blink of an eye, a tree grew, its roots breaking through the ground and its branches shattering the glass of Poison Ivy's cell. Steve was just thinking that was probably why Poison Ivy told him to stand back when she walked out, rolling her shoulders and breathing like the air is fresh.

She looked at Steve and walked over, standing in front of him for a moment before sweeping him into her arms. "Thanks, kid," she said, opening her hand and letting a tiny purple flower grow from her palm. She tucked it behind Steve's ear. "Now, let's go find your mom."

Of course, Poison Ivy's escape had set off numerous alarms, and Uncle Bruce just about fainted when he saw her carrying Steve while Nightwing looked two seconds from laughing. But Steve's mom had smiled so wide that her cheeks must have hurt after only two seconds when she saw them.

It was, by far, the best birthday Steve had ever had.

‐-----------------------------

Hawkins, Indiana, is...boring. Steve has only been in the town for a few weeks, and he's bored out of his mind. He could have been sent to Metropolis or Central City. Hell, he would have preferred Bludhaven to the absolute snoozefest that is Hawkins. But, no, Uncle Bruce insisted on somewhere safe, which means somewhere boring, which means...Steve will just have to make his own fun.

That's why he's found himself in a dive bar on the edge of town, sitting at the bar as the owner (a woman named Bev who definitely killed her husband; Steve would know, he's met plenty of women who definitely killed their husbands) refuses to give him anything alcoholic. "Listen, kid," she says, her tone hard and unyielding, "I can give you water, a Shirley Temple, or a permanent ban. Which do you prefer."

After a few seconds, Steve sighs, slaps way more money than is necessary on the bar, and says, "Gimme a Shirley Temple."

Bev nods, swipes up the cash, and starts making his drink. He watches her with a slight frown before looking away, noticing another boy his age wiping down a table. He looks, and Steve cannot say this affectionately enough, like a wannabe goon for a motorcycle gang. Between the bandana stuffed into his back pocket, his slightly frizzy hair falling to his shoulders, and the leather jacket/vest combo, the guy is the first reminder of home Steve has seen since arriving in this sleepy town.

When he notices the guy's shoulders tense, Steve looks away to keep from being caught staring. A Shirley Temple is placed in front of him, and Steve represses a sigh, missing the sounds of fights happening behind him as he drinks with Jason.

"Aren't you a little young to be hanging around here?"

Steve slowly takes a sip of his drink, the saccharine cherry flavor washing over his tastebuds, and glances at an older man a few seats down from him. He looks the man over, lingering on the half-tucked shirt, muddy loafers, and circles under his eyes. Without permission, his mother's DSM-V rushes through his mind, a blur of his mother's voice accompanying the page flips. They finally settle on "Adjustment Disorder," accompanied by his mom saying, "Sometimes, that's just a fancy term for a mid-life crisis, Dumplin'."

Without thinking, Steve asks in return, "Aren't you a little old to still be going through a mid-life crisis?"

In Gotham, that might get him a laugh, an eye roll, and possibly an elbow to the ribs from whichever friend accompanied him. Here, it gets him a tense silence that he only thought happened in bad movies gearing up for a fight sequence. Seriously, what is wrong with Hawkins?

"I'll give you one chance to apologize," the guy says, clearly thinking he's being sufficiently threatening.

It takes every ounce of Steve's self-control to keep from laughing at the guy. Does that usually work? Do people usually find this guy threatening? He's got nothing on Alfred, so Steve just can't bring himself to even fake intimidation.

"Yeah, don't hold your breath, man," Steve says, rolling his eyes as he takes another sip. The Shirley Temple isn't bad, but it's not what he was expecting, and it feels like just another disappointment atop a pile of them.

They're building in his chest, now that he thinks about it. Steve is slowly suffocating under the weight of them. They buzz in his lungs, surging through him until the energy is so overwhelming that he has to bounce his leg and tap his finger against his glass to expel some of it. He shouldn't have agreed to leave Gotham, or at the very least, he shouldn't have left the location entirely up to Bruce. Holy shit, that was a dumb decision. He ought to know better.

A sudden, annoyingly harsh drag of chair legs against the floor rings in Steve's ears, making his shoulders tense and his fingers twitch. He looks over to see the guy standing over him, glaring down at Steve like that's supposed to scare him when nothing else has.

Steve sighs, drinking the last of his Shirley Temple before standing. Over the guy's shoulder, he can see the boy his age watching them, and...well, Steve kind of wants to make a good impression on the first person to remind him of home. Plus, a fight sounds great. He'd love a chance to expel some of this disappointment-fueled energy.

The guy suddenly snorts, pulling Steve's attention back. "You're young, kid, so I'll let you off the hook this time around, but learn some respect."

What? Seriously? All of that, and the guy doesn't even start a fight? Does he know how rude that is? He'd get killed in Gotham. "Oh," Steve says, his voice flat, "you're scared of getting your ass kicked."

Somehow, that's what the guy considers the final straw. It wasn't even that good. Like, that's just fucking small talk in Gotham, and Steve can't bring himself to understand what about it was so infuriating that the guy swings his fist.

Either way, Steve happily embraces the fight. His eyes light up, and adrenaline rushes through his veins as he ducks and kicks the guy's left knee. The familiar sound of a bone snapping rings out. Steve's ready for more, hands curled into fists and held up to protect his face, when the guy drops.

After one kick, he drops. Steve blinks, staring down at the guy cursing and holding his knee. He slowly lowers his hands when he realizes this isn't some kind of fake-out diversion and looks at Bev behind the counter. She's frowning at him, hands on her hips, and Steve comes to the conclusion that bar fights are not, in fact, a thing in Hawkins. "Do they usually go down so easy around here?" he asks.

"They usually don't fight at all."

Oh. Holy shit, this place is boring.

Steve sighs and pushes some hair out of his face, frowning slightly. "Well, uh, sorry about the disturbance, then. I'll just...get going," he says, awkwardly pushing his chair in and doing the same for the guy whose kneecap he kicked. Nobody says anything as he leaves, and Steve shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, frustration and disappointment and homesickness building in him.

He's halfway to his car when somebody shouts, "Hey! Wait!"

With a huff, Steve stops and turns, his mood only lightening when he sees the boy that was wiping down tables. He waits patiently, watching as the boy runs up to him and holds out a wad of cash. "Bev said to give this to you," he says.

"What, is my money not good enough?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow at the cash before looking up and meeting brown eyes.

"No, no," the boy says, "Bev only gives change to people she likes. She said you're welcome to come by and kick Phillip's ass whenever you want."

Steve blinks, studying the boy for any signs of lies. When he doesn't find one, he takes the cash and nods. "Good to know," he says.

"Yeah. Right. Um, I'm going back inside now."

"Hold on," Steve says, grinning when the boy listens and stands still. He takes a step closer, holds out his hand, and says, "My name's Steve. I'm new around here, if you couldn't tell."

The boy stares at his hand for a few seconds before taking it, the rings on his fingers pressing against Steve's skin. "Eddie. I could tell," he says, his shoulders relaxing some. "Where you from?"

"Gotham."

"Holy shit, no wonder you looked so ready for a fight," Eddie says, staring at Steve like he's incomprehensible. Steve tries not to preen under his gaze. "Hawkins must be dead compared to Gotham."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, glancing down at his and Eddie's hands still clasped together despite the handshake being over. "But I think I'll have some fun anyway."

[acapelladitty]

Poison Ivy/Reader - Vine Bondage 🌿🔞 (Kinktober #4)

Summary - Some downtime finds Poison Ivy enjoying an impromptu kinky afternoon where she decides to use you and her vines for some new and exciting fun.

The heat of the early afternoon mixes with the natural humidity of Ivy’s lair as you stretch your arms overhead, enjoying the soft exhale of her breath against the nape of your neck.

“Morning.” She drawls, the words muttered directly into your ear, and she places a small kiss below your left ear before sitting back upright, her naked groin hot against your lower stomach as she straddles you.

Her red hair, voluminous around her face like a molten halo, cascades down her back as it fans out against her skin. Skin which held a vibrant green tinge that was an unnatural as it was beautiful; every inch unmarred and as flawless as the woman who possessed it.

“Hello, gorgeous.” Purring your appreciation at the sight of her, your hands drift lazily along her hips to mark out her figure with soft fingers. “Is someone feeling frisky this morning?”

In lieu of an answer, her hand is quick to dip down once again and catch your lips in her own. The kiss is sweet, laced with a casual tenderness that speaks to the fact that neither of you have anything better to be doing at the moment than enjoying the pleasures of the other, and you moan lightly as she pulls away once more.

“Would you like to see my garden?”

Quirking a brow at her offer, you flick your tongue out to lick at your lips in an unspoken answer as you push yourself up from the sheets, indicating for her to switch places with you. A request which she fulfils immediately, and you find yourself straddling her hips; her chest quickly finding itself warmed by your hands as you massage the skin there softly.

You startle as something slithers across the sensitive skin just below your chest and you glance down to see one of her many vines – their positions littered across the walls – and it secures itself like a harness, raising your back slightly.

“Ivy.” You gasp as more vines come to join the party, weaving along your skin almost like rope as they secure and adjust you into a position where they control your entire movement; your body now hanging only a few inches above Ivy’s own as she watches you with a contented expression, one which sparks a deep flush of green high on her cheeks.

The vines wrapped around your body held you tightly in place but their pressure was more of a comfort than a pain; each vine pulsating in such a way that they almost seemed to massage the skin they encased.

“They like you.” Ivy purred, tracing her fingers along your jawline as she rises up to meet you. “They know how good you’re going to make me feel.”

Wanting nothing more, you allow the vines to move and reposition you delicately between her legs as Ivy falls back to her cotton-soft sheets. Visibly aroused, the glisten of her sex as her fingers spread her lips – the dusting of red pubic hair curling gently against her skin – forced your own cunt to clench in anticipation, your walls pulsing around nothing.

Pushed forward with a slight jolt, the vines press your mouth against her slit and your tongue is immediate in its eagerness to work; swiping across her exposed lips before delving in greedily to the prize below.

A muted gasp escaped the goddess above you, her hips involuntarily canting up to your willing mouth as her fingers massage gently at the swell of her breasts.

“So good to me, my little peach.” Ivy hissed between breaths as your tongue flicked cheekily across her clit. “So beautiful.”

Invigorated by the praise, your tongue swipes across her clit once more, enjoying the way the simple movement makes her thighs visibly tense around you. She tastes sweet against your lips, her natural pheromones making your skin burn with an unmatched heat, and the desire for more draws a shudder down your prone frame as your cunt clenches around nothing.

Perhaps sensing your frustration, Ivy tilts her head to the side coyly.

“I shouldn’t be the only one having fun,” she teases as her fingers leave her chest only to trace gentle circles around your nipples, the movement making you squirm and moan, “so let’s see about trying something new.”

The strangled grunt which escapes your lips as one of her vines rubs itself against your aching cunt quickly dissolves into a moan when it brushes against your most sensitive skin, trailing across your clit with an almost electric energy. You bury what remains of your moan in her cunt, quickly resuming your earlier adoration as the vines which hold your knees aloft spread them further to allow for easy access.

Rocking your hips against the thick vine which is pressed between your thighs, the slick of your sex is warm on the smooth surface as the tip of the vine continues to tease the sensitive skin just above your clit.

“Ready, baby?”

Smiling brightly up at her, your head nods with enthusiasm as your thumbs brush across her wrists, the weightlessness of the vines holding you in place making your heart thrum in your chest with every frantic beat.

Running itself along your slit, the vine coats itself in your juices before pressing itself within you, its movements gentle as it slowly stretched you open; retreating every few moments to allow you the time to adjust before pushing in further. It was so different to anything else, lacking the warmth of a human cock while keeping the sensation of being something alive as it pulsated within you.

You settle into a rhythm quickly, every thrust of the vine pushing your lips harder against Ivy’s sex as you continue to devour her like a woman possessed. The way it moves within you is almost cruel; the discomfort of the stretch quickly being overtaken by the pleasure as it twists and brushes along your most sensitive spots, leaving you a shaking mess as you suck at Ivy’s clit with pursed lips.

Ivy’s moans match your own and her hand drop to your head, her fingers carding through the strands there as she mutters out unintelligible praises, admiring your skills by the way her body writhes against the sheets. She’s beautiful in her pleasure and the sight of it is enough to snap that growing band of tension which stretches across your groin as your orgasm catches you, almost off-guard.

Burying your cries of pleasure by pressing your mouth tightly against her hole, you can tell she appreciates the vibrations of your muffled sounds by how tight her grip of your hair grows and you’re not too surprised when you feel the telltale signs of her own orgasm. Her head thrashing against the sheets, she smears your mouth against her cunt messily as she rides out her pleasure on your face, coating your lips and chin in her release as soft moans escape her throat.

Your fingers claw desperately against nothing as they remain bound in place by your sides and your cunt clenches harshly around the vine as it never ceases its assault on your walls, forcing your orgasm to drag itself out to the point of overstimulation even as you continue to allow Ivy to use your face as she wishes.

Just as your body is getting to the point where pleasure is quickly turning to genuine discomfort, the vine pulls free of your hole and you breathe a sigh of relief. The heavy sound of breathing fills the room as both you and Ivy recover from your orgasmic highs and you startle in place as the vines which bind you in the air shift you forward, following their mistresses’ unspoken demands, until they have placed you gently in the space to her side.

They retreat slowly, pulling free of your sweat-laced skin, but they are quickly replaced by Ivy’s arm as it slings itself across your chest to pull you close. The scent of sex and sweat hangs heavily in the air but it means nothing as Ivy tilts your head to catch your lips in her own.

It’s a sweet kiss, one which allows her to taste herself on your lips, and she hums contentedly for a moment before pulling away.

“Did you enjoy that? I know I did. You’re quite the talented little thing with that tongue.”

Chuckling lightly, you trace a finger along her exposed stomach as you answer.

“I’ve never been fucked with a vine before. Can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

Ivy’s laughter joins your own and the cadence of it brings a genuine smile to your lips as you settle in position, having no intention to move from this particular spot anytime soon.

[applejusue]

Red Sangria  ──  Pamela Isley

tldr; she had a bit too much to drink

c/w: alcohol, drunk kissing, wholesome

w/c: 1.1k

crds for dividers: @strangergraphics, @sweetmelodygraphics

── The melody blares as she wobbles into the bar, the room already whirling from the shots she'd done in several other places tonight. Pamela ignores the jeers from surrounding gentlemen, coaxing her toward the crammed bar. She just about manages to haul herself up on one of the stools, letting out a deep puff of air into the humid room. Pamela was bathed in an opaque wine mini-dress, paired with stilettos that were a marvel she could still walk in. Her flourishing auburn hair curls down her back, her once-perfected red lipstick now faded and smudged to the side from the rims of each glass. She'd lost her coat along the way, perhaps back at the 4th bar.

Pamela gapes down into the fruity red glass, on the house like most were. She was gorgeous, she knew that. She watches the ice swirl around in the cup, the thump of the bass making the little cubes dance along too. As Pamela glances up the room glittered, each LED sparkling and glistening like she was floating in space. It makes her giggle, like she could touch stars and waft away. But as she drifts through the room, something yanks her down to earth. Pamela wasn't in space anymore, she was on the floor.

It was rigid down there, and she dreads to think what may be beneath her. Pamela tries to push herself up, her cherry acrylics scuffing across the tile. She could see the gleam of men's teeth, they were staring. It all became very incoherent, the music pummeling deep into her skull. Then someone kneels beside her, a warm hand gently grasping onto her shoulder. It takes a bit of effort to get her jaw up, but then Pamela was gazing up at a woman with gorgeous dark eyes, and freckles sprinkled across her nose and cheeks. The woman's hair was scruffy and dark, her brows furrowed in concern. Pamela would know that frown anywhere.

Her girlfriend says something, but Pamela can't hear, she's too busy staring. Pamela was gently coaxed up and briskly pulled away from all those who had been ogling. The woman gently nudged her into one of the booth seats, the red leather sticking to Pamela's under thighs in a way that made her grimace. Pamela still admires the pretty stars that were twinkling around the bar, but they were getting a bit too bright now so she shut her eyes. Pamela hears the woman faintly beside her, her hands still gently lingering on her arms. The stars hurt too much though and Pamela lets herself sink into a deep sleep.

When Pamela wakes again, it's quiet, her body slouched against something warm and steady. Pamela manages to pry her eyelids open, her pupils dilating as she adjusts to the dark room around her. She's still in the bar from what she can tell from the stench of spirits and the gluey seats beneath her. The music, once over-powering was now a soft hum, most having cleared out. One of the attendees was sweeping, and a few people similarly dozing off at the bar. The steady warmth beside her was scrolling on her phone, her face lit up and eyes scrunched in slight drowsiness. However, as she notices Pamela's sleepy face she glances down at her, setting her phone away.

"Hey, sweetpea, I was getting worried..", her girl murmurs softly, tucking a strand of hair behind Pamela's ear gently. Pamela flutters up at her, her lips parted in a gentle breath of warm air as she gazes at the taller woman. A soft, hazy smile grazes her lips as she realises that the warm figure is her girlfriend, who had managed to find her at the bar after she hadn't come home. The woman gazes down at Pamela, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she brings the redhead closer, wanting to be angry at her for getting so drunk. She couldn't though, not when Pamela was looking up at her with that little smile.

"C'mon, let's go home.." the woman murmurs softly, carefully wrapping an arm around Pamela's waist and hoisting her up from the sticky booth seat. Pamela leans her weight heavily onto her girlfriend, her eyelashes fluttering. Pamela had become quite shy from the alcohol, her cheeks hot as she stared up at the scruffy-haired girl who was guiding her out of the bar. The tall woman's arm remains firmly around her waist as they walk through the bitter street, her heavy brown jacket slung over Pamela's small frame, protecting her bare shoulders and upper thighs.

As they enter the apartment, Pamela was exhausted, her movements sluggish. The woman kneels down to pry off the stilettos, her warm hand grazing against her bare ankle. Pamela was leaning back against the cool wall to maintain balance, staring down at the dark tufts of hair that sprouted out in every direction from her girlfriend's head. She reaches for it, gently scratching and faintly tugging on the soft strands. Pamela's body is like putty as her girlfriend guides her to the bedroom, gently peeling off the dress and replacing it with a warm hoodie. Pamela sways as her girlfriend pulls up the hood, her hands moving to clutch onto her shirt in an effort to maintain balance.

Her girlfriend gazes down as she feels the soft green hands clutching her shirt, studying Pamela's features with soft, fond eyes. The dark-haired woman tucks a loose red curl behind her ear, letting her thumb run down her jaw to her faded lips. Pamela feels them part instinctually, her weary eyes gazing upward at the taller girl. The woman leans down, gently brushing their mouths together as she cups her flushed cheeks. Pamela practically melts into the carpet, her fingers clutching tighter at the fabric as her lips move in a sloppy, uncoordinated manner. Her girlfriend doesn't seem to mind her lax movements, chuckling softly instead and squeezing her waist gently.

Pamela feels her girlfriend pull back, her large hands guiding her by the waist to their bed. She settles the green-skinned lady down into the warm sheets, stroking her curls and pressing a kiss to her head. "Enough now, sweetpea", she murmurs softly, covering her up with the blankets. Pamela watches her taller figure sleepily as she walks away, the muffled sounds of the shower lulling her into a deep sleep.

──  The sizzling sunlight pierces through the red-laced curtains draping down her window. For a moment, Pamela lays there, needing a minute to grasp where she is. Her throat is scratchy, her lashes fluttering and sleepy. She gazes down, noticing the body atop her on the thinly covered mattress. A familiar set of shoulders and freckled back peek out from the white sheets, scruffy dark hair brushing against Pamela's neck. She wraps her arms around her shoulders, inhaling the scent of her deeply. Pamela didn't mind that she was a little heavy, she was warm, after all.

[breannasfluff]

What Binds Us

There are a lot of places Danny could go for help. Tucker’s, until Danny’s parents think to call the house. Sam’s, for at least 24 hours until her parent’s notice. Vlad's for a full week if he resigns himself to some blackmail. Jazz, if she wasn’t on a semester-long study abroad for college halfway around the world. 

There are also a lot of places Danny shouldn’t go. Metropolis with Superman and Supergirl, believing the law will always be just. Washington DC with its tiny population and resident Wonder Woman. Gotham City with Batman, a low tolerance for metahumans, and a high crime rate. 

Danny picked Gotham City–specifically Crime Alley. 

The multiple vigilantes in the city shouldn’t pose a problem; they are normal humans. No superpowers to contend with when he’s trying to hide. As long as Danny lays low and doesn’t rob a bank, no one should notice him. Most importantly, the Ghost Investigation Ward has no base in the city, unlike Metropolis or DC. 

As a half-ghost and teen hero, Danny’s not too worried about staying safe in Crime Alley. By the Ancients, he defeated Pariah Dark and went toe-to-toe with Mayor Vlad. He’s ready for anything the street can throw at him.

It’s this attitude that landed him in his current situation, sitting in a free clinic with a bleeding bullet wound to the arm.

Maybe he underestimated Gotham City.

Read the rest here!

[poisonousquinzel]

if y'all ever want a bit of modern harlivy angst that ends happy and doesn't feel laced with ooc toxicity in the like "oh the writer's apparent reference for ivy's characteristics in their relationship is plant ivy and that's it wow..." I'd recommend their little story from DC's Harley Quinn Romances cause <33333 it's very special to me

they make me unreasonably emotional

Ivy after reading Harley's au fic where she gets to punch Joker with her at prom:

[haruu-luv]

tim attempts to be a civilian for a while (also the bats other than babs, cass, bruce abd alf (if he counts as a bat) know he was red robin)