Fic: "Going, Gone" Rated Adult. Harley Quinn/Poison Ivy (DC Universe)
Oh, hai. I wrote DC fic. *is nervous* This is my first in this particular fandom!
Title: Going, Gone
Author: Soinnain
Pairing: Harley/Ivy (references Harley/Joker)
Rating: Adult, to be safe, but not terribly graphic.
Summary: They both know she won't stay, but sometimes it's nice to pretend.
AN:: Thanks to resolute for the beta! My first foray into fic for this fandom, I do hope y'all enjoy :) The title and the quote are from the Anne Sexton poem, Going Gone.
you show her the two hands
that grip her fiercely,
one being mine, one being yours.
Torn right off at the wrist bone
when you started in your
impossible going, gone.
Going, Gone
Ivy always knows it's Harley at the door, just by the way she knocks. There's something about it that sounds sad, defeated; some half-given effort that isn't quite enough to really make a statement about wanting the door answered. Sometimes Ivy stands at the door and thinks about not answering it, but she always does, and Harley always smiles at her and says, "Hey, Red," even if her face is so bruised she can hardly speak, even if the words sound jagged and choked with blood.
Tonight is no exception. Ivy is tending to her little ones, baby plants pressing up through thick potted earth, when she hears the knock. Sighing, she stands up and goes to the door, thinking about how nice it would be if Harley never did this again, and what awful thing would have to happen to her friend to make that so. Ivy doesn't want that, of course, but she can't say she wants this, either.
Why can't you just stay, Harley?
Harley doesn't look as bad as she sometimes does, but a lot of the time, the most damage is where you can't see right away. She's still wearing the skintight suit, her curves supple and strong beneath the slick material. Ivy likes the way Harley looks in that pretty little costume, she always has, but she hates that Harley is wearing it for him. Harley's not wearing that stupid cap that Ivy hates with a passion (it's juvenile and cartoonish) and her blond hair is all askew, strands in her face, and some are tinged red and sticky with what can only be blood.
"Hey, Red," she says, as if on cue, and Ivy resists the urge to mouth it along with her. "Got a place for a wanderin' gal to stay for a night or two?"
No. I don't. I'm tired of taking care of you so you can go back to that lunatic and end up right back here, beaten and bruised and looking at me like a kicked puppy. "Of course I do," she says instead, and opens the door. Just like she always does, just like she knows she always will. Part of her wonders why she does it. What is Harley, anyway, but a nuisance?
Maybe it's because you cultivate that girl like a plant, and it hurts to see her strangled by weeds.
Harley enters the house limping, and Ivy closes the door, pretending not to notice that Harley is crying. She knows, by now, that Harley is not crying because of the pain. It's because of him, and because she left him, and Ivy can't stand to see tears shed for that madman. Deep inside she feels anger grow, stretching up, wanting to push out just like the plants resting in pots on her floor.
"Come on," Ivy says instead, biting back her rage, and puts an arm around Harley's shoulders. They're shaking under the weight of the other woman's silent sobs. "Go take a warm shower. I'll find you some clothes."
* * *
Harley comes into her bedroom on the third night, late, when Ivy is stretched out on her stomach and half-asleep. Part of her knows that this is coming, because Harley does not know how to say thank you in any other way, and because they stood too close to each other while making dinner and Ivy felt the growing tension between them, slow and heavy. Harley slides into bed, warm and soft, curling up next to Ivy in the darkness.
"Can't sleep, Red," she whispers, and her voice is strained and sad. "I close my eyes and I see someone laughin' at me. I can hear it, too. If I'm real still." Her fingers reach out, slide across the sheet, curling into Ivy's arm like she's a drowning woman grabbing at a rope.
"Harl," Ivy says softly, turning her face. "He's not here. You're safe now." Until you go back. I thought I made you immune to poisons, but apparently not the only one that matters.
Harley's body beneath the little t-shirt she's wearing is riddled with bruises. Ivy traces them with her fingers, gently, and in her mind she's thinking of the Joker, slowly strangled to death by a vine while she laughs. She touches Harley's face and watches as Harley flinches.
Ivy leans forward and kisses her, softly. "He's not here, Harley," she says again, firmer this time. "Just me."
Harley's arms come up, around her neck. "Just you, Red," she murmurs, her voice husky, and she arches upwards into Ivy's embrace.
Ivy's always gentle, the first time, hands moving over Harley's body like she's touching her plants, worshipful and firm and competent. Afterwards Harley falls asleep, breathing even and deep, curled around Ivy's body. Her hair in the moonlight looks silver. Ivy watches her sleep and wonders how long it will be this time, before she is no longer enough.
* * *
Living with Harley is always a bit exhausting. Ivy refuses to think that it's a good thing Harley always leaves, because she would put up with Harley's annoying habits if she would just stay--they would work on them, then, and Ivy could have rules and Harley could follow them. Harley can't seem to sit still, hopping around the living room like a demented rabbit, vaulting over furniture just because it's there. She sprawls on the couch and shifts position six times; she talks through the movies they watch and she asks Ivy questions when she's trying to read.
At night, in bed, she's less passive than the first time; her body is limber and strong and she knows how to use it. She crawls over Ivy and asks how she can make Ivy feel good, and Ivy tells her, hands twined gently in Harley's blond pigtails while Harley lies between her thighs. Harley is so eager to please, so enthusiastic, and she likes to have sex often, as often as Ivy will say yes. Ivy thinks it's because Harley is touch-starved and affection-starved, and she's not used to sex that doesn't degrade and humiliate. The one time Harley talked about her sex life with the Joker, Ivy felt physically ill.
He never looks at my face--ain't that sort of funny, huh? And I didn't know people liked to do that with guns, while they did it. I'm sure he knows that safety is always on, right?
When Ivy gently places Harley on her back and kisses her way down Harley's stomach, supple muscles tensing beneath Ivy's mouth, Harley tries to stop her. Ivy knows why; if Harley ever comes it's because she does it herself. Ivy finds plants in her room, vines, and wraps them around Harley's wrists, around her ankles, holding Harley in place so she can't push Ivy away. Harley relaxes into the restraints after a moment and shows her throat, and Ivy knows what it means and she promises, quietly, that she won't abuse what Harley gives her. Harley comes with little breathless cries, and she murmurs a sated "No, not yet," when Ivy goes to remove the vines.
Ivy tries to explain the difference between the vines that held her down and the way the Joker uses her, but Harley pretends she doesn't understand. She stares at Ivy with drowsy blue eyes and smiles sleepily and curls close. "Red," she says with a yawn, "I just like it a little rough, a little weird, that's all. But you know I'm your girl, yeah?"
Ivy watches the way Harley waits, feels the way her body tenses, as if she's waiting for some rebuke, some painful slap. In Ivy's mind, the Joker is being pulled apart, slowly, rent limb from miserable limb. She doesn't "Yes," Ivy says softly, and kisses Harley's eyelids shut. "I know." She won't say it back. She can't be Harley's until Harley is no longer his.
The bruises on Harley's neck have almost faded.
Almost.
* * *
It's been nearly a month, this time, before Ivy can tell it's coming.
She arrives home one day and finds Harley sitting in the living room, something in her hand. It's a flower, a single red rose, and there's a note attached. Harley hides the note quickly when Ivy comes in, leaping up with acrobatic grace to pose suggestively on the couch, and the flower sails through the air and lands somewhere out of sight.
"Hi, Red," Harley purrs, leaning forward. She's wearing a tank top and no bra (she doesn't need one, not really, but that's not why she's doing it) and little white panties, hair in pigtails, mouth in a playful little pout. Ivy passes by the couch without a word. "Hey!" Harley calls, sounding insulted. "That any way to say hello, when I'm all dolled up for you? Baby, you like me in this outfit, I know you do!"
Ivy goes to the kitchen. Her hands are shaking. She knows who the note is from. She knows what Harley's trying to do. "Sorry, Harl. I have some work to do. Maybe later."
As she makes herself tea, Ivy thinks about what she could do to end this once and for all. Slip something into Harley's bag. A lipgloss, maybe, with toxins in it. Harley would be immune, and the Joker wouldn't be. But that would only work if he ever kissed her, and Ivy doesn't think that he does.
That night, she wraps the vines around Harley's wrists again. They tighten, maybe a little too painfully, but Harley seems to like it. Ivy teases her, draws her tongue on the inside of Harley's thighs. "I could make you stay here with me, you know, just like this," Ivy whispers, nipping at the soft skin, sliding her fingers inside where Harley is warm and wet and eager.
"But you won't," Harley whispers, and there is clarity and sadness in her voice. "I know you won't."
"I would if you asked," Ivy says, looking up at Harley's flushed face. It takes a lot to admit it.
"I won't, though," Harley whispers. "You'd have to make me and you won't, and I'd have to ask and I won't."
Ivy lowers her head. She can't argue with that.
It's always when Harley is the most sane that she leaves.
* * *
Dear Ivy, the note begins, and Ivy can barely read it. It's Harley's usual, i's darted with hearts, flowery language about how Harley's sorry, about how she had to go back, about how this time things will be different, she just knows it, and she hopes Ivy will be happy for her. About how nice it was to visit, how she hopes she can do it again sometime soon. You know if I ever get hitched, you're my best girl, my absolute best girl!!!! Harley writes, and it makes Ivy want to cry and laugh at the same time.
In the margins of the note, Harley's drawn vines, stretching up from her signature at the bottom to Ivy's name at the top. As stupid and witless as Harley pretends she is, Ivy knows better. Harley means something, something real, with the little drawing. It's the only hope Ivy has that maybe this will end, maybe one day that psychopath will get what he deserves and Harley will come back, finally, for good.
"If I let you back in," Ivy says out loud, to no one. She doesn't believe it. She goes and makes up the bed, washes the sheets in Harley's room (she's really the only guest Ivy ever has) for the next time.
She puts a plant in the room. A plant with vines. She shreds Harley's letter and puts it in the plant, as if maybe, by some chance, it will work some magic when Harley comes back. Keeping her here for good.
Title: Going, Gone
Author: Soinnain
Pairing: Harley/Ivy (references Harley/Joker)
Rating: Adult, to be safe, but not terribly graphic.
Summary: They both know she won't stay, but sometimes it's nice to pretend.
AN:: Thanks to resolute for the beta! My first foray into fic for this fandom, I do hope y'all enjoy :) The title and the quote are from the Anne Sexton poem, Going Gone.
you show her the two hands
that grip her fiercely,
one being mine, one being yours.
Torn right off at the wrist bone
when you started in your
impossible going, gone.
Going, Gone
Ivy always knows it's Harley at the door, just by the way she knocks. There's something about it that sounds sad, defeated; some half-given effort that isn't quite enough to really make a statement about wanting the door answered. Sometimes Ivy stands at the door and thinks about not answering it, but she always does, and Harley always smiles at her and says, "Hey, Red," even if her face is so bruised she can hardly speak, even if the words sound jagged and choked with blood.
Tonight is no exception. Ivy is tending to her little ones, baby plants pressing up through thick potted earth, when she hears the knock. Sighing, she stands up and goes to the door, thinking about how nice it would be if Harley never did this again, and what awful thing would have to happen to her friend to make that so. Ivy doesn't want that, of course, but she can't say she wants this, either.
Why can't you just stay, Harley?
Harley doesn't look as bad as she sometimes does, but a lot of the time, the most damage is where you can't see right away. She's still wearing the skintight suit, her curves supple and strong beneath the slick material. Ivy likes the way Harley looks in that pretty little costume, she always has, but she hates that Harley is wearing it for him. Harley's not wearing that stupid cap that Ivy hates with a passion (it's juvenile and cartoonish) and her blond hair is all askew, strands in her face, and some are tinged red and sticky with what can only be blood.
"Hey, Red," she says, as if on cue, and Ivy resists the urge to mouth it along with her. "Got a place for a wanderin' gal to stay for a night or two?"
No. I don't. I'm tired of taking care of you so you can go back to that lunatic and end up right back here, beaten and bruised and looking at me like a kicked puppy. "Of course I do," she says instead, and opens the door. Just like she always does, just like she knows she always will. Part of her wonders why she does it. What is Harley, anyway, but a nuisance?
Maybe it's because you cultivate that girl like a plant, and it hurts to see her strangled by weeds.
Harley enters the house limping, and Ivy closes the door, pretending not to notice that Harley is crying. She knows, by now, that Harley is not crying because of the pain. It's because of him, and because she left him, and Ivy can't stand to see tears shed for that madman. Deep inside she feels anger grow, stretching up, wanting to push out just like the plants resting in pots on her floor.
"Come on," Ivy says instead, biting back her rage, and puts an arm around Harley's shoulders. They're shaking under the weight of the other woman's silent sobs. "Go take a warm shower. I'll find you some clothes."
* * *
Harley comes into her bedroom on the third night, late, when Ivy is stretched out on her stomach and half-asleep. Part of her knows that this is coming, because Harley does not know how to say thank you in any other way, and because they stood too close to each other while making dinner and Ivy felt the growing tension between them, slow and heavy. Harley slides into bed, warm and soft, curling up next to Ivy in the darkness.
"Can't sleep, Red," she whispers, and her voice is strained and sad. "I close my eyes and I see someone laughin' at me. I can hear it, too. If I'm real still." Her fingers reach out, slide across the sheet, curling into Ivy's arm like she's a drowning woman grabbing at a rope.
"Harl," Ivy says softly, turning her face. "He's not here. You're safe now." Until you go back. I thought I made you immune to poisons, but apparently not the only one that matters.
Harley's body beneath the little t-shirt she's wearing is riddled with bruises. Ivy traces them with her fingers, gently, and in her mind she's thinking of the Joker, slowly strangled to death by a vine while she laughs. She touches Harley's face and watches as Harley flinches.
Ivy leans forward and kisses her, softly. "He's not here, Harley," she says again, firmer this time. "Just me."
Harley's arms come up, around her neck. "Just you, Red," she murmurs, her voice husky, and she arches upwards into Ivy's embrace.
Ivy's always gentle, the first time, hands moving over Harley's body like she's touching her plants, worshipful and firm and competent. Afterwards Harley falls asleep, breathing even and deep, curled around Ivy's body. Her hair in the moonlight looks silver. Ivy watches her sleep and wonders how long it will be this time, before she is no longer enough.
* * *
Living with Harley is always a bit exhausting. Ivy refuses to think that it's a good thing Harley always leaves, because she would put up with Harley's annoying habits if she would just stay--they would work on them, then, and Ivy could have rules and Harley could follow them. Harley can't seem to sit still, hopping around the living room like a demented rabbit, vaulting over furniture just because it's there. She sprawls on the couch and shifts position six times; she talks through the movies they watch and she asks Ivy questions when she's trying to read.
At night, in bed, she's less passive than the first time; her body is limber and strong and she knows how to use it. She crawls over Ivy and asks how she can make Ivy feel good, and Ivy tells her, hands twined gently in Harley's blond pigtails while Harley lies between her thighs. Harley is so eager to please, so enthusiastic, and she likes to have sex often, as often as Ivy will say yes. Ivy thinks it's because Harley is touch-starved and affection-starved, and she's not used to sex that doesn't degrade and humiliate. The one time Harley talked about her sex life with the Joker, Ivy felt physically ill.
He never looks at my face--ain't that sort of funny, huh? And I didn't know people liked to do that with guns, while they did it. I'm sure he knows that safety is always on, right?
When Ivy gently places Harley on her back and kisses her way down Harley's stomach, supple muscles tensing beneath Ivy's mouth, Harley tries to stop her. Ivy knows why; if Harley ever comes it's because she does it herself. Ivy finds plants in her room, vines, and wraps them around Harley's wrists, around her ankles, holding Harley in place so she can't push Ivy away. Harley relaxes into the restraints after a moment and shows her throat, and Ivy knows what it means and she promises, quietly, that she won't abuse what Harley gives her. Harley comes with little breathless cries, and she murmurs a sated "No, not yet," when Ivy goes to remove the vines.
Ivy tries to explain the difference between the vines that held her down and the way the Joker uses her, but Harley pretends she doesn't understand. She stares at Ivy with drowsy blue eyes and smiles sleepily and curls close. "Red," she says with a yawn, "I just like it a little rough, a little weird, that's all. But you know I'm your girl, yeah?"
Ivy watches the way Harley waits, feels the way her body tenses, as if she's waiting for some rebuke, some painful slap. In Ivy's mind, the Joker is being pulled apart, slowly, rent limb from miserable limb. She doesn't "Yes," Ivy says softly, and kisses Harley's eyelids shut. "I know." She won't say it back. She can't be Harley's until Harley is no longer his.
The bruises on Harley's neck have almost faded.
Almost.
* * *
It's been nearly a month, this time, before Ivy can tell it's coming.
She arrives home one day and finds Harley sitting in the living room, something in her hand. It's a flower, a single red rose, and there's a note attached. Harley hides the note quickly when Ivy comes in, leaping up with acrobatic grace to pose suggestively on the couch, and the flower sails through the air and lands somewhere out of sight.
"Hi, Red," Harley purrs, leaning forward. She's wearing a tank top and no bra (she doesn't need one, not really, but that's not why she's doing it) and little white panties, hair in pigtails, mouth in a playful little pout. Ivy passes by the couch without a word. "Hey!" Harley calls, sounding insulted. "That any way to say hello, when I'm all dolled up for you? Baby, you like me in this outfit, I know you do!"
Ivy goes to the kitchen. Her hands are shaking. She knows who the note is from. She knows what Harley's trying to do. "Sorry, Harl. I have some work to do. Maybe later."
As she makes herself tea, Ivy thinks about what she could do to end this once and for all. Slip something into Harley's bag. A lipgloss, maybe, with toxins in it. Harley would be immune, and the Joker wouldn't be. But that would only work if he ever kissed her, and Ivy doesn't think that he does.
That night, she wraps the vines around Harley's wrists again. They tighten, maybe a little too painfully, but Harley seems to like it. Ivy teases her, draws her tongue on the inside of Harley's thighs. "I could make you stay here with me, you know, just like this," Ivy whispers, nipping at the soft skin, sliding her fingers inside where Harley is warm and wet and eager.
"But you won't," Harley whispers, and there is clarity and sadness in her voice. "I know you won't."
"I would if you asked," Ivy says, looking up at Harley's flushed face. It takes a lot to admit it.
"I won't, though," Harley whispers. "You'd have to make me and you won't, and I'd have to ask and I won't."
Ivy lowers her head. She can't argue with that.
It's always when Harley is the most sane that she leaves.
* * *
Dear Ivy, the note begins, and Ivy can barely read it. It's Harley's usual, i's darted with hearts, flowery language about how Harley's sorry, about how she had to go back, about how this time things will be different, she just knows it, and she hopes Ivy will be happy for her. About how nice it was to visit, how she hopes she can do it again sometime soon. You know if I ever get hitched, you're my best girl, my absolute best girl!!!! Harley writes, and it makes Ivy want to cry and laugh at the same time.
In the margins of the note, Harley's drawn vines, stretching up from her signature at the bottom to Ivy's name at the top. As stupid and witless as Harley pretends she is, Ivy knows better. Harley means something, something real, with the little drawing. It's the only hope Ivy has that maybe this will end, maybe one day that psychopath will get what he deserves and Harley will come back, finally, for good.
"If I let you back in," Ivy says out loud, to no one. She doesn't believe it. She goes and makes up the bed, washes the sheets in Harley's room (she's really the only guest Ivy ever has) for the next time.
She puts a plant in the room. A plant with vines. She shreds Harley's letter and puts it in the plant, as if maybe, by some chance, it will work some magic when Harley comes back. Keeping her here for good.