Midnight in the Greenhouse

 

Harley Quinn x Poison Ivy
Gotham AU – TV-MA/NC-17

The greenhouse smells of earth, rain, and something intoxicatingly sweet.

Harley Quinn leans against a marble pedestal, one foot tapping nervously against the tiled floor. Vines curl along the walls, heavy with blooms, shadows twisting as the moonlight filters in through cracked glass.

Poison Ivy stands nearby, barefoot, dark hair cascading over her shoulders like midnight silk. Her green eyes glint in the moonlight. Every movement she makes is slow, deliberate, a predator savouring her prey — and her prey loves it.

“Harley,” Ivy murmurs, voice low, velvet-dark. “Why do you always look like a cat caught in a rainstorm when you’re nervous?”

Harley swallows. “I… I don’t know,” she says breathlessly. “I guess it’s you.”

Ivy steps closer, the air warming with her presence. One hand reaches up, brushing a stray lock of pink-streaked hair behind Harley’s ear. The touch lingers.

“Me?” Harley whispers. Her breath catches. Her heart races.

“Yes,” Ivy says softly. “Me.”

Harley steps forward impulsively, pressing herself into Ivy’s space. Ivy doesn’t pull back. Instead, she leans into the contact, lips hovering just above Harley’s, teasing, torturing.

The first kiss is slow, almost tentative. Then it deepens. Teeth graze lips. Breath mingles. Hands roam — Harley’s gloved fingers tracing along Ivy’s shoulders, catching on the straps of her green bodice. Ivy’s hands slide down Harley’s sides, pulling her in closer, heat building between them like wildfire.

“Ivy…” Harley gasps softly against her mouth.

“You want this, don’t you?” Ivy purrs, voice low and commanding.

“Yes,” Harley admits, trembling. “Yes, I do.”

Ivy presses her forehead to Harley’s, letting the kiss linger while her hands explore — gentle, teasing, deliberate. Harley shivers under her touch, moaning softly, tilting her head back as Ivy nips her jawline, teasing, claiming.

Harley’s hands move into Ivy’s hair, tugging gently, testing boundaries, pushing into her. Ivy responds with a slow, smouldering laugh, tracing her thumb along Harley’s jaw, then down her neck, leaving a trail of heat.

The moonlight catches the beads of sweat on Harley’s skin, painting her flushed cheeks in soft silver. Ivy’s breath is hot against her ear as she murmurs, “You’re mine tonight.”

Harley’s laugh dissolves into a gasp, surrendering to the intoxicating pull of Ivy’s dominance and the fire burning between them. Ivy guides her to a nearby stone bench, trailing kisses down Harley’s shoulder, her hands exploring slowly, reverently.

The vines behind them sway, leaves brushing against skin, the scent of flowers heavy and erotic in the warm, humid air.

Harley tilts her head, offering herself fully, letting Ivy trace her mouth, her jaw, her collarbones, until the heat between them is unbearable. Every glance, every brush of lips, every whispered word is charged with need.

They collapse together onto the bench, bodies pressed close, movements deliberate and languid. Kisses deepen, hands roam, hair tangles. Every touch ignites another spark, every breath shared pulls them closer.

Harley arches into Ivy, moans lost in the humid night air, Ivy’s fingers teasing, guiding, marking, claiming. It is slow, decadent, erotic — a private world of heat, desire, and intimacy, far from Gotham’s chaos.

Finally, they pause, foreheads pressed together, chests rising and falling, smiles wicked and satisfied.

“You’re impossible,” Harley whispers, voice rough with need.

“And you love it,” Ivy replies, tilting her lips down for a slow, languid kiss, sealing their night in the greenhouse.

Outside, Gotham sleeps. Inside, two women burn brighter than any city light.