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the jail itself can make a scenery

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"If I'd known we'd end up here," Harley vents her annoyance, clinging to the bars like a white-faced capuchin. "I'd have dressed for the occasion."

There's barely any space for her to stretch. She couldn't even be doing splits even if she wanted to.

"What's wrong with your outfit?" Ivy's already furnished her cell with a lush oasis of greenery and made herself comfortable.

Part of Harley's a little offended that Ivy gets her own personalized cell, while she's thrown into a regular one – probably most recently occupied by a regular thug. How insulting. (Does no one take her seriously anymore? Seriously!) Not to mention unsanitary. Mansweat, ew. At least they'd given her some privacy by placing her into it by her lonesome.

"Nothing." Harley grins and sways her booty. The frills on her mini jitter. "It's freezing in here, that's what's wrong." Her stockings today are only knee-high and do little to warm the blood traversing her frosty thighs. She huddles down, trying to cover as much skin with her skirt as possible. "How come you're not cold? I thought your sap might be congealing or something."

"I bleed just like you, if that's what you mean."

"Still doesn't explain how you can run around with barely a stitch on." Harley is shaking just from looking at her. Still, she appreciates the view. "Oh, I know! It makes strip searches go faster."

"Please." Ivy's hair ripples with her laughter. "As if any of those meatsuits could survive touching me."