Work Header

Bouncing Baby Bombs

Work Text:

True Love was something that she believed existed, even though it seemed to be a false construct usually supported by delusional behavior on the behalf of one or both romantic partners. There was much to be said for turning a blind eye to poor behavior or flaws; consistent ability to gloss over bumps, like airbrushing a photo, was often a hallmark of a successful relationship. Toxic or not.

On her jaunts out of Belle Reve, she got to watch people — got to watch Rick, and his now un-powered girlfriend (who was still a brain, she supposed, and only needed to be rescued every other mission, which put her at a better record than Captain Kangaroo seemed to manage). Got to watch them love on each other and cuddle and ugh. Ugh.

She wasn't sure if it was disgusting or if she missed Puddin. Her stint of freedom had been short lived, seven months, long enough for them to ravage Gotham anew, to make the city brighter for them. For people who wanted things to be different, for people who needed the city to be *alive*, and not peace and justice and order static and boring. So so boring. They poisoned a couple of people, big deal, and Puddin got nabbed by the bat.

She was supposed to have rescued him already, but Arkham had beefed up their security, even for someone who knew the place inside out. She got in, but out, she got out in a way she didn't want to. It was kind of laughable that they kept *him* in Arkham, but her? Her they sent to a black site, because she was dangerous. And what was he? He was an idea, an ideal, someone or something to be put on a pedestal.

When they were apart, she chewed over it more, love as a concept. She had her romance novels and she wrote out solutions and conversations in her head, matrixed and played through events that had happened and hadn't happened to see if there was a way to slide her claws under his shell and peel it back.

She wondered, too, if he'd survive without the shell, protective and keeping her away, if his exoskeleton of rage and cunning would make his insides spill out if she broke through it.

Harley shifted on her feet, rolling her ankles to flex as she watched Flag pace and scowl at the rest of the team as if it was their fault that that an android-human that was calling himself Carapax the Indestructible (and maybe that was why she was thinking of insect shells) was proving to be, well. Indestructible.


So far they'd tried to blow it up, blow it underwater, and done everything but actually get it to drop its metal trousers and blow it. She suspected that they could tell Digger that it had beer in it, and he might pry it open. That could be the end of it, but her mind wandered a little to thoughts of her teammates blowing a robot, and eh.

Flag was a special sort of guy, and a special sort of dumb, to lead them despite every indication he had that his government would turn and burn him as soon as it looked vaguely useful to them. Because all that kept his team in check was the knowledge that their heads would explode and not in a fun way.

Not in a fun… oh.

"Can we get a hold of one of the nano bombs? Slip one or two in an ear, or…" She straightened up as she said it, excited because she hadn't gotten to blow anyone's mind in too long, personally, sexually, any of that. She sidled up close to him, bending forward at the hip to faux kiss at him. He shifted away, smooth and aware of everyone else in the room with them.

"Pretty missy, you got any suggestions on how to get a nano bomb *in* him?" There was a bit of eye and once in a while a flash of neck and wasn't that enough for them? Digger was Debbie downer when he was sober. Flag shifted, and looked at Deadshot, and that was the answer without words in a way that made Deadshot scoff.

"Oh, so you're gunna hinge this whole shit on me again. Next time it'll be exterminating ants or something and you all'll get lazy and have me shooting them in the fucking eyes, too, huh?"

"Let me see about sourcing them," Flag offered the team patiently, like he was talking to pets, and turned away to his computer panel. For the last few missions they'd had a… a sort of base, a place, a prison for them, still, but with rooms for sleeping and changing and more weapons than it was smart to let any of them have except for the nano bombs. Walls that stood up pretty well to her occasional attempts at bored Parkour inside the building. Not that Croc liked the place.

Croc was the only one of them who seemed to enjoy Belle Reve. Flag waved them off, and Harley skulked over to Deadshot. She liked to think of him as her Office Husband, though she'd mostly had office wives when she'd been in hospitals before her Arkham assignment. Shame, that. Maybe everything would've been different.

"Someone's going to have to distract him. Maybe more than one someone, for you to get a shot." She glanced over her shoulder at Flag, and caught sight of Digger looking antsy, like he was paranoid that they were talking about him. How lovely and egotistical of him and his stuffed unicorn.

"Maybe we can throw Captain Boomerang's stuffed unicorn at it."Deadshot chuckled, an inhale of a laugh while he looked over to Digger, and success.

If he wanted to be paranoid, oh, she'd give him something to be paranoid about.


"Thinking about distractions to pull this shit off so we can get back to our tidy cages." Deadshot pushed away from the table he was leaning on, and oh, he wanted her, he wanted her so bad that she could smell it, but he had control of himself. That was gorgeous and admirable, and one day she'd tear into him, too, but not yet. He was a more useful ally than fuck puppet.

They are all so anxious to get back to their little cages, and she looked over them, watched them all reaction to that, and think, and then Flag turned his attention back to them, all grim tight smile. "So, shipment will be here in 15. Let's sketch this out, what we're gunna do once we get past the containment field they've got him trapped in…"

Flag was fucking her face to face on the bench, her back flat against the wide-grained wood as he rocked her with every thrust, rubbing her shoulder blades against it while his dick just, just barely pushed so deep it hit her cervix, a squirmy good feel that got better the wetter she got. Her ankles were up on his shoulders, and she could break his neck with her feet if she wanted to, but the fucking was good and she was so close as he palmed a breast, squeezing and petting firmly, driving himself deep, deep into her, a good thick dick that she squirmed on, bucking her hips in a circle and just faintly pressing against her clit because she was so close, so close….

It wasn't the best orgasm she'd ever had, but it was good, for masturbation, one that left her cunt feeling heavy and twitching lazily, sopping wet as she pulls her hand out of her prison pants, laying sprawled out on her narrow bed.

Next time, she'd push harder. She'd push and press and find the pressure point to make him crack for her, to cave and join her in her room in the headquarters. Something to keep her busy until and if she ever got back out properly.