Merry Christmas everyone!
"SSSSSWWWWEEEET! I mean, I could already fly, but doing it without wings?" He flipped, laughed down at them, then let himself float like a leaf in an updraft.
"Show off," Harley muttered, though her mouth twitched like she didn't hate it.
"Victor, Aline, and Karen," Kyla-el called. The names landed true: Cyborg, Jinx, and Bumblebee. They came and knelt, three very different kinds of hunger meeting the same altar.
"Whoa, I always thought Jinx was just Jinx." Beast Boy said with awe on his face.
The blessing rolled out for the fourth time—cadenced and heavy as scripture, bright as a surgical lamp. It flowed into circuitry and blood and bio-energetic threads; each body drank what it needed, made something new from the excess.
"You may rise in service of your goddess."
Victor closed his eyes, as if running a diagnostic, then exhaled a stunned laugh. "I never thought I could even get better than this."
Jinx lifted trembling fingers. Her voice cracked as if trying to hold back tears. In fact, she did cry, tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. The static around them crackled soft and pink. "Amazing," she whispered, voice cracking in a way that wasn't weakness but wonder. "My control over… just… amazing."
Bumblebee's smirk was razor-sharp. "Oh, I could do a lot of damage."
Kyla-el looked at the last pair. "Ivy and Harley. Step forward."
Poison Ivy stood with earthy languor, the coils of her hair heavy with scent. Harley practically bounced, almost tripping on her own excitement.
"Ohhhh! I can't believe this is happening!" Harley chirped, clapping once, twice, like a child at a birthday. "But are you sure? You're giving a psycho like me powers? I might go absolutely nuts! Hehehehe!" She trotted up, the sound of her steps somehow suggestive; everything about her moved like she flirted with gravity.
No one stopped her. The smiles around the circle were a little awkward, but no one stopped her.
Kyla-el's sigh was half amusement, half resignation. She raised her hands one more time. "Uhh… yeah. By the power vested in me on behalf of our goddess, I grant you superhuman capabilities, supernatural capabilities, magic resistance, high-tiered mind-control resistance, and my blessings in the war ahead."
Her palms glowed—and the glow poured down—over Ivy, over Harley—
—and then did not let go of Harley.
At first it was a normal brightening. Then it was something else. The light around Harley thickened, turned silkier, turned hungry. It wrapped her, haloed her, then melted against her skin like a new, invisible garment taking measurements.
Kyla-el's brows knit. She'd seen elevation, apotheosis, a dozen kinds of god-making. This was stranger.
Harley's outfit began to change.
The change slid under the glow in stages—first at the throat, where a collar budded into being, black leather deep as midnight with a spade-cut notch that held a tiny heart-shaped gem. From that collar, a cloak bloomed: royal regalia in riotous crimson and ink-black, the outer velvet heavy and luminous, the inner lining patterned with a laughing motley of diamonds, clubs, hearts, and spades that seemed to wink when she moved. The cloak's shoulders rose into graceful crescents, trimmed in pale gold; the hem swung just above her calves and split in the back to reveal long legs wrapped in sweet temptation.
Beneath the cloak, her new attire was a deliberate provocation to modesty:
A micro-skirt, high on the waist and obscenely short, made of pleated black leather with glossy maraschino-red trim that caught the rooftop lights. It rode her hips with wicked precision, exposing the upper flare of her ass when she shifted and the bare, taut band of midriff above the waistband—a sliver of skin that pulsed when she laughed. Below the skirt, a garter belt kissed her waist, jet black with scarlet stitching, a diamond-cut centerpiece resting low over her lower belly like a promise. From that belt, four straps on each leg descended to fasten sheer thigh-high stockings, each clasp a tiny jester's face grinning in metal. The stockings themselves were sin—a fine, smoky mesh that shimmered; one leg midnight black, the other candy-apple red, both topped in glossy bands that bit softly into her flesh. The bands led into stockings that ran like poured shadow down to sleek, knife-heeled pumps. The heels were tall enough to be weapons.
Her top was a cropped scandal: a half-corset, half-sports bra thing in black and red panels, cut to bare the lower curve of her breasts and lift them into a breathless, perfect shelf. Laces crisscrossed between the cups, pulled so tight that every inhale made the bow strain. The fabric left a narrow cleft of sternum bared to the cool night; a diamond window in the center teased a flash of areola when she tipped, then hid it again as if the garment enjoyed the game. Thin sleeves hugged her upper arms and left her shoulders naked; her biceps cut like sugar glass when she flexed, soft and sharp at once. Fingerless gloves climbed to her mid-forearm, stitched with gold filigree that drew the eye down to her hands.
Her makeup finished itself—lips lacquered a cruel cherry red, eyes rimmed in smoky blacks and a glitter of gold at the corners, a kiss of clown-white highlight that made her look like royal sin. Her hair gathered into two thick pigtails that flowed long and heavy, one dyed a glossy black that drank light, the other a red that bled it; a few loose strands traced her cheekbones like laughter.
The scepter coalesced last—born in her palm as if her hand had always been waiting for it. A shaft of polished black, topped with a jester head whose grin was wide enough to be wrong, bells at its hat-tips that chimed without moving. When she tilted the scepter, its teeth showed—fine, delicate, saw-like. The bells giggled.
The crown hovered above her head and rotated slowly, a circlet of harlequin-cut gems—black diamonds, rubies, and something stranger—spaced by delicate points that refused to decide if they were thorns or jesters' caps. When the wind caught it, it didn't sway; it purred.
And then came the companions, if you would call them that.
They popped into being on either side of her with the lazy certainty of nightmares that knew everyone laughed wrong. Bat-shaped at a glance, but not bats—wings too velveteen, too plush, like luxury held up to the moon. Faces too round, mouths too wide, with rows of candy-glossy teeth too many for any animal. Their eyes were dime-sized and cheerful, and their cheer was terrifying. They hovered and giggled in voices that were somehow the chime of a music box and the squeak of a balloon being strangled.
Ivy leaned forward while kneeling, then forgot how to speak. "Whoa. Harley… look at you."
Kyla-el's lips parted and didn't close immediately.
'I wasn't expecting that.' she thought, and for a heartbeat, the goddess-killer looked like a woman trying to find a word in a language nobody had written yet.
"You… you may rise in service of your goddess," she said at last. It came out wrong, a fraction too soft, but she said it. Harley rose.
The glow did not fade. If anything, it thinned into a second skin that limned her curves in soft light. The crown continued its slow rotation. The cloak hung open in the breeze to show the outfit beneath—micro-skirt flashing the suggestion of absolute indecency, stockings gleaming, garter straps cutting little arcs of shadow over her thighs.
'What the actual fuck?' Kyla-el did not say aloud. Her eye twitched, which for Kyla-el might as well have been a gasp.
Harley looked down at herself, turned her hips this way and that, and lifted the cloak with two fingers to watch it drip royal weight around her forearm. Then, she let it fall as her feet hovered barely an inch above the ground. She planted the scepter, cocked a hip, and laughed—low and glittering, like champagne poured down a knife.
"I mean," she said, sunnily, "you did give us all god-tier powers. You just didn't account for my wild mind and imagination taking the wheel again, did ya?" She spun the scepter; the bells giggled, and so did the bat-things. "You are now looking at the goddess of mischief! No, no, no… why do I feel like that's taken already? Okay—you're now looking at the Goddess of… Goddess of Chaos? Goddess of Clowns? …" She stared off, squinting pleasantly, then grinned. "You know what? Let's put a pin in that."
The familiars laughed with her, floating closer, nosing at her cheeks and hair like affectionate demons. One nibbled, very gently, at the curve where her stockings met the tops of her thighs. She smacked it with two fingers, not hard, amused. It rolled in the air and squeaked, delighted to be chastised.
"Harley…" Batgirl said, equal parts warning and awe.
"What?" Harley batted her lashes, then tested the micro-skirt's hem with her thumb and forefinger, tugging it down a single, impossible inch. It popped right back when she let it go. "Modesty is a construct. I grew up in a circus."
Catwoman's gaze tracked the stockings with magnetic attention, then jerked away like she'd been caught stealing. "That cloak is going to be a hazard," she purred, pretending concern. "You'll trip on it."
"I'll weaponize it," Harley sang, spinning once; the lining flashed a delighted kaleidoscope. "Cape physics are a kink I didn't know I had."
Kyla-el took a breath she hadn't needed to take and let it out slow. When she spoke, her voice was calm again, but the edge of surprise had crystallized into something like… respect.
"You… ascended," she said, finally giving the moment its right name. "I mean, I did grant all of you power at the threshold of a deity, but—"
"But you didn't account for me being… me." Harley brought one garter strap between forefinger and middle finger, snapped it lightly, and hummed at the soft sting. Her eyes glittered with mean delight. "The rules squirm when I look at them. It's a thing."
Enchantress' hood tilted, hunger brightening. "Fascinating," she murmured. "A mind where the archetype devours the vessel. Or as the uncouth might say, mind over matter."
"Say more weird words, mommy," Harley winked. One of the plush bats made a tiny, offended gasp. She pinched its cheek. "Not you. Her."
Donna had stood back up and was rubbing her forehead. "I'm glad somebody else is getting knocked around by 'fuck logic' tonight," she muttered. It wasn't true—Harley wasn't getting knocked around by anything. If anything, she was wearing it like a perfume.
Apologies for the hiatus, I have been working on something I announced on the patreon for a while and I am on deadline... I thought of you guys and dropped this. Gotta get back to it, love you guys!
Remember you can read ahead on patreon.com/futamommy