Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s too late by the time she hears the leaves rustle. Thick vines coil around Dinah’s thighs and biceps as sweet, musky jasmine wafts towards her on the cool evening air. An otherworldly figure emerges from the shadows, barefoot and awash in fog-filtered moonlight, looking as cruel and sublime as nature itself.

“I don’t like catching little birds snooping around my park.”

Pamela Isley steps forward and appraises Dinah with tense curiosity. 

She watches the woman who calls herself Poison Ivy saunter towards her, and Dinah understands that the danger in her isn’t the toxins permanently suspended in her bloodstream. It’s her—how she moves, her gaze, the pouting curve of her lips. No wonder men topple before her. 

She sees what Pamela Isley became after her transformation, but the thought pricks at Dinah: Who was she before? As Oracle, Barbara Gordon kept files on every major player in Gotham, and Dinah’s read the notes on Ivy; her psychiatric records from Arkham reveal an abusive father, a trapped mother, an idealistic and intelligent girl who otherwise seemed capable of incredible empathy despite everything, who did as she was told and maybe tried to be good. But none of the files could explain: do Ivy’s pheromones render her universally alluring? Or was she just like this?

On one other occasion, Dinah found herself and Ivy face to face. Before Barbara regained the use of her legs, Oracle tapped Dinah in to help the Bats take on an alliance of Gotham rogues. Ivy, of course, was above it all. She didn’t become involved until the fight threatened the fringes her beloved forest in Robinson Park. Almost like tonight, she materialized from within the greenery, inches from Dinah, her full lips parted just slightly. “If you stay away from the trees,” she said then, “I won’t unleash my thorns.” 

Dinah remembers the low and velvety qualities of her voice as they signaled she was too cool to care either way. The battle, to her, was nothing more than a nuisance. A traffic jam. Ivy didn’t care about the destruction of skyscrapers and the deaths of civilians because the control of Gotham has never been her battle. Not really. So what did that make her, as a meta who didn’t want to save or rule Gotham, but instead just burn it all down?

It made her interesting.

That night, dodging gunfire from Joker’s goons made it difficult for Dinah to respond, but she received the message loud and clear and did what she could to keep Ivy’s trees out of the line of attack—despite what Batman and Barbara had told her, it seemed that all Ivy actually wanted was her solitude.  

Now, Poison Ivy has her suspended at eye level precisely because a cape dares disturb her. 

“I’m not here to fight,” Dinah promises. More vines slither up towards her, these ones lined with thick, sharp thorns. One prick and she’s dead, Dinah’s sure. And since Barbara has retaken the mantle of Batgirl, she no longer has Oracle in her ear to guide her through this one.

But the poisonous vines remain still, their threat pushed to the periphery by the sight of Ivy drifting. Soon, her face hovers near enough to fill Dinah’s field of vision. She places a hand on Dinah’s cheek, and her touch cools against the summer evening heat. 

Ivy's skin could be deadly on its own, she knows. But her blood definitely is, and possibly her lips; the Bats once thought she used a lipstick with a proprietary blend of toxins to kill her victims, but now they hypothesize that she can simply choose whether or not her lips become flush with poison. Either that, or she’s developed an antidote she administers to the few people she keeps close. 

They used to maintain a similar theory about her pheromones, believing she derived them from her own plants and engineered them into a perfume. But now, they have real evidence suggesting the chemicals emanate from her directly, and that she can determine their spread and dosage. 

She understands Ivy’s power, and while Dinah doesn’t fear much, she knows it’s reasonable to be afraid of her. But she also understands: Ivy, if she chose to, could be the one to save them all. That’s why she’s here to recruit her. This is how Dinah rebuilds the Birds of Prey. 

“I know you,” Ivy murmurs, more to herself than to Dinah. She frowns, then purses her lips together. “You’re the Black Canary.” Dinah wonders if maybe she made the wrong call coming here. Maybe Ivy isn’t ready yet. Maybe she never will be. 

“You run around with the Bats,” she spits. The disdain in her voice chills Dinah so intensely, she can barely characterize it.

Dinah tries to shift her perspective. Ivy wants her solitude. Who ruins it? The Bats. Who keeps throwing her in Arkham? The Bats. Who has Dinah heard time and time again call Poison Ivy inhuman and unfeeling? The Bats. 

“I’m not a Bat,” she assures, breathing deep from the adrenaline bubbling inside her. “Batgirl’s a—” How does she sum up her relationship with Barbara? Partners doesn’t cut it, nor does best friends. Family? Except, Dinah knows how she feels about Barbara. She knows how she feels about Barbara in the same way she knows why she hasn’t bothered to question the reason she can’t stop staring at Ivy’s lips. 

Dinah’s always been proud of who she is. But somehow, confronting her feelings for Barbara causes her all sorts of agony. She isn’t ashamed of them, but they do destabilize her. She’s Dinah Laurel Lance, for fuck’s sake. She loves whiskey and fast cars and masculine men. Or at least, she’s supposed to.

When she really gets down to it, Ollie was the only man she’s ever had real feelings for. Now, he’s disappeared and Barbara’s here. But while Barbara loves her, Dinah knows, that love isn’t romantic.

“She’s important to me.” She settles on neutral language, but Ivy’s single raised eyebrow proves to Dinah how little she manages to hide. “Batgirl’s one of the most important people in the world to me. And I have fought alongside the Bats. I’m in the JLA and JSA. I won’t pretend I’m not a hero, and I won’t blame you for being cautious.” 

Ivy narrows her eyes, but doesn’t move. Dinah reads this as permission to continue. “But me and the Bats. We don’t always agree.”

Dinah pauses, trying to gauge Ivy’s reaction, but her steely expression gives nothing away.

“Explain,” Ivy demands.

Dinah complies. “I choose to trust people the Bats won’t touch. Maybe that makes me naive, but…” She pauses for a moment. She remembers how Barbara, as Oracle, gave her a chance. “I don’t think you’re a monster, Ivy. Others might, but I don’t. I just don’t think they understand you.”

“And you do?”

“Not yet, maybe. But I want to try.”

It’s a subtle shift, but Ivy’s posture seems less tense. For the flash of a second, Dinah thinks she glimpses Pamela Isley behind all the bravado, someone sensitive and on guard.

That’s her too, in a way, Dinah knows. She feels harder than she lets on. Barbara once fired her from the Birds of Prey for making emotionally reckless decisions on missions, however briefly. 

She recognizes the parts of Ivy she sees reflected in herself.

Ivy crosses her arms over her chest. “So. What brings you to me?”

“I have a proposition.”

“Go on.”

“I’m putting together a team. For special missions. The kinds most of the good guys won’t take.”

Ivy raises an eyebrow at Dinah.  “This better not be like the Suicide Squad.”

“It’s not like the Suicide Squad.”

“Why me?” Ivy glances towards the ground, and then back to Dinah. She’s starting to melt.

“Because I think you have more to offer than anyone gives you credit for.” 

The vines around Dinah don’t relinquish her yet, but they do noticeably loosen. Ivy’s eyes seem rounder. Wider. Like no one has ever said that to her before.

“I work alone,” Ivy responds. Her tone is still defiant, but her expression has softened. 

Dinah takes a risk. “We both know that’s a lie. You project this image of a loner who’s too good at what she does to need anyone’s help. And it’s true that you do by yourself what anyone else in Gotham would need a hoard of henchmen to accomplish. But you do work with someone.” She pauses, knowing that what she says next could be the key to Ivy’s cooperation, or it could get her killed. But Dinah chooses trust. 

“What about Harley Quinn?”

Retreating a step, Ivy’s facade cracks further. Dinah watches her eyes narrow. “That’s different,” she murmurs. Then, her voice regains its edge. “You don’t know anything about me and Harley.”

In fact, Dinah knows too much about Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. More than a virtual stranger should, at least. Maybe Ivy thinks no one else has figured it out, but the pattern has proved easy enough for the Bats to track: Harley leaves the Joker to partner with Ivy when she’s clear in the head, then gets her brains all jumbled again when the Joker reels her back in. Lather, rinse, repeat.

But Barbara’s files don’t detail the part of the cycle Dinah’s managed to intuit. She has no doubt that the otherwise misanthropic Ivy’s mindless devotion to Harley Quinn is pure adoration. Dinah can only guess what Ivy sees in the clown, but she can imagine the agony of watching the person you’re in love with leave you, time and time again, for an abusive man who, Dinah is certain, doesn’t love Harley at all. 

“I know she’s the only person you have,” Dinah presses. “And it seems like sometimes, you don’t even have her.”

Ivy raises her hand, and one of the barbed vines bolts for Dinah, halting less than an inch away from her right eye. “You want to try that again?” she threatens.

“Or you could tell me about it,” Dinah smiles at her despite the looming hazard. “Not to brag, but I’m really good at girl talk.” Girl talk, as in talking as girls? Or talking about girls? Dinah isn’t even sure which she means.

The vine retreats. Dinah’s jaw unclenches itself.

Ivy sighs and places a hand to her forehead, looking exasperated. She glances back at Dinah and flicks her wrist; the vines unfurl from her and Dinah drops to the forest floor with a thump, flat on her face. She climbs to her feet, grinning.

Ivy rolls her eyes. “At this point? Why not?”

Dinah did it. She’s in. A cool anticipatory burn flares across her skin. 

Ivy turns to walk towards the forest, presumably expecting Dinah to follow. Then, she looks back. “But only because I’m vaguely interested in this team. Don’t expect more girl talk in the future.” 

She raises one eyebrow, then extends a hand. Dinah takes it, experiencing the smoothness of her skin in pulses. They move together through the inky dark.

Chapter Text

“If you tell anyone about this place, I’ll kill you.” Ivy pulls aside a curtain of vines and steps over the threshold, but Dinah’s trapped by her own awe at the vision that greets them both.

“Wow.” She gazes across the lush chamber at fine, smooth grasses, trees with full waxy canopies, flowers in shapes and colors and sizes she never fathomed could exist, all growing peacefully in a system of caves hidden beneath Gotham. There is no natural light in the cave, but its ceiling glows bright with intense, flowering bioluminescence. She thinks back to her flower shop, her little roses and peonies and potted succulents. A familiarity washes over Dinah among all this magnificence.

She finally manages to move a single foot; Dinah enters to stand beside Ivy, and the very air changes around her. It smells sweet and floral, as Ivy does, and tastes cleaner than the city’s, cleaner even than any forest Dinah’s ever encountered above ground, no matter how untouched by humanity. 

“This is all yours?” Dinah asks.

“The planet could look like this,” she tells her. “I could make the Earth look like my Eden.”

Ivy beckons Dinah to follow, and as she does, she tips her head back to absorb the sight of the dome-shaped ceiling, dripping with vines and flowers and starry moss, where the tallest treetops can’t quite reach.

“Wouldn’t this be better?” Ivy continues. “Better than what’s up there?”

“Can’t say I wouldn’t miss revving up my bike,” Dinah muses, “but I could definitely get used to this scenery.”

“This is what your friends—the Bats—want to stop me from achieving.”

Ivy holds her palm up, and an enormous closed flower in front of them, a ten foot tall tear drop, begins to bloom. Its wide, ruby petals fan out and lower themselves slowly towards the ground, revealing a pillowy flat core. Ivy leaps forward and lands in its center, basking in it with her head tilted back, arms and legs splayed comfortably. She closes her eyes and smiles, allows a little hum to escape past her lips. The way she interacts with the flower, almost grinding herself into what Dinah knows are the plant's reproductive organs, seems almost too intimate, erotic even, for an outsider to witness.

Dinah blushes when Ivy commands, “Come. Sit.”

But she obeys. She kicks her shoes off and lowers herself to sit beside Ivy with her legs stretched out in front of her. Ivy turns her head to look at Dinah, her gaze teeming with expectation, and Dinah looks back, noticing that Ivy’s demeanor has changed entirely since entering the garden. She’s more at ease in her own domain. More open. Playful. The place seems to energize and stabilize her, a personal antidote to Gotham’s concrete and steel.

“You’re lucky, Canary,” Ivy says eventually when Dinah doesn’t speak. “Most people will never witness a paradise like this.”

Dinah smiles out of the corner of her mouth. She catches herself inching closer to Ivy after it’s too late to stop. “I bet you say that to all the girls.” 

It was a joke, but she didn’t mean it to come out so flirtatious. Or, on second thought, maybe she did. Dinah doesn’t know at this point—she’s allowing her inclinations to engulf her.

Ivy looks down. When she glances back to Dinah, she seems far away.

“Did I say something wrong?”

Ivy shakes her head. “You’re only the second person I’ve brought here.”

Dina nods. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m an angry person.” Ivy draws her knees to her chest. “But I can’t be angry at her.”

Dinah doesn’t need to ask who. “Have you…Have you talked to her?”

“Harley won’t listen to me,” she explains. “Not when she still thinks she loves him.”

Dinah decides to be brave. “This flower,” She places a hand over Ivy’s, changes the subject. “Is it a modified anemone?” 

Ivy nods, surprised. “How did you know?”

“I used to be a florist.” Dinah feels Ivy shift closer to her, and a little jolt of sensation sparks across her chest when their shoulders brush together.

“You’re full of surprises, Canary. I don’t love florists. They kill flowers. But I can appreciate that most people who choose the profession have good intentions, if misguided.” She tucks her hair behind her ear. “Which flower was your favorite to keep?” 

Another moment of bravery: “Violets.” She knows Ivy understands what the flower means.

Ivy brings her mouth close to Dinah’s ear. “The night I first met Harley, I gave her the permanent antidote to my poison,” she whispers.

Dinah blinks. “You knew then?” 

The prick and push happen before Dinah can register them. When she looks down, she sees the needle just as Ivy’s swift hands remove it from between the threads of her fishnets over her thighs. 

For a moment, fire rips through Dinah’s veins and arteries. She grunts into it, her muscles tense enough to tremble. A lightheadedness overtakes her, then settles, and suddenly she feels stronger and faster. 

“I want to touch you,” Ivy tells her. “I think you want that, too.”

As the shock wears off, Dinah understands: from Ivy’s perspective, this is a gift. By giving her the antidote, Ivy just traded her poison, one of her strengths, for vulnerability. Normally, Dinah would pummel anyone who tried to put something in her body against her will. But Ivy’s placed a degree of rare trust in Dinah. There’s a gravity to it.

Dinah leans back and takes a deep breath, then looks at Ivy.

For all her defiance, Dinah typically dates cocky men with fragile egos. If you’re a woman who likes loud music and fast motorcycles, fine champagnes and luxury vacations, those are the types of guys who find you. None of these them were particularly dominant, though they liked to play at it, and the consistency of the expectations, the lack of pressure to be alert and in control as she needed to out in the field, used to comfort her.

Except these men, even the nice ones, tended to treat her like an antique car: something kept away from the sun and the elements, something to show off, take out once in a while, wash in the driveway maybe before popping it right back into the garage. They just enjoyed having someone like her on their arms, liked boring, reliable sex, liked taking what they wanted from Dinah without giving her an inch of anything real.

Ollie was just different enough. He had more depth to him. But despite loving her, he still cheated on her more times than she’s ever admitted to anyone. He ran away too many times. After a while, she couldn’t do it. 

Between Barbara’s unfortunate heterosexuality and the shallowness of her relationships with most men, Dinah craves tenderness, even if it’s temporary. 

Here, in Ivy’s Eden, Dinah prepares herself. She knows she’s about to get a taste of what she’s been missing.

Ivy places a hand on Dinah’s thigh and squeezes. “Tell me how much you want it, Canary,” she instructs. The words come out easy. Conversational. Ivy’s in her element, Dinah sees. Not only the garden, but the eroticism of it all. She’s built for this—a seductress by design, as opposed to choice. A Venus flytrap whose drop of humanity guides her against her most carnivorous inclinations and towards a more carnal kind of devouring. 

And Dinah wants it. Her heart pounds in her chest and desire’s sting overflows from her core. She feels wetness pool between her legs. Dinah gives herself permission to look at Ivy’s lips as they curl into a sly grin, pink and plush. 

An intense bliss overtakes her. She leans in. “If you don’t touch me soon,” Dinah says, “I’ll have to make you.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Vines shoot towards Dinah, seemingly from out of nowhere. Weightlessness overtakes her, and it happens quickly; they lift her into the air, rip her jacket from her shoulders, unzip her costume and undress her, leaving her only in her panties and fishnets.

The cool air caresses the newly exposed parts of Dinah’s skin as Ivy’s vines twist around her limbs and hold her close. Their touches are surprisingly satiny and lightly rendered, brushing, tickling all across her, stoking her sensitivity, driving her yearning. And Ivy just sits there, on the pillowy core of her giant anemone, resting back on her palms with her legs crossed before her, looking amused as she assesses Dinah.

“Most people don’t look like you, pretty bird.” A vine drags its tip up Dinah’s stomach, coils around her right breast, and flicks at her nipple. The sensation makes her gasp and shiver. She feels herself tremble with need. “You’re something else.”

Dinah watches as the leaves that clothe Ivy drop away from her into nothing but a pile of brush. She spreads her legs wide so that Dinah can see the entirety of her slick, glimmering pussy beneath a patch of hair. Ivy brings a hand to her clit and begins to massage it. A wave of euphoria crosses her features as she touches herself, never taking her eyes away from Dinah.  

A thick vine erupts from the anemone and shoots up to settle between Dinah’s legs, drawing itself back and forth over the outside of her panties, rubbing her slowly, teasing her. Moans pour from her at the touch, only encouraged further by the sight of Ivy stimulating herself, using her free hand to roll one of her nipples between her thump and index finger, still making unshakable eye contact.

Two more vines wrap around Dinah’s wrists, draw her hands above her head, and bind them together. She feels her back arch, and part of her revels in how easy she’s become in the short time she’s spent in Ivy’s territory. How willing, how malleable, how feeling. The vines haven’t even slithered her under the cloth of her panties yet, but she’s already experiencing the familiar build of an oncoming orgasm. 

She realizes that Ivy has yet to put her antidote to good use. She hasn’t laid a finger on her, much less kissed her. It’s about to be a long night.

Chapter Text

Dinah hates to beg, but as she squirms, she finds herself doing it. “Fuck, Ivy,” she pleads, “I want—”

And before she can cry for more, the smooth vine is in her panties, stroking her clit slowly, replicating the sensation of a tongue.

“All you need to do is ask,” Ivy tells her. “I have so much to give.”

Dinah’s clit already pulsed with arousal, but before long, she feels it hard and throbbing. Each movement of the vine sends rapture pounding through her, and then she’s panting, writhing, about to cum so hard, she knows, before Ivy herself has even touched her.

And then, it stops.

Ivy shakes her head. “Not yet,” she teases. She’s still toying with her own clit, and Dinah’s floored by the sight. How beautiful she is, her cheeks flush with pleasure.

But she really, really wants to cum. Patience has never been one of her talents.

Ivy stops, then gets to her feet. Dinah feels herself float downwards as the vines lower her to Ivy’s eye level.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Ivy asks her, leaning in close.

Dinah collects herself. She stares Ivy down. “I need you to fuck me.”

It can’t be that easy, Dinah thinks.

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I want it so badly,” Dinah replies.

Ivy runs a finger down the side of Dinah’s neck. “How do you actually know the injection I gave you was my antidote?”

Dinah shivers. How could she know? She parses conflicting feelings: boiling anxiety, the eroticism of uncertainty, questions about whether or not she trusted Ivy too easily.

But then she chokes it all down. She knows herself. She knows she’s right. “There’s only one way to find out.”

Dinah breathes in deep when she feels Ivy lick up from her jaw to her ear.

“I love a thrill-seeker,” she whispers, the vibrations tickling Dinah and sending little jolts down her neck and shoulders.

Again, Dinah chooses trust.

Ivy pulls back, and Dinah watches her. They gaze together for just a moment; the tension builds until Dinah fears she will burst with it, her desire pounding harder in her clit, deep in her cunt, soaking through her panties, hardening her nipples.

And then finally, torturously, Ivy cups Dinahs cheek in her hand. She tips her mouth to Dinah’s and bestows upon her that infamous, mythic kiss.

Her lips are sweet petals against Dinah’s, moving with an intense, hungry restraint. Up close like this, the scent of flowers overwhelms, and as Ivy takes her into her arms, she surrenders further, craving more of the fire unfurling across her body, reaching the licks of its embers out towards her darkest, most unexplored facets.

Suddenly, she feels illuminated.

This wasn’t how Dinah expected her encounter with Ivy to go. But now? She can’t imagine another possible outcome.

Ivy grips her harder, kisses her harder, moans into Dinah’s mouth from deep in her throat.

But then, She pulls back. Blushing and panting, her lips parted, Ivy looks almost as if she needed to stop to avoid reaching climax.

The vines whip Dinah around in the opposite direction, and Ivy’s determined hand on her back forces her to bend over. She can’t see it, but she hears and feels it when her fishnets and panties rip between the grips of Ivy's hands—the cavern air cools the wet arousal dripping between Dinah's thighs, pushing her sensitivity even further.

A vine wraps around her waist and hoists her up. Dangling there, eyes towards the ground, Dinah startles when something wet, warm, and soft begins to probe at her clit. It takes a second to realize that it’s Ivy, burying her face deep in her pussy. She shakes as waves of pleasure cascade out from her center and threaten to spill. A whine escapes from her throat when Ivy’s lips close around her clit.

The intensity of Ivy’s mouth is doubled when Dinah feels a vine tease the rim of her cunt, another her ass. “Fuck,” she grunts. She wants Ivy’s vines to fill her. She needs to be fucked. “Do it.”

Even though it’s exactly what she asked for, she isn’t prepared for the sensation when both vines penetrate her so swiftly, smooth and thick, stretching her nearly to her limit each way with perfect, radiant agony. They both begin to pump inside of her with calculated, alternating rhythms; Dinah feels herself tightening around them, sucking them deeper inside her, writhing to help them reach her most sensitive places.

She cries out again, trembles, doesn’t yet cum. But between the penetration and the increased potency of Ivy’s soft mouth sucking and licking, Dinah still feels her hips buck uncontrollably.

“Don’t stop,” Dinah manages through the euphoria. “Please, fuck, don’t—”

When the vines withdraw from her, she pouts. Ivy’s mouth is now also absent from her clit, and Dinah once again finds herself whipped around, then yanked upright by a vine to come face to face with Ivy, whose lips and chin and cheeks are slick with Dinah’s wetness.

Without a word, Ivy grabs Dinah around the waist and the back of her head, and again kisses her with a breathless ferocity, allowing Dinah to taste herself, all salty and musky and citrus.

As Ivy kisses her, Dinah feels the vines that restrain her loosen and retreat. Suddenly, she is just in Ivy’s arms, her feet finally planted on the ground. And with her own arms free, she embraces Ivy, uses her hands to explore the curves of her back, her hips, her ass. The velvet of Ivy’s stomach and breasts presses against her own.

Between kisses, Ivy tells her, “I think you’re ready.”

When Dinah looks down, she sees vines slither up Ivy’s legs and rope themselves around her hips, then coil at the center of her pelvis, constructing themselves into a perfect facsimile of a dildo, much thicker than either of the vines that just fucked her.

“Lie down,” Ivy commands.

Dinah does as she’s told, lowering herself onto the anemone’s plush center. Ivy gets to her knees and positions herself between Dinah’s legs. Anticipation pricks at Dinah, and when she gazes up at Ivy, she sees a woman reveling in own sense of authority.

The head of the cock kisses the edge of Dinah’s cunt, then a sharp, involuntary inhale greets her lungs as Ivy enters her gradually, torturously, stretching her out inch by inch. She’s never felt so filled before. So complete. She feels her back arch as Ivy bends down over her and takes her in her arms, holding her close as she begins to fuck her.

With each thrust, Dinah moans, cries, whimpers, her sweat mixing with Ivy’s, the motions of their hips synced as Ivy fucks her harder and faster, pounding Dinah into oblivion, into a space where her only thoughts are of Ivy and her cock. She doesn’t feel like a person anymore, but a receptacle for pleasure, building up inside of her, compounding. Who is she in this moment but Ivy’s toy? How easily Ivy seduced her. No one else could ever come close to possessing her like this. Not Barbara. Certainly not Ollie. It turns out, Dinah’s just as much of a sucker as anyone, so easily swayed by a beguiling femme fatale.

But again, all too soon, Dinah feels emptiness broaden inside of her. Ivy withdraws the cock from Dinah’s cunt, breathing hard, composing herself for only a moment before lying down on her back next to Dinah, the cock sprouting from her.

She turns her head to the side and looks at Dinah. Dinah looks back.

“What are you waiting for?” Ivy asks.

At first, Dinah doesn’t know what she means, but as Ivy strokes the cock in a single fluid motion of her hand, she gets it.

Dinah sits up, then straddles Ivy and, ensuring the sensation lasts as long as possible, lowers herself over Ivy’s hips, taking the cock deep into her pussy.

A blaze of ecstasy erupts in Ivy’s expression, as if she can feel Dinah’s hole squeezing the cock, sliding over it, engulfing it. “Good girl,” she breathes. Her hands find Dinah’s hips and she thrusts up into her, driving the cock directly into Dinah’s most sensitive, responsive parts.

“Oh, fuck.” Dinah moves on top of Ivy, slowly at first, grinding into the cock and dragging her clit back and forth over its base. And then Ivy thrusts up, grunts and moans with her, the two of the composing one single repetitive motion, like joint matter.

And finally. The stinging in Dinah’s clit and cunt develops incrementally, grows and expands until she feels it across her skin, in her limbs, in her head. She can’t cry out anymore because the sound gets caught in her throat; every fiber of her has devoted itself to processing the pleasure, interpreting it, becoming it.

And Ivy must see her transformation. She knows Dinah is close, because through labored breaths and a devilish grins, she grunts, “Cum for me, sapling. Cum like a good girl.”

The feeling inside Dinah reaches the second before its apex, the moment of euphoria that comes with the liminality before overflow.

Dinah bursts.

Shaking, screaming, she feels her head throw itself back; a pulse of power rockets from her throat as her cunt expands and contracts over and over again around Ivy’s cock. The room quakes from what she thinks is the might of her orgasm, and in a way, it is: the echoing skreee is her Canary Cry, unleashed by surge after surge of pleasure.

She collapses flat over Ivy and lies there for a few long breaths. Ivy’s arms wrap around her.

“Fuck,” Dinah sighs into Ivy’s shoulder. “Wow.”

The cock seems to disintegrate inside of her as the vines unravel and retreat; the motion is subtle, but it sends her trembling, whimpering, into another orgasm.

Another moment, and Dinah manages to compose herself. She wastes no time sitting up, then drifting down Ivy’s body to settle between her legs. Looking up, she catches Ivy’s eyes.

“It’s crazy how much I want more of you,” she says.

She parts Ivy’s thighs. Her pussy is red and swollen. She’s dripping wet, shimmering in the glow of the cave’s illuminated greenery. The fresh floral scent that emanates from her core makes Dinah feel suddenly inadequate—so animal, as opposed to what Ivy is.

Dinah places an exploratory kiss on Ivy’s clit, then shivers in delight when the woman who only moments before wielded such command over her gasps with the susceptibility of the very prey she courts. She licks her, moves her tongue in slow circles, basks in the honeysuckle taste of Ivy’s juices and flesh, her lips vibrating with the low, pleasurable hums that escape her throat as she devours her.

Bringing a hand forward, she teases the rim of Ivy’s cunt, savors the viscosity of its wetness on her fingers. Then, just as Dinah wraps her whole mouth around the clit and sucks, she plunges as finger into Ivy and hooks it to massage Ivy’s core.

Ivy grunts when Dinah enters her, then cries out when her hand begins pumping, slowly but with force. Dinah knows this pace is painful, almost mockingly so; she dangles the promise of greater pleasure in Ivy’s face, but denies her the full satisfaction.

“More,” Ivy chokes out through deep, stabilizing breaths.

Dinah smiles against Ivy’s clit. She adds another finger.

Now, she fucks her harder, faster. Ivy squeezes tighter around her fingers—so tight, Dinah almost fears they could snap. But she keeps fucking, keeps sucking and licking, becomes wet again, wetter, when she hears the soft squish of her fingers thrusting inside Ivy.

And Ivy moans with each thrust, with each flit of tongue over her clit, violently grinding her wetness against Dinah’s mouth and cheeks. Dinah can barely believe the way this dangerous, ethereal entity melts under her touch, and she loves how it feels to be so completely engulfed by Ivy’s pussy, drowned so deeply in it she hardly manages to breathe.

She could spend a lifetime devouring Ivy, but Dinah knows it’s time to move on. She removes her fingers from the throbbing cunt, the crawls back up Ivy and straddles her, staring downwards. She brings her fingers to Ivy’s mouth, all soaked in her nectars.

Dinah doesn’t need to issue the command; Ivy smiles from the corner of her mouth, then parts her pillowy lips and eagerly sucks—Dinah sees her radiance in this slight, bare concession towards temporary submission.

Yanking her fingers from Ivy’s mouth, Dinah says, “I need a cock.” She’s never worn a strap-on before, though she’s imagined it while touching herself at night.

Ivy grins conspiratorially at her. She raises a palm in Dinah’s direction, and vines begin to swarm.

They curl up around Dinah’s thighs and hips, and the cock that forms as the vines tangle together possesses a heft, a momentum, that heightens her sense of need.

Ivy sits up. She caresses Dinah’s cheek, then slides herself from below her. First she stands, then steps away from the core of the anemone, moving instead towards the thick, solid trunk of a tree.

“I want it like this,” she tells Dinah, before she places her palms on the trunk and tilts her ass out teasingly in Dinah’s direction.

Understanding, Dinah follows her. She wraps her arms around Ivy’s torso and kisses the crook of her neck. She presses her chest and stomach against Ivy’s back, and drags the tips of her fingers as feathery as she can over Ivy’s skin, relishing in her shivers.

“It’s your turn. Tell me how much you want it,” Dinah orders. She feels herself bursting with authority, boiling over with how desperately she wants to plunge her cock into Ivy’s pussy, how much she wants to thrust into her, grind against her, devastate her against the tree.

Ivy laughs, tilting her head back, allowing space for Dinah to kiss and suck at her neck. “I want you to fuck me like the depraved human animal you are. I want your violence. I want you to pound me so hard that I sob.” Like everything she says, her words carry a mocking, playful tone.

The underlying darkness in Ivy’s demand would perhaps alarm Dinah in another instance, but now, all she can think about is sinking her cock into Ivy’s cunt and ramming her with it, over and over, until she’s nothing more than a pulp of sensation.

Dinah positions herself, then, steadily, enters Ivy.

The first thing she notices is the cushion of Ivy’s ass against her when she thrusts in. She can’t feel the shaft, technically, but she can feel it. As Ivy did to her, Dinah goes slow, driving her hips forward and back in a controlled but forceful motion. She allows it to sink in, for both of them, before pulling outwards, so gradually. Then, she thrusts again.

It’s shocking, how much effort she must exert to stop herself from fucking Ivy too hard and fast, especially as Ivy reacts so enthusiastically, moaning and grunting with each pump, grinding against the cock and driving it deeper inside her.

“More!” she demands, and Dinah thrusts again, even harder. “You’re a worthless, hedonistic mammal, Canary. Fuck me like one.”

Dinah doesn’t have the consciousness in this moment to unravel the complexities of why it turns her on when Ivy calls her worthless, but it sends shockwaves radiating out from her clit, pulsing through her body.

Her own awareness only tells her that Ivy is right: she’s nothing more than a creature. She’s nothing more than a bundle of feral, basal desire.

She stops, pulls out, and before Ivy can protest, Dinah spins her around and lifts her around the waist. For a moment, she’s reminded of a time when she once dragged Barbara out of the waters of a sinking vessel and cradled her in her arms. But she dispels thought. Instead, Dinah pins Ivy against the tree, holding her up, and enters her again.

Ivy wraps her legs around Dinah’s waist. “That’s my big, strong girl,” she huffs. “What are you?”

Dinah thrusts into her response. “I’m yours,” she manages through her panting.

Her hips buck faster and ram deeper, though she’s careful to ensure the whole length of the cock moves in an out of Ivy, losing none of the previous sensation, but instead building upon it. Ivy’s cries and moans, so real and guttural and unadorned with pretense, pierce into Dinah, dissect and reassemble her. She feels like she belongs here, in this cave under Gotham, surrounded by green, obeying Ivy when she commands, Fuck me. Sweat rolls down her neck, her back, her chest and shoulders. She’s on fire, squeezing Ivy in her arms, feeling the hard truth of her muscle against Ivy’s softness.

Ivy grinds harder into the cock when Dinah thrusts in, as if trying to carve out deeper space for it within herself. Dinah imagines Ivy’s cunt as a void, sucking and taking, never satiated.

Soon, Ivy’s movements become more erratic, less controlled, and Dinah can see she’s so close to cumming. She even feels her own clit, rubbing close against the base of the vine-cock, active further, elevate itself towards another climax.

“Fuck, Canary,” Ivy pants. “I’m—I’m gonna—”

When Ivy erupts, a single cry rings out from her throat. Her whole body oscillates enough for Dinah to feel the reverberations in her cock. Her breath hitches in her throat, and she cums again with Ivy.

They stand there together, shaking in one another’s embrace. When she settles, Dinah lowers Ivy to her feet and catches her forward against her chest.

Feeling oddly sentimental, she buries a kiss in Ivy’s silken red hair.

Together they sink to the ground, and Dinah finds herself cradled on one side by the gentle grasses of Ivy’s Eden, and on the other by Ivy herself, limp and smiling, overtaken with bliss. She accepts the opportunity to catch her breath.

It takes several minutes, but eventually, Dinah regains the ability to form words. “That was incredible,” she reflects, feeling a lightness in her head and chest.

Ivy flips around onto her stomach and props herself up on her elbows. “I’ll join your team,” she says after a moment.

Dinah tries to caution herself from becoming too excited too soon, but it’s a challenge. “Are you sure? You don’t know the details, or even who else—”

“I’ll join, Canary.” she says. “I trust you. Because you chose to trust me.”

“You can call me Dinah,” she tells her. It’s not a big deal to tell Ivy her real name—she barely has a secret identity. But it does feel intimate, to ask Ivy to call her anything other than her codename. To share something of herself.

“Dinah.” Ivy says it cautiously, as if mispronouncing it could set off a bomb. “You know my first name. You can use it.”

“Pamela.” It sounds right as it passes her lips. She holds it in her mouth like a prize liqueur before swallowing.

“You should know,” Dinah confesses. “I’m recruiting Batgirl.” She had been afraid to tell Ivy this. Yet now, she feels empowered to.

“As long as she’s willing to play nice,” Ivy acquiesces with shockingly little resistance. “The Bats obstruct me. Not the other way around.”

“I’m in love with her,” Dinah admits, Ivy’s love for Harley floating to the surface of her mind.

Ivy frowns, but allows her to continue.

“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t feel the same way.”

Ivy hesitates, then says, “I can make you forget those feelings. It’s your choice, of course. But I can do it.”

Dinah doesn’t need to ask Ivy how she’d accomplish that. She already knows: the pheromones. They could focus the scope of Dinah’s affections entirely on Ivy.

For a blip, the option sounds idyllic. She could dive headfirst into something she already wants. Something already set in motion. But she craves authenticity. She knows that whatever she and Ivy become to each other, it needs come from herself, without any chemical encouragement.

She shakes her head. “I think it’s something I need to let fade away on its own. But I think you have a role to play in that process. If you want it.”

Ivy reaches a hand towards Dinah. She could concentrate enough poison in her palm to kill someone, and yet she gave Dinah the antidote. Even if she hadn’t, Dinah knows she wouldn’t pull away. She takes it.

“I’ve been devoted to Harley for years,” Ivy contemplates. “But I need someone who won’t abandon me every time The Joker blinks at her.” Her eyes narrow.

Ivy may hate The Joker more than even Batman does, Dinah realizes. She may hate The Joker more than anyone has ever hated anything. “I want to give this a shot,” Ivy continues.

Shot. That reminds Dinah. “Why did you give me the antidote?”

Now, Ivy smiles. “Do you remember? We’ve met once before.”

Dinah can’t believe she made an impression. “I remember. In the park.”

“I asked you to protect the trees, and you did. And then tonight, you told me you wanted to understand me. So few people have tried to do that. It’s silly, maybe. But you charmed me.”

“I do want to know you, Pamela.”

Ivy nods. It’s odd to see, but sweet when Dinah notices the blush creeping up her cheeks, the unusual sheepishness as her gaze flits downward to the grass, then back to her. “I want us to know each other, too. That, and I thought you looked sexy all tied up in my vines. You know. With your fishnets and your big muscles.”

Now, Dinah’s blushing. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” She slides closer, close enough that their noses almost brush. Ivy’s lips graze Dinah’s, and the pulsing in Dinah’s core revs itself up anew. “What if,” Ivy asks, “I said I wanted to go again?”

“I’d say bring it on.” She sits up. Vines leap towards her, restrain her wrists and ankles, and spread her legs out wide. Ivy straddles her once again. When Dinah looks up at her, awe rushes her senses.

“How do you feel about being paddled?”

Dinah feels her clit throb again, and more wetness seeps from within her. “Positively,” she responds. She bites her lip. Ivy reaches out a hand, and calls with it to the trunk of a tree.