Chapter 1: The Greenhouse Trap
The glass shattered like a frozen scream, shards catching the sickly green light before they rained down into the steam below. Nightwing twisted mid-air, his body a weapon of controlled chaos, landing in a crouch that would have shattered a normal man's knees. The greenhouse air hit him immediately—thick, wet, cloying—a botanical sauna that clung to his lungs with every desperate breath.
"Welcome, little bird."
Her voice came from everywhere and nowhere, curling through the fronds and vines like a snake through tall grass. Nightwing straightened, his escrima sticks already in his fists, the familiar weight grounding him in this alien jungle. Sweat beaded on his brow within seconds. The heat was oppressive, unnatural, pushing against him like a living thing.
"Pamela," he called out, scanning the dense foliage. "I'm not here to play games. Crane's been spotted in the Narrows, and I need—"
"Need?" A low, honeyed laugh echoed off the glass walls. "You crashed through my roof, darling. I think you need to practice your manners."
The vines moved before he could react.
They erupted from the loamy soil like serpents, dark green and glistening with moisture, their tips tapered to needle points. Nightwing's instincts fired, his body launching into a backflip that carried him over the first strike. He landed on a moss-covered stone, already spinning, already calculating the angles of attack. Two more vines whipped toward him from opposite directions. He sliced through one with the edge of his escrima stick, sparks flying as the blade bit into fibrous flesh.
The second vine caught him across the chest, sending him stumbling backward into a wall of leaves that somehow hardened behind him, trapping him in place.
"Fuck," he spat, struggling against the foliage cage.
The vines tightened. Not crushing, but insistent—like a lover's grip that promised more. Nightwing's teeth ground together as he felt the tendrils coil around his arms, his legs, his torso. They were everywhere at once, exploring, testing, binding him in a web of vegetable silk. A sharp prick at his neck made him flinch.
She stepped out of the steam.
Poison Ivy moved like water, like wind, like something that had never known the weight of gravity. Her bare feet pressed into the moss-covered floor with intimate familiarity, each step deliberate and fluid. The red hair cascaded over her shoulders, nearly matching the deep crimson of her lips, and her emerald skin glistened with a fine sheen of moisture that caught the filtered light.
She wore almost nothing. A dress of living leaves that shifted and curled around her curves, exposing more than it concealed. Nightwing forced his gaze to stay locked on her face, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a wandering stare.
"Look at you," she murmured, circling his trapped form. "So strong. So capable. The prodigal son of Gotham's night, come to save the day."
"I'm not here for you, Ivy."
"No?" She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that he could smell her—and oh, God, that smell. Something floral and dark and impossibly sweet, like a garden after rain mixed with something forbidden. "Then why did you come through my roof instead of knocking like a civilized person?"
Nightwing's jaw clenched. The vines shifted behind him, climbing higher, finding purchase around his thighs and chest. He could feel every ridge of their bark-like surface pressing through his suit, and beneath them, a warmth spreading across his skin where the thorns had pricked him.
"My information said Crane was here."
"Your information was wrong." Ivy reached out, trailing a single finger down his chest, following the line of his pectoral muscles. "But I'm so glad you came anyway."
The warmth in his skin turned to heat. Nightwing felt it unlike anything he'd experienced, radiating outward from the points where her thorns had broken his skin. It wasn't a burn—it was a bloom. A flowering sensation that spread through his veins like a slow crescendo.
His body began to respond before his mind could catch up.
"No," he muttered, more to himself than to her.
"No?" Ivy's lips curved into a smile that was all predator. "Don't you like this, little bird? Don't you like the way it makes you feel?"
The vines tightened. One tendril, thinner than the others, snaked up the inside of his thigh with deliberate slowness. Nightwing's breath caught in his throat, his muscles straining against his bindings even as a different kind of tension built in his groin. He felt himself hardening, felt the pressure of his suit against the growing bulge that betrayed his body's willingness.
"Ivy... stop."
"Stop?" She laughed, a sound that was both beautiful and cruel. "You don't want me to stop, Dick. You want me to keep going. You want me to touch you everywhere, to own you completely. That's what this is, isn't it? The surrender you've been running from your whole life."
"My name is Nightwing," he growled, but there was no conviction in it.
"Oh, I know your name." She moved closer, pressing her body against his, the leaves of her dress rustling against his suit. Her lips brushed his ear as she whispered, "I've wanted to taste you for a very long time."
The pheromones hit him like a wave.
He'd been exposed before—Batman had prepared him for this, had drilled him on the signs, the symptoms, the antidotes. But nothing could have prepared him for the overwhelming cascade of sensation that flooded his system now. His vision swam. His skin felt hypersensitive, every brush of air against his body sending sparks of pleasure through his nerves. The vines around him became something else entirely—not constraints, but caresses.
"Fuck," he breathed, the word escaping before he could stop it.
Ivy pulled back slightly, studying his face with detached fascination. "There it is. The crack in that beautiful armor." She traced the line of his jaw with featherlight fingers. "You've resisted so well. But we both know how this ends, don't we?"
"Fuck you," he spat, but his voice cracked on the second word, and she heard it.
"Later, darling. Patience."
She stepped back, and Nightwing felt something like loss at the absence of her heat. The vines shifted again, repositioning him, tilting his head back slightly so he was forced to look at her as she circled him. The movement gave him a view of the greenhouse around them—the strange, alien flowers that seemed to pulse with light, the thick canopy of leaves above, the pool of still water at the center of the room where some orchid-like bloom floated lazily.
"Look at them," Ivy said, gesturing to the plants. "Do you know what these are? I call them Papaver Somniferum Nocturnis. Night-blooming poppies, genetically modified to release their pollen in pulsed waves. Each wave is more concentrated than the last." She smiled, tapping her chin as if considering. "I'd guess you have about ten minutes before the cumulative effect makes it impossible for you to think clearly."
Ten minutes. Nightwing tried to calculate his options, but his mind was already fogging, the edges of his thoughts blurring like wet ink. He strained against the vines, but they only tightened in response, the thorns pricking new points of contact, delivering new doses of whatever toxin she'd designed specifically for him.
"Ten minutes," he repeated, the words thick and slow on his tongue.
"Ten minutes until you'll do anything for me." Ivy settled onto a moss-covered stone across from him, crossing her legs with deliberate grace. The leaves of her dress parted slightly, giving him a glimpse of smooth green thigh that made his mouth water. "You'll beg, little bird. You'll beg to come inside me, and I'll let you. And when you do, you'll be mine forever."
"Never."
"Never's such a long time." She tilted her head, studying him like a specimen pinned under glass. "You think you're different from the others. The ones who came before you, the ones who swore they'd never break. But you're not, Dick. You're just a man, and every man has a price."
The heat in his groin was becoming impossible to ignore. His cock strained against his suit, thick and aching with a need that transcended anything he'd ever experienced. The vines felt like hands now, stroking him, exploring the planes of his body through the armored fabric. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting copper, using the pain to anchor himself.
"You're wrong," he managed.
"Am I?" Ivy rose from her seat, crossed the space between them in three fluid steps, and pressed her palm against his aching erection through his suit.
Nightwing's entire body shuddered. A groan ripped from his throat, involuntary and raw, as her hand pressed and stroked with expert precision. Through the layers of Nomex and kevlar, he could feel the heat of her skin, the pressure of her fingers, the promise of more.
"Feel that?" she whispered, her lips inches from his. "That's your body telling you the truth. It wants this. It wants me." Her hand squeezed gently, and he cried out, his hips bucking involuntarily into her grip. "Your mind is fighting a war it's already lost, little bird. Why not just surrender?"
"Because I'm not... I'm not like them."
Ivy's laugh was soft and cruel. "No. You're better." She withdrew her hand, and Nightwing felt the loss like a physical blow. "Which is why your fall will be so much sweeter."
She walked to the pool at the center of the greenhouse, trailing her fingers through the water as she spoke without turning. "Batman might come looking for you eventually. The whole Bat-family, actually. They're resourceful, determined, and so very predictable." A pause. "When I'm done with you, you'll kill them for me."
"Never," he growled, but the word came out broken, desperate.
Ivy turned, smiling her predator's smile. "We'll see."
The vines moved again, and Nightwing was suddenly lowered to his knees in the soft moss. The tendrils released his arms, but only so they could coil around his wrists and bind them behind his back. He sagged forward, breathing hard, his body burning with a fever that was entirely her creation.
She approached him slowly, savoring the moment. Her fingers found his chin, tipping his face up to meet hers. Her eyes were the color of new leaves, and they held him there, trapped, as she leaned down to press her lips to his forehead in something that felt almost like a benediction.
"By the time I'm finished," she breathed against his skin, "you'll forget your own name. You'll forget everything except the feeling of being inside me." Her lips traced down his temple, his cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth. "And when I tell you to kill, you'll kill. When I tell you to die, you'll die."
"Fuck you," he whispered.
"Soon, little bird." She pulled back, leaving his lips aching for the kiss she'd denied him. "So soon."
Nightwing struggled against his bonds one last time, but it was a token resistance, his body already betraying him in ways that made him want to weep. The pheromones were swimming through him now, hot and sweet and demanding, and every thought he tried to form dissolved into images of her—the curve of her hips, the promise in her eyes.
"I'm going to make you beg," she said softly, almost lovingly. "And you're going to enjoy every moment of it."
She snapped her fingers, and the vines surged upward, covering him, consuming him, dragging him into the dark green depths of her domain.
The vines consumed him whole.
Darkness swallowed the greenhouse light, and Nightwing felt himself being dragged through layers of vegetation, the world tilting and spinning until he couldn't tell which way was up anymore. The pheromones were a fire in his blood now, each pulse of his heart sending fresh waves of heat through his body. He bit down on his tongue, tasting copper, trying to hold onto something that felt real.
The vines stopped moving.
Light returned slowly, filtering through a canopy of oversized leaves that formed a dome above him. He was in some kind of chamber, a hollow space at the heart of the greenhouse where the plants had grown together to create a private sanctuary. The air here was thicker, sweeter, heavy with the perfume of night-blooming flowers that surrounded him in a riot of color.
And there she was.
Poison Ivy stood before him, her leafy garment shifting and rustling as if alive. The vines that held him had arranged his body in a display, arms spread wide, legs forced apart, his suit still intact but feeling thinner than air under her gaze. She circled him slowly, her bare feet silent on the moss, her eyes drinking him in like he was the rarest specimen in her collection.
"You know," she said, her voice a low purr, "I've thought about this moment for a long time. Wondered what it would be like to have you here, at my mercy."
"Fuck you," Nightwing managed, but the words came out slurred, weak.
"Such language." She stopped in front of him, reaching out to trace the line of his jaw with one perfect finger. "But I like it. I like the fire in you, even now. It makes the breaking so much more satisfying."
The vines around his wrists tightened, and he felt them begin to move, working at the fastenings of his suit. One by one, the clasps gave way, and the armored fabric began to peel back from his skin. The cool air hit his chest, and he shuddered, not from cold but from the sensitivity that had taken over his nerve endings.
"What are you doing?" He tried to struggle, but his body refused to cooperate, every movement feeling like it was happening through water.
"Taking what I want." Ivy's smile was slow and cruel. "That's what I always do, little bird."
The suit came away in pieces, the vines working with surprising delicacy as they bared his torso, then his arms, then his legs. Nightwing felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with the physical. She was stripping him bare, layer by layer, and with each piece of fabric that fell away, he felt another piece of his resistance crumbling too.
"No," he whispered, but it sounded more like a plea than a refusal.
Ivy stepped closer as the last of his clothing fell away, leaving him naked and trembling before her. Her eyes traveled down his body with deliberate slowness, taking in every line of muscle, every scar, every place where the light caught his skin. When her gaze reached his cock, she paused, and her smile deepened.
"Look at that," she breathed. "So hard for me already. So eager."
Nightwing wanted to deny it, but his body was betraying him in the most humiliating way possible. His cock stood erect, thick and aching, the head glistening with a bead of moisture that betrayed his desperate need. He couldn't hide it, couldn't control it, couldn't do anything but stand there and let her see exactly what her toxins had done to him.
"Please," he heard himself say, and immediately wanted to take it back.
"Please what?" Ivy tilted her head, feigning innocence. "Please touch you? Please let you come? Or please make it stop?" She stepped closer, pressing her body against his, and he felt the leaves of her garment rustle against his bare skin. "I don't think you want me to stop, Dick. I think you want me to keep going. I think you want me to take you apart piece by piece until there's nothing left but the need."
Her hand found his cock, and he gasped, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. She wrapped her fingers around his shaft, stroking slowly, deliberately, and Nightwing felt his mind white out for a moment, the sensation so overwhelming that he couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel.
"That's it," she murmured, her lips brushing his ear. "Let go. Stop fighting. Surrender to me."
Her hand moved faster, her grip tightening, and Nightwing felt himself hurtling toward the edge at an impossible speed. The pheromones had heightened everything, made every touch feel like fire, made every stroke feel like the most incredible thing he'd ever experienced. He could feel himself approaching the precipice, could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, the overwhelming urge to release.
"Not yet," Ivy whispered, and her hand stilled, leaving him trembling on the brink.
"No," he groaned, the word torn from somewhere deep inside him. "Please... please don't stop..."
"Please?" She laughed softly. "Such a polite little bird. But I'm not finished with you yet."
The garment of leaves fell away from her body, sliding down her curves with a whisper of vegetation, and then she was naked before him. Her skin was a luminous green, smooth as silk, glittering with a sheen of morning dew that made her look like something out of a dream. Her breasts were full and firm, tipped with rosy areolae that made his mouth water, and between her thighs, a patch of dark red hair that seemed to glow in the dim light.
"Do you like what you see?" she asked, striking a pose that showed off every inch of her body.
Nightwing couldn't answer. His throat was raw, his mind was fogged, and all he could do was stare at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Because she was. Because she was everything, because the toxins had made her into the center of his universe, because all he wanted was to be inside her, to feel her wrapped around him like a velvet glove, to come and come and come until there was nothing left of him.
"I want to hear you say it," she pressed, stepping closer until her naked body was pressed against his. "I want to hear you beg."
Her hand found his cock again, and she began to stroke him, slowly at first, then faster, her fingers working him with expert precision while her other hand cupped his balls, rolling them gently in her palm. Nightwing let out a sound that was almost a sob, his head falling back, his hips thrusting into her grip.
"I'm going to make you come so hard," she whispered in his ear, her breath hot against his skin. "I'm going to make you come until you see stars. But first, you're going to tell me what I want to hear. You're going to tell me that you're mine."
"Yours," he gasped, the word torn from his throat against his will. "I'm yours, I'm yours, please, please let me come..."
"Louder," she demanded, her strokes becoming faster, more aggressive, driving him toward the edge again.
"I'M YOURS!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the greenhouse. "I'M YOURS, IVY, PLEASE, I'LL DO ANYTHING, JUST LET ME COME!"
"That's my good little bird."
She sank to her knees before him, and Nightwing watched through half-lidded eyes as she took his cock into her mouth. The sensation was indescribable—wet, hot, perfect—her tongue working around him as she swallowed him to the root. She looked up at him through her lashes as she sucked, her eyes holding his, and Nightwing felt himself shatter into a million pieces.
"Fuck," he breathed, "fuck, yes, just like that, oh God..."
She pulled off with a wet pop, leaving him throbbing and desperate. "Not yet," she said, rising to her feet. "I want you inside me when you come. I want to feel you explode inside me, filling me up with everything you have."
The vines moved, repositioning him, and then she was straddling him, her thighs wrapping around his hips as she guided his cock to her entrance. He felt her heat, her wetness, the impossible tightness of her body as she lowered herself onto him, inch by excruciating inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside her.
"Fuck," he moaned, the word a prayer.
"So tight for me," she said, her voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect. I knew you'd feel this good, little bird. I knew I'd own you the moment I had you inside me."
She began to move, riding him with slow, deliberate strokes that made every nerve in his body scream. The vines held him in place, forcing him to take her, to feel every inch of her as she rose and fell on his aching cock. She was exactly what he needed, and he was coming apart inside her.
"Say my name," she demanded, her hips grinding against him, his balls slapping against her ass. "Say it."
"Ivy," he gasped. "Ivy, Ivy, Ivy..."
"Good boy." She leaned down to kiss him, her tongue forcing its way into his mouth, and Nightwing felt the last shred of his resistance dissolve. He kissed her back with desperate abandon, his tongue tangled with hers, his body thrusting up to meet her movements.
She found his hand and guided it between her thighs, pressing his fingers against her clit. "Touch me," she commanded. "Make me come. I want to come together."
His fingers worked against her slick flesh, circling her clit with increasing urgency, and she cried out against his mouth, her body shuddering with pleasure. She moved faster, harder, her nails raking down his chest and leaving welts in their wake, and Nightwing felt himself hurtling toward the edge once more.
"Come with me," she breathed against his lips. "Come inside me, little bird. Fill me up. Show me what a good boy you are."
His control shattered completely. Hot, thick bursts of his release shot into her, pulsing and spilling as she rode him through his climax. Her eyes rolled back as waves of sensation crashed through her, her cunt clenching tight around his length while she came with a scream that filled the greenhouse.
The world went white, then black, then white again.
When Nightwing came back to himself, he was lying on a bed of soft moss, his body limp and trembling, his mind still fogged with pleasure. She was lying beside him, propped on one elbow, studying him with a satisfied smile.
"Are you ready to accept what you are?"
Nightwing looked up at her, and inside him, something shifted permanently. The fight drained away. The resistance crumbled. And when he finally spoke, his voice was steady and sure and utterly hers.
"Yes," he said. "I'm yours."