Chapter 3: The Dark Knight's Demise
The chamber had become a world unto itself, sealed and suffocating and utterly divorced from the Gotham skyline that glittered somewhere beyond the glass. The pitcher plant pulsed with a slow, rhythmic contraction, its veined walls glowing faintly from within, and the muffled sounds that had once been Batman's struggles had faded to something barely perceptible—a wet, gurgling whisper that might have been a moan or might have been the plant digesting its meal.
Nightwing's hands were still clamped around Ivy's hips, his body pinned beneath hers, his cock still buried inside her. He could feel her heat surrounding him, the slick grip of her cunt clenching and releasing in a rhythm that matched the pulse of the plant. She sat astride him facing away, her back arched, her head thrown back, and she watched the pitcher plant with the satisfied gaze of a cat watching a bird die in its jaws.
"He's almost done," she murmured, her voice thick with pleasure. "I can feel him weakening. The toxins are in his bloodstream now, flooding his brain, shutting down his higher functions." She rolled her hips, grinding against him, and Nightwing gasped. "He's just an animal now. A trapped, drowning animal."
Nightwing's mind was a fog of sensation. He could hear her words, understand them on some level, but they seemed to come from very far away, filtered through layers of moss and silk and the pounding of his own blood in his ears. His body moved of its own accord, thrusting up into her with a desperate, instinctual need, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of her waist.
He looked past her, at the plant, at the shape he could barely discern within its translucent walls. Batman was in there. Batman was dying. And Nightwing was fucking his captor, reveling in the wet heat of her cunt, feeling more alive than he had in years.
"Look at him," Ivy commanded, reaching back to grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head up. "Look at your mentor. Your father figure. The man who raised you, trained you, loved you." She laughed, low and filthy. "He's writhing in there like a worm on a hook. And you're inside me, your dick buried in my pussy, moaning like a whore."
The words should have shattered something. Should have broken through the haze and filled him with horror and shame and rage. Instead, they ignited something else—a dark thrill that curled through his gut like smoke, a twisted pleasure at the depravity of it all.
He thrust up harder, driving himself deeper, and Ivy let out a sharp cry of approval.
"That's it," she breathed, her fingers tightening in his hair. "Fuck me like you mean it. Fuck me like you've forgotten his name."
"I don't..." Nightwing's voice was barely a whisper, cracked and raw. "I don't remember..."
"Good," she purred. "You don't need to remember. All you need to remember is the feel of my cunt around your cock. The taste of my skin on your tongue. The sound of my voice when I tell you to come."
She began to move in earnest then, rising and falling on him with a rhythm that was primal and relentless. Her ass slapped against his thighs, the sound wet and obscene in the silent chamber, and her inner walls gripped him like a fist, milking him with every stroke.
Nightwing's hands slid up her body, finding her breasts, cupping the heavy weight of them. Her nipples were hard, pebbled, and he rolled them between his fingers, earning a shuddering moan from her lips.
"Yes," she hissed. "Touch me. Feel how wet I am for you, how ready I am to take everything you have."
She reached down, spreading her folds with her fingers, showing him the slick, glistening evidence of her arousal. He could see himself inside her, the thick length of his cock sliding in and out of her pussy, coated in her juices.
"Fuck," he gasped, the word torn from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Language, little bird," she taunted, but her voice was breathless, strained. "You'll have plenty of time to use that filthy mouth of yours later."
The pitcher plant shuddered, and a low, keening moan escaped its fleshy walls. Batman was still alive, barely, but the sound was weakening, growing more distant with each passing moment.
Ivy slowed her pace, grinding against him in slow, torturous circles. "Do you hear that?" she whispered, her voice full of dark delight. "That's the sound of your old life dying. The sound of the Bat taking his last breaths while you're buried inside me."
Nightwing tried to focus on the plant, tried to cling to some shred of the man he had been. But all he could see was Ivy's body, all he could feel was the impossibly tight, wet heat of her cunt, all he could hear was the filthy litany of her voice in his ears.
"I was so good to you," she continued, reaching back to run her fingers through his hair, soothing and possessive. "I could have killed you, you know. When you came through my greenhouse, I could have had my vines strip the flesh from your bones. But I saw something in you, little bird. Something worth keeping."
Her pace quickened again, harder, faster, and Nightwing's hands dropped to her hips, guiding her movements, meeting her thrust for thrust.
"You're mine now," she said, the words coming out in a breathless rush. "You're my pet, my plaything, my perfect little whore. And when he's gone, when the Bat is nothing but a memory, you'll still be here. You'll still be inside me. You'll still be begging for more."
The pitcher plant went still.
The silence was sudden and complete, broken only by the wet, rhythmic sound of their fucking and the soft huff of their breathing.
"Did he just—" Nightwing started, but Ivy cut him off with a sharp laugh.
"He did," she said, her voice thick with triumph. "He's gone. The Bat is dead, and you, my darling, are finally free."
A sob escaped Nightwing's throat, but it was not a sob of grief. It was a sob of release, of relief, of a weight he hadn't known he was carrying finally lifting from his shoulders.
"Come for me," Ivy commanded, her hips moving faster, harder, driving him toward the edge. "Come inside me, fill me up, let me feel you lose yourself completely."
"Ivy," he gasped, her name a prayer on his lips. "Ivy, I'm—"
"Say it," she demanded. "Scream it. Let the whole world hear who you belong to."
"I'm yours!" he cried, the words torn from him as his orgasm crashed over him like a wave. "I'm yours, Ivy, I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
His release was violent, overwhelming, his cock pulsing deep inside her as he emptied himself into her waiting cunt. She rode him through it, milking him dry, her own body convulsing around him as she came with a scream that echoed through the chamber.
"Fuck," she breathed, collapsing back against his chest, her body slick with sweat. "Oh, that was perfect."
Nightwing's arms wrapped around her, holding her close, his face pressed against her neck. He could feel her heartbeat, strong and steady, and his own, gradually slowing to match hers.
"Ivy," he whispered, the name tasting like honey on his tongue.
She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "Yes, my darling?"
"I love you."
The words came out unbidden, raw and honest, and Ivy's smile was slow and satisfied.
"I know," she said softly. "I know you do."
She disentangled herself from him, rising from his lap with a wet, obscene sound, and he watched her walk to the pitcher plant, her naked body glowing in the bioluminescent light. She pressed her hand against its veined wall, and for a moment, she seemed to be listening.
"He's still alive," she said, and Nightwing felt a jolt of something—shock, or perhaps disappointment. "Barely. But his mind is gone, lost in a sea of my toxins. He'll be a vegetable for weeks, maybe months."
"What are you going to do with him?"
Ivy turned to look at him, her eyes glittering in the dark. "That depends on you, little bird. I told you before, didn't I? The choice of whether he lives or dies belongs to you."
Nightwing rose from the moss, his legs unsteady, and crossed to stand beside her. He looked at the plant, at the faint, barely perceptible shape of the man inside, and felt nothing but a vague, distant curiosity.
"Keep him alive," he said, surprising himself with the words. "For now. I want him to see what I've become."
Ivy's smile was radiant, cruel, and proud. "Oh, little bird," she purred, reaching out to cup his face in her hands. "You're learning so well."
She kissed him, slow and deep, her tongue sliding against his, tasting of flowers and poison and something darker.
Behind them, the pitcher plant pulsed, and a faint, muffled moan echoed from within.
The Bat was still alive.
And the night was only beginning.