Botanical Ruin
$ log - while tending to your darling plants, you’ve caught a bat in your trap. bruce wayne isn’t dumb; he knows exactly what game you’re playing. he knows he has to comply just to survive. whether that’s fortunate or unfortunate is entirely up to how good that muscled frame feels grinding desperately against you! $ warn --nsfw --gn!reader --dom!reader --poison-ivy!reader --sub!bruce --dubcon --bondage --begging --sexual-tension --heated-makeout-sess --dry-humping --thigh-grinding --teasing $ wc -w 3.1k $ cd masterlist $ echo “need to fuck him in the suit with the cowl showing his stubble, i fear” > authors-note.txt
The Gotham skyline was a jagged silhouette of steel and smog, the perfect playground for a shadow. Bruce glided silently, the wind whistling softly against his cape as he scanned the rooftops for any sign of movement. He was a predator in his element, focused, disciplined, and entirely unaware of the trap set below.
Deep in the verdant shadows of a rooftop greenhouse, you sat amidst a sea of emerald leaves, humming a low, melodic tune. You weren't looking for a hero; you were simply tending to your favourites.
"Grow, my darlings," you whispered, your fingers grazing a thick, serrated burdock plant. "Show them how hungry you are."
Suddenly, the air shifted. A heavy, rhythmic beat of wings cut through the silence. A large, dark shape descended from the sky, aiming for a perch just above your botanical garden.
Snap.
The burdock plants lunged. Thick, serrated vines lashed out with predatory speed, snagging the edges of his cape and wrapping tightly around his armoured limbs. With a heavy, metallic thud, the Dark Knight was yanked from the air, slammed unceremoniously into the soft, damp earth of your greenhouse.
He let out a sharp, muffled grunt of surprise, his cape tangling around him like a shroud as the burdock tightened its grip. The plant's hooked thorns dug into the seams of his suit, anchoring him firmly to the floor.
You leaned forward, resting your chin on a hand as you watched the struggle. A slow, wicked smirk spread across your lips.
"Well, well," you purred, your eyes dancing with amusement. "I was just looking for a little snack, but it seems a much larger prize has flown right into my lap."
Bruce strained against the vines, his muscles bunching under the Kevlar as he tried to find a leverage point against the unyielding grip of the burdock. The more he fought, the more the hooked thorns snagged into the fabric of his suit, pinning him even more securely to the greenhouse floor. His breathing was heavy, a controlled but audible rasp behind the cowl as he assessed the situation.
"Ivy," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated through the humid air. He didn't look surprised he looked annoyed, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto yours. "This wasn't part of the night's agenda."
"Oh, but it's the best part of it," you countered, rising from your seat and sauntering toward him with a predatory grace. You stood over him, the moonlight filtering through the glass panes above to cast long, leafy shadows across his broad shoulders. "You're always so busy saving the city, little bat. Don't you think you deserve a moment to just... be caught?"
He didn't answer immediately, his jaw set tight beneath the cowl as he tested the strength of the burdock.
The vines were stubborn, their hooked edges biting into his armour with every movement, making it clear that the more he struggled, the more the plant would claim him. He looked up at you, his gaze intense and unyielding, even in his predicament.
"You're playing with things you can't control, Ivy," he warned, though the slight strain in his voice betrayed the physical effort of holding his position. "The plant is aggressive. It doesn't just hold; it consumes."
You let out a soft, melodic laugh, stepping closer until the hem of your leafy attire brushed against his chest. You could feel the heat radiating from him, a stark contrast to the cool, damp air of the greenhouse.
"Oh, but that's the fun of it, isn't it?" you teased, leaning down so your face was inches from his. "A little bit of consumption is exactly what a stiff, brooding man like you needs to loosen up."
He let out a low, frustrated huff, his eyes tracking your every movement. He was calculating, his mind clearly working through a dozen different escape routes, but the burdock was proving to be a nightmare. Every time he tried to flex a muscle to snap a vine, the hooked barbs dug deeper into the gaps of his plating, forcing him to settle into a tense, rigid stillness.
"You're using the burdock," he noted, his voice dropping an octave, more a statement than a question. "It's more aggressive than your usual vines. It's designed to latch and hold, not just entangle."
"Sharp as ever," you hummed, reaching out to trace a gloved finger along the line of his jaw, just where the cowl met the skin. "It's a much more intimate way of holding onto someone — don't you think?"
You leaned in closer, the scent of damp earth and exotic nectar swirling between you.
"Intimate? It's a trap, Ivy," Batman countered, though his voice lacked its usual iron clad certainty. He was staring up at you, his eyes tracking the way your lips curled into that devastating, knowing smile. He could feel the thorns pressing into the soft joints of his armour, a constant, stinging reminder of his helplessness. "And these plants — they're not holding me — they're feeding off the heat."
"Let them," you whispered, your breath ghosting over his lips. "A little heat is exactly what a cold night needs."
You leaned in even closer, the distance between you vanishing until the tip of your nose brushed against the edge of his cowl.
The burdock vines seemed to sense your intent, pulsing with a rhythmic, almost heartbeat like motion as they tightened their serrated grip around his torso, pinning his massive arms to his sides and forcing his chest to heave against the greenery. He was a prisoner of your garden, a dark god brought low by a handful of hungry weeds.
Bruce’s mind was racing, a frantic calculation of torque, vine thickness, and toxin levels. He knew the burdock was a psychological one.
The plant was designed to irritate, to prick, to keep the prey in a state of constant, stinging awareness. It was a distraction technique, a way to wear down his legendary focus until his senses were too frayed to fight back. He could feel the microscopic barbs catching on the seams of his utility belt, the serrated edges of the leaves scraping against his neck.
It was a tactical nightmare.
He knew exactly what you were doing. You were waiting for the moment his iron will began to crack under the pressure of the thorns and the overwhelming scent of your pheromones.
"You're being uncharacteristically messy, Ivy," he rumbled, his eyes narrowing as he watched you saunter closer. "The burdock is too aggressive for a simple distraction. You're looking for something more... visceral."
You let out a soft, mocking laugh, the sound vibrating in the humid air between you. You leaned down, effectively trapping him in your personal space.
"Messy? Oh, darling, nature is rarely neat," you purred, your voice dropping to a sultry, teasing velvet. You reached out, trailing a single fingernail along the edge of his jawline, feeling the tension radiating from him. "I find that the more a man struggles, the more he reveals himself. And right now, you're revealing so much tension, Bruce — it’s practically delicious."
He stiffened at the near slip of his name, his eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and something that wasn't quite frustration. He was a man of iron discipline, a creature of logic and shadow, but even he couldn't deny the way your proximity made the air feel heavy and electric.
The burdock seemed to sense his wavering focus, its serrated leaves pressing more firmly against his chest, almost as if the plant itself were leaning in to listen to your whispered taunts.
"Don't call me that," he countered, though the command lacked its usual bite. His breathing was becoming more rhythmic, more deliberate, as he fought to maintain his composure against the onslaught of your scent. "And don't pretend this is just about the plants. You want a reaction. You want to see the me lose myself."
"And wouldn't that be a sight to behold?" you teased, leaning in until your lips were a mere breath away from the edge of his cowl. You could see the slight tremor in his jaw, the way his pupils dilated in the dim, verdant light. He was losing the battle of attrition, his legendary willpower fraying at the edges of your intoxicating aura.
"You're playing with fire, Ivy," he warned, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver down your spine. "Or in this case, something much more primal."
"Oh, darling," you whispered, your lips finally brushing against the edge of his cowl, "it's not fire. It's life. And you look so very… hungry for it."
He didn't pull away. Instead, his head tilted back slightly, exposing the strong, corded line of his throat to the humid air, a silent surrender to the proximity. The burdock vines seemed to respond to the shift in his energy, tightening their serrated grip around his waist and thighs, pulling his heavy body even closer to the earth and closer to you.
"Hungry?" he repeated, the word more of a breath than a sound. His eyes were dark, fixed on yours with a predatory intensity that matched your own. "You have no idea how much of a mistake this is."
"A mistake is just an opportunity in disguise," you whispered, your gaze dropping to his lips. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of crushed greenery and the musk of a man pushed to his limit.
You could see the pulse jumping in his neck, a frantic rhythm that betrayed the stoic mask he tried so hard to maintain.
You pressed your lips against his, and the world outside the greenhouse ceased to exist. Bruce let out a low, guttural sound — a half strangled groan that vibrated deep in his chest. He finally stopped fighting the burdock and started fighting for you.
Because he was bound, he couldn't wrap his arms around you, but he made up for it with the sheer, overwhelming mass of his body.
He keened into you, his larger frame crushing against your softer curves, forcing the air from your lungs in a delicious, suffocating way. Every time he shifted, the burdock tightened, its serrated edges digging into the seams of his suit, creating a punishing friction that only fuelled the fire.
"Ivy," he rasped against your mouth, his voice a wrecked, gravelly shadow of its usual command. It wasn't a warning anymore, it sounded more like a plea.
His lips were frantic, bruising yours as he sought to drink in the intoxicating nectar that coated your skin. The tingly, chemical sweetness on your lips was a drug. It drove him into a hazy, primal state where logic was replaced by pure need.
His mouth broke away from yours, trailing a path of burning heat down the sensitive column of your neck. He nipped at the skin there, his breath coming in ragged, heavy hitches that sent shivers racing down your spine
As he pressed higher, his movements became more unhinged, his head tilting to find the perfect angle to devour you.
The friction between you was becoming unbearable. Even with his limbs held fast by the vines, he was driving his hips into yours in a desperate, dry grind, the heavy plates of his Kevlar pressing relentlessly against your hips. The sensation was heavy, unyielding, and maddeningly close to total release. You could feel the heat of him through the layers of fabric, a rhythmic, driving force that demanded more than just a kiss.
Your hands were everywhere, roaming over the hard, sculpted landscape of his chest, your fingers digging into the dense muscle of his shoulders as if trying to anchor yourself against the storm of sensation he was creating. You let out a soft, teasing moan against his ear, your teeth grazing the lobe.
"Is the big, bad Bat losing his focus?" you whispered, your voice a sultry, melodic taunt that cut through his haze. "You're shaking, Bruce. Is it the vines — or is it me?"
"Both," he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He bucked his hips upward, a desperate, uncoordinated movement that forced a sharp gasp from your lips.
He was no longer a strategist or a hero; he was a man caught in the crosshairs of a botanical storm, drowning in the scent of your skin and the relentless, heavy pressure of his own desire.
Every time his hips collided with yours, the friction of the Kevlar and the coarse leaves of the burdock sent a jolt of pure, electric heat through his spine, making his breath hitch in a way that was dangerously close to a moan.
He was completely, utterly undone by you.
The friction was maddening. Bruce was grinding his coarse armoured pelvis into yours with a desperate, uncoordinated rhythm.
The hard plates of his suit scraped against your thighs, creating a dry, punishing heat that made your core ache. Every time he bucked his hips upward, the burdock vines tightened, the serrated leaves digging into his waist and forcing his massive frame even harder into your soft curves.
"Please," he choked out, his voice a wrecked, gravelly mess. He wasn't asking for release from the plants; he was begging for the sensation to intensify.
His mouth was a fever on your skin. He tore away from your lips to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone with a primal hunger. He was breathing like a man who had just run a marathon, his hot, ragged exhales scorching your skin.
You reached up down to his chest, your palms sliding over the hard, unyielding Kevlar to find the heat radiating from his pectoral muscles. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, heavy thudding that matched the desperate rhythm of his hips.
He was so close, his entire body taut as a bowstring, vibrating with the sheer force of the tension building between you.
"You're so tense, Bruce," you whispered, your voice a low, sultry vibration against his ear as you arched your back, pressing your breasts more firmly against his armoured chest. "Is it the burdock, or is it just how much you want to break free?"
He didn't answer with words.
Instead, he let out a sharp, jagged groan, his hips slamming upward in a heavy, punishing thrust that forced a gasp from your lungs. The friction of his thick thighs grinding against yours was electric, a dry and relentless pressure that made your vision swim.
The peak was agonising.
Bruce was a man of iron discipline, but you had stripped him down to nothing but raw, pulsing nerve endings. His hips were grinding into yours with a frantic, uncoordinated violence, the heavy plates of his armour pushing up against you in a dry, relentless friction that made your head spin. He was right there, on the razor's edge of a total, mindless collapse.
"Ivy, enough," he gasped, though his body was doing the exact opposite of pulling away. His voice was a wrecked, gravelly ruin, stripped of all the Batman's authority. He was staring up at you, his eyes blown wide and dark, glazed with a heavy, intoxicated haze from your nectar. "I have to — Gotham — the city —"
He was trying to summon the hero, trying to find the logic to pull himself out of the sensory overload, but it was a losing battle.
The burdock vines seemed to sense his waning strength as if to mock him, tightening their serrated grip around his waist and thighs, pulling his massive, trembling frame even more flush against your body. The more he struggled to reclaim his dignity, the more the burdock punished him, its hooked barbs snagging into his suit and driving his hips into a final, desperate grind against yours.
"You're not going anywhere yet, little bat," you whispered, leaning down to catch his final, ragged breath with your lips. "You haven't even finished your lesson."
He let out a long, shuddering groan, his head falling back against the damp earth as his eyes fluttered shut.
For a moment, the Dark Knight was gone, replaced by a man completely undone by the friction of his armour, the sting of the vines, and the intoxicating heat of your skin. He was a mess of heavy breathing and unfulfilled promises, his body still twitching with the phantom sensation of your touch.
With a sudden, explosive burst of sheer willpower, he surged against the vines. It wasn't a graceful escape, but a raw burst of strength that tore through the burdock's hold.
He didn't snap the vines so much as he forced his way through them, the serrated leaves scraping harshly against his suit as he scrambled to his feet.
Bruce was clumsy, his movements uncharacteristically heavy and uncoordinated, his legendary grace replaced by the staggering gait of a man drugged by pleasure and pheromones.
He stumbled toward the edge of the greenhouse, his boots catching on the damp earth. He leaned heavily against the glass frame, his breath coming in shallow, uneven hitches. He turned back to look at you, his cowl slightly askew, his eyes still clouded with that dark, intoxicating haze.
"Don't — don't think this is over," he murmured, the words barely a breath, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim some semblance of control.
He looked like he wanted to say a thousand more things, to stay, to finish what you had started, but the duty of the Bat was pulling at him even harder. He lingered for a heartbeat, his gaze tracing the curve of your lips as if trying to memorise the taste of your nectar one last time.
Then, with a sudden lurch, he fired his grapple gun.
The line hissed through the humid air, catching a structural beam above the greenhouse. He swung upward, but the movement was far from his usual surgical precision. He swayed precariously, his body lurching as if he were still caught in the rhythmic, heavy grind of the burdock.
He looked less like a soaring shadow and more like a man trying to navigate a dream, his cape fluttering erratically behind him.
As Bruce ascended toward the moon, silhouetted against the dark Gotham sky, he seemed to stagger in mid air, a dazed and disoriented figure. He vanished into the night, leaving only the lingering scent of jasmine and the memory of his desperate, gravelly pleas hanging in the heavy, verdant air.
He was gone, but the way his eyes had lingered on you told you everything: the Bat had been thoroughly, beautifully conquered.
$ tag @twentytomidnight @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger
$ cd masterlist
