Takes place during the Earth to Earth arc from Swampthing.
Description: Sort of a Swampthing/JL cross. Sortof. While Swampy trashes Gotham, Ivy feels left out and small and hey, look Flash. Drabble of a PWP. And yes, the Swamp Thing's sweet potatoes really are the hallucinogenic stuff.
Rating: Well, I’m not that euphemistic, so R, I guess.
Standard: I don’t own Ivy. I don’t own Flash. I don’t even own some Louisiana swamp to sell you.
“What Terrible Hand Framed”
“To the East is Bryanttown where the slums lean against each other for support, old and consumptive, and children grow like sick dandelions amongst the rubble. This is where the city breeds its rats.”
The highway overpass clover leaf curls over a gray tenement. A flaking cement box shaped building that is bleeding emerald.
Bryanttown is burning with orchids. Flaming with tomatoes and primrose. A lace curtain of reaching green grows over the shoulders of the overpass. Gives the consumptive old Bryant a bran new frond coat. The chill October air is rich with growing things and buzzing insects and dusky fragrance.
Poison Ivy sits on an overturned Chevy. There is a laden plum tree yearning through the passenger window. It was not there ten minutes ago. She sits and kicks her bare feet. She almost can’t hear the metal through its clover blanket.
Naked children run by. “Tee, he, he.” Children are so cute if you can’t hear what they are saying. Their faces are wet with purple. Zinfandel vines twine and softly slide through short young moss on a US Postal box. That mail will not be going through.
Poison Ivy kicks her heals on the solid steel of made in USA car and clover and daisies and watches green spread.
A nude young couple walks by hand in hand, head on shoulder, murmuring paradise somethings. Even the escaped tiger from the Coventry zoo, slinking its way between sidewalk green grass and asphalt cracking banyans, does not amuse her.
This was supposed to be her orgy, but ten minutes ago like skeletal thunder, like a giant Eryl king, a redwood walked down the street looking for his wife.
It’s like doing card tricks at a god’s party. A god that doesn’t even notice you when it lets go of its tree body and falls to earth. To the green, green Gotham earth.
Gotham that was brown and black and grey and stinking yesterday.
A blurring red wind, Flash, “Hey, did you see a tiger go this way?”
Ivy waves green gloved hands, “This wasn’t me. Not that I wouldn’t, but…”
“Yeah, I know. It’s a thing from the swamp. Did you see a tiger?”
Ivy points towards the banyan Spanish moss gloom. Flash looks at her, looks at her again, “I’ll be right back.” Red breeze ruffles the golden wheat grass. Ivy thinks that she can see corn growing out of that Honda.
“Didja miss me?” Flash is leaning against the car. His red suit and the carpeting green don’t even remotely make her think of Christmas. She eyes his strutting young man’s chest. Well, maybe just a little. Spandex is a privilege, not a right, and on Flash it is a well earned privilege. She leans forward to give that young firm mouth a green kiss and he’s leaning against the Postal box and shaking his finger at her.
“Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying?” she says and goes back to kicking the car, “So, shouldn’t you be dealing with some swamp menace?”
“Nah, Bats has it under control. And that was the last zoo convict. So, mocha…woah! Is that even physically possible?”
Ivy glances over at Harley and the tangle of young legs and arms and sweet potato mush under the news stand camellias. Sighs. This was supposed to be her orgy.
“Yes. Flexible. Possible. Started without me.” Harley is giggling something lights and the Gordian mass sighs. “I was planning on a bold move against a pesticide company, but it’s sprouted daffodils.”
Flash pats Ivy’s shoulder. There, there. There, there. Green eyes narrow. A tender ivy vine firms and furls round and Flash, like a man, is caught. Now then.
She leans in for that kiss and, like a man, he points at the sweet potato growing on her Chevy. She considers, picks it up, takes a crisp clean bite of firm white clean and sees the lights of his breath. Leans in and exhales green gold dust from her mouth floating like tiny champagne into his inhale.
The sticky juice of the sweet root slowly slides down her chin. Like a quickening, he licks it before it trembling falls. She watches his finger lights glowing glide down her arms. Peeling free opera long gloves made of light and leaves and his fingers on her bark, glowing. Leaving red purple trails in the green. The ivy lets go.
Marvelous gloved hands on bare skin in the cool afternoon. Warm.
She leans back on the curving of the car. It is hard. It is soft. He leans with her and he is hers to do with as she will.
Runs hands up hidden red ribs and muscles and shuddering sigh. Locks lips and darting flickering tongues honeysuckle ambrosia. Wills him and he trails down. Peels her breasts from that one piece suit of leaf and light and suckles tender prickling soft.
She long slow breathes in the narcissus growing from the side mirror. Breathes out quick sharp teeth grazing her green.
She reaches. Grabs. He has too many clothes on.
Runs hands over and around and over and can’t wrap her brilliant psychedelic brain over where are the fastenings. Wills and quick as a wriggle, he’s bare and open and covered in her exhaling golden dust. Except for the mask, because of course, masks and bare skin. Yes.
She looks down and notices that he has red hair and then he’s trailing down her firm green stomach. Trailing fire and fair.
Some part of her is very far away and watching. Watching Harley in the ivory camellias. Watching the young lovers in the wheat grass, as giggling drunk children run by, “Te, he, he.” Watching her green self and her red hero lick, bite, twine.
Some part of her is watching. Some part of her is all skin and plant animal nerves draped across primordial moss auto un-mobile. Long clever fingers banana peeling her pale into the chill afternoon. Everything is chaining glow. Sweet potato tuber tumescent.
She giggles and that isn’t like her and some part of her is naked and soft red moss parts to darting vine slide. His tongue is very quick. Light. Flickering firefly touch. Burning orchid. Swelling exhale. Long melting roles and squeeze and he says, “Hey my turn.”
And he slides up her. Her pollen on his skin rolling red and gold and plums sweat skim. The car under her back is perfect. Round and hard and soft and green fur and shivering flowers and fruit. And the man on her front is nibble nimble and rolling. He wants some car too.
Holding her up and over and down. This is her ride. Her nectar plant orgy. Giggling lovers and burning tigers and night and lambs and she takes him in her hand. In hand. Squeezes. Moves up and over and down. Pricks herself with swelling pricking thorning movement.
Opens like a flower. Like a rose. Like a hanging garden in Gotham. Her long red hair falls forward like a burning weeping willow. Breezing to her movements and sway.
Closes like a hand. Like Venus. Milking. Moving. Like the green, green earth.
And they kiss. Sweet apricot peaches and tongues and hands. Trailing lights. Her eyes are closed, but she sees his hands holding her round hips. Counting her ribs and hammering rhythm heart. His hammering rhythm heart. Hammer up and in and hard and cries. And Harley’s crying. And the lovers are crying. And her flashing boy is crying. And growling tiger is moaning fire burning bright in the forests of Gotham Eden.
Clenching, rolling internal holds and consumes up and in and they breathe out and then she is complete.
She rolls off him.
The car is hard and soft and spine perfect. Their breathing slows. The light fades and the world is merely paradise.
“Wow, that was…wow.” He stretches his young muscled body and turns to face her. Masked. Naked. “You know I can metabolize anything you throw at me.” he says.
She hands him a sweet potato. He considers it and takes a takes a crisp clean bite of firm white clean and sees forests in her eyes.