The air in the Clocktower’s simulation room buzzed with tension, metallic and tight, as if it knew a storm was about to hit. Dinah Lance moved across the space with a dangerous elegance, her fists a blur, her body flowing between strikes and counters that demanded respect. Each step was calculated, each pivot a lesson in lethal precision, but there was an underlying chaos in her style—a feral energy that made every encounter unpredictable.

You braced yourself as she lunged, sidestepping your jab and twisting your arm in a practiced motion that had you staggering. Her grin was wicked, teeth flashing in the light as she circled you, like a predator savoring the chase. This wasn’t just training. It was ritual, adrenaline and sweat blending into something electric. Every takedown, every grapple, felt like a test of endurance and will.

You charged again, muscles coiled and ready, heart hammering. Dinah’s eyes sparkled with mischief, sharp and calculating, and she swatted aside your defense with a movement that was almost playful, almost casual. Yet the force behind it was anything but.

“Not bad,” she purred, voice low and teasing. “But you’re gonna have to do better.”

The words were a challenge, and you responded instinctively, pushing back with everything you had. The room became a blur of motion: your legs entangling, your arms twisting, both of you falling into the floor in a tangle of bodies and laughter that had nothing to do with joking. Dinah’s breath came hard, chest heaving, and she pressed her knee lightly against your side to pin you. Her hands hovered over yours, a playful claim, muscles trembling from exertion but not letting go.

“Thought you had me there?” she teased, leaning close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from her skin, the sweat glistening along her brow and temples. The proximity was dizzying, the air charged with intensity beyond sparring.

You tried to recover, rolling away and feinting another attack, testing her reflexes. Dinah’s laugh rang out, sharp, wild, intoxicating. She shifted, barely a blur, and your momentum was met with force and precision that made you stumble again. Each contact was heavy with unspoken communication, a rhythm of give and take, challenge and respect.

“You’re learning,” she said, voice dark and teasing, hovering just above a growl. “But I’m not going easy. Not now, not ever.” Her fingers brushed against yours as she adjusted your grip, eyes locking with yours. There was hunger there—raw, untamed. The kind that had driven her from childhood, shaped her through years of training, and now burned in every calculated move, every taunt.

You lunged once more, meeting her strength with your own, a collision that left both of you breathing hard, limbs trembling from exertion and exhilaration. Dinah’s grin split her face, wild and infectious, as she pressed her lips on your shoulder, holding you in place, her body quivering with effort and thrill.

“Get up, babe." she rasped, voice low, eyes gleaming, “We're not done yet.”

And in that moment, tangled in sweat and motion, the adrenaline and ferocity of Dinah Lance—the Black Canary—made every moment feel sacred. Each strike, each counter, each smirk and growl wasn’t just sparring. It was worship, devotion, and a dangerous, intoxicating hunger that neither of you could deny.