Taen in the Night

The next few weeks went on with compromised peace. Barbara went about her daily and nightly routines with the lack of drama she would've expected of losing her virginity. Before it'd actually happened and proven so overwhelming that she dreamed of it every time she slept. When she did sleep.

Batman was curt with her when they spoke, which was as rare as her sleeping. They always stuck to the topic of the mission. Never their personal lives. It was reassuring, in its own way, that he'd been so affected by what they'd done. Her worst nightmare would have him treating her the same as ever, like nothing had happened.

Barbara's relationship with Dick, once taken off life support, died and decayed in rapid order, any negative feelings consumed by nature's processes, becoming just another wistful ache in her young life. She noticed that Robin—or Nightwing, now—was standing closer to Starfire when the Titans made the news. She was getting paranoid in her old age.

And to some very Germanic satisfaction on Barbara's part, Batman brought Catwoman in. It was only a matter of time before she broke out of Blackgate, but for now, she'd have to strike those ridiculous poses of her in an orange jumpsuit.

After two months of radio silence, she thought the two of them were ignoring the whole thing and it was almost okay with her. She was a little pensive, wishing he'd actually returned whatever feelings she had for him. It made her enough of a tightass to

realize

how much of a tightass she was.

Then she got an invitation to Bruce Wayne's penthouse. Engraved and everything.

She knew

of

Wayne more than she knew him. As the daughter of the police commissioner and the on-again off-again of Bruce Wayne's ward, she'd swam in his circles, but always in the shallow end. So the invitation was a surprise, but not much of one. She was more intrigued than anything else. The letter said it was in regards to a personal matter, and she couldn't think of anything personal she had with Wayne, not with Dick out of her life.

Still, he was good-looking, for an older man, and she was curious. Insatiably curious. She RSVPed positively and went looking for a proper dress. She ended up having to buy one. Cushnie Et Ochs's black block dress, peplum and crew-neck. Youthful in its exuberance with the cute little ruffles, but still restrained, tempting. The strapless neckline and her push-up bra, along with platform pumps by Giuseppe Zanotti, gave her an air of sexuality she herself didn't quite know what to do with. She couldn't even kick with her high heels. But like the costume she left in the trunk of her car, she felt good having 'this' in her back pocket, so to speak.

Funny: she'd never used to wear black. As if that would make her recognizable as Batgirl. More like, she wanted a separation between Barbara Gordon and Batgirl. It didn't seem to matter as much now.

The penthouse was as she'd remembered it from her previous visit a year ago, when Dick had briefly brought her home to meet his so-called father. Then, Wayne had seemed overly distracted and a bit of a cad, greeting her overenthusiastically before being called away on an urgent phone call. He'd also given Dick a few winks; Barbara was sure she had no idea what he was insinuating. All in all, he'd seemed the model idiot—not the man behind the obvious business savvy of Wayne Enterprises. She'd concluded he was at least smart enough to stay out of the real businessmen's way.

Now she took the security wanding, went up the elevator with the doorman in red, and was admitted into the penthouse's foyer for Alfred to take her coat. As ever, he seemed unaging and indomitable, a constant in the way that men of a certain age seemed to be. He greeted her as warmly as if she were an old friend of the family instead of simply the latest in a series of Grayson's paramours, and directed her to the library.

It was a refined but sweetly unpretentious room; bespoke with shelves of contrasting red gloss and matt lacquer. The shelves bordered the one and only door as well as continuing on down the flanks of the room; they did not encompass the floor-to-ceiling windows, which were arrayed with a sparse collection of desks, tables, and assorted lounging furniture colored in dark neutrals to compliment the deep red of the book shelves and the view of the city at evening. Unlike many cityscapes, Gotham didn't go in for flashing advertisements, behemoth skyscrapers of gormless glass and chrome, or other eyesores. From this high up, it was beautiful—arteries of red and white car lights flowing along the unlit streets, between the gothic architecture that had lingered into the 21

st

century.

Bruce Wayne sat cross-legged in a Barcelona chair, dressed in a simple black turtleneck and gray slacks. Seeing her, he turned away from the view and rose—sinking fine leather penny loafers into the carpet. "Miss Gordon," he said with a very controlled nod. He didn't seem at all like the thick-witted playboy she'd met previously. Maybe he'd been drunk then. "Thank you, Alfred, that will be all."

"Very good, sir," Alfred said, with so little reaction that he might've been going off a script. "Ring if you need anything."

He left. The door closed behind him. Barbara was now alone with Bruce Wayne.

Barbara crossed her arms; not tightly, but rubbing at her elbows in nervousness. "Is this about Dick?"

"No, Miss Gordon. It doesn't concern him at all."

"Ah." Relieved, Barbara looked around. Bruce boasted an eclectic taste in literature. She'd love to spend a lazy weekend in this one room, if she ever had a lazy weekend. "Then what's this about? No offense, but we're not exactly friends, and I don't usually hang out with people who aren't my friends."

"Barbara—" And her name, on his tongue, sounded so different than the formal

Miss Gordon.

It was loaded, charged. Explosive. "It's me."

He looked different now. Totally different. Like in the space of a blinking eye, he'd been replaced by an identical twin. He stood differently, he looked at her differently, hell, she would've believed he breathed out a different air. He exuded a new energy, one that penetrated her body, stirring sense-memories and new feelings. Batman. She was in the same room as Batman. And compared to the usual attire, they were virtually naked.

"You—" She felt like screaming. But she kept her voice down to a simple roar. "You

unbelievable asshole!"

He stood there, staring, paralyzed in this new form he'd chosen. Finally, she'd surprised him.

"You're practically Dick's father and you—you let him date me—you let me date

him—

you

fucked me, JESUS CHRIST!"

"Calm down," he said, like he could give her orders.

"What the

FUCK?

Why should I calm down? You're—you're like a crazy person! Did you know? Did he know? Who the hell knew

anything

?"

His voice raised only a little, but it was enough to make her body quake; not an entirely disagreeable experience. "

Sit down.

"

She marched over to one of his very nice chairs and jammed her ass into it, staring up at him challengingly. With an air of resignation, he shifted another chair and sat down across from her.

"Dick is Robin," he said briskly.

"No shit!"

He eyed her and she knew she had to let him finish. "He didn't know you were Batgirl. You didn't know he was Robin. It was entirely a coincidence that the two of you entered into a relationship—as much a coincidence as it can be, two physically attractive people of the same age, with similar interests, in the same location, forming a relationship."

She still asked: "Did you have anything to do with that?"

"No. But, to be perfectly honest, I did suspect your true identity. I encouraged the relationship because I thought it would be good for you to develop a healthy bond. I thought he would've told you the secret himself. I'm sorry if any of that got in the way of your happiness."

"Our happiness," she repeated in disbelief. "What do you think

you fucking me

did to our happiness?"

"When Dick didn't tell you after so long, I realized he wasn't going to tell you. At least, that's how I justified it to myself. At the time. The rest was—simply a lack of control on my part. I apologize."

"

You

apologize?"

There was an antique drink cart within arm's reach; a three-tiered, double-sided bar cart, lacquered and possessing a brass gallery. He availed himself of the glassware and wine on it, pouring for both himself and Barbara.

"I told Dick myself, once the situation had—settled. I don't blame you for not telling him. It was my responsibility. As the older party, I should've been the one to keep things from getting out of hand." He pushed a wineglass across the top of the cart to her. "He didn't take it well."

"First I've heard of it."

"He doesn't blame you, obviously. He just doesn't forgive you either. Attacking you over it would be just as painful to him as the incident itself."

"Jesus, could you stop talking like a Wikipedia article? You fucked me. You fucked your son's girlfriend—"

"You let me."

"So?"

"You wanted me to,"

"What does that have to do—"

"I want to do it again."

Barbara picked up the wineglass. She drained it in one go. It didn't quell the buzz she started to feel, between her legs, where she'd crossed her thighs, inside her bra—Jesus, how could he be thinking of it too?

"I think you'd better walk me through this one more time," she said, setting the glass back down.

"We're complicated people, Barbara." He took his own wineglass but didn't drink. "I don't think other people are... likely to comprehend us. But we also have needs. Not sex, not entirely. But understanding. Companionship. I think it's been as hard for you to find as for me." He drank. It took a moment. "Where are we going to get that except with each other?"

"With—with people!" Barbara ran her hand through her hair, popping it out of its neatly styled locks. "Dick understood me just fine. And everyone who's been in a supermarket check-out line knows about you and your companionship."

"They're not like you," he said calmly.

"Don't do that."

"If you didn't feel it, then we have nothing to talk about and you should leave."

Barbara grabbed two thick handfuls of her hair and slowly pulled. "Jesus. Jesus, you really are—you can't just be the most guarded motherfucker in North America then unload this on me all at once. Fuck you,

you cannot tell me love me like that!"

"I don't know if love is the word I'd use."

"No, of course not,

obviously."

She stood. She'd been so poised on her heels before—now she felt like she was a million miles high. "You know, I still feel like a virgin? Just because you get off on me dressing like your Mini-Me..."

"It's you, Barbara. Not the costume. Not your body. The way you see the world."

"If you start in with some goth crap about the darkness within—"

He stood slowly, slowly—like a cat sneaking up on a bird. "Not like

me.

You see the world as it should be,

and

as it is. You try to reconcile them. And that's why you're going to go to the bedroom with me. You're going to change into the clothes I've prepared for you. And we're going to finish what we started on the rooftop."

His eyes told the rest of the story. They were surprisingly sympathetic. They told her it was because he felt what she felt. The part he couldn't talk about. The part of him that lost control, that slipped loose, ran rampant. How good must it have been for him to now know his discipline wouldn't be enough and still ask for it?

It was crazy. He was crazy. Right now, he was walking over to her, taking her by the arm, ushering her gently toward the door—all with the slow cadence of a panther on the prowl. And the only reason she was going along with it was because she needed it. As much as him. Maybe worse. The tepid, lukewarm days before and after him, with their intermittent sparks and their frequent chills, were now blown away by white-hot summer sun. She burned in it. She melted.

He took her through the penthouse—no sign of Alfred—all the refinements of his station, all the art and feng shui and furnishings, it all blurred together. Nothing next to walking beside him with the sun in-between them. At one particular dark oaken door he stopped them; let go of her arm and it instantly felt vacant.

He turned the knob—no, it was one of those Victorian handlesets, God, so pretentious,

fuck him—

and opened the door for her. Inside, his room was simple, spartan, totally free of personality beyond the fact that he was rich and refined enough to buy good taste if he couldn't have it outright. Mahogany paneling, rich carpeting, some scattered landscapes hung on the walls, and thickly curtained windows. The four-poster bed continued the theme. Aside from the dark sheeting, her father could've slept in it. It was all so... bourgeois.

Except the lingerie neatly laid out atop the bedspread.

"Do you want me to give you some privacy?" Bruce asked, only because he expected her to say yes.

She nodded, even if it meant admitting he knew her well enough to guess at that. He stepped back outside, closing the door behind him. And she stripped. She stripped for him, even if he wasn't in the room, and she hid her clothes like they were something shameful. Then she put on the lingerie.

It was a black lace ensemble, and he'd thought of everything. She knew it was hers to wear or discard as she wished; he wasn't Christian Grey to demand why she wasn't wearing the elbow-length sheer gloves (good enough for a wedding if they weren't black). She knew

him

that well. But she put it all on anyway. The black merry widow with its tight yellow button snaps down the front, the garter belt, the nylons—no shoes. She wouldn't be going anywhere.

It was tight but slimming, smoothing her torso as even her costume didn't, the underwired cups making her cleavage overflow, spiral steel boning clawing affectionately at her skin like a playful kitten. It was crotchless, and the sight of her dark red pubic hair with all the supple, expensive lingerie made her want to laugh for some reason. Like embers in the ashes of an inferno.

When she looked at herself in the mirror—a rare concession to vanity in the room—the woman who reflected back was breathtaking. The lingerie hugged her body even as it emphasized her curves. She wasn't herself, or she was a different herself. As different as night and day. Batgirl and Barbara Gordon.

She was going to be fucked as Barbara Gordon. She was going to lose her virginity as Barbara Gordon. No more masks.

She could still resist this gentle, unquestioned seduction. She could take off these clothes that weren't hers, put back on the ones that were even if it seemed like a ridiculous distinction—leave and never come back. Never be Batgirl again, if she didn't want to be. She had a choice. She wasn't sick in the head like him, with his obvious vendetta; obsession, really. She could walk away from this and from him.

Somehow, the fact that she had a choice dictated what choice she made. She went to the door, she opened it, and the way he looked at her when he saw her made Barbara complete.

He came inside. He didn't even shut the door. He was against her so fast that for the first time she

knew

how slow he'd been before, how careful with her, how patient. The kiss was hard, demanding, an attempt to make her yield. She didn't. She ran her hands over his broad back; the only thing more apparent than the play of his muscle under his shirt was the scar tissue. He wasn't smooth and soft as Dick had been. She reached under his shirt even before he could take it off. His skin was a painting of textures—burn scars, bruises, cuts, bullet holes. Compared to him, other men were a featureless desert.

Abruptly, he pushed her onto the bed—she lost her balance enough to sink into the sheets, staring up at him. He pulled off the turtleneck—underneath was a plain, off-white T-shirt. Christ, it had a faded bloodstain on the bottom, haunting the fabric no matter how many times it'd been washed. Then that came off too and before she could take in the

sight

of his scars—he could've been a fucking tapestry—he was undoing his pants. He kicked off his shoes, unzipped his pants and they fell around his ankles and his jockey shorts went next, stripped off in one quick hustle. He was on the bed with her in another blinding-fast motion, wearing nothing but socks.

And he just held himself over her, arms and legs enclosing her, manhood erect but not yet as hard as she knew it could be. He was scarred, powerfully muscled, his torso covered with thickly curled black hair, deeply tanned, those two qualities helping keep his scar tissue from being truly grotesque. The broad expanse of his pectoral muscles became a comparatively slender waist, washboard belly and tight hips, but those didn't concern her. They seemed almost petty, those features that would've made him the lust of any woman in Gotham.

Barbara was concerned with his cock. It was prodigious, bigger than it'd seemed even when he'd fucked her—making her wonder if he'd held back then. The swollen head throbbed lustfully a full ten inches from his thighs, and impassioned veins bloated every single one of those inches. He wanted her that much. How could he want her so much?

Her black-gloved hand was like that of a stranger as she reached down and closing her hand around his throbbing shaft, feeling the rubbery turgidness of those veins, and the total hardness of the flesh itself.

No more control. He pulled her svelte body against his; she felt all of his hot flesh burning through her lingerie like it was inadequate protection. His mouth was at her neck, vampiric, tasting her there as she ran her hand over the scars of his back, his arm, his face—she could feel where the bone had knitted together, where seamless make-up covered scars that would otherwise demand questions. And she felt his cock between their bellies, twitching, heating up. He dug his hands into her pillowy ass—the basque didn't cover that either—and ground her against his cock. They panted into each other's ears.

"Say you want me," she ordered him.

His voice shook both their bodies. "I want you."

"Say you'll fuck me."

With something like a growl, he threw her onto her front, just like he'd done on the rooftop. She wondered if he did that with Catwoman too. She shook her head. Didn't matter. He was doing it with her now. She grabbed the headboard, thrust her pale ass out at him, and waggled it lasciviously from side to side, making his eyes follow her pink little pussy.

"I'll fuck you," he said, falling on her ass. She felt his lips kiss, suck, bite the untouched flesh—and more, his hand sliding up her leg, between her legs, into her needy pussy. He fingered her as he worshipped her ass. "Say you want it."

She buried her face in the pillows. "I want it."

"Say you love it."

"I love it."

He rose up, kissing the back of her neck as roughly as any animal's bite. "Say you'll enjoy it." As he guided his phallus between her legs, the blunt club of its tip against her cunt.

Barbara sighed in contentment, oscillating her body against the shy contact of his penis, letting it taste her, enter her, her gates grasping at his cockhead. "I'll enjoy it," she said with a smile.

This time she wasn't a virgin and he didn't hold back. He hilted her with his first entry, but just putting on the merry widow had made her wet enough for that. The pain came from just how

big

he was; she was skewered, left with his spear deep enough that there seemed no room for anything else. She froze, afraid to move for fear of worsening the pain, but she quickly felt the jerk of him flexing inside her, badgering his cock in and out of her a few inches at a time. It was just as brutal as Barbara remembered. She loved it.