Archive: Pink Rabbit Consortium (altfic.com)
Fandom: BoP (Comic)
Pairing: Barbara (Oracle)/Dinah (Black Canary)
I'm warm, safe, content, and about as physically sated as it's
possible for a body to be. This is the life, so good that I can't even
begin to care about the hangover that really ought to be making me
miserable at the moment. Oh, I can feel the headache, and my mouth
tastes like a cotton factory, but who cares? I'm nosed into the softest,
warmest, most inviting stretch of human velvet in the whole world. A few
soft kisses and delicate licks confirm my memories that she even tastes
incredibly good. Downright addictive.
A soft gasp, then her low groan vibrates the soft flesh under my
lips. "God, Dinah, are you trying to kill me?"
Slim fingers wind more firmly into my hair, her breathing shifting,
growing heavier and a little strained as I nuzzle deeper. Despite the
hangover and the painful weakness, I can't hold back a chuckle. "We
lived through last night. We can survive anything." I've lost track
of how many times we've made love in the last few hours. It's not really
a measurable phenomenon anyway. With men, such things were always
measured in neat, obvious ways. With her, it's less defined because once
our bodies were too worn to keep trying for that goal, we kept touching,
stroking, learning -- total respite impossible in the face of the need
for more contact. It ebbed, flowed, peaked again, interspersing
exploration with sleep where we lay so twined together it was hard to be
certain where one body ended and another began. And it wasn't just me.
Twice I woke to the feel of her hands on my body, exploring my hair and
skin, her eyes a searing shade of green as she ran her fingers here and
there. Both times we wound up making love again, all slow and sweet,
with almost as many laughs as moans. Now, that's something new, laughing
while making love. For reasons I've never entirely understood, men don't
handle it well when a woman laughs in bed. They always seem to take it
personally. Personally, I like sharing a few giggles. Sex has its
serious side, god knows, but a hell of a lot of it can be damn funny
Mmm, I think it's time to find out if the rest of her tastes as good
as I remember. Yeah, that part does ... and that one ... those too....
"Mmmm, Dinah...." Her slow, sexy purr washes over me while
her hand slides down from my hair, slowly massaging my upper back.
"You ... are ... absolutelyohgod." The last comment comes out
as one extended word that rises sharply with panicked tension.
Not a good sign. Neither is the way she grabs for the sheet, dragging
it higher on her body. We're definitely not alone. Suddenly afraid for
her safety, I stretch protectively across her torso, push up on one hand
and twist to face the intruder, lips parted, more than willing to use
the Canary Cry to protect her if need be.
With hair falling across my eyes, my first sight is incredibly
muscular, black clad thighs. Oh shit. And who do we know who might fit
that bill, Dinah. Oh yeah, Nightwing. Her boyfriend ... technically
ex-boyfriend. Who probably isn't going to be wild about the notion that
she's already moved on, even if he was the one to try the en
flagrante delicto thing first. Guys can be funny about the double
standards that way. He will probably beat the hell out of me and right
now, I'm not sure I'm up to stopping him. Black clad thighs, black clad
other things, black clad, incredibly broad chest.
Oh thank god, black bat symbol silhouetted on a bright yellow splash
of color and long, black cape.
Nightwing doesn't wear either of those. That would be....
On second thought, judging by the grim expression directed our way,
I'm not sure this is much of an improvement. A quick glance confirms
that she's just frozen at this point, staring up at him with the sort of
horror generally reserved for high school girls caught in the back seats
of Chevies by their fathers.
When I look back at him, it's to find that icy gaze pinning me in
place. Suddenly I find myself feeling bad for the boys from one or two
scenes from my youth. Then those eyes slide on, touching on her while he
shifts his shoulders, drawing his cape around him like a cloak. Damn,
he's creepy when he does that. And he's not exactly Captain Friendly at
his best. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" His voice
is like a cold wind over gravestones, the kind that can cut through the
I can feel her stiffen, and turn in time to see her expression turn
flinty, the flare of teenage mortification melting away and leaving the
woman she's grown into in its place. "None of your business."
Short, sharp, and to the point. I search her eyes, suddenly feeling the
need for a little reassurance, but she doesn't look at me, instead
reserving her full attention for her former mentor.
His answering snort is soft and quick. "Nightwing knows he made
a mistake. Hitting back this way isn't the way to deal with the problems
Between my arm and the blanket, she's pretty well shielded, but as I
feel cool air on my back, it occurs to me that I'm a lot more on
display. Fuck it. If there's anything he hasn't seen before, it's his
problem. I wonder if he realizes her hand is on my shoulder, clinging to
me, warm, soft, and trembling ever so slightly despite the way she's
glaring at him. That realization helps buck up my own flagging
self-confidence when she still won't look at me as she continues.
"What makes you think this has anything to do with D-- with
Nightwing?" Well, that's one new piece of info. Whatever
Nightwing's real name is, it starts with a D. I don't really want to
think about how shaken she is to let that much slip given just how
successfully secretive she usually is. Can't say I really care, but I
need to do something to entertain myself while I'm sitting in the middle
of the current cluster fuck.
"So, you're telling me you've suddenly decided you're ... what
... in love ... with her?"
Not really liking the note of sheer disdain in that last question.
Okay, so I realize Bats and I aren't what you'd call close, but we've
played together a few times, and he knows damn well I've done my fair
share of time in the trenches. The hell if I deserve that tone.
"Whatever I've decided is ... I repeat ... none of your
I don't have to look back to know he didn't like that response, and I
suddenly find myself wondering if maybe there was something more than
just a teacher-student relationship between them somewhere along the way
... or if maybe he wishes there was. I dunno, but it seems like there's
something going on here.
"Now, why are you here?" The question comes out flat and
hard, but she can't quite leave it at that, and her voice twists with
sarcasm as she adds, "Or did you just decide you needed to come
bursting into my bedroom for the hell of it?"
"You're needed. Work." Speaking of short and to the point.
"Fine. I'll be out in a minute." As dismissals go, it's not
even a little subtle.
His teeth grit and his eyes rake over me, but he doesn't say a word,
just pivots on his heel and stalks out. Scary dude any way you look at
it. "Babs?" I wonder if I sound as shaky as I'm feeling. Her
fingers tighten on my shoulder and she looks down, her expression
softening to show her nervousness.
"Sorry about that. He has all the codes ... that's why the
alarms didn't go off." Green eyes slide away and she exhales a
tight sigh, fingers sliding up into my hair. "I didn't think to ...
just didn't think...." No, thought was not a big part of what
happened between us, leaving me to wonder if someone as cerebrally
oriented as she is is experiencing some major regrets.
Her skin's incredibly soft when I reach up to stroke her cheek and
draw her head back around. "Are you okay?"
A quick blink clears her eyes of the start of tears and she offers a
watery smile. "I've got to get out there and find out what's going
on." That's not exactly an answer. "He won't wait long."
Her eyes close for a moment, blocking me out, and when they open again,
they're clear but unreadable, giving away nothing.
Okay, I said I'd do whatever she wanted in the morning. Time to stick
to that promise and accept her limits, no matter how much I want to
demand to know what she's going to do about his obvious dislike of what
happened between us, whether this goes on, or was it just a one night
stand between friends. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Clothes ... clothes would be good." She's still a little
shaky, and a hand rises, briefly shading her eyes. "Just sweats and
whatever shirt you come to first." A quick gesture indicates her
closet and I'm out of bed and grabbing for things, amazed that she's
stressed enough to ignore her own need for independence for once. It's a
sign of just how bad it is that she even allows me to help her dress,
though we're both oddly detached, touching each other, but showing no
signs of the way we made love the night before. It's not until she's
fully dressed and I'm helping her into the chair that her cool
expression softens for a moment, the mask falling away and allowing
genuine emotion to show in her eyes as she reaches up and strokes my
cheek, then brushes hair back from my ear. "Trust me." It's a
quiet request, softly spoken, and calm, not an overwrought demand.
I slip a hand into her hair, leaning closer, then kissing her softly.
"With my life ... always."
Her thumb brushes my lower lip, stroking lightly. "Then trust
that I don't regret last night ... I couldn't ... and I won't. Can you
Not easy since I know damn well that she's likely to get a lot of
pressure from people she's cared about and trusted a lot longer than
she's known me, but she's now offering the reassurance I wanted earlier.
I can feel myself nodding before I have time to consider it. "I'll
do my best." Her hand is warm and soft in mine as our fingers twine
together without planning on either side. "D'you want me to
go?" I hate the idea, afraid that maybe he'll be able to work on
her, or that maybe she's ashamed of me, but at the same time, I don't
want to make things harder for her.
"Maybe ... I don't know yet ... but if--"
Not wanting her to see how much it hurts to think of being sent away,
I lean higher and brush a kiss onto her forehead. I don't want this to
be any harder for her than it has to be. Besides, if it becomes a battle
between me and the Batsquad, I'm under no doubts about who'll win.
Dysfunctional Family Circus they may be, but they're her
Dysfunctional Family Circus, and nearly as much her family as her
father. "Don't worry. Just give me a sign ... and I'm gone."
Pull away, Dinah, do not let her see just how hard this is. She catches
my hand, not letting me escape so easily. She knows, or at least she
guesses, and I don't know whether to be sorry or glad about that.
"Dinah, understand, I don't want you to leave ... but ...
it may be ... easier ... for all involved." The words come in a
strange, sometimes halting, sometimes quick, rhythm. This is no easier
for her than it is for me. I have to keep reminding myself of that to
resist the urge to go out there and tell Batman to go to hell, then drag
her back to bed. Even if it weren't for the obvious personal issues,
she, just like the rest of us, has a job to do and that trumps all else.
"Just let me know what you need me to do." I see her flinch
at my tone. Despite my best efforts, I can't keep a hint of hurt and
anger out of it. It's not her fault that reality can't help but intrude
on her world ... and mine, but I'm human.
"You should probably get out there ... he didn't sound like he's
in a patient mood." She's staring up at me, her eyes liquid though
I'm not sure of the emotion. Hurt, fear, embarrassment, hesitance to
face her mentor, or maybe some other emotion I can't even guess at.
"Go on. I'll be out in a minute." She's dressed now, but I'm
She nods, takes a second to gather herself and then the mask slides
into place, clearing her expression of any emotion except determination.
Combat mode. Wonder whether she's planning on battling the bad guys or
the bat guy. She doesn't give me any clues, just rolls out, leaving me
in her wake. Wonder if I've just set myself up for the heartbreak to end
You've gotta stop thinking so positively, Lance. Just pull on your
clothes, go out there, face him down, and do what you need to. You can
get through this. She asked you to trust her that she won't regret what
happened. Time to follow through on that promise.
By the time I'm dressed and reach her central command, she's deep in
her work, moving as easily through her world as the most powerful
superhero types move through ours. In her element, she's the equivalent
of Superman when it comes to abilities; able to leap tall
microprocessors in a single bound.
He, meanwhile, is looming over her, a very tall, very broad, very
dense black shadow, eerily still except for the faint fluttering of his
cape. It's not until I move close enough to be in range of her
peripheral vision that he looks over, his eyes an icy cold shade of blue
as they rake over me. Don't think I'm on his Christmas card list
anymore. He's still looking at me when she glances over. Her eyes flick
up, noting that he's not looking at her and her expression softens for
just a second, just long enough to flash me a reassuring look before she
nods toward the elevator doors.
My cue to get lost.
I can't resist the need to hold her gaze a little longer than I
probably should -- long enough that he has to be aware that there's been
some silent communication. Yeah, he got it. I can tell by the flinty
look in blue eyes. He didn't like that at all. Then she's concentrating
on what she's doing again, tracking the data streams and cutting me out
... or maybe shielding me -- I'm not certain which -- but doing
something that apparently requires his attention because he's back to
glaring at what she's doing.
Which leaves me to slink out, tail between my legs. Not my
preference, but probably for the best. So, why is it I really wanna hit
something so bad it hurts? Preferably something tall, all in black, and
wearing a cape.
Just hit the damn elevator button and go, Dinah. Get the hell out of
there before you do something really stupid like hit him or cry. Several
long seconds later, I hear the elevator and feel the faint vibration as
it slides into position and the doors start to move. Get the hell out of
here, Lance, just get out as fast as you can. The doors slide open.
Okay, I can do this. Just step inside, hit the button and go. You don't
have to turn back. Don't have to put yourself through that.
"Dinah," her voice is husky and faintly tremulous, freezing
my hand in position as I reach for the button to take me to the
basement. "I'll call you ... when I can." I can guess what the
quiet pledge costs her, and that belief is confirmed when I can't resist
the urge to look back and see her uncertain expression and his dark
glower. For just a moment our eyes meet, my look silently questioning.
I'm suddenly hesitant to leave, not for my sake, but for hers. Not that
I think he's some abusive asshole, but at the same time, I can see the
stress between them, and I know there've been some pretty voluble
disagreements in the past. I feel like I'm bailing and leaving her to
face the fire alone.
She doesn't speak aloud, but her lips move, mouthing a serious
encouragement. "Go on." Green eyes flick a quick glance at
him, then look to me again, while no sound leaves her mouth, but she
assures me, "It'll be okay."
Then my finger's on the button and the doors are sliding closed. I
can't resist the urge to lean in a way that keeps her face centered in
the narrowing crack between the elevator doors until finally my view is
blocked and I'm moving. Headed straight down. Into the basement as luck
would have it, which is probably where I belong given my current mood.
Amazing how fast one can fall from the heights to the depths, and this
little journey is just symbolic of that very fact.
Stop it, Lance. She asked you to trust her, and that is goddamn well
what you are going to do.
Trust her ... even if it kills you....
You can do this....
* * * * * *
Four days. Four days of cooling my heels and wondering. Four days in
which she only checked in twice, her voice quick and flat, just making
sure I hadn't gotten myself killed, and letting me know she hadn't
either. It's times like this that I really hate this business. I used to
sweat and worry every time Ollie was out there working, and it's not
relieving the stress any to know that one day it killed him. But no, no
need to worry about that with her. She's up in her ivory fortress, well
protected and defended ... only it's been breached more than once and
maybe I should just--
Oh thank god.
"You there?" She sounds tired, worn, and a little nervous.
"Yeah, I'm here, Babs." I haven't taken off the two way
earrings and necklace we use to communicate since I left the clocktower,
afraid of missing a call. "You okay?"
Her answer comes out a soft, exhausted sigh. "Yeah." I can
hear a faint squeak of wheels in the background, obvious to me now that
I know the truth, though I used to ignore it or attribute it to a dozen
different things, never guessing the reality of her life. "Just a
little tired. It's been a rough couple of days."
"Anything you want to talk about?" I'm trying to be gentle,
let her take her own time, and not push. It's not easy to just ask
though. God, I want to see her again ... hold her again ... feel her
against me. And I don't know what the hell I'm going to do if she
doesn't feel the same way.
A long moment of uncertain silence follows the question. Both of us
regaining some equilibrium perhaps, then finally she clears her throat,
the words coming slow and seemingly hesitant when she finally speaks.
"Actually, I was wondering if you could ... y'know ... come
For a moment, I can't breathe and can't think, eyes sliding closed,
torn between relief and terror. She sounds stressed and scared. Could be
because this is all so overwhelming and new, or maybe because she's
about to let me down easily and doesn't want to cause pain. "Babs?"
My voice is a strangled croak as it occurs to me that I'm not sure I can
wait for an answer to the question. If she's just going to say, 'thanks
and so long,' I think I'd rather just know now.
A moment's pause, then her answer reaches my ears, sounding nearly as
tight and scared as I feel. "I-I've missed you ... I just
No debate after that admission. "I'm on my way." Grabbing
things and running without delay, intensely grateful for the dangerously
fast sportscar her money -- stolen from nasties worldwide -- bought for
me because it means I can get to her that much faster.
Time is funny, running lightning fast sometimes, painfully slow at
others. I'll never understand Einstein or any of the other high blown
concepts that she does, but I do get the fact that time can be a very
subjective concept. Right now, it's agonizingly slow, every stoplight an
eternity, every jerk that feels the need to drive the speed limit a
blight on the universe even though it's only a few minutes before I'm
pulling into the clocktower's secured, underground parking garage.
Another eternity follows during the elevator ride to the top. We're
still connected -- I can hear the rhythmic timbre of her breathing,
rougher and louder than normal -- but neither of us speaks, as though
having come to some kind of decision there aren't words ... at least not
the kind you can say over headsets. I'm out the moment the doors open,
only to pause uncertainly, suddenly struck by the enormity of it all. My
eyes find her as she moves away from her computer station, reaching up
and peeling off her headset as she moves, silencing her connection to
the outside world both symbolically and in reality.
My ear rings and necklace follow suit, clicked off and stuffed in a
pocket. Don't need them now. Then we both freeze. Another step forward
brings me that much closer, while she rolls a few inches and stops.
Suddenly my heart's in my throat. "You've got a bruise." It's
purple and a little swollen, marring the crest of one, finely-made
Her hand flutters upward, fingers just barely brushing the injury,
her expression suddenly self-conscious. "Had a small
My heart sinks. She's had a few of those before ... with people bent
on capturing her, killing her, or worse. Then a far worse thought occurs
to me. What if....
No. That's not possible. Still, the thought haunts me that maybe
things between her and them escalated in some unpredictable way. Batman
was pretty pissed off when I left and he's a guy with a temper and
control issues. I can't keep the suspicion out of my voice as I move
forward, kneeling in front of her, staring up into green eyes.
Spend enough time tied together as intimately as we have, and you
learn to read someone. She knows me too well, and easily picks up on my
sudden stress levels. I can see the knowledge in her eyes as they narrow
faintly while studying me, reading my emotions all too accurately.
"Ran into some trouble," she says carefully, then narrow
shoulders dip in a hint of a shrug. "Not here. Was working on some
of Batman's equipment ... and somebody got in." She's picking and
choosing her words carefully in an effort to let me know what's going
on, while keeping secrets at the same time. As the one who knows
everything about everybody, she's stuck doing a lot of that. She frowns,
still deciphering my suspicions until she comes up with the truth to her
satisfaction. "It's not what you're thinking," she says at
last. "They wouldn't."
Thank god. Relief has me shaky. "I was just ... I mean...."
It's hard to explain how the mind can conjure so many fears when you
don't know what's going on. "I was just worried about you."
Remember to breathe, Dinah. "And I hardly heard from you...."
"I'm okay," the assurance is quick enough to leave me
confident of her honesty and softly spoken.
Without thinking, I reach up, one hand resting lightly on her knee,
the other moving on up to stroke her cheek. "I kept imagining
things...." The admission isn't easy to make and comes in a rush
that doesn't include an explanation of the myriad of fears that have
Gentle fingers find my hair, stroking lightly, sifting through
individual strands. "I'm sorry. I didn't think you'd be
I know how dangerous this business is. How could I not worry? I know
how she bristles when anyone treats her as anything less than totally
independent. She wouldn't understand that it has nothing to do with her
physical condition. I'd worry about her even if she was Supergirl.
"It's just that I care ... y'know?"
Impossibly gentle fingers continue slipping through my hair, playing
with it, twirling through the strands and combing them. "I know ...
believe me, I know what it's like to worry about someone ... to worry
Yeah, I guess she does. Plenty of times she's hung on the line,
sweating my survival ... talking me through one difficult situation or
another. And then I look up, staring into green eyes that utterly
fascinate me. "Babs?" I can hear the uncertainty in my own
A hint of a smile touches her lips. She's so good at reading me.
Practice I guess. "I told you ... I don't regret anything."
The fingers in my hair tug gently, pulling me up, my hands braced on the
chair near her hips, until we're eye to eye and I'm leaning into her
space. "Not a minute of it."
"He's not happy." Her eyes slide away from mine for a
moment as she shields her emotions. "We kind of had it out."
She takes deep breath, her determination to protect me from the truth
evident to me though most people probably wouldn't recognize the subtle
play of emotions. She isn't the only one who's picked up a few things
during the time we've spent so intimately attached to one another ...
and I'm not talking about making love here, I'm talking about hour upon
hour spent talking, listening, passing the hours, and trusting one
another as we trusted no one else. "He understands now ... that my
life is my own ... and what's happening between you and I is none of his
business." Her gaze meets mine again, the shields dropping in an
instant. "He won't interfere again." Given his mood the last
time I saw him, I suspect it was one hell of a knock down, drag out. And
then her lips are on mine, moving slowly, drawing my tongue into her
mouth. If I was the seductress before, this time it's her turn, and she
uses her opportunity well, toying with me until we're both breathing
hard and trembling.
"God, Babs," the gasping groan escapes my lips as our
mouths part, and she tugs lightly, off balancing me until I'm falling
into her, burying my mouth in the curve of her throat, one hand sliding
from its braced position to the warmth of her shoulder. Over the last
three days, I've wondered if I imagined how good she tastes. As it turns
out, the memory didn't do her justice.
"I take it the lady approves," she breathes, her voice
little more than a low vibration.
"You have no idea." But I want her to find out. Slim and
strong, she arches into my hand when it strokes down from her shoulder,
freeing the buttons running down her chest. And then my mouth is
following the same path and the flavor of her skin is flowing over my
tongue ... a delicious waterfall of velvety flesh. Fingers wind into my
hair, her breathing growing heavy as my lips play over her upper chest.
Not an easy or particularly comfortable position, but I don't give a
damn. Even if it breaks my back, I want her here, in her domain ... so
it becomes ours. Suddenly, I'm reaching past her and releasing the brake
on her chair, then catching the armrests and tugging. I can't help but
smile, well aware of the trust required for her to allow me this right
with only a minor, vocal protest.
"Dinah," the soft, gasping squeal comes out surprised and
confused, "what are you--"
"Just a slight change in location." Suddenly we're at her
computer station, and I'm setting the brake again. Now would not be a
good time for uncontrolled rolling, and a few minutes from now might be
positively disastrous. At least if I have anything to say about it.
The next tug on my hair is firmer than the last few, bringing my head
up until our eyes meet. "Dinah ... what are you doing?"
Faintly impatient, even bordering on annoyed, the question comes quick
and sharp. She can be such a control freak. If I didn't think it was so
cute, it might just annoy me.
No words needed as I push the front of her blouse apart, and offer
the kind of smile that's an answer even before I lean closer and let me
lips float over her chest.
Her voice comes out somewhere between a gasp and a moan. "You've
got to be kidding."
"Nope." I want her right here ... in her element. I love
watching her when she's at her computer, her attention concentrated on
whatever task is at hand. The fantasies I've had while watching her
would keep the Spice Channel knee deep in programming for months. I
can't resist the urge to slide a hand down and gather her skirt higher,
stroking her knee and thigh, aware that she can feel some things at
least, hoping she can feel this, and loving the texture of her skin.
Her eyes are wide, her expression a little nervous, her arms stiff as
she braces her hands on my shoulders. "You can't
seriously...." The words trail off as I continue to simply grin at
her. "Dinah ... I ... it's...." She leans to one side, glances
around me, staring at her computer, clearly not getting it. When she
looks at me again, her expression is clearly perplexed, lips drawn into
an O, two neat vertical creases between her brows, eyes faintly
I can't resist the temptation to taste her lips, and drop a quick
kiss, grinning as she stares up at me in surprise. "Because you're
sexy as hell when you're at your computer."
My god, I've managed to strike her dumb. Now, there's a sight you
don't see very often; Barbara Gordon silent, her mouth hanging open,
staring in wide-eyed shock. Her total paralysis is almost as cute as the
control freak side and I drop a kiss onto the tip of her nose, then the
hand on her chest joins the one at her skirt.
"Dinah ... are you insane?" Her voice is a confused croak
when she finally speaks.
"Probably." I'm honest enough to admit the obvious. God,
she tastes good, feels good too. "But I've watched you so many
times," I straighten, staring down into her eyes, letting the heat
I'm feeling show, "had so many fantasies about you ... sitting
Wow, that's twice I've managed to throw her enough to silence that
normally agile mouth. Oh well, I can think of better things for her to
do with it anyway. Like kissing. Kissing is good, though moaning isn't
"You're insane," she groans again, this time through the
merging of our mouths.
"Mm-hm." Why argue the obvious? Particularly when I've got
better things to do ... like explore the skin stretched over her hips,
and ease my fingers under the narrow band of her underwear. Mmm, she
felt that. I can tell by the tiny shiver that works through her upper
body. "Crazy for you." Cupping her hips in my hands, I pull
her forward in the chair. I'm still working on her underwear when she
cups my face in her hands, breaking the kiss to stare into my eyes.
I can almost see the gears grinding between her ears, and her mouth
works for a moment as she hunts for something to say. "We're at my
computer," she says at last. I don't think she gets that this is a
turn on for me.
"Uh huh." Back to tugging her underwear down, fingers
stroking as I work.
"But ... uh ... I mean...." She shakes her head, the words
trailing off for a long moment before trying again. "At my
computer?" This time it's a question.
Her frown deepens as she considers my answer. Even though she's spent
a fair amount of her life in black leather and neoprene, she can be a
bit of an innocent. Imagine what she'll do when she finds out all that
handcuffs can be used for things other than crimefighting. "What
are you planning on ... doing?" she asks at last, the words coming
slow and halting, her voice creaking ever so slightly.
"I thought you'd never ask." Hands braced on the armrests
of her chair, knees nudged into the narrow space near her hips, I lean
forward, my lips brushing her ear ... and answer the question ... in
considerable detail ... smiling broadly as I hear her strangled gasps,
and see the way the faint pulsebeat in her throat flutters faster and
faster. Oooo, got her with that last comment. Still laying out a roadmap
of all the things I want to do to her -- four days spent scouring the
internet for ideas apparently paid off -- I slow down when reaches up
and works agile fingers into my hair, then trail to a halt when she tugs
my head back until our eyes meet.
"I ... uh ... but what about ... you?" The blush that
slides along her cheekbones puts her in competition with her hair to see
which is the redder, then it deepens a shade, and I swear takes the
lead. Slim fingers flutter at my temple. "I mean ... I want you to
... to enjoy...." She trails off, not finishing. Yes, she really is
an innocent. Rather ironic all things considered ... but also kind of a
"Don't worry," I can feel one eyebrow rising as my voice
drops lower, "I promise you, I'll enjoy every ... single ...
moment." I'm still kissing her when I get her blouse off and toss
it aside, then tasting her throat and upper chest as I work her
underwear lower. I'm clearly getting better at this whole undressing
women thing because it's almost smoothly done.
"I ... uh...." She's absolutely crimson -- everywhere -- at
this point, her chest rising and falling in quick, shallow pants.
"Are you sure?" she asks at last, her voice cracking ever so
"Very sure." Somehow, the color manages to deepen another
shade, though I never knew a woman could be that pink all over. Somehow
I don't think she hangs out naked at the computers when she's online
with me -- my fantasies notwithstanding. "I've dreamt of you right
here so many times." I suppose it's kinda kinky ... well, not so
much kinky as sorta fetishy -- though, I don't think that's a real word
-- but I want to make love to her by the light of the computer monitor
... right here ... right now." Achingly aroused, I taste her mouth
again, then pull back, the cheekiest grin I can summon twisting my lips.
I know it helps her to see what's happening, and I love feeling her eyes
on me. "Now ... watch." She's just staring at me wide-eyed, so
I catch her hands and drag them up until she gets the hint and slips her
fingers into my hair, brushing it back so she can see. Our gazes hold as
I make my way down her body, kissing, tasting, exploring every inch of
flesh as though it's totally new, even though just a few days ago, I
traced all of this territory as thoroughly as I was able to. Hands at
her hips, stroking lightly, then more firmly, playing where I know
sensation comes and goes as I tug her forward in the chair, then unhook
her skirt and pull it down. I'm just getting better and better at this
stripping women naked thing. A few more tries and I might almost be
kinda suave about it. As it is, I get a giggle or two, and I have to
admit, I'm probably pretty funny. God, I love this whole being able to
slide from laughing with a lover to making love without being afraid of
accidentally causing insult. God, I love her. The fingers in my hair
work deeper as I make my way lower, while her breath seems to roughen a
little more every time my lips make contact with her skin.
Looking down I watch as I brush my fingertips over silky curls,
combing lightly through soft hair, then pressing deeper. She's so soft,
her flesh damp and incredibly warm as it envelops my fingers. A tiny
hitch in her breath accompanies what feels eerily like a twitch, but I
can't tell whether it's real or just my imagination. Strange as it
seems, I think I've begun feeling phantom sensations on her behalf.
Sliding a little lower, my lips encounter faint rises and striations.
Her scars. For all of the times we made love that first night, I'm
headed to the one place we didn't really go. I think maybe it's the
scars -- the idea of having them so in her lover's line of attention --
that has her uncomfortable. I tried a time or two, but whenever things
were headed this direction, she tugged me back up until we were eye to
"Dinah?" Stressed and a little scared, her voice reaches
me, slides inside and touches a part of my heart I thought died along
with Oliver. We're both still learning, both a little scared.
Moving my hands to her inner thighs, I press her legs apart, leaning
closer, my tongue dragging along the line of the worst scar, the caress
that follows an expression of so many things I don't know how to put
into words, though I have to try. "I told you," I hear my
voice, faintly muffled as it vibrates against her skin, sounding ragged
and a little desperate, "to me, they're a reminder that you're
still here ... that you're with me. Without these, there wouldn't be a
you." I'm under no illusions about how close she came to dying.
Yeah, the load that hit was designed to do what it did -- Joker special
loaded it in hopes of putting her in this chair -- but that doesn't mean
it didn't come close to killing her.
Her breath catches again, then holds when I can't wait any longer and
slide lower still. My hands are shaking almost as hard as hers as I
A low groan vibrates through her as my lips slide over her skin and I
drop one hand to her skirt, gathering it higher.
She's wearing a loose skirt, thank god, one that easily slides higher
on her thigh under my fingers. God, her skin is so soft, so damn smooth
it's like warm velvet.
There have been times in my life when I seriously wondered at my own
sanity. More than a few of them, truth be told. And even more times when
I've seriously contemplated whether or not I'm cursed.
That's the only possible explanation for what I find when I step off
the clocktower elevator.