Fic: The Land of Make Believe
The Land of Make Believe
by nancybrown
Copyright 2005
NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. DC and Warner Brothers would be very
mad at me if they knew about this. Slightly disturbing content
(if you're me).
Feedback: Please?
Thanks go to Xffan-2000 for the beta.
Barbara doesn't know who he's pretending she is when they
have sex, and she tries not to care. He never calls her by
another name, never acts surprised to find her panting beneath
him when their coupling has ceased, but she understands just
the same.
Bruce has been around Gotham more lately: prowling by her
side in the shadows, tossing out his lines next to hers. He has
been here so little these past few years, his presence is a cool
shock each time he appears out of the darkness. In her dreams,
the silly little girl dreams she still allows herself from time to
time, she pretends he has come back for her, but Barbara isn't a
fool. He came back for Tim, because he wasn't here for Tim
when the need came and now he is simply making up for lost
time, lost everything.
Tim isn't allowed to go out with them anymore, has not been
allowed for months. She can see the compulsion writhing
beneath his skin every time she dons her mask, but it is long
past the time for complaints. This is the arrangement. Barbara
goes out to the streets with Bruce and Tim doesn't. She wins.
In a way.
Bruce barely speaks to the rest of the League now. She was in
the Cave when he sent out the message:
"Robin missing. Please send assistance." The sad-eyed
Martian on the other end told him the League was overextended
but would send someone to Gotham when they could spare a
hand. Bruce told him not to bother and cut the transmission,
and no one came at all.
Barbara knows how much pride it cost him to ask. She doesn't
know how much it cost him to be told "No."
And Tim is home now and Tim is safe and Tim is not quite sane
but then who among them is?
She knows about Wonder Woman. Barbara followed the few
news reports that came out, read the tabloids. Like pressing her
tongue into a hole that used to hold a tooth, she had to see for
herself. But it was over now, between them, and she doesn't
know why and she isn't asking.
She's almost sure Bruce thinks about his princess when he's
making love to Barbara. (A small, romantic part of her still
calls what they do "making love," although the cynical part
strangles that voice a little more every night and keeps an eye
on how many condoms are left in his nightstand.) There's a
certain half-gasp he makes when he thrusts inside her, an extra
hitch of hip and squeeze of muscled hand on her arm that tells
her he's more used to metahuman strength from his bedmates in
recent days. There is veneration in the burn of his lips on her
breasts and her stomach and between her thighs that denotes a
worship he does not give to Barbara herself.
He always closes his eyes. Always.
His head is between her legs tonight - this morning - and he
is lapping at her with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. She briefly
has a mental flash of a cat licking cream from a saucer and she
wishes she didn't.
Some nights when they come in from patrol almost broken from
what they have seen on the dark streets, he takes her to his bed
and he strokes every inch of her with the tips of his well-
manicured nails, following their delicate trail by tiny nips of
teeth. He does not demand she return the favor but she knows
too well how much he likes the reciprocal caress of her nails
along the length of his hardened cock, and behind his eyelids
she suspects he's thinking of cats while she envelops him in her
mouth.
Now his tongue is flicking her, hard, and his hands have slid in
from holding her thighs wide. One finger dips inside her to find
moisture, withdraws and gently probes her anus as another
finger returns to the place she wants it, wants him. Both fingers
slide in and out in time to the motions of his tongue on her clit,
and Barbara is aching to come.
She doesn't know who else he pretends she is when she lets him
do these things to her. Maybe in his head, she's a violet-eyed
reporter. Maybe she's a different daddy's girl, or two if the
rumors about him and the Beaumont woman were true. The
nights he does not watch her ride him until she screams, his
mind's eye might grant her wings, or else long golden hair
flowing behind her.
The single night she wore the stockings was the one time he
shouted when he came. Barbara bought a white baby tee and
blue miniskirt last month but she keeps the outfit at her
apartment and has yet to show him.
She tells herself she doesn't care, that it doesn't matter. Batman
has been her idol for years and he has chosen her. He might be
using her, but in a way she's using him too and fair is fair.
Bruce withdraws his fingers, stops his licking with a final rough
kiss, and she is panting and tired. A quick glance to the bedside
clock tells her it is almost five a.m., and she wants to sleep, but
even more than that, she desperately wants to come. Barbara
doesn't object as Bruce slides his way up her body, kissing and
tasting as he does, and she doesn't object as he rolls her over
onto her stomach.
She's curious, at times, about who he's pretending she is, but on
nights like this, she understands she doesn't want to know. He
has slicked his cock with her juices and his own pre-ejaculate,
and it only burns a little as he slides himself, glacially slow, into
her ass.
She muffles her moans in the pillow, wanting to yell from the
pain, from the pleasure, from the power he has over her at this
moment and the power she has over him as he shoves himself
into her. He is silent when he fucks her except when he takes
her this way. As he grinds deeper, Bruce grunts softly; anyone
not knowing him as she does might not even notice.
She slips two needy fingers into her mouth and then pushes
them between her crotch and the sheets. She's long accustomed
to finding her own pleasure and she rubs her fingers against her
clit as Bruce thrusts faster inside her. She knows by his rhythm
that he's going to come soon, and she wants to get off when he
does, wants to feel it with him. It's like sharing, almost.
And the other reason she never asks him is that she doesn't want
him asking her. She doesn't want to have to tell him that she
pretends he's still wearing the cowl. Sometimes he does wear it,
taking her against the car or a dark alley wall, and then she
comes hard and fast and her costume reeks of sex for days
afterwards. She, too, doesn't want him to know that when his
eyes are closed, sometimes so are hers and there's a dark-eyed
young man in his place and Barbara is a lifetime younger and
less world-weary.
When he takes her like this, she isn't sure the same young man
is not behind Bruce's eyes too.
He gasps as he shudders and comes. Barbara rubs her clit hard
and she bites her lip and a few seconds later she follows, jerking
beneath him. It's not the best orgasm she's had, but she is
trembling and content as the quakes fade.
They are both tired beyond words. Bruce pulls out of her gently
and he bites her lip and kisses her before staggering off to the
master bath. Barbara moves to the side of the bed she has
claimed as her own since they started this mess, and curls
around a pillow. She gets that she's not the one he's thinking of
when they have sex, but she's the one in bed with him and that
has to be what matters.
Alfred knows, has to know. Tim probably knows. Dick
doesn't, not yet, but Tim is going to tell him soon. Tim won't
be able to tell him that Dick's shade is in the bed with them and
that's for the best.
Bruce has a fine mattress; it barely shifts when he returns to
bed. Barbara knows she should get up and use the facilities, but
she's tired and she's sore, and Bruce's arms are strong. She lets
herself fall into them, fall into him, and as he draws her close
for a few hours of sleep, she closes her eyes and pretends she's
someone else too, someone the Batman could love. It's an
easier pretense than most and it chases her into her dreams.
by nancybrown
Copyright 2005
NC-17
Disclaimer: Not mine. DC and Warner Brothers would be very
mad at me if they knew about this. Slightly disturbing content
(if you're me).
Feedback: Please?
Thanks go to Xffan-2000 for the beta.
Barbara doesn't know who he's pretending she is when they
have sex, and she tries not to care. He never calls her by
another name, never acts surprised to find her panting beneath
him when their coupling has ceased, but she understands just
the same.
Bruce has been around Gotham more lately: prowling by her
side in the shadows, tossing out his lines next to hers. He has
been here so little these past few years, his presence is a cool
shock each time he appears out of the darkness. In her dreams,
the silly little girl dreams she still allows herself from time to
time, she pretends he has come back for her, but Barbara isn't a
fool. He came back for Tim, because he wasn't here for Tim
when the need came and now he is simply making up for lost
time, lost everything.
Tim isn't allowed to go out with them anymore, has not been
allowed for months. She can see the compulsion writhing
beneath his skin every time she dons her mask, but it is long
past the time for complaints. This is the arrangement. Barbara
goes out to the streets with Bruce and Tim doesn't. She wins.
In a way.
Bruce barely speaks to the rest of the League now. She was in
the Cave when he sent out the message:
"Robin missing. Please send assistance." The sad-eyed
Martian on the other end told him the League was overextended
but would send someone to Gotham when they could spare a
hand. Bruce told him not to bother and cut the transmission,
and no one came at all.
Barbara knows how much pride it cost him to ask. She doesn't
know how much it cost him to be told "No."
And Tim is home now and Tim is safe and Tim is not quite sane
but then who among them is?
She knows about Wonder Woman. Barbara followed the few
news reports that came out, read the tabloids. Like pressing her
tongue into a hole that used to hold a tooth, she had to see for
herself. But it was over now, between them, and she doesn't
know why and she isn't asking.
She's almost sure Bruce thinks about his princess when he's
making love to Barbara. (A small, romantic part of her still
calls what they do "making love," although the cynical part
strangles that voice a little more every night and keeps an eye
on how many condoms are left in his nightstand.) There's a
certain half-gasp he makes when he thrusts inside her, an extra
hitch of hip and squeeze of muscled hand on her arm that tells
her he's more used to metahuman strength from his bedmates in
recent days. There is veneration in the burn of his lips on her
breasts and her stomach and between her thighs that denotes a
worship he does not give to Barbara herself.
He always closes his eyes. Always.
His head is between her legs tonight - this morning - and he
is lapping at her with his eyes squeezed tightly shut. She briefly
has a mental flash of a cat licking cream from a saucer and she
wishes she didn't.
Some nights when they come in from patrol almost broken from
what they have seen on the dark streets, he takes her to his bed
and he strokes every inch of her with the tips of his well-
manicured nails, following their delicate trail by tiny nips of
teeth. He does not demand she return the favor but she knows
too well how much he likes the reciprocal caress of her nails
along the length of his hardened cock, and behind his eyelids
she suspects he's thinking of cats while she envelops him in her
mouth.
Now his tongue is flicking her, hard, and his hands have slid in
from holding her thighs wide. One finger dips inside her to find
moisture, withdraws and gently probes her anus as another
finger returns to the place she wants it, wants him. Both fingers
slide in and out in time to the motions of his tongue on her clit,
and Barbara is aching to come.
She doesn't know who else he pretends she is when she lets him
do these things to her. Maybe in his head, she's a violet-eyed
reporter. Maybe she's a different daddy's girl, or two if the
rumors about him and the Beaumont woman were true. The
nights he does not watch her ride him until she screams, his
mind's eye might grant her wings, or else long golden hair
flowing behind her.
The single night she wore the stockings was the one time he
shouted when he came. Barbara bought a white baby tee and
blue miniskirt last month but she keeps the outfit at her
apartment and has yet to show him.
She tells herself she doesn't care, that it doesn't matter. Batman
has been her idol for years and he has chosen her. He might be
using her, but in a way she's using him too and fair is fair.
Bruce withdraws his fingers, stops his licking with a final rough
kiss, and she is panting and tired. A quick glance to the bedside
clock tells her it is almost five a.m., and she wants to sleep, but
even more than that, she desperately wants to come. Barbara
doesn't object as Bruce slides his way up her body, kissing and
tasting as he does, and she doesn't object as he rolls her over
onto her stomach.
She's curious, at times, about who he's pretending she is, but on
nights like this, she understands she doesn't want to know. He
has slicked his cock with her juices and his own pre-ejaculate,
and it only burns a little as he slides himself, glacially slow, into
her ass.
She muffles her moans in the pillow, wanting to yell from the
pain, from the pleasure, from the power he has over her at this
moment and the power she has over him as he shoves himself
into her. He is silent when he fucks her except when he takes
her this way. As he grinds deeper, Bruce grunts softly; anyone
not knowing him as she does might not even notice.
She slips two needy fingers into her mouth and then pushes
them between her crotch and the sheets. She's long accustomed
to finding her own pleasure and she rubs her fingers against her
clit as Bruce thrusts faster inside her. She knows by his rhythm
that he's going to come soon, and she wants to get off when he
does, wants to feel it with him. It's like sharing, almost.
And the other reason she never asks him is that she doesn't want
him asking her. She doesn't want to have to tell him that she
pretends he's still wearing the cowl. Sometimes he does wear it,
taking her against the car or a dark alley wall, and then she
comes hard and fast and her costume reeks of sex for days
afterwards. She, too, doesn't want him to know that when his
eyes are closed, sometimes so are hers and there's a dark-eyed
young man in his place and Barbara is a lifetime younger and
less world-weary.
When he takes her like this, she isn't sure the same young man
is not behind Bruce's eyes too.
He gasps as he shudders and comes. Barbara rubs her clit hard
and she bites her lip and a few seconds later she follows, jerking
beneath him. It's not the best orgasm she's had, but she is
trembling and content as the quakes fade.
They are both tired beyond words. Bruce pulls out of her gently
and he bites her lip and kisses her before staggering off to the
master bath. Barbara moves to the side of the bed she has
claimed as her own since they started this mess, and curls
around a pillow. She gets that she's not the one he's thinking of
when they have sex, but she's the one in bed with him and that
has to be what matters.
Alfred knows, has to know. Tim probably knows. Dick
doesn't, not yet, but Tim is going to tell him soon. Tim won't
be able to tell him that Dick's shade is in the bed with them and
that's for the best.
Bruce has a fine mattress; it barely shifts when he returns to
bed. Barbara knows she should get up and use the facilities, but
she's tired and she's sore, and Bruce's arms are strong. She lets
herself fall into them, fall into him, and as he draws her close
for a few hours of sleep, she closes her eyes and pretends she's
someone else too, someone the Batman could love. It's an
easier pretense than most and it chases her into her dreams.