Harley knocked shave-and-a-haircut on the door. "Batsy?" she called. "Red wanted me to tell ya she's real sorry about all this. Sorta. She also kinda thinks it's funny? But in a sorry way."
There was no sound on the other side of the door.
"Can I come in?"
That came through clear as day. "It's just me," she said. "I told Red I'd stay an' make sure ya didn't get taken advantage of or nothin'. Ya ain't expectin' any Robins, are ya?"
"That's good! Under the circumstances, an' all. I'm gonna come in, okay?"
Harley had already opened the door to slip inside. "Haaay."
She could never tell if he was looking at her. The glass eyes of his mask were dim, but that didn't mean anything. They only brightened occasionally, and she didn't know if it accomplished anything besides looking scary in the dark.
There was nothing in the room but him, an abandoned office in an abandoned building. He was kneeling on the floor, and she couldn't decide if it looked meditative or ominous. Maybe both. She'd thought, from his earlier refusal, that he might have given in to temptation. Unbuckled his belt. Maybe taken his gloves off. He hadn't done any of that. Just sitting, the slow rise and fall of his breathing visible only in the motion of the symbol there, black as a hole in his chest.
"I brought ya some water," she said, holding up a bottle. She'd changed into a red dress too low and too short and too tight, showing off the tops of her mismatched stockings. Her red choker had a heart-shaped hole over her throat.
"Harley." It was a warning when he said it.
"Too much?" She looked down at her heels, six-inch silver stilettos that buckled around her ankles with bells. "I'd wear 'em all the time, yanno, if I wouldn't break my legs. Gotta be able to run an' kick ya in the face an' all." She shrugged. "Ya doin' okay?"
"You should go."
"Naaaaaaah." She bent at the waist to try to see him better, her toes turning inward, the fall of her arms exaggerating already dramatic cleavage. She still had her pigtails in. "Ya want help?"
"Ya sure? I whammied myself so it'd be fair." That familiar intoxicating feeling, her pulse pounding in her mouth, an ache at the press of her thighs like the threat of a climax always barely out of reach.
He sighed. He very nearly facepalmed. "Why would that be better."
"I don't wanna take advantage of your delicate condition!"
"I'm not pregnant."
"I guess it's still not totally fair," she admitted. "I'm always doin' this for fun, so I've got practice." She set the water bottle down on the floor. "I didn't think the thing with the Cat was the monogamous type of thing."
"We don't have a thing."
Harley snorted and dropped to her knees across from him. She wore the pose differently than he did. "If ya only like itty-bitty chicks, just say so." She wiggled her hips, didn't quite squirm; only the size of her thighs kept him from being able to look up her skirt. Not that she'd know for sure if he tried. "But Wonder Woman's pretty hippy, an' ya seem to like her fine." Experimentally, she spread her thighs a little, and watched the part of his face that she could see. The twitch of a flexing muscle in his jaw sent a tingle down to her toes.
"Harley," he warned again.
She feigned innocence, fluttering her eyelashes as she spread her legs out underneath her, unfolding to either side. "What?" she asked, legs stretched out in a split, leaning forward to brace her hands against the floor. Her dress was bunched around her hips.
He almost looked like he was going to say something, but instead tilted his head just enough to make it clear he was averting his gaze.
She giggled. "I'm sorry," she said, making no attempt to sound sorry. "I see a big strong man and my legs just do this on their own, like I can't help myself."
This time he was going to say something, but she abruptly reached out to put her hand over his mouth.
"I don't actually believe that," she clarified seriously. "I was just sayin' that as, like. A weird fetish thing."
Batman either snorted or choked, but either way, she recoiled immediately. Her vague concern that he might vomit on her disappeared as he buried his face in both gloved hands, with a muffled sound like a pug in a trash can rolling down the stairs.
"Are you... laughin'?" she asked, with dawning awe and delight.
His face was still buried in his hands, practically resting on his knees, curled under his cape like a wayward bit of void. He'd gone silent, but he was shaking.
"You are laughin'!" she accused, pushing at his shoulder and halfway to a squeal of glee.
"God dammit Harley," he managed between gasps for air against his hands.
"I made Batman laugh!" she announced, bringing her legs back together so she could bounce excitedly on her knees, throwing fists of triumph into the air. "This is even better than the fuckin' I wanted! Just as good. Almost as good. I'll take what I can get."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said, sounding almost like a real person. He rubbed at his face in a way that would have been more useful if it had been bare.
"Ya seemed like ya needed reassurin'!" she said defensively.
"Oh, I did," he said, rubbing at the bridge of his nose through his mask. "Thank you for that, I feel very reassured." Something about the way his voice had slipped was almost urbane. He was usually so quiet it made him sound like a ghost. He tried to clear his throat of those little scraps of life she'd managed to find. "A weird fetish thing," he muttered, shaking his head.
"I just wanted to be clear!"
"Clarity is good."
"I know laughter is its own reward, but I feel like I should get a prize for making Batman laugh," she said. She was leaning closer, her hips wiggling again.
"Is the prize cock?"
"Ideally!" She giggled. "But I ain't gonna do anythin' ya ain't comfortable with, so if ya just wanna tell me no an' be real mean about it, that works too."
He sighed. "Come here."
Her eyes widened. "Really?" That was all the invitation she needed, though she was still cautious as she pulled herself into his lap, straddling his thighs. "Like this?" she asked, nails digging nervously into the cape on his shoulders.
His answer was to slide a hand behind her neck and pull her into a kiss. He was soft and slow in all the ways she didn't have the patience for, and she rocked her hips, grip on his cape tightening.
"Ya didn't have to do that," she said when he'd pulled away. He ran a leather-clad thumb over her lower lip, and she couldn't tell if it was enough to smear her lipstick. "Are ya gonna...?"
"Going to what?"
"Fuck me?" she asked, breathless and hopeful.
"Maybe!" she repeated, indignant. The left corner of his mouth curled faintly upward.
"You haven't asked."
She looked down at herself, her dress ridden up to reveal soaked black lace between spread-wide thighs. "What, do I gotta beg?"
"… oh." She shivered giddily, biting down on her lip but not suppressing her giggle. "Please fuck me—" She hesitated. "... Batsy?" she tried. "Batman? Mister Batman? Mister Man? Mister Bat?" It occurred to her too late that this derailment was obnoxious. "Sorry," she said, pressing her mouth shut. Only being able to see the bottom half of his face made it hard to tell if he was irritated with her.
Gloved fingertips ran along her jaw. "Don't apologize." She leaned into his touch, and he let her nuzzle at his palm. "Keep talking."
"Mister," she decided, with more spite than she wanted to admit. Mister, just Mister, and anyone else would be left with a modifier to show that they weren't the. "Please fuck me, Mister? I want it real bad." She ran her tongue along his fingers, the familiar taste of leather, and nipped at his fingertips.
"Don't bite," he warned, taking his hand back, and with a giggle she snapped her teeth in the air between them. He pressed his fingers against her panties, and she ground against his touch. "Play nice."
"Ya gonna spank me?" she teased.
"You always ask that."
"But ya never do it!" She rocked her hips faster, and leather slid past lace to push inside her. "Ah—even—oh—even when I'm really bad." She rode his fingers as they moved and curled inside her. "I think about it," she added. "I know I'm not supposed to—oh—but your whole outfit is so—just look at ya! I can't—I can't help it."
"Are you implying I'm asking for it because of how I'm dressed?" he asked. He was droll as ever, but compared to his usual flat affect she could practically hear the smile in his voice. She cackled. "Don't objectify me when I'm trying to arrest you, Dr. Quinzel." There was something familiar, something evocative, about the way he called her that.
"Keep scoldin'," Harley said, "it's workin'." That won her a hiccup of laughter from him, dangerously close to a giggle, his mouth all lopsided. She let him go, pulled at the already-low neckline of her dress until her breasts came up and over it. He leaned forward to put his lips on her, drawing a nipple into his mouth, and she tightened around his fingers. She wanted to tangle her fingers in his hair; the best she could manage was to press a hand against the back of his head, a few fingers curling around one of the ears on his cowl.
"Oh—oh—harder, harder, please fuck me hard Mister, please." She rocked hard against his curling, pumping fingers; his thumb fit against her clit, and she groaned. "Fuck me like ya hate me, fuck me like you're tryin' to teach me a lesson, fuck me hard, please, oh god." His fingers pushed into her faster and deeper, she could feel his teeth against her skin, almost biting but not quite. Her voice was getting higher pitched, but if he wasn't going to stop her then she was going to keep talking. "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me up, I need it I need it oh my god—"
She came in a great shuddering climax, pressing him hard against her breast and gripping his cape with her other hand. When she went slack, his mouth left her skin, and she felt bold enough to press a quick kiss to it. He kissed her back more aggressively, a hunger in it that made her insides sing.
"Do I get to touch ya now?" she asked.
"Maybe." His fingers slipped out of her, leather gloves soaked, and she grabbed his hand to bring it to her mouth. She licked at his hand and sucked on his fingers, filling her mouth with the taste of her own arousal, making as much of a show of it as she could manage. "Did you have something in mind?"
She raised an eyebrow, and very pointedly drove the lips wrapped around his fingers to the base of them.
"Hm." He reclaimed his hand, and she reached between them to try to touch him. Then she gasped.
"I forgot!" she said, wide-eyed. "Ya wear that thing so I can't kick ya in the balls!"
He had that lopsided curve to his mouth again. "Yes."
Normally she didn't notice it unless she was in the process of trying to kick him in the balls. "You've been wearin' that thing with a hard-on this whole time?"
"That doesn't seem comfortable!"
"An' kneelin' like this is gonna cut off the circulation in your legs."
She huffed, prodding him in the impossible black of the symbol in his chest. "I'm gettin' up, an' you're gonna get comfy."
"Yes," she said, rearranging herself into the floor so he could move. He pulled his legs out from underneath himself, and almost immediately she was between them and running her hands along his boots. His knees were still bent, one foot on the floor as if at any moment he might change his mind and stand. "Ya gotta take better care of yourself," she chided.
"Earlier today you tried to break my legs with a giant hammer," he reminded her.
"I woulda took ya to the hospital after! I'd send flowers." There was a trick to getting his belt off, but she'd gotten good at it over years of getting the better of him. It fell from his hips with a clatter.
"You poisoned me."
"Red poisoned ya accidentally," Harley corrected. "An' then I poisoned myself to make it fair!" She frowned as she struggled with the fasteners on his pants. "Why've ya gotta make it so hard to get your dick out!"
"Why would I make that easy?"
"What if ya have to go to the bathroom?" she suggested.
"How many bathroom breaks are you assuming that I take in this?"
"Ya should be takin' a lot of them," she said, "if you're drinkin' enough water."
"You have a weird fixation on keeping me hydrated."
"Ya keep odd hours an' ya get a lot of exercise," Harley said with a wrinkle of her nose. "An' in this suit! I'm surprised ya don't get heat stroke in the summer." She'd become completely distracted from her task, hands resting on his pants and the unyielding plastic beneath it. It couldn't have been comfortable, but he didn't complain. "I did a study, yanno, about the long-term neurobiological consequences of chronic dehydration due to lack of access to clean water."
"Do ya?" she asked, surprised. "Do ya know what we found?" She prodded at the thick padding armoring his stomach. "Bad stuff! Drink more water."
He sighed as he leaned back on one elbow. "Yes, Doctor." His amused resignation made her giggle as she managed to get the outer layer of his clothes undone. This was usually as far as she got, leaving him in his thin black underclothes. She always thought he looked suspiciously like a ballerina in them, though he always denied it. It took some awkward sliding to get the cup he'd been wearing out of the way; she squeaked in delighted alarm when his cock came free of his suit. Then she clapped gleefully, giggling. "Now you're just being patronizing," he accused.
"Am not," she protested. "I'm excited, I'm allowed to be excited! It's very nice." She gently patted the head of his erection with her palm.
Batman did what was definitely a full facepalm.
"If you're going to pet it like a cat," he said, "I'm putting it away"
"That is not how I pet cats," she said, wrapping her fingers around his shaft. His skin was all slick with precum, hot and hard in her hand as she stroked him. He turned his attention underneath himself, to where his belt had fallen; after a moment, he offered her a condom. She cackled again. "Do ya always keep those in there?" she asked, taking it from him.
"I always figured maybe ya switched out what ya had in there based on, I dunno, algorithms or somethin'. So you'd have different stuff when ya were fightin' Riddler than when ya were goin' after Croc." She covered his cock significantly faster than she'd gotten it out, which felt all sorts of backwards to her.
She stuck her tongue out at him, still stroking his cock through latex. "I'm not fishin' for intel! That'd be a dumb way to try an' hurt ya when I'm holdin' your dick." His shoulders twitched in a demi-shrug. "Anyway, point is, I was thinkin' maybe the condoms were special, on account of Red an' the high risk of fuckmadness an' all." She'd intended to have her mouth full already, but she kept getting derailed, and he had a troubling tendency to not tell her to shut up.
"They're not usually for me."
"What, ya just throw rubbers at randos tryin' to fuck in alleys?"
Harley laughed loud and hard at the thought of someone getting hit in the head with a condom like a batarang. "That's the best fuckin' thing I ever heard," she informed him, before dropping her head to bury his cock in her mouth. Her lips at the base of him and the head in her throat, all at once so that he made a strangled sound of surprise. She hummed happily, sucked and bobbed for only a moment before coming back up. She reached for his hands, and he let her take them; she placed them on her pigtails somewhat pointedly.
"Ya don't have to try an' choke me with it," she interrupted, though it was clear that would be her preference. "Just hold on, at least." She tightened her hands around his and made him tug her pigtails in opposite directions, waggling her eyebrows. His little sigh was so put out by the suggestion that he try being inconsiderate that she giggled again. She wrapped her lips around his shaft again, bobbed her head too quick so he'd pull her hair whether he wanted to or not. "Mmph."
His grip tightened.
She pressed her nails into his thighs, sucked harder, moved faster. She whimpered and squirmed and groaned and hummed, validated when his hips started moving. Not by much, only intermittent shallow thrusts against her throat. In the brief moments of her silence she could hear his breathing, ragged through his teeth.
Suddenly he pulled her off of him by the hair; surprised, she yelped and brought her arms up to shield her face, shutting her eyes as she flinched. He moved her hands out of his way, tilted her face so he could kiss her, even messy as she was. Her heart slammed against her sternum, even as it became clear he wasn't angry with her. Just moving her to where he wanted her, pushing her down so that he could get on top of her. Quiet and efficient but the force of him could feel like passion if she remembered how he always burned cold. He pushed her panties back off to the side, tearing some of the stitching. She let out another yelp of surprise as his hands hooked under her knees, lifted them to her shoulders.
He was slow as he entered her, dragging out every inch so her back arched and her hips tilted, trying to urge him deeper. When he'd buried his cock in her completely, he started to thrust, pulling practically the whole length of him from her before ramming it back in. There were probably better ways for her to respond than a loud, "Holy shit," but he didn't seem to mind. She was incoherent almost immediately after, every thrust knocking the air out of her with a high-pitched sound. Her breasts bounced and her back tried to arch, pinned to the floor as she was, the bells on her ankles ringing. His cape draped over them both like a blanket, his grip tight on her legs, a rumbling sort of growl the only sound he seemed to make. His mouth and his jaw were still all she could see of him, a twitch to his lips like he wanted to snarl.
All at once he moved her again, and it thrilled her how he could do that, rearrange her in whatever way pleased him. He turned her over so she was on her hands and knees, one hand gripping her by the hip and the other holding her down against the floor by one of her pigtails. He thrust into her again, used fingers digging into her hip to pull her back against him in a steady pounding rhythm. She cried out, her toes curling backward and her nails scratching the floor. There was a voice in her ears and she realized it was hers, "Just like that, just like that, god, fuck, oh my god, oh my god, you're perfect, please—"
He pulled her up off the floor, wrapped an arm around her neck and gripped her shoulder, pinning her against his chest as he continued to fuck her. The texture of his suit was rough against her skin, she could feel his mask as his teeth pressed at the valley between her neck and her shoulder. Possessive, possessed, when she came she screamed and saw stars in her eyes. He'd buried himself in her, and she could feel the twitch of his cock trying to pump her full. She imagined his face, imagined being allowed to see his face, wondered if anyone ever really was. He kissed the mark his teeth had left in her skin as she went limp in his lap.
"You're real good at this, Mister," she sighed.
"Thanks." Batman pulled her down onto the floor with him, her body still fitted against his, wrapping his cape around her. It felt suspiciously like cuddling.
"Next time ya oughta cuff me," she said. She still throbbed, still ached, still wanted. She wouldn't be satisfied until the pollen wore off, and even then...
"There won't be a next time," he said. "This was an isolated incident."
Harley jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, and he grunted. "Don't say it like that."
"I'm not mad at you."
"Bein' mad at yourself ain't better." She wiggled herself off his still-hard cock so she could roll around in his arms. She wanted to see that small fraction of his face. "I'm happy," she informed him, stern as she could manage. "Don't ruin it for me tryin' to make me another nail on your cross."
"I mean it! If ya wanna be a martyr, that's your business, but do it on your time, not with mine. Ya might act like an authority figure, but it ain't like I respect ya as one anyway." She reached down between them to remove the spent condom from him; she needed to do something with her hands. "An' I know this ain't gonna change nothin', as far as arrestin' me goes."
"I am still going to arrest you after this," he warned.
"I just said I know! But that's got nothin' to do with this, on account of we are grown-ups an' we can compartmentalize. Right?" His only answer was a non-committal grunt. "An' I'm as sane as anybody else right now, an' it ain't like I got plans to tell folks I got to touch your dick." She tentatively closed the small space between them, was gratified when his hand flattened against her back and pulled her close. His erection pressed against her stomach, no threat or urgency to it. "Don't go ruinin' my hedonism by regrettin' it."
"You thought I was going to hit you," he said. It wasn't a question. "Earlier."
"I didn't think ya were," she corrected. "I wasn't thinkin' at all. I know ya ain't gonna hit me."
"I've hit you on more than one occasion."
Harley huffed. "It doesn't count if we're fightin'! Ya barely even hit me then." She grinned, though he couldn't see it with her face against his chest. "Ya used to choke me." Catching her one-handed, cutting off her air but stopping before she passed out, never leaving a mark. "I liked that."
"That's why I stopped doing it."
She giggled, stroking his cock idly between her fingertips and her stomach. "I like ya," she informed him. "Trust ya, even. We just got some philosophical differences, is all."
"What philosophy does bombing and robbing a fashion show fall under?"
"It was a statement about conspicuous consumption an' actin' outside of a system in which I'm asked to consume in order to make myself an acceptable object for consumption."
"Ya oughta see how I look in some of it—oh!" She gasped in delight. "What if ya fucked me in it?" she asked. "Can ya imagine if I did all that, just to have ya bring me in all jewel-encrusted an' freshly fucked an' sticky? Symbolically speakin'?"
"Symbolically speaking, that makes me sound like a rapist."
"Stop trying to make me a part of performance art in which I represent the patriarchy."
"Aw, Batsy." She patted his symbol affectionately. "It's cute how ya think I'll take orders when we ain't fuckin'."