SEL Chapter 12

Ivy greets Barbara with a look that Barbara has come to recognize as guardedness. That’s not unexpected; Barbara’s just glad that Ivy agreed to let her in. She didn’t run the game plan past her before going live with all of that. While Barbara’s pretty sure that Ivy isn’t offended, Pamela Isley is not someone that it pays to make assumptions about.

“How much trouble am I in?” Barbara asks as she cautiously wheels out of the elevator into Ivy’s domain, noting a table of hydroponics that was not there on her last visit. Lucius is starting to trust Ivy more. Pretty soon, this place will be looking like a greenhouse.

“I’m not mad,” Ivy replies neutrally. It’s late, and she’s wearing a thin, white robe. Ivy never wears makeup and generally shuns the notion of trying to put herself together. Things were different when she was trying to seduce guys like Bruce Wayne. Ivy’s one with nature; she wouldn’t wear clothes if she didn’t have to, and of course, she sleeps nude, but Barbara can tell that she hasn’t gotten Ivy out of bed.

“I haven’t heard from Lucius. I take it he didn’t like it?” Barbara says.

“I’m not a mind reader. Did you like it?”

So, she really isn’t mad. Barbara relaxes a little. “I don’t know. I feel better. I don’t think it helped the campaign, but I have to be able to live with myself, you know?”

Ivy says nothing to that. Barbara knows better than to try to read her. Everything she’s done with Ivy has been to build trust. Well, no. That’s not true. Some of it has been trying to help the women of Gotham and some of it has admittedly been… getting her rocks off. But it’s mostly about trust. That means transparency.

So, Barbara relaxes fully and slumps in her chair, pulling off her glasses and rubbing her face.

“Honestly, I don’t love talking in front of people. It exhausts me. Especially that kind of thing. I feel like I need a bath.”

It’s suspicion on Ivy’s face as she peers down at Barbara. But is it genuine distrust? Or is it merely Ivy’s life of struggle and trauma making it difficult for her to believe that someone can treat her decently for once? Impossible to know.

Ivy looks away, arms still folded.

“I guess I could go for a bath,” she says finally.

“Are you swooning right now? Is this you swooning?”

“Yes,” Ivy replies with a sour look. “I’m swooning for crippled Barbara Gordon, mayoral candidate and rising corporate icon.”

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Barbara asks with a little hair toss, then she remembers that her hair isn’t down. “Usually it’s very lustrous and wavy,” she says, waggling her ponytail.

“Right,” Ivy says dryly.

Barbara extends her arms.

“Carry me like a princess.”

“We’re the same size.”

Ivy’s a little bigger, but it’s all in the curves.

Ivy doesn’t carry Barbara to the bathtub, but she does help her undress while it fills. Now, Barbara can see how hard she’s trying to act cool. It’s tempting to call her out on it, but Barbara isn’t feeling very daring. Even after the fun they’ve had together, there’s something intensely dangerous about being naked and **** with Ivy. Exciting too; Ivy has dropped her robe, and Barbara’s heartbeat and hardness are already telling a story of arousal, even before she’s in the water.

The bath full of perfume, Ivy, and hopefully being done with campaign stuff for the night is as close to paradise as Barbara ever hopes to get. She lets that show on her face as Ivy climbs into the bath across from her.

“What are you smiling about?” Ivy asks.

“Life’s OK.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?” Barbara laughs. Ivy’s looking away again.

“You just reminded me of Harley. Only for a second.”

“What?” Barbara keenly wishes that she could have feeling and the use of her legs, which are touching Ivy’s under the water. “What?” she repeats. “Do I seem crazy? Because that’s probably fair.”

“No,” Ivy says, risking a glance through the steam rising from the bathwater. “But you were looking pretty cute and kissable for a second.”

“For a second?” Barbara squawks, splashing her. “I’m always cute and kissable!”

“Oh my god. Do you get off on this mayor stuff?”

That gives Barbara pause. Her hand is frozen, poised to splash Ivy again. She frowns, then seriously returns Ivy’s gaze.

“Do I?”

Seconds pass. Barbara snorts. Then grins.

“What?” Ivy asks, looking annoyed.

“If only there was like a… mental health expert we could consult about this…”

“Shut up!” Ivy bursts out, pointing a warning finger as Barbara cackles.

“Make me. Nerd!”

Ivy rolls her eyes and puts her hands on the side of the tub, pushing herself up and forward.

“Ooh,” Barbara says as Ivy climbs over her. “Oh!” She gasps as Ivy roughly grabs her erection under the water.

Ivy squeezes it and comes in close.

Barbara’s body is in charge. Her lips are parted, and she lifts her face a little, but Ivy doesn’t kiss her. She just gazes into Barbara’s eyes and strokes her.

“Oh. Ah,” Barbara pants; she has lost her breath and she can’t get it back. Her fingers grip the sides of the tub. She grabs at Ivy’s body, but she’s covered in soapy water. Barbara goes back to holding the tub. She shudders and arches her back. Ivy’s merciless. No teasing, just gentle, firm, steady expertise and the most aggressive eye contact that Barbara’s ever encountered.

“Oh my god,” she whimpers.

Ivy seals her mouth with a kiss as Barbara’s back arches and she bursts into the hot bathwater.

SEL

Stephanie looks like she’s been hit by a truck. The dark circles under her eyes, her crazy hair. She brushes her teeth in front of the mirror in Bruce Wayne’s downtown penthouse master bath, wearing an oversized purple unlicensed Nightwing tee that emphasizes Dick’s modestly famous butt. She is beyond exhausted, and tonight wasn’t exactly a glorious victory. It’s bedtime. The world will be less depressing tomorrow. She has a magic show to look forward to.

She bends to spit, only to stiffen at a familiar chime.

Stephanie isn’t the best of the Bats, but by god, she is one of them and is going to act like it. She spits and straightens up, and with a Herculean effort of will, wakes up her brain and wariness. A visitor this late could be trouble.

Stephanie grabs her phone and checks the camera for the elevator.

“Oh, jeez,” she sighs. But she doesn’t let down her guard. Things aren’t always what they look like.

She answers the door, ready for an ambush. But there is no ambush.

Kate’s in the hallway. She’s gone back to her bad dye job and short haircut. Just what Gotham needs: another redhead with a high tolerance for risk. She wears a slightly rumpled khaki and polo ensemble that identifies her as a GCPD cadet.

She is visibly wasted, and all but falls into Stephanie’s arms. Stephanie catches her, gasping as Kate hugs her tightly.

“I struck out,” Kate moans morosely. Oh god. We’re back to sad lesbian status.

“Jesus Christ,” Stephanie mutters.

“Comfort me, Babs.”

“It’s Stephanie.”

“Comfort me, Stephanie.”

“There, there,” Stephanie says, kicking the door shut and patting Kate’s head. “Hey!” she cries as she feels a sharp pain on her neck. She pulls away, blushing, and using her hand to cover the spot where Stephanie just gave her a hickey.

“You look so hot,” Kate whines.

A part of Stephanie wants to throw Kate into a cold shower, but she can’t do it. Loneliness is a real thing that Stephanie understands, and banging GCPD cadets will not cure it for Kate, although rejection from GCPD cadets will certainly make it worse. Kate’s a moron, but she’s also hurting. Stephanie can’t leave her alone for tonight. The only question is how she should approach dealing with this pitiful dumbass.

Is Stephanie a merciful angel?

Or a dark avenger?