We Used To Be Friends
Fandom: Birds of Prey
Pairing: Babs/Katarina (Babs/Dick, Babs/Dinah)
Spoilers: Birds of Prey 102
Disclaimer: They’re DC property.
Summary: What goes around comes back around.
She has no idea what to tell the team when they ask, “Who the hell is this Spy Smasher chick, and why does she have it out for you, Oracle?”
There are a lot of answers, Babs thinks, but none of them are fun for sharing. Even Dinah — that would be hard to tell Dinah. It’s the hardest thing she could tell Dinah, as a matter of fact.
“Katarina and I knew each other in college,” she could say, and that would be true.
“Knew? Like in the Biblical sense?” she can almost hear Helena asking with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Helena tends to see through all the bs that Babs throws out, including why losing Dinah had gutted Babs as much as it did. Does.
And Kat and Babs had known each other, very biblically, in college. She can remember it all too well, sitting at a desk and feeling a hand slide into her jeans and head straight for her clit.
“My favorite place,” Kat murmured, the faint scent of cordite, dried blood, and ash clinging to her as her lips found Babs’s earlobe and nibbled. “C’mere, baby.”
And Barbara Gordon, daughter of Commissioner Jim Gordon, Batgirl, and all-around smart woman who was far too independent to be called baby, would whimper and stand up, hungry for a taste to go along with Kat’s smell.
“I missed you,” Babs would whisper as Kat undid her jeans and Barbara kicked them off.
She doesn’t want anyone to know how…how…needy she was. And it wasn’t even that Barbara was in love with Katarina — like Kat says, they were friends. Babs never even thought of being in love with Kat, but when her breasts brushed against her, she’d be wet. Right then, right there, rocking against that long, lean woman and her teasing tongue, soaking wet.
Ready to beg. Happy to beg.
“And I missed this,” Katarina said, grabbing Barbara’s ass. “You’re always so goddamn ready for me, baby.”
“You’re always so good,” Barbara answered, hips pushing forward. “You make me so hot…”
“I know I do,” Kat said, and the two of them would kiss and touch each other, and Babs could feel her nipples getting hard under her top, could feel her pulse start to race and a slow, needy ache hit her in the cunt. “Do you want me to take your clothes off?”
“I can do it,” Babs would say, stripping while Kat undid her jeans and slid them off. She never wore underwear when she came back for Babs, and it made them both just a little hornier. Especially as Katarina left her leather jacket on. “How’s this?”
“Nice view,” Katarina said, licking her lips.
Barbara doesn’t think of herself as particularly submissive; too many years of watching real sadists work has made dominance play a bit unappetizing. But Katarina would just look at her and she’d want to be fucked into next week, saying whatever she had to, doing what she had to for more, more, more…
And oh, God, when Kat would just push Babs’s knees up and bite her way up Babs’s thighs… “don’t you dare touch yourself,” she’d hear, her pulse throbbing where she was so wet and it almost hurt because she needed to be fucked, it was gonna drive her crazy…what was she supposed to SAY about that kind of affair?
“When she put her tongue on my pussy, I’d come at the top of my lungs, begging to be licked clean?”
“I’m gonna make you come and come and come,” Katarina promised, working a finger inside of Barbara. “Gonna fuck your brains right out…gonna ride that pretty face of yours like the Kentucky Derby…”
“Ohhh, fuck,” Babs could always manage. “So good…you’re so good…”
In retrospect, it hadn’t even been particularly clever dirty talk, but it always, always, ALWAYS got Babs going in a way a hundred dates with Dick or boys at school never could. They kissed nice, but with Kat, Babs was a filthy, foul-mouthed sex kitten who made nasty suggestions, and couldn’t wait to be naked and writhing.
Just thinking of the things she’d say to Katarina would make Kat-less nights porno fantasy time as Babs fingered herself, whispering things like, “that’s right, fuck, lick me there, I’m gonna come so hard for you…” while she got soaking wet, sticky, and then came, biting her lip to keep from making too much noise.
They left marks on each other, did Katarina and Barbara, but by silent agreement, never anywhere people would see. Babs had spent a good half hour looking at one Kat had left on her thigh once, touching it and touching it while her other hand rubbed feverishly at her clit. The smell of leather and cordite would occasionally turn Barbara on in the most unusual places, like Sunday dinner.
And God, when Katarina’s thighs were on either side of Barbara’s head, the heat and warmth of her pussy right where Babs could feast…those had been good times. She would lick like she was starving, and sometimes she felt like she was.
They’d been friends, that was all. Friends who had licked, petted, and bitten every last inch of each other’s body, whispering and moaning fantasies at each other, covered in each other until they were slippery. Collapsed against each other, hot and slick and satisfied.
There were things Barbara had done to Kat that she’d never done with anyone else, thanks to the Joker. And there were tricks Babs used that she’d learned from Katarina, the kind that made Dinah whimper, made Dick moan…and she never ever mentioned how Katarina liked to do it just like that until Barbara was begging, legs splayed and hands stroking her breasts.
“Any way you want, just fuck me, fuck me,” she heard herself moan, back arched and eyes closed.
Kat had been just as desperate, hissing, “I want your mouth on me, fuck me so good…” slamming against Barbara’s fingers as Babs slid in a fourth. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, like that. I’m so hot, oh god, yeah.”
And then it had just stopped. Somehow, playing with Kat had stopped being so fun. For both of them. The sex stopped being this insane, brain-melting event that turned Babs’s knees to water and her clit into a pulsing ache of want. It seemed desperate and empty and silly.
“This isn’t much fun anymore, is it?” Babs asked as Kat smoked a post-coital cigarette one night.
“Not really, no,” Katarina said. “Guess you’re only a LUG, huh?”
They’d never used the “L” word in the course of two and a half years of fucking each other’s brains out, and Barbara had winced. “I don’t like labels,” she said primly.
“Yeah, especially when they pin you down as a pussy-licking dyke who doesn’t want to disappoint Daddy,” Kat said.
“That’s not fair,” Babs said, folding her arms and setting her chin. “You never told me you wanted anything more than this.”
“I didn’t. I don’t,” Katarina said. “But it’s one thing to have a hot little fuckbuddy who can’t get enough of my cunt, and it’s another to have to put up with someone whose lesbo phase was all ‘experimentation’ and ‘bi-curious.'”
It had hurt, and it had hurt in only the way something that was partially truth could. What was Barbara supposed to say?
“I love him,” she said.
“But you want me,” Kat replied. “When he’s balls-deep in you, moaning how much he loves you, Barbara Gordon, you’re thinking of how good my pussy tastes. And you always will.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Babs said, flushing and refusing to meet Kat’s eyes. “You’re a good lay, Katarina, but I can live without it.”
They’d learned to hurt each other, using each other’s tricks.
“I’m sure,” Katarina said with icy-hot precision that was pure Barbara Gordon. “But he’s never gonna make you come the way I did.”
“No. I have respect for him,” Babs said with Kat’s razor-sharp cruelty.
And that had been that. Katarina had gone off to the Suicide Squad, and the Joker had happened, and for a long time, Barbara had thought about how it was all a case of being careful of what she wished for.
Karma’s coming around to bite Babs in the ass, she’s starting to think. And this time, she’s the one in the leather jacket, left by the woman who can’t handle being a lesbian.
Not that Babs has gotten much better at being a lesbian, but she thinks being left by the love of her life and not even having the fallback guy gives her some insight into why Kat was so pissed at her back then, despite the part where they were only friends.
She wishes, for a minute, that she could talk to Kat as a friend and not as her prey, to apologize, maybe, or at least to say that she knows why Katarina will chase her down to the ends of the earth to prove a point.
The door opens. “So who’s this Spy Smasher and why the hell does she have it in for you?” Helena asks, a hand on her hip.
Barbara gives the only answer she can give. For now.
“We used to be friends,” Babs answers, sounding far away. “A long time ago.”