A long way from the soft light of the moon, low in the dark sky above, a legend was growing in the heart of Gotham City. It was a year since rumors of a caped avenger were heard in the dark, wet alleys of the city. By this time, these rumors had become a name—a name that made even the most seasoned crooks feel a chill in their backs—Batman. At seventeen, Bruce Wayne was already the living shadow of fear among those who exploited the weak.
Tonight, the Dark Knight prowled through the city searching for a new predator. Calendar Girl, formerly known as Page Monroe, emerged from the shadows of the fashion district's gleaming glamour, her fall a spectacle in her mind—a spectacle that fostered a fierce bitterness, a hunger for revenge. Each of her meticulously planned crimes was timed with exact precision around major dates in her downward spiral from the top model to has-been. A dismal procession of Weekdays followed close in her wake, a ghostly reminder of the industry that set her aside.
The rain came down like a persistent dance partner as Batman chased Calendar Girl through the rooftops. The city was veiled in a glistening silver sheet, and the rundown buildings were monuments to hopelessness. The rain hit his eyes, but he would not close them—his eyes were set on his quarry. The cobblestones, below, were a reflection of the rooftops above, a patchwork of puddles and flashing reflections. His boots thundered across the slick rooftops, every step the metronomic beat of a countdown to doomsday. Gotham was a maze of hopelessness, and he the bloodhound pursuing the scent of its source.
The albino-white mask of the Calendar Girl contrasted with the blackness of the night around her. The cape, made from sheets of the calendar, fluttered around her as a banner advertising the loss of time in her history. The crossed-through dates whispered rejection, while every fluttering sheet told the story of her fight against the inexorable calendar, the one that had deceived her. Like a ballerina, she bounced from the fire escape, her body landing soundlessly upon the rooftop before her, her anger simmering just below her calm face.
Batman's eyes were narrowing, keenly aware of her game—which was teasing, then withdrawing, enticing but finally unattainable. Such games were no more. The Dark Knight fell from the skies, his cape blowing in dark folds before him, thundering down onto the rooftop with a shock impact echoing through the air. She twirled around, surrounded by her gang of Weekdays, their faces hidden by shock and fear. What was initially a pursuit was turned into a confrontation, tension palpable in the air.
"Calendar Girl," he snarled, his voice a low, rumbling noise that seemed to vibrate through the very air of the night. "Do you honestly believe your sweet little calendar club can survive the wrath of Gotham?"
Page Monroe, the mysterious woman hidden beneath her mask, leaned her head, a sneer twisting at her lips. "Wrath," she spat with a bitter mouth, her voice dripping with venom, a serrated blade cutting through the air. "You talk of wrath as if it were money in this city. Here, it's nothing but a jest, a punch line in a sickening jest, a recurring punch line that rewards the young, the pretty. You're just a child playing dressing up as Batman. You don't understand real suffering."
With a sweeping flourish of her calendar cape, she called upon her Weekdays, who stepped forward in a perfectly coordinated wave. Their eyes sparkled with a fascinating mixture of fear and loyalty towards their lady—each a vibrant, living personification of a weekday, perfectly dressed in black jackets and ties. Pacing at the front was Monday, the most dignified of them. "Let's show him how we keep time around here," he growled.
Batman's eyes raked across them, judging the danger by the calm accuracy of a calculating machine. "Fools," he snarled, his low tone not quite above the beat of the rain. "Do you think you can oppose me?"
The Weekdays traded nervous looks, their bluster dissipating like the aroma of bargain-basement cologne. Still, loyalty bound them, and they were being paid to fight. Tuesday, the quickest of the group, charged ahead, a knife glinting in his hand. Batman moved with a smoothness that seemed almost otherworldly. He grabbed Tuesday's wrist, twisted it with a jerk, and the knife clattered onto the rooftop below. With a twitch of his own wrist, he dislocated the thug's elbow and sent him crashing down.
Wednesday and Thursday began their attack with an unparalleled accuracy, using masterfully crafted batarangs that looked like scythes. The Dark Knight's reflexes became a maelstrom of motion—he grasped the deadly weapons and flung them back with an unnerving precision, lodging the blades deep within the chests of the henchmen. They fell like crumpled newspapers, gasping to breathe.
With a maniacal grin, Friday attacked Batman, swinging a chain attached to a weight-laden batarang, low across his knees. Knowing the attack was coming, Bruce jumped over the flying chain and dispatched a swift kick to the man's face, sending the man careening into the pit. The rest of the Weekdays—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—swapped frantic looks, their faces a mirror of stunned disbelief. They were not anticipating such a violent encounter. However, commitment to their crazed leader kept them in line, fists tightened, ready for fight.
Batman surged forward, a snarl of rage issuing from his lips. The rain lashed down in a relentless deluge, soaking the sidewalk in time with his hammering heart; every step he took was a declaration of intent. The three henchmen fought to keep their ground, but dread made them nervously shift from foot to foot. They were no match for the intense determination and skill of the young avenger. The Dark Knight sliced through their disordered defenses, striking with a precision terrible in its cruelty.
Friday reeled backward, the chain of his batarang cutting through the air like a projectile. Batman dodged quickly, then struck back with an upward blow from the heel of his hand, catching Friday on the chin with a solid punch that dropped him to the ground with a loud thud. The weighted end of the chain wrapped around Saturday's neck, tightening painfully until he dropped, struggling for air. Sunday tried to run, but a swift kick to the back of his knee had him sprawling face-first into a puddle.
Batman's eyes scanned the rooftop, his senses warning him Calendar Girl had escaped from the fight but was close by. She was drawing him into her world—a once-neglected modeling agency where, in years past, she once took refuge, but was now used by her as a platform for her twisted drive for justice. He felt her lurking around, a spider hidden in a web spun from the strands of shadow. The strobe lights suddenly flickered, their flashing brightness highlighting a catwalk filled with mannequins wrapped in the embers of forgotten fashion. Curling posters covered the walls, a grim reminder of the transience of beauty.
He stepped into the modeling agency with a careful step, the strobe lights bathing the room in a frantic whirlwind of shadow and light. In every flash, a new backdrop develops, with every flicker, another snare was revealed, but he was unyielding. He was in his breath, not in fear, but in the pumping, thrilling rush of the hunt. The shadows tried to trick him, the mirrors warping visions of his own shadow, but he moved forward with unyielding determination. He knew her plan—to confuse, to mislead, to trap him in the void that clung around her. The master of the night, though, was no pawn. Her stage was a battlefield upon which he was to win.
"Reveal yourself, Calendar Girl," he shouted into the empty space, his voice echoing as thunder in the empty room. "Your time is up."
The air was filled with the discordant symphony of clocks, punctuated every so often by the sound of the faint rattle of rain against cracked panes. The air grew cold, then suddenly, the strobe lights flickered out in a spectacular flourish. Out of the shadows stepped a silhouette, a visage radiating anger and desperation. A burning pain cut through his side—Batman winced, too late realizing she had used one of her calendar shurikens. He stumbled, his cape whirling around his knees in a dark thundercloud as he groped for the weapon stuck in his flesh.
Calendar Girl took advantage of the moment to strike again, her red-and-white a screaming blur as she ripped his mask open with her sharpened nails, leaving a gash deep in its wake. The heat of his blood, pumping with a vital energy, trickled down his cheek, reminding her forcefully that she was not a declining starlet, but a power to be reckoned with. However, before she could strike once more, he seized her wrist in a grip both strong and unyielding.
With a hasty, purposeful motion, he stripped from her porcelain mask, laying bare the face of a woman disfigured by the unyielding passage of time. In this crystalline instant, the face of Page Monroe radiated a spectral radiance, a dim memory of the radiance with which she once sparkled in the dazzling world of fashion. The eyes, once sparkling with vigor, now glowed with a profound sadness capable of freezing a person's very blood.
"Don't look at me," she spat, her words tinged with desperation and rage as she strained to avert her eyes. The finely crafted facade of perfection she once maintained had become a topography of lines and scars, a striking difference from the youthful radiance hidden beneath the veneer.
Batman's hand clenched barely noticeably. "Page Monroe," he said low, the rain matting his hair, plastering it to his forehead. "I know who you are."
Her eyes were wide with shock, and for a second, she seemed human, simple, even vulnerable. The anger in her eyes, however, was unyielding. "How?" she spat, her voice shaking. "How could you ever know?"
"I see the same desperation recur in every individual I meet," declared Batman, his tone firm and unyielding. "The city takes advantage of them, Page. It takes their suffering, their fear, and manipulates it into something... horrific."
His eyes glided across hers, a storm of rage flashing in their depths, with a faint trace of doubt. Raindrops dripped from the tip of his nose, combining with the beads of sweat gathering on his forehead. For a moment, he could feel her considering his words, her face altering from a snarl into a scowl. "I'm not a monster," she said softly, her words hardly above a whisper.
Batman's hold around her wrist was firm and unyielding. "I know," he whispered, his tone a low rumble. "I'm sorry."
She probed for the duplicity in his words in his eyes, but what she found was instead a reflection of the hurt in his, echoing her own. "You don't know," she whispered, her breath—passionate, unbridled—rising towards his face.
"But I do," he whispered, his voice less loud than the rain's patter. "Gotham has a way of making you feel like you're drowning in time, like it's falling through your fingers. But it isn't too late to rewrite your story."
Her eyes wandered into his, a whirlwind of feelings churning in their depths—doubt, rage, and a spark of hope. "What do you intend?" she asked, her breathing faltering.
Batman hesitated, the rain creating a solemn background for his offer. "You can come with me," he said, his voice low and sincere. "You can leave all this behind. Gotham doesn't define you, Page. Your past doesn't define who you are. I can help you start fresh."
Her gaze scanned his, and in the moment, he glimpsed the woman she was, before the city claimed her only to discard her. In the depths of her eyes danced a spark, not just of rage, but a deep hunger for forgiveness. When their eyes finally met, comprehension swept over him. He felt The Darkest Knight rouse within him, the tempting whisper telling him that she was drawn to him, not just a symbol of dread, but a shining light of hope in the depths of her misery. It was a potent mixture, one that made his heart pound, excitement edging the border of the primitive.
Bruce realized the importance of proceeding with caution; his role as the Dark Knight, as well as the incarnate of the Darkest Knight, made each step he took, each statement he made, hold the power to either free or destroy her. He was adamant not to make her just another entry in his utility belt, just another victory in his unyielding crusade. Rather, he wanted to free her from her own shadows, open her eyes to see that there was so much more to this existence than the transitory desires mandated by time.
The silence was palpable between them, only to be broken by the constant, rhythmic patter of the rain. And then, barely perceptibly, she nodded. "Okay," she whispered, that mere acquiescence hanging in the air like a gossamer thread from a spider's web. Relief wracked Batman—not victory, but a deep release. He knew that he had to move quickly.
He wrapped his hand around the shuriken at his belt, a faint tremble running through his hand. "Let me," she said, her voice tight with doubt. She edged in, her cape fluttering softly against his muscular leg. She met his eyes, and for a moment, the spark of wonder once strong enough to entice her into this underworld of thievery flared fitfully. She nodded, giving a nod, and she drew her hand up slowly, releasing the blade from its hold.
Batman clenched his teeth, the pain a grim reminder of his own mortality. The brush of her skin, however, caused a completely other type of shiver to run through his body—electric, and utterly surprising. He felt something in his utility belt tremble, a response to her nearness that was as scary as it was thrilling. Though he wore a mask of his inscrutable expression, he could not help but acknowledge, even there, that she was a beauty. Her body was a masterpiece of muscle and curves, her years having honed her beauty, rather than aging her. Her full, inviting lips parted, ever so slightly, and he was drawn by the idea of how it would be, pressing his lips against hers. The lush curve of her breasts strained against her soaked fabric costume, her hardened nipples visible underneath. Her round, upturned ass, perfectly molded for his grasp, jiggled with her movement, her determination unshakeable.
The pain of having the shuriken removed was dwarfed by the overwhelming rush of energy flooding through him as she soaked in his excitement. His utility belt inched up, his erect penis, swollen and firm through his trousers, peeking in her direct line of vision. The sight of it made her grip tightened around the hold of the shuriken, hesitating.
"You're just a boy," she breathed softly, a note of teasing in her tone. There was, however, a more complex undertone underlying the jesting tone—a hunger or a mysterious fascination. "What makes you think you can handle the likes of me?"
Batman dismissed her comment, as well as the way her eyes hung around his growing erection. He was conscious of her trying to get under his skin, get his notice. He could handle worse.
"I don't play games, Page," he told her, his low rumble of a voice echoing through her bones. "I'm treating you fairly, giving you a second chance."
Her eyes lingered on evidence of his excitement, a smile playing at her lips. "And what do you want in return, Batman?" she teased, her tone a smoky whisper. "The price of my salvation?"
Batman remained quiet. The tempest inside him raged on with each tick of the clock. The Darkest Knight persona pushed dark urges, tempting him to take her for himself, introduce her to the abyss of fear. But Bruce Wayne, the man behind the mask, was aware that was a road he did not wish to take. He took a deep breath, his chest heaving with the struggle for dominance.
"Let's go," he finally said, his tone strong and unyielding. "You're coming with me."
She did not move, though. She took a step closer, her eyes locked on the unmistakable outline in his tool harness. "You are not like the rest," she whispered, her breath a gentle heat against his cheek. "You're not afraid of me."
Batman's heart was pounding in his chest when she touched him, her hand sweeping the outline of his erection through his clothing. "Page," he told her, his tone strained. "This isn't the moment—"
She paid no attention, but her eyes never dropped from his face as she leaned down and began to stroke him gently. His breath dried up in his throat, and for a moment, he let her, the sensation overwhelming his senses. Her strokes were probing, questioning, as if she was mapping the outlines of a gun she was yet to become comfortable shooting. His erection, strong and long, strained against his pants, hungry for her hand.
"Is this what you crave?" She breathed softly, her mouth sweet and hot. "Is this what you want for saving me?"
Batman's resolve wavered like a flame. He was seventeen, God's sake, and she was a seasoned lady, a song of sirens in the guise of a villain. His body was a traitor to his better judgment, his cock growing stiff beneath her experienced grip. He should repel her, he told himself, but her hand was too enticing. The Dark Knight in him growled in concurrence, his temptation for rawness engulfing him.
Her eyes were blazing triumphantly as she felt his fight falter. She dropped down from her knees, her cape turning into red pool around her. With her fingers moving swiftly, she unfastened his utility belt, pushing it aside, and revealed the outline of his cock against his panting fabric. It was a strong gun, one capable of bringing a man down to his knees, and she was going to use it.
Batman was breathing harder as she leaned forward, circling the base of his cock with her hand, her hand a hot, tight grip. He was supposed to make her stop, he knew she was playing a dangerous game here, but he could not. The rain soaked through her costume, sticking to the curves of her ass, the tightness of her asshole a lascivious promise beneath the fabric. His cock was exposed now, standing before her, a testament to his hunger. It was thick, purple-striped, the head a swollen testament to his hunger.
"Page," he growled, his tone thick with a growly, parched-with-desire sound. "This isn't right.
She was already bent forward, her eyes aglow with a mixture of hunger, of mischief. Her full, plump lips parted, and she took his cock head into her mouth. The heat, the wetness, the pressure of her mouth wrapped around him—it was too much for him to bear. He let a low, strained grunt escape his lips, his head falling back as she went about sucking him in a style most definitely honed by years of practice. Her mouth was a velvet vice, her tongue a serpent's caress as she laved and teased the sensitive underbelly of his shaft. Her hand worked the base of his cock, her thumb massaged the area just below the head that made his knees tremble.
"Fuck," he muttered, shutting his eyes. "Page, you... you don't have to—"
He was close to the precipice, his body rejecting his knightly sense. Page's hand dropped from the root of his cock and slid in between her own folds, her digits deftly parting the damp fabric of her costume. She touched her own aching clit, her motions a silent declaration of her own hunger.
Batman's hand went up around her head, his fingers closing around her as he guided her, his hips pushing against her mouth gently. The tightness in her throat as she took more of him was a sweet pain that made him gasp. "Fuck," he breathed, the curse a pleasure in the blackness, surrounded by the rain. His eyes closed, the feel of her mouth wrapped around him too intense.
The strength of the Darkest Knight coursed through his veins, screaming at him to take more, take her completely. He restrained himself, his thoughts centered around the girl in front of him. Page, a once-beautiful girl in a city that devoured the flesh of her kin, now on her knees before the greatest icon of everything she was losing. Her own hand in her flesh, the sound of wetness a symphony for the beat in her mouth around his dick. He was near, his balls contracting in anticipation of orgasm.
Suddenly, with no warning, he was feeling the warmth of his cum shooting into her mouth, the intensity of his orgasm taking him by surprise. She did not pull away, though—instead, she was swallowing each mouthful, not once breaking her gaze from his. The look in her eyes—a mixture of triumph and avarice—was getting close to more than he could bear. Still, though as he was coming, his cock was as rock-hard as ever, a testament to the power of his hunger.
Shock and wonder painted her countenance as she rose, her own hand still hidden in her dampness. She gazed at him in a virtual wonder, her breast heaving in the exertion of her own hunger. "Batman," she breathed, her voice thick with hunger. "I didn't expect..."
He did not give her a chance. With a swift motion, he wrapped his arm around her hips, spinning her so her back was against his firm body. He could feel the heat from her through her costume, her flesh conforming to his body like a puzzle. His cock, erect and demanding, was nestled in the crevice of her ass cheeks, a begging proposition she could not ignore.
"I've had enough of your games, Page," he growled in her ear, his tone a promise of revenge. His hands crept up around her breasts, the fabric of her costume slicked wetly against her like a second skin. The nipples, roused and tight, prodded his palms, begging his caress. She drew her breath, her back curving sensually, leaning in close.
He grounded his hips into her, his dick's thickness sliding up her ass crevice. The stim was teasing, heating his blood. He could sense she felt the same—she was breathing more rapidly, her body tensing up with every stroke. Her ass was a handful, of the sort that made men salivate. The Darkest Knight in him urged he claim her, should make her experience the power of his own signature.
"You want me," she told him, her tone gentle but teasing. "You want me, just as they all did—like a piece of meat and then discarded."
Batman gripped her tight, his jaws clenched. "No, I'm trying to save you," he said slowly, his voice filled with desperation. "But if you are going to keep pushing me—"
Her eyes sparkled with a combination of defiance and hunger. She settled in, nudging her body softly against his. "Then what are you waiting for?" she urged in a whisper.
Batman didn't need to be coaxed. He dipped down, his hand moving into the wetness between her legs. Her pussy was warm and slick, the scent of her wetness filling the air between them. He stroked her clit, feeling it harden under his fingers, the way that she trembled its only sign that she was as lost in this as he was.
"Shit, Batman," she moaned, pushing against his hand. The rain had soaked through her costume, the fabric molding to the shape of her ass like a second skin. He could feel the shape of her hard asshole, the suggestion of another, darker type of pleasure. His own dick throbbed, needing release, the head tracing a wet path down her spine as he rocked against her.
With a snarl, he bent her over, the fabric of her costume rip apart, revealing the lush contours of her ass. It was a view that made his dick ache with lust—a rounded, hard apple screaming to be owned. He stood there for a moment, savoring the view, the muscles of her thighs straining as she leaned against rotting building. Her asshole was a puckered, stretched rosebud, a harsh opposite to the soft, open split of her pussy.
"Batman," she whispered, her tone cautious in the midst of the hurricane.
The words ignited the already present potent emotions between the two of them. He leaned in, his hand sliding down her back, his fingers reaching the hem of her costume. He yanked it down swiftly, exposing her full, heart-shaped backside to the cool air. The vision was too much for him—the curve of her body, the firmness of her skin, the glint in between her legs. It was a solicitous invitation, a touching plea, begging him to feel her, and he was more than eager to respond with a yes.
Batman's long, wide cock entered her tight pussy at the same time, and she gasped. The wet slapping of their flesh against each other lingered in the air and echoed around the deserted building. Page's eyes went wide with agony and delight as he fucked her with a savage ferocity that mirrored the tempest driving them about. Every thrust was a beat battering the reality of his authority, the tip of his cock pounding her G-spot with accuracy. Her breasts, their size that of ripe melons with nipples as hard as rock pointing like two compasses to lust, jiggled every time she was getting pounded.
"Take it," she whispered, her voice laced with desperation. "Fuck me like I am yours, Batman."
Her words drove him into a rage, releasing the beast within. The power of the Darkest Knight intensified, and he accepted it. He gripped her hips, demonstrating control, and began fucking her in a manner in which he could demonstrate his power. Every thrust demonstrated his strength, claiming her body. The sound of their flesh colliding intensified, ringing throughout the vacant office like a war cry.
Her moans increased in volume as her body responded to his powerful thrusts. Her vagina gripped him firmly, clenching with every thrust. She pressed her weight against him, moving in unison, and pleasure accumulated within her like water in an incoming tide. Her round, tight buttocks moved up and down with every strike, revealing the tight, wet opening.
He yanked his arm back and smacked her on the backside, producing a sound that rang within the room. Her eyes enlarged, in response not just to pain, but to pleasure, and her softly cursing with filthy words, screaming, between her breaths, pushing against his body. She didn't pull away, though; instead, she battled back harder, demanding more.
Batman leaned in, claiming her in a fierce kiss. He felt the salt of the rain, the sweetness of her hunger, the grime of the city. He did not care—he was intent solely on the woman beneath him, his strength evident in her curves. He forced his tongue past her lips, claiming it with the same intensity he took the city's streets.
Page breathed a sigh as they shared a kiss, her body arcing back as he urged into her more forcefully. She was close, her orgasm forming inside her like a tempest. And then, just when she was ready to come, he withdrew, a strand of saliva stuck between their lips. He drew away from her, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure.
"Batman," she growled in a rasping tone. "Please, don't stop."
He did not. He wrapped his arm around her instead, touching her lightly with his fingers, teasing her during the sex. She was getting more vociferous, her moans combining with the pitiful sound of the rains outside. The Darkest Knight in him relished her surrender, the way her body trembled around him, the way he gripped her firm. He could sense he was close too—his balls were tight, tension gathering in the nape of his neck.
"You'll cum for me," he breathed in her ear, his hot breath causing her body tremble. "You'll cum, and you'll yell my name."
Her body experienced a variety of things—his penis within her, his fingers teasing her clit, the sting of his hand in against her ass. It was a feeling of intense pleasure in waves. She shut her eyes tight and silently mouthed a low "Oh" as the orgasm intensified. And then, with a scream that was heard throughout the night, she came. Her vagina cramped his penis in a firm grip, and her juices trailed down her thighs. Her entire body trembled, all her nerves filled with pleasure.
Batman was not finished. He was getting more energized, his body growing more tense. He drew back from her, her wetness drawing at his shaft. His penis, smeared with her juices, hovered above her unbroken, untouched back. The Dark Knight was prodding him, urging him to take her in all her glory, to brand her so she would never forget.
Her eyes gleaming with a hunger of her own, her body trembled in excitement. She gazed up at him, her eyes questioning, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "Batman," she whispered, the sound a petition.
He didn't need to be reminded twice. With one last hard thrust, Batman pulled out of her, his cock glistening with her cum. He aimed at her flawless, rounded behind, the head of his cock hungering to claim her. The first rope of cum shot, cutting a fat streak down the right side of her cheek, toasty against the cold rain that cascaded and soaked both of them. She gasped at the novel, shocking feeling of it as the second one smacked onto her left cheek.
"God," he breathed softly, his tone strained with hunger as he leaned in and could feel the last drops fall upon her damp costume. "You're mine, Page."
She gazed into his eyes, revealing what she was after. "Yours," she said in a gentle tone, her voice inviting.