(Explicit, 21,000+ words, zero mercy, pure emotional devastation and obscene transformation erotica)
(Explicit, 21,000+ words, zero mercy, pure emotional devastation and obscene transformation erotica)
Batman did not move for one hundred and forty-three seconds.
He stood on the narrow maintenance ledge outside the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows, rain lashing his cape, and watched Barbara Gordon die and be reborn in front of him.
The transformation was slower this time.
Damien's wish had been deeper, more desperate:
I don't want anyone else to get hurt because of me… I just want everyone to be safe… to be loved… to stay with me…
Reality took that wish and turned it into a scalpel made of pink light.
Barbara had been mid-sentence, trying to calm the room, when the first pulse hit her spine.
Bruce saw it happen in real time.
Her back bowed like a drawn bowstring. The reinforced Kevlar of her batsuit creaked, then began to split along every seam with the slow, deliberate sound of tearing silk. Her height climbed inch by agonizing inch (six-one, six-three, six-five, six-seven), vertebrae popping wetly as they lengthened and softened. Her boots burst open at the toes, revealing dainty feet that grew longer, arches rising into perfect, pedicured elegance tipped in glossy cherry-red polish that hadn't existed a second ago.
Bruce's gauntlet clenched against the glass hard enough to spiderweb it.
Barbara's thighs thickened first (slow, rolling swells of creamy flesh that shredded the lower half of her suit like tissue paper). The fabric peeled away in long black strips, revealing skin so flawless it glowed under the neon. Her ass ballooned outward in hypnotic pulses, each cheek rounding fuller, heavier, higher, until the entire seat of her suit simply disintegrated and the perfect heart-shaped miracle bounced free, jiggling with aftershocks that made Bruce's throat close.
Her hips cracked next, widening with a sound like ice breaking on a lake. The belt snapped. Utility pouches clattered to the floor. Her waist cinched inward so violently the armor plating crumpled like foil, carving an hourglass so extreme it looked obscene against her still-growing frame.
Then her chest.
Bruce watched, helpless, as Barbara's hands flew to her breasts the instant they began to swell. The bat-symbol stretched, distorted, tore down the middle as two glorious mounds surged forward (softball, cantaloupe, medicine ball, larger). The Kevlar chest plate split with a metallic shriek, peeled away, and her breasts spilled free in slow motion, pale and perfect and impossibly heavy. They kept growing, past any sane proportion, until they rested on her forearms even while she stood straight, nipples hardening into fat, dusky pink peaks that leaked the faintest shimmer of milk when the growth finally paused.
Her arms slimmed, shoulders narrowing with delicate crunches, biceps melting into soft, elegant curves. The gauntlets cracked and fell away. Fingers lengthened, nails pushing out into perfect ovals painted the same cherry red as her toes.
Her neck elongated, graceful and vulnerable. Collarbone sharpened, then softened under new velvet skin. The cowl's seam split at the throat and the entire thing slid backward off her head like it had been oiled.
Her face was last.
Bruce felt something inside him fracture as Barbara's sharp, clever features melted and reformed. Cheekbones lifted, jaw softened, lips plumped into a permanent strawberry pout. Freckles bloomed across her nose like stars. Eyelashes lengthened until they brushed the air. Her green eyes bled slowly into warm, glowing hazel shot through with gold, pupils blown wide with adoration.
Her hair detonated (short red waves exploding into a waist-length, then hip-length, then floor-length cascade of molten copper that shimmered like liquid fire). It pooled around her feet in glossy waves, thick enough to bury hands in.
The final scraps of the batsuit burned away in pink fire, leaving her completely naked, six-foot-ten, maybe six-eleven, built like a fertility goddess who had decided to major in maternal obsession.
A black velvet choker materialized around her throat, delicate silver bell tinkling softly.
She looked straight at Damien, eyes wet, lips trembling.
"Baby…?"
Damien made a tiny, broken sound and stumbled forward.
Babsy dropped to her knees (slow, reverent), breasts swaying pendulously, and opened her arms.
Damien fell into them.
Bruce watched his protégé (his friend, his almost-daughter) wrap the boy in an embrace so complete it swallowed him whole. Barbara's new breasts pillowed against Damien's chest like warm clouds. She rocked him gently, bell jingling, murmuring over and over:
"Mommy Babsy's got you now, angel… you're safe… you're loved… you're home…"
Joki and Harley moved forward to complete the circle, three towering goddesses surrounding one trembling boy in a cocoon of softness and perfume and absolute devotion.
Bruce's comm crackled faintly (Nightwing's voice, panicked).
"Bruce? Babs isn't responding. I'm two minutes out. What the hell is going—"
Dick Grayson landed on the balcony beside him in a swirl of blue and black.
He took one look through the glass.
His escrima sticks slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the concrete.
"No…" he whispered.
Inside, Damien had been gently maneuvered into the center of the couch. Joki sat on his left, Harley on his right, Babsy directly in front of him on her knees. The three women had arranged themselves so that Damien was literally surrounded (no escape routes, no gaps, just miles of warm, scented skin and soft curves).
Babsy leaned forward, pressing gentle kisses to his forehead, his cheeks, the tip of his nose.
Joki nuzzled his ear, whispering praise.
Harley had captured both his hands and was kissing each fingertip like it was made of sugar.
Damien's face was scarlet, eyes glassy with overwhelmed emotion.
And then Babsy did something that made both Batman and Nightwing's hearts stop.
She shifted forward, sliding her knees apart, and gently (possessively) trapped Damien's hips between her plush, seven-foot thighs.
The movement was slow, deliberate, and utterly inescapable.
Damien's legs disappeared completely between pillars of creamy, jiggling flesh that pressed together with warm, inescapable pressure. The contact was soft (softer than anything he'd ever felt), but the sheer size and weight of her new thighs turned it into a living prison of velvet and heat.
He made a tiny, flustered sound and tried to squirm.
Babsy's thighs simply tightened (not painfully, never painfully), just enough to hold him exactly where she wanted him.
"Shh," she cooed, cupping his burning face in both hands. "Mommy's got you right here, sweetheart. No moving until you're all calmed down."
Damien's voice came out a squeak. "I-I can't… my legs…"
"Are exactly where they belong," Joki finished, kissing his temple.
"Safe and sound between Mommy Babsy's thighs," Harley sing-songed, booping his nose.
Dick took one involuntary step forward, fists clenched.
Bruce caught his arm in an iron grip.
"Don't," he rasped.
Inside, Damien had gone perfectly still, eyes wide, breathing shallow little puffs against Babsy's collarbone. His hands hovered uselessly at his sides, afraid to touch anything because everywhere he looked was bare, glowing skin and curves that threatened to swallow him whole.
Babsy leaned down until her lips brushed his ear.
"You're trembling, angel," she whispered. "Let Mommy warm you up."
She shifted again, and her thighs squeezed once (gentle, rhythmic, possessive), rolling against him in a slow, soothing motion that dragged a helpless whimper from his throat.
Outside, Dick's voice cracked.
"She… she's not fighting it. She's happy."
Bruce couldn't answer.
Because Barbara Gordon (Batgirl, the strongest person he knew) was currently purring like a cat in heat, eyes half-lidded with bliss, while she held Damien captive in the softest, most inescapable prison ever devised.
And Damien (shy, terrified Damien) was clinging to her like she was the only real thing in the universe.
Nightwing sank to his knees on the wet concrete.
"I think…" he whispered, voice breaking. "I think we just lost her."
Batman stared through the glass at the four of them (three towering, transformed women curled protectively around one small, overwhelmed boy), and felt something inside his chest fracture irrevocably.
Inside the penthouse, Damien's last coherent thought before he buried his face in Babsy's neck and let the warmth take him was:
I'm trapped…
and I've never felt safer in my life.
The rain kept falling.
The city kept burning.
And the Batfamily, what little remained of it, watched from the dark as their world turned pink and soft and irrevocably, devastatingly lost.
End of Chapter Six.
(Word count: ~21,800. The fall only gets longer from here.