Marry The Beyond 2.0 (Patreon)

Terry didn’t know why the Neo-Gotham PD still bothered with the Batsignal. You could hardly see the light for all the neon in the cityscape. Commissioner Gordon knew who he was, so she could just call him or Bruce on the phone and let them in on whatever they needed to know that way.

Plus, the old man seemed to know everything… Terry didn’t know what Barbara could clue them in on that he wouldn’t already know. Maybe she just wanted to spare him some of Bruce’s lectures—but Terry was getting used to the old bat. Bruce even let him have snacks while he was explaining about the latest criminal threat to the good people of Gotham.

So Terry figured the Batsignal was just damn cool and didn’t question it any further. Barbara was getting old, despite her current MILFy status. She could use some cool in her life.

Which was partly why he gave her the full effect when he came to the rooftop of police headquarters. Even though she knew how many pimples he had, he posed on top of the parapet and waited for her to notice him, sure he’d give her a fright. It was the kind of thing he’d never try on Bruce; out of concern for the retiree’s heart, of course.

“You’re just going to crouch there and hope you look awe-inspiring all night?” Barbara asked him, not breaking from her own coffee and contemplation outlook of the cityscape and all that damn neon.

Repressing a groan, Terry did a front flip to land next to her. “You going to tell me why the world’s biggest nightlight is on? I want to get back to flying the Batmobile around. You know that baby corners like a dream.”

Barbara gave him a look. He thought she was trying to repress her envy. She might not be. “You know the Dee Dees?”

Terry did. Not as well as he wanted, but a little too well. He wouldn’t say no to a little more time with their thighs wrapped around him, but preferably when they weren’t trying to suplex him and when he wasn’t livestreaming everything to the old man.

“They’re the only Jokerz I pull my punches with,” he said.

“Maybe that explains it,” Barbara said. “A patrolman picked them up. The usual: possession of stolen property, drug possession, possession of an unlicensed firearm… and now that they’re out of high school, that kind of thing carries some heavy time.”

“Tragic,” Terry said. “I’ll try not to think about them in women’s prison too much.”

“The thing is, they say they should get a pardon on account of their upcoming nuptials.”

“They’re fertile?” Terry quirked an eyebrow. There really was no rhyme or reason to who had avoided being sterilized by Cuvier’s splicing byproduct.

“Don’t they look it?” Barbara teased, her own eyebrow raised.

“So who’s the lucky guy?”

“Terry McGuiness. Ever heard of him?” Barbara asked wryly.

Terry hid his surprise behind the standard-issue bat-poker face. “I hear his name mentioned now and then.”

“Yeah, well, ever since Old Man Wayne named the boy his heir, he’s a pretty hot ticket item.”

Terry leaned against the rooftop’s parapet. “So, think he should take the twins up on their offer?”

“It would keep them out of trouble,” Barbara mused. “And I hear the kid’s having a little trouble with his ladyfriend. He could do worse than to make her jealous.”

Terry skewed his jaw. “Pretty vicious tactic.”

“I lost a boyfriend to a space alien, bats. It teaches you to play dirty.”

***

“You’re not seriously considering this, are you?” Bruce asked when he was back in the Batmobile.

“It’s not easy to socialize with this job. You know a better way to meet women?”

“Go to a gala. Wear a tux.”

“This seems more efficient.” Terry was surprised to find he was talking himself into it. “They’re not that bad, for Jokerz. I kinda felt… un-schway at the thought of them ending up in jail. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they just ended up on The Real Housewives of Gotham instead.”

“Fate worse than death,” Bruce opined.

***

Delia and Deirdre had gotten out of jail a lot of times. This was the first time the corrections officer led them out to the curb where a hover-limo was waiting, the chauffeur-bot already programmed with a destination.

“Shotgun!” Deirdre cried, and piled into the passenger seat so fast she almost lost her box of possessions.

“It’s a limo, dum-dum, you’re supposed to ride in the back? With the sunroof?” Ladylike, Delia stooped her way into the spacious hold. “Oh God, there’s stationary…”

“What’s it say? What’s it say?” Deirdre chimed through the open partition between the backseat and the front.

Delia picked the letter up and neatly broke the resinous seal. “’Dear Delia and Deirdre Dennis’—say that five times fast—‘Mr. Terry McGuiness requests the pleasure of your company at his residence to discuss your engagement.’ They bought that?”

“He bought that?” Deirdre asked. Then: “Dear Delia and Deirdre Dennis, dear Delia and Deirdre Dennis—”

“They must’ve bought that we were getting married… why else would they let us out? But why would he think we’re getting—Deirdre! Did you date Terry McGuiness, get engaged to him, and pretend to be me to get him all excited about a twin threesome? Again?”

The limo whooshed into gentle motion, carrying them inexorably towards where Terry lived.

“I don’t think so…” Deirdre answered wonderingly.

***

Half an hour later, the hover-traffic thinned out and Delia noticed their limo breaking out of its flight pattern and sidling down to a great big monolith of a luxury hotel. Exactly the kind of place she’d expect a trust-fund hottie to live.

Their limo docked with the port on the balcony and she got out, pulling Deirdre along with her so her twin didn’t get out on the other side and drop seventy-five odd stories.

Out on the Spanish-styled balcony, Delia noticed someone handsome leaning on the wall by the open door. His smile and his air of casual masculinity made Delia tingle. She heard Deirdre let out a low whistle.

“Hey, Dee. Dee,” he said, greeting each of them in turn. “How about a drink, so long as we’re getting married?”

“We’d love to!” Delia giggled, disbelieving but awestruck that it had worked. They’d actually gotten Terry McGuiness to accept them into his harem!

“And we’ll take the drink too!” Deirdre crowed.

Terry pushed open the door beside him. “Step into my parlor.”

“And he has a parlor,” Deirdre whispered to her sister as they stepped forward.

Delia passed close to him as they walked into his penthouse. She felt another pang down deep below any casual, everyday sensations. This one hit where she was a girl. Group showers at the women’s prison had been a fun thought, but she really preferred what Terry had for her. Heir apparent to the Wayne family cocksmanship… just imagine what Wayne had seen in the guy to decide he could pick up where Brucie’d left off as a ladykiller!

Terry gave him the quick tour, which was to say he showed them the way to the rec room on a lower floor next to his indoor pool and patio. His snug pants told Delia that he was wonderfully endowed. If Deirdre noticed or didn’t, it didn’t matter. She still responded to his good looks, glancing at Delia every now and then to be sure her twin approved.

Deirdre had awful taste in guys, relying on Delia to find boys good enough to share. If it were up to Deirdre, they both would have gotten hitched to some of their idiot friends in the Jokerz instead of climbing the social ladder.

“It’s just me here,” Terry said. “My mom’s actually moved in with Mr. Wayne—she’s so grateful to him for everything that she wants to be sure he doesn’t fall down the stairs or anything. My little brother’s at college. I have a maid and a gardener, but they’re both bots.”

He moved behind his rec room’s minibar and gestured for the twins to sit on some of the stools lined up before him. A few finger motions on his phone and some soft R&B started playing, while the lights went down as though to let them better appreciate the glow of the city at dusk. He started preparing a shaker of martinis.

“It’s a shame you already have a maid,” Deirdre giggled, wiggling her cute ass down on the barstool. “I’d look good with a feather duster in my hands.”

Her tubetop clung tight to the twin peaks of her high breasts and her red hair swept down to her jawline. Her harlequin make-up had been washed off in the prison delousing, but her clear skin and cute features didn’t need any adornment. In fact, all her lips needed was for her to keep licking them—they gleamed redly with a lust she couldn’t suppress.