Diana considered the vibrator that Etta had gifted her with a vague suspicion. It just seemed so crude. No finesse to it at all. She watched it buzz in her hand as it cycled through settings. What function did it serve to have it turn on and off apparently at random? For whom was that setting ideal?
She'd try it despite her misgivings, as a courtesy, but she had doubts.
Would she think of lovers past? Some fictional amalgamation thereof? Someone entirely fictional, maybe—there'd been that lovely book with the fanged woman.
But vampires recalled bats recalled—
She shut her eyes. Bruce. He'd be wearing—what would he be wearing? That thing from the ballet Steve had taken her to. Swan Lake, there was a young man in it. All shining and ruffled and very tight fitted and still mostly black.
Yes. That thing. He'd be wearing that. With that scruff he got sometimes, and maybe a bit of eyeliner. It wouldn't kill him to wear a little makeup sometimes. It would bring out his eyes.
He'd pull her close, and cup her face in his hands, callouses rough against her skin. He'd say: Hello, Princess. And then he would say: What in God's name am I wearing right now?
Which was a fine thing to say for an atheist who spent half his time dressed like a bat.
And he would say: No sane deity would allow this outfit to happen, but I'm still allowed to use idioms.
Except that he wouldn't say that, because it was her fantasy and that meant he'd keep his mouth shut and look pretty.
And he would say: I think you have me confused with someone else.
This wasn't working. Obviously, brute force was required. She switched the vibrator on.
Oh. Yes. That would help. A bit much, actually. Nonetheless: helpful.
Skip ahead, past the chit-chat, to the part where he'd be too busy to be a smartass. When he'd say: I have never in my life been that busy. Except he wouldn't, because shutting up and pretty and so on.
Logistically, her powers might make things difficult. Rope games were fun for their own sake, besides. He'd have her tied up, then; maybe his clothes would be a little mussed. Just a little.
He'd stand over her, rope in his hands and her at his mercy, and he'd say: Why would I ever do this?
For lots of reasons. Maybe there was a supervillain involved. Poison Ivy? She wasn't clear if Poison Ivy actually had sex powers, or if that was just a convenient excuse people used. Regardless, it was a perfectly reasonable thing to have happen in a fantasy with no obligation to adhere to reality.
He'd lean down to bring his face close to hers, and he'd say: I object to this on ethical grounds.
Fine. Not a supervillain. Definitely no impaired decision-making. Totally sober and consensual.
His fingers hooked in a length of rope around her neck, pulling her close, his mouth nearly against hers to murmur: Why do I look like we've been fighting?
Sparring. Sparring as part of a totally consensual, no, this wasn't going to work, she just kept imagining that look on his face that meant he simply wasn't in the mood for this sort of nonsense when there was work to be done. She shut the vibrator off again as she reconsidered her plan of attack.
Bruce had lovers. Bruce had plenty of lovers. Attractive ones, too. Why not have both? A beautiful woman, and a handsome man, with one to keep the other in check.
Selina Kyle. Gorgeous woman. She had those eyes, didn't she, and that whip. Good kisser, fangs and all. Put her in something pretty and diaphanous like they wore at home. Let her keep the whip. Even kneeling, Diana would be almost as tall as she was.
It was possible that Diana was exaggerating the size difference for effect. Selina was, mercifully, much more amenable to that kind of thing.
She'd look down at Diana and say: Hello, Diana. Would you like to beg, or would you like me to make you?
Normally she'd have had it the other way around. But there was Bruce to consider, after all. Bruce would be...
Bruce would be sitting on the couch, trying to read a book about prison reform.