[with a mask on]
So while working on Operation: No, Really, Finish a Draft of the Andy/Iggy Already, I chanced upon this wee little snippet thing I wrote for Porn Battle and didn't manage to post before leaving for holiday. So, you know, I offer it up to the world. Because I can.
[ἔνσκευος]
DC Comics, Bruce/Wonder Woman, Batman/Diana. I own nothing; I was only showing Harry my grindylow. Porn-free porn battle snippet, ahoy!
Tie just loose enough, fashionably disheveled. Hair bedhead chic--the product involved to get it to look just right costs more than a new laptop, complete with Tim-and-Barbara-BatSpec, when you add it all up. Which Bruce does. Of course he does.
Stubble. Just enough.
He studies himself in the mirror. Worries at his lower lip with his teeth, licks and wonders if he should add a touch of lipstick. Something pale. Barely there. There’s a splash of whiskey on his shirt, carefully placed.
Laughter behind him: female, deep, amused, Diana. Movement in the corner of his eye, and he corrects his earlier assessment: Wonder Woman. Dressed. Full warrior mode.
“You’re leaving,” Bruce says. He’s slurring his speech--a mild analgesic, simple affectation.
She walks up behind him. Taller in boots than he is in stocking feet, strong and wickedly smiling. “Bruce Wayne,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
He smirks. She slaps his arm, biceps brachii, harder than he thinks she intents. Stronger than she looks--her height, the breadth of her shoulders--or maybe not. As strong as she looks.
“It's my party,” he says.
“I hate that song,” she says. “That song is terrible.”
Her hands brush against his, once, again, and he twines his fingers with hers. They maintain eye contact through their reflections in the mirror. Her eyes are very blue. Cerulean, from the Latin caeruleus, caelum, sky.
“I never cry,” Bruce says. Statement of fact.
“Weak,” she says. Her mouth pressed against his ear. Her hair tickling just above his collar.
“Yes,” Bruce says. They define things differently. His voice sounds uncomfortably breathy, almost out of his control. She turns him so his back is to the mirror, presses him against the glass with barely any effort.
She holds him in place with one arm. Tilts her head to study him, assess his strengths, tactical weaknesses; she smiles, finally, battle plan complete. Her teeth are sharp. Bruce shivers.
Now back to feeling vaguely anxious and achey and avoiding the fact that Monday creeps ever closer.
This entry also lives at Dreamwidth. Comment here, comment there, comment anywhere. I'm partial to Pony Express.
[ἔνσκευος]
DC Comics, Bruce/Wonder Woman, Batman/Diana. I own nothing; I was only showing Harry my grindylow. Porn-free porn battle snippet, ahoy!
Tie just loose enough, fashionably disheveled. Hair bedhead chic--the product involved to get it to look just right costs more than a new laptop, complete with Tim-and-Barbara-BatSpec, when you add it all up. Which Bruce does. Of course he does.
Stubble. Just enough.
He studies himself in the mirror. Worries at his lower lip with his teeth, licks and wonders if he should add a touch of lipstick. Something pale. Barely there. There’s a splash of whiskey on his shirt, carefully placed.
Laughter behind him: female, deep, amused, Diana. Movement in the corner of his eye, and he corrects his earlier assessment: Wonder Woman. Dressed. Full warrior mode.
“You’re leaving,” Bruce says. He’s slurring his speech--a mild analgesic, simple affectation.
She walks up behind him. Taller in boots than he is in stocking feet, strong and wickedly smiling. “Bruce Wayne,” she says. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight.”
He smirks. She slaps his arm, biceps brachii, harder than he thinks she intents. Stronger than she looks--her height, the breadth of her shoulders--or maybe not. As strong as she looks.
“It's my party,” he says.
“I hate that song,” she says. “That song is terrible.”
Her hands brush against his, once, again, and he twines his fingers with hers. They maintain eye contact through their reflections in the mirror. Her eyes are very blue. Cerulean, from the Latin caeruleus, caelum, sky.
“I never cry,” Bruce says. Statement of fact.
“Weak,” she says. Her mouth pressed against his ear. Her hair tickling just above his collar.
“Yes,” Bruce says. They define things differently. His voice sounds uncomfortably breathy, almost out of his control. She turns him so his back is to the mirror, presses him against the glass with barely any effort.
She holds him in place with one arm. Tilts her head to study him, assess his strengths, tactical weaknesses; she smiles, finally, battle plan complete. Her teeth are sharp. Bruce shivers.
Now back to feeling vaguely anxious and achey and avoiding the fact that Monday creeps ever closer.
This entry also lives at Dreamwidth. Comment here, comment there, comment anywhere. I'm partial to Pony Express.