Adult-FanFiction.org : Comics

Darkest Knight	By : SteelMagnolia Category: DC Verse Comics > Justice League Views: 18860 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Justice League, or any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
- 3
Darkest Knight – Chapter 2

Diana could see the usual throng of people at the steps of the Themysciran Embassy as she descended from the clouds. It was late Saturday afternoon and she was worn and aching after the Justice League’s most recent run-in with Lex Luthor’s Injustice Force. Despite her fatigue she could still feel the thrumming heat of battle. The last thing she felt like doing was pressing hands with strangers who wished to pry into the most intimate details of her life.

She eased herself down onto the walk leading up to the Embassy, careful of the press of bodies surging toward her. She drew upon the same strength that had sustained her through the battle and gave the crowd a genuine smile. She realized that many people looked to her for inspiration and hope, and she would not let them down. This was, perhaps, one of her most important duties as representative of the Amazon nation.

She moved slowly through the crowd, trying to give each individual a personal word or smile. Fingers touched her hair, her shoulder, and her bracers. Some stroked the almost indestructible Themysciran weave of her uniform, made from Arachne’s own silk. A toddler grabbed hold of the golden cord looped at her hip and yanked. Her mother stifled a cry and reached for her, but pulled back, afraid to touch the Lasso of Truth.

Diana smiled and knelt, gently removing the shining cord from the girl’s grasp while her frantic mother hovered. "All is well," she said. "My little sister here is too young for the deceptions this ferrets out." She stroked the babe’s cheek, then lifted her back into her mother’s arms. "For such as her it is naught but a pretty thing, warm and comforting."

Diana made her way carefully through the crowd to the Embassy steps. She paused to wave regally farewell, then pressed her thumbprint to the security lock and entered through the heavy wooden door. It swung shut with a solid thud behind her.

She walked slowly down the hall, savoring the empty stillness, yet finding it just a bit lonely as well. The Embassy employed an extremely small domestic staff, all of whom were gone for the weekend. She looked forward to having some rare time for herself for quiet contemplation.

Her boot heels echoed softly on the marble floor as she entered the Temple. Here among the statues of her patron gods she shed her uniform and donned a soft robe.

Diana carefully polished her breastplate with its stylized "WW". Much easier than the traditional eagle, she thought to herself. I suppose the ladies of the Wonder Woman Foundation who asked me to bear their symbol back in 1982 did me as good a deed as I did them.

She brushed off her uniform and hung it on the central stand. She reattached the breastplate, then polished her boots and set them beneath. Finally she reverently looped the golden cord on the Girdle. She paused to inspect her armor, brought from Themyscira but never worn in Patriarch’s world. Her sword and eagle’s helm hung quiescent, their lethal purpose at odds with her mission of peace.

Her earlier uniforms retained their places of honor. She had discovered that she was taken more seriously if she periodically updated her appearance to reflect modern mores. She touched the old skirt briefly, smiling in fond memory of her first love, taken before his time so many years before.

She nodded her respect to the gods before leaving the Temple. At some point this weekend she would come back to sit at their feet and empty herself of thought. But not now, she thought to herself. ow Iow I must go and ready myself for the evening. I am sure Bruce would prefer the well-groomed Ambassador to the sweat-stained Warrior.

Her bedroom suite was large and reminiscent of Themyscira with its heavy hangings and thick, plush pillows. The thick bedposts were intricately carved with symbols of Amazon life – the fletching of an arrow, potting wheel, sheaf of wheat, sword, book.

She lay the robe on the bed and entered the bath. A deep tub in blue tile was set into the floor, almost a small pool. Diana decided a leisurely soak would have to wait and headed for the shower.

As she waited for the water to heat she examined herself for any obvious injuries. With her gods-given gifts she healed very quickly and was resistant to damage, but she could still be hurt. She had long ago decided it was the gods’ way of keeping her humble. Her ribs were tender below her right breast, but she felt no crepitus there to suggest a fracture. She had some minor scratches that would heal in a few hours.

She wondered idly how Batman did it. He must be hurting tonight. He had taken a direct blast and been thrown across the street into a building. Diana knew his body armor provided him with some protection, but given the state of his abraded jaw she imagined the suit had not been enough this day. He seemed so invincible it was easy to forget he had no super powers, no gifts except his keen intellect and iron determination. She would never admit it to the arrogant man, but she admired his warrior spirit.

*****

Bruce stood in the shower, leaning one hand on the tiled wall and letting the hot water sluice the sweat from his aching body. He tongued his busted lip, tasting blood and feeling the puffiness there. Got to get some ice on that soon. The water stung the abrasions on his jaw, but it washed out any debris so he ignored it. He raised his face under the spray and opened his mouth to rinse it out, spitting blood until it cleared.

Finally he felt recovered enough to actually wash himself, grimacing when he hit a bad spot. He shut off the taps and stood for a moment, trying to find the energy to reach for the thick towel Alfred haft fft for him. The scent of coffee hit his nose, spurring him to actually open the glass door. Steam swirled out into the bathroom.

"Bless you, Alfred," he breathed when he laid eyes on the mug lying next to an icepack. The coffee revived him enough to let him dry off and wind the towel around his waist. He swiped a hand across the steamy mirror and leaned forward to check out the damage. His lip was swelling rapidly. He cursed when he saw the abrasion on his jaw. How the hell is Bruce Wayne going to explain that? He’d have to lie low a week or so. Maybe it’s time for Bruce to go on another safari, he thought to himself. At least he didn't tend to scar too badly.

Something caught his eye and he looked closer again. Well, hell, he thought, looking at the gray hair in consternation. Damn it. Oh man, there’s another one! In fact, there were several strands of gray threading their way through his dark hair. Not enough to be visible from across a room, but enough. He sighed with a wry grin at his own vanity. Well, if George Clooney could go gray, Bruce Wayne could too.

He decided to skip shaving and slapped the icepack on his lower lip. He walked out to his bedroom, decorated in dark colors. The heavy draperies were pulled back to let in the waning light of the setting sun over his balcony. Alfred had laid out khaki slacks, a white dress shirt, and a dark red cashmere sweater on the bed.

"Do you wish to drive or fly to New York this evening, Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he entered the bedroom with a second mug of coffee. "I would perhaps suggest flying, in the interest of time."

"Oh hell. Diana," Bruce groaned. "I’d forgotten all about that." In truth, it hadn’t been very far from his mind all week. Guess I got hit harder than I thought.

He’d almost called her a dozen times to play the part of the fickle playboy and cancel. Once, he’d even once had the phone in hand, but then the Bat Signal had caught his eye through the window and he’d hung up.

Sitting across from Diana this morning at the Watchtower had reminded him that he realidn’idn’t need to be courting disaster. She had been aloof as usual, focused on the business at hand. Lucky her.

"I can’t go, Alfred," he said, gesturing to his face. "She’s not stupid."

"No, she’s not," agreed Alfred. Bruce scowled at him. He knew Alfred disagreed with his decision to keep the other Leaguers in the dark about his secret identity.

"Just bring me the phone," he growled.

*****

"Diana? It’s Bruce." Diana tucked the phone under her ear and smiled slightly. Now that she was refreshed she was looking forward to the evening. Perhaps they would go dancing again.

"Yes, Bruce," she replied.

"I’m afraid I can’t make it tonight," he said. "Something came up."

Diana hesitated, sensing the prevarication in his voice. "I see," she said, hoping that her instincts would prove false.

"I’m sorry I didn’t call earlier," he went on. "I know this is kind of late notice." He paused, but she did not contradict him. "I’m really disappointed," he added. "We had such a great time last week, but I just can’t make it to New York tonight."

"Perhaps I could fly to Gotham," she offered, testing him.

"No, no," he said hastily. "I have your number." Obviously, she thought to herself. "I’ll give you a call and we can get together another time," he said.

"I think perhaps it would be best not to," she answered after a moment, disappointed with his obvious falsehood.
"Oh," he said after an awkward silence, "Okay. If you think so."

"I wish you well, Bruce," she said. There was a long pause.

"You too, Diana." A soft click told her he’d broken the connection. She set the phone carefully back on its charger with a sigh. So this is what it feels like.

****

Bruce sat in the Cave and hung up the phone with a scowl. He could tell she’d seen right through him. He pictured her hanging up the phone at the Themysciran Embassy. Was she disappointed? Did she even care? What was she wearing? The only thing he did know is that she didn't think much of one Bruce Wayne right now, he thought. Too bad. He couldn't second-guess himself on this.

He wondered briefly why it even bothered him.

"I’m going on patrol, Alfred," he said.

Alfred held his cape and cowl as he slipped into his suit and strapped on the body armor. She probably thinks I’m out with another woman, he thought to himself. He checked his belt and tools before pulling on his gloves. She probably thinks I was just playing with her last weekend. He draped his cape over his shoulders. He had, he admitted to himself. He hoped he didn’t hurt her feelings. He snorted. She’s an Amazon, Bruce. She’s probably adding it to the list of reasons to keep Themyscira a ladies-only club.

"Would you like for me to radio Nightwing that his services will no longer be required this evening?" Alfred asked, startling him out of his self-flagellating reverie. "I believe he has already started his patrol." Bruce looked at him a moment, meeting Alfred’s supremely bland gaze.

How long had he been standing there? He reached for his cowl. He held the mask in his gloved hands, looking down at it. Blank white eyeslits looked back up at him beneath the perpetual scowl. He didn’t much feel like putting it on.
"Alfred," he began. He stopped, uncertain what he wanted to say.

Alfred wordlessly handed him the phone and punched the outside line. He gently took the cowl back and hung it back in its place.

Bruce waited impatiently as the Embassy’s answering service took his name and rang Diana.

"Hello?" she said, her voice laden with doubt. He cleared his throat, which suddenly felt like the Sahara desert.

"Diana, it’s… ah… it’s Bruce," he said, staring sightlessly at the monitor screens in front of him.

"I know," she said coolly. "The answering service told me when they called."

"Oh, right." He cleared his throat again. I must be delirious from that blow to the head. "I just wanted to see how you’re doing."

"I am well," she said.

"I wanted to say again I’m sorry that we couldn’t go out." He could see his reflection in the darkened screen. A middle-aged man in a dark costume with a target on his chest stared back at him. "Alfred got sick, and I wanted to be here in case he needs anything," he lied.

"I see," she said, skepticism evident in her voice.

"I couldn’t let you come to the Manor because it might be contagious," he continued, wincing. Silence answered him.

"You are not being truthful," she said finally.

"No," he admitted. More silence.

"Are you going to tell me the true reason you could not come tonight?" she asked.

Hell, no. "No." he said. He waited, her silence killing him.

"Very well," she said finally. "I accept your apology."

He found himself sagging into his chair. He chalked it up to his injuries. "I’m glad," he said. "Maybe we could just talk a while. On the phone."

"Agreed," she replied, and he smiled for the first time in days.

****

"How do you know so much about our history?" he demanded. He’d pulled off his gloves and sat back in the chair with his boots propped up on the computer station. They had been arguing about the Constitutional right to bear arms and form a militia.

She laughed a moment. "I wasn’t always god goddess of Truth when I was growing up. My mother has a scrying glass kept in her chambers. She uses it from time to time to remind herself why she took the Amazons and left Patriarch’s world.

"When I was little I used to sneak in there while she was at arms practice. Where she saw fear and oppression, I saw new and wonderful things that fascinated me. I still remember the first time I saw a car. I thought it was a demon – half-man and half-metallic beast!" She laughed at the memory of her childish fear.

"Oh, and the first time I saw a plane… It must have been the early ‘30s at that point. They could fly! I was amazed, and determined to duplicate the feat. My mother found me out when I began hoarding materials to make my own plane. She was horrified. ‘If the gods meant Amazons to fly, they would give us the wings of Hermes,’ she used to say to me. I, of course, was insufferable in my youthful stubbornness." Diana sighed, rememberinat fat first moment of significant discord between them.

"It is ironic, I suppose. The gods later did gie the the wings of Hermes and the gift of flight, but not until many years later.

"By 1940 I had finished the plane against her wishes. When Captain Trevor crashed on Themyscira, I knew my opportunity had come to explore Patriarch’s world and its seemingly boundless energy and creativity. My mother said it would be the death of me and tried to keep me from leaving. In hindsight," she mused, "I know that she was only trying to protect me, but oh, how I resented her for it. I suppose such is the way it has always been between mothers and daughters."

****

"It was hard," Bruce admitted. Diana lay curled up on the settee, twirling her hair between her fingers. "Who was I to try and raise some teenage kid? I didn’t even have my own parents to use as an example. Then all of a sudden here’s this boy whose parents were killed right in front of him. How could I turn him away?" She could hear him give a heavy sigh, and a chair squeaked lightly in the background as he shifted.

"I guess I thought money really could buy love," he said. "Or at least a happy childhood for Dick. I didn’t have a clue what I was getting myself into. James Gordon tried to warn me. You know he has a daughter Dick’s age, Barbara?

At any rate, after Dick’s initial hero-worship wore off things started getting rough. I tried to keep him disciplined, but in the end it all just kind of fell apart. Oh, don’t get me wrong. Dick’s grown up to be a good man, but sometimes I wish…" his voice trailed off.

"What?" prompted Diana.

"I don’t know. I guess sometimes I wish I could have been a better father to him, you know?"

****

"I’m hungry," Bruce said suddenly. "Want to get something to eat?"

"I don’t understand," Diana said, confusion clouding her face.

"You have a kitchen in that Embassy somewhere?" he asked.&quo"Of course."

"Well, I figure I can find mine if I start looking now, so let’s go make dinner."

"On the phone?"

"Yeah."

****

"And then you put the tomato slices on last," Diana instructed.

Bruce stood back and looked at it. "It looks like a rectangular pizza," heged.ged.

"I suppose it is, in a way," she said. "At home we would cook this in a big stone oven on a piece of seasoned wood. I think we could probably just put it on one of these metal sheets. What temperature, do you suppose?"

"I don’t know," Bruce said helplessly. "Alfred usually cooks for us. Hey, I’ve got some cookbooks here." She could hear him rifling pages. "It looks like most things are cooked at 350 degrees," he said finally.

"Let’s try it," she concurred.

He sat at a small table in the kitchen, as did she. They ate a flatbread dish from Diana’s youth, having decided against hot dogs. Bruce couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a meal with a woman. Diana had been good company. Not bad, he thought, for a self-righteous prude raised by a group of isolationist zealots.

"The crust is not quite crispy enough," she concluded, finishing her flatbread. "Perhaps we should cook it at a higher temperature next time."

He paused, a piece of flatbread halfway to his mouth. "So there’s going to be a next-time?" he asked carefully. He swallowed hard to get that lump back down in his stomach where it belonged.

"If you would like," she answered cautiously. Not that it really mattered to her, of course. She tensed, waiting for his answer.

"I’d like that."

*****

The pale wash of morning light edged the heavy drapes of his bedroom with a soft halo. Bruce lay in his custum bed watching the light intensify, unable to sleep. Insomnia was an old friend, but he was frustrated with it this morning. He kept replg hig his conversation with Diana over and over in his mind, occasionally wincing at some of the things he’d let slip.

He tossed onto his back, the sheet tangled around his bare legs. The bedding had been half-pulled off in his restless attempts to force himself to sleep. He stared up at the ceiling, thinking about Diana.

She had been somehow more approachable tonight, more human and less the demi-goddess. Who knew she had a sense of humor? He pictured her sleeping peacefully at the Embassy and half-growled in frustration. She probably slept like a baby, untroubled by the dark thoughts that kept him awake most nights. He wondered what she wore to bed. Then he pictured her sleeping nude.

A slow heat unfurled in him at the image. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at picturing a colleague naked, but hey, he was still a man, right? She had the beauty of Aphrodite. What man wouldn’t want to see her naked?

He closed his eyes, trying to picture the details. Her uniform left little to the imagination, so he knew that she was firmly muscled without the overbearing bulk of a bodybuilder. More like an Olympic swimmer. Her breasts were full beneath her breastplate. Would her nipples be a dusky pink or more of a beige color? Were they tiny cherries to tease with his tongue, or larger, tempting a man to cover them with his whole mouth?

He knew the sweet curve of her waist were it met her hip, and the sleek roundness of her rump. Would it be firm or soft in his grip when he pulled her hips closer to his to feel the warmth of her sex?

His own hips raised in response, and he felt his own arousal. His hand slid down beneath the sheet and covered his erection, stroking slowly over the smooth hard shaft. He pictured her over him, her dark silky hair falling forward over her shoulder to brush his chest. He inhaled deeply, trying to remember the scent of her. Sandalwood, and the heat of her body.

She would tease his sex by brushing herself over him, her breasts thrusting forward toward his waiting mouth. His thumb rubbed over the head of his cock, spreading the moisture accumulated there. His hand stroked more firmly, squeezing as he imagined her body covering his, slipping into her tight, wet sex while she arched her back to take him slowly into her. He groaned.

His strokes became more firm and purposeful as he pictured her straddling him body, breasts out-thrust, nipples begging for his hands and mouth. She would be strong and tight around his cock, pulling and sucking at it with her movements. His legs tightened and his toes curled as he felt the sweet pressure building in his groin. She was thrusting hard now, trying to take him completely, her head thrown back. He held her hips in his hands, pulling her tight against him, rocking her back and forth.

He was barely aware of his hips arching off the bed and his testicles drawing up as he began to spasm beneath the ministrations of his hand. Instead he felt the tight grip of her around him, milking him and drawing him deeper as he tried to push harder and deeper inside her, the contractions of her own climax swallowing his as he came and came inside her.

Bruce fell back on the bed, breathing heavily and feeling the draining lassitute take his limbs. His hand idly rubbed the warm sticky fluid from his belly with the sheet, and then fell to his side on the bed as he drifted to sleep with the image of her, soft and pliant and sated.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Darkest Knight