Chapter 5: The Date
The rain over Gotham had softened to a mist by evening, hanging in the air like forgotten promises. Bruce adjusted his cufflinks, the simple movement requiring a concentration that felt foreign. The tuxedo was armor of a different kind, but tonight it chafed. Every glance in the mirror showed not Bruce Wayne, playboy, but the hollow-eyed man who’d watched a sorceress vanish from his study, leaving only the scent of ruin.
Diana was waiting at the foot of the main staircase, a vision in a deep blue gown that seemed to capture the last light of the stormy sky. Her smile was warm, genuine, a lighthouse in his personal fog. It cut him deeper than any blade.
“You look troubled,” she said, her perceptive eyes missing nothing as she took his arm. Her touch was solid, real.
“Long week,” he deflected, leading her to the car. “The board is restless. Needed this.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie.
Dinner was at a new museum restaurant, all glass and steel, overlooking the ancient Egyptian wing. They spoke of inconsequential things: a diplomatic snag on Themyscira, Wayne Enterprises’ new sustainable microchip, the surprisingly good wine. He watched her speak, enthralled by the earnest curve of her mouth, the way her hands shaped the air. He tried to anchor himself in her. In this normalcy.In something pure.
But his mind was a traitor.
When she laughed, the sound rich and full, he saw for a split second Circe’s mocking smile. When the firelight from the central hearth glinted off Diana’s dark hair, it bled to violet. He’d take a sip of wine and taste, faintly, the ghost of lavender and salt.
“Bruce?” Diana’s hand covered his on the table. “You’re miles away.”
“Just… enjoying the view,” he said, forcing a smile that felt brittle.
She held his gaze, her own softening with concern. “You do not have to perform for me. We can leave whenever you wish.”
He shook his head. “No. I want to be here. With you.”
The sincerity of it ached. It was the truest thing he’d said all night.
Back at the Manor, the silence felt different. Expectant. He led her not to the study, with its tainted rug and memory, but to the smaller, south-west library. A fire was laid, and he lit it, the normal flames a counterpoint to that other, unnatural blaze.
Diana stood by the window, looking out at the grounds. “There is a tension in this house tonight,” she said quietly, not turning. “A lingering magic. Faint, but… sour.”
His spine stiffened. “Security upgrades. Alfred’s been testing new systems.”
She turned then, her eyes holding a wisdom that spanned millennia. She didn’t press. Instead, she walked to him, placed a hand on his chest, over his heart. “Then let us provide a better distraction.”
She kissed him. It was slow, deep, an exploration of comfort and known territory. Her lips were soft, her taste clean, like mountain air and ambrosia. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, trying to lose himself in the familiar weight of her, the solid strength of her back under his hands. He poured every ounce of his will into this moment, into her.
He undid the zipper of her gown, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric pooled at her feet, revealing the powerful, graceful lines of her body. She, in turn, worked his clothes free with a quiet efficiency. There was no game here, no taunting. Just a slow, mutual unveiling.
They sank onto the thick rug before the fire, their skin bathed in golden light. He worshipped her with his mouth, tracing the muscles of her stomach, the crest of her hips. He took one nipple into his mouth, and she arched into him with a low sigh, her fingers weaving into his hair. This was love.This was real. He chanted it in his mind like a mantra.
He moved lower, parting her thighs. Her scent here was different—musky, yes, but clean, like the sea. He pressed his mouth to her, and she gasped, her hips rising off the rug. He licked her slowly, thoroughly, aiming to give pleasure, to cleanse his own palate with her. Her moans were music, a genuine symphony of building pleasure.
But as her cries grew louder, as her thighs began to tremble against his ears, the corruption seeped in.
Her taste is simple, a voice, silken and intimate, breathed directly into his mind.Like water. Don’t you hunger for wine?
Bruce flinched, his tongue faltering.
Diana’s hands tightened in his hair. “Don’t stop,” she pleaded, breathless.
He redoubled his efforts, pushing the voice away. He focused on the physical: the texture of her, the pulse of her clit against his tongue, the way her breathing hitched. He brought her to the edge and held her there, until she finally broke with a sharp, beautiful cry, her body bowing as the climax rushed through her.
He moved up her body, kissing her stomach, her sternum, her throat. Her eyes were hazy with pleasure, full of love. She reached between them, her hand closing around his hard, aching cock. She guided him to her entrance.
“Look at me,” she whispered.
He did. He looked into her deep, trusting eyes as he pushed inside.
It was heaven. A tight, wet, welcoming heat that felt like coming home. He buried his face in her neck, began to move in a slow, deep rhythm. This was connection.This was truth.
Then the fire crackled, spitting an ember onto the hearth.
You fuck her like a temple, the voice came again, insidious, a tickle at the base of his skull. You should fuck her like a whore.She wants it. They all do.
“No,” he groaned into Diana’s skin, not meaning to speak.
“It’s okay,” she murmured, mistaking his protest for passion, digging her heels into his back to pull him deeper. “I have you.”
He tried to hold on, to anchor himself in her voice, in the feel of her hands running down his sweat-slicked back. But the images flooded him, unbidden, violent.
Not Diana beneath him, but Circe, her purple hair fanned out on the bearskin, her green eyes gleaming with malicious joy. Not this slow, loving rhythm, but the brutal, piston-hard drives of that night, the sound of flesh slapping flesh, the crude, filthy words she’d whispered.
She’ll never make you feel this, Circe’s phantom voice sighed. She’ll never let the animal out. I tasted him. I know his name.
His hips stuttered. His pace changed. It became harder, deeper, driven by a frantic, rising panic. He wasn’t trying to make love anymore; he was trying to exorcise. To fuck the memory out of his head, to pound the whispers into silence.
Diana noticed. Her eyes, which had been closed in bliss, flew open. He saw confusion flicker there, then a dawning, hurt understanding. She knew his body, his rhythms. This was not him.Not with her.
“Bruce…” she started.But he was gone. He kissed her to silence her, to silence himself, and it was a desperate, starving thing. The vision was too strong. In his mind’s eye, it was Circe’s cunning smile he saw, Circe’s lithe body he felt clenching around him. He heard her voice, not Diana’s moans.
Come on, darling, the memory purred. Give it to me. Let her feel what belongs to me.
A devastating climax ripped through him, sudden and volcanic. It wasn’t pleasure; it was a seizure. A shout was torn from his throat—raw, anguished—as he emptied himself inside Diana, his body shuddering violently, vision whiting out.
For a moment, there was only the hammering of his heart in his ears.
He collapsed onto her, his weight heavy, his mind a storm of shame and disgust. He’d just defiled the woman he loved with a phantom. He’d been inside Diana while fucking Circe in his head.
Diana was utterly still beneath him. Her breathing was slow, controlled. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet, hollow with a pain far deeper than physical.
“Who were you thinking of?”
He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t lift his head.
She pushed at his shoulders, and he rolled off her, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, feeling more exposed than if he were naked on the streets of Gotham.
He heard the soft rustle as she sat up, then stood.