Iced Mocha

By Ugly_Girl

Disclaimer: Don't own them, don't make any money.

NC-17

Inspired by the X-Files fanfics Diet Coke, Diet Pepsi (by Ramona Clef) and Iced Tea (by Plausible Deniability, the god of Mulder-smut). All found at www.gossamer.org

She was late; the dinner with the ambassador from Qurac had dragged on, bogged down by too many formalities and not enough resolutions.

She didn't bother to stop by her chambers to change into her uniform; she could perform monitor duty just as easily – if not as comfortably – in the slim fitting silk suit that she'd chosen to wear that evening.

It was too late for the other Leaguers to be up and about, and so she didn't meet anyone on her way to the monitor womb, the tap of her heels echoing emptily down the halls. Although the League kept no official hours, many of them worked and operated primarily in the United States, and therefore remained at the Watchtower only into the evening hours in their respective time zones, when they chose to go home to be with their families, or be closer to their cities in case of an emergency. Often, the only Leaguers on the Watchtower in the wee hours of the morning were the unlucky members who'd been scheduled for the shift between midnight and eight, and J'onn, who lived on the Watchtower.

That night, Diana was the unlucky member.

She grimaced, as she always did, upon entering the monitor womb. 'Womb' was, indeed, the correct term for it, but without the positive connotations of warmth or nurturing. Spherical, lined with screens with the monitoring chair jutting out into the center, so that one felt incredibly alone – yet claustrophobically surrounded.

As she walked along the platform out to the chair, she noted The Flash hastily putting away his Gameboy.

She smiled. "Slow night?"

Wally yawned, stretched and stood up. "I'm going to put in a request for shorter monitoring shifts," he said. "For someone like me, eight hours is torture."

Raising an eyebrow, Diana said, "Do you think we don't know that you often leave the womb for several seconds at a time during your shifts? For someone like you, several seconds is like taking a five hour break." She casually glanced through the evening's report. Wally began to fidget nervously, and Diana grinned. "Don't worry. Even we Leaguers are entitled to a half an hour break every four hours."

"Do you take breaks?"

"No." She adjusted the chair and console height to her settings, sat down.

Wally threw up his hands. "This is what I have to live up to: men who can move planets, and women who defy the labor laws."

"Oh, I can move planets, too," Diana said. Trying to get comfortable, she lifted one foot and placed it on the console, then reached down to unbuckle the strap of her shoe.

She heard Wally's gulp and paused. Her shoes were sturdy heels with a simple strap across the ankle – but to a hormonally charged young man, her actions probably seemed like the worst kind of strip tease.

Looking up from her foot, she asked sweetly, "I don't suppose you'd be able to swing by the kitchen and bring me something caffeinated before you leave the Watchtower, would you?" She didn't need the stimulant – they never seemed to work for her – but she had a feeling that suddenly Wally might want to stay and talk to her about world peace or something while she removed her heels.

Wally tore his eyes from her ankle. "Huh? Oh, sure," he said. A red blur, and she blinked, and a tall glass of iced mocha was set on the console.

She smiled her brightest smile. "Thanks, Wally. Have a good night," she added.

Glancing almost mournfully at her feet, Wally muttered, "Bye," and disappeared. A moment later, the transporter activated, and she was alone on the Watchtower.

Well…almost alone. The computer indicated that J'onn was in a session in the Transconsciousness Articulator. He probably wouldn't emerge for several hours.

Sighing deeply, Diana slid the shoes from her feet, letting them drop to the floor, not bothering to straighten them. She wiggled her toes, then turned, draping her legs over the arm of the chair. It took only a few more seconds to pull the pins from her hair and unbutton the jacket of the designer suit.

She'd dressed more conservatively that night, to avoid offending the ambassador. She'd learned from experience that her normal uniform often embarrassed foreign dignitaries to the point that they were unable to perform small talk, let alone discuss serious peace negotiations – and making a point about double standards, dress codes and modesty often seemed trivial in the face of death, terrorism or war.

But, frustratingly, double standards had not been the problem that night; instead, the discussion had devolved into a mud slinging match between the French and American ambassadors, both of whom seemed to forget what diplomacy actually meant.

Diana had done her best to smooth things over – but instead, she'd wound up practically holding the two diplomats apart when they'd lunged for each other's throats.

Not literally, of course – but their tongues had been just as sharp as fangs might have been.

And now she was frustrated, and tired, and stuck in the monitor womb for the next eight hours. If she had been anyone else, she might have tried to relieve her tension through light meditation during her shift – but she wasn't.

The Greek way wasn't the same as taught in Asian martial arts; the Greeks purged themselves through catharsis, not meditation. Instead of a slow trickle of water leaking and easing pressure, she needed to feel the pressure release like an exploding dam, washing her frustration away in a rush of exertion.

She would have given her lasso for thirty minutes in the gymnasium and training room, or a sparring match with Batman.

Batman.

Reaching forward, she slid the iced mocha from the console, rested it in the palm of her hand. The glass was slick with condensation, leaving a wet trail across the computer's casing and her skin.

He was part of the reason for her frustration. A very big part.

The last few weeks, the JLA had been trying to negotiate a peace settlement between two planets in the neighboring solar system – an agreement which included the presence of four League members to help keep order during the transition and disarming period. Diana had been arguing steadily in favor of sending the help; Batman had opposed her at every turn.

For three weeks, they had been arguing – and the stubborn man wouldn't see reason.

Sighing, she tried to force herself to relax, to forget about Batman and ambassadors and interplanetary wars. She sipped the drink, concentrated on the flavors of bitter espresso and rich chocolate, then let one of the ice cubes slip past her lips. Lowering the glass, she sucked on the ice, enjoyed the soft click of it against her teeth, the almost numb sensation it created when she left it too long in one place on her tongue.

She set the glass onto the arm of the chair but kept her hand wrapped around the base, the contrast of cold against her warm skin giving her something to focus on besides the overwhelming display of video screens and her internal frustrations. Resting her other hand on her stomach, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes – the alarms would sound if an alert was issued.

Which, she knew, made monitor duty seem redundant – but League rules demanded a sentient backup to the computerized monitor system.

The ice in her mouth melted, leaving her tongue pleasantly cool; she took another sip, another cube of ice. As she lowered the glass again, a drop of condensation fell from it, landing on the upper curve of her breast, beading against the silky material of her camisole. Reaching up automatically to brush away the drop, she paused. Considered.

There was another way to reach catharsis, to find release. It wouldn't be as physically demanding as a sparring session, but more satisfying on a completely different level.

And it had been a while since she'd had time to indulge in a fantasy.

She hesitated, then decided. She wasn't worried about being caught – an alert would warn her if anyone entered the Watchtower and J'onn was indisposed – but the impropriety of it gave her pause. She didn't mind, but she thought the other Leaguers might.

Not that they'd ever know. Her lips curved into a slight smile, and her free hand slid from her breast to her belly again as she fished her mind for the right scenario: a stranger? an Amazon? a Leaguer?

Superman. Her imagination caught, pulled up an old fantasy – one she'd had since not long after arriving in Man's World. Set before Lois – no guilt that way.

They'd just finished fighting a villain – Darkseid would do – and defeated him triumphantly. As they flew away from the scene of the battle, the roar of victory singing in their veins, Superman commended her on her skills during the fight. He'd glanced at her in awe and admiration, and she felt the same: here was a man, a perfect, noble man, a god among mortals.

His admiration soon turned to passion; she saw it, felt the same lust tightening in her belly.

It began with light touches: a brush of fingers over her collarbone, his powerful hands delicate over her skin. A caress of her breast, a press of belly to belly. Her nipples tightened in response to the—

"Batman to Watchtower."

Diana started in surprise, sitting up straight in the chair, knocking the iced mocha over. She grabbed at the slippery glass, caught it, sloshing mocha over her skirt.

Clenching her teeth as the freezing liquid penetrated the fabric, soaking her upper thighs, she punched the communicator button.

"Wonder Woman here," she ground out.

An uncharacteristic pause followed, then Batman said, "Diana? What is your status?"

"Fine, except for the drink I just spilled." And that he'd interrupted what had been going to be a very nice, pleasant sexual fantasy.

Frustration free sexual fantasy.

"There is a reason refreshments in the monitor womb are prohibited," Batman said. "Damage to the computers and monitoring equipment is inevitable if Leaguers continue to break that rule."

Was he lecturing her? He'd just said more words than he had in three weeks – not counting those that had been "You are wrong, Diana" or its equivalent – and it was to lecture her on the dangers of mixing liquids and electronics?

"What did you need, Batman?" She didn't snap the question – quite.

"Monitoring data from the delta quadrant of Quracci airspace for the last seven weeks."

She frowned, considering the possibilities of his request. "Has there been a pattern of unusual activity?"

"No."

She waited a moment for him to continue – then realized it was pointless of her to expect him to actually offer information. "I'll send the data to your system."

Without waiting for a reply, she cut the connection, stripped off her wet skirt and hung it on the back of the chair to dry. Her underwear was as modest as her uniform, and she didn't expect company, regardless. In any case, once she completed the task Batman had requested, she intended to finish what he'd interrupted, and it would be much easier without the skirt.

It took her only minutes to compile the appropriate files and transfer them to Batman's computer.

And then Superman was touching her belly, his hands traveling down…No, that wasn't going to work anymore. Batman's interruption had disrupted the fantasy. Diana blew out a slow breath, cast around for another to use.

Orin. Now this one was good, she'd used it several times. Lying on the sandy beaches of Themyscira, soaking in the sun, she suddenly became aware of a presence – Aquaman, his form still dripping with sea water, his eyes hungry as they swept over her form.

They didn't need to speak – they were young, they were desperate for the touch of another. Almost immediately, his hand eased beneath the waistband of her panties, fingers teasing, testing the moisture there, his other palm cupping the weight of her breast, smoothing a thumb over her taut nipple.

Her own hands stopped when she realized that he didn't have two hands anymore; that she should update her fantasy to include his hook.

She shuddered, shook her head. No, that seemed too morbid. She would use the old fantasy, of two hands, and now his lips were on her throat, licking, and his fingers were delving into—

"Batman to Watchtower."

Diana stifled a scream of frustration, whacked at the communicator with the hand that wasn't between her legs.

"Wonder Woman here!" Why couldn't the man be a hero during normal hours, so that she could have one, little, tiny, desperately needed orgasm?

Another uncharacteristic pause. "Another spill?" he finally asked.

If she told him the truth, he'd probably lecture her on the dangers of mixing bodily fluids with electronics.

"What do you want?" She asked instead. Suddenly realizing that she was talking to Batman with her fingers slightly inside her, she regretfully pulled her hand from her panties.

"The new draft of the Hy'ian Systems peace treaty should have been transmitted four minutes ago. I want to make sure they've deleted the section requiring the JLA's presence."

Diana drew a sharp breath. "Did you authorize the changes?"

"I suggested them. Superman authorized them. He agreed that the Earth's defenses would be stretched too thin if half the League left to play babysitter."

"Keeping peace is not babysitting, Batman." Her voice was like ice. "The League's presence would provide a badly needed stability during the transition; and there is no imminent or apparent threat here on Earth that demands the full force of the JLA."

"And a solar system that cannot maintain its own peace while signing a treaty supposedly guaranteeing that peace will not have a lasting—"

Diana gently pressed the button to disconnect the transmission. She'd heard it before, disagreed with it before, and was not in the mood to hear it again.

She wasn't in the mood for Orin anymore, either.

She wanted Batman. She wanted to take his face, and pound it into a wall. She wanted to tie him up with her lasso and leave him to rot. She wanted to wipe that self-satisfied, egotistical, arrogant, male smirk from his mouth with her foot. She wanted to bring him to his knees, and then make him beg her to stop.

"Please, Diana," he'd whimper, his lips trembling beneath the mask. "I'm sorry."

She'd be haughty, superior. "I don't know if I should forgive you."

And he'd crawl to her, kiss her foot, her leg. "I can make it up to you, Princess. Please."

"Very well." She'd agree to his pleas, only because she was so kind, so forgiving.

And he'd kiss his way up her leg, asking her oh so nicely to part her thighs, just a little please Princess…

Diana shifted restlessly, her hands trailing over her thighs, teasing herself lightly. This one wasn't right – a beaten, broken, humiliated Bat wasn't appealing, no matter how frustrated he made her.

Besides, Bruce would probably rather die than grovel. No, he'd go down fighting…

The batarang exploded in her face, knocking her down. Stunned, she was unable to stop him from using her own lasso against her, tying her arms behind her back.

He fisted his hand in her hair, drew her to him and ravished her mouth in a kiss; pulling back quickly when she tried to bite him. Her breathing was heavy, and she was angry – but she was aroused, too.

And he knew it, damn him.

He took liberties with his hands, wringing erotic gasps from her as he teased her nipples, as his mouth moved down, down, his tongue darting between her slick folds, tasting, taking, and she was helpless to stop him, even though she wanted it, helpless…

BEEP!

Her eyes flew open, and she saw the indicator showing that Batman had transported onto the Watchtower. Her hands stilled, and she watched his progress on the security monitor. He was coming her way.

Hera, she couldn't stop at this point. She was slick and aching with need, her muscles tense, desperate for release.

How much time? She judged the distance between the transporter room and the monitor womb – maybe two minutes. She could do it in that time.

He came into the monitor womb, starting in surprise when he saw her pleasuring herself. She watched him, watched the varied emotions scattering across his face – and deliberately licked her lips.

His hands were on her arms within seconds, pulling her up, their mouths meeting in a kiss that sent her head spinning.

Not kisses…she needed more.

"Faster," she urged him.

And she tore his uniform in her haste to expose his hard, hot length. He moaned as she wrapped her hand around him…

"Faster," she thought.

She pushed him down into the chair, straddling him, positioning herself over him. His hands were on her hips, guiding her down, and she might have teased him, resisted a little under other circumstances, but she wanted him now, and so she lowered herself, feeling the exquisite pressure of his cock parting her, filling her, so deep…

She clenched her teeth, came hard, her breath shuddering from her as her body was wracked by the orgasm.

When he came in, he started in surprise at her dress – the primly buttoned suit blazer over the slim skirt which, he noted, had a wet spot on the front. From the spill, apparently.

He tried not to stare at her bare feet, didn't examine why the sight of the shoes tumbled on the floor sent blood rushing to his head.

Her cheeks were flushed, and she was gulping down the last of an icy drink – probably one of the Flash's mochas.

She swallowed, and turned to smile at him. "Do you think it is hot in here?"

He glanced at the temperature controls, which were at normal levels. "No," he said. He ignored the way her long, dark – slightly disheveled – hair slid across her shoulders as she stood, then bent to scoop up her shoes.

"Hmm," she said, still suspiciously cheerful. Hadn't she been snapping at him only twenty minutes ago? "Maybe I just need to change into my uniform, and I'll be more comfortable. Will you be in here for a few minutes?"

Frowning, he said, "Yes, but—"

"Lovely," she said, and slipped past him. "I'll be right back."

"Diana—"

She turned, winked, and his head swam with confusion. "I just need a quick break," she said.