Anonymous cradled Steph gently in its massive, treetrunk-thick arms, hovering above Gotham. The grimdark city (full of red paint and grimdarkitude and also owls) stretched out below them, significantly dimmer than it’d been before September.
“Let me take you away from all of this,” Anonymous said, stroking back her tangled blond hair with surprising gentleness, considering it was totally ripped and so hot, you don’t even know how hot. “Gotham no longer appreciates you, my lovely lavender lady. Only I, Anonymous, fully understands how wonderful you are. Let me fly you to an alternate universe, where we will have like ten kids or something and I’ll make you waffles in bed. Because you aren’t fat. Damian is dumb, and he smells, and he doesn’t know anything about what a real woman looks like.”
“Oh, Anon,” Steph whispered, her eyelashes clotted with unshed tears. “I love you, Anonymous. You’re so perfect, I could puke.”
“That’s not very sexy,” Anonymous said, sounding vaguely worried. Like most of Stephanie’s suitors over the years, Anonymous was already beginning to question its life choices. There were a whole bevy of other blogs that it could try its luck with. Maybe it was rushing into things. Maybe it should dial things back and suggest that they date casually to begin with. Heck, they could stick to having platonic waffles in bed. DC editorial barely acknowledged that Stephanie existed, and maybe that was with reason.
“I’m not very good at sexy,” Steph admitted, blowing her hair out of her face with a sigh. “If you’re looking for sexy, you should try Babs. Or Poison Ivy. Heck, any of the gingers. The redheads have sexy down pat. Me? On a good day, I’m the quippy one.”
“And on a bad day?” Anonymous asked with a strained smile.
“Wargames,” Steph said, slowly shaking her head.
Clark: BROOOOOOOOOSE.
