change alone is eternal ºº ‘ ⚓︎ perpetual l ººº ‘ ☯︎ immortal. ⌖
CONNECTING TO SERVER . . .
࿔ angel badu in the sixth dimension ࿐ † s,her black fiona apple dc alien lover sci-fi enthusiast multifandom maniac interview with the vampire lord of the rings asoiaf & atla early 2000s animes failing bones rewind replay regret.
please wait patiently as
your guardian angel is contacted and
dispatched to your location.
help might be on
the way.
࿐ descriptions of what it's like living with them.
༅ DICK GRAYSON
: he's mainly out on the go, and when he comes back, it’s never empty handed. some mornings, it's you waking up to him all suited up with goods from your favourite bakery or your favourite whatever. a love language of his is remembering your preferences, and it's always on point when he watches you unravel what he got you.
: random dancing in the kitchen together. just music playing while he makes eggs at 11pm and you're leaning on the counter watching him. when night falls, and you're in the same kitchen, the tone's so different. it begins with attempting to slow dance to soft sounding speakers, just end up with him messing up and twirling you around cause that's always been your thing.
: physically and clingy affection that still feel domestic in a way; hand at the small of your back, forehead to yours, falling asleep with his whole weight half on you like he trusts you completely to hold it. he also has a way of turning sexual charged things (eg. showing together), into such pure acts with the warm water on your skin and his fingers on your scalp. the sensation calming you both down after a long day.
: he has a habit of getting into everything you like (music, foods movies, etc), which always means you can't have anything for yourself in the apartment, only cause he's just so determined to know everything little thing about. and even if he doesn't end up liking it, your lit up eyes and smile forever makes it worth trying.
: being the eldest means, your shared apartment has become the first thought for hiding out. damian's done something mischievous and he's not yet ready to face bruce in the manor and so on? your place it is. on days when he's out, you'll be the one to let anyone of the batfam or his friends, in to hang about and keep them entertained until he gets back.
༅ JASON TODD
: books everywhere. some gifted and most thrifted with marked pages and cracked spines. he annotated the margins with opinions that don't pull punches. you have this thing, that started out of boredom, where you write back to him in those same margins for his to read.
: affectionate things said through criticism as a way to care for you: your sleep schedule needs work, you should eat more protein, that coat isn't warm enough. most these are usually solved in seconds by him, eg. he cooks real food since he learned out of necessity.
: strangely, he’s skin always cold after missions. his favourite part of his days, are him coming home to find you cozy, snuggled up in blankets on the couch. so far from what he experienced outside, you use this as a chance to share warmth; hand on his sternum and his breathing slows.
: music played at odd hours of the day; he's earned his own taste that hasn't ever changed, just grown with yours. when you follow the played songs, you're usually met with he doing hands on work like mending the gears on his motorbike, in a spare room or garage.
: he thinks a lot, more than he should with you on the forefront of his mind, which leads to him sending day to day texts that are praised in the ways of, "thought of you when I saw this," or "this reminded me to get back to you." ever since he's got with you, his phone's been more use to him than ever before.
༅ TIM DRAKE
: your agreed quality time has been comfortable silence ever since you got together. most rooms you share in the apartment usually possess electric devices. there are some days he just has his laptops open, and you have your phone blinding as you tap away; different purposes, same couch. a word spoken every now and then.
: loves by having his space accommodate you, making thoughtful modifications before you noticed they needed to be made. that's how he loves; by asking precise questions, remembering everything you tell him, and then getting back to you weeks later. maybe with a detail, preference, or a thing you'd forgotten saying.
: he knows your daily schedule by heart, which leads to him randomly showing up at the place you're at, just to see you like the detective he is. it also helps that he's always glad to take some busy weight off your shoulders. they’re times, you wouldn't be able to make it to places like you promised, just to have him show up in your place, since he's an extensive of you the second you began dating.
: eating together since he forgets to eat when he's focused, most of the time. you've started leaving food near his workstation, to which you share together. it could be anything, and he'll let you have the bigger piece, cause they're just something about showing he cares more about you than these little things.
: when he's overworked and on the verge of sleep, he gets pretty affection, though he just brushes it off once he's conscious again. he'll slump into you, head heavy on your shoulder, whole body finally stopping. he's more honest at this these times with his confessions.
༅ CLARK KENT
: most mornings, waking up to decide whether or not to stay in each other's arms for just five more minutes and put his daily responsibilities on hold. it always ends up dragging on for longer than that, but he's never complaining, when it's just another way to spend time with you, between the sheets.
: cooks for most evenings, after long days as he was raised in a home where food meant effort and effort meant love. sunday dinners are enormous. the table is always set properly. he has a nagging thing for when you eat anywhere, but the table.
: when it's just you two, settling in, he's such an attentive listener. in the fast-paced city of metropolis, he's above the way most people listen like they don't have the patience to. he loves listening to you talk about things that make you happy. so much so that your eyes brightened up, and you sped up your words. this could be anywhere; sitting on the counter, talking his ear off whilst he does the dishes or laundry.
: brings in the cold when he's been flying through skies. warm again within minutes. but the refreshing, open sky smell has become your apartment main scent. wonderfully useful for the boiling summer time.
: your shared apartment gets archived with small, random things; a rock from smallville, a feather, something he wanted you to see. it's like everything he's collected has led him to the moment he finally moves in with you, and now he can finally display his world to you.
༅ WALLY WEST
: the fridge always has to be full, metabolically cause of his superpower. he cooks for ten, eats for ten, and still asks if you want more. you've started cooking bigger portions out of habit. food abundance at strange hours; running off at 5 am to go grocery shopping together, draped in his jacket, once finding out you're practically out of good foods. time wasted by messing around and sharing kisses in aisles, just to return home with a load of unnecessary purchases.
: restless to search for ways to be useful to you; fixes things, tidies in three minutes, appears with the thing you were about to go get. his hyperactivity being his way of getting your attention.
: remembers the date of random things; your first fight, the first time you laughed until you cried, the day you told him something you hadn't told anyone. he keeps those memories alive every year.
: when you're out for the night, doing whatever, without him. he takes over your side of the bed, sleeping. half unintentional, and half so he's given the chance to feel closer to what you left behind, a feel of your warmth and scent in the sheets.
: falls asleep fast and hard. holds on tight even in sleep, like something in his nervous system knows what it's like to lose track of time. you wake up every time, stuck in a death hold.
༅ ROY HARPER
: topic of conversations, ranging from anything to everything from your past fears to the little things, like what you ate. he just innocently wants to know everything about you. it's so easy to open up to him, since he always makes you feel heard, especially at night before bed. that's your go-to time for talking it out together, no secrets hidden ever.
: crafts things purely with his hands: arrows, obviously, but also, fixed the loose hinge, built the shelf, fixed your bike on a random day in the parking lot with tools from his truck. handiwork as his love language in the name devotion.
: over time, your apartment had taken a red tinted route to it, in his favour; flannel, a hunting jacket on the hook, a little worn. his wardrobe culture being, that he doesn't mind when you slip into his clothes, even going as far as to leave some of them behind when he's out of town.
: it's harmless when he does it, but given the fact that he has a daughter. his role is sometimes reflected in your settings. from making you something warm like tea or soup when you're sick, to making sure you get enough rest. not a single chance, he'd let you do anything that'll possibly weigh you down and make you feel worse, until you feel better. for him, the apartment only runs best when both heads are well.
: speaking of his daughter, lian, she sleeps over sometimes. and when she does, the energy moves. roy becomes fully there for her, allowing you to understand that she's essential to who he is as a person. and as for you, with another girl in, that makes for fun times like game night and movie nights.
༅ KORIAND'R
: your apartment's always set warm, literally, since she radiates heat. the second you moved in together, you stopped needing an extra blanket. in winter, rooms she spends time in stay degrees warmer than the rest.
: social rules are so lost on her whenever you're in public, especially in regards to displays of affection. she grants kisses when waiting in busy lines, holds your face in public, says things about love out loud without shame before you part ways; about time you stopped being embarrassed, and started being grateful.
: fierce and protective over your most authentic self, that it feels like being wrapped in something bright. you laugh at each other's bad jokes so hard you end up wheezing and letting loose. her comfort comes through by just braiding your hair, painting your nails, sitting close.
: she panics quite a lot, with all she knows about your differences in species, which leads to her thinking she's taking too much space with her alien habits. she collects random earthly things with genuine delight every time you're out with her, to the point where she's made the ordinary world her own.
: her favourite domestic thing she's always looking forward to, is watching movies and tv shows with you. just something about the screen being as bright as the sun, that she can't look away cause the plot's so good. all cuddled up in the others arms, limbs tangled on and dipped hands in stacked snacks.
SOON-TO-BE-FWB!DICK GRAYSON, who never would’ve touched the idea of a casual, no-strings relationship with a ten foot pole. He didn’t want to use someone, it felt inherently wrong. To only expect sex and nothing else on top of it, it didn’t sit right with him.
But when you, his coworker and long time mission partner, pushed him against a side table and knocked over his key dish in the pursuit of your lips on his and his clothes on the ground, he found himself melting into it. Reaching out and gripping the back of your neck and moaning as your lips dragged over his Adam’s apple.
“I normally get wined and dined first—” he joked breathlessly before his subsequent whine was swallowed be your eager lips to shut him up. Your hands tugged off his v-neck (cashmere, by the way) and let it frump to the floor in an undignified pile.
Oh, fuck it.
Your panties bunched at your ankles as he fucked into you, palm flat on the wall and his moans echoing into your neck, pressing sloppy kisses to the hollow. “Yeah, fuuuuck, baby, just like that,” He panted, his button up hanging open. Maybe he was more into this idea than once thought.
Your knees were at his hips, the side table rattling with every upward stroke of his cock that kissed your cervix beautifully. Holy shit, you literally had no words.
“You gonna come, honey?” Hypocritical when he was five seconds away from coming, but he couldn’t help it plus the inherent need to know he wasn’t going to embarrass himself. But the way your pussy walls were fluttering around his dick, you were too. Thank heavens.
He cupped your jaw and consumed your soul through your lips, burying himself in you to the hilt one last time, a deep moan from his mouth shocking one out from you too as you too came five seconds after him. Not really kissing anymore, just his nose smushed awkwardly on yours so you could see the pretty flush on his cheeks and his eyelashes fluttering on his cheeks, panting as if he’d run a marathon.
“Shitfuck.” He breathed, the most he’d cursed within ten seconds, wiping a bead of sweat off your temple before kissing it. A little too romantic for your tastes, but you allowed it. “Oh, that’s not right.” He muttered, his stupidly hot blue eyes flicking over your naked body.
Was he gonna say this should never happen again? “What’s not right?”
He leaned forward, running the tip of his nose over yours so you jugular. His floppy hair tickled your jaw. “I didn’t,” He kissed a random spot softly, “eat you out first.”
“Did you want to?” You blinked.
“To be honest, I didn’t see this situation coming,” You both laughed breathlessly, but then his finger ran over your slit lazily, collecting your juices with a quiet shlick. Your thighs trembled.
“Shiiiit—”
“But after you came on my cock like that,” He began to genuflect, “I wanna feel it on my tongue.”
Ω the way ai is being relied on to take over every litle thing, always gets me thinking of how these ai user’s were even surviving before it got as big as it did.
chapter title: Jason Todd and his muse
chapter summary: "But one should be realistic." He murmurs, the sound caressed by the wind.
"Hope is realistic, Jason."
It is not. And Jason knew that better than anyone.
tags and warnings: fluff, original character appearance ( Serena - who has been described), slight angst towards the end, a lot about themes of hope. Big bro Dick Grayson, Sibling shenanigans, Also Red Hood painting (please let me know if you guys could visualize it !) And Angsty Angst (But it's pretty minimal compared to the next chapter), mentions of trafficking, drugs, gangs and domestic violence (nothing major)
author's note: Huge thanks to @batwngs for proof reading!!! Also to preface, I’m not an artist. A lot of this is a combination of little research and my imagination ! would love to know your thoughts on this chapter. Reblogs and comments appreciated.
word count: 6794
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Warm sunlight paints the wooden floor in patterns of light due to the fluttering of the yellow linen curtains, dust light dancing around the air in swirls akin to that of a ballet dancer spotlighted on the Vinyl Marley floors. It was early morning and Jason was already at the studio. You had him change into Red Hood's costume, while you set up the backdrop.
Silks of red sit against the wall while a bunch of teddy bears sat in one corner. The background was just for your point of reference. The silk red would turn into the red brick stacked against each to form the wall of crime alley and the teddy bears — each separated from one another at a distance would lie on one side of Jason, would represent the children of crime alley.
All Jason had to do was lean against the red silk, arms folded and one leg over the other while looking ahead. The twist of the door knob signals Jason's return from the changing room, clad in the familiar creation of yours.
He still looked handso — Nope, we are not going there right now.
"Can you wear these on your back?" you ask, handing over the pair of angel wings — one cut and sprinkled with red from it's stem. It was a lot heavier than you had expected as they were made out of resin, with small flecks of bronze caressing its edges.
Jason knew today was the day he would be cosplaying as himself. To say the least, he was curious how you were going to portray him. He was no angel like Bruce or an inspiration like Barbara.
He was nothing really.
Nothing angelic enough to even hold one of the celestial plume.
He loops his arms over the straps regardless. You were kneeling down, trying to spread the silk uniformly against the wooden floor. You wore a brown apron, cinched tightly at the waist, a little faded from multiple washes over the months. Jason could tell you hadn't slept the previous night, if the dark bags under your gorgeous eyes acted as any proof.
The tiny studio was already ready for his presence early in the morning with the pallette of red paint stacked near a wooden easel that held the rectangular white canvas painted in a layer of red mud, positioned horizontally. Printouts of the photos you had taken of him yesterday was now pinned to the corkboard replacing Stephanie's. There were other pictures pinned along with his to form a collage such as those of crime alley, a movie still of kids running, and the same pair of angel wings.
"Okay, so let me just tell you a brief run through of what I have planned for the portrait."
Jason should really listen, but how can he if you looked like that. It looked like the sun was your personal stylist, it's rays highlighting every tiny detail across your face while your eyes gleamed with zeal. Your hands are turning, twisting as you explain the way you were going to draw him — yet Jason didn't hear a word.
Instead in the small enclosed four-walled room of the art studio, Jason becomes the artist and you, his muse, as he tries committing every part of you to memory. He was not artistic like you, but as a lover of words, Jason had the most beautiful combination of letters associated to you, to your very being.
Safe to say, Jason was falling for you just as easily as the moon falls for the sun.
He just hoped you would fall for him too.
A very fickle thing, since he likes to tell himself he doesn't believe in hope.
"Jason, are you listening?" The only reason you felt he wasn't, was because of how still he stood. Maybe without the domino mask, you would have been able to see green eyes locked on to you for the past five minutes just like you had been caught twice before.
His arms rubs the sensitive skin riddled with goosebumps at the back of his neck, red blooming across his body like hibiscus sprouting to life. Fortunately for him, you were not able to witness his pathetic flustering akin to that of a teenage boy who had seen his crush look at him for the first time.
"Sorry, was just thinking about something." He murmurs, his eyes darting to the red silk because that was so much easier than telling you how he found his home in your eyes.
"Are the wings too heavy ? Are you unco—?" you ask trying to find any reason that could be bothering him.
"No, they're perfectly fine." Jason says quickly, his ears turning pink as he realizes he just interrupted you out of his own fluster.
There's a brief silence that wraps around both of you — not awkward, just there — before your voice cut's through the silence.
"Let me go through it again." Jason nods, intent on listening to you this time and not getting lost in the beauty that was you.
"The red silk ," you say pointing at the fabric, "Will be the red brick walls of crime alley. I need you to lean against it such that one wing is fluttering high."
Jason nods.
"The teddy bears you see placed at a distance from each other," The fur feels soft against your skin as you position the teddy bears better against the floor. "They will be the children of Crime Alley running."
You point towards the stumped side of his wings,"The other side, there will be a dark shadow cast. I know it's kind of confusing, but you will see what I mean once we start. Do you have any suggestions?"
Jason might have had something to say if he listened, but he was lost again.
Just this time in his thoughts — a never ending cycle. Jason loves his family more than they will ever know. But sometimes it made him forget about all the good he ever did just because he did not do it the 'right' way. Jason was no way as good as Bruce Wayne but he saved others too.
He was a protector. A savior to many living in Crime Alley. How many kids had he saved from the ever impeding doom of being involved in drugs and gangs? How many women had he helped move out of unsafe homes and from trafficking rings? Even news outlets never spoke much about his work in Crime Alley — the positives at least.
To have a total stranger think of him in such a way was rather surprising and heartwarming.
"No, I-I think it's perfect."
You smile, lips stretched wide as you start maneuvering around to make this feel as comfortable as it can be for one. There is a tiny speaker at one corner of the room that you deliberately brought from your dorm. It had become a small tradition — creating a playlist before you started working on a painting— in the last four years. But since you were working with a muse, you opted for something that would make him feel more comfortable.
"Shall we start?" you ask Jason, though already pulling him by his arm towards the backdrop. Anyone could tell you were excited — the sparkling eyes, wide smile, bouncing foot from foot and for one, you wouldn't have had the confidence to drag Jason by his arms. But if you had looked behind, you would have seen him smiling wide.
He'd love to be dragged anywhere, if it was with you.
Turning towards him, you place your arms on top of his shoulders, voice firm, "If you need to take any breaks or feel uncomfortable, just let me know. We can take a pause anytime. So please voice it out at the very moment."
"Yes, sweetheart."
The words leave his mouth before his brain can even process. Both of you turn statuesque, sculpted by the shared beating of your heart, like muses waiting to be painting.
"Sorry, if that—" Jason says, hands twitching at his sides.
"No, No. It's fine , I mean — Let's j-just get back to work."
You turn your back to him, hoping he wouldn't notice the way you took deep breaths, trying to calm your beating heart or the silly grin on your face.
In a few minutes, Jason was leaning against the silk, arms crossed and his right leg over his left. He looked glorious like that of a royal knight, guarding his kingdom.
Like that of Red Hood guarding Crime Alley.
You stand beside him to fix the angel wing that was slightly tilted. As the soft feather bristles against your fingertips, you could feel his eyes on you. A shiver runs through your spine at the close proximity, butterflies zooming in your stomach. You take a deep breath to calm yourself down only for his heavy scent to course through your body, heat washing over you like waves.
Stay professional, the words ring in your head.
But how could you in the presence of someone like him.
Taking a step back from him, you take a final look at the entire scene ahead of you , rechecking if everything was in it's right position.
"Would it be okay if I played some music?" you ask Jason, fiddling around with the speaker.
"Go ahead," his voice a little muffled as he fixes his shirt.
"Do you want to play any specific Genre? Artists?"
"Not really, I'm fine with anything."
The soft melody of "Futile Devices" by Sufjan Stevens waft through the room, caressing every object in it's way. You had chosen the instrumental version as it provided you with enough concentration to not focus too much on the lyrics.
Sitting behind the easel on the wooden chair, you prep the canvas, coating it with another layer of red. A tiny circular wooden table rests next to you, a black cylindrical pen stand holding clean brushes of varying widths. Your thumb curves itself into thumbhole of the wooden color pallette, covered in pints of red, black, white and other colors formed as a result of the combination of the primary colors.
You start by making streaks of light grey, outlining his silhouette at the center of the canvas. Leaning closer to the canvas, you switch the brush for a thinner one to outline his features and proportions. Shifting against the cushion of the chair, you simultaneously paint a brief outline of the bricks in the background to make sure nothing was being miscalculated or else you would have to redo the whole painting again.
Jason can see your eyes flickering to his form regularly as well as to the pictures pinned on to the cork board, orbs squinting in focus over the borders of the canvas. There was a slight streak of red on the stretch of your cheeks when you had rubbed the back of your hand mindlessly against your face.
He could see the way your eyes narrow in concentration, leaning closer to the canvas while your body was almost off the chair. He noticed the way you would hum along to the instrumentals, your mouth whispering some of the lyrics that would have accompanied the music. He noticed the way you stretched your arms, groaning at the slight strain in the muscles from holding them in one position for too long.
And he noticed, he was falling fast. Very fast.
It had been two hours and you had finished till his shoulders, along with the red brick walls of Crime Alley. Deciding it was the apt time to take a well deserved break, you stretch your arms above your head, swaying side to side. That's when you notice, the way Jason stood too still.
Some if not most of your muses could sit without moving, but they were human too, shifting a little here and there that caused minuscule changes in the position of their arms or legs.
But Jason, he just stood still like he had been replaced by a statue dressed in Red Hood's costume.
"Let's take a break."
Jason finally moves, walking towards the the small rectangular table in the corner, housing two chairs. You wash your hands and bring a bowl of potato chips and two energy bars. Handing one over, you plop down to the plush of the chair with a sigh.
"How did you stay so still, Jason, for like two hours."
Honestly, the only reason Jason could stand motionlessly was because the subject of his concentration was you. He could look at you for hours, untouched by the outside world — almost like the world blurred around him when you were there.
"Daydreaming about my books," he answers instead.
"Oh, which book?" you ask, taking another bite of the protein bar.
"Frankenstein."
"Oh my god! Have you seen the movie?" your hands clasp together. "It was so fucking beautiful. Even the costumes, especially the blue gown Mia Goth wore. "
Jason hadn't watched the film. He wanted too but knowing how the words would translate to real life people on a screen would hit far too close to home and he did not have the courage to watch it just yet.
He hums regardless.
"Shall we continue?"
Throughout the next hour, you had painted till his waist, covering his huge biceps. Before continuing further, a curse leaves your mouth at the lack of the black paint from the tube. The extra set of tubes were stacked high up in the supplies room and you would need to get a ladder to get them down.
"All okay?" Jason questions, already walking a little front to see you better.
"Yeah, it's just that the black paint tube is empty and I still need them," you mumble, trying to squeeze the aluminum of the tube just in case you were mistaken but alas!
"Are there not extra tubes?"
"There are. It's just a little inconvenient," you groan, head falling back.
The next few minutes that could have been spent painting, you were rather hauling a large ladder to the shelves of the supply room. Jason had come along, citing he'd like to explore the art center as much as possible.
You step onto the ladder, one rung at a time with your hands firmly clutching the red side rails. Reaching the last rung, your hands were at arms length to grab at the white plastic container housing the new set of tubes.
It happens fast.
One second your fingertips graze against the container, the next your arms are flailing in the air as your feet slips off the ladder. This was going to cause a sprain or worse, a fracture. But in the small moment you're afloat, you remind of yourself to stay positive even if things don't seem that way.
Squeezing your eyes, you wait for the ground to cradle you but it never happens. Instead you're cradled by rather soft yet taut muscles, one under your waist and the other, under your knees.
You could see the white tuft of hair blending against the black, the small tiny scars on the expanse of his skin that was not covered by the masks, the very faint cinnamon freckles scattered around his cheekbones — not many in number. His arm under your t-shirt is hot, the warmth transcending past the fabric as it caresses against your skin. Jason looks down at you and murmurs an 'are you okay'.
And all you want to do was kiss him.
Nope. Stay professional.
"Wow, yo-you have fast reflexes."
He laughs — a deep rumble in his chest that scratches at your pulse. Jason sets you down on your feet gently with his hands on your waist, the skin now burning with heat and hands you the pack of new paint tubes that he retrieved by climbing the ladder himself.
Both of you don't speak till you get back to the studio.
Every moment spent with each other is making it only harder and harder not to like your muse.
The same stands true for Jason.
Evenings are always a lot busier in the university than the mornings.
A lot more noise.
A lot more warmth.
Students shuffle around the campus in groups after a long exhausting day of classes, some laughing with friends to lay off the stress while others rush to grace their humble abode.
The art studio specifically had visitors on the rise between 4 pm and 7 pm — some professors visiting the space as other students would hang out with their friends who were art majors. The evenings were also the time workshops and other extracurriculars would be conducted — open to all students despite of their major and sometimes even the general public.
It had been a few hours now, and you finally had finished painting Red Hood onto the canvas. The only part that was left, was the children and the shadow which could be completed in a few hours. Jason could finally get out off the costume and return back to his leather jacket and tight t-shirt (the ones that you oh so admired, every time he stepped foot into the studio).
It was 4 p.m — well past lunch time —again— and the cafeteria wouldn't be open for so long nor would the food taste good. You had insisted to have lunch around 1pm but Jason did not mind posing till the painting was complete. Said he wasn't hungry.
Thus you had decided to order some takeout from the local Chinese restaurant next to Gotham University.
The rooftops of the art building was a secret picnic spot for a few students, including you. The evenings would involve some of your friends sat against the cotton picnic mat or laying back on it, embraced by the occasional colored skies of dusk.
"Shall we go to the rooftop? It's a pretty good spot to eat," you ask Jason. It wasn't that you couldn't have it here, surrounded by paint and varnish. This was something you were used to but not Jason.
"Sure."
The paper of the takeout bag scrunches under your palm as you walk toward the staircase. A soft sniffle stop you in your tracks.
Turning around, you try to check the source when your eyes land on one of the neighboring studio's — Serena's. Her auburn hair was hunched over her shoulders , hands rubbing against the splotchy skin of her face. Serena's eyes were red and swollen like she had been crying for a while.
After a knock on the glass door, you let yourself in. Jason stood near the doorway enough to hear the words spoken inside but not encroaching another's private space. He sees you sitting beside her, just rubbing her back. You hadn't spoken immediately, just waiting till Serena herself wanted to speak about it.
Once the sniffling died down, you squeeze her hands.
"What happened?" you ask softly, still rubbing her back in circles.
"I still have five paintings left," she whispers your name "And the one I finally did, a bottle of paint fell on top of it. I-I don't know what to do. I'm going to fail and —"
Serena starts crying again, her eyes flickering towards the now red splattered painting.
"Hey, listen to me," You try diverting her attention from the fallen painting to you. "You still have time, Serena. Start slow and once you feel confident enough, you will be able to finish them much faster. I know it's not easy."
You grab her shoulders gently, turning to face you. "And you might even hate me for saying this, but don't lose hope."
Her blue eyes water again, and you tell her to let it out.
Let it all out.
Jason had his back against the wall, his eyes looking at the sky through the glass windows. It was light blue, a color he hadn't witnessed often in Gotham over the years. Jason's ears don't pick up what you told Serena after the last three words that passed through his ears, and settled like a heavy brick in his mind.
Don't lose hope.
It's just three words, but it strikes Jason like glass piercing skin. Red fills his mind but it's not anger. No, he doesn't think he can feel that way about you, but rather it's annoyance.
Hope is promise.
And as they say, promises aren't meant to be broken.
Though a part of Jason fills with annoyance, there's small spurts of yellow bursting through, even without his knowledge. After all, his anger is towards the man he first found hope in. When Jason met Batman, he felt hope. A promise almost. His life was going to get better, he was going to study and help people like his mother - Catherine. He was going to make his father proud.
But as history goes, promises are lies.
Hope is a lie.
After a few minutes, she turns to you, her lips in a straight line. But her eyes were clearer, not happy, not hopeless — somewhere in between.
"Do you want to have some dumplings? I got them from the old grandma who's restaurant is near the university," you hand her the tiny box.
She shakes her head, trying to give it back to you. But you push it further into her lap.
"It's okay, just eat them and you'll feel energized," Bumping against her shoulders, you grin "Grandma's dumplings does that."
You invite her to the rooftop to which she politely declines citing she will start working on her project after eating the dumplings.
"Okay then, I will drop by later," you utter, waving as you walk back to the door until Serena calls out your name.
"Thank you."
You offer her a smile in return.
Jason thinks you're a little foolish.
The edges of the rooftop are low, just a few blocks tall with a flat metallic surface, glinting in the last rays of sun. You could see the entirety of Gotham University in all it's glory — tall buildings with Gothic architecture huddled among endless lush of green.
The sky was a hue of deep orange and light pink, bleeding out it's yellow as the night sky starts taking over. The days are quite short compared to the nights in Gotham. You lean against your elbows, the cotton fabric scrunching under your forearms. Jason sat next to you, legs crossed. The both of you had just finished eating — he had Chop Suey and you, Chilli Crisp noodles.
The takeout bag lies next to you, folded neatly so you could dispose of it appropriately. At this height in the rooftop, the sounds of Gotham dimmed into a sort of lullaby, along with the winds giving the perfect environment for one to doze off in it's ambience.
"You know that Serena finishing all five paintings within this week is not really possible right?" Jason mumbles, the first since having eaten lunch. He was no painter, but he knew a thing or two about how much time it would take for the paint to dry. It's not impossible but it would still be extremely hard.
Jason just did not understand why you had to give someone false hope instead of being realistic.
Sometimes hearing the truth feels better than false hope.
"You think I should have told her that it's going to be extremely hard?" you ask, turning your head towards him. The wind flutters through his hair, as the leather covering his arms scrunch at random crevices.
"No…I-i just think it's bad giving false hope to someone."
"I'm not Jason. I - I just told her the truth." you mutter, sitting upright.
"But one should be realistic."
"Hope is realistic, Jason."
It was not.
Jason of all people knew that. Hope wasn't realistic. Hope was for fools, he thinks, though it was still only hours ago he hoped you liked him. But if you knew him, really knew all about him, you could understand why he believed in what he did. He had hope in Bruce, but not only was it shattered to pieces, it made him loose trust in the four letter word all together.
"You think I'm foolish, don't you?"
The words are harsher than intended.
No, you were not annoyed at him. It just reminded you of the people you haven't been able to prove wrong yet.
"I'm sorry —" he starts before your voice interrupts him.
"No, it's fine. I'm not offended," you say, your voice soft as you look out into the pink sky. "I am foolish. I know that."
A slight pause. Jason looks at you, your eyes closed as the setting sun cast's it's last rays over you.
You looked peaceful.
Would having hope make him peaceful too?
Would it make it easier, to watch as the day passes and the moon shines, and have this belief that everything was going to turn out okay?
That maybe, just maybe, him coming back from the dead was for something.
Or was it only him who deserved to rot when he had hope? Why did everything turn to dust when he felt it? With Bruce. with Sheila.
Maybe he was cursed. Cursed to see hope as something not to hold, not to inherently believe in.
No, he is cursed. Because why did he have to meet you — the rendition of hope on this earth — fall in love with you, when he knows he can't have you.
When he can't have hope.
"But I think it's better than being hopeless." your voice lands like that of water in the endless stretch of desert. Hope. But it was him, who had to figure if it was real or a mirage.
Maybe Jason was going to truly believe this one day.
Maybe in another life.
Or just maybe you would be the one to prove it to him.
"What's got you so happy, Little Wing?"
Dick Grayson's words cling to the air as he leans against one of the pillars of the bat cave, a sly smile on his face accompanied by deepening dimples on both sides of his cheek. He was still in the latex suit of Nightwing, just the domino mask off.
Dick likes to think he knows his little brother. Which maybe is true, but only to a certain extent. He is not aware where his little brother lives now. Nor had his personal phone number. He knows Jason works as a mechanic, but where? No idea.
But Dick Grayson knows the little things about Jason Todd, like now as he sees him smile off in the distance at seemingly nothing. Just smiling out in the open, with his pearly whites in view. It was a beautiful sight, to see his younger smiling again in the presence of him. Indeed a rare sight, he wishes he could bask in more.
Jason rolls his eyes, smile replaced by the downturn quirk to his lips that was specifically meant for his brothers. He gathers his jacket, ready to leave only for dick to stand in front of him — arms and legs stretched as wide as a human could like that of a starfish — obstructing his path to exit.
"So, there's a girl, isn't it ?" Richard asks, wiggling his eyebrows like a lunatic.
"What, N-No. Just Shut up," Jason groans, pushing him out of the way but if he thought Dick was going to leave it at that, he was wrong. Dick had immediately noticed the red blossoming across Jason's face and ears. Honestly, he had just guessed it was about a girl (or a boy), something he did to almost all of his younger siblings like every older sibling did.
But now that it was really about a girl, just know that Dick Grayson was going to be one annoying wingman. But first he needed to know who you were, without using his detective skills (aka techniques to stalk criminals) that helped solve cases and were borderline illegal. The only other way was to ask Jason.
Meanwhile, the both of you had been texting about when you and him would be unconstrained by other duties to coordinate for his portrait.
It had been two hours, two whole hours of Dick Grayson essentially torturing his younger brother about you. Questions about how you two met, where you met, and when you met, had eventually Jason break the dam.
"I am cosplaying as Red Hood for her," Jason's voice is loud as it echoes against the dark walls of the cave. It was only the two of them underground as the rest were either asleep or completing their other daytime duties.
"YOU-WHAT." Dick was now on the floor, hands pressed against his stomach as his hysterical laughter rings throughout the cave. Jason drags a palm across his face, hiding the quirk of his lips. He turns to leave, when Dick immediately stops him.
"Okay, no laughing," he says, while laughing.
"Okay, so….how did this happen?" Dick asks, a fist to his mouth to stop the giggle from flowing past his lips, but his eyes were enough to convey the absolute mirth coursing through his body.
Jason briefly mentioned the circumstances — of how he saw you at the library, then near Crime Alley and the proposal to be the muse for your Red Hood painting — without conveying the full story.
Dick hums, his palm cradling his jaw as his elbow sits on his knee. During the conversation both of them had moved to the couch (really on Dick's insistence).
"So, you like her?"
"No."
"If you say so, because you have been awfully smiley since the day you met her, if I tally the timeline right." Dick's palm clasps against Jason's shoulder and giving it a tiny squeeze before leaving him to embrace the ambience of the bat cave alone.
"If she makes you happy, tell her."
Jason is at the studio early the next day.
Today was the day you were going to paint a portrait of him — not Red Hood, but Jason Todd. Another reminder that this would be likely be the last day he could bask in the presence of you. The door to your space was unlocked, to which he let's himself inside after knocking on it twice.
There you were, face mushed against the teakwood of the table, one hand laid next to your face. You were fast asleep, chest rising evenly with every breath. He wanted to remove the tiny paint streak on your cheek, sway the baby hair away from your forehead but retracted his hands.
You looked angelic.
He moves to the finished painting on the easel — the Red Hood painting.
He knew you would excel, after looking at the paintings of other vigilantes. But it still blew him away when he sees the final canvas. There he stood leaning against the wall at the center, some graffiti etched on the red brick while a street sign with 'CRIME ALLEY' gleamed at the front.
The white angel wing towered large on the left side, as the rays of the sun hit every feather. Like you had mentioned, in place of the teddy bears were children — both boys and girls — running towards the light with wide grins on their faces. The right side of him, where the angel wing was not present, a stump sprinkled with red instead had a large shadow cast on the street. It looked almost black but if you looked closer and titled a little, under the intensity of different wavelengths of light, you could see packets of drugs, sharp shredded knives scattered around the street and blue ribbons clumped together, symbolizing human trafficking.
"Jason?"
Your voice huddled with sleep breaks him out his gaze at the painting. You rub your eyes, yawning slightly before swiftly getting off the chair. Yesterday's clothes stick to your body and you looked like you hadn't slept, which was true as you had only laid your head down on the table an hour ago. The night before was spent on preparing your thesis statement and shifting all your finished paintings that were coated with varnish to the assigned space in the exhibit for your final grading.
You also had helped Serena by giving her company and encouraging her with ideas. She was finally able to finish all of them on time — though they weren't perfect, there were present and that's all that mattered at the end of the day.
"I'm so sorry, Jason," you fumble around to put on your shoes. "Just give me thirty minutes and I will be back. I am so—"
"Hey, it's fine. Take your time. I can look around the currently open exhibitions right?" He asks, hands tucked into his jacket. Even in your haze of looking absolutely horrendous and embarrassed, you did not forget to observe the way his white t-shirt stretched across his chest, moving with every breath.
Fucking hell.
"Yes. You can visit them." you say before, muttering a 'thank you'. You rush out of the building to your dorm to get ready. You had already called Zara to cook some light breakfast that you could just grab before running as fast as possible to your dorm room. All you had to do was brush your teeth, take a shower, be presentable enough.
You could do this. In thirty minutes? Hopefully.
Meanwhile Jason roams around the third and fourth floor of the building, a few exhibits open. One was depicting the art of sculpting — the various techniques, the variety of raw materials that are being used, some exhibits of sculpture made by students using different techniques.
He stood and read every description present beside each exhibit.
The next exhibition revolved around the theme of costume designing. Costumes from different eras across the world were presented, along with a paragraph about it. He learnt so much about the types of patterns, materials that he had never heard and had even taken down notes of a few things he did not mind finding more information from the library.
Jason turns around to look at the next design when he catches your eyes. You were leaning against the doorway, a smile on your face and eyes loaded with awe. Perhaps you were admiring the same costumes as he was.
Only if he knew you were admiring him.
"Hey, you've been waiting for a while?"
"No, I just arrived," you say, pointing back at the exhibits."We can stay for a while."
"It's fine, I was just revisiting them again," Jason said, standing in front of you.
"So, shall we go?" you ask, voice drenched in honey.
He bows, extending his hand front "Lead the way, m'lady." You shake your head, fighting the rising heat to the expanse of your face.
How were you not supposed to fall in love with Jason Todd.
"Do you have any specifics? A particular art style maybe?"
You sit in front of the easel, a new white canvas leaned on it. Jason was sitting ahead of you , the white wall behind him. Jazz tunes drift through the air, as you coat the palette with the varied colors you could see on Jason. It seemed like it didn't matter what he wore, because the man looked like he could model for vogue adorned in a trash can. He removes his jacket, now only clad in the white t-shirt. The black ink on his skin is inviting you to color it, streak it with purples and yellows.
"No, up to your imagination. I like whatever you do. "
"Uhh…Thank you," your voice comes out soft as you duck down a little, keeping your head turned towards the canvas so he could not see the silly grin carved on the lips. " Okay so, just sit still and I should be done in a few hours."
You hum to the melody, creating a basic outline of him on the canvas, eyes flicking towards his figure constantly. The last time you did, he was wearing the Red Hood costume in which the domino mask acted as a barrier to his eyes.
But now, you could see those emerald hues, the color akin to some of the lush you found in the campus. Jason looked ahead, staring right at you, which was no mistake of his since a portrait painting required him to do so, but it distracted you easily.
But someone else was more distracted than you — Jason Todd.
Jason was scarred — from the expanse of his cheeks to all over his body. He was used to the stares, the open ended questions — sometimes even the screams of kids. Red Hood's mask had made him a lot more confident than him being himself — as Jason Todd. But you, you had seen his face — unmasked, scarred — yet wanted him to be your muse.
To willingly see his face everyday.
It made him feel something he hadn't felt in a long time.
It made him feel something he thinks he doesn't deserve.
Jason did not like being stared at. It was something he was aware of since he was a child but even more so after coming back from the dead. But ever since he had met you, he realized he did not mind it — only if it was you.
The way your eyes locked onto his form, it carried no judgment.
No fear.
You traced over his features, painting every scar, every freckle that encompassed the delicate skin of his face. The portrait was going to be till his shoulders.
Just as the Red Hood painting, Jason did not move much. By the time you had finished the painting, you realized you wanted to paint Jason Todd in all the different art styles in the world. Remember it in all forms like the art he was.
It had taken you barely a few hours to finish his painting. Every feature delicately drawn and colored appropriately with care. The final touch you had added was the golden hues emanating around him, a bordered yellow.
"Done!" you exclaimed, standing up. Jason walks around the easel to see his painting and he was starstruck.
It felt like he was seeing someone else, not himself. Every scar, every blemish but drawn as features rather than some kind of imperfections. You stood beside him with hopeful eyes and teeth digging into your lower lip, as you await his reaction.
"Wow, I—" wide eyed, Jason leans in closer. It felt different from photographs or looking at the mirror.
It felt different drawn by you. "It's beautiful," he says, looking at you now. The artist of him.
"Thank you."
Walking towards the parking lot, the wind caresses against your skin making you tug your coat to yourself.
You wanted to say something to Jason.
The words lie on the tip of your tongue, but they don't leave your mouth. You wanted to thank him. But most of all, you wanted to tell him about the growing feelings of pink in your heart. Did he feel the same about you?
Jason hands twitch against the pocket of his jacket. He wants to say something too, but can't.
Won't.
He couldn't destroy your life.
You were filled with hope, shining brightly like the sun. Yellow colored every space that had the fortune to be touched by your presence, human sunshine trying to fill in the grays of Gotham that Jason had always believed was all the city will ever be.
He couldn't come into your life and destroy your peace.
He couldn't make you believe there was no hope.
He couldn't make your life be painted with Grey.
He couldn't.
Though it had only been three days in the presence of each other, it felt like you had known each other for months. As you reach the parking lot where his bike stands, you extend a hand towards him.
"Thank you for everything." Eyes filled with so much warmth, Jason wants to bask in it. He was happy that he was the reason for the warmth. In a way, that was all he needed.
He was glad he made you happy.
But that did not erase the ache in his heart. He was going to miss seeing you .
Being near you.
"Thank you," he murmurs, feeling your delicate skin against his scarred one. Holding them for a minute longer. Finally he pulls away, walking to his bike.
He climbs over the bike, hands fiddling with the black helmet. Before he places it over his head, he looks at you one last time, cataloguing every part of you to his core memory.
Jason doesn't believe in hope but for you, he believes it one last time.
"I hope you meet the person you're waiting for in Gotham."
Summary & CW: Fluff, friends w/ benefits, based on glue song by beabadobee, yearner wally
Pairing: Wally West x Fem!Reader
Word Count: 0.7k
A/N: Another piece out the Kiln! Thank you to the anon who requested this and for participating! I hope you all enjoy <3333
This is the best view he’s ever seen.
Wally West was one of the- if not the fastest man alive. He could be anywhere within seconds, allowing him access to the most breathtaking places on the planet.
But right here, with you passed out in his bed? He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something more beautiful.
It was around two in the morning. Realistically, he should be asleep, there were a million things with his name on it once morning comes and you were going to leave early for work. There was just something about you that always enraptured him.
It was impossible for him not to be in a trance when he was around you. He couldn’t help it, he absorbed everything you did, everything you smiled at, everything that made your head tilt to the side.
He was obsessed.
Wally had never met anyone like you. No one laughed the same way you did, they always missed the way your left eye squinted more. No one gave him that look you always wore when he made a stupid joke, the smirk you tried to hide with a raised eyebrow. No one took up all his thoughts like you did, he couldn’t run past a cute animal without stopping to send you a picture.
It was simple.
He was in love with you.
There was no way around it. Despite how much he tried to hide it, he knew.
There was just one small problem.
You weren’t doing the “relationship thing” right now.
After too many shitty dates and even eviler exes, you swore off dating for the rest of the year. There was no hiding his relief when you decided on it. Every time you called him with some nightmare about your antichrist of the month, he bit his tongue till it bled.
And thanks to him, celibacy only lasted you about five weeks.
It was some Thursday night two months ago, you were hanging out on his couch playing Overcooked 2 together. Laughs were mixed in with cursing, orders were echoing off the walls in his crappy apartment. One thing led to another and Wally had saved this level by serving pizza with mere seconds to spare.
When you thanked him, a cheeky grin you knew all too well grew on his face. He tapped his cheek and gave you a, “don’t forget to kiss me.”
Deciding to one up him at his own game, you grabbed his face with your right hand and pressed your lips to his.
It was the most divine kiss Wally had ever blessed to receive. It’s safe to assume the game was forgotten for what remained of the night.
You both talked about it later, the possibility of being more one day. It just wasn’t in the cards right now considering the paths you were currently on. There were cities you wanted to live in, the career ladder you wanted climb, and Wally….
Well, he was saving the world.
He couldn’t promise you that he was going to come home every night. He couldn’t promise that he was always going to be safe. Hell, he couldn’t even promise that he’d always be on the planet.
So for now, this was enough.
Anything that involved, regarded, or even revolved around you was more than anything he could ever ask for. Even if you weren’t his completely, Wally couldn’t think of something he would trade this for.
To see you like this, it was everything. The moonlight bouncing off your back as his fingers traced ran up and down it. Your hair fanned out on the pillow as it caught the perfume you wore. It was almost funny how your limbs were spread all over the mattress. He was notably bigger than you, and yet you still managed to take up 75% of the bed. But he didn’t complain.
Wally would live the rest of his life on the edge of the bed if it meant he woke up tangled with you.
And as a promise to the night, right before he drifts off, he kisses you. Leaning over the mess of your arms, he drops a chaste kiss to the center of your back. A small shiver from you is the only indication that you may have felt it in your dreams.
“I love you.”
The words are breathed onto your spine like they’re tattooed on his.
Then, his head lands on his pillow, your perfume somehow traveled over to this one too. And the last sight he sees as cinnamon lulls him to bed, is the small smile you wore when you slept. That finally brings him enough peace to be dragged into slumber, preparing for another day with you.
Summary: When Barbara and Cass start training a new Batgirl, Stephanie isn't sure what to think. You're perfect, everything she wants to be and everything she could never have, and your arrival forces Stephanie to confront whether she wants to be you, or be with you
froggi yaps -> lowk this has been sitting in my drafts foreverr because i know it won't do as well as my other dc fics and that made me sad >.< but i love steph and hopefully the other 12 steph enjoyers will like this <3
If you asked Stephanie Brown who Batgirl was, she’d say it depends.
Barbara’s Batgirl was strong, brave, and cunning. A pathfinder, a wonderful hero who saved countless lives and gave everything she had to the life. She was a pioneer, a champion who pathed the way for the rest of them.
Cass’s Batgirl was different, a fresh take on an old hero. Though she’s quiet, though she’s vicious in her fighting, she’s still heroic. She brings a calm sort of comfort wherever she goes.
But if you asked her about herself, she’s not sure what she’d say. She’s a civilian amongst gods, someone dressed in a knockoff costume playing pretend while the others do the real heroic work. A cheap imitation of the real thing.
As far as hero-ing goes for her, she already feels that she doesn’t have much going on. Not that she needs the reminder.
Entering the Batcave, already exhausted from her lack of sleep and the incredibly long day she’s had, she’s not sure what to expect. Maybe the usual arguing amongst Bats, Tim and Damian trading insults like a normal day while Cass sits quietly and reads in the corner.
Definitely not the scene that comes to play out in front of her—Barbara and Cass teaching someone new to spar, someone she’s never seen before who is very much dressed in a rendition of the Batgirl costume. She blinks, rubbing her eyes like the scene will disappear when she does.
It doesn’t.
Her lips purse into a frown. Another Batgirl? Something ugly twists in her chest. She’d fought like hell for this mantle, had done it all on her own against the will of pretty much everybody, and here’s someone new, wearing it with the support of both her predecessors.
She shakes her head, blonde hair bouncing. No, that’s not fair. She forces a smile, stepping up to the mat to watch.
She watches quietly for a few minutes while you trade blows with Cass, watches you fight as hard as you can to keep up with Cass who’s very clearly restraining herself. Cass sweeps a leg, taking you down to the mat easily, your mask bouncing off your face.
You squeak, sitting up and rubbing the back of your head where it hit the mat.
Steph’s eyes widen slightly. You took that hit like a champ, and now, seeing you without the mask, she can’t help but think how pretty you are. That twistiness inside of her only grows heavier.
“Hey, good timing,” Babs calls, waving her over.
Steph tugs down her hood and mask. “Hey, guys.” She strains to keep her voice as cheery as usual, “who’s this?”
Cass introduces the two of you, and Steph can’t help but note the way she already seems warmed up to you. How long has this been going on?
You smile and step forward, offering her a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you!!”
“Hi.” She takes your hand, that same strained smile on her face, and shakes it. “It’s really nice to meet you.”
She can’t help but notice the softness of your palm against hers—not yet calloused by night after night of hard fighting and acrobatics—and the purple sheen on your nails, almost perfectly matched to her costume. Her hand lingers just a moment too long.
“She’s helping us with this drug trafficking operation at the docks,” Barbara explains, and Steph wonders if she can see through the facade she’s putting on. “Cass and I are helping her brush up on her fighting skills.”
She nods thinly, “right.”
“The Batgirl thing is just temporary,” you explain. “I just needed something to conceal my identity and Babs—”
Stephanie winces at the way the nickname rolls off your tongue, like you’ve always been friends.
“—just had this one laying around.” You finish.
You do a little twirl in the costume, the long cape splaying out as you do. Steph can’t help but look you up and down, examining the way the costume seems to fit and accentuate every curve on your body. Her eyes widen slightly. It fits you like a glove.
The three of you get back to your training, leaving Steph to watch on the sidelines. Slowly, she edges her way out until she’s back outside in the Gotham rain.
If you asked Stephanie now who Batgirl was—her version at least—she could only tell you one thing: replaceable.
The Batgirl thing, it seems, is not just temporary, and Stephanie can’t seem to escape you.
She’s gotten used to your presence now—the way you linger nearby on missions, the way you spend more time with Cass than without, the way your eyes occasionally meet hers only for you to look away quickly like it never happened. She’s never quite sure if you’re judging her, or trying to get her attention, or some other third thing she hasn’t thought of yet.
It would almost be sweet, if it didn’t have her feeling so self-conscious.
It’s after patrol one night, the summer sun just beginning to kiss the horizon of Gotham City, when you catch up with her.
“Steph, hey, Steph, wait up!”
She’s tempted, if only for a moment, to speed up and pretend she hasn’t heard. And yet, for some reason, she can’t. You’ve never been anything but perfectly nice to her, and this jealous mean girl act of hers is so high school.
She tugs down her mask, turning to face you. “What’s up?”
“I think Cass and I were going to this cafe this morning for breakfast, do you want to come?” You smile awkwardly, tilting your head to the side, “they have amazing coffee.”
She considers it for a moment, gears whirring in her head. Some coffee and breakfast would be amazing right now, as well as some time with Cass. But you’ll be there, like a constant reminder of everything she isn’t, and she knows she won’t be able to keep up her positive mood the whole time.
She flashes you a weak grin, “I think I’m just gonna go to sleep.”
“Oh,” disappointment flashes behind your eyes. “No worries, sleep well.”
You turn on your heel to leave, approaching the edge of the old warehouse rooftop you’ve been standing on, when suddenly you look over your shoulder. The golden light of the rising sun reflects off your skin, making your eyes glow and your skin shimmer. You look so pretty like this, Steph can’t help but be a little grateful she only sees you at night.
“I’ll get Cass to text you the address,” you say, that familiar hope back on your face, “y’know, in case you change your mind.”
“Thanks.”
Despite what she said, an hour later Steph finds herself freshly showered and digging through her closet.
She pulls out a casual pink sundress and tries it on, standing in the mirror and examining herself. She frowns at her reflection, smoothing her hands over the dress like that’ll make it fit better. It doesn’t.
Discarding it in the growing pile of clothes on her bed, Steph goes back to the drawing more. She pulls different garments out, trying them on only to drop them back in the pile. She always never struggles this much getting ready, least of all for a casual breakfast with friends.
Sighing, she lets herself flop onto her bed, sitting on her mountain of clothes. It’s just a casual outing, Steph, she tells herself. Just pick a damned outfit,
But she can’t, because all she can think about is what you’re going to be thinking. Are you going to look at her with those eyes like you usually do? She wonders what you’ll be wearing, if you’ll be dressed casual or cute or comfortable. Knowing you, it’s probably some perfect combination of the three.
Her eyes flutter closed as she pictures it. You, wearing some comfy practical outfit, hair perfect, sipping on some fancy drink from the cafe. She thinks about how your face will light up when she walks into the cafe, the way you’ll smile and wave at her when she approaches the table.
“Glad you can make it,” you’ll probably say, or some other line of the sort.
Her heart speeds up at the thought, stomach doing a whirlwind. You’re so…perfect, and here she is, sitting in her mess of a room, unable to pick a damned outfit. It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair.
Tears prick at her eyes. One minute, that’s all she asks. One minute where you’re not constantly on her mind, where she’s not constantly wondering about what you’re doing, who you’re with or how you’ll replace her next.
She doesn’t end up going to the cafe.
Steph’s not sure how she ended up here.
The two of you, trapped in a burning warehouse, surrounded by low level lackeys. She’s not even sure who they work for, their outfits a mess of colours and patterns that she can’t quite make out through the steadily thickening smoke.
Your back is pressed to hers, the warmth of your body seeping through both of your costumes, acting as a comfort. At least, it would be a comfort, if the two of you were in any other situation.
The masked men close in, the roar of the distant fire burning gets louder. Steph’s nerves catch fire, buzzing with the impending promise of action. She bounces on her heels, loosening up her muscles just like she was taught. One more step, one more step and she’s ready.
The heel of the closest man inches forward. Steph pounces. All hell breaks loose.
It’s a blur of action, of fighting her way through the seemingly neverending wave of goons. Her muscles ache, every punch and kick only making the burning under her skin worse. The warehouse gets hotter, the smoke rises, clogging her senses.
Behind her somewhere, the sounds of your own violence echo off the walls. You’ve always been a good fighter—probably better than her—but something in the back of her mind buzzes with worry. Like something bad is going to happen, like she needs to look out for you.
She shakes it away, diving back into the action, trying to ignore the constant nagging in the back of her mind.
She finishes off the last of her men, freezing at the sudden silence. She can’t hear you fighting anymore, can’t see you through the smoky haze. Her heart hammers in her chest. Where on Earth could you have gone?
One second. That’s how long she’s distracted for, maybe less. But one second is all it takes for someone to come up behind her, a forearm pressed over her throat and a leg hooking over her ankles. She’s taken quickly to the ground, back thudding hard against the hard ground.
Stars explode behind her eyes, the wind knocked out of her. Through the haze, she just manages to make out the masked goon above her and the gun barrel shoved inches from her face. She cringes, bracing herself to duck and roll, to do anything but lay here and take it.
And just like that, he’s gone, slammed into the ground by a familiar figure. You’re breathing heavily above Steph, eyes wide behind your mask as you reach a hand to help her up.
She grabs you, letting you tug her to the feet, and the way your hand lingers on hers reminds her of the day you met. Your jaw is slack, worry written across every feature. Steph blinks, letting the air come back to her lungs.
“T-thanks,” she gasps.
“We need to get out of here.”
Steph nods curtly, letting you tug her after you as you search for the exit, only dropping her hand when you brace yourself against the emergency exit and shove hard. Cold night air greets her, filling her burning lungs with sweet relief.
She’s dizzy from the smoke, dizzy from the hit she took. Her lips purse into frown. It’s surely going to leave a big, ugly bruise. Goodbye sundresses.
Standing on the rooftop of the burning warehouse, she watches you approach the edge, scoping out the ground below for any sign of the goons who almost overwhelmed you.
You turn to face her. “Tim called the fire department, they’re on the way.”
She braces her hands on her knees, still lightheaded from the fall. The fall. She forces herself to stand up straight, peeling off her mask and hood. “Where did you go back there?”
“Huh?”
“You—you disappeared, it distracted me. Where did you go?”
She cocks a hand on her hip, waiting for an explanation. She was too busy worrying about you, about your safety, to take care of herself. If it weren’t for your impromptu disappearance, she wouldn’t be coughing her lungs up like an amateur right now.
You scratch the back of your neck awkwardly. “One of them tried to get away and—”
“You couldn’t have told me that?” She snaps, walking towards you, closing the gap until you’re inches away. “We’re partners, you’re supposed to tell me these things.”
“I didn’t think I had time!”
“Or you just wanted the glory for yourself,” she spits bitterly.
You pause, lips parting in confusion. She tugs at her hair. Even now, a slight cut on your cheek and sweaty from battle, you still look perfectly cute. She’s sure she must look a complete mess, sweaty and dirty and bruised.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She tucks a sweaty strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Nothing, just—nevermind.”
You shake your head. “No, what did you mean?”
“I mean it’s—it’s—”
Frustration bubbles up in her chest, muscles pulling taut like she’s about to enter another fight. She’s not even sure where she’s going for it, what word vomit she’s about to shove in your face now. You’re inches away, staring at her like a deer in the damn headlights, and she’s the lone car on the road with the choice to hit you or not.
“It’s what?”
“It’s you! Always being so—so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you and—and—”
And that urge buzzes beneath her fingertips, that urge she’s always felt just beneath the surface. The one she felt that day you met, when she’d had that fear you’re replacing her. The one she’s felt every day since when you’re around, the same one she gets before a big fight.
She raises a hand and you don’t even flinch, looking up at her with those damn wide eyes. She’s not sure who’s more confused by what she’s doing—you, or her.
And then she’s kissing you, the taste of smoke heavy on both of you. Her hand reaches to cup your cheek, thumb swiping over the length of your cheekbone. It’s hot and tense and she feels more that she’s trying to eat you alive than kiss you.
She pulls away, taking a big jump back like she’s been burned.
“Steph,” you breathe her name.
She shakes her head, closing her eyes. “No.”
“Stephanie—”
“No, okay? I don’t—I don’t want to talk about it.” She’s shaking slightly, her voice breaking on the words, “I don’t even—I don’t want to see you right now. Okay? Just…just forget it.”
She spins on her heel, bolting over to the far end of the rooftop. She can still taste you on her tongue, like smoke and leftover chapstick and something else buried beneath. She wipes at her mouth and the taste still lingers, follows her down the fire escape at the edge of the roof, chases after her on the way home.
It’s only when she’s in the shower, desperately trying to wash it away, that she feels she can breathe again. What on Earth was that?
Your soap isn’t enough to wash away the smell of smoke on your body, or the taste of Steph’s chapstick lingering in your mouth. You stand under the water for what must be an hour, scrub every inch of your body twice, and still, it doesn’t help. Stephanie’s voice still rings in the back of your head.
You disappeared, it distracted me.
You just wanted the glory for yourself.
Always being so perfect about everything, being everyone’s favorite, having everything come naturally to you.
I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see you right now.
Coming from Steph of all people, someone you’ve looked up to, pined after, tried to forge a friendship with, the words hurt. They leave you cold and numbed, a new weight in your chest that wasn’t there before the mission.
She’s always been the sun in your eyes, warm and scalding, bright and beautiful, painful to look at. You’ve always gravitated closer to her, done your best to accommodate her, and this is where you end up. With a bitter kiss and more distance between you than there was to start.
You blink the thoughts away, staring into the steam rising from your kettle on the stove. Your phone buzzes, an unfamiliar number popping up on your screen.
Hey, it’s Steph. Can we talk?
You pick up your phone, contemplating opening the message and answering, and yet you can’t. What do you even say to her right now?
You turn off your phone. Let her sit with it for a while.
A while turns into a week. A week of unanswered texts and calls, of attempts by Barbara and Tim and Cass to get the two of you to talk. You shirk your duties as Batgirl, spend as much time as you can locked away at home, far far away from your double life.
Still, Stephanie isn’t one to give up.
The knock at your door comes early in the morning, so early, it rouses you from your sleep. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up in bed, the pink hue of the rising sun greeting you.
Another knock at your door sends you stumbling down the hall, slippers barely on your feet. You squint through the peephole, stomach syncing when you see who it is.
Steph stands there, dressed in low rise jeans that suit her just a little too well and a baby tee. Her hair is still wet, curling slightly at the ends where it’s started to dry. She must have showered and ran over here right after patrol.
You sigh, turning away from the door, fully intent on ignoring her.
“I can hear you,” she calls.
You stop in your tracks.
“I know I screwed up,” she says, “please just hear me out.”
“I thought you didn’t want to see me.”
“You know that’s not what I meant, I almost just died, c’mon.”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a deep breath. Deep down, you know she has a point. You almost wish she didn’t, if only so you could stop seeing it from her side.
Despite yourself, you turn around and unlock the door, inviting her in.
She looks sad, undereyes sallow like she hasn’t been sleeping properly. She steps on the backs of her shoes, peeling them off before falling you inside.
“Do you want something to drink?”
She shakes her head, blonde strands falling into her face. You settle in on the chair in your living room, Steph settling in on the far end of your couch—the distance between you hurts, but you’re not sure you could take it right now if she was sitting any closer.
“I’m sorry,” she starts.
You nod, tight lipped.
“About everything.”
Everything. She doesn’t say it outright, but you can hear what she hasn’t said: I’m sorry for kissing you.
“I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t have said what I said, I was scared and-and frustrated, and I took it out on you and it wasn’t fair.”
You always take it out on me, you’re tempted to say. It lingers on your tongue like her lipgloss from the other night, heavy and toxic and yet filled with something sweet.
“It’s hard, you know?” Her voice cracks on the word, pretty eyes brimmed with tears, “I’ve been Batgirl a while. I-I fought to be Batgirl even when nobody wanted me to be.”
You remember Barbara telling you about that, heard whispers about it from Tim. It was strange to you, you couldn’t possibly imagine a world where Steph isn’t Batgirl. Someone as wonderful and capable as her.
“But then you show up and it’s like, what’s even special about me anymore? And you do everything so well, you’re so—so perfect all the damn time, and everyone loves you and it’s like…what’s even left for me?”
Tears brim at your lashes and Steph’s face drops. She frowns, reaching forward like she can stop them from coming. And then you’re laughing, the sweet feeling of relief flooding your chest.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make yo—”
“Do you think I don’t feel that way?”
Her lips part, shock clear on her face. “No,” she mumbles out.
“Do you think I don’t find you perfect and capable and honestly, really fucking intimidating?” You shake your head, “you left some big shoes to fill, Stephanie and—and it hasn’t been easy.”
She laughs, equally as wet and filled with emotion as your own. “You really think so?”
You rise to your feet, shuffling over to the couch and sitting down next to her. She’s so close, you can smell her strawberry scented body wash and the vanilla lotion she put over top of it.
“Yes, god.” You giggle, and it tastes like relief, “I wish you would’ve just told me this before. We could’ve had this talk a long time ago.”
And she laughs with you, the sound like heaven and sunlight and everything you thought you could never reach, and her laugh makes you laugh more. You let your eyes flutter closed, leaning your head back on the couch, ribs starting to ache from the laughing you’re doing.
And then she’s cupping your face and kissing away the laughter, vanilla flavoured chapstick heavy on your tongue. She moves against you, body pressing to yours and pressing you further into the couch.
She pulls away, cheeks flushed. “Does this mean you forgive me?”
You press a hand on the small of her back, pulling her in again. “You might need to do that a few more times.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
so the usa just docked a warship in my country 😃 one of the largest warships in the world. stocked with F18s.
as part of their southern seas mission to strengthen maritime partnerships and foster diplomatic bullshit. but we ‘dumb islanders’ in our ‘shithole countries’ are not as stupid as that horrid nation would have you believe. we have seen the military presence in trinidad. we have seen the military presence in jamaica after hurricane melissa during ‘aid distribution’. we have seen this normalization of the US military in our countries under the guise of diplomacy and it is NOT SUBTLE at all.
i have been saying it and i will keep saying it. people please don’t stop talking about cuba. do NOT stop talking about cuba. it might not happen today but it certainly WILL happen if we do not keep speaking up.
and that genocidal country called america will use my country (jamaica) and our other caribbean neighbors like trinidad to forcefully invade cuba as part of their violent wet dream about the conquest of a nation that has refused to bend or break after decades under their embargo.
they used us to invade grenada in 1983 and history will 100% repeat itself if we do not make ourselves aware and deny the normalization of the US military in countries they do not belong and are not welcome. READ PEOPLE READ. POLITICS WILL DO YOU IT DOESN’T GIVE AF IF YOU DON’T DO IT.
is this part of the taglist form supposed to be multi choice? It might just be a me thing so I’d thought I’d ask
Ω yeah, it’s multi choice for the specific character’s fanfic you wanna be tagged in!! the all dc boys/girls/non-gendered speaks for itself if you only wanna be tagged for a certain gender of characters or both!!
the whole sensation of sex must feel like a mutual exchange for him. seductive temptation from both sides. an electric charge through his whole body. he gets turned on by the pent up tension. by the anticipation of breaking through that void of perfection. by the far space between you from opposite corners of the room closing in slowly. for him, desire grows through innocent touches that could mean something completely different if his mind isn't in the right place of professionalism; also grows in steady closeness that's not rushed. he's drawn to a charmful nature. to someone who knows how to flirt like they purposely mean it. someone that understands that attraction is passed to one another on the same level, not a try hard of one trying to take over the other. the display of aggression on its own doesn't impress him. he wants to see the delicate skill of attraction from you. he wants to feel like he's the only one without being trapped. to him, the results of intimacy can vary from the setting's aesthetic or the height of your emotional state. the surroundings and the mood he's put you in always matters to him. the way he comes at you matters too. he doesn't just want you aroused. he wants you to be at peace during it, thoughts emptied. he’s a slow dance in dim lighting. a set of locked eyes that stays a second too long. and his right lover will cross him into balance, never should you tip on your side of the scales, and neither will he...
JASON TODD †
sexual intimacy with him must feel all consuming to the body, mind, and soul. speaking to all parts of his body. undeniable in the way he reacts to every part of you. he can never give in to casual arousal. he needs layers upon layers of depth, which is why it's best for him to physically stay with the same person until the end of time. eye contact that bores too long. silence that feels suggestive with double meaning. desire, for him, is a magnetic nature. he doesn't have to push for he effortlessly pulls you in. bonding during the act crawls under his skin until it can't be ignored. he gets affected heavily by the weight of it all. by honest emotions expressed. by someone who isn't scared to be seen by him wholly. attraction that remains on the surface and never digs deep fades him off quickly. loyalty when he has you beneath him, and trust from you to play out your wildest fantasies. when he desires someone, it's either all in or nothing at all. there's no middle ground with him. to him, sex is giving it all in, every part of him. it is a split power balance. it can never be forced for it always leans for vulnerability. he’s the heat in a sealed room trying to find its way out. words felt like bullets aimed at the hardened heart. and his right lover will drown under the surface, never should you keep to where it's safe for you'll miss out on all of him truly...
DICK GRAYSON †
when it comes to him, sex must feel freeing in a way that's all playful and down to earth, to keep the moment unserious for you to not feel nervous or pretend with him. he gets roused by unplanned options that are different every time. by laughter that comes around as tensed foreplay. by a bond that feels exciting to get at as it's not complicated, but easy and what you're both decided works best for you. desire, to him, is about movement of both bodies. it grows through shared experiences of the past and using them to know exactly where you want him and what he has to do. the energy passed between only expanding the more his with you, and the more he’s on his own, missin' you. if the act begins to fall to restriction, then all heat goes to nothing. he craves honest words during the time. directness, for you to tell him if something doesn't feel right or you'd rather try something else. exploring that continues at all times always gets him going. he has a preference for lovers who match his enthusiasm without trying to confine it. for him, sex is about the adventure that awakens when he's so in love. it's joint adrenaline. it's the want that should be another thing added onto the many things that bring him joy. he's a shooting star in an open sky. a leap of faith that thrives on freedom. and his right lover will follow right after him...
TIM DRAKE †
he wants sex to have a intentional feel to it. every choice he makes with you is 'cause he's been attentive in what you like. he considered every body part of yours as a way to test your preference. likewise, he gets provoked simply by effort. by someone who mentally takes note of what he likes, and changes courses the next time he's with you. carelessness doesn't excite him like focus does. for him, desire means to be thoughtful. it is the steps to confide into you, knowing he's being seen in such a way he'd never let anyone see. he may not seem like it through appearance, but his passion runs deep within when it wants. he shows you it as he keeps his mind on you, on the little details, on the determined in himself to get it right 'cause that's all he wants for you. he can get with lovers who can never be held down through being perceived, for they keep him investigating what you plan to do in the next round. to him, sex is devotion in its truest form. it is another way to learn each other, no matter how many times it's done. it is the making of pleasure that can only be pulled by being careful. he’s molding hands and anything you need him to be at that exact moment. a mind that sighted all your tells whenever you're ready. and his right lover will give time to understanding his way rather than assuming they already do…
CLARK KENT †
after days of being used for saving, sex with him will always been see as a way for him to belong to you while his superpower belongs to everyone; therefore, it must always feel like the only time he gets to slow down with you. everything he does has purpose to it, deeply physical in the means of pleasuring you. the feeling of you on his fingertips gets him worked up before anything else. all his super senses pick up on all parts of you, from your skin, to your scent, and down to you drawing near from behind. desire towers up through you showing up for him with your presence. casually being and relaxing in the same room together, without pressure. he doesn't like to rush intimacy, and always thinks of it as something that should be savoured as every part of you needs to be touched before you release. sexual togetherness, for him, is constant warmth. it still tingles his skin when you're not together, and flourishes the more he gives in to feed it. he needs you to feel safe in your own body and trust him, for him to tap into it entirely. he gravitates to lovers who are patient, sure, and grounded. he wants every second of it to be consistent till the end, whilst also wishing to feel wanted in the calmest way possible. to him, sex is the very thing that bring you both close after bring apart for so long. he's a rare stone and unfolding hands, confident in its choice. a being that could remember your touch, blindfolded. and his right lover will stay by him long enough to test that theory...
DIANA PRINCE †
she expects the whole lot of sex to be carried out in a levelled way. intentionally crafted, like she'd earned it, conquered the right to make you feel good. she gets awakened by how long she can hold back before finally giving into your teasing. by the tension that slowly grows the more you circle each other. by someone who understands that anticipation is power. desire, and what it means to her is conscious that is aware of every little thing it's doing; from the touch, to the words spilled and what's left behind when she leaves you. she'll decide to act onto it when it's worth her energy. she likes confidence that feels natural, and orders that don't have arrogance attached to it. someone who can mirror her composure and collide against her with the same strength. being guided by impulsives is nothing, if she can't control it. when she finds someone she wants to lay down with, it's using all that she knows to her advantage. a deep focus on your body's intense reactions. for her, sex is a mix of discipline and desire that she makes work every time. she's the thirst pinned down to perfection. a gradual climb to roughness once you've proven you deserve everything she's 'bout to give you after the wait. and her right lover will stay beneath whilst she stays in control...
TALIA AL GHUL †
sex with her must feel different than what is usually predicted. times that call for unexpectedness. pouring out her bodily wines to intoxicate your mind, which leads to new challenges for you, at her mercy. she gets stirred by otherness. by when, your body surprises her with what it can do, how much it can take. by desire that feels abrupt rather than mapped out with a plan, so far from her usual high-stakes plans when she's out in the world. for her, bonding begins in the mind with imagination, then leaves through curiosity. she craves experimentation. independence. the freedom to explore without shame being forced upon her. some clinginess cools her when it's wanted by her. but control within that same clinginess repels her. she needs intimacy that feels like she had a choice in, never should there be demand. she may seem detached, but her passion for you is intense, it’s simply watered in non-traditional ways. she's drawn to lovers who are open-minded, confident, and unafraid to step away from routine. repetitiveness bores her. strange ideas awakens her. to her, sex is togetherness without standard. it is tension that feeds both the mind and the body. it is desire that doesn't follow rules set by those who paved what the act should be. she's the reflection in the mirror before it shatters. a scheming spider with hands that slithered in all directions. and her right lover won't try to take ownership over her, you'll fascinate her...
SELINA KYLE †
she sees sex as a means to be the stolen object of desire. passionate when it comes time to show herself off to you. unapologetic when it comes to marking her territory like a feline. she gets excited by your attention, eyes on her. by being wanted so openly without shame. the chemistry between you expands when she feels admired, when you're fully there for her and not afraid of her wildness. she never conceals her desire. if she wants someone, it shows in body language, and sometimes, sensual speech. and she craves a lover who mirrors the same confidence and readiness back to her. for her, intimacy comes at a cost of playfulness and fierceness. she wants the heated feeling to be mutual, energy of the body that rises to the top together, rather than you or her restraining yourselves. she's drawn to a bold nature that's not scared to be teased or rejected. eye contact that fights for the other to turn away. hands that are sure of what to do. half met passion is something she hates. she wants to feel chosen as the only one, celebrated for it, and loved with equal want. to her, sex is performance and partnership. it's mating on show. it's being pinned after without ever holding back. she's a diamond shimmer in a chest full of gold. a magnetic flame that thrives on adoration. and her right lover won't seize it's fire, you'll unite to ignite an even bigger flame...
WALLY WEST †
most of the time, he falling into rounds of sex in a way that's instant. setting a power shock that lets him know he's alive. he gets moved by what happens during the moment, which sometimes leaves him wanting to rewind once it's over. by heat that's sure to rise up, fast and unstoppable. teasing will always pass fine by him, but only if it leads somewhere to a worthy end result. he doesn't reach for subtle signs. he closes in on you responding in confidence. someone who wants him all over, just as desperate as he wants you. sexual intimacy, to him, is knowing where you want him once it begins, and not hesitating for a second to speed into position. he likes when you give him a clear heads up to begin. he likes to feel the sparks joining you together, the minute he's in. waiting too long and indecisiveness kills the mood for him, who’s just bouncing on toes to make you feel good. he's built for passion that feels used to the fullest charge on both sides. a push and pull that’s kept light and going freely, that never runs into control. he wants the warm radiating off both bodies to fuse together and electrifying the being that is under skin. for him, sex is about igniting what's already there with urgency and without fear. he's the first flame lit in a world so dark. and his right lover won't hold back when reaching for it...
ROY HARPER †
his way of being present during sex can usually be described as safe. it involves a tight emotional connection. he needs to feel like he's desiring, protecting, and understanding you as you lay beneath him, which is why he never gets stimulated by attraction that doesn't dig deep for the heart. without his heart in it, he can't go onwards with you. for him, sexual bonding is open vulnerability. it's the trust that this won't be the last time he touches you. if he senses you being anything that's distracted or distant, then his body shuts down before he's even touched you, and saves for another day. above all else, he wants to be close to you. so close in all your senses and thoughts. skin on skin. energy that's real and true. he prefers lovers who have a mind that pays attention, and a mouth that reassures. his desires awaken alongside his emotions. the more bonded he feels, the more open he becomes. when he feels chosen by you, his passion reaches new depths. to him, sex depends on the other. it's the weaving of the body's feelings. the body lying next to his that's here to stay. he's a drumming heartbeat in loving arms. a pulse beating in an attempt to be free from under the skin. and his right lover will hold him gently once it's all over…
KORIAND'R †
she prefers a tone to sex that goes beyond more than what the human body can endure. weaved by bursts of emotion. almost an outer worldly experience. she gets ignited by the energy you put out before you can even touch her. by your body's atmosphere, to which she orbits. by the feeling that something greater is unfolding beneath your surface. for her, desire is what the universe naturally intended, without logical reasoning. she responds to your tone of voice, your present mood, your ability to make her feel safe enough to softly shine brighter. harshness that attempts to steal her light, shuts her down immediately. gentleness opens her full eclipse. she craves intimacy that feels soulful. eye contact that persists. hands that trace slowly. a lover who understands that the moment's connection is deeper than what happens after. she wants to be carried into something that defeats the barrier of earth's reality. when she trusts someone, her passion is flowing and absorbing. she fuses with you as one. she gives, and feels everything. to her, sex is surrender. it is tenderness and depth merged. she’s starlight spilling across the night sky. a force that pulls soundless, but wholly. and her right lover will act with her rhythm, not extinguish it...
ZATANNA ZATARA †
to get intimate with her is to understand that it always begins in the circus of her mind. fascination. playful mental images spelled to life. engaging in shared ideas. she gets sparked by conversation before touch comes around. teasing banter, glued eyes, words riddled with double meaning. if you can't meet her mentally, the bond disappears faster than it came. for her, desire forms through wit and teasing. through someone who knows how to talk and listen to told fantasies. silence is always the starter, so long as it feels charged like she's speaking to you with signals, and not awkward. she floats to intimacy when it ranges out on new ideas, new angles and new objects that are somewhat, magically conjured up. playfulness that lets things be unserious but still impactful to your body. she's all for lovers who are quick with their thinking, responses, and expressions. someone who can keep up. someone who can make her laugh and then close the space in between. to her, sex is foreplay that rewards the mind for even controlling the body. it's the sensual use of language. curiosity put to use in exploring bodies. she's the match lit by words. a wicked thought whispered by the devil on the wrong shoulder. and her right lover will feed her imagination and let it seep into the real world...
꩜ first headcanon,,, no green laturns or barry allen :(,,, i love sexual readings... inspo/@cosmicjeanie!!
࿐ descriptions of what it's like living with them.
༅ DICK GRAYSON
: he's mainly out on the go, and when he comes back, it’s never empty handed. some mornings, it's you waking up to him all suited up with goods from your favourite bakery or your favourite whatever. a love language of his is remembering your preferences, and it's always on point when he watches you unravel what he got you.
: random dancing in the kitchen together. just music playing while he makes eggs at 11pm and you're leaning on the counter watching him. when night falls, and you're in the same kitchen, the tone's so different. it begins with attempting to slow dance to soft sounding speakers, just end up with him messing up and twirling you around cause that's always been your thing.
: physically and clingy affection that still feel domestic in a way; hand at the small of your back, forehead to yours, falling asleep with his whole weight half on you like he trusts you completely to hold it. he also has a way of turning sexual charged things (eg. showing together), into such pure acts with the warm water on your skin and his fingers on your scalp. the sensation calming you both down after a long day.
: he has a habit of getting into everything you like (music, foods movies, etc), which always means you can't have anything for yourself in the apartment, only cause he's just so determined to know everything little thing about. and even if he doesn't end up liking it, your lit up eyes and smile forever makes it worth trying.
: being the eldest means, your shared apartment has become the first thought for hiding out. damian's done something mischievous and he's not yet ready to face bruce in the manor and so on? your place it is. on days when he's out, you'll be the one to let anyone of the batfam or his friends, in to hang about and keep them entertained until he gets back.
༅ JASON TODD
: books everywhere. some gifted and most thrifted with marked pages and cracked spines. he annotated the margins with opinions that don't pull punches. you have this thing, that started out of boredom, where you write back to him in those same margins for his to read.
: affectionate things said through criticism as a way to care for you: your sleep schedule needs work, you should eat more protein, that coat isn't warm enough. most these are usually solved in seconds by him, eg. he cooks real food since he learned out of necessity.
: strangely, he’s skin always cold after missions. his favourite part of his days, are him coming home to find you cozy, snuggled up in blankets on the couch. so far from what he experienced outside, you use this as a chance to share warmth; hand on his sternum and his breathing slows.
: music played at odd hours of the day; he's earned his own taste that hasn't ever changed, just grown with yours. when you follow the played songs, you're usually met with he doing hands on work like mending the gears on his motorbike, in a spare room or garage.
: he thinks a lot, more than he should with you on the forefront of his mind, which leads to him sending day to day texts that are praised in the ways of, "thought of you when I saw this," or "this reminded me to get back to you." ever since he's got with you, his phone's been more use to him than ever before.
༅ TIM DRAKE
: your agreed quality time has been comfortable silence ever since you got together. most rooms you share in the apartment usually possess electric devices. there are some days he just has his laptops open, and you have your phone blinding as you tap away; different purposes, same couch. a word spoken every now and then.
: loves by having his space accommodate you, making thoughtful modifications before you noticed they needed to be made. that's how he loves; by asking precise questions, remembering everything you tell him, and then getting back to you weeks later. maybe with a detail, preference, or a thing you'd forgotten saying.
: he knows your daily schedule by heart, which leads to him randomly showing up at the place you're at, just to see you like the detective he is. it also helps that he's always glad to take some busy weight off your shoulders. they’re times, you wouldn't be able to make it to places like you promised, just to have him show up in your place, since he's an extensive of you the second you began dating.
: eating together since he forgets to eat when he's focused, most of the time. you've started leaving food near his workstation, to which you share together. it could be anything, and he'll let you have the bigger piece, cause they're just something about showing he cares more about you than these little things.
: when he's overworked and on the verge of sleep, he gets pretty affection, though he just brushes it off once he's conscious again. he'll slump into you, head heavy on your shoulder, whole body finally stopping. he's more honest at this these times with his confessions.
༅ CLARK KENT
: most mornings, waking up to decide whether or not to stay in each other's arms for just five more minutes and put his daily responsibilities on hold. it always ends up dragging on for longer than that, but he's never complaining, when it's just another way to spend time with you, between the sheets.
: cooks for most evenings, after long days as he was raised in a home where food meant effort and effort meant love. sunday dinners are enormous. the table is always set properly. he has a nagging thing for when you eat anywhere, but the table.
: when it's just you two, settling in, he's such an attentive listener. in the fast-paced city of metropolis, he's above the way most people listen like they don't have the patience to. he loves listening to you talk about things that make you happy. so much so that your eyes brightened up, and you sped up your words. this could be anywhere; sitting on the counter, talking his ear off whilst he does the dinners or laundry.
: brings in the cold when he's been flying through skies. warm again within minutes. but the refreshing, open sky smell has become your apartment main scent. wonderfully useful for the boiling summer time.
: your shared apartment gets archived with small, random things; a rock from smallville, a feather, something he wanted you to see. it's like everything he's collected has led him to the moment he finally moves in with you, and now he can finally display his world to you.
༅ WALLY WEST
: the fridge always has to be full, metabolically cause of his superpower. he cooks for ten, eats for ten, and still asks if you want more. you've started cooking bigger portions out of habit. food abundance at strange hours; running off at 5 am to go grocery shopping together, draped in his jacket, once finding out you're practically out of good foods. time wasted by messing around and sharing kisses in aisles, just to return home with a load of unnecessary purchases.
: restless to search for ways to be useful to you; fixes things, tidies in three minutes, appears with the thing you were about to go get. his hyperactivity being his way of getting your attention.
: remembers the date of random things; your first fight, the first time you laughed until you cried, the day you told him something you hadn't told anyone. he keeps those memories alive every year.
: when you're out for the night, doing whatever, without him. he takes over your side of the bed, sleeping. half unintentional, and half so he's given the chance to feel closer to what you left behind, a feel of your warmth and scent in the sheets.
: falls asleep fast and hard. holds on tight even in sleep, like something in his nervous system knows what it's like to lose track of time. you wake up every time, stuck in a death hold.
༅ ROY HARPER
: topic of conversations, ranging from anything to everything from your past fears to the little things, like what you ate. he just innocently wants to know everything about you. it's so easy to open up to him, since he always makes you feel heard, especially at night before bed. that's your go-to time for talking it out together, no secrets hidden ever.
: crafts things purely with his hands: arrows, obviously, but also, fixed the loose hinge, built the shelf, fixed your bike on a random day in the parking lot with tools from his truck. handiwork as his love language in the name devotion.
: over time, your apartment had taken a red tinted route to it, in his favour; flannel, a hunting jacket on the hook, a little worn. his wardrobe culture being, that he doesn't mind when you slip into his clothes, even going as far as to leave some of them behind when he's out of town.
: it's harmless when he does it, but given the fact that he has a daughter. his role is sometimes reflected in your settings. from making you something warm like tea or soup when you're sick, to making sure you get enough rest. not a single chance, he'd let you do anything that'll possibly weigh you down and make you feel worse, until you feel better. for him, the apartment only runs best when both heads are well.
: speaking of his daughter, lian, she sleeps over sometimes. and when she does, the energy moves. roy becomes fully there for her, allowing you to understand that she's essential to who he is as a person. and as for you, with another girl in, that makes for fun times like game night and movie nights.
༅ KORIAND'R
: your apartment's always set warm, literally, since she radiates heat. the second you moved in together, you stopped needing an extra blanket. in winter, rooms she spends time in stay degrees warmer than the rest.
: social rules are so lost on her whenever you're in public, especially in regards to displays of affection. she grants kisses when waiting in busy lines, holds your face in public, says things about love out loud without shame before you part ways; about time you stopped being embarrassed, and started being grateful.
: fierce and protective over your most authentic self, that it feels like being wrapped in something bright. you laugh at each other's bad jokes so hard you end up wheezing and letting loose. her comfort comes through by just braiding your hair, painting your nails, sitting close.
: she panics quite a lot, with all she knows about your differences in species, which leads to her thinking she's taking too much space with her alien habits. she collects random earthly things with genuine delight every time you're out with her, to the point where she's made the ordinary world her own.
: her favourite domestic thing she's always looking forward to, is watching movies and tv shows with you. just something about the screen being as bright as the sun, that she can't look away cause the plot's so good. all cuddled up in the others arms, limbs tangled on and dipped hands in stacked snacks.
࿐ descriptions of what it's like living with them.
༅ DICK GRAYSON
: he's mainly out on the go, and when he comes back, it’s never empty handed. some mornings, it's you waking up to him all suited up with goods from your favourite bakery or your favourite whatever. a love language of his is remembering your preferences, and it's always on point when he watches you unravel what he got you.
: random dancing in the kitchen together. just music playing while he makes eggs at 11pm and you're leaning on the counter watching him. when night falls, and you're in the same kitchen, the tone's so different. it begins with attempting to slow dance to soft sounding speakers, just end up with him messing up and twirling you around cause that's always been your thing.
: physically and clingy affection that still feel domestic in a way; hand at the small of your back, forehead to yours, falling asleep with his whole weight half on you like he trusts you completely to hold it. he also has a way of turning sexual charged things (eg. showing together), into such pure acts with the warm water on your skin and his fingers on your scalp. the sensation calming you both down after a long day.
: he has a habit of getting into everything you like (music, foods movies, etc), which always means you can't have anything for yourself in the apartment, only cause he's just so determined to know everything little thing about. and even if he doesn't end up liking it, your lit up eyes and smile forever makes it worth trying.
: being the eldest means, your shared apartment has become the first thought for hiding out. damian's done something mischievous and he's not yet ready to face bruce in the manor and so on? your place it is. on days when he's out, you'll be the one to let anyone of the batfam or his friends, in to hang about and keep them entertained until he gets back.
༅ JASON TODD
: books everywhere. some gifted and most thrifted with marked pages and cracked spines. he annotated the margins with opinions that don't pull punches. you have this thing, that started out of boredom, where you write back to him in those same margins for his to read.
: affectionate things said through criticism as a way to care for you: your sleep schedule needs work, you should eat more protein, that coat isn't warm enough. most these are usually solved in seconds by him, eg. he cooks real food since he learned out of necessity.
: strangely, he’s skin always cold after missions. his favourite part of his days, are him coming home to find you cozy, snuggled up in blankets on the couch. so far from what he experienced outside, you use this as a chance to share warmth; hand on his sternum and his breathing slows.
: music played at odd hours of the day; he's earned his own taste that hasn't ever changed, just grown with yours. when you follow the played songs, you're usually met with he doing hands on work like mending the gears on his motorbike, in a spare room or garage.
: he thinks a lot, more than he should with you on the forefront of his mind, which leads to him sending day to day texts that are praised in the ways of, "thought of you when I saw this," or "this reminded me to get back to you." ever since he's got with you, his phone's been more use to him than ever before.
༅ TIM DRAKE
: your agreed quality time has been comfortable silence ever since you got together. most rooms you share in the apartment usually possess electric devices. there are some days he just has his laptops open, and you have your phone blinding as you tap away; different purposes, same couch. a word spoken every now and then.
: loves by having his space accommodate you, making thoughtful modifications before you noticed they needed to be made. that's how he loves; by asking precise questions, remembering everything you tell him, and then getting back to you weeks later. maybe with a detail, preference, or a thing you'd forgotten saying.
: he knows your daily schedule by heart, which leads to him randomly showing up at the place you're at, just to see you like the detective he is. it also helps that he's always glad to take some busy weight off your shoulders. they’re times, you wouldn't be able to make it to places like you promised, just to have him show up in your place, since he's an extensive of you the second you began dating.
: eating together since he forgets to eat when he's focused, most of the time. you've started leaving food near his workstation, to which you share together. it could be anything, and he'll let you have the bigger piece, cause they're just something about showing he cares more about you than these little things.
: when he's overworked and on the verge of sleep, he gets pretty affection, though he just brushes it off once he's conscious again. he'll slump into you, head heavy on your shoulder, whole body finally stopping. he's more honest at this these times with his confessions.
༅ CLARK KENT
: most mornings, waking up to decide whether or not to stay in each other's arms for just five more minutes and put his daily responsibilities on hold. it always ends up dragging on for longer than that, but he's never complaining, when it's just another way to spend time with you, between the sheets.
: cooks for most evenings, after long days as he was raised in a home where food meant effort and effort meant love. sunday dinners are enormous. the table is always set properly. he has a nagging thing for when you eat anywhere, but the table.
: when it's just you two, settling in, he's such an attentive listener. in the fast-paced city of metropolis, he's above the way most people listen like they don't have the patience to. he loves listening to you talk about things that make you happy. so much so that your eyes brightened up, and you sped up your words. this could be anywhere; sitting on the counter, talking his ear off whilst he does the dishes or laundry.
: brings in the cold when he's been flying through skies. warm again within minutes. but the refreshing, open sky smell has become your apartment main scent. wonderfully useful for the boiling summer time.
: your shared apartment gets archived with small, random things; a rock from smallville, a feather, something he wanted you to see. it's like everything he's collected has led him to the moment he finally moves in with you, and now he can finally display his world to you.
༅ WALLY WEST
: the fridge always has to be full, metabolically cause of his superpower. he cooks for ten, eats for ten, and still asks if you want more. you've started cooking bigger portions out of habit. food abundance at strange hours; running off at 5 am to go grocery shopping together, draped in his jacket, once finding out you're practically out of good foods. time wasted by messing around and sharing kisses in aisles, just to return home with a load of unnecessary purchases.
: restless to search for ways to be useful to you; fixes things, tidies in three minutes, appears with the thing you were about to go get. his hyperactivity being his way of getting your attention.
: remembers the date of random things; your first fight, the first time you laughed until you cried, the day you told him something you hadn't told anyone. he keeps those memories alive every year.
: when you're out for the night, doing whatever, without him. he takes over your side of the bed, sleeping. half unintentional, and half so he's given the chance to feel closer to what you left behind, a feel of your warmth and scent in the sheets.
: falls asleep fast and hard. holds on tight even in sleep, like something in his nervous system knows what it's like to lose track of time. you wake up every time, stuck in a death hold.
༅ ROY HARPER
: topic of conversations, ranging from anything to everything from your past fears to the little things, like what you ate. he just innocently wants to know everything about you. it's so easy to open up to him, since he always makes you feel heard, especially at night before bed. that's your go-to time for talking it out together, no secrets hidden ever.
: crafts things purely with his hands: arrows, obviously, but also, fixed the loose hinge, built the shelf, fixed your bike on a random day in the parking lot with tools from his truck. handiwork as his love language in the name devotion.
: over time, your apartment had taken a red tinted route to it, in his favour; flannel, a hunting jacket on the hook, a little worn. his wardrobe culture being, that he doesn't mind when you slip into his clothes, even going as far as to leave some of them behind when he's out of town.
: it's harmless when he does it, but given the fact that he has a daughter. his role is sometimes reflected in your settings. from making you something warm like tea or soup when you're sick, to making sure you get enough rest. not a single chance, he'd let you do anything that'll possibly weigh you down and make you feel worse, until you feel better. for him, the apartment only runs best when both heads are well.
: speaking of his daughter, lian, she sleeps over sometimes. and when she does, the energy moves. roy becomes fully there for her, allowing you to understand that she's essential to who he is as a person. and as for you, with another girl in, that makes for fun times like game night and movie nights.
༅ KORIAND'R
: your apartment's always set warm, literally, since she radiates heat. the second you moved in together, you stopped needing an extra blanket. in winter, rooms she spends time in stay degrees warmer than the rest.
: social rules are so lost on her whenever you're in public, especially in regards to displays of affection. she grants kisses when waiting in busy lines, holds your face in public, says things about love out loud without shame before you part ways; about time you stopped being embarrassed, and started being grateful.
: fierce and protective over your most authentic self, that it feels like being wrapped in something bright. you laugh at each other's bad jokes so hard you end up wheezing and letting loose. her comfort comes through by just braiding your hair, painting your nails, sitting close.
: she panics quite a lot, with all she knows about your differences in species, which leads to her thinking she's taking too much space with her alien habits. she collects random earthly things with genuine delight every time you're out with her, to the point where she's made the ordinary world her own.
: her favourite domestic thing she's always looking forward to, is watching movies and tv shows with you. just something about the screen being as bright as the sun, that she can't look away cause the plot's so good. all cuddled up in the others arms, limbs tangled on and dipped hands in stacked snacks.
HER SWORN SWORD . you swore an oath to serve talia, and tonight she intends to have you serve her in a different way. pairing ! talia al ghul x fem!reader warnings ! period sex (reader is menstruating), period cunnilingus + fingering, scissoring/tribbing, dom!talia, sub!top reader, power imbalance, mentions of reader having taken a chastity vow, nicknames used : beloved, pet, good girl, dumb pet, habibti + my lady (towards talia). 💬 sorta based on a daenerys thought i had... i know mama.... BUT HAPPY PRIDE Y’ALL !!!
“Beloved.”
The moon hung low over the mountainous compound, casting shadows across the wooden floors and monsters along the walls as she called for you softly from within the lamplit chamber.
You entered without hesitation, the large door shutting behind you as you knelt to the floor on one knee, awaiting her acknowledgement.
All knew within the grand halls of the League that you were Talia’s sworn sword, the shadow that had followed behind her since her youth and your own, the blade that idled outside her bedchamber in the dead of night, lest anyone dare to traverse where they are not welcome.
You, the woman who had knelt before her in your maidenhood and vowed, with her own sword pressed to your neck and the taste of blood and steel in your mouth after defeating her lesser champions, that you would serve her until your dying day. That your body, your blood, your unwavering loyalty and service would all be hers.
You swore fealty. You bled to honor your oaths. No man would ever touch you, nor would worldly pleasure tempt you.
“You are not my father’s dog.” Talia laid before you, reclined on the silken cushions of the divan, blood red and gold along the trim, a testament to the opulence of the Al Ghul name and the waste they laid to their inferiors.
“He does not command you away from me,” she said, and her decency — which, you knew better to assume she reserved any in the privacy of her chamber and especially around you —was barely covered by a thin, sheer robe that was deafeningly white, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder like spilled ink. “You belong to no one but me.”
“My lady—”
“Where did he send you?” Talia asked you, and you unlatched your sword, setting it down by the door of her chamber where you were supposed to be keeping your post on the other side.
“Nowhere so far that I could not return to you,” you said. “Only beyond the perimeter, My Lady, and only for such a short time. I returned to my post as you would wish it.”
Talia turned her face away from you, her lips pursing with displeasure. “Come here,” she demanded.
You rose to your feet and crossed the room in an instant. Once you were within arm’s reach, her hand grasped ahold of your belt, pulling you down until you knelt again next to the divan, now at her eye-level. “I wondered where you were,” her fingers traced your jaw. “I don’t like wondering.”
“Your father’s men are fools,” you remarked and the corner of her mouth lifted in amusement. “I apologize for my absence.”
Her fingers travelled across the curve of your jaw and down the line of your neck, your throat bobbing at the feel of her nails and the soft pads of her fingertips against your skin.
“You are bleeding,” Talia hummed, almost idly. The back of her knuckle grazed your pulse point and you shivered, eyelashes fluttering. “I know it.”
“It is nothing—” you whispered, your jaw tightened slightly from the sudden exposure of your condition. “I have handled monthlies worse than this. Lest you forget the prowess you’ve perfected within me.”
“Brazen,” she laughed darkly. “Look at me, pet. I want you to remove your armor.”
“My lady, this is not—”
“Show me,” Talia’s thumb brushed your bottom lip, her eyes dark with desire. “I wish to see where you bleed.”
“You know where it is,” You stiffened, almost shy. “And you also know the vows that I have sworn at your feet.”
She seized your jaw in her palm and you whimpered with need. “I release you from that foolish vow,” Talia whispered, as her mouth met yours in a soft kiss filled with heat. It burned and burned so good, your heart hammered against your ribcage. “I release you from every vow. You will swear new ones tonight.”
Your hands reached for your breastplate first. Then piece by piece the rest of your armor was discarded, set neatly next to you on the floor until all that remained was the thin shift and your underwear beneath. For a moment, you shied away from her eyes as she sat up, her knees bracketing either side of your body.
“You have not changed,” Talia said, her palm cupping the side of your cheek. “A warrior beneath it all. And mine…” Your eyes lifted to meet her gaze, all emerald and shining down at you, and she smiled, affectionate and amused. “You’ve denied yourself... for that ridiculous vow?”
“For you,” you whispered.
“For me.” She kissed you again, her mouth hungry and demanding and you sighed against her lips, tongues meeting in a wet tangle. “Up,” she commanded, her hands coming to rest on the side of your hip, feeling the outline of your body through the shift.
You moaned at the feel of her flush against you, the heat of her hands slipping under the fabric, bunching it by the hem and pulling it over your head to expose you further as she walked you backward to her massive silk-draped bed.
“My lady, I want to—” you gasped when she separated from you to toss your shift to the floor. Your nakedness made you flush. “I want to see you. Can I?”
“Talia,” she corrected, taking your outstretched palms in hers and pressing them against the slack knot of her robe. “You know my name, beloved.” You pulled the knot loose and she rolled her shoulders, the fabric falling free as she laid you down beneath her.
Her body was a carved masterpiece, her skin like melting gold, breasts heavy and perfect. Your cunt pulsed around nothing, a weight in your stomach swelling with need and Talia laughed sweetly as she pushed you onto your back on the silken sheets, spreading your thighs open and climbing on top of you.
“Look at you,” she kissed down your body slowly, savoring every inch. From latching onto your breasts and sucking each nipple into her mouth, to kissing the curve of your stomach, down to your thighs, until her mouth hovered over your clothed cunt, where the cloth was folded underneath to absorb the blood.
“You saved this little cunt for me,” Talia purred, voice dripping with filthy reverence. “Does it ache, my sweet sword?”
You whimpered, your hips twitching upward as she peeled your underwear off, folding it carefully and setting it aside. You felt shame burning at your cheeks. “Talia, wait, it’s not—”
“Save your embarrassment for a lesser woman,” she whispered, dragging an index finger along the faint smear of blood staining your inner thighs. “I want to taste you,” she declared, and before you could answer, she licked a long, slow stripe up your puffy slit, tasting the mix of blood and slick.
You squirmed, hips twitching as you let out a long moan, the heat of nervousness swelling into unbearable heat, your thighs trembling as they tried to close instinctively.
“Delicious,” Talia groaned, the sound vibrating against your clit. “Bleed for me, habibti.” Her mouth sealed over your cunt, tongue sliding through your folds with obscene hunger as she sucked gently on your swollen clit, then licked you with broader, messier strokes, smearing your blood across her lips and chin.
“F-fuck— Talia—!” You cried out, fingers gripping the sheets. The weight in your belly twisted into deep, throbbing pleasure with every curl of her tongue.
The room was filled with the wet, filthy sounds of her mouth moving sloppily over your heat, your back arching up to chase the pleasure she was giving you. “So good— ah, it’s so much….”
“That’s it,” Talia murmured against your pussy, swirling her tongue over your clit. “Fuck my tongue, pet. Let your Lady drink from you. This cunt has been starving for attention, hasn’t it? So neglected... So loyal... let me stretch you.”
She pushed a finger inside you slowly, one palm pressed softly against your belly in soothing rubs as she eased a second in, your hot, gummy walls sucking her deeper and she curled them against that spongy spot deep inside you while her tongue flicked relentlessly over your clit.
“Fuck me— yes! Talia, yes!”
“Sing for me,” she laughed. “Just like that… my needy thing… cum for me while I fuck you the way you dreamed of.”
The combination of her mouth and the aching fullness of her so deep inside you, fucking against that sweet spot made your thighs shake violently. “I’m… God— fuck, I’m cumming!”
“So obedient,” Talia suckled your clit harder. “Cum on your Lady’s tongue like the desperate little whore I made you.”
You shattered with a broken sob, back arching hard as your orgasm crashed through you. Talia kept licking you through it, drinking down every drop of your arousal and blood, moaning praises into your cunt the entire time.
When you finally stopped trembling, Talia crawled up your body and kissed you with her bloody mouth, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.
“I am not finished with you,” she whispered hotly. “I want to feel you against me. Can you take me?”
“Yes— God, yes.” You whined with desperation, cupping her face with a palm as you wiped the blood from her mouth, your lips going to her neck and down her sternum, grazing a stiff nipple between your teeth. And she moaned, her head tilting back, fingers tugging at your hair.
Talia rolled onto her back and pulled you on top of her, straddling her thigh first, but then she guided your hips between hers, thighs thrown over each other’s until your cunts pressed together, your bloody, sensitive pussy flush against her dripping one, unbearably hot from wanting you.
“Ride me,” Talia ordered, her green eyes blazing. “Be a good girl and fuck your Lady. I want you.”
Even in this position, with you on top, and muscles flexing, you were utterly submissive, pliant and at her service like the oaths you swore on your knees. “Fuck me, beloved,” she whispered.
Talia’s hands gripped your hips hard, controlling the rhythm as you began to grind down. The slide was slick and messy. Your blood mixed with both of your arousals, created the wettest, most obscene glide and every roll of your hips made your swollen clit drag perfectly against hers, up against her swollen folds then down against that sensitive bud.
“Fuck— my lady,” you gasped, bracing your hands on either side of her head. “Your pussy’s perfect...”
“You’re doing so good,” Talia cooed up at you, her honeyed voice breaking into a moan. “Grind that filthy little cunt on me. Can you feel how wet I am for you? How much I’ve wanted to ruin my perfect, chaste girl?”
You whimpered and moved faster, hips rolling desperately as you fucked down into her. The pressure on your sensitive, weeping pussy was overwhelming in the best way as Talia’s hands guided you harder, forcing you to take more from her.
“Look at the mess you’re making,” she groaned, eyes flicking down to where you were grinding. “All that pretty blood smeared across my cunt. You’re mine. This pussy has always been mine. Say it.”
“I’m yours,” you moaned, voice breaking as you rocked harder against her. “Only yours, my lady— you’re so fucking wet—”
“My dumb little pet,” Talia’s breath hitched, her own hips bucking up to meet yours. “Fuck, fuck, fuck— yes! Fill me up like this, my desperate girl.”
The wet, filthy sounds of your cunts sliding together grew louder. You leaned down, pressing your forehead to hers as you fucked her exactly how she wanted, each filthy smack of your hips making her tits bounce, and you grasped both in your palms, fondling and squeezing them as her eyes rolled back in ecstasy.
“Use me,” Talia’s fingers dug into your ass, pulling you tighter against her. “Use me until we cum,” she growled. “I want to feel this needy cunt gush for me, beloved.”
You came first with a strangled cry, your thighs shaking as your pussy clenched and throbbed hard against hers and Talia’s nails clawed against the bottom of your spine as she shuddered and followed right after, moaning low and filthy as she ground up into you, riding out both your orgasms until you were both slick and trembling.
As you panted, desperately trying to catch your breath, Talia pulled you down against her chest, stroking your hair reverently.
She kissed your temple softly, a palm cradling your lower abdomen as if daring pain to come and try its hand at taking you from her arms.
“Your vow is broken,” Talia whispered, her voice like silk against your ear. “You are no longer chaste. And you will never take another. You will swear yourself to me again.”
She paused to look up at you, her green eyes soft with warmth and gentleness. “And I will swear myself to you. You must accept me, beloved.”
You shivered, pressing your face into her neck, a grin toying at your lips. “…As my lady commands.”
