baby talking your f/o. cooing at how cute they are. talking in the softest voice saved only for them. giggling at all of their reactions. cradling them whenever possible. does your f/o embrace it openly or do they act annoyed? the truth is, they absolutely love it and they wouldn’t want to be doted on by anyone else.
But they all have their own separate reasons for it.
DC/Reader, Marvel/Reader
Dick Grayson
“Aren’t you lucky that you have such a gorgeous canvas to work on?” Dick asks with such lazy, luxuriating lilt to his voice.
When he stares at you sleepily through the fan of his lashes, an audible soporific quality to his voice as he stares at the beauty of your face, you have to resist the urge to agree. Because saying yes would be tantamount to admitting defeat, as you brandish your weapon of choice.
“It would be easier if my canvas didn’t talk so much,” You grumble good-naturedly, shifting from where you’ve taken proper seating on the span of his thighs.
Try to ignore the thrill of pleasure that rocks up your body as your man shifts his muscular hips under you, his hands draping to find casual purchase on the slope of your waist.
“Now look up,” You direct as you place the black cream liner at his water line, watching as those blue eyes roll up to the ceiling obediently.
“There’s nothing fun up there, though,” He responds blithely, the angle he adjusts to allowing that rich thatch of black hair to fall in cascading waterfall. He makes it look so effortless. “I’d much rather be looking back at my artist.”
“And see how your artist is getting a headache?” You ask in dry delivery, pressing the rounded tip of the chunky pencil to his face. The glide of the pen is smooth and effortless, and with little effort his eye draws lined in kohl-rimmed beauty.
“Wouldn’t know what they’re talking about,” Dick returns your direction with glib ease. He’s enjoying this, the way that you shift into his grasp even though you voice complaint about it, leaning further onto the slope of his chest to better achieve artistic angle to apply the makeup.
“Especially when they have such a good model to look at.” Dick returns with prim mock-offenses that underscores the way he delivers it. But there’s no real heat to it, when the creep of his fingers are already scoring up the length of your back. When the smile you’ve been fighting to remain smothered finally surfaces on your face.
“Well, maybe you’re onto something there,” You return, feeling the way that that beautiful smile of his grows beatific under the heel of your palm. “But you’re going to have to stay still for the lipstick.”
You watch as those blue eyes fall upon the black lipstick that sits dutifully in your lap. And you know you’re not imagining the mischief as his eyes slink back up to find your face.
“Guess I’ll just have to blot the extra on you,” He returns cheekily. “That okay with you?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” You reply—and you’re given full display of his teeth; he knows a yes when he hears it.
Roy Harper
“Think about it like this,” Roy returns in neutral, impartial meter as you shift up the ridge of his abs. He groans at the additional pressure of your weight, but you know him well enough by now to realize that it’s a noise of subdued pleasure.
And the way that his fingers are coaxing up your thighs enough to reassure you that he doesn’t want to be anywhere but under you on the couch.
That worshipful cant to his eyes as he watches you descending upon him with the liquid liner tells you that much, anyways.
“Yeah?” You ask, giving him a dubious smirk. You smell a verbal stunt; he’s got enough good graces to not try and school the own smirk that grows in parallel on his own face.
“I already have to go through this with Lian because she wants to make sure I look nice for the tea parties,” Roy explains huskily as you start applying the wings with a deft, practiced hand.
“I do enjoy the way that she ties your hair up in those pigtails,” You return dryly as he keeps his eyes trained upon his north star that decorates him so beautifully.
“Think it really brings out my girlish figure,” He replies in wry means. “Dinah always said I had an octagonal face shape.”
“That’s not a face shape,” You snort through your nose as you slide your hand to add extra points to the delicate rim of his eye.
“Coulda fooled me,” He returns, and the two of you settle in a comfortable silence where you administer finishing touches to one eye. “Besides—”
“Yeah?” You ask, your smile instinctive when you rest upon him like this. When you keep your hands in maintaining grasp on that jawline that relaxes under the exploration of your hands.
“—You gotta be better than Lian at the makeup.” He returns, and there’s a war-weary note as he admits this to you—a confession that would never be made to his daughter’s face, of course.
“I don’t know,” You tease as you keep your grip level with the stroke of the liner, “I think purple lipstick might be your color.”
“Yeah, cause I want people to know Grimace is my booty call,” Roy mutters—and you really have to stifle the laugh you desperately want to make because it’ll ruin the look.
“Thought I was your only booty call,” You return loftily, archly as you cock up brow in adamant question to him.
“Sure you are,” Roy returns in such easy fashion that you know he humbly speaks the truth. “And you don’t make my mouth turn purple.”
“Yeah,” You groan as you hunker down to make the finishing touches, “But I’ll be putting it to work later.”
Roy’s eyes, fully decorated in dazzling pentacled display, alight with mischief. “Aye, aye, captain.”
Matt Murdock
“I appreciate you letting me do this,” You say, adjusting yourself better from where you sit besides him, “Especially because you can’t even see it.”
Your hip pulls flush against him, the crook of your elbow taking proper posture on the span of his muscular pec drawing taut at the contact. And Matt, for all of his vaunted virtues, only smiles as he reclines back on the pillow, ever the face of sacrificial martyrdom.
“I trust your applicational skills,” He replies with a grin, letting you admire the way his face crests younger every time he does so.
There’s a soft noise that ekes out of him as you glide the spoolie through his eyebrows, doing your best to adjust the cast of the fine red caterpillars taking seat on his forehead. It’s no easy task, but Matt seems to be delighted, happy captive to it all.
“So why are we gluing my eyebrows down again?” Matt asks, and his eyes are directionless as they drift to the ceiling—but the gluestick that he levies into the air is in apt, correct aim towards you.
You make a chuckle through your nose as you adjust attention to the other brow, easing into the way that his arm hikes around your hip, pulling you closer to the warmth of his body.
“Because,” You explain pertly, pressing the hand that holds your tool back to the slope of his stomach, “I’m going to put pressed powder on them to draw your other eyebrows on.”
“How exciting,” Matt returns in jovial manner, “I always did enjoy the Betty Boop look.”
“It’s either that,” You return to that smart-ass smile, “Or I shave them off.”
He makes particular humming note as he ponders the idea of such facial freedom. “I don’t know how the clients would consider me without eyebrows.”
“I get the feeling that Foggy would be the one harder hit by the change,” You reply, running the rasp of your fingers up the stubble of his chin. Watching as his eyes draw closed at the tactile pleasure, the sensation of your hands as they continue to administer their careful, deliberate work upon him.
You know that he loves this. The heightened way that you tend to him, the way that it ekes such definition of you, of the details of your body in such unique way. He’ll always be willing volunteer if it means that he gets this opportunity to enjoy the details of your body.
“You mean,” Matt asks breezily, “Before or after he’s got up off the floor from laughing?”
“Let’s see how he reacts to the Betty eyebrows first,” You reply. You let your smile express itself as a singular note of joy is expressed in silent capacity on his ace—all inspired by the way your fingers card through his hair, slink down sinuous and slow to the nape of his neck. As all the tension, all the toil of the damnable day is leached out with your touch.
“Sounds good, darling,” Matt returns, blissful galaxies away, “It’s whatever you want.”
And when you lean down to kiss him, his mouth already eagerly awaits yours.
Wade Wilson
“Ooh, so what are we doing today?” Wade asks. There’s something rather endearing about how he stares in open curiosity at the small king’s ransom of beauty supplies outstretched on the bed. Of course, he can only spare so much attention to it, considering that you’re taking far more attention with how you’ve sat on his wide-spread lap.
“Am I gonna be an alt baddie or Gene Simmons?” He asks brightly. There’s something so endearing about how he stares up doe-eyed from that ruin of a face that you’ve come to love. You purse your lips as you appraise your canvas, trying to consider the best plan of attack as you look at the smoky gradient of colors on your eyeshadow palette.
“Hopefully somewhere in between,” You admit as you try to select the three best pans that would afford you a nice cut crease. “I’m trying to recreate one of the look I saw at the drag show last weekend—”
Wade interrupts in that cheerfully ebullient way that he always does, perking up at the kernel of knowledge that he bears. “Oh, the queen that was channeling Marlene Dietrich?”
You don’t stop your smile as you watch him luxuriate back on the cushions, thinking of the radiance of the queen as she did a twirling split from the bar-counter to floor.
“Loved her look.” He says and you smile broadly as you make your selection and then reach for the concealer that he’s taken care to tuck behind his mottled ear for your convenience.
“I know—”—You laugh as you produce the applicator dobbed on with healthy glob—“—You tipped her two hundred dollars.”
Wade puts an affronted hand to his chest as you try to keep the layer on his lid smooth and without error. “Are you saying that I can’t support small queer-owned businesses?”
He pitches his voice down to an accusatory whisper, though he lets you keep continuing your ministrations. “I didn’t know you were homophobic like that.”
You let his jape slide with nary more than a dubious snort. “How would you like to have a semi-permanent unibrow for the next week?”
He hums thoughtfully, considering the merit of this idea. “Couldn’t hurt the canvas anymore than it already is.”
“You mean the canvas I love and adore?” You ask, taking ken of the self-deprecatory tone that only slinks in with private conference. You pinch his cheek for good measure, coaxing that private smile meant only for you—the genuine one. The one that won you over in the first place.
“The canvas you threatened to do the Groucho Marx treatment to?” He asks as you start dabbing at his other eyelid to.
“Not threatened. Lovingly offered,” You reply. “Like you weren’t a little bit curious?”
He opts for silence, dead to rights. “Mayhaps. But bedazzle me first, darling—”
Wade’s hand, scarred and pockmarked and yours, cups your face—“—I’m ready for my closeup.”
“Anyone ever tell you what a giant goober you are?” You chuckle as you reach for the eyeshadow palette.
“I hear they usually give me a kiss after they do,” Wade’s eyebrow ridge dances in mischievous manner.
“I hear they do,” You murmur thoughtfully—and so you lean down to reward your boyfriend for a conversation well fought.
stormborns
pixelskylines
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