This is my personal library of comic book related fics. I'm mostly into DC at the moment, but always open for some Marvel content.
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dc smau idea???? your first texts with them, like a ‘hey __ gave me your number, hope that’s okay” or “hey it was nice meeting you” DOES THAF MAKE SENSE I just want like some awkward super cute fluff of first texts. or maybe even like a comparison, first texts vs. established relationship texts. LOVE YOU BTW SMAUS ARE MY FAV
Nice to Know You
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Wally West, Clark Kent
warning: suggestive (MDNI!!), fluff!
A/N: omggggg wait this is literally such a great idea, thank you!!? Love you too and I hope you enjoy this<33
— You know who Red Robin is, you're just waiting for your boyfriend to tell you.
!!: request by @currentblasphemy! fluff. gn!reader. no use of y/n. Long Drabble (1.3k words). stablished relationship. English is not my first language.
[dc masterlist]
“I got a D +. It’s not that bad, at least I haven't failed.”
This morning you had gotten back your results from a history exam you did last week. An exam you hadn’t studied for, prioritizing other things that weren’t as important.
“I’ve already told you a hundred times, do you want me to help you?” Tim asked. Concerned about your academic results.
You had gone to the manor to spend some time with your boyfriend, just like you did every Friday after class. Alfred already expected you every week.
“I’m doing fine.” You said, leaving the glass of water you had just drank from on the counter.
“A D + is not fine. You are smart. You could be getting A’s. Babe, really, if you need help I can help you.” Tim moved to stand next to you. “Maybe it’s your study method. How do you usually study?”
“I make flashcards, and diagrams, and I read the notes. It really depends on the type of exam.”
Tim, who was now standing in front of you, leaned against the kitchen island counter and, with his hand on your waist, gently pulled you toward him.
“And which method did you use for this one?”
You hadn’t studied for this exam. You had read the notes a couple of times, and you had an amazing photographic memory that had saved you from failing, but you weren't the kind of student to get grades like a D +.
“You didn’t study.” Tim answered to his own question, reading your expression during your silence.
“I had other things to do.” Your cheeks turned slightly red, while a mischievous smile appeared on your face.
He had other things to do. He had to fight crazy people at night around Gotham. He had to solve crimes. And he had to sleep, he definitely needed to sleep. But you? You didn’t have anything else to do rather than study and sleep.
“Other things like what?” Tim asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Like, read.” You bit your lip, trying to hide your smirk, unsuccessfully.
“Read what?” He insisted, knowing where this was going.
“...stories.”
“Fanfictions?”
“Maybe?”
“About Red Robin.”
“Maybe.”
“Again?”
“They are really good.” You argued, noticing the very slight blush showing up in your boyfriend’s cheeks.
“You are reading about another man while dating me and failing your exams because of it?” Tim raised his eyebrows.
“I didn’t fail!” You complained.
“Nearly.”
“But I didn’t.” you kissed his cheek. “However, I guess you’ll have to help me for my next test, I don’t want to get another D.”
He smiled and kissed your temple. “Fine, but you need to stop reading that many fanfictions.”
“How much do you think the Red Robin suit costs?” Tim heard your voice from the kitchen.
He walked into the living room, eating a sandwich he'd made himself, and saw you lying face down on the couch, scrolling through TikTok.
Your parents had left Gotham for a few days, and you’d convinced Tim to stay with you and keep you company while they were gone. He couldn’t turn down that offer. That’s why he was here now: eating your food, sleeping in your bed… but you were wearing his clothes. Some things never change.
“You’ve been weirdly obsessed with the guy since he appeared.” Tim said, sitting down on the floor, his back against the sofa you were fully occupying.
“He's really cool. Look.” You showed him an edit someone had made with some dark and bad quality videos of the vigilante, and with the song ‘Breaking Dishes’ by Rihanna.
“That punch was horrible.” Tim said, referring to one of the clips in the edit.
It wasn't. It had been an incredible punch that had knocked the guy out instantly, but Tim had to say something to keep up his cover.
“It looks pretty solid to me.” You said, throwing your phone to the other end of the sofa. “Do you think he's handsome under the mask? He has the vibes of being a handsome guy.”
Tim was fighting the urge of saying "I don't know, you tell me”, but he couldn’t do that. Red Robin was a secret identity for a reason, and despite having been dating you for a while, he couldn’t take the risk, even if he wanted to.
“But aren’t you curious? Wouldn’t you like to know who the guy is?”
Tim shook his head, offering you the last bite of his sandwich that you gladly accepted.
He wasn’t curious because he obviously knew who Red Robin was. However, he could understand your curiosity. He knew you read a lot of theories online about Gotham's vigilante’s real identities, and you'd even made your very own theories about it.
“Not even a little bit?” You insisted.
“Nope.”
“Do you know some people on the internet think he might be one of your brothers, like they think Batman is Bruce.” You said, turning your body around on the sofa and laying your head on Tim's shoulder. “I’ve read a lot of theories saying you could be the one under Red Robin’s mask.”
“Well, they couldn’t be more wrong.” Tim said.
The weeks passed and your comments kept going.
“The guy for sure knows how to fight.”
“I read this fic last night…”
“I’ve sent you this edit. Look at those punches. Are you that strong, baby?”
“Do you think he's dating someone, like as a civilian?”
“He has to be rich, that suit sure as hell is expensive, and fits him perfectly.”
Tim was getting tired of the comments. Hearing you talk to your boyfriend about another man over and over again—even if that other man was himself—was driving him crazy.
But he couldn’t do anything. He had to stay quiet, act normal and not be suspicious. He had to swallow the jealousy he felt from himself.
Because he couldn’t tell you, he shouldn’t.
But, god, he wanted to.
“He looks like a smart guy. How high do you think his IQ is?”
You were laying in Tim’s bed while he worked on something on his desk. When Tim heard your question, again about Red Robin, his grip on his pen tightened and the leg he had been shaking stopped.
“142.” Tim answered.
He was done hiding, you deserved the truth, and the answers to all those stupid questions you had kept asking for the past month.
“That’s awfully specific. How do you know?” You sat in the bed, looking directly to your boyfriend’s back, waiting for him to turn around. And he did. Turning his chair to look at you.
“Because I’m Red Robin.” He stayed looking directly at you in silence for a minute. “Look, babe, I’m sorry I didn’t–”
He cut himself off when he saw the growing smirk on your face.
“Fucking finally.” You said.
“Wait. You knew?” Tim was surprised, to say the least. He never doubted your cleverness, but this was another level. “How long have you known?”
“For a while now, two months maybe.”
“Two months!?” Tim nearly shouted.
“Why do you think I kept making those comments about him—you?”
“To make me jealous?”
“Of yourself?” You nearly laughed.
Tim fell silent again, trying to take it all in.
You knew he was Red Robin. Had known for a while. And you had been talking about his vigilante self just to piss him off and make him confess.
And your plan had gone just as planned.
You had a diabolical mind.
Thank god you were a normal person and dating him, and not some mastermind boss from a mafia.
“So… Aren't you going to show me how strong you really are, baby?” You smirked, putting your hands on your back, faking innocence.
Tim wanted to get mad at you. But how could he? Not while you were looking at him like that and had just uncovered his secret identity using reverse psychology.
He just stood up and walked towards his bed, towards you.
“You are insane.” He said, trapping your body in his arms and kissing you on the lips.
A/N: I hope you like this, I loved the request and I had been waiting to get just a little bit of free time in between working on my projects and studying for my finals to write this.
Tim Drake taglist: @farahdrawzz @princesstrunkz @jackiememopad @/currentblasphemy
i’ve been simultaneously so busy and so bored at work lately lol we have an intern for a couple weeks and my job is the most entry level so they mostly shadow me / do part of my tasks
so i finish them like way sooner in the workday and then im bored for like 3 or so hours lmao but at the same time this newbie is shadowing me so it feels wrong to get on my phone or something while i wait for new stuff to reach my desk
which means my fanfic writing time has been reduced significantly lmao
★. selina kyle x gn!reader; there are two beds, but she insists on sharing one with you.
#. fluff. main masterlist.
"Selina, go to your bed," you murmur, trying to push her off the mattress as gently as possible. "This is too small for the two of us."
"Shhh, we can figure it out." She hugs you from behind, trapping your arms under hers before your elbows can dig into her ribs.
"This is a single bed, Selina. My single bed." You bury your face in the pillow. She keeps shifting, searching for a position that might offer some relief — or at least one you two can tolerate.
"What's yours is also mine. Isn't that how a marriage works?" She buries her face in your hair, demanding half of the pillow. "Oh, and I want some of the blanket too."
"We're not married," you huff, but you can't stay mad for much longer — not when her hands sneak under your shirt, nails grazing your warm skin.
"But we might as well be."
She pulls the blanket up, covering herself as well, and a few snuggles later, the two of you are squeezed into the tiny bed — all while Selina's bed, on the other side of the hotel room, remains completely empty.
Clark doesn’t mind the smell of your SWEAT actually. It’s the pheromones. Whatever scent you usually have from the small amount of sweating that happens during the day like during your commute to work or carrying some groceries, he’s noticed it. Super smelling and whatnot. But it even though his body is attuned to yours, your scent usually gets drowned out by just the mass of other smells and bodies that live in Metropolis. It’s on nights like tonight, when you’re in bed, trying not to move too much as a gentle breeze helps cool down your body heat, when Clark decides to be the worst. He just piles himself on top of you, head on your chest and able to get a good whiff of you.
“Ugh, Clark,” you try to shove him off with a groan. “You’re like a hundred kilos and super warm. Get off.”
“Nope.” He just closes his eyes, humming happily. “Smell too good.”
“I’m sweaty and gross.”
He just shrugs, enjoying the smell of you like your his own personal vape while you boil under him.
He also likes your PERIOD. Sure, it can sometimes get in the way of sex and put you out of the mood, but he’s not with you just for that. He likes knowing that your body is functioning like it should. He tracks your cycles. Checks that you’re not too stressed or eating enough so there’s no risk of it stopping. For him, it’s just another sure indicator that you’re fine and healthy. He also keeps track of your PMS symptoms so he can make the most of it with chocolate and cuddles.
Clark has a soft spot for your GOOSEBUMPS. He doesn’t get cold. Well, very rarely. So when his fingers run over your arm at the end of a date night, his arm slung over your shoulder as you walk across one of the city’s bridges, he smiles. Little bumps on your skin that he thinks are adorable. You’re cold before you even know it, your body reacting on instinct. So does his because he’s taking off his jacket and helping you in it.
Another thing he likes are your STRETCH MARKS. With pristine, solid, Kryptonian skin made of steel, he doesn’t even have a single scratch on him. It’s very annoying. But on you, he thinks that the lines decorating your chest, legs, ass, and any other parts of you are extremely cool. He thinks you look like a tiger. A description which isn’t far off from when the two of you end up in the bedroom. There’s just something he likes about how powerful they make you look, like a strong animal.
Clark Kent can’t help but laugh and coo when you get the HICCUPS. Another point on the endless list of things he finds cute about you. He likes the way you get embarrassed and try to hold your breath to make it stop. He likes seeing your entire frame shake from the hiccup. How annoyed you get when your body jerks you out of whatever you were doing.
more from my blog
A/N: got this idea when I was sweating in bed from the summer heat. If I had a boyfriend in bed with me, I’d kick him out. There can’t be two sweaty gross people in bed. This is very short bc I couldn’t think of anything else lol
Bit of a bummer here cause most of my mooties have already been tagged (account is still quite new so i’m slowly making mooties lol) but please feel completely free to play along if you see this and feel like it!! Would love to make any new moots as well, so always welcome!! 🫶🏼🫶🏼
I WANNA WRITE WLW BUT I FEEL LIKE I GIVE THEM ALL THE SAME PERSONALITY, SOMEONE BONK ME WITH SPIRITUAL KNOWLEDGE OF THE DC WOMEN
i feel so stupid writing for them because i KNOW their personalities and quirks and vibes and then i write and they all could be any other character :/
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.”
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thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
not only is this INCREDIBLY good, but the way it’s written is so expressive and relatable, like:
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.
and
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.
paint such vivid pictures, had my heart fluttering and all. i genuinely was smiling through the whole piece and i think you’ve expressed Steph’s inner conflict with being in the batfam so well, absolutely love it 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼
"Damian wants to take after his paternal grandfather and be a doctor-" I am violently grabbing you by the face and forcing you to look at the Al Ghuls. Talia and Ra's are both doctors. He's not only following in Thomas Wayne's footsteps when his literal mother and maternal grandfather are also both doctors
Unpopular opinion but if you don't enjoy the process you should find a different thing to do.
And I think this is true in general but now I'm talking about it in the context of AI.
If you don't enjoy making art and only care about the end piece and how it'll look and how much traction it"lol get online then making art is not something for you, find something you enjoy from start to finish.
Same goes for writing: if you do not enjoy writing and rewriting and then some more and instead want AI to write for you, being a writer is not something you should pursue.
Sure, not every part of creative process is going to be equally enjoyable but you should get satisfaction from solving the problems along the way and you should get a sense of accomplishment on your way of "making the piece yours" and you should have a sense of ownership once you are done.
None of these things will come from typing in a prompt into chatGPT. And I am sad to see so many people are missing on the opportunity to experience the joy of making something with their own hands and brains.
#this is so true#i know writers like to joke about hating writing#but like if you're serious?#if you actually hate the process of writing?#why is this what you've chosen to pursue#just do something else
ideal steph + tim dynamic is that they are both each other's biggest cheerleader and biggest critic at the same time. importantly however whenever tim criticises steph he's wrong. and when steph praises tim she is wrong also
