dc girls' confess to you while drunk !! ୨ৎ
DIANA OF THEMYSCIRA
She almost never gets drunk, basically because it takes too many bottles to make her feel something, but after winning an important battle, she decided that it was the time to buy enough beers for her.
There were more people in the room than both of you, but for Diana, it felt like you were the only one there. She was sure that she could see a glowing pink halo around your body that attracted her to you. Did you cast a spell on her or something? No, that's not your type of power.
And then it comes the worst part, she opens her mouth.
“You,” she says, voice lower than usual, a little slurred at the edges, “are unfairly beautiful.”
You blink, laugh softly. “Diana, you’re drunk.”
She waves a hand, nearly knocking over her bottle. “I am aware. It is rare. And annoying. But necessary.” She shifts closer, thigh pressing against yours. “I have… a confession.”
The room is loud, but her words cut through everything. Your heart stutters.
“Okay,” you say, careful. “I’m listening.”
She stares at you for a long moment, like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. Then she just… says it.
“I am in love with you.”
The words are simple. Direct. No flowery speech, no metaphor. Just Diana, drunk and honest.
You freeze. She doesn’t.
“I have been for… a while,” she continues, frowning like she’s trying to do math. “Months? Years? Time is stupid.” She pokes your arm lightly. “You are kind. And brave. And when you smile, I feel...” She gestures vaguely at her chest. “warm. Here. All the time.”
You’re staring now, mouth slightly open. She notices, tilts her head.
“You are not saying anything.”
You swallow. “Diana, you're—”
She leans in closer, eyes wide and earnest. “I do not say this because of the alcohol. The alcohol is just… making me brave. Stupidly brave.” She pauses. “Like Achilles, but with feelings.”
You laugh, soft and surprised. She smiles radiantly, a little wobbly.
“I want to court you,” she says. “Properly. With… dates. And flowers. And no battles interrupting. Though battles are romantic sometimes.”
You reach out, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Your hand lingers.
“I’d like that,” you say quietly.
Her whole face lights up. “Truly?”
You nod. “Truly.”
“Good,” she whispers. “Because I am very bad at keeping secrets when I am in love.”
You kiss her cheek. She sighs, content, and slumps against your shoulder.
KARA ZOR EL (suggestive)
The apartment is quiet tonight, just the soft hum of the fridge and the distant rumble of Metropolis traffic outside.
You’re sprawled on the couch in one of Kara’s old hoodies (it smells like her, sunlight and vanilla), legs kicked up, scrolling absently on your phone.
Kara’s been out with the League celebrating a win and she texted you an hour ago: on my way home. might be a little tipsy. love youuuu with about twenty heart emojis.
The door opens with a dramatic whoosh, and Kara floats in, hair windswept, cheeks flushed an adorable pink, eyes glassy and sparkling. She’s still in her Supersuit, cape slightly crooked, boots left at the door in a messy pile.
“Baby!” she announces to the room, voice louder than necessary, arms wide like she’s about to hug the entire apartment. “I’m home!”
You laugh, setting your phone aside. “Hey, you. Come here.”
She doesn’t walk, she glides over, wobbling just a little, and flops face-first onto your lap with a happy sigh. Her head lands right between your breasts, cheek squished against the soft fabric of the hoodie. She nuzzles in immediately, arms wrapping around your waist like you’re her personal pillow.
“Mmm,” she mumbles, voice muffled against your chest. “You’re so soft. And you smell like… like home. And cookies. Do we have cookies? No, wait—you’re the cookie.”
You snort, threading your fingers through her hair. “You’re ridiculous when you’re drunk.”
She tilts her head up, chin resting on your sternum, eyes huge and shiny.
“I love you,” she says, simple and earnest, like she’s just discovered gravity. “Like… a lot. A lot lot. Did I tell you that today? I should tell you every day. Every hour. Every minute.”
You smile, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You did. Multiple times. Via text. Voice memo. And that very loud phone call while you were flying home.”
She giggles and buries her face back in your chest.
“Good. Because it’s true. And also—”
She pulls back again, eyes dropping to your breasts with sudden, intense focus.
“These. These are… amazing.”
She cups them gently through the hoodie, thumbs brushing your nipples like she’s handling something sacred.
“They’re so soft. And perfect. And… they’re mine, right? I can say that? I’m allowed?”
You laugh. “Yeah, you’re allowed.”
She leans in, nuzzling between them like she’s trying to climb inside you.
“I love them. I love how they feel. I love when you let me sleep on them. I love when they’re all… squishy and warm. And when you’re on top and they’re right here.” She presses her face deeper, voice muffled. “I can hear your heartbeat. It’s my favorite sound.”
You stroke her hair, letting her ramble. She’s still drunk, words tumbling out in a sweet stream.
“I think about them all the time,” she confesses, voice dropping to a whisper. “On patrol. During meetings. When I’m trying to be serious. I just… think about burying my face in them and never leaving. Is that weird? It’s probably weird. But I love you. And I love these. And I love you.”
You tilt her chin up, kiss her softly. She melts into it, kissing back slow and sloppy, tasting like cheap beer and happiness. When you pull back, she’s smiling utterly smitten.
“I love you too,” you whisper. “All of you. Even the drunk, boob-obsessed parts.”
She sighs, content, and flops back down, face smushed between your breasts again.
“Good,” she mumbles. “Because I’m never moving.”
You laugh quietly, holding her close as she drifts toward sleep, still mumbling sweet, slurred nonsense against your skin.
KORIAND'R She’s glowing, literally, a soft orange aura around her skin, hair floating like there’s no gravity. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright and glassy, and she’s been glued to your side all night, arm looped through yours, head on your shoulder more often than not.
Now the others have drifted to the dartboard or the bar, and it’s just you two in the booth. She’s halfway through her… seventh? eighth? drink, staring at you like you hung the stars.
“You,” she says suddenly. “You are… so pretty. Like really pretty. Did you know that? I think about it all the time.”
You laugh, soft. “You’re drunk, Kori.”
She waves a hand, nearly knocking over her glass. “Drunk is good! Drunk is honest! And I am very honest right now.”
She leans in, too close, warm breath on your cheek. “I love you.”
The words tumble out like they’ve been waiting forever.
You blink. She doesn’t stop.
“I love you so much it’s stupid. Like dumb stupid. I think about you when I fly. I think about you when I fight. I think about you when I’m supposed to be listening to Dick’s plans and I’m just like… ‘she has such nice hands.’”
She grabs your hand, holds it up like evidence. “See? Nice hands. I want them on me all the time.”
You’re trying not to laugh, but your heart is pounding. “Kori—”
“No, wait, I’m not done!” She’s babbling now, words spilling fast and messy. “I love your laugh. And your eyes. And how you always know when I’m sad even when I smile. And your hair. I want to braid it. And kiss you. And—oh—your boobs. They’re perfect. I dream about them. I want to put my face in them and never leave.”
She demonstrates by dramatically dropping her head to your chest, nuzzling with a happy sigh. “Like this. Perfect.”
You’re flushed, laughing quietly, fingers threading through her hair. “You’re ridiculous.”
She lifts her head, eyes wide and earnest.
“I’m serious! I love you. I want to be your girlfriend. For real. No more ‘just friends who kiss sometimes.’ I want to hold your hand in public and tell everyone you’re mine. And cook for you, badly, probably, but try! And fly you to the moon if you want!”
She pauses, frowning. “Do you want to go to the moon? We could. I’m strong enough.”
You cup her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Kori. I don't need the moon. I love you too.”
Her whole face lights up, her glow brightens. “Really?!”
“Really.”
She squeals and launches herself at you, wrapping arms and legs around you like a koala.
“I’m never letting go! You’re mine now! Officially! I’m going to kiss you so much!”
You laugh into her hair, holding her tight. She pulls back just enough to kiss you, messy, eager, tasting like tequila and joy. When she finally lets you breathe, she’s smiling so wide it’s blinding.
“Best night ever,” she declares. “Even better than the time I punched a robot in the face.”
You kiss her again. “Yeah. Best night ever.”
(She falls asleep on your shoulder on the cab ride home, drooling in your top, you'll tease her about it tomorrow.
DONNA TROY
The Titans Tower common room is a mess of empty bottles and laughter after a hard-won victory. Most of the team has tapped out, but Donna?
Donna’s drunk.
She’s on the couch beside you, thigh pressed to yours, cheeks flushed a deep rose that makes her look softer than usual. Her dark hair is loose, a little tangled from her head tossing back drinks. Her eyes are glassy, fixed on you with that intense Amazon stare, but it’s wobbly now, frustrated.
She’s been quieter than usual all night, nursing her drinks and stealing glances at you. Now the alcohol has loosened her tongue and her temper. She turns suddenly, nearly sloshing her drink on your lap.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says, voice sharp but slurred at the edges. “I’m in love with you, and it’s stupid, and I hate it.”
You blink. She keeps going, words tumbling out like she’s been holding them back for months.
“I’ve been in love with you for—forever! And you’re going to say no, I know you are, because why would you want me? I’m just the spare Amazon, the second-string Wonder Girl, and you’re—you’re perfect, and funny, and you make me feel things I don’t even have words for in Greek!”
She’s on her feet now, pacing, hands gesturing wildly.
“I tried to ignore it! I tried to be your friend! But every time you smile at me, or laugh at my dumb stories, or just fucking exist I want to kiss you! And hold you! And tell everyone you’re mine! But you’ll say no, and then it’ll be awkward, and I’ll have to pretend I’m fine when I’m dying inside!”
Her voice cracks on the last word. She stops pacing, stares at you, chest heaving, eyes wet and angry.
“So just say it,” she snaps. “Say no and I'll move on.”
“Donna.”
She flinches like she’s bracing for a hit.
“I love you too.”
She freezes. Her mouth opens. Closes.
“What?”
You smile, reach for her hand. “I love you. Have for a while. I was waiting for you to say something.”
She stares, blinking fast. “What? No—what? You—you love me? Like… love love?”
You nod.
She makes a strangled sound and then she’s on you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, face buried in your neck.
“You absolute idiot,” she mumbles, voice muffled and wobbly. “I was ready to fight a god over this.”
You laugh, hold her close. “No need. You’ve got me.”
She pulls back, eyes shining, and kisses you.
“I’m never drinking again,” she declares. “Or maybe I am. This worked out pretty well.”
You kiss her again. The team pretends not to notice from the corner but they’re all grinning. Donna doesn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.
BARBARA GORDON
Your phone buzzes on the nightstand at 2:17 a.m., the screen lighting up with Barbara’s name. You fumble for it, half-asleep, heart already picking up because Babs never calls this late unless it’s an emergency.
You answer. “Babs? You okay?”
There’s a long pause, then a shaky breath and a voice that’s definitely not sober.
“Heyyy,” she draws out, soft and slurred. “Hi. It’s me. Barbara. Your Barbara. Wait—no, not your Barbara. That’s… that’s the problem.”
You sit up, rubbing sleep from your eyes. “Are you drunk?”
A wet little laugh. “I opened the good whiskey. The one Dick got me for my birthday. And then I finished it. Alone. Like a loser.”
You’re already pulling on a hoodie. “Where are you? Your place?”
“Clocktower,” she sniffles. “Couldn’t make it home. Too… spinny.”
You’re out the door in thirty seconds. “Stay put. I’m coming.”
She keeps talking the whole cab ride.
“I didn’t mean to call,” she says at one point, voice thick. “But I was looking at pictures of us. And you were smiling at me in all of them. And I just… I miss you. All the time. Even when you’re right there.”
Your chest aches. You’ve been dancing around this for years—best friends, partners on cases, late-night rooftop talks, the kind of closeness that feels like more but neither of you ever named.
“I miss you too,” you say quietly.
“Nooo,” she drags out, starting to cry. “You don’t get it. I love you. Like love love you. The stupid kind. The kind where I want to hold your hand and kiss you when you’re not looking and wake up next to you and—ugh—why is this so hard?”
You’re at the Clocktower now, racing up the stairs. “Babs, open the door.”
Her hair’s a mess, eyes red and glassy, wearing an oversized GCPD shirt and pajama shorts. She looks small, leaning on the doorframe.
“You came,” she whispers, like she didn’t believe you would.
You step inside, close the door, pull her into your arms. She clings to you, face buried in your neck, crying quietly.
“I’m so in love with you it hurts,” she mumbles against your skin. “And I was scared you’d never—hic—feel the same. And I’m drunk and stupid and—”
You pull back, cup her face. Wipe her tears with your thumbs.
“I love you too.”
She freezes. Blinks. Tears still falling.
“What?”
“I love you,” you say again, clearer. “I was scared too.”
She stares at you, mouth open.
Then she starts crying harder (happy tears this time) and launches herself at you, arms around your neck, legs wrapping around your waist like she’s trying to climb inside you.
“You love me?” she sobs into your shoulder. “Really?”
“Really.”
She taste like whiskey and salt when you kiss her, but you can't stop, it's kind of addictive. You stay with her in bed. She doesn’t let go the whole night.
She wakes up mortified the next morning. You kiss her quiet. She stops being mortified real fast.
DINAH LANCE (suggestive)
The bar is a blur of neon and laughter, the kind of place where vigilantes go to pretend they’re normal for a night. You’re younger, still riding the high of your first big win with the Birds, and Dinah (the Black Canary, your mentor, your crush, your everything) dragged you out to celebrate.
You meant to pace yourself. You really did.
But the shots kept coming, and Dinah’s laugh is like velvet, and her hand on your back when she leans in to talk over the music makes your brain short-circuit. So you drink. A lot.
Now you’re stumbling out into the cool night air, Dinah’s arm around your waist, holding you up like you weigh nothing. Her leather jacket smells like her, smoke and vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” she says, amused, steering you toward her bike. Her voice is low, warm, a little rough from singing earlier.
You giggle, leaning into her heavily. “You’re pretty.”
She snorts. “Oh god, you’re so drunk.”
“Drunk and honest,” you mumble, face pressed to her shoulder.
She gets you onto the bike behind her, makes sure your arms are tight around her waist. The ride to her place is a blur of wind and city lights. You cling to her, cheek against her back, breathing her in.
Inside her apartment, she half-carries you to the couch. You flop down, world spinning. She kneels, pulls your boots off slow.
“You’re gonna hate yourself tomorrow,” she says, but there’s no judgment, just fond exasperation.
You grab her wrist before she can stand. “Stay.”
She pauses, blue eyes soft. “I’m just getting water.”
“No, I don't want water.” You tug harder, pulling her down until she’s sitting beside you. “I want you.”
She sighs, but doesn’t pull away. You shift, clumsy, until you’re curled against her side, head on her chest. She’s warm. Strong. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear.
You’re quiet for a minute, then the words spill out.
“I love you.”
She goes still.
You keep going, voice thick with alcohol and want.
“Not like friend love. Like… love love. Want-to-kiss-you love. Want-you-to-hold-me-down-and—” You hiccup. “make me scream your name love.”
Your hand slides under her shirt, fingers tracing the hard lines of her abs. She catches your wrist, gentle but firm.
“Hey,” she says, voice low. “You’re drunk.”
“I know,” you mumble, nuzzling closer, lips brushing her collarbone. “But it’s true. Always wanted you. You’re so strong and hot and” You press a sloppy kiss to her neck. “I think about you when I touch myself.”
She exhales, shaky. Her hand cups the back of your head, holding you close but not encouraging.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says, soft but firm. “When you’re sober.”
You whine, cling tighter. “Nooo. Sleep with me. Just cuddling. Please.”
She hesitates. You feel it—the way her thumb strokes your hair, the way her body doesn’t pull away.
“Okay,” she whispers finally. “Just cuddling.”
She helps you to bed, strips you down to your underwear with careful, clinical hands that still make you shiver. She changes into a tank and shorts, slides in behind you.
You curl into her immediately, back to her chest, her arm draped over you. Her hand rests on your stomach, warm and steady.
You’re asleep in minutes, breathing her in. She stays awake longer, fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, lips brushing your shoulder.
Tomorrow, you’ll talk. Tonight, she holds you like you’re already hers.
You wake up hungover. She’s still there, arm tight around you, smiling when you groan.
“Morning, lightweight.”
You hide your face in her neck. “I don't regret anything I said.”
She kisses your temple. “Good. We’ll talk now.”
TALIA AL GHUL (+18)
The mission debrief was supposed to be quick. Go over the extraction points, confirm no tails, file the report. But Talia had other ideas. She locked the door of the Paris safehouse with a soft click, kicked off her boots, and disappeared into the kitchenette without a word. You heard glass clinking, the creak of an old cabinet, and then she came back holding a dusty green bottle like it was treasure.
“Absinthe,” she said, voice low and amused. “Real stuff. You ever try it?”
You shook your head, already feeling the adrenaline from the op bleeding into something looser. “Thought it makes you hallucinate.”
“It makes you honest,” she corrected, popping the cork.
The scent hit you first—anise, sharp and sweet, dangerous. She poured two generous glasses, the liquid turning milky as she added water from a chipped carafe.
“To clean extractions,” she toasted, clinking her glass against yours.
One glass turned into two. Two turned into three. The room got softer around the edges, the old velvet curtains glowing in the lamplight, the Eiffel Tower a faint sparkle through the rain-streaked window.
You both ended up on the wide bed, shoes long gone, mission gear traded for something comfortable. Talia had slipped into a black silk robe that barely tied at the waist, the fabric clinging to her curves, slipping open just enough to tease. You’d stolen one of her oversized button-down shirts, nothing underneath, because why bother in a safehouse?
You were laughing at something stupid now, some near-miss from the op that felt hilarious in hindsight. Your legs had tangled somewhere between the second and third glass, her bare thigh warm against yours, her foot sliding idly along your calf. Every time she shifted, the silk robe gaped a little more, revealing the swell of her breast, the dark shadow between her thighs.
“God, you’re beautiful when you laugh like that,” she said suddenly, voice husky from the drink. Her eyes were glassy, dark, fixed on your mouth.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “You’re one to talk. That robe should be illegal.”
She smirked, leaning closer, the scent of absinthe on her breath. “You complaining?”
“Never,” you whispered.
Your hand found her knee, tracing slow circles on her skin. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let out a soft hum, her own fingers brushing your thigh under the hem of the shirt.
“You know,” she murmured, “I’ve thought about this. Too many times. On stakeouts. In safehouses exactly like this. Watching you across the room, pretending I wasn’t imagining what you’d feel like.”
Your breath caught. “Talia…”
“I’d touch myself thinking about you,” she went on, voice dropping lower, filthier. “Quiet, so you wouldn’t hear. Fingers sliding inside, pretending it was your tongue. Your hands pinning me down. Fuck, I’d come so hard biting my own arm to stay silent.”
The confession hit you like a shot of the absinthe. You shifted closer, your thigh pressing between hers now.
“I did the same,” you admitted. “Every time you wore that tight gear on ops. Imagining peeling it off you. Tasting how wet you’d be for me.”
Her eyes fluttered. “Show me,”
You didn’t need to be told twice.
Your lips crashed into hers, hungry and desperate, the taste of absinthe sharp and sweet between your tongues. She kissed like she fought—controlled, precise, but with an edge that made your pulse race. Her hand slid up your thigh, fingers digging into your hip as she pulled you closer, guiding you until you were straddling one of her legs.
She broke the kiss just long enough to tug the shirt over your head, tossing it aside. Cool air hit your skin, but her gaze was hotter, raking over you like she was memorizing every inch.
“On your back,” she ordered, the kind that made your stomach flip.
You obeyed instantly, sinking into the pillows as she shrugged off the silk robe. Naked now, she was breathtaking; strong shoulders, full breasts, the curve of her waist leading to hips you wanted to bruise with your grip. She crawled over you, predatory, settling between your thighs.
But she didn’t stay there long. With a wicked smile, she shifted, turning until her knees bracketed your hips. She lowered herself slowly, deliberately, until her slick heat pressed against yours. The first contact made you both gasp.
“Like this,” she murmured, rocking forward once, testing. “I want to feel you come apart under me.”
You moaned, hands flying to her thighs, gripping tight as she started to move. Slow at first, grinding in deliberate circles, her clit dragging against yours with every roll of her hips. The friction was electric, building fast and relentless. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on either side of your head, dark hair falling around your face like a curtain.
“Look at me,” she commanded, and your eyes locked on hers.
She sped up, thighs flexing, breath hitching as she chased her pleasure. Every grind sent sparks through you, your own hips bucking up to meet her, desperate for more. The room filled with the sounds of it, wet skin sliding together, your shared gasps and moans, the creak of the bed under her rhythm.
“T-talia—hah—please—”
“That’s it,” she growled, one hand sliding down to grip your thigh, pulling you harder against her. “Give it to me. I want to feel you lose it.”
You were close, so close, but she was closer. Her movements grew erratic, sharper, her breath coming in ragged pants against your lips. You could feel her swelling against you, throbbing, slicker with every thrust.
“Come for me first,” you begged, voice breaking. “I want to feel you—”
She slammed down harder, once, twice and then she shattered.
Her whole body tensed, thighs clamping around your hips as she cried out, a low, guttural sound that went straight through you. Her clit pulsed against yours, hot and wet, and in the middle of it, eyes locked on yours, she whispered it.
“I love you.”
The words hit harder than her orgasm, raw and breathless, like they’d been ripped out of her. She kept moving through the aftershocks, grinding slow now, drawing it out, until she collapsed forward, forehead pressed to yours, still trembling.
You wrapped your arms around her, holding tight, heart pounding so hard you were sure she could feel it.
“I love you too,” you whispered back, voice shaking.
She smiled against your lips and kissed you slow and deep, like the mission was finally over.
