I have so many WIPs to work on but I cannot stop the plotbunnies and ideas when they hit me. Take this fem!jay+jaydick 80s inspired drabble that I may never finish *cries*
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If anyone asked, Jaye always had a thing for fast cars and neon lights. She grew up in Crime Alley, blocks away from the red light district, and the infamous row of theaters and strip clubs. Fancy cars, rich men, fur coats, white powder, and shiny hubcaps were a common and welcomed sight for her.
When she first started working on the streets, that's what drew her in. Not the people—even if she never forgot a face, a sneer, a laugh or grin—not the drugs or guns, or the money passed from hand to hand. It was the cars, the lights, the music.
She loved and hated them. The Alley was gorgeous in it's own fucked up way but it was also an ever present danger. A thrill and adrenaline rush all in one, it made her heart pound in her chest, it made her sick to her stomach, it made her bare her teeth in a fierce grin.
She was never not memorized by the way the lights flickered in her eyes, or the way the sun set over the skyline, the darkened hues of orange, red and pink smeared over the blackened smog of the city. And how, at just the right angle, at just the right alleyway, these neon lights illuminated the clouds, striking through the dark like the Batsignal.
A reminder to the rest of the city—we're still here.
She hated it too. The way it killed her parents and the way it hurt her friends over and over. How the corruption seeped into every crook and cranny of the Alley. How it made people desperate.
So, when she had to pick between drugs, sex, and cars—she picked cars.
If anyone asked, Jaye would lie and say that stealing the tires off the Batmobile cemented her love for fast cars, bright lights, and danger.
But it wasn't. A desperate act to survive, which in turn gave her a family was nothing short of a dream. And she'll always be grateful that what she loved and hated in equal measure brought her to them.
It's the sleek black and blue Z28 Camaro, the warm black leather seats, the cassette tapes in her hands, the wind tangled in her hair, and Dick Grayson's laughter over the radio that cements her love for fast and dangerous.
His hair was curling to his shoulders, undecided on whether he would actually keep the mullet-inspired look or cut it short again. His leather jacket was laying in the backseat and for once, he wasn't wearing somethin atrocious and low-cut (not that teenage Jaye ever minded but it was a little embarrassing). And his eyes sent electricity singing across her skin, sizzling down her spine just like those neon lights flickering over the strippers and cars.
Her stomach dropped, her heart pounded in her chest so loud she could hear it, and she bared her teeth as he laughed, foot on the gas pedal and the engine roaring underneath his hands.
She never understood the nickname, Golden Boy, until that day. The sun shimmered across his skin, catching on the glitter in his hair left over from a "Titans mission" and his chain necklace. A halo, a spotlight made just for him.
Stay gold, ponyboy, she had thought to herself, mesmerized and wide-eyed.
Fast, dangerous, and golden.
She never stood a chance.
--
He watches Jaye stretch out in the backseat of the car that somehow made it through all the shit of his Titan years, of his early years in Blüdhaven, and thinks-knows she's a dangerous type of trouble. Terrifying, but addictive.
He can't get enough.
She grins, all teeth in the backseat like she can read his mind. His hands clench around the steering wheel, the leather creaking under the pressure. She tips her chin up, showing off more of her bare neck as she quietly laughs at him.
She's in one those corset-like bras. A deep, dark red lace. Her underwear matches, a dark and intoxicating red peeking out from under the bunched up fabric of her short skirt.
She's wearing his leather jacket.
He exhales harshly, putting the car in gear.
"Get up here," He growls out, pulling out on the street. He doesn't look in the rearview mirror, hearing the rustling of his jacket as she moves.
"So bossy," She murmurs in his ear as she slides across the center console, her hand trailing down his neck and arm. When she sits in the passenger seat, leaving her skirt bunched up against her upper things, he guns it.
The roar of the engine and the hum of his old cassette tapes reverberate through his head and she laughs. Loud and bright and biting and he can't help himself. He twists his hand in her curls and kisses her.
She opens up to him without complaint, hands clawing at his shirt as he stretches her neck into an uncomfortable and painful arch. It's bruising and brutal, more teeth than tongue. She tastes like strawberries and sugary sweetness.
He nips at her bottom lip as he leans back, turning back to the road. He tugs at her hair once more, watching as her eyes flutter at the touch, before moving his hand back to the shifter. She huffs, her hand ghosting over his chest and playing with chain as she glares-pouts at him.
He shifts gears, hitting the main drag. A smile curls on her reddened lips, her eyes alight as she watches the road race underneath them. Her hand teases down his arm, only stopping to entwin their fingers together around the shifter.
"How come your polish isn't chipped?" She suddenly grumbles, lips pursed as she gazes down at their hands. She plays and wiggles their fingers—his black and blue nail polish gleams in the passing street lights compared to her chipped and matte red polish. He squeezes her hand and gives a soft smile as he whips the car down the next street.
"New brand and a clear top coat." He explains, tapping his middle finger against hers. Her face scrunches up and he can't help his chuckle. She leans over, squeezing his hand right before she bites into his shoulder.
"Jay-" He hisses, his muscles tensing under the assault of her teeth. She quietly laughs, rubbing her face against his shirt before giving it a soft kiss. She gazes up at him through hooded eyes full of mischief, and he feels the grin against his shirt.
"You're so mean to me," He murmurs with a crooked smile, finally reaching the highway ramp. He takes their hands together and shifts gear. Her quick and sharp inhale makes him grin as he races up the ramp and swerves them into traffic.
He weaves them through the last dregs of the nightly rush hour, her hand squeezing painfully around his and the shifter as he dodges car after car.
"You deserve it." She probably means to be cruel and vicious, but her words are soft, more of a low, breathy sigh than a cutting remark. He hums and shifts gears one more time, hoping to hear more of those pretty noises. And fuck, he wishes he could just throw her into the backseat and do it himself. Take her apart in his jacket and his jacket only.
She shifts in her seat, and he watches her free hand twist in the edges of her skirt from the corner of his eye. They're tearing down the highway, the road signs mere blurs as they pass by. The speedometer twitches over 95 and she hums, low but loud. It almost sounds like a muffled moan.
And he's a weak man.
He takes their entwined hands and trails their fingers over her exposed skin, ghosting over her thighs with the barest amount of pressure. She gets the hint, guiding his hand over the scars and the edges of her skirt. She arches just a bit, shifting her hips forward and tilting her head towards him.
She catches his gaze, but she doesn't move her hand any further, holding it there.
"Faster." She says, eyes dark and filled with an insatiable hunger that tingles down his spine. He shudders at her words. There are no more lights to illuminate her, just the moonlight and the low lights of the radio. And gods, it suits her like the sun suits him.
He curls his fingers into her skin, kneading at the muscles that could easily kill a man, thighs he would gladly spend the rest of the night between.
Without a word, he presses down on the gas pedal and watches the speedometer gradually move past the 100 mark. When it reaches close to 110 and they blow past the Bristol exist, he gives her a look and flexes his fingers.
"So good to me, aren't you Bluebird?" She murmurs, biting her lip as she smiles at him. He jerks, a sharp inhale-exhale, as the leather of the steering wheel creaks under his hand. He gives her a choked hum, positive that if he opened his mouth to speak all that would come out is desperation and need.
She laughs and he so badly wants to kiss her again. But then she's moving his hand—their hands—to the thin edges of her lace underwear and he loses all train of thought.
