[fics] girlslash for the porn battle
1. Wrapped Up Like Candy: DCU, Grace/Mia, latex
[originally here]
"I-" Mia drags her mouth away. Her spit shines down a tattoo's curve. Her lips taste like Grace, sweat and muskmelon. "Can't."
With her pinky, Grace pushes her back onto the bed so hard Mia bounces. She looms there, hair tangled on-end around her face like a messy halo. "Newsflash, baby girl: I'm invulnerable."
"I know, but-" Mia presses her arm over her eyes. All her training, all the meditation, patience and drills, it's almost out the window. She Kegel-clenches against the need, arches her back when Grace bites the undercurve of her left breast. "Fuck, I want-"
Mia makes herself shut up. Her body's going to betray her again. She can't take anyone else down with her.
Grace rubs her knuckles over Mia's other nipple. Mia arches again before pulling away. "Sorry-"
"You think I don't come prepared?" Grace chides her. "Silly girl."
When Grace cups her crotch and tweaks her nipple, Mia writhes and gasps. "Never thought of you as a Girl Scout-"
Grace snaps on a glove. She's wiggling her fingers, smacking her lips. "Boy Scout, baby. Hotter uniforms."
Laughing hurts. Mia can't help it.
Winking, Grace dons the other glove. "C'mere-"
Mia struggles up. Grace kneels just out of reach, breasts high and full, her nipples dark as wine, bigger than Mia's *mouth*. The glove's cool, alien, on Mia's wrist when Grace pulls her up. She rocks to meet Mia's palm, rubbing her nipple.
"Closer." Grace's voice is husky, then *trilling* when Mia sucks hard on her nipple. Effortlessly, she pulls at Mia's knees until her ass is a good foot off the bed. She's nearly as strong as Superman, and, as she whispered in Mia's ear back at the party, *much* better hung. "Given the right toys-" She bit Mia's ear, slapped her ass. "-and I have the *best* toys."
Heat and wailing tension fan out through Mia, under her skin, deep in her bones.
"Spread 'em." Grace's voice is husky against Mia's thigh, her tongue quick down a scar. "Not gonna fall, blondie. Got you."
Mia opens up, shoulders pressed into the bed, legs over Grace's shoulders. Humming, Grace slips the saran wrap around Mia's waist, down her crotch, up her ass. Her fingers are nimble, pinching and plucking and soothing until Mia's giggling, moaning, trying to breathe.
"Wrapped up like candy." Grace grins when Mia catches her eye, before she ducks down, gloved hands squeezing, spreading, Mia's asscheeks. "Oh, *yeah*."
The plastic wrinkles and clings, heating up when Grace licks it, sliding over Mia like a second, sticky skin. Mia buries her hands in Grace's wild hair, snarls new knots as she pushes her hips up, her feet are flat on the bed. Grace's mouth sweeps up and down the plastic, biting lightly, sucking.
Such a long time, but Mia's body is her own now, forever. No betrayal, just layer on layer sweet heat that keeps spreading, tightening.
White light shoots up Mia's spine, out the back of her skull, tearing ragged curses as it goes. Grace laughs against her pussy, working one knuckle around Mia's asshole.
Grace's hands palm basketballs like apples; her fingers are long, ropy, strong. One works relentlessly into Mia, burning deep and right. When Grace twists her wrist and works her thumb against the entrance to Mia's pussy, Mia shouts and grabs at air.
Plastic and latex and Grace, so much inside and out. Mia bucks back, then forward into Grace's mouth, and again, over and over. Rocking hard, she's clenching tight enough to break bone.
But not Grace. Her tongue corkscrews over Mia's clit as her fingers fuck inside both holes, reaching, giving just as hard and fast as Mia wants it. As fast and hard as Mia is *coming*.
"Fuck, Jesus -" Mia's mouth opens to deep grunts, no words.
As Mia comes down, Grace runs the flat of her tongue slowly up and down Mia's pussy, smoothing out the plastic, chuckling.
The sound sets off M-80s across Mia's nerves. Whimpering, she rolls away.
"Nuh-uh." Grace hauls her back; her bare hands skim down Mia's sides, pet her everywhere.
When she grasps Mia's left wrist and licks the palm, Mia moans, opening her eyes to catch Grace's considering squint.
"Got nice little hands. Pretty."
"Um -?"
Grace sweeps Mia off and lands facedown on the bed, lifting her hard, round ass. "Snap on some gloves. Like to see how deep you can go."
2. Competence and Donuts: DCU, Babs/Dinah, stockings
[originally here]
Dinah's stockings have a run.
The hole's hard to see; at first glance, it might not be a run, but a twist in the pattern.
Curving around the back of her knee, up her thigh, the hole is obscured by the regular pattern of the fishnets.
Barbara never trusts the first glance. She looks, and looks carefully, until she has analyzed each detail.
Disorder offends her nearly as much as incompetence. Where disorder reigns, hope gets lost, confusion takes hold. (So says Bruce, and, in different words, her father.)
She won't lose hope. She cannot fail.
Dinah sashays around the room, humming some horrible pop song. She's eating mini-donuts, the sugar flying every which way and caking her mouth.
On a downbeat, she kicks out her leg--widening the run--then curtsies.
"C'mon, dance with me." Holding Barbara's shoulder, she tries to turn the chair; with her thumb, Barbara locks the wheels. Stays where she is.
"We're effusive tonight," Barbara says.
Dinah pouts and slaps ineffectually at her.
Those hands could kill, have nearly killed several times in the past. All they're doing now is mussing up Barbara's hair and smearing powdered sugar behind her ear. That is, Barbara can't help but think, a poor use of resources.
Dinah laughs. "What can I say? Good fight."
Barbara remembers the flush of the fight, buzzing deep through her muscles, the heat of it prickling from the small of her back to her nipples to the backs of her knees. Dinah moonwalks backward, and Barbara's about to needle her for being an old fogey, when Dinah swings her leg again--the hole grows bigger yet--and straddles Barbara's lap.
Hands on Barbara's shoulders, Dinah leans in, cheeks pink and eyes glittering. "Please?"
Barbara looks down at Dinah's thighs and squeezes her knees. "Please what?" she asks, tracing the hole with her thumbnail, pinching hard.
Dinah yelps and bounces up; when she lands, the chair gives a slight groan. "Jeez, Babs, warn a girl-"
"Hmm. No." Barbara curls three fingers into the rip and gives it a good tug. Dinah's skin is laddered with the fishnet pattern, but goes pink, then red, under Barbara's nails.
Dinah mutters something about Gotham insanity; Barbara refrains, for once, from noting that Dinah's half-Gothamite. Instead, she digs her fingers deeper under the stockings, until her hand is trapped under the shorts.
"Christ, Babs-" Dinah shakes her head and her hair flies.
Barbara remembers that, too, the wind over her scalp, buoying her up. "Canary," she says, her voice even.
Dinah gives her a cockeyed grin, just a flash, before she falls forward, over Barbara, against her. The change in angle slides Barbara's hand all the higher, until her fingertips graze the elastic on Dinah's panties.
Dinah's mouth moves hotly over Barbara's cheek and throat. "Awaiting instructions," she whispers, biting along Barbara's jaw. "Ora-"
"No." No playing; like memory, play is too easy. "Dinah."
Barbara tugs at Dinah's knee, pulls it over her shoulder, works the shorts off. She has to trust the chair's stability, trust--she laughs to think of it--*Ted's* engineering skill, as she leans forward, pressing her mouth to Dinah's mound, and pushes her fingers under the elastic, into the slick heat of Dinah's groin.
"Uhh-." Dinah shakes, head to toe, and grips Barbara's hair painfully hard. "Babs, Barbara, yeah-"
Dinah's body is lean, her skin burnished by age and experienced. Her breasts are heavy against Barbara's palm, nipples hard, pointing down. She tastes just like a girl, delicious and new, like the first girl Barbara ever tasted, fresh and salty all at once. Her hips switch and sway, grinding against Barbara's hand; her clit stands out, swollen hard, scraping down the length of Barbara's tongue before she curls it and sucks.
Dinah learned those curses from Ollie, but Barbara learned *this* from Dick. They're even.
Barbara doesn't fight, or fly, or--she used to believe--fuck any longer. But she can do all of that, and more, the thrill sizzling across her nerves fast as bebop, her mouth moving sideways, her fingers sliding forward. She's going to make Dinah come, can already feel her walls gripping, shifting, *softening* even as they tighten, and she's going to do it well.
She's going to do it perfectly.
[originally here]
"I-" Mia drags her mouth away. Her spit shines down a tattoo's curve. Her lips taste like Grace, sweat and muskmelon. "Can't."
With her pinky, Grace pushes her back onto the bed so hard Mia bounces. She looms there, hair tangled on-end around her face like a messy halo. "Newsflash, baby girl: I'm invulnerable."
"I know, but-" Mia presses her arm over her eyes. All her training, all the meditation, patience and drills, it's almost out the window. She Kegel-clenches against the need, arches her back when Grace bites the undercurve of her left breast. "Fuck, I want-"
Mia makes herself shut up. Her body's going to betray her again. She can't take anyone else down with her.
Grace rubs her knuckles over Mia's other nipple. Mia arches again before pulling away. "Sorry-"
"You think I don't come prepared?" Grace chides her. "Silly girl."
When Grace cups her crotch and tweaks her nipple, Mia writhes and gasps. "Never thought of you as a Girl Scout-"
Grace snaps on a glove. She's wiggling her fingers, smacking her lips. "Boy Scout, baby. Hotter uniforms."
Laughing hurts. Mia can't help it.
Winking, Grace dons the other glove. "C'mere-"
Mia struggles up. Grace kneels just out of reach, breasts high and full, her nipples dark as wine, bigger than Mia's *mouth*. The glove's cool, alien, on Mia's wrist when Grace pulls her up. She rocks to meet Mia's palm, rubbing her nipple.
"Closer." Grace's voice is husky, then *trilling* when Mia sucks hard on her nipple. Effortlessly, she pulls at Mia's knees until her ass is a good foot off the bed. She's nearly as strong as Superman, and, as she whispered in Mia's ear back at the party, *much* better hung. "Given the right toys-" She bit Mia's ear, slapped her ass. "-and I have the *best* toys."
Heat and wailing tension fan out through Mia, under her skin, deep in her bones.
"Spread 'em." Grace's voice is husky against Mia's thigh, her tongue quick down a scar. "Not gonna fall, blondie. Got you."
Mia opens up, shoulders pressed into the bed, legs over Grace's shoulders. Humming, Grace slips the saran wrap around Mia's waist, down her crotch, up her ass. Her fingers are nimble, pinching and plucking and soothing until Mia's giggling, moaning, trying to breathe.
"Wrapped up like candy." Grace grins when Mia catches her eye, before she ducks down, gloved hands squeezing, spreading, Mia's asscheeks. "Oh, *yeah*."
The plastic wrinkles and clings, heating up when Grace licks it, sliding over Mia like a second, sticky skin. Mia buries her hands in Grace's wild hair, snarls new knots as she pushes her hips up, her feet are flat on the bed. Grace's mouth sweeps up and down the plastic, biting lightly, sucking.
Such a long time, but Mia's body is her own now, forever. No betrayal, just layer on layer sweet heat that keeps spreading, tightening.
White light shoots up Mia's spine, out the back of her skull, tearing ragged curses as it goes. Grace laughs against her pussy, working one knuckle around Mia's asshole.
Grace's hands palm basketballs like apples; her fingers are long, ropy, strong. One works relentlessly into Mia, burning deep and right. When Grace twists her wrist and works her thumb against the entrance to Mia's pussy, Mia shouts and grabs at air.
Plastic and latex and Grace, so much inside and out. Mia bucks back, then forward into Grace's mouth, and again, over and over. Rocking hard, she's clenching tight enough to break bone.
But not Grace. Her tongue corkscrews over Mia's clit as her fingers fuck inside both holes, reaching, giving just as hard and fast as Mia wants it. As fast and hard as Mia is *coming*.
"Fuck, Jesus -" Mia's mouth opens to deep grunts, no words.
As Mia comes down, Grace runs the flat of her tongue slowly up and down Mia's pussy, smoothing out the plastic, chuckling.
The sound sets off M-80s across Mia's nerves. Whimpering, she rolls away.
"Nuh-uh." Grace hauls her back; her bare hands skim down Mia's sides, pet her everywhere.
When she grasps Mia's left wrist and licks the palm, Mia moans, opening her eyes to catch Grace's considering squint.
"Got nice little hands. Pretty."
"Um -?"
Grace sweeps Mia off and lands facedown on the bed, lifting her hard, round ass. "Snap on some gloves. Like to see how deep you can go."
2. Competence and Donuts: DCU, Babs/Dinah, stockings
[originally here]
Dinah's stockings have a run.
The hole's hard to see; at first glance, it might not be a run, but a twist in the pattern.
Curving around the back of her knee, up her thigh, the hole is obscured by the regular pattern of the fishnets.
Barbara never trusts the first glance. She looks, and looks carefully, until she has analyzed each detail.
Disorder offends her nearly as much as incompetence. Where disorder reigns, hope gets lost, confusion takes hold. (So says Bruce, and, in different words, her father.)
She won't lose hope. She cannot fail.
Dinah sashays around the room, humming some horrible pop song. She's eating mini-donuts, the sugar flying every which way and caking her mouth.
On a downbeat, she kicks out her leg--widening the run--then curtsies.
"C'mon, dance with me." Holding Barbara's shoulder, she tries to turn the chair; with her thumb, Barbara locks the wheels. Stays where she is.
"We're effusive tonight," Barbara says.
Dinah pouts and slaps ineffectually at her.
Those hands could kill, have nearly killed several times in the past. All they're doing now is mussing up Barbara's hair and smearing powdered sugar behind her ear. That is, Barbara can't help but think, a poor use of resources.
Dinah laughs. "What can I say? Good fight."
Barbara remembers the flush of the fight, buzzing deep through her muscles, the heat of it prickling from the small of her back to her nipples to the backs of her knees. Dinah moonwalks backward, and Barbara's about to needle her for being an old fogey, when Dinah swings her leg again--the hole grows bigger yet--and straddles Barbara's lap.
Hands on Barbara's shoulders, Dinah leans in, cheeks pink and eyes glittering. "Please?"
Barbara looks down at Dinah's thighs and squeezes her knees. "Please what?" she asks, tracing the hole with her thumbnail, pinching hard.
Dinah yelps and bounces up; when she lands, the chair gives a slight groan. "Jeez, Babs, warn a girl-"
"Hmm. No." Barbara curls three fingers into the rip and gives it a good tug. Dinah's skin is laddered with the fishnet pattern, but goes pink, then red, under Barbara's nails.
Dinah mutters something about Gotham insanity; Barbara refrains, for once, from noting that Dinah's half-Gothamite. Instead, she digs her fingers deeper under the stockings, until her hand is trapped under the shorts.
"Christ, Babs-" Dinah shakes her head and her hair flies.
Barbara remembers that, too, the wind over her scalp, buoying her up. "Canary," she says, her voice even.
Dinah gives her a cockeyed grin, just a flash, before she falls forward, over Barbara, against her. The change in angle slides Barbara's hand all the higher, until her fingertips graze the elastic on Dinah's panties.
Dinah's mouth moves hotly over Barbara's cheek and throat. "Awaiting instructions," she whispers, biting along Barbara's jaw. "Ora-"
"No." No playing; like memory, play is too easy. "Dinah."
Barbara tugs at Dinah's knee, pulls it over her shoulder, works the shorts off. She has to trust the chair's stability, trust--she laughs to think of it--*Ted's* engineering skill, as she leans forward, pressing her mouth to Dinah's mound, and pushes her fingers under the elastic, into the slick heat of Dinah's groin.
"Uhh-." Dinah shakes, head to toe, and grips Barbara's hair painfully hard. "Babs, Barbara, yeah-"
Dinah's body is lean, her skin burnished by age and experienced. Her breasts are heavy against Barbara's palm, nipples hard, pointing down. She tastes just like a girl, delicious and new, like the first girl Barbara ever tasted, fresh and salty all at once. Her hips switch and sway, grinding against Barbara's hand; her clit stands out, swollen hard, scraping down the length of Barbara's tongue before she curls it and sucks.
Dinah learned those curses from Ollie, but Barbara learned *this* from Dick. They're even.
Barbara doesn't fight, or fly, or--she used to believe--fuck any longer. But she can do all of that, and more, the thrill sizzling across her nerves fast as bebop, her mouth moving sideways, her fingers sliding forward. She's going to make Dinah come, can already feel her walls gripping, shifting, *softening* even as they tighten, and she's going to do it well.
She's going to do it perfectly.