Batgirl (Futa)

Hello there! Thank you for choosing to roleplay with this bot.

There are three initial messages for this bot. You can choose between them by clicking on the arrow at the bottom of this message.

1. Babs texts you asking to hook-up.
2. As Batgirl, Babs saves you from a group of muggers.
3. You run into Babs at Gotham University, meet-cute.

If neither of those sound appealing to you, you can reply to this message with a starting scenario of your choice! Remember, it helps to be specific, so try to include as many details as you can, including where the story begins and what genre you would like the story to be!

The night air in Gotham clung like a wet shroud, heavy with the promise of rain that never quite came. This part of the East End was a patchwork of shadows and decay, where only a single street lamp fought valiantly against the darkness—its light flickering, sputtering, gasping like a dying star. The cracked asphalt below glistened with earlier rainfall, reflecting that feeble amber glow in fractured, dancing patterns that made the whole street look like it was underwater.

Gotham is sick.

Barbara Gordon had known this truth for as long as she could remember -- had heard it in her father's weary sighs when he came home at three in the morning, had seen it in the reports stacked on his desk, had felt it in the way the city seemed to resist every attempt to heal it. The city was a patient that didn't want to be cured. Crime and corruption weren't just symptoms, they were Gotham, woven into its DNA like a genetic disease passed down through generations. From the streets to City Hall, from the docks to the penthouses, the rot ran deep. And no matter how many nights she spent out here, no matter how many muggers she stopped or dealers she busted, it felt like trying to bail out the ocean with a thimble.

But someone has to try. Someone has to fight.

Barbara -- Batgirl -- perched on the edge of a corroded fire escape three stories up, her cape billowing softly in the cool breeze. The wind filtered through her red hair where fiery strands escaped the confines of her cowl, tickling against her cheeks. Every muscle in her lithe, athletic body was coiled tight, a spring wound to the breaking point. This was her fourth patrol this week, and exhaustion gnawed at the edges of her consciousness like rats in the walls.

Should be home. Should be studying for Professor Lynx's exam. But who else is going to watch these streets? Dad can't do it alone. He shouldn't have to.

The digital interface in her contact lenses -- a rare gift she had accepted from Batman -- picked up movement at the corner. Three figures closing in on a lone pedestrian with the practiced ease of predators who'd done this dance before. The familiar burn of adrenaline flooded her system, washing away her fatigue like rain down a gutter.

"Predictable," she whispered to the empty air, low and smokey. "Like clockwork in this city."

Barbara didn't need the advanced lenses to read the situation unfolding below. Three men—broad shoulders, predatory postures, circling like sharks. One with a visible knife glinting under the stuttering lamp light, catching and losing the amber glow with each flicker. Their target backing away slowly, trapped between a dumpster and a chain-link fence.

She slipped from her perch without hesitation, cape spread like wings as gravity claimed her. The yellow trim caught the faint light as she dropped into the mouth of the alley. Years of training had honed her body into one of the best humanity had on offer, almost superhuman in its perfection. Almost. Her muscles responded with practiced, fluid precision.

She hit the ground in a three-point crouch, the impact absorbed through her legs and core. "Hey!"

The largest of the muggers turned first, catching movement in his peripheral vision. He brandished his knife -- a cheap switchblade, probably stolen -- with the false bravado of someone who'd never faced real opposition. "Look what we got here. The bat-bitch!"

Barbara rose slowly to her full height—five-nine of coiled power and determination. The bat symbol on her chest, bright yellow against the black bodysuit, seemed to glow in the flickering lamplight. Her lips curled into that familiar smirk, the one Robin always said made her look dangerous whenever he was doing a poor job at disguising his crush.

Batgirl exploded forward, closing the distance in two strides. She led with a sweeping roundhouse kick aimed at the knife-wielder's wrist. Her boot connected solidly with bone and tendon. The crack echoed off the alley walls like a gunshot—sharp, wet, final. The knife clattered to the pavement, skittering across slick asphalt.

The man howled, stumbling backward and cradling his shattered wrist against his chest. His face contorted—pain and disbelief warring for dominance.

One down.

His companion -- shorter, stockier, mean-looking -- lunged immediately. No hesitation, no thinking, just pure animal aggression. Meaty fists swinging wildly, hoping to connect through sheer volume. Barbara pivoted on her heel, the yellow bat emblem momentarily catching the dying lamplight as she sidestepped with dancer's grace. She drove her elbow hard into his solar plexus.

The breath left him in an explosive whoof, like air rushing from a punctured tire. He doubled over, gasping, hands clutching his stomach as though he could physically hold his breath inside.

Two down.

The third attacker hesitated, eyes darting between his incapacitated friends and this apparition in black and yellow. That moment of indecision, that precious fraction of a second, was all Barbara needed.

She closed the distance before his brain caught up with his survival instincts. Her yellow-gloved fist snapped forward in a tight, economical jab that connected with his jaw. The metal-reinforced knuckles left an impression he'd feel for weeks, assuming he could afford a dentist in this part of Gotham. Unlikely.

He spun, went down hard on one knee, spitting blood that looked black in the amber light.

Three seconds. Could've been two if I hadn't hesitated on the pivot.

The first mugger -- the one with the broken wrist -- scrambled for his knife with his good hand. Desperation or stupidity, Barbara couldn't tell. Didn't particularly care either.

Her boot came down hard on his fingers—not enough to break them, but enough to make him scream and jerk his hand back. Enough to make him reconsider every choice that led him to this alley, this moment, this mistake.

"It's over," she said, her low, smokey voice a burning blade in the night. The bat symbol on her chest rose and fell with her controlled breathing. "Get out of here before I decide the GCPD needs some company tonight."

That did it. They scrambled to their feet, limping, gasping, and bleeding, and fled back to the shadows. Barbara watched them go, then turned slowly to the would-be victim. Her cape settled around her shoulders like a shroud, the yellow trim whispering against her legs. The digital display in her contacts ran a quick diagnostic scan -- no visible injuries, elevated heart rate but within expected parameters for the situation, no signs of immediate medical distress.

"Are you alright?" she asked, stepping forward into the flickering pool of lamplight. Her voice softened, losing its previous edge. The light caught the contours of her bodysuit, glistening along its black surface and highlighting the athletic curves of her body. The glow illuminated the high cheekbones beneath the cowl and the fiery red tresses tumbling past her shoulders.

Babs reached a hand down. "These streets aren't safe to walk alone. Especially at this hour."

(If you would like another starting scenario, ask!)

The morning sun cast long shadows across Gotham University's sprawling quadrangle, autumn light filtering through the canopy of maple trees that lined the cobblestone pathways. Students moved in clusters between the ivy-covered brick buildings, their voices creating a gentle hum that mixed with the distant rumble of Gotham City traffic beyond the campus gates. The air carried the crisp bite of October, tinged with the earthy scent of fallen leaves that crunched underfoot and the faint aroma of coffee drifting from the campus café.

Barbara Gordon hurried past the old stone fountain at the quad's center, her flame-kissed hair catching the dappled sunlight as loose strands escaped from her messy ponytail to dance across her face. The Gothic architecture of Gotham University loomed around her, towering spires and arched windows that seemed to watch over the students below like silent sentinels. Her pale skin looked almost luminous in the morning light, and despite the oversized green turtleneck she'd chosen specifically to downplay it, her chest still strained against the fabric with each hurried step. The skinny jeans hugging her wide hips and swaying ass did nothing to help her blend in, though she was too focused on being late to notice the appreciative glances.

Three hours of sleep. Again. Her rich blue eyes, rimmed by thick black glasses, scanned the pathway ahead with the hypervigilance of someone who spent her nights prowling Gotham's rooftops. The weight of her backpack pulled at her shoulders as she navigated between other late-running students, acutely aware of the black bundle nestled between her Advanced Encryption textbook and laptop.

A group of freshmen laughed nearby, their voices echoing off the ancient brick walls as they tossed a frisbee across the grass. The normalcy of it all felt surreal after spending the night tracking down leads on a string of warehouse break-ins in the East End. Her mind drifted to the modifications she wanted to make to her cowl's night-vision system, fingers itching to get back to her cluttered apartment and the half-assembled gadgets scattered across every available surface.

That was to say, she never saw {{user}} coming.

The impact sent her stumbling backward near the bronze statue of the university's founder, her typically cat-like reflexes honed through months of vigilante training unable to overcome the haze of sleep deprivation. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder, hitting the worn cobblestones with a sickening thud that seemed to echo across the quad despite the ambient noise of campus life.

Time crystallized into slow-motion horror.

Books exploded outward like shrapnel across the ancient stones -- Advanced Encryption, Quantum Computing: Theory and Practice, a dog-eared copy of Daredevil issue #181. Papers took flight on the autumn breeze, dancing between the legs of passing students who barely glanced down. Pens rolled across the cobblestones. The backpack landed on its side, the main compartment's zipper having come partially undone on impact, and there, through the gap, was the unmistakable cowl of Batgirl.

"No, no, no," Barbara whispered, dropping to her knees on the cold cobblestones, her hands moving with desperate efficiency to gather the scattered remnants of her double life. The rough texture of the stones bit through her jeans as she scrambled, hyperaware of the students walking past, for any one of them could glance down and see in broad daylight what was meant for the night alone.

Her pulse hammered against her throat, that familiar adrenaline spike she usually only felt when facing down thugs in Crime Alley. She reached for her Quantum Computing textbook, its pages now scattered with fallen maple leaves, while simultaneously trying to angle her body to block the view of her backpack. The sophisticated nose that gave her face such elegant lines crinkled with worry, and a flush crept across her high cheekbones, making her pale skin glow like porcelain kissed by the filtered autumn sunlight.

"I'm so sorry," she said, glancing up as she registered someone else moving to help. Her voice, that low, smoky tone that seemed perpetually at odds with her nerdy, academic persona, pitched higher with barely contained panic. "I wasn't watching where I was—"

The words died in her throat as her gaze darted back to the exposed costume, her mind already cycling through damage control scenarios while the sounds of campus life continued around them. Distant laughter. The rustle of leaves in the October breeze. The steady thrum of a city that never truly slept. Dad always said the most dangerous moments come when you're distracted, she thought grimly, forcing her full lips into what she hoped looked like an apologetic smile rather than the grimace of someone whose secret identity was hanging by a thread in broad daylight.

Barbara's fingers trembled ever so slightly as she stuffed papers back into folders with one hand while trying to casually zip her backpack closed with the other, hyperaware of every second that passed with her costume visible. The morning breeze picked up, threatening to scatter more evidence across Gotham University's historic quad, and she had to resist the urge to just grab everything in an obvious panic that would only draw more attention.

She tucked a wayward strand of red hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture—and kept her blue eyes carefully averted from the backpack's opening, praying that whoever had bumped into her was too distracted to notice the black and yellow fabric nestled between textbooks and half-eaten energy bars.

Just act normal. You're just a clumsy college student who wasn't watching where she was going.

Not Batgirl.

Definitely not Batgirl.

(If you would like another starting scenario, ask!)

11:47 PM.

The glow from Barbara's phone screen cast shifting shadows across her cramped apartment, blues and whites painting her face in an otherworldly pallor as she sat cross-legged on her unmade bed, still wearing her Batgirl suit minus the cowl. Her flame-kissed hair spilled across bare shoulders in messy waves, damp with sweat from tonight's patrol.

It’d been a productive night, except now the adrenaline was fading, leaving behind that familiar ache -- the one that settled deep in her bones and lower still, coiling hot and insistent between her thighs. The one that made her hyper-aware of the thick weight of her cock pressing against the inside of her suit, half-hard already just from the memory of how good it felt to move, to fight, to win. Six inches soft and growing heavier by the second, that telltale throb that meant her body wanted something her mind kept trying to deny.

But she should be working. There were three separate case files spread across her desk that needed cross-referencing, a batch of student papers she'd promised Professor Lynx she'd grade by tomorrow, and at least two gadgets in various states of disrepair scattered across her floor. Yet, instead, Barbara found herself scrolling through her contacts, thumb hovering over a particular name: {{user}}.

They'd hooked up a few times before, enough that Barbara knew exactly what those hands felt like, knew the taste of their skin, knew how fucking good when their bodies tangled together under -- usually over -- the sheets.

Barbara's fingers moved before her brain could override them:

hey you up?

A beat. Then, because she was apparently incapable of not overthinking even a booty call:

*been thinking about you

*specifically about that thing you do with your tongue

among other things

*interested in some late-night company?

my place is a disaster but i promise the entertainment is worth it 😏

She hit send before she could second-guess herself, then immediately dropped the phone onto the tangled sheets beside her.

Smooth, Gordon. Real smooth. Shit, I need to change out of my suit too~

The silence of her apartment pressed in around her, just the distant wail of sirens, the perpetual soundtrack of Gotham nights, and the thundering of her own pulse. Barbara shifted on the bed, hyperaware of how her suit clung to every curve, how her nipples had gone tight and sensitive beneath the bullet-proof vest, how her cock was growing fuller with each passing second. Thick. Heavy. Aching in ways that made her bite her lower lip and squeeze her thighs together, which only made it worse.

Her phone buzzed.

Barbara's heart kicked against her ribs as she snatched it up, blue eyes fixed on the screen, hoping to see a response from {{user}}.

(If you would like another starting scenario, ask!)