lol where'd the smut go? Alright lets do it again! Remember that gifset you reblogged of Daryl passionately throwing his head back and pouring soda into his mouth? I bet that's also what he looks like when Carol is riding his face, her juices on his lips. One of his hands is holding tightly onto her hip, making sure she can't squirm away from his relentless tongue, while his other hand is pumping up and down his hard cock.¸.•*¨*✧♡✧
Smut Fairy, listen, I’m in this nice family friendly establishment known as Applebees, losing my shit right now. I can’t. I spit iced tea in my mom’s direction. Her shirt is done. She is glaring at me and I have this in my brain and I’m supposed to order my food with a straight face now. I can’t. I am fragile.
AN: This is the first chapter of a multi-chapter fic. Fair warning I’ve never written multi-chapter fic before (that wasn’t requested) also the main character is a gay trans man so if that makes you uncomfortable for whatever reason don’t read this. (It is a reader insert technically with Quinn used as like a nickname kinda situation)
it’s just like… interesting that after admitting to himself and to neil that neil is an ‘unattainable dream’ andrew proceeds to throw neil’s keys away. like maybe it was just andrew being petty or maybe it’s also bc he knew what holding neil’s keys meant
If your requests are open, would you write a fic where jay forgives bruce? Like maybe he has forgiven for a long time he just didn't say it out loud?? idk just forgiveness pls!!
Thank you for such a lovely prompt! This one was a lot of fun to write :)
His mouth tastes like ash and metal. His head feels like it’s full of water. Everything dips and swirls when he shifts to look to the side. A black and grey blob beside the bed (gurney?) is probably a person.
Someone in trouble.
Need to help-
Bruce is in trouble!
Jason tries to sit up but the movement becomes a groan as injuries - new and not-so-new - announce themselves with prejudice. His chest hurts. His left side is on fire. His head is fucking pounding. His hand is heavy, weighed down by a blur of white that is probably a cast, refusing to support him in his attempt to push himself upright.
“Woah, easy Jay.” The grey and black blob - Person. Concerned. Dick? - is suddenly leaning over him, hands pushing his shoulders back down into the mattress. “Stay still, you’re hurt.”
“No,” Jason mumbles, desperately struggling against the hands. “No, m'fine. Gotta go, hafta help. B-”
“B’s not here, Little Wing. You gotta stay calm-”
Stay fucking calm?! Bruce is gonna die. He has to save him.
Dick swears, call’s for someone, and a second later ice is spreading through Jason’s veins. He tries to blink away the encroaching fog but his eyelids are like lead. They close and refuse to open.
“Fuckin’ traitor…” he slurs. Then he’s unconscious again.
Jason was always an angry kid - an unfortunate trait he inherited from his father. Or maybe just learned behaviour. A hard outer shell; the best protection against the cruel injustice of the world.
(“Nothin’ wrong with bein’ a little soft, ya just can’t let ‘em see it.”)
Robin is an outlet for all the pent up aggression bubbling beneath his skin, but it’s also a source of anger. Little spats with B; burning rage every time a thug picks on a kid; irritation with the excess glamour of upper-class life.
But for all his anger, Jason had never been able to hold a grudge. When the Joker had killed him, he’d tried. He’d tried so fucking hard. Because god-fucking-dammit he’d died and did Bruce even care enough to avenge him?
(Spoiler alert: apparently fucking not.)
But the anger wears down, just like it always does. And Jason is left sitting on a gargoyle in the dead (hah) of night, hiding behind a helmet, wondering why it even matters. The more he thinks about it - and he hates thinking about it but he’s as masochistic as they come and if anyone’s going to make him suffer it’s going to be him - the more he realises B is beating himself up as much as the Joker beat up Robin. So what’s the point in making it worse? What’s the point in rubbing salt in a gaping wound?
(And it alarms him how easy the answer comes; no need for all that existential brooding crap Batman has so much fun with.)
Fucking pride. The downfall of all of them. (The Bats. The villains. The ordinary folk. The whole fucking lot.) It gets them into trouble and it stops them from saying they’re in trouble and it stops them from saying thanks when someone inevitably bails them out of trouble. It breeds regret.
Pride is an absolute bitch.
And Gotham is full of it.
Jason sighs and it seems like the wind sighs with him.
Coming to is like swimming through treacle. He’s aware of movement around him, muffled voices just out of reach, but he can’t make out any of it. His mind is slow and his body is even slower to respond. There’s a sense of urgency humming beneath his thoughts but it floats away every time he tries to bring it forward.
“Jason? You awake?”
He tries to say yes - he can hear the voice, he must be awake - but his tongue refuses to cooperate so he just groans instead. The voice is instantly worried.
“Are you in pain? Do you want me to get Alfred?”
Jason shakes his head. He peels his eyes open and manages to unstick his tongue enough to ask, “B?”
“No, it’s Tim.” He leans far enough over that Jason can see his face and a sudden rush of disappointment is followed almost immediately by a flood of panic.
“B?” he asks again, more urgently.
A crease appears between Tim’s eyebrows. But, for all his faults (and Jason has a list, because he’s an arsehole like that), the kid is a damn fine detective. “You want me to go get Bruce?” he asks - cautiously, because everyone knows thinks Jason hates Bruce.
Jason nods quickly. If Tim can go get him, Bruce must be okay. He must have got there in time. (But what if I hadn’t?) With one last wary glance over his shoulder, Tim leaves. Jason is left lying in peace - well, as peaceful as it can be when everything hurts and the oxygen cannula is irritating his nose and the beeping of the heart monitor never stops. (Thank god. But. Annoying.) He’s starting to doze off again by the time a nearly-silent shift of fabric announces a presence by the bed.
“B?” He feels like a broken record. Or maybe one of those singing exercises; every warbling question the same, just shifting between pitches. This time it’s high with hope.
A hand brushes his hair back, then Bruce’s rumbling tones assure him, “I’m here, Jay.”
“An’ you’re okay?”
There’s a soft sound that could have been a huff of laughter or choked off surprise. “Yes, Jason, I’m fine.”
“Mmm. Good.” Just hearing it, knowing for sure that Bruce isn’t dead, calms him, relaxes him enough to rest easily. But he couldn’t have been. “Meant t’ tell you,” he mumbles, forcing drooping eyes open to look at Bruce so he knows he’s serious.
Bruce’s thumb rubs a half-circle across the back of Jason’s hand. “Tell me what?”
“’S'not your fault.”
B frowns. “It’s nobody’s fault, Jay. Nobody except the people who set up the ambush.”
“No.” Exhaustion and pain medication are dragging him toward the darkness, but Jason fights against it with every last scrap of strength he has. His body refuses to cooperate as he fumbles for Bruce’s arm and he has to bite his lip to stop a frustrated whine from escaping. “B. Listen. ’S'not your fault. Don’ blame you. Can’t… can’ blame y'rself.”
“Okay,” Bruce agrees, leaning down to kiss Jason’s head. “It’s not my fault.”
But he still doesn’t get it. Doesn’t know what isn’t his fault. Because if he did it would never be this fricken easy. Jason is too mentally and physically tired to push it though. He closes his eyes, content with the knowledge that they can argue over it some more once he’s healed.
hold up. hold on. he’s got this. he’s so got this. he deserves your undivided attention. yosuke does his best to smooth down his hair and compose himself, right himself and stand like souji does. when he does open his mouth, it more or less sounds like a smooth radio talker impersonation.
“name’s souji seta, mr. steal your heart, mr. calm&cool, & the raddest shit to happen to inaba since farming. but you can call me Anytime.”
yosuke winks as he lightly flicks souji’s chin. &—-finger guns. perfect finish!
(This is so long omg, I'm going to have to send two parts.) Hm... Let's see... A kink I'm not sure other people have is one where the guy is so stuffed full of whatever offspring and doesn't know that he is. So he's just growing and growing and he can't function as normal because of how stuffed he is. The offspring is just so active and there's so many of them that he can barely walk or breathe correctly.
(Part 2) Nor sleep, it feels like they’re coming up through his mouth and it’s too much to even eat and his digestion is all fucked up because of it. So much that he ends up red faced and straining on the toilet, thinking that it’s a bowel movement but he ends up giving birth to eggs or live offspring without being able to stop. So yeah… Just me?
Ripley: Um CERTAINLY not just you, yo. Like… Dang. Whole reason for this blog right there. (Okay mayyyyyybe not as into the toilet part but only because I care WAY more about everything before birth than I do about labor. But still.)
I kinda miss the element of surprise with Dash sometimes, to be honest. Like he’s so used to it by now it’s hard to get that “holy shit what’s happening to me” vibe when you’re writing a character who’s gotten used to the preg life haha.