wow the coloring is even worse here

Now (Dick Grayson x Reader) SMUT**


Prompt?: Could you do a Dick Grayson (nightwing yum) smut with the prompt “I’m gonna be honest with you. I’m really horny, and you’re really hot. Can we fuck? Like, now?”

A/N: I have never actually written smut publicly before, so I’m sorry if this is bad. Hope you like it. :) **post writing** wow okay I’m actually proud of this for being my first real smut write. Ahhh! 

Key: (y/n) = your name | (f/c) = favorite color | (f/t) = favorite thing | (h/c) = hair 


Standing in a large ballroom was, to be honest, the last thing you wanted to do right now. It being a Wayne Enterprises party, made it worse. Your friend Tim from school had invited you and you hadn’t even seen him yet tonight, and you had been here for what seemed like hours. Now, in all honesty, you looked good, really good. You did your hair nicely and the material of your outfit of choice fit you well. Almost too well. You walked about making smalltalk, loosely holding a glass of champagne, constantly seeing people eye you up and down.

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So I was looking for distractions, and I found the first half of this, which I’d written for @viperbranium ages ago, when the I’m Dying Up Here *trailer* first came out, so this is some Evanstan loosely inspired by that; I added enough to give this bit a sense of closure, I think, so here you all go! As I recall, we had a much larger plot that we talked through, but I think we’re both awfully busy these days…


The new kid’ll be trouble.

Sebastian leans a shoulder against the wall. Holds a cigarette between fingers; doesn’t light it. Watches the kid leave the manager’s office: bright-eyed, ink-stained, brimming over with emotion. The kid probably still cries at Disney movies. Probably can sing along to every song.

The kid’s actually closer to Sebastian’s own age. He’s aware.

He blows hair out of his face. It feathers up and settles back down. Shadows lie along his back, content and easy. James Dean, he thinks. Young and reckless. It’s too early a reference, but what the hell.

The kid’s beaming. Sebastian, who knows all the comedy club’s gossip, knows his name. Christopher Robert Evans. Artist, or trying to be. Doing some poster design for their big-name shows. Doing some ads. The kid has neat short dark hair and sensitive Labrador-puppy eyes, and Sebastian’d watched him kneel down and give a dollar to a homeless man with a dog the day before, on the way in to his brief show-me-your-work-okay-you’re-hired-trial-basis interview. Sebastian’d nearly said something about street-dirt and the kid’s knees, but had decided not to bother.

He’s no one’s good Samaritan. No one’s hero.

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