#Cart writes

[whatacartouchebag]

“Lunch?”

“Are- are you... inviting me to-?”

“No, you idiot, it's Thursday.”

The record playing softly in the background scratched sharply to a stop, as did the rest of Aziraphale's thoughts.

“... wait, but it's...” he began in meek defence, gaze darting to his desk where a small calendar sat. It proudly proclaimed the date, and the angel could only stare at it in betrayal.

“Ah. So it is...” His gaze flitted across a couple of other trinkets and books and shelves and anything else he could find on the way back to briefly flash a smile of safety at the demon that hadn't moved so much as an inch.

“You forgot.”

~~~

A slightly belated birthday gift for one @renabe4life whomst I love and adore so very very much ♥ Also my first foray into writing these two, so please be gentle!

Reblogs and comments appreciated ♥

[whatacartouchebag]

This is why I love keeping this lil screenshot around for posterity:

That's the date of my earliest and oldest digitally recorded fic. I probably have some older journals kicking around somewhere with older stuff in them, but eh.

Is this particular fic good? Lmao no, absolutely not. But like @author-a-holmes mentions, there's still a lot of me in that document from when I was finding my writer's feet. I see world building; I see tangible plot wanting to pop out; I see some ideas that were perhaps too big for early teen me, but at some point were held onto and recycled for later use.

It also makes for a fun exercise to revisit stuff years later down the track to see if you can still capture that exact scene how it looks in your head, or hear that dialogue spoken in that precise fashion with that specific lilt and emphasis.

I just reada really good fic but halfway through I realized "oh shit this is really familiar.... didn't I write something like this once?" And as I kept reading I kept predicting what happened next and the further I went the more convinced I was that they'd ripped off my story-

like, copied the ENTIRE plot and re-written it, just better than I had? The characters were more fleshed-out than mine were, and the POV was more interesting, and the pace made more sense- but it was MY STORY?

So close to the end I was like "holy shit.. do I message them? Ask if my story inspired theirs? Should I be angry? Flattered?" Cause their tags and description didn't mention me AT ALL, which, sure, it's fanfiction to begin with, but if you're using my work than at least credit me as inspo, right? Just to be courteous?

But I get to the end of the final chapter, and it's not finished, and I'm kind of disappointed cause I never finished my story and I was really immersed in their version now and had been looking forwards to seeing how they tied up my loose ends- so I scroll to the bottom to leave a comment, and.

It's MY URL.

IT WAS MY STORY THE WHOLE TIME.

THE ONE *I WROTE*.

In *2013*.

And FORGOT ABOUT

BECAUSE I WAS SO INSECURE ABOUT MY SLOPPY, SHALLOW, AMETEUR WRITING

And I'm just sitting here now staring into space thinking about every shitty story I've ever written now like

IT WAS ALL GOOD?

IT WAS GOOD THIS WHOLE DAMN TIME??

I'M A GOOD WRITER?????

[heavenbarnes]

anyways, as i was saying about older bf!simon and his willingness to please learn

pt 2 to this

“you ever heard of a nut video with sound on?”

obviously, he hasn’t- far as he’s concerned, if you haven’t told him about it then it doesn’t exist to him.

no skin off your nose, you’d spend the rest of your life teaching him about the ‘latest trends’ if it meant he kept sending those filthy fucking videos to your phone.

(your favourites on tiktok were purely filled with ideas)

he’s holed up in a remote location, killing time till he can be home and actually do something to you rather than send you a bloody video about it.

your instructions come through clear and concise, just how he likes:

“it’s what’s written on the can, si- you can pick the setup but i just want to see you cum and, most importantly, i want to hear it”

you’re lucky simon is such a practical guy and maybe you could thank price one day for making him so good at following orders.

when he’s got his alone time he’s setting his phone up to record on the edge of the window sill, moonlight fighting through the curtain to illuminate him.

he’s lost the bulkiest of his gear, down to his tactical trousers and a compression t-shirt. the images in his tattoo sleeve almost move when the light catches them right.

balaclava on (the one that just shows his eyes above the painted image of a skull) and he’s standing up to undo his belt (that you think looks like an airplane seatbelt).

you can hear his boots against the floorboard as he steps back to give you the full view of him undoing his trousers, taking his sweet time because he knows it drives you fucking batty.

he’s so big that the phone is working overtime to get all of him in the frame but you see exactly what you need to- thick thighs at your eye line and massive hands drawing down his fly.

on (you assume) the other side of the globe, you’re at home in your shared bed and you’re propped up right in the middle with the smell of simon engulfing you as you watch the video play out before you.

(if you’d thought about it you should’ve cast it to the bedroom tv, hoping the neighbours didn’t mind)

simon sits back down with his legs spread wide, one hand gripping his thigh as the other rubs himself over his boxers. his eye contact with the camera was fucking intense, like you’d hoped, just like when he’s on top of you.

he’s dressed in all black and the moonlight is obscured but you can still see him firming up in his pants. his eyes flutter, an infinitesimal amount but you’ve been tuned into his every move since you met him.

your thumb leans hard on the volume up button and you can hear the diegetic sound of the building expanding and that usual technical hum that comes with a video. but at this pitch, you could hear him.

his breathing was chopped, chest expanding visibly as he pulled his cock out into clear view. jeeeeesus christ, it was never something you just got used to.

long, reasonably straight, fucking thick. even his hand struggled to make it look smaller as he wrapped around it, giving one dry tug.

as he closed his palm over the tip, you saw him make a swipe before he brought his hand back down considerably smoother than before. you’d had your hands down his pants enough times, man leaked like a fucking faucet.

simon’s head tipped back as he started to pull himself off, balaclava raising just enough to expose some of his throat. if you were there you would be perched in his lap, letting him do the work but running your tongue under the lip of the fabric.

one of the best things about the videos simon sent was, he didn’t really understand how sexy he was. he didn’t think any of the videos particularly watchable so he’d just send them on first take. if you liked them, you liked them- yours was the only opinion that mattered.

what that meant was, you never got b-roll. everything he sent you was unbridled perfection. captured exactly as it happens with no faffing about.

always whatever you’ve asked for, whenever you ask.

(simon’s nothing if not inexplicably obedient)

he brings his hand under his chin to spit into the wide span of his palm, wrapping back around his cock and tugging. his foreskin moved over the head, rolling back down and thick veins bulging under his grasp.

you’d almost forgotten the conditions of your request, totally fucking enamoured by the sight in front of you when it caught you off guard.

a guttural moan ripped out of simon’s chest as he twisted his wrist.

his free hand moved to cup his balls, big and heavy, he rolled them in his palm as another groan sounded out of him. what you wouldn’t give to be knelt between his thighs with the whole lot in your mouth.

you knew how much of an ask this was, you really had to work him up to making noise when it was just you two in bed. these days? you couldn’t shut the man up when he was balls deep and his face was buried in the crook of your neck.

but this was another step, this was him on his own with his crew just through the walls. he’d be a plain liar if he said there wasn’t that rumbling trepidation in his chest. he’d put it to bed though.

all he had to think of was you, one hand gripping your phone and the other between your thighs as you watched him through with a hazy smile- that kept him going.

with the thought still heavy on his mind, you didn’t have to strain to hear your name drift off his lips. his hips bucked into his hand as he did, speeding up the motion of his strokes.

you were going to black out, his tattoos flexing and his chest expanding with every stuttered breath. simon looked like a god among men and he fucking sounded like one too.

“fuck, sweetheart- you’re so fucking filthy giving me orders like this”

your cheeks were burning, he wasn’t wrong but you weren’t expecting him to call you out quite like this.

“what does that make me? always so fucking eager to do what you say? make a dirty old man, yeah?”

wheeeeeew that’ll do it, your thighs snapped together around your hand as your eyes nearly rolled back in your head. whenever you thought you couldn’t take any more, he was always there to do you one better.

“only for you, pet- you can always get whatever you fucking want from me”

and you knew he was serious, that’s what made it all the more debilitating. simon was unshakeable, you’d seen him go out of his way to defy orders if he didn’t think the person worth his time.

when it came to you? you could tell him to kill and he would.

(he probably had)

simon’s hips were twitching, back arching in a way he’d rather die than have anyone else know about. his mouth was hanging open beneath the balaclava, your name and a string of expletives falling off his tongue.

so quick you nearly missed it, the hand that was cradling his balls moved to grip the fabric of his shirt and push it up his toned front. you couldn’t call his abs cut and defined, there was aged layer to them, but they were undeniably there.

you’d rested your head on them, pressed your palms against them, even ridden them enough times to know they were there. regardless, he looked fucking perfect under the moon glow as he stroked himself hard and long.

eyes locked onto the camera, broken moans on his lips, you saw his hips lift one last time as thick spurts of cum began to paint his stomach and chest.

scars illuminated under the night sky, mirrored by shiny patches of hot cum splattered across the same stretch of skin. the hairs on his chest were matted with sweat and were now being splashed with how far he was shooting.

you could only watch with your mouth hung open as he tugged himself through his orgasm. soon it was only the sound of his laboured breathing, chest rising and falling as he tucked his soft cock back into his pants.

just when you thought that was it, you found one of his hands lifting up the edge of his balaclava till his lips were exposed. two fingers of his other hand swiped up some of his spend before he lay them on his tongue.

knuckles in your mouth, biting down to suppress a scream, simon readjusted his clothes as he stood and took a heavy step towards the camera.

one hand braced on the window sill, the other gently gripping himself through his trousers- his voice was so fucking gravely it could’ve reverberated round your room.

“what’s next sweet’art? you name it, it’s yours”

[keys-hellscape-1020]

Sharing a Blunt with them

A/N: I honestly feel like out of all of them Tim would be the only one to smoke butttt this is fiction and I do what I want so I hope you all enjoy. Also I went to my first ever county fair today and I got licked by a cow. I can die happy now.

Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader

Content warnings: Weed, descriptions of getting high, Jason’s and Tim’s get smutty (my bad), oral sex (but it’s not detailed)

————

Dick Grayson

So this man would only get high if he’d been with you for a while. At first he out right refused to do anything with you, which you had respected. Over time however he sees how it affects you and he gets… curious.

It’s a lazy Saturday evening, Dick had gotten some of his many siblings to cover his patrol for him so he could take the night off with you. He’s watching you roll a blunt when he speaks so softly you can barely hear him.

“Could I try it?” He asks softly, watching the way you roll the paper with practiced precision.

You blank for a moment, stopping your movements as you glance up at him. When you’d first gotten together he’d been adamantly against doing it, and yet here he was… asking for a hit.

“Sure.” You say softly as you finish rolling it. You reach for a lighter and let the flame lick against the end of the blunt. You take a small hit and exhale into the air above you before passing the blunt to Dick.

“You ever hit anything before?” Dick shakes his head dumbly, like all thought had left his brain just from thinking of getting high.

“Alright.” You say as you gently guide his hand, and thus the blunt, towards his mouth. “Just suck on it like a straw for a half second, and then take a deep breath in.”

He hesitates a moment, looking at you for confirmation. When he gets it in the form of a gentle nod from you he follows your instructions and inhales carefully.

You wait a moment before pulling his wrist back, not wanting him to get to high right off the bat. You watch as he exhaled shakily, hesitating a moment before keeling over in a coughing fit. “Shit, sorry baby I forgot to warn you about the coughing.” You exclaim, rubbing his back gently in an attempt to soothe him. “You’ll be okay. Just breathe through it babe. Just breathe.”

It takes a few moments but he does stop coughing, and when he sits up he has a slightly glassy look in his eyes. “Holy shit.” He mummers. “I didn’t think that’d do anything.”

You can’t help but laugh gently as you take another hit, still gently rubbing his shoulder. “You okay baby?” You ask as you exhale, smoke billowing out of your mouth as you speak.

He nods, gazing upon you in what seems to be awe. “I uh- I really didn’t think that’d do anything.” He repeats and he leans forward to rest his forehead against your shoulder. You run your fingers through his hair as you finish off the rest of the blunt, Dick sitting still against your side.

As you finish off the blunt and toss the end into a nearby ash tray you carefully refocus your attention on the pile of vigilante that’s glued to your side. “You sure you’re okay baby?” You ask carefully, getting a half awake nod in response.

In the future when Dick gets high with you it goes much the same, he takes one, maybe two hits and he is out for the count. He gets clingy and touchy while high, not capable of doing much outside of craving skin contact and rambling about how pretty you are. Give him some water and don’t leave him alone until he’s more or less sober again and he’ll be just fine.

Overall, as long as you know what you’re doing, 7/10 to share a blunt with.

————

Jason Todd

This man has gotten high before, but he only does it once in a blue moon when he’s really stressed and his options for stress relief are either getting high or brutally killing someone. He knows it’s not healthy, but that’s never stopped him before. And besides, he still feels it’s better than the alternative.

I feel like the first time you get high with him would be on a stormy night, you’re lounging in bed in one of Jay’s T-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. You’re on your phone, waiting until your common sense kicks in and tells you to put it down and go to sleep.

You’re lazily scrolling when you jump out of bed due to the sounds of crashing, stomping, and cursing coming from your living room. You carefully creep down your dimly let hallway, the baseball bat you keep under your bed gripped tightly in your hands.

You visibly relax at the sight of Jason in your living room, Red Hood helmet thrown on the floor and fiddling with something in his hands.

“You’re back early.” You say softly, resting your baseball bat against the wall as you walk behind him, resting your hands on his leather-clad shoulders.

He makes a vague grunt of acknowledgment at you and you peer over his shoulder to see what he’s doing. You stare in shock when you see him rolling a blunt.

“Uh, you gonna smoke that Jay?” You ask blankly, your grip on his shoulders loose in shock.

“Well I’m not messing with this shitty paper for fun.” He grunts quietly, laser focused on what his hands were doing.

You hop over the back of the couch to land next to him, resting your head on his shoulder as you watch him finish rolling the blunt, light it, and take a long drag. He exhales deeply before offering it to you.

You take the blunt and take a drag before passing it back to him. “Didn’t know you smoked Jay.” You mumble, pressing yourself against his side. He responds by leaning against the back of the couch with a groan, wrapping his arm around your shoulder while man-spreading shamelessly.

“Not normally.” He explains as he takes another hit. “But people were being fucking stupid today.” As he speaks his arm tightens around you slightly

You let out a hum of acknowledgment as he hands you the blunt, taking another hit as you look him up and down thoughtfully. “I could help take your mind off that.” You comment, already moving to lower yourself between his meaty thighs.

If this man is getting high, you know he’s very stressed. Give him some sloppy head and let him rut into you tiredly to help take his mind off it.

Overall 8/10 to get high with.

————

Tim Drake

Now this man is a whole different story, this man gets high at least 3 times a week. He comes home from a hard patrol? He’s pulling out a cart and taking a blinker before researching his latest case (he’s a firm believer he does his best work while blasted).

You want to spend a night in and get high? Sign him the fuck up. He’s not really a fan of blunts, he says they’re too much work, but he only gets the best of the best quality carts.

He’s fun to get high with too, he’ll lay across your lap, eyes tinged red as he takes another hit and coughs out a laugh before going on a rant about moth man and how he’s about 47% certain that’s he’s real. Say anything that vaguely sounds like a contradiction and he’ll launch into a rant about how you’re supposed to be on his side (all the while practically trying to bury himself in your skin).

Oh and you’ll be in for a long night if you get clingy while high. You lightly run your finger tips over his hip bone, trace a finger nail over the muscle of his arm, practically anything, and the next thing you know you’re on your back, your pants are nowhere to be seen, and you’re getting head so good you’re seeing stars. Tim normally has something to prove, Tim while high sees nothing wrong with showing you just why he’s the best. And if you can barely walk tomorrow? Well that’s just an added bonus.

You should definitely get high with Tim if given the chance, he’s bound to make you laugh and otherwise enjoy yourself. But whatever you do, make sure you have no plans tomorrow morning.

Overall 10/10, hope you don’t like walking cause you won’t be doing much of it.

[bruciemilf]

Thinking long and hard about a “Bakugou’s always been Izuku’s sugar daddy and he just never noticed” situation.

You best believe he put together the most agressive lemonade stand to ever exist at 5. That ‘buy this or die” sign in angry red crayon was awfully motivating.

“Really, Kacchan?! Can I really have it?!” About the frankly hideous All Might sweater he’s been wanting for months.

“What kinda dumbass question is that?! You know you can have whatever you want when I’m around!”

He does grumble when Izuku kisses his cheek, but that’s just to hide the red on his face.

Then he’s 13. And everything about him is meaner, louder, colder.

“Come on, nerd, break’s almost over!”

“Sorry, Kacchan, I think there’s something wrong with the vending machine.”

Izuku does that thing with his tongue, running it over his bottom lip when he’s deep in focus.

“Tch. Move.”

He pays for him, and he has to ask him what he wants 4 times before he finally snaps because God forbid Deku would make this easy for him.

And Izuku wants to pull him down, and they both know for what. Bakugou speed walks out of there because he’s not worthy anymore.

Then he’s 18. his anger doesn’t mellow, but it softens. His feelings gain more clarity, more acceptance, waking from deep, buzzing sleep .

Izuku clings on him like a damn bunny spider, trying to wrestle the card out of his hand,

“Kacchan, please, I can pay for it!”

“Damn nerd. When I’m around you don’t have to.”

He successfully pays, and consequently he wins. Izuku can pout all he wants, but Bakugou’s still gonna smirk like a damn hound in a henhouse.

“Thank you, Kacchan, I really love it,” Izuku smiles at the damn Dynamight plushie. They never get his glare right.

He looks good when he’s happy.

“Hey, nerd.”

Bakugou taps his cheek with his finger, face blooming red and gaze avoidant. Izuku giggles at him and pulls him down to kiss his cheek.

It’s worth it.

[whatacartouchebag]

This is honestly the most heartbreaking part about writing anything in these last few years. This perspective shift of becoming little more than a content creator that does nothing but churn out words to be consumed, when there used to be such a vibrant community of people talking, enjoying, excited to read what else was going to happen, theorising about it, but most of all, providing that kind of feedback to the author.

Any writer loves talking about their work. Whether that be what inspired it, any fun research facts along the way, what it took to get into a character’s head. There’s always a whole host of things we’re bursting to talk about because we love getting to share what we’ve written!

But the big shift we’ve had to get used to is absolutely pouring ourselves into what we create, only to be met with an absolute void of response, and it hurts like you wouldn’t believe.

We’re not asking for the earth.

We simply want to know you’re out there.

NGL, this shit is fucking frustrating as hell.

8 comment threads by a total of 4 different people. After 4 chapters posted! That means on average one person per chapter decided to leave a comment, even if some kind souls left several.

53 people liked it enough to want to keep reading. 4 of them decided to comment. And that's assuming none of those 4 people is subscribed to me as a writer or to the series or not subscribed at all.

Please, I'm begging you. Bring commenting back. We do this shit for free out of sheer love for the characters and their stories and you get to enjoy the results. Please make a habit of leaving comments on fics. I promise it's not that difficult once you've gotten used to it.

Let your fic writers know their work is appreciated, at least a little. Or at some point they will stop doing it.

[cowabummers]

Are you just gonna sit there and let him die??1? Enter your SSN in the notes below!

[bluenightfm]

moshang are so special to me bc it's basically mutual pining with miscommunication from the get-go. they both kept secrets from one another, qinghua literally thinking he knew his fate to die unrequitedly in love with and at the hands of mobei-jun, and mobei-jun holding how nauseatingly in love he was with his qinghua. how can you be vulnerable enough to let someone in if you're keeping these huge secrets from one another?

not to even begin to mention mr. hack author's apparent ability to forget every single plot point relating to demon courting rituals because even though he was the one that wrote that demons show affection through violence. bitch cowered in fear of his king for YEARS and didn't think that cultural clash might be the reason they haven't frotted even though they've been doing a psychosexual power play for going on ten years .

like yes airplane mobei-jun wants to fuck freaky style and he thought punching the daylights out of you would be the best way to relay the message but obviously he was incorrect. these two men are some of the brightest minds in PIDW but when it comes to each other they become total fucking airheads. why did you two virgin losers think shoving mobei-jun's monster pillar in qinghua with no lube no stretching would be a good idea? rocks for brains

[itsawritblr]

Opening the folder with all my WIPs.

[whatacartouchebag]

Hey do us all a favour and keep this kind of comment style out of our works.

It's hard enough nowadays to even get any sort of comments from readers, and if they're something like this? It's incredibly discouraging to the point of making us not want to continue doing it.

As a reader, you are getting a piece that someone has poured a little bit of their soul into. Has worked utterly hard to try and complete, on top of getting through daily life. Work, school, other commitments, burnout, grief, gods knows what else might be going on in someone's life. But we still work hard on the stories we create because we love and care for the characters and the situations we've made with them. We want to share this with people in the hope that they enjoy it too.

Don't fucking spit on us like this.

Until you learn to reign in the "well, actually" mentality, stay the hell away from our works.

When did AO3 turn into FFN?

[vintagehomecollection]

Andree Putnam's Art Deco writing desk and its companion pieces are inlaid with ivory. The lemon cream walls reflects and warms the available light, while the open room arrangement and spare placement of furniture enhance the airy feeling and create a sculptural environment.

Rooms by Design, 1989

[whatacartouchebag]

So holy shit, just had a commenter apologise for getting excited and commenting on a bunch of my fics, thinking they were being annoying for doing it on works that were so old.

My dude, the oldest one was posted just over a YEAR ago.

Like christ on a cracker, wrapping my head around this mentality genuinely hurts. I still get the fleeting, odd comment on stuff that I posted to an FF.net account I abandoned in 2008. I'm still posting stuff to the same fandom that this commenter is reading fics from! I literally posted something within the last month!

I get that the consumerism of fanworks has taken over fandom spaces entirely. I get it, but fuck me if I detest it dearly. If something's not sitting on the front page of a tag, it's just considered dead, and I hate it.

Not to be all old man yells at cloud, but the way being a part of any sort of fandom space means playing a number game from hell these days is honestly the worst feeling. We're not in it for the numbers! We never were! The numbers are the smallest pip of serotonin on our radar compared to actual feedback and comments.

When this person first came into my inbox, and I saw a string of four of five email notifs come in to say I'd received a new comment, my dudes, I CRIED. Teared up like a bitch, because that's something that's so rare and beautiful and I've never seen it happen before. I honestly felt so blessed and warm and fuzzy. The fact this person took the time out of their day to read it and tell me the parts they liked, tell me they passed a couple of these fics onto others, just tell me a solemn thank you for writing what I do...

THAT'S WHAT I WRITE FOR.

No, I don't crave praise. No, it doesn't fill my ego.

It's about putting something out there into the void and hearing an echo finally. It's about standing up on stage and waiting for someone in the audience to make any sort of response other than cough and shuffle out the door. It's about knowing we've hit some sort of emotional response in our readers, because that's the ONLY way we know what we're doing is working. It's the ONLY way we know how to improve.

It just... it makes me so sad to know that we're only ever seen as products these days, not people. I love creating. I love being able to write, but it just hurts so much when it feels like no one else out there cares, you know?

Because that's what fandom culture is these days.

It honestly feels like no one cares, and fans are actively apologising for existing.

Like what the fuck went wrong along the way to nurture this mentality and how do we surgically remove it with a chainsaw.

[l3viat8an]

Nsfw content MDNI (repost)

Being bent over Levi's gaming desk, his hands holding your hips still as he matches his thrusts with the music.

Little moans "n whines leaving your lips whenever he speeds up or slows down accordingly, “Heh~ I- hah- I thought you said this was a dumb game? Looks like you're enjoying it now~”

[aweslasharc]

[zarvasace]

Some silly sketch comic stuff, bits of a mermaid au story. The last two are a sequence that ends in this art from earlier. :)

[trashytummies]

Swallowed Pride (DC vore fic)

a/n: have a protective Nightwing ft. unwilling Jason prey vore fic. lil batfamily vibsey <3. oh and jason also has some not fun memories of dying. I adore vore fics with swapping perspectives so I'm sorry if this is confusing ;_; word count: ~4100?

_____

Jason groaned, a low rasp slipping out of his throat. His surroundings pulsed with a damp, oppressive heat that clawed at his skin, slicking his gloves and making it almost impossible to catch his breath. His ribs ached, and every inch of him felt trapped in this unrelenting, humid vise. He tried to shift, to get his back against something solid, but every motion was swallowed up, met with a suffocating resistance.

"Alright," he muttered, voice hoarse. “This is… new.”

The taste in the air was wrong. A grimace twisted his face as he tried to shift, finding no space to move, wedged between layers of damp, fleshy walls. Not rock. Not exactly wet stone, either. Just too soft. Too warm.

Not rubble. Nothing jagged. Smooth. 

The sound of his own breathing grew louder, rasping in and out as he tried to twist himself free. But all he managed was to slide further down this bizarre chute. A flicker of panic flashed across his mind, sharp and unwelcome. It tugged at something buried deep, something he didn’t let himself think about, ever. But it was there now; the sensation of heat, tightness, the press of earth and smoke. Like that day. Like-- 

No. Nope, he wasn’t doing that. Not thinking about that, not now.

His mind buzzed, digging through memories. He’d been with the team; Red, Nightwing, and yeah, of course, Bats. The mission had gotten a little out of hand; Tim needed backup, and -- then what? Everything between then and now was a haze. A big, dripping, burning haze.

Jason tried to focus, replaying the moments just before; the alley, then that abandoned office building, and then… nothing. And now this cave-like, sweltering pit. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, smearing against his mask as he twisted, trying to plant his knees against something solid. Every breath felt like he was sucking down steam, heat pressing on him from every angle.

"Okay, Todd. Get it together. Think.” He glanced around --or tried to, anyway, but there was no way to tell which way was up or down. Just that same smooth, slimy pressure squeezing in on all sides, his own breaths coming back hot against his face.

“Hey, anyone out there?” he called, the words half-lost in the wet slap of whatever lined this... place. But all he got was a soft, rhythmic groan surrounding him, almost like a heartbeat, steady and smothering.

Another wave of pressure tightened around him, shoving him further into the suffocating darkness. His heart pounded, thoughts scattering like shrapnel, sharp and fast. Buried alive. That sick, clawing sensation washed over him, dredging up memories he had no intention of revisiting. Explosions. Dirt pressing in on him, the weight of concrete and metal trapping him, his own voice screaming for help, and--

No. Not now.

He gritted his teeth, frustration biting deep. “Red? Wing? I swear, if you two left me in a sewer pipe or something...” He twisted his head, grumbling to himself, but everything came out muffled, absorbed by this pulsing, humid space.

_________________________

Rewind 

Rewind

Rewind

The scene swirled back into focus, through the last thirty chaotic minutes that landed on the exact moment Dick realized something was really wrong.

Jason was supposed to be covering the south side, running point with Tim across the courtyard. But when Dick looked back after clearing a corner, he’d caught sight of Jason crumpling, mid-swing, into the pavement. Jason wasn’t just down; he was tiny. Like, two inches max, knocked out cold, and sprawled out on the ground.

Dick’s jaw had practically hit the rooftop. “Holy shit,” he hissed, blinking hard like maybe he’d just taken a hit to the head himself.

Nope.

That was definitely Jason, definitely bite-sized, and lying defenseless in the middle of Gotham’s grimiest alley. He barely had time to process it, and he was not about to leave Jason sitting in the gutter like some abandoned Happy Meal toy.

Okay, Grayson. Think.

He glanced down at his suit, mentally running through every hidden pocket and compartment. Utility belt? No way -- too much jostling. The pocket lining would probably suffocate the guy, or worse, turn him into shrunken pulp if Dick took a hit. Same with any of his stash spots. Then the next best thought crossed his mind -- and immediately died a fiery death.

But hell, with the goons doubling back, any hesitation could leave Jason vulnerable, or worse. He had seconds to act.

So he did something that, in his defense, seemed like the only solution in the moment.

One quick breath, and he scooped Jason up, tipping him carefully onto his tongue. Jason’s tiny body felt solid, almost surprisingly weighty, considering his new size. Dick hesitated, the reality of this insane decision finally hitting home. He closed his eyes, steeling himself, and with the gentlest nudge, he swallowed.

It was, well, uncomfortable didn’t even start to cover it. Jason slipped down in a slow, thick slide, an odd pressure that made Dick grit his teeth. Each inch felt painfully deliberate, his throat constricting around Jason’s shape until he finally, mercifully, settled in place. Dick coughed, trying to compose himself just in time to hear Tim's footsteps against the concrete as he caught up.

“Dick!” Tim called, eyes scanning him over, then narrowing. “What the hell was that?”

Dick barely managed to suppress another cough, swallowing hard. “What was what?” he choked out, voice barely steady.

Tim’s brow arched, skeptical, like he’d seen through every bullshit excuse Dick had ever tried in his entire life. “I saw you cough up a lung. And you’re still flushed. Look, if you’ve got something going on with your suit tech or whatever--”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Dick cut in, waving it off, trying to play up his usual charm. He gave Tim a reassuring, if slightly strained, grin. “Just--went down the wrong pipe. Happens to the best of us, right?”

Tim looked at him for a long second, head tilted, the gears clearly turning. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” Dick cleared his throat one more time for emphasis. “Trust me, if I had something important to tell you, I’d tell you. Now, can we focus? There’s still three of them left.” He jerked his thumb toward the next building. “I’ll take the high ground. You flush them out?”

Tim still looked at him sideways, but he gave a reluctant nod, his gaze flicking down to Dick’s throat once more before turning back to the mission. “Fine, but if you pass out mid-jump or whatever, I’m telling Babs.”

Dick barely restrained a wince, waving Tim off as he darted toward the next alleyway. One hour, tops, he told himself. Just get the job done, clear out the area, and get Jason out safely before he has a chance to do more than mumble a few pissed-off words.

“Hang tight, Jaybird,” he muttered under his breath.

_______________________

The tight, slick walls squeezed in around him, pressing at his shoulders and ribs, forcing him to push forward just to breathe. Every inch he gained seemed to make it worse --the stifling heat, the reek of rot, like old food left out too long. Jason sucked in a shallow breath, trying to steady himself, only for the sour stench to claw at his throat. He grimaced.

"Great," he muttered, voice muffled and weak in the humid dark. "I get to suffocate and smell like someone’s garbage disposal. Just my luck."

He shoved forward, the cramped space finally loosening just enough for him to wriggle through, half crawling, half dragged along by whatever was coating these walls. He pushed his hands out and found --thank god-- something resembling open space. Not by much, but he could almost stretch out his arms, which had to count for something.

Except it didn’t. If anything, it was somehow worse in here.

The stench punched him square in the gut, stomach-churning in a way that brought back memories he’d worked pretty damn hard to bury. The heat. The way it pressed down on him, cloying, sticky, unyielding. The dark was so thick it was like he could feel it pressing in on his skin. Too close to those old memories. Too close to the kind of helpless that made his chest feel like it might cave in.

Jason let out a low, shaky breath, pressing his palm to the wall for some semblance of stability. "Come on, Todd. Focus. Think." He closed his eyes and let his mind drift back to training, his instincts settling in. What the hell even is this place? The entire thing was soft, slick, like… flesh.

“Okay, no, that’s insane. I’m not…” He swallowed, panic prickling at the edges of his mind. But the clues pieced together too neatly, each one sliding in like a puzzle he didn’t want to solve. The walls, the cramped squeeze, the pulsing, muffled beat that droned around him like a heartbeat. His mind filled in the blanks faster than he wanted, and all at once, the truth slammed into him, cold and hard.

I’m in a stomach.

A stomach. A literal fucking stomach.

The idea hit him with a nauseating kind of clarity that almost made him laugh. He’d been trained by the world’s greatest detective, could read Gotham’s dirtbags better than most, and now he was trapped here, in someone’s gut, like the punchline to a twisted joke he never asked for.

He blinked, swallowing down a rush of bile. “So that’s it, huh?” he rasped, pressing his back to the fleshy wall, the whole setup feeling like some cruel rerun of a life he’d already lived. “I got blown up once. Came back, just to get tossed down the gullet. Nice. Really nice, universe. I appreciate it.”

The walls around him pulsed again, contracting in a slow, smothering rhythm, dragging his thoughts to that dark corner of his mind he tried to keep locked away. Buried alive. Alone. Left for dead. Panic tried clawing its way up his throat, but he shoved it down, clenching his fists until his gloves squeaked against the slick wall. Not like this.

No way he was letting some freak’s digestive tract do him in.

________________________________

Dick ducked under a swinging fist, pivoting out of the way with practiced ease. But the moment he twisted, a sudden sharp scratch clawed up from the pit of his stomach. He doubled over, a hand instinctively pressing against his abdomen, muttering under his breath.

“Oh, so you’re awake,” he grunted, voice low enough to avoid Tim’s ears but sharp enough to keep his irritation real. “And apparently pissed off.”

Jason gave another few furious kicks --or punches, maybe a full-body tantrum-- against the walls of Dick’s stomach, which only made him wince harder. Man, this is… Well, it was something. Distracting as hell, actually, when he was in the middle of a brawl with some of Gotham’s least creative henchmen.

Tim’s eyes zeroed in on him, skeptical, a hard squint as he landed a punch and sidled up. “Uh, you good? ‘Cause you’re making faces like you just ate bad sushi.”

“Yeah, yeah, just a little… stomach thing,” Dick managed, breath catching as Jason squirmed again. He leaned into his strikes, using the motion to cover a particularly sharp jab coming from inside.

Tim just kept staring, a brow arching. “In the middle of a fight? You’re usually more… I dunno. Here.”

“I am here,” Dick muttered through clenched teeth, grabbing the last thug by the collar and slamming him into the nearest wall. Jason gave one last pointed kick that nearly knocked the wind out of him, and he couldn’t help it -- his hand went to his stomach again. He tried to school his face, look normal, like he wasn’t dealing with a very angry, very miniature Jason Todd wreaking havoc from within.

The final goon dropped, and before Dick could so much as take a breath, Tim was right there, narrowing his eyes in that too-perceptive way he always did when he suspected something was up.

“Alright,” Tim said, crossing his arms, his usual calm replaced with the full-blown Red Robin glare. “Mind telling me what’s going on with you tonight? I’m standing there, fighting for my life, and you’re out here rubbing your stomach like you’re at a bad buffet.” He tilted his head, lowering his voice. “And where the hell is Jason? He just up and left us? Doesn’t strike me as his style.”

Dick stifled the urge to cough again, glancing away to avoid Tim’s piercing gaze. Damn it, he’s good at this. “Maybe he had somewhere else to be,” he said, attempting casual. “You know how he is. Doesn’t tell us everything.”

Tim’s eyebrow crept higher, skepticism practically radiating off him. “He doesn’t tell Bruce everything, but he doesn’t just disappear mid-mission with no heads-up. I get he’s Jason, but this is Gotham. And you’re… weirdly calm about it.”

Dick forced a quick shrug, looking anywhere but Tim’s face. “Maybe I just trust him to handle himself.” He winced as Jason scratched at him again, pressing his hand to his side as subtly as he could. “Ow-- I mean, what? You know, he’s--he’s Jason.”

Tim folded his arms tighter, a smirk quirking at his lips. “And you’re stammering like you’ve got a guilty conscience. What gives?”

Dick could feel his cover slipping fast, and he knew he’d have to come up with something, and soon. For now, he just put on his best carefree grin, hoping it was enough to get Tim to lay off.

_______________________________

The reality of his situation settled in slowly, like the world's worst punchline unfurling in slow motion. Inside a stomach. He could practically feel the bile rising. Yeah, Jason Todd had been through his share of nightmares, but this was a new low even for him. Of all the places to wind up, he’d somehow managed to get himself swallowed. Just phenomenal.

"Just where I always wanted to end up," he muttered to himself, voice barely a whisper against the damp walls pressing around him. "A one-way ticket back to near-death, and for what? One more brush with the great beyond? Because dying was just such a blast the first time.”

He took a breath, trying to steady himself against the rippling walls, feeling the clench and pull of the gut as it tried to drag him deeper. He stifled a gag, the acrid stench of half-digested food coating every breath he took. Focus, Todd. Don’t think about the smell. Or the rotting mush sliding under his feet. Or that disgusting, rhythmic gurgle echoing in his ears like a twisted lullaby.

Alright, let's see if he could at least figure out who this idiot was. He couldn’t tell much by sound -- the voice was muted, a low vibration rumbling around him like he was underwater, though he could at least pick out a male inflection. But he couldn’t just be in some random guy’s gut, right? There was someone out there with a reason to swallow the Red Hood, and… actually, nope. Scratch that. He couldn’t think of a single person willing or twisted enough to get him into this mess.

Well, almost no one.

The last thing he remembered was dealing with Clayface’s thugs, swinging punches alongside Nightwing and Red Robin. He’d been right there with them, taking out the stragglers and rounding up the goons. And then… well, then things got fuzzy. Had he been teleported? Knocked out? Honestly, being devoured alive was just insane enough to be one of Joker’s sick stunts, but no—it didn’t feel… Joker-y enough. Even he’d probably keep Jason alive just to laugh in his face.

Jason sucked in another breath, fighting the nausea clawing up his throat. “So, let’s recap,” he mumbled, digging his nails into the slippery wall. “Stuck in a guy’s gut, no memory of how I got here, no idea who the hell ate me, and oh--right. I’m literally going to die in here. Just peachy.”

The stomach lurched suddenly, sending him sliding down, only to be shoved back up again by another ripple of muscle. He grimaced, trying to brace himself. And then, through the muffled tones and the heavy, distorted beat of the stomach around him, he caught something he’d recognize anywhere--a voice. And not just any voice, that same light, upbeat cadence that he’d heard a million times, the one that used to ring in his ears with the kind of brightness that could only belong to one person.

“No way,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing in the darkness as the realization hit him like a sucker punch. It couldn’t be. He’d never be stupid enough to do something like this. But the voice, the stupid cadence, and the sheer insanity of it all were enough to make it click. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Nightwing. Dick freaking Grayson.

Jason clenched his fists, the weight of his current humiliation settling like lead in his stomach. “Of all the stupid, reckless--” he muttered, barely able to believe it. Out of every sadistic nutcase in Gotham, he’d somehow ended up inside Dick. If it weren’t happening to him right now, he’d actually laugh.

Great. Just great. Buried, literally, in the “Golden Boy.” There was something sickeningly poetic about it, and he almost hated how much it fit. The guy he’d spent years trying to measure up to, fighting to be worthy of the role, who he’d half-convinced himself Bruce could never replace. And now here he was, trapped in the one guy he’d always felt himself shadowed by. Life had a real sense of humor sometimes.

“Grayson,” he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest to keep himself from dry-heaving, “you better pray I don’t get out of here.”

Because the dark, cramped, disgustingly hot pit was a nightmare Jason wouldn’t wish on his worst enemy. The fact that it was Dick’s stomach? Oh, that just made it all the worse.

Jason shifted, grimacing as his fingers slid against the slick, half-digested remnants of… falafel? He gagged, pressing his hands against the walls as best as he could to brace himself, feeling another wave of that foul, acidic slosh roll over his boots.

“This is the absolute last time I team up with Grayson,” he muttered, gritting his teeth as he shoved his way up, the sour smell sticking to him, burning his throat with every breath. “And when I get out of here, I swear to god, I’m gonna make him regret every single inch of it.”

Of course, it couldn’t be anyone else’s stomach, right? Oh no. This whole thing was practically a sick joke. Here he was, stuck inside the guy he’d spent years trying to compete with, the guy who --whether Jason wanted to admit it or not-- always seemed to have it together. Meanwhile, Jason Todd was three inches tall, covered in stomach acid, and stuck in Grayson’s gut. Story of his life.

Just then, he felt a jolt, followed by a shift that had him sliding, face-first, right back into the half-digested slush at the bottom. He clenched his teeth, fighting back a wave of frustration. “Of all the idiotic, harebrained ideas, this was the best he could come up with?”

______________________________

Outside, things were deceptively calm. The last of the thugs had been cuffed and loaded up for the GCPD, and Tim and Dick were strolling down the street toward one of Gotham’s all-night fast-food joints. Tim was keeping pace beside him, shooting glances at Dick every few steps.

“So… we’re not going to talk about how Jason just vanished?” Tim asked, giving him a look that was a few levels below ‘judgmental’ but still in ‘I’m not buying this’ territory.

Dick shrugged, a bit too casually. “He’s Jason. Vanishing is half his style.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim muttered, glancing at him with a raised eyebrow. “Except usually, he at least gives us a heads-up, or a ‘screw you guys’ wave before bailing. And you’re weirdly chill about it.”

Dick held back a sigh, trying not to squirm under the scrutiny. Just play it cool, he told himself. “I’m telling you, Tim, he’s fine. He probably just needed a minute. You know him. He’s not exactly the warm and fuzzy regroup type.”

Tim’s frown only deepened, and he looked one small mental step away from phoning Bruce for a full-scale intervention. “Fine, you’re not gonna tell me. But if he’s actually in trouble, I’ll drag his ass back here myself.” He glanced at Dick. “You’re acting weird tonight, just so you know.”

“Appreciate the vote of confidence,” Dick muttered. He cleared his throat, forcing himself to look casual as they stepped inside the fast-food joint. After ordering, he gave Tim a quick pat on the shoulder. “Hey, I’ll be right back -- gotta hit the bathroom.”

Tim didn’t even try to hide his suspicion. “Yeah, sure. Take your time,” he muttered, watching him disappear down the hallway like he was mentally cataloging every weird thing Dick had done that night.

________________________________

The bathroom was barely cleaner than the streets outside, but Dick didn’t have time to be picky. He closed the door behind him and took a breath, steadying himself as he braced against the sink. He could feel Jason still squirming, punching and scratching against the walls of his stomach.

“Alright, here goes…” he muttered, hoping to hell this wasn’t about to go from weird to grotesque.

With a few deep breaths and a not-so-gentle cough, he felt the painful push as Jason finally slid up and out, spilling into his hand. Dick exhaled heavily, trying to shake off the discomfort as he looked down at the soaked, very, very irritated mini-Jason sprawled out in his palm.

Jason wiped the gunk off his helmet with a grimace, barely glancing at Dick as he dragged himself to his feet. “Well, that was disgusting.”

Dick forced a grin, trying to keep things light. “Hey, I got you out, didn’t I?”

Jason’s glare could’ve cut through concrete. “In your stomach, Grayson. I spent the last hour drowning in… whatever the hell that was!” He flicked another glob of half-digested falafel off his jacket. “Didn’t exactly help that you ate before deciding to pull that little stunt.”

Dick winced. “I mean, it’s not like I planned on eating you, Jay. Just… improvised.”

“Yeah, well, next time, how about you don’t improvise by swallowing me whole?” Jason shot back, crossing his arms and bristling like a wet, angry cat. “Who even thinks swallowing someone is a good idea? Couldn’t just carry me around in your pocket or -- oh, I don’t know, figure out literally anything else?”

Dick shrugged, still trying to play it cool. “I was out of options. And I kept you safe, didn’t I?”

“Oh yeah, thanks. Real safe, Grayson. Look at me.” Jason held his arms out, dripping, his jacket half-eaten by stomach acid. “I look like I got tossed in a blender with a lunch special.”

Dick sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright, alright. Maybe it wasn’t my best idea. But hey, you’re not too worse for wear, right?”

Jason let out a laugh, bitter and biting, eyes narrowed. “Right. Well, good to know that I rank just below ‘half-eaten falafel’ on your list of things that matter. Just toss me in the garbage while you’re at it.”

Dick’s face softened, a flicker of guilt creeping in. “C’mon, Jay, that’s not--”

Jason held up a hand, cutting him off. “Save it. And for the record? Releasing me in a fast food bathroom? Way to show the love, Grayson. Real classy.”

Dick pressed his lips together, barely holding back a smirk. “Well, next time, maybe try to stay regular-sized, and we won’t have this problem.”

Jason shot him a look that could freeze lava. “Next time, Grayson, I’m shoving you into a sewer pipe and seeing how long it takes for you to complain about it.”

Dick raised his hands in mock surrender. “Noted.” He glanced down at the tiny, furious figure in his hand and gave him a soft, almost apologetic smile. “You, uh, need a rinse or…?”

Jason rolled his eyes, wiping another layer of gunk off his boots. “Yeah, try a hundred. And maybe a therapist on standby after all this.”

Dick grinned, finally letting out a small chuckle. “Fair enough. Remind me not to tell Tim about this?”

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll have to remind me,” Jason grumbled, crossing his arms. “Now, can we please get me out of this hellhole? And, for the record, if you ever pull this crap again…” He trailed off, fixing Dick with a hard glare. “Let’s just say I know exactly where to aim the next time I get a crowbar in my hands.”

Dick just shook his head, chuckling as he carefully tucked Jason --dignity shot, pride thoroughly bruised-- into his jacket pocket. “Alright, Red. I owe you one.”