#text rp

21+ op iso 21+ writers to match my freaaaaak. fandomless FxM (me as f), ic texts, social media & threads yes please! let’s create a ship we obsess over!! nsfw a must, a lil spice is good for the soul. open to dark plots & taboo. all ideas welcome! muses will be 20+. i only have a few hard limits which can be discussed in dm. discord only in a private server, tupper a must. let’s write something amazing together!! :D

🫧

Karat here!

24 years old 🌟🌺

Up and coming mech tech (whatever I fix robots, droids, drones, not cars!.okkkkk maybe cars too if you're in a bad spot ) if you guys need something fixed, hit me up on the holo!! (ゝ。∂) ☆｡ﾟﾉ

Art #1 fan! I heard he has a burner account here... and I plan to find it hehehehehe 𝄞⨾💿✮˚.⋆

He doesn't look up when he bumps into someone, too focused on not throwing up as he struggles to remember if even any of his trauma was real or if it was just another manifestation of.. of whatever was happening to him.

-- @edgar-allen-poe-keyblade

Woah- Sora hey you're not looking too good-

-Lea put his hand on sora's shoulder to steady him-

𝑨𝑵𝑮𝑺𝑻𝒀 𝑾𝑶𝑵'𝑻 𝑺𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑬𝑵𝑪𝑬 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑺 | accepting (@notbatboy)

Jason's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the words, but otherwise he didn't move. I won't ask you to love me. They settled somewhere beneath his ribs, quieter than a gunshot and somehow twice as painful. Damian said things like that with the same blunt certainty he used when naming weaknesses in a fight—as if he'd already accepted the answer before asking the question. Jason hated that. Hated that the kid could sound so resigned, like disappointment had become routine. His hands stayed shoved into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders stiff, gaze fixed anywhere but Damian. It was easier to stare at cracked pavement than at the expression those words had carved across the younger boy's face.

The sea didn't care who Jason Todd had been before, and Jason was glad for it. It did not care about his past, his mistakes, or the slurs people had thrown at him like they had wanted to cut him with knives. Out on the open water, with salt cutting through the air and the deck shifting beneath his boots, he was simply Captain Jason Todd—the newest bastard brave enough to claim a ship and stupid enough to believe he could keep it.

The title still felt strange.

He stood at the helm of his newly acquired vessel, one hand resting against the worn wood as he watched the horizon stretch endlessly ahead. The ship was far from perfect; the sails carried patches, the boards creaked with every wave, and the crew was still small enough that Jason knew nearly every face aboard. But it was his. Every rope, every cannon, every scar in the wood belonged to a future he had carved out himself.

A quiet breath escaped him as he glanced over the deck. They were inexperienced, reckless, and probably half convinced their captain had no idea what he was doing. Jason couldn’t exactly blame them. Some days, he wasn’t entirely convinced either.

Still, he had made it this far.

His gaze eventually settled on Roy, his first mate, moving across the ship with the kind of confidence Jason wished came as naturally to him. Roy had been there from the beginning, back when the idea of stealing a ship and building a crew had sounded less like a plan and more like a death wish. Somehow, he had stuck around anyway.

Jason didn’t know whether that made Roy incredibly loyal or incredibly foolish.

Probably both.

A faint smirk tugged at Jason’s mouth as he turned his attention back toward the sea. A captain was supposed to inspire confidence, and Jason knew he couldn’t afford to show hesitation. The world was full of pirates who would gladly tear apart a young captain and take everything he had built.

Let them try.

Jason had survived worse things than a cannonball or a blade in the dark. He had fought his way back from every ending people had expected for him, and this was no different. This ship was not just an escape—it was proof that he could still choose where he went next.

The wind picked up, snapping the sails overhead as the vessel pushed forward into unfamiliar waters. Jason tightened his grip on the helm, eyes fixed on the path ahead.

The warning signs had started days ago, and Jason ignored every last one of them.

The headaches, the restless energy crawling beneath his skin, the way every scent in Gotham suddenly felt sharper than it had any right to. It was inconvenient, nothing more. He'd pushed through broken ribs, stab wounds, concussions, and enough near-death experiences to make Bruce develop another stress wrinkle. A fucking heat wasn't going to dictate his schedule.

There was still work to do.

The warehouse raid had run longer than expected, the gang had been better armed than intelligence suggested, and Jason had spent the better part of three hours chasing survivors across rooftops. By the time he finally climbed through the apartment window, helmet tucked beneath one arm, every muscle ached with exhaustion.

Or maybe not just exhaustion.

The apartment smelled like cedar, worn leather, and the faint ozone scent Roy always seemed to carry back from missions.

Jason froze.

Roy was home.

Of course he was.

Jason hadn't answered half his messages in two days.

He'd brushed off every question with a short Busy. Fine. Later.

Fine.

That word had become almost laughable.

His gloves suddenly felt too tight. His armor felt suffocating. The instinct to turn around and disappear back out the window was almost overwhelming.

Because if Jason could smell Roy this clearly from the entryway...

Then Roy had probably caught his scent hours ago.

"Damn it," Jason muttered under his breath.

Somewhere deeper in the apartment, footsteps stopped and a silence settled over the rooms, heavy and expectant.

Jason didn't need heightened instincts to know Roy had figured it out, which inevitably meant the conversation he'd been avoiding was finally here. He squared his shoulders anyway, forcing every tell back beneath layers of practiced stubbornness as he stepped farther inside.

closed starter for @dramatisperscnae

The warehouse reeked of bleach, sweat, and cheap cologne layered over something sour that would never really be washed out. Men laughed too loudly, money changed hands, and someone cried behind a locked door; the sound was cut short almost as quickly as it began.

Every instinct Jason had screamed to tear the place apart brick by brick. Instead, he leaned against a support beam with his arms folded, wearing the scowl they'd come to expect from one of their hired bruisers. Hood stayed low. His voice stayed rough. Eyes stayed sharp.

Weeks of work had gotten him inside. One wrong move would burn everything.

"Fresh shipment's here."

Jason barely looked up at first.

He couldn't afford curiosity.

The side door rolled open, revealing a handful of dazed figures being shoved inside. Some stumbled on unsteady legs. Others had to be dragged. Their wrists were zip-tied, their expressions slack with whatever cocktail these bastards favored.

He counted automatically.

One.

Two.

Three—

His stomach dropped.

No.

It couldn't—

Dick.

Jason's pulse hitched so violently he thought everyone in the room had to hear it. Dick Grayson sagged convincingly between two traffickers, head lolling against one man's shoulder. His pupils were blown just enough to sell the effects of the drugs, his breathing slow and uneven, every inch of him performing helplessness with terrifying precision.

Jason recognized the movements for the performance that it was.

There had been no briefing. No encrypted message. No warning from Bruce. Fucking nothing.

What the hell are they thinking?

One of the traffickers grabbed Dick by the jaw, forcing his face upward.

"Pretty one," the man snorted, turning Dick's head from side to side like he was inspecting livestock. "This one's gonna sell fast."

Jason's fingernails bit into his palms.

Don't move.

Don't react.

Don't.

Another shove sent Dick stumbling onto his knees.

The same man laughed before grabbing a fistful of Dick's hair and hauling him back upright hard enough to wrench his neck, and something cold unfurled beneath Jason's ribs.

Not anger.

Something quieter.

Deadlier.

Something that remembered the rough hands and the complete absence of control. Something that remembered being looked at like an object instead of a person.

One of the buyers wandered closer, circling Dick with open interest. His gaze lingered too long, too hungrily.

Jason hated how quickly jealousy stabbed through his panic. It wasn't rational. It wasn't about trust. It was possessive in the ugliest, most instinctive way, tangled up with fear and memories he had never dared voice to Dick, but he wanted to break every finger that reached toward him.

Instead, he scratched absently at the stubble on his jaw and forced out a humorless chuckle. "Careful," he drawled, pitching his voice into the lazy boredom expected of him. ''The boss said not to damage the merchandise before it's paid for."

The room laughed.

The buyer rolled his eyes but eased his grip.

Barely.

Jason let his gaze slide over Dick for the briefest fraction of a second.

It was the only acknowledgment he could risk.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Just enough that, if Dick were as aware as Jason knew he was, he'd recognize the warning buried beneath Jason's carefully blank expression.

I'm here.

Don't look at me.

Jason pushed himself off the beam when another thug jerked his chin toward him.

"You."

A ring of keys was tossed into his hand. "Take this one downstairs."