hi!! pride month doodle request: gay + trans man bitters!! :D tysm if you do this and happy pride!!
Happy pride! <3
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hi!! you mentioned in your pin post you're open for doodle requests, if you're up for it i'd love to see any of your lieutenants' face canons (from rvb) if you have any! :D no pressure if you're not up for it though, i hope you have a good day either way!!
YAAAAYYY I LOVE THNENM !!!!! to the rvb fandom idm if you have different fcs but please give smith eyes that stare into your soul. please it���s my only request
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Bruce tries, mostly, not to break in here. Mostly because Alfred gives him the Disappointed Look when he does it, but in his defense this time, a man has gone missing and he’s reasonably certain that Jason is behind it.
He’s intending to check the computer. That’s all. Unfortunately, the computer is kept in a windowless room, which means he has to enter through the living room, go through the kitchen, and hope not to encounter any people or security measures.
(He dodged a blow dart by inches last time. Analysis revealed it was coated in a drug that causes paralysis and death.)
It’s quiet tonight, though. He’s just slinking through the kitchen when the fridge opens and he’s bathed in yellow light.
Antoine Drouot–professional mercenary of over thirteen years, wanted in connection with a handful of high-profile coups and heavy activity in Santa Prisca, kill count: high–blinks at him. He shouldn’t be here. They are all supposed to be out tonight.
A closer look says he’s wearing pajamas. The cowl reports an over-normal body temperature, a rattle in his chest, and a large production of mucus. Conclusion: sick.
Usually when people find him in their house, they panic. Drouot just opens a small bottle of orange juice, drinks most of it, and rasps, “You fucking taught him that.”
Before Bruce can process that, a quarter-full bottle of orange juice hits him squarely in the face, followed by two eggs, a jar of salsa, and a fork that catches one of his ears between its tines. Before more can follow, Drouot starts coughing and slams the fridge shut so he can lean against it.
“You shouldn’t be so active.”
“You shouldn’t be in here,” Drouot spits back. He straightens up as best he can and fixes Bruce with a venomous glare. “Is there any way you didn’t fuck him up?”
He knows that in many ways, all of them are in the right, to blame him for…well…Jason. But they also weren’t there, aren’t local, and have no idea of the ins and outs of that entire situation.
(Also, he blames himself enough for all of them combined.)
His lack of answer only serves to piss Drouot off even more; he scoffs, coughs spitefully in Bruce’s direction, and turns around.
“Get the hell out of here,” he says. “I don’t have enough NyQuil to deal with you.”
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