you and jason todd are jumped on the street
when dick notices a scar from your past
texting jason todd that you don't feel safe
you're finally in the field with dick grayson
dick grayson just rescued you from the joker
you're not answering your phone, and dick is freaking out
wait wait wait expand on jason or dick (+ their motorcycles) x motorjournalist!reader!!!! like for dick especially in his suicidal bludhaven arc i can totally see him being a bitch to motorjournalist!reader thinking he knows more about motorcycles (specifically his bike) than r ๐ญ the tension!!! the one-sided, unwarranted grade A beef!!!!!!!!
i gotta apologise for being mia for weeks but i have been thinking non-stop about this!!!! thank you for asking !!!!!! just from looking at various images and comparing it, im guessing his motorcycle is based on a ducati/triumph bike so that's what we're going with. fem!reader
but YOU ARE SO RIGHT !!! ohh my god.
when r writes reviews for vehicles (cars AND bikes), they read like a full-blown analysis โ every question the audience might have, sheโs already considered and answered. her attention to detail is at the highest level in the industry because she LOVES what she does. having been underestimated in said industry for years has also carved out an intolerance for people acting like sheโs a poser (naturally).
while heโs in this tunnel-visioned mental whirlpool of doom after blockbuster, i imagine dickโs motorcycle is like an extension of himself. heโs learned its language, can identify any problem as soon as he sets off because it just feels wrong. but does he feel inclined to fix these problems immediately? absolutely not. does he even possess the knowledge of how to fix more than your average electrical fault or oil clog in the engine? also no.
so when heโs finished his patrol for the night and goes to pick up his bike in the alley that heโd left it in, his heart prickles at the sight of the tarp bundled up on the floor nearby. and you, youโre kneeling next to it.
โyou know, itโs rude to touch other peopleโs property.โ
with a dusting of grease over your fingertips.
"your timing belt's fucked. you know, ducatis are really unreliable bikes." you stand up and turn to face the masked superhero in front of you. when you lean against the solid bike behind you, ankles crossed, his fingertips dig into the meat of his arm.
"it's not a ducati. and it runs fine, actually." he spits out the words too fast for you to actually believe them; a preemptive defensiveness that you weren't expecting from nightwing. much less, nightwing who's been m.i.a for a while.
"really? i'm telling you that thing's about to snap. you can't be riding that."
he stalks towards you, a frown etched into his face. "I think I know more about my bike than you do, lady." he wrenches the bike away from the wall with a force that makes you stumble forwards.
the muscles at your jaw fall slack. lady?
your frustration rumbles through you and erupts from your throat as your retort bubbles up, "of course you superhero types are grade a assholes behind the scenes. you paint up your ducatis--"
"it's not a ducati."
"--rev them too loudly down the streets at two in the morning, and completely ignore someone telling you -- out of the kindness of their own heart, by the way -- that you're not gonna make it home."
a beat. you watch his adam's apple bob in his throat as he throws a leg over the side.
"don't you feel it misfiring or struggling to start? dude," when he sticks the keys in, you quickly cover them with your hand before he gets to turn them. his stare is sharp, eyes narrowed.
"don't touch my bike." you almost roll your eyes there and then. he sounds like a petulant child that doesn't want to share, and it's making your blood boil. why are you even still here? why do you care so much when it's obvious that he doesn't at all. he swats your hand away sharply and turns the keys.
the engine fights to turn over at first, and you know he's heard it, his grip tightening on the handles. when it rumbles to life, almost sisyphean in its struggle, you're almost stunned to silence with the way he's still ignoring you.
"trust me, hero. i know what i'm talking about," you try once more.
"and which one of us, lady, is walking home?"
the dirt cloud he leaves behind him stings your eyes. when you blink it away, the echoes of his engine down the street are already beginning to fade.
the next time you see nightwing, his bike is nowhere to be seen. there's been a theft at a local car show, and you're lucky enough to be there as the story is breaking. alongside your notes on the oldest yet most pristine cars in the building, you're jotting down snippets of eavesdropped conversations between the authorities and the attendees.
you've come outside for some fresh air after you sense yourself reaching the end of your tether. the attendees (mostly men, mostly older, mostly doubting your knowledge that does in fact, usurp their own) are testing your patience. with every quote you try to get from them, despite your 'PRESS' lanyard, they add tangental mansplaining asides to every minor detail. you changed your tactic about halfway through; it's almost magical how some lighthearted flirting can change the tone of these interviews immediately. but it wears you down, having to bite your tongue whenever you're being mansplained to with incorrect information.
he's standing with his back to you, observing the show from outside the building. floor-to-ceiling glass windows allow a front seat view to the event without having to be seen. the deep blue and black of his suit certainly lets him fall into the shadows. you recognise him all the same.
"finally put that piece of junk in the garage?" with the way his shoulders hike up, you can tell the man didn't recognise the sarcastic lilt to your voice. "oh. i'm just kidding. glad that bike didn't explode from underneath you. now's your chance if you wanna try out a car, though" he turns around with that same frown seared into his features, but doesn't say anything. maybe you're tired, maybe your usual self-assured demeanour has been slowly chipped away over the course of the evening, and an ugly desire to prove yourself to anybody rears its head; you keep talking.
"something like the bmw m2 could handle the streets of gotham and blรผdhaven. I generally dislike bmw's though, so maybe a sleek bugatti chiron is more your speed... zero to sixty in two seconds. better than a ducati."
his eyes flit down to the pass around your neck, then back to your face. he doesn't say anything for a moment, and your throat begins to feel thick with embarrassment.
"how many times do i have to tell you? it's not a fucking ducati."
"a triumph, then," you forgot that this guy has attitude leaking from his ears.
"not a triumph, either." fine. you'll bite.
"okay. so, what is it?"
"it's...custom."
you snort. you almost feel bad, but you're just giving what you've been getting. "right, custom. custom bikes absolutely can never be based on features of existing bikes at all. never ever."
nightwing huffs, "whatever. i'm actually working right now, so i don't have time for this."
you smirk. "sure. although, a car theft seems a bit minor for a guy like you. don't you deal with, like, psychopaths with really good tech?"
the corners of his mouth twitch, "this particular car theft was performed by one of those."
you raise an eyebrow. "well, if he wants to modify it, he chose a real shitbox to do it."
"and how would you know?"
"because that's my job. thanks for asking, by the way. i write for an outlet directed at real gearheads."
he glances at your lanyard again.
"so, if you're interested: he stole a chevrolet vega. those things melt and rust like crazy, which is why they're here. they do a much better job of being looked at."
for the first time, nightwing regards you with more than a patronising stare. his posture stiffens, and he hesitates before he speaks, as if he was going to say something else entirely.
"great. he's not gonna get far, then."
he's gone before you're finished checking your notes to ensure you're correct.
was really debating whether i liked the second part enough to post it !! but i really wanted the satisfaction of r humbling him and proving that she was right the whole time
One way to get tasks done in the day is to make yourself a Chekhov's List. Put all of the things you have to do on a list, and now that they've been revealed they'll need to be completed by the afternoon (third act) and when you've completed something you can Chekov that task from the list
dick grayson just rescued you from the joker, and now? he has no idea what to do.
you havenโt moved for an hour, curled up in the corner of the couch, staring at the same spot between the bookshelf and the tv. the tv had been on earlier, but dick noticed with a crash in his chest that you hadnโt been really watching it.
heโs pulling out hairs at the nape of his neck. dick knows how to do the rescue, how to slip in, neutralise the threat, get you both out safely. he knows how to clean up the blood and check for bruising. but now, as he sets a plate of food onto the coffee table in front of you, he stares at your frozen, unblinking form and doesnโt know how to thaw you out.
his hand drags roughly down his face.
clinging to your frame is a pair of his sweats and a loose shirt, spotted with dark patches of water from when you were getting out of the shower. your thousand yard stare has your eyes glassy, and your grip on yourself is unwavering.
dickโs stomach twists into an impossible knot.
โbabe? whatโs going on up there?โ he isnโt sure if heโs even spoken loud enough for you to hear.
either way, you donโt respond.
heโs tried calling bruce, who just said to give you time. but the fragments of dickโs heart are poking through his chest and it hurts.
he sits next to you, careful enough to not let the couch dip too much.
now heโs on the other side of you, he sees the soft of your cheek shifting and the muscle of your jaw tensing. he doesnโt want to imagine how much of your cheek youโve bitten off already.
he rests his arm on the back of the couch behind your shoulders, and something in you snaps. slumping into his side, you let out a shattered sob.
the sharp shift in you startles him for a moment, but he gathers himself just as quickly and bundles you into his side. he avoids the bandages on your upper arms and around your middle, but wraps his arms around you tightly.
within minutes the side of his own shirt is soaked through with a mixture of heat, sweat, and tears. your sobbing is uncontrollable and each sound shoves the fragments through the skin of his chest.
but, youโre safe. although dick isnโt suited up, heโs left his gear behind the couch. just in case.
whatever it takes to bleach those memories from your mind, heโll do. heโll take time off and force bruce to deal with it.
your hands curl into the fabric of his shirt and he kisses your temple, rubbing soothing circles across your back.
after a while, your tears cease and your muscles relax. he wipes the tracks from your cheeks with the pad of his thumb, and watches as you begin to doze, head resting on his chest.
don't you hate it when you leave a draft for yourself, half-written, with absolutely no idea where you were going with it?? vidia in the past can you chew rocks bc wtf is this !!!
i am about to look like a freak spam catching up with u diva donโt mind me in ur notifs!! congrats on 400 im excited to see what new fics and thoughts of urs i can read!! <3
vidia my love u are always welcome to freak spam as i literally have and will definitely continue to do to ur blog >:) and thank u!!!! this alone motivated me to lock in today so hopefully will have those vamp fics + some random drabbles queued for the next coming weeks!!
PAIRING: jason todd / reader
WARNING(S): depictions of injury, brief mentions of poor medical care, hurt/comfort
NOTES: poll winner! inspired by and title quoted from @revelutionize's headcanons
โ
Despite the rough exterior, Jason carries with him a presence of softnessโespecially in his calloused and scarred hands. You noticed it often in the way he held your hand as you both spent the lazy evening absentmindedly watching old Hollywood movies or the way he handed you fresh tomatoes as you laughed and giggled at each other while making early-evening dinners. His roughed-up hands marked by the ever-unkind and changing world so easily contrasted the tender and gentle love that existed so profoundly in his veins.
So, when he finds you bathed in the fluorescent lighting of your shrinking Gotham bathroom, attempting to bandage a graze blooming bruises onto the garden of your skin, his hands rush towards you entirely out of instinct.
Questions of how and when and who flood the cramped airspace of your bathroom, worry increasingly scratching at his voice. Having left you almost distracted by this sudden barrage of questions and onslaught of dizzying worry, Jasonโs handsโmoving swiftly, easily, tenderlyโtake the gauze from yours as his eyes rake over your form, checking to make sure the simple yet too-deep-for-comfort cut on your arm was the only proof of crime marking your flesh.
โItโs not as bad as you think,โ you say in defense as Jason applies a firm yet gentle pressure to the gauze against your arm, as if hoping his touch alone might stop any more blood from spilling tonight. Your words, however, are a poor attempt to shield Jason from the worry already running the racetrack of his mind. And, in retrospect, this wound wasnโt as bad as the range of scarred possibilities that could have made stories out of your skin. Considering the millions of ways being mugged in Gotham could have gone, you came out the other end relatively unscathed, thanks to a certain Robin. But you werenโt able to tell Jason that little detail: your red-and-green disgruntled angel in disguise, disappearing into the early evening as you turned to grab your fallen work bag, was a secret you were tucking away into the unkempt corners of the day.
โYouโre bleeding,โ Jason retorts. โYouโre hurt.โ
He shifts ever so slightly, reaching to grab a clean piece of gauze from the chipping bathroom counter and placing its clean slate onto your arm letting your blood stain its material. You watch him closely through the mirror: his somewhat bent form over yours, doctoring at your wound with careful, attentive eyes. His movement, usually loose and easy despite his frame, now hardened into a mold of rigidity. His shoulders stood straight, his eyes examining sharply, and his hands locked into a fixed hold on you, all as if your wound Medusa. His breathing fell into a quiet trained rhythm of methodical slowness, his nostrils flared ever-so-slightly the more he studied the bloody gauze abandoned in the trash or the hints of redness outlining your fingers and knuckles. You recognize this hymn: the sighs and controlled breathing, the stiffened movement and the shell-like rigidity that consumes his immense statureโthe telltales of Jason silently retreating to the far corners of his mind.
Breaking you free from this mirrored trance, Jason takes hold of your hand, moving its tight grip from the counterโs edge to the gauze his calloused hand was keeping in place on your arm, wordlessly asking you to continue his pressured hold.
โI can bandage myself just fine,โ you utter softly.
He throws a stern look at you as he washed his hands, as if the very prospect of you bandaging yourself was both an insult to him and an impossibility he wouldโor rather, couldโnever allow. You know heโs more than aware that you could do this on your own, having bandaged his range of now-scarred wounds more times than either of you could count; but you also know he would never let youโas if some deep-seated mechanism within him wonโt let him even perceive a reality in which you do this alone.
He gestures for you to sit on the toilet seat, wordlessly nodding his head in the direction for you to follow. And without protest, you do.
Jason, following after you like a protective shadow, seats himself at the edge of your bathroomโs tub, letting your knee bracket his as he situates himself closer to you. For some reason you find yourself shy at his gaze, at his proximity, despite the many times his eyes pierced your soul, his hands memorized the terrains of your body, his breath dizzied your airspace. Every time you neared each other like this, the air carried want and love comprised entirely of a pure romanticism only defined by centuries of penned writing, puppyish in the desire you both smiled as your lips met the reliefs of his neck or as his hard-skinned hands mapped your waist.
It is his unwavering attention on you now though, on your bloodied arm, that wells a crashing of nervousness from within you as if your body is borrowing guilt from the future in preparation for Jasonโs grievous anger that will unsurely come about tomorrow if not later into the night.
He slightly dampened hand firmly holds your arm in place, keeping you steady as his eyes remain solely trained on the damage caused to the altar of your skin. The bleeding had stopped but the echo of its presence spilt onto your skin, blanketing bright with a rusting red that looked out-of-place along your arm. His other hand approaches, armed with a softly wetted cloth; you hold your breath.
The clothโs coldโa sharp shock to the warmth emitting from torn skinโrubbed along your wound-site, with Jason dabbing and wiping clean Gothamโs mark on your skin. With every stroke and movement, you can feel the pressure and tension locked in his hands, the veins betraying his outwardly presenting calm to expose the complexities in turmoil at heart.
He knows youโre more than capable of surviving the hell of Gotham, having done it for years before even meeting him, but the way his hand holds your arm in place as his other wipes clean the reddened ridges of your warmed flesh radiates forth a kind of angered doubt, a regretful failing with each deliberate brush of cloth against skin. For the grime of the city to have actually reached youโfor its arm once loving to have scrapped you dirty and bloodied, the cold wet concrete of her broken, forgotten corners to have briefly caught you in her web offering you to the shadows Jason has spent lifetimes trying to amendโand for him to not have been there to halt the ribbed knife: it all felt blasphemous, a betrayal against what he swore to defend.
You werenโt exempt from this swelling rage rolling off of him, for you planned not to tell him at all, opting instead to doctor your own wounds poorly, to sheepishly attempt to halt your own bloodโs escape, and possibly tell him later if you managed to remember. Your omission surely added fuel to his growing fire.
As this mix of rage and aching guilt clouded his mind, stiffening his breathing, his hands continued on moving with a hesitant grace, the same caution your muscles panicked when Jason first came to you bleeding. Even back then, it was his handsโin their gentle brushing against your armโthat guided you through the mess of bloody gauze on your couch. You remember the way those soft, feather-like brushes of his thumb against the calming terrain of your flesh would occasionally turn into a near-bruising grip along your arm when you were brave enough to dab his torn skin and open, sticky-red wounds with whatever alcohol you had lying around. His hands then, as they always have you learned, spoke a language gestured entirely through their own calloused gentleness. Those feather-like grazes, drunk on pain, murmured sweet nothings of care. His thumb swiping kind circles against your arm as a whispered โdonโt worry, doll,โ grounding your shaking anxiety over his blood drowning the contours of his skin; his fingers tightening their grip the moment the alcohol-dipped pad grazed his skin, muttering through gritted teeth, โitโs okay, it doesnโt hurt.โ
As Jason silently withdraws to some distant corner of his mind, you continue to feel the guilt festering within him, filling the creases of his palm with unnumerable what-ifs and fears of wrong ends. Yet, his hands remain true to their gentleness. The fears, worries, and guilt rattling through his mind force forth an even more delicate lightness in each meticulous, near-hesitant touch. He postures a deliberate controlled softness in every move he makes in wiping clean your wound, as if he was afraid any pressured or sudden contact of his hand upon your flesh would only worsen your bloody hurt, blistering new methodologies of ache to the surface of your kind skin. Any anger he held, you felt through his hands, now firmly a guilted grief.
His movement for the antiseptic ointment and dressings on the bathroom counter is entirely full of near-touches and caution. Even as he opens the tube, his fingers work with such gentleness and subtlety as any harsh or hasty shift by him would unravel your wound further, would taint the tools available to ease your injury. His hands, anxious in their application of the ointment, presume his callousness as some sort of enemy to your flesh, a poison that would only infect your bruising abrasion.
โโS deep,โ Jason finally mutters in a hushed sigh, breaking the silence at the falling of words from his lips. His finger lightly dances around your bright-red wound, applying the antiseptic ointment as if painting waves of an imagined oceanic view on the canvas of your skin.
โYeah,โ you whisper back, defeated almost to have brought such a wound home, to have worried Jason with a scar for the coming tomorrows that will always speak of what couldโve gone wrong or of his absence when you needed him most. โI know.โ
He falls silent again with a controlled sigh and his thumb tense in its press against your skin before returning to that gentleness you recognize as him.
But your ears know this weighted silence buried at the back of his throat, your muscles know this animated language found at his roughed fingertipsโit is as if on some microscopically cosmic or immensely molecular level your skin, muscles, and bones were conjured from the same particles of strayed dust and ideas and arrows that left Babylon bare. His hand moves again to grab the adhesive bandages from the counter, pulling at it before pressing the material in place against your woundโs dressing as his other hand moves rhythmically to wrap your arm. Iโm sorry, I wasnโt there, his thumb and pinky finger softly speak in their hold around your arm.
He continues wrapping wordlessly as you watch his gaze attentively, his lashes revealing ever-so-slightly the hidden ciphers of his thoughts. His hand slides quietly down your arm until his grip settles below your bent elbow sitting his thumb at the throne of your beating pulse. His thumb rubs feather-like circles along the junction offering a chaste confession, I wish this didnโt happen to you.
His eyes stayed trained on your arm, the circular movement of his meticulous bandaging. He wouldnโtโperhaps couldnโtโmake eye contact with you at this very moment, but you knew the truth of his thoughts, the language that lay buried at his fingertips. Iโm here now, his calloused hand, roughed by the world and its horrors, whispers as he moves stray strands of your hair away from your shoulderโs edge, clearing the path to finish wrapping your wound. He tosses a brief glance your way, shy in its contact, before returning his attention to your arm; his brown eyes, a lighthouse in the wave of comforting words expressed and received solely through touch. Even with nothing announced between you twoโof fears, worries, anger, guilt, and apologiesโhis presence and touch dulled the ache, scrubbing clean the danger of the day from your mind.
It was through his touch aloneโsome brick at the end of Babelโthat was language found; and it was, as anthropologists will fail to learn, a language made entirely for your discovery, a grammar made wholly for your senses.
did not know how much i needed to read a fic like this until now!!!! oh my goodness. and you had me right from the start!!!
His roughed-up hands marked by the ever-unkind and changing world so easily contrasted the tender and gentle love that existed so profoundly in his veins.
im always desperate for more insights into jason's softness!! the juxtaposition of this with his "rough exterior" gets me every single time.
Questions of how and when and who flood the cramped airspace of your bathroom, worry increasingly scratching at his voice.
the descent into silence from this initial panic works so well to portray the way jason's retreated into himself, that the answers to these questions don't even matter while he's tending the wound perfectly depicts his focus and internal guilt
His movement, usually loose and easy despite his frame, now hardened into a mold of rigidity.
again i love a contrast!!! it's as if you can see how hard his heart is beating even from an outside perspective
You recognize this hymn: the sighs and controlled breathing, the stiffened movement and the shell-like rigidity that consumes his immense statureโthe telltales of Jason silently retreating to the far corners of his mind.
this isn't the first line structured with poetic beauty and it sure as hell isn't the last. this part is so quiet, you've built the tension up so well!
For the grime of the city to have actually reached youโfor its arm once loving to have scrapped you dirty and bloodied, the cold wet concrete of her broken, forgotten corners to have briefly caught you in her web offering you to the shadows Jason has spent lifetimes trying to amendโand for him to not have been there to halt the ribbed knife: it all felt blasphemous, a betrayal against what he swore to defend.
one of my favourite excerpts from the whole fic not just personifying Gotham like this but the poetics of jason having tried so hard and, in his mind, failed, to keep r safe is reminiscent of some self-tortured greek hero and of course he would be ruminating on this as he puts so much onto his own shoulders
It was through his touch aloneโsome brick at the end of Babelโthat was language found; and it was, as anthropologists will fail to learn, a language made entirely for your discovery, a grammar made wholly for your senses.
I adore this!!! it makes the silence throughout the piece far more poignant, almost like you have to reread the fic to pay attention to every nonverbal detail, hearing what he's saying through his tender, focused actions that both give away his panic at seeing r like this and also demonstrate how deep love flows in his veins.
if z has no fans then i no longer exist im always swept off my feet!
z! do you have recommendations for dc fic writers?
since i mostly follow dc writers and i can only link 50 blogs, im going to forgo comments/explanations for each writer but just know everyone listed here is such an amazingly skilled writer and consistently writes some of the best fics ive ever read:
Any time you feel like youโre behind (especially if youโre in your 20s, but this applies to literally anyone) just look yourself in the mirror and be like โboo hoo you didnโt peak when u were 17. So sad. Whatever shall u doโ and I promise u will instantly feel so silly for ever worrying about it
bestiee the bodyguard fics are gonna make me insane im so excited omggg
eeek thank u!! im so excited to write them properly! i was playing around with a robin hood au too but am currently unsure if the plot will lend itself to this narrative shift or if i will be writing yet another fantasy-adjacent fic!! time will tell
these fics are under serious threat of witcher syndrome (see: fantasy setting infected with modern swearing and turns of phrase that feel totally out of place) yet formal/fantasy english doesnโt feel right! maybe thereโs a happy in between i have yet to discover
rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wips folder. people send an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then tell them something about it/post a snippet!
crabs & wine
redfish ; part two
i'm not made by design ; part four
silver scars
a forgotten sweater ; part two
the golden whore ; part two
in the haze ; part two
the cursed pearl ; part two
duncan the tall nsfw alphabet headcanons
storms and stars ; part eight
my neighbor's a vigilante?
bounty hunters
running from the sun
bruce wayne nsfw alphabet headcanons
more mutants
the demon and the ghost
the blue dragon
no pressure tags for a few mutuals! @alwritey-aphrodite, @cherryplasmids, @aurorag98, @givemea-dam-break, @emma-frxst, @training4theapocalypse, @valinoar, @bowieandqueen11, @richeeduvie, @controld3vil, @astrumark, @fairysluna, @runningmunson, @prxttypxrker, @xfancyuu, @mellowsaturns, @angrygirlromero, @luvrodite, @ay0nha, @writing-for-marvel, @maximoff-pan, @dearsnow, @captain-tch, @blushstories, @darkened-writer and any other writer who would like to join in (tag me so i can see !!!)
oooh thank u for the tag!! here is my current line up in no particular order! I do not have titles for most of these yet so will add vague (objectively bad) tags in case you want to ask about them!
answering an ask from the lovely z about motor journalist!r x dick grayson I need to stop thinking and start writing!
leon kennedy x reader 1 - keeping secrets, peril, hyper-independent r!
leon kennedy x reader 2 - didn't know where else to go, past catching up with r, reunited
leon kennedy x reader 3 - "what's in a name?" (titled!)
leon kennedy x reader 4 - interrogation scenarios
clark kent x reader bodyguard au drabble!
clark kent x reader - hurt/comfort, clark knows when something's off.
bodyguard!dick grayson x rebel princess!reader - slow burn, found family (massively under construction)
clark kent x radio host!reader - risky interview broadcast, tension, reckless reader, best friend! clark kent.
clark kent becomes superman right in front of your eyes -- identity reveal, mild peril, unrealistic situation to facilitate the writing exercise pahaha
my inbox is always open! :]
no pressure tags <3 @luviery @lovelybarnes @batwngs @underoospeterparker
In honor of this account reaching 200 followers earlier this month, here are some fics I really loved reading (they are reblogged in my library acc (@luvieryylib)
Please show support to the authors by liking, commenting and reblogging their fic!!
BRUCE WAYNE
Bruce wayne and space- @bonesofapoet
in the dark of the knight - @twentytomidnight
Where the hell is my husband - @stcrgazerlily
for show - @bloomcissa
JASON TODD
shy!experiencedย Jasonย Toddย xย freak!virginย reader - @starr-jazz (extremely suggestive)
It'll pass - @champagnesbiggestproblem
Jason Todd has a soft spot - @eunoianss
grunge! Jason Todd - @patientofarkhamasylum
little secret - @teklarn
Caloused hands gently - @batwngs
birds of a feather - @ghxstrobins
A walk in the park - @devisedplan
Nightshade - @arfemiz
Jason Todd and midnight cravings - @t1mbits
book thief - @sozzoe
Can't help falling in love - @lechelovestoyap
DICK GRAYSON
Dick Grayson (hurt/comfort) - @blushstories
ROY HARPER
twenty-something - @milkybbun
birthday surprise - @moviecritc
Matching Tattoos - @cinnamon-girl-writes
Natural 20 - @/pixelbfs
Escape room - @/milkybbun
Outlaw to loverboy (with the help of ladyluck) - @lechelovestoyap
CLARK KENT
Brown Eyed Girl - @kryptidfiles
What he listens for - @/patientofarkhamasylum
HAL JORDAN
SPIKES BURSTING THROUGH THE GRID - @batwngs
How deep is your love - @that-dumb-bunny
Hal Jordan and your cat - @nayawnz
popping in to say bear with me !!! my ass is being kicked and im drowning in applications <3 will be back soon but pls reply with fics iโve missed from u guys or just say u have posted new stuff !! i have a few people in mind that im hoping i can get back to and reblog after i submit these things
popping in to say bear with me !!! my ass is being kicked and im drowning in applications <3 will be back soon but pls reply with fics iโve missed from u guys or just say u have posted new stuff !! i have a few people in mind that im hoping i can get back to and reblog after i submit these things
