01. extremely private, mutuals-only, low/sporadic activity. tumblr isn't my number one priority, nor is this my main blog. reply-pestering will not be tolerated. if i'm not here, i can usually be found on @jedicide!

02. bigotry and overall nasty behavior will result in a block. non-romani dick blogs, non-jewish harley writers, non-romani wanda + pietro blogs— stay away from me. otherwise, be respectful of one another.

03. my portrayal of dick is a hodgepodge of various comic runs, various headcanons, and some of the animated + live action stuff. i've never seen titans, don't have much of a desire to, and don't know much about the lore in that department. otherwise, i'm winging things unless plotted differently. if you have a specific era if you'd like for me to write dick in, just let me know. i usually steer clear of robin threads, though.

04. circling back to plotting, i personally love it. it's much more enjoyable when i'm creating a fun dynamic with our characters + you! my discord is always available to mutuals upon request.

it's a true and raw sentiment, a vulnerability dick doesn't see much of these days. he can empathize with it. fear— a natural bone in the human body. it takes a lot to push down and not allow to bubble to the surface; most people can't. he hasn't had a choice. afraid isn't a word in his vocabulary— neither is giving up. (an afraid vigilante doesn't make much of a change in the world.) dick can't say he isn't familiar with wren francis, nor her story. it took over the media like a typhoon. he knows the story, recognizes how she's a survivor— just like him. (just like everyone else he knows in this world.) dick doesn't know whether to be sad the number grows, or to be grateful it does. surviving versus dying > a question he never thought he'd find himself pondering, and yet does in the bustling coffee shop. his head cocks to the side, a sip of his black coffee taken before he exhales a breath. one he'd been holding in far longer than he'd realized. “fear doesn't do anyone any good. it'll eat away at you— you can't think like that.” easier said than done. he chooses to try a different approach, both hands resting on the table before fixing his posture. he levels with her. “you're a survivor. you're wren francis! you shouldn't be afraid, because you're a badass!”

a part of him believes that. he's believed it since he was eight-years-old; before he even slipped into the nightwing suit, but rather the red and green one with an r sprawled across the top left side. but the numbers scream otherwise. [and the cycle continues.] each year, gotham grows dirtier, seeping further into the bloodstream of the city. if it isn't already poisoned, it will be soon enough. (if bruce were here— he'd make the argument the city was poisoned long before his birth.) and that makes it easy for dick to disregard what barbara says, head turning away from her in response, an exasperated sigh making its way up his esophagus. his stomach churns. a hand is brought up to his hair, pushing a stray lock away from removing the mask from his flesh. “i'm tired, babs. do you know when the last time was i got a full nights sleep?” body twisting, his facial features contort into one of light exacerbation. his mind is set on one thing solely: climbing into bed. not having a conversation about the monsters in the dark. but he'll appease her— just this once, dick tells himself. [it isn't the first time; it won't be the last. happy life, happy wife girlfriend.] “you can't change my mind on this. i'm already set on it. i was before i even walked through the door.”

his batons rest at his sides, wide shoulders rising into a meek shrug, all his attention fixed on the blonde. “not sure. might have something to do with the fact you're usually doing bad things outside of them, too.” one wrong move and dick knows he can take her down swiftly— or so he assumes. the mask may disguise his face, but they don't masquerade the rate at which is eyes begin flicking around the room. surveying the surrounding space. cement flooring, cheap drywall on all four sides of the square, two windows to his left/her right. they're the easiest place to establish an escape. [a knockdown on the concrete would knock her out, but then what? take her back to his apartment with zip-ties until he can get in touch with vought? no, that wouldn't suffice.] there's also the drywall... another escape tactic she can utilize. features scrunching in his own self-made dubiety, his irises backtrack to harley as he curses softly under his breath, “shit.”

the feeling used to live inside him like a parasite. the wondering of who he was. burrowed deep inside every dark crevice of his body and bones— aching, rotting, consuming. the mantle of robin has been passed down through generations; once a bird, always a bird. the raincloud above their heads will never drift, it only continues to grow with each year. his desire to be like batman has dissipated over years. those times have long passed, feeling more like a draining eternity than just a mere few agonizing years. the question had presided itself afterward: who was dick grayson? nightwing, the batman, robin, or purely himself. the answer, as clear as it may be for others, still isn't clear to him. but he's dropped the question from his mind— not out of defeat of apathy, but from an understanding. his identity is not defined by a single mantle or name. it's woven from each experience, choice, and moment. he'll never understand how jason feels, how he aches. dick presumes he never will, but the throe rasping through his voice paints a clear enough picture. “you've done a pretty good job at not listening to them. gotta give yourself some credit there.”