𝐒𝐨fia.

introducing… @clarkslvbug .ᐟ lovebug girl. brunette. ‎⋆˚࿔ sofia. seventeen. her. bisexual. ♓︎. clark kent enthusiast. ‎ ‎ ‎ writer. hopeless romantic. 888. lip liner. mini skirts. sliver. sabrina carpenter.

౨ৎ requests : open

📎 navigation. pinterest. guidelines. who i write.

CLARKSLVBUG — est. 2025 © do not copy or publish my work to any other platform!

💭i didn’t have time to write so enjoy these texts i found off of pinterest:)

| navi. | dc mlist. |

i did jason todd this one (can’t get enough of him).

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆ between his heartbeats

˗ˏˋ Content ˎˊ˗ softness, domestic intimacy, Jason being gentle, back scratches

| navi. | dc mlist. |

The apartment is quiet in that late-night way—no traffic, no sirens, just the low hum of the city trying to sleep.

You’re curled up on the couch with one of Jason’s books resting open in your lap. It’s something thick and a little beat-up, the spine cracked like it’s been loved too hard. You’re not even sure you’re fully processing the words anymore. Mostly, you’re waiting.

The sound of the window sliding open makes you glance up.

Jason steps inside like he always does—careful, controlled, already scanning the room even though he knows you’re safe. The Red Hood comes off first, set gently on the counter like it’s fragile. Then the jacket, the gloves, the boots. Each piece of armor shed like he’s slowly remembering how to be human again.

“Hey,” he murmurs when he finally looks at you.

“Hey,” you smile back, softer.

His shoulders drop at the sight of you curled up on the couch. Like something in his chest finally unclenches.

He crosses the room, pressing a quick kiss to the top of your head that smells faintly like rain and gun oil and him. You hum quietly, leaning into it, and that’s all it takes.

Jason sinks down beside you, tugging you gently into his chest. One arm wraps around you instinctively, pulling you closer until your side fits perfectly against his. Like you were made to go there.

“You steal my book again?” he asks, amused.

“You never finish them anyway.”

“Rude,” he scoffs—but he reaches for it anyway, carefully sliding it out of your hands. He adjusts until your head rests against his shoulder, your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his shirt.

He starts reading out loud, voice low and steady, the kind that settles deep in your bones. You barely register the words. Mostly, you focus on the way his chest rises beneath you, the rhythm of his breathing grounding you.

His other hand starts moving without him even thinking about it.

Slow. Gentle.

Fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your back. Up and down. Circles. The faint scratch of his nails just enough to make your skin buzz.

You melt.

Your grip on his shirt loosens. Your breaths get heavier. Slower.

Jason notices immediately.

He glances down, lowering his voice, adjusting the book so it doesn’t dig into you. His hand keeps moving, more deliberate now, like he’s guiding you into sleep.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, barely above a whisper. “Go to sleep, sweetheart.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

Jason stops reading altogether once he realizes you’re gone. He sets the book aside carefully, like it might wake you if it makes too much noise.

He doesn’t move after that.

Just stays there with you tucked into his arms, scratching your back in slow, steady motions—protective, patient. Like he’s guarding something precious.

Because he is.

He presses a soft kiss to your temple, resting his cheek against your hair.

Safe. Warm. Home.

And for once, Jason Todd lets himself stay still.

₊˚⊹⋆ don’t let me talk to you like that ft. rafe cameron

── .✦ lovebug!reader x frat!rafe cameron

💭this was based off a request, hope u like it :)

| navi. | masterlist. |

The kitchen smells like garlic and butter and something sweet you can’t quite place—probably the honey you drizzled over the carrots because Rafe likes when they’re “a little fancy.”

You’re standing barefoot on the cool tile, oversized Cameron fraternity hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair pulled into a messy bun. The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint thump of music from the neighbour’s place.

Rafe’s in the living room, phone in hand, recording one of those stupid Snapchat stories he’s always posting. You can hear his voice drifting over the counter.

“Yeah, bro, I’m telling you, she’s got me domesticated,” he laughs. “Like—bitch, what’s for dinner?”

You freeze.

The wooden spoon stops mid-stir. The word hangs in the air like smoke. You know he’s joking. He always jokes. You’ve heard his frat boy humour, the sarcasm, the teasing. But something about the word—sharp, ugly—hits you wrong.

You swallow and keep stirring, quieter now. “Um,” you murmur, barely loud enough for him to hear, “roast beef. And, uh, carrots.”

There’s a pause. Then footsteps.

You feel him before you see him. He moves fast, phone lowering, grin gone, brows knitting together like he’s trying to rewind the moment in his head.

“Hey,” he says softly.

You glance over your shoulder. “What?”

He’s just… staring at you. Like you said something that cracked him open. His jaw flexes, eyes flicking to the pot, then back to you.

“Did that bother you?” he asks.

You hesitate. You hate confrontation. You hate making people feel bad. So you shrug, small. “It’s fine. I know you were kidding.”

He steps closer, leaning against the counter beside you. He smells like his cologne and beer and the outside air. He doesn’t look drunk—just thoughtful, like his brain caught up with his mouth a second too late.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he mutters.

You try to smile. “Rafe, it’s okay.”

He shakes his head immediately. “No. It’s not.”

You turn off the stove and set the spoon down, finally facing him fully. He’s serious in that way that makes your chest tighten—the way he gets when he’s trying to fix something before it breaks.

“You better not ever let me talk to you like that,” he says, voice low. “You hear me?”

Your fingers curl into the sleeves of his hoodie. “Rafe—”

“I’m serious.” He steps closer, hands on the counter on either side of you, but not trapping you—just grounding himself. “You should smack the shit outta me if I ever call you that. Or talk to you like that. I don’t care if I’m joking.”

You blink. “I’m not gonna hit you.”

“Yeah, you are,” he insists, eyes intense. “Or you’re gonna call me out. Or walk away. Something. Don’t just stand there and take it.”

You didn’t realize how quiet you’d gone until he says it. You’ve always been quiet. Soft-spoken. The girl who apologizes too much, who lets people joke a little too far because you don’t want to be dramatic.

He watches you like he’s scared you’ll disappear into yourself if he blinks.

“Do you understand?” he asks.

Your throat feels tight. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t believe you. “Say it again.”

You meet his eyes, really meet them this time. “Yeah. I understand.”

He exhales, shoulders dropping like he’s been holding something in. Then his hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing under your eye.

“I would never want you to think that’s how I see you,” he murmurs. “You’re… you’re everything to me. You’re too soft for that shit. And I’m too fucking lucky.”

Your chest aches in that warm, tender way. “You’re not that bad,” you whisper.

He scoffs lightly, but his eyes stay soft. “Yeah, I am. That’s why I need you to keep me in check. Don’t ever let me get comfortable disrespecting you. Promise me.”

You nod, lips trembling into a small smile. “I promise.”

He leans in and presses his forehead to yours, breathing you in. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you into him gently, like he’s afraid you’re made of glass.

“Dinner smells good,” he whispers.

You laugh quietly. “You just emotionally traumatized yourself and now you’re hungry?”

He kisses your temple. “I can do both.”

You relax into his chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the weight of him against you. Frat parties, loud friends, stupid jokes—that’s part of Rafe. But so is this: the boy who hates the idea of hurting you more than anything.

“Next time,” you murmur, “I’m charging you for emotional damage.”

He chuckles, squeezing you tighter. “Worth it.”

₊˚⊹⋆ when the storm finally breaks ft. rafe cameron

── .✦ ex!rafe cameron x reader

💭hope this is okay, i haven’t actually watch it yetttt, but i might soon. (i’ve got so many things on my watchlist🫩)

! not proof-read

| navi. | masterlist. |

It’s raining like the sky is personally offended.

The kind of rain that soaks through clothes in seconds, that slicks the pavement and blurs the world into something smaller, sharper. You’re halfway across the parking lot when you hear your name.

Not called.

Shouted.

You stop anyway. You always do.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

You turn slowly, heart already in your throat. Rafe stands a few feet back, hair plastered to his forehead, shirt darkened and clinging like he hasn’t even noticed the weather. His jaw is tight, eyes wild in that familiar way that used to mean everything.

You swallow. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snaps, taking a step closer. “You always know when I’m around.”

The rain drums between you, loud enough to feel like it’s filling the space where words should go. You fold your arms, not for warmth — for armor.

“I’m not doing this with you,” you say. “Not again.”

Rafe laughs, sharp and humorless. “Funny. You were always doing this with me. That was the problem.”

That hits. It always does.

“You left,” you say, voice trembling despite your best effort. “You don’t get to show up months later and act like—”

“Like what?” he cuts in. “Like I didn’t think about you every damn day?”

He’s closer now. Too close. You can smell the rain, the salt in the air, him. Your chest tightens.

“Rafe—”

“No.” His voice cracks, just barely. “No, you don’t get to shut this down. You walked out when I was falling apart and you wanna know the sickest part?”

Your breath catches.

“I let you,” he continues, rain dripping off his lashes. “I watched you go because I thought… I thought if I loved you enough, I’d stop ruining you.”

That stops you cold.

“I wasn’t ruining you,” you whisper.

“You were loving me,” he says fiercely. “And I didn’t know how to hold that without breaking it.”

Silence crashes heavier than the rain.

You laugh weakly, tears mixing with water on your cheeks. “So what, this is your big realization? You show up soaked and angry and suddenly you’ve figured it out?”

Rafe steps right into your space now. “I’ve always known,” he says, voice low and raw. “I just didn’t think I deserved you knowing it too.”

Your chest aches. “You hurt me.”

“I know.” His eyes shine. “And it kills me.”

The rain pours harder, relentless. Your hands curl at your sides, fighting the urge to reach for him — the urge you’ve been fighting since the day you left.

“I loved you,” you say softly. “I loved you when it was hard. When it was ugly.”

“I still do,” he blurts, like it’s been clawing its way out of him. “I love you so much it makes me angry. I hate that you’re still the first person I want when everything goes wrong.”

Your breath stutters.

“I tried to move on,” he continues, words tumbling now. “Tried to forget the way you laugh, the way you used to hold my face like I was something worth saving. I can’t. I never stopped being yours.”

The rain feels like it’s pressing in on you, the world narrowing to just the two of you.

“You broke my heart,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says again, softer this time. “But I’m standing here anyway. In the rain. Like an idiot. Because if I don’t tell you now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

He hesitates, then reaches out — stopping just short of touching you. Giving you the choice.

“I don’t need forgiveness,” Rafe says quietly. “I just need you to know… leaving you was the worst mistake I ever made.”

Your resolve shatters.

You grab his shirt, fingers twisting in the soaked fabric as a sob tears out of you. Rafe exhales like he’s been holding his breath for months and pulls you into him, arms wrapping tight, desperate.

“I’m so mad at you,” you cry into his chest.

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead pressing to yours. “Be mad. Just don’t walk away.”

The kiss happens like it’s inevitable — angry, messy, rain-soaked. It tastes like tears and unfinished sentences, like I never stopped loving you finally said out loud.

When you pull back, breathless, Rafe rests his forehead against yours.

“I’ll fight for you,” he promises. “Every day. If you’ll let me.”

You close your eyes, rain sliding down your lashes.

“Don’t make me regret this,” you whisper.

He smiles — small, real, terrified. “Never again.”

₊˚⊹⋆ still watching you ft. dick grayson

── .✦ bodyguard!dick grayson x rockstar!reader

| navi. | dc masterlist. |

Dick Grayson didn’t hate you.

That was the lie he told himself during the first week.

You were just—

Too loud. Too bright. Too unpredictable.

Your laugh echoed through hallways that were supposed to be cleared and controlled. You spoke to everyone like they mattered. You wore ripped fishnets and glitter eyeliner to security briefings like it was a personal challenge.

“You can’t crowd surf,” Dick said for the fourth time that night, headset buzzing as the venue lights dimmed.

You glanced over your shoulder mid-warmup, grinning. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m not here to be fun,” he snapped.

“Yeah,” you said easily. “That’s obvious.”

He rolled his eyes, jaw tight. Bruce had framed this as a simple assignment. Keep an eye on the rockstar. Make sure no one gets close enough to hurt her. Get in, get out.

But you weren’t a static target. You were motion. Emotion. Chaos wrapped in leather and sound.

And worst of all—

You looked at him like you trusted him.

It was subtle at first. The way your eyes flicked to him before stepping onto a stage. The way you waited for his nod before meeting fans. The way your shoulders relaxed when you spotted him in the wings.

He told himself it was professional pride.

Until it wasn’t.

⸻

The first crack happened after a show in Berlin.

You came offstage shaking—not from adrenaline, but something heavier. Your smile faded the second the dressing room door closed, hands trembling as you dropped into a chair.

Dick noticed immediately.

“Hey,” he said quietly, crouching in front of you without thinking. “What happened?”

You swallowed. “Someone grabbed me. Security missed it.”

His chest went tight. Hot.

“Where.”

You pointed. He stood too fast, anger coiling sharp and dangerous—but your hand caught his wrist.

“Don’t,” you whispered. “Please. I just… sit with me?”

He froze.

Then, slowly, he sat beside you on the floor, back against the wall, close enough that your knees brushed.

You leaned into him. Just slightly.

And Dick—trained, controlled, unshakeable Dick Grayson—felt something in his chest shift.

From that night on, he stopped pretending this was just a mission.

⸻

He learned the meanings behind your tattoos because he asked.

The lyrics on your ribs that you wrote after losing someone.

The tiny star behind your ear that reminded you where you came from.

The messy heart on your wrist that you got drunk at nineteen because “I wanted something permanent that proved I survived.”

“You ever regret any of them?” he asked one night, hotel curtains open to a sleeping city.

You shook your head. “They remind me I’m still here.”

He looked at you for a long moment before saying, “Yeah. I get that.”

And you did something that wrecked him completely.

You reached out and squeezed his hand.

⸻

The mission ended quietly.

Too quietly.

Bruce told him it was done. Threat neutralized. No further protection required.

Dick nodded. Said “understood.” Did what he always did.

But when he watched you walk away at the airport, guitar case slung over your shoulder, he felt like someone had taken something vital out of his chest and left him breathing anyway.

He didn’t text you that night.

Or the next.

He lasted six days.

Dick:

You good?

You replied instantly.

You:

Was wondering how long you’d last.

He stared at the screen, heart pounding.

Dick:

Just checking in.

You:

Sure you are, bodyguard.

But you kept talking. About shows. About bad coffee. About nights where the stage felt too big and the hotel rooms felt too empty.

And Dick stayed.

He stayed because he wanted to.

Because he cared.

Because somewhere along the line, you’d stopped feeling like a responsibility and started feeling like home.

⸻

When you came back to Gotham for the charity concert, you didn’t ask if he’d be there.

You just hoped.

And when you spotted him near the barricade, arms folded, eyes locked on you like the world narrowed when you were in it—you almost forgot the lyrics.

After rehearsal, you found him on the rooftop, city wind tugging at his hair.

“You didn’t have to come,” you said softly.

He didn’t look at you. “I know.”

Silence stretched.

“Dick,” you said. “Why are you still here?”

He exhaled sharply, finally turning to face you. “Because I don’t know how to stop.”

Your heart stuttered.

“I tell myself I’m checking for threats. That I’m being careful. But the truth is—” His voice cracked, barely. “I think about you all the time.”

You stepped closer.

“You don’t have to protect me anymore.”

“I know,” he whispered. “And that’s what scares me.”

You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing the edge of his jaw.

“I don’t want you because you’re watching my back,” you said. “I want you because you see me.”

His forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been in love with you since Berlin,” he admitted quietly. “And I didn’t know how to say it without ruining everything.”

Your lips curved, eyes shining. “You didn’t.”

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Gentle. Like something fragile you both wanted to keep.

He kissed you back like he’d been holding his breath for months—and finally let himself breathe.

When you pulled away, he smiled, soft and real.

“So,” you murmured. “Still watching me?”

“Always,” he said. “Just not from the shadows anymore.”

₊˚⊹⋆ inked in meaning ft. jason todd

── .✦ tattoo!artist jason todd x reader

| navi. | dc masterlist. |

💭i didn’t actually come up with tattoo artist jason todd originally it was @bloomcissa so credit to them but i do really love the character so hope you enjoy x

Jason’s gloves snap softly against his wrist as he pulls them on, the sound familiar enough that it settles you instantly. You’re already stretched out on the chair, sleeve of your hoodie pushed up, skin prepped and waiting.

“You comfortable?” he asks, voice low, gentle—so different from the gruff way he talks to walk-ins.

You nod. “Always am with you.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, eyes flicking up to meet yours before focusing back on your arm. Jason’s studio smells faintly of antiseptic and coffee, the walls cluttered with flash art and half-finished sketches. It’s his space—him—and you love being here more than you’ll ever admit.

As he positions your arm just right, his thumb brushes over the tattoo already inked near your wrist. A small constellation. He pauses.

“You never told me what this one meant,” he says casually, like he hasn’t been wondering for weeks.

You tilt your head, smiling. “You ask that every time.”

“Yeah,” he admits, glancing up again. “One day you’re gonna answer.”

The machine buzzes to life, steady and familiar. Jason’s focus locks in immediately, shoulders relaxed, movements precise. You watch him work, the way his brows furrow slightly in concentration, the way he wipes excess ink with practiced care.

After a moment, you sigh. “Okay. The stars?”

“Mhm.”

“They’re the night my life started feeling… mine,” you say softly. “Not perfect. Just—better. Like I could breathe again.”

Jason’s hand stills for half a second before continuing. His jaw tightens, but his voice stays even. “That tracks.”

You glance down at him. “You gonna psychoanalyze the rest too?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “Occupational hazard.”

You laugh, the vibration of it grounding you as the needle continues its work. Your skin stings, but it’s the good kind of pain—the kind you chose.

His eyes drift to another tattoo higher up your arm: delicate script looping just beneath your elbow.

“And this one,” he murmurs. “I know it’s not just for aesthetics.”

You swallow. “It’s my mum’s handwriting.”

Jason exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Thought so.”

You watch his grip soften, the way his touch somehow becomes gentler without losing precision. He doesn’t say I’m sorry. He never does—not when he knows it doesn’t help. Instead, his thumb presses reassuringly against your skin when he wipes away the ink.

Minutes pass in comfortable silence until he nods toward the new stencil waiting just below your shoulder.

“Wanna tell me about this one before I permanently brand you?” he asks.

You smile at the word brand. “It’s a reminder.”

“Of?”

“Of choosing myself,” you say. “Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”

Jason hums thoughtfully. “Damn. You’re gonna make me emotional while I’m holding a needle. That’s dangerous.”

You grin. “You love it.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I do.”

When the session ends, he leans back, pulling his gloves off and inspecting his work. The new ink is perfect—clean lines, soft shading, exactly what you pictured.

He meets your eyes. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice warm. “You always make it feel safe.”

Something flickers in his expression—something tender and unguarded. Jason presses a kiss to the side of your arm, right beside the fresh tattoo, careful not to touch the ink.

“Every piece you get,” he says quietly, “it’s like I get to know you a little more.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together. “Guess I’ll just have to keep coming back.”

A slow smile spreads across his face. “Funny,” he says. “Was hoping you’d say that.”