The Complete Nightwing (Pre-52)

The Complete Nightwing (Pre-52)

Google Drive link and Complete List of Nightwing Issues and Extras under the cut.

(Please let me know if you want me to upload anything else)

Link to Google Drive

Other references: Post-Crisis Dick Grayson timeline by @bitimdrake

Other Google Drive Links:

New Teen Titans

Titans Vol. 1

Outsiders Vol. 3

Titans Vol. 2

See also (lists only, drive not yet uploaded):

Complete Chronological List of Pre-52 Batman storylines and collected editions

Complete list of Batman Vol. 1 issues (1986–2011)

Complete list of Pre-52 Detective Comics (1986–2011)

Complete list of Shadow of the Bat Vol. 1 (1992–2000)

Complete list of Legends of the Dark Knight Vol. 1 issues & issue collections

Complete list of Gotham Knights Vol. 1 (2000–2006)

Complete list of Batman Mini-series (1986–2011)

Complete List of Batman One-Shots

Complete list of Streets of Gotham Vol. 1 issues (2009–2011)

Complete List of The Batman Chronicles Vol. 1 (1995–2001)

Complete List of Batman Elseworlds stories

Complete List of Pre-52 Batgirl issues

Quick tip for anyone who is new to comics or who is not new to comics, but hasn't put enough effort into reading them yet:

You can NOT be a Cassandra's fan if you haven't read Batgirl (2000) & Batgirl (2009)

You can NOT be a Jason's fan if you haven't read "Batman: Under the Hood" & "Red Hood: Lost Days"

You can NOT be a Damian's fan if you haven't read "Robin: Son of Batman" & "Batman & Robin (2011)"

Not only are all 6 of these books really great reads on their own right that can be enjoyed by all readers, but they also define these 3 characters and reading all of them them is essential for understanding them, so if you haven't already, go read them!

Wounds

Commission for @self-deprecating-possum

Wordcount: 3,370 words Pairing: AK!Jason Todd x GN!reader Warnings: Physical assault, kidnapping

You were once abducted by the Scarecrow. Now you found yourself at the hands of another one of Gotham's criminals.

No matter what you did, you couldn’t forget that night. The night Scarecrow abducted you. 

Even though you were desperate to forget it, your brain latched onto it in a cruel act of self-preservation. Crystalline memories haunted you, seared into your mind, encroaching on your everyday life. Every time your mind wandered, there they were, taking hold of you and dragging you backwards. Back into the dark, kicking and screaming. So desperately did you want to forget — you would have given anything — but your mind was never so forgiving. 

You remembered the way he sent someone else to do the abduction. Some lowlife lackey who most-likely chose you at random out of the handful of strangers on the subway car heading for Miagani Island. The man who followed you off the subway at your stop, which led to you hearing a second set of footsteps just behind yours as you made your way down the desolate tunnel. 

You remembered way you picked up your pace gradually, not wanting to look paranoid at first, and how the speed of the man behind you changed to match yours. The way that by the time you had begun near-sprinting for the stairs leading up to the street — the unforeseen sanctuary of Gotham’s lit streets only steps away — it was too late. You remembered the man grabbing your hair, tugging you backwards with such force that the pain made you breathless, before an arm curled around your torso. Then a cloth pressed up against your face. Then blackness.

It was the middle of the night; you should have known better. At least that was what you kept telling yourself. 

You remembered waking up in what appeared to be a warehouse, though there was nothing identifiable to determine exactly where in the city you were. If you were even in the city. Though with how dilapidated the place was, you had a pretty good hunch that you still were. 

You remembered how you weren’t alone. Several others were there with you, regaining consciousness at different times, all tied to chairs just like you were. You awoke to the sound of their mumbling. Whimpering. Muffled cries of fear from gagged mouths. None of you could say a word to each other. None of you could provide each other any comfort, ease the agonizing anticipation of whatever was to happen to you. Not a single one of you knew why you were there, but you were certain that everyone else was thinking the same thing you were — why me?

You remembered the way your heart pounded in your chest with such intensity that it stung, feeling each beat radiate up your throat. You could hear it in your ears, as if your body was trying to tune-out the sound of all that surrounded you. 

And you remembered Scarecrow. You never paid much mind to the whereabouts of any of the city’s most notorious criminals. There were too many to keep track of, and you weren’t one to live your life in fear of them. The irony of that made you sick. 

You had heard that he was left horribly disfigured after an encounter with Killer Croc, whispers amongst fellow Gothamites about him having his face reconstructed to look intentionally grotesque. Seeing him in-person not only confirmed the rumors, but made you realize that they were an understatement. You had seen him referred to as the self-proclaimed “Master of Fear” on news ticker tapes; even without his use of nightmare-inducing hallucinogens, his face alone fit the bill. 

It was only after he began speaking, circling each of his victims like a hawk targeting its prey, that you noticed the IV hooked up to your arm. 

He explained that you were all to be his test subjects. How this was one of his first trials for his new fear toxin. How the last group of test subjects didn’t live long after being injected, but that he hoped this refined formula yielded better results. His voice shook you to your core. It was calm, calculating. That made it worse. 

One by one, he lurched over to each abductee, connecting bags of orange solution to each of their IVs, and one by one they fell victim to its effects. Their muffled screams fueled your fear, panicked cries escaped you as you prayed for someone to save you. 

And just as Scarecrow had given you your dose, someone did. Batman and Robin, just a second too late — they were the last thing you remembered. You expected fear to wash over you, but instead, everything went blank. 

You had spent months comatose in the hospital. You were told that you should consider yourself lucky. The toxin had been flushed from your system and you were spared from the fate of the others Scarecrow had injected. Had Batman and Robin arrived any later, you would have died like everyone else. You wished you could feel as lucky as you were.

The physical recovery process was nothing compared to the mental one — an ongoing battle that you still found yourself fighting. It got easier to live with the trauma over time, but the wounds were still there. Healing slowly, your mind’s remembrance of that night often tearing at the scabs and drawing flesh blood, causing the process to start over. 

It took what felt like ages to find someone who understood — truly understood — what it felt like to live that way. To have to piece yourself back together, picking up fragments of yourself as you navigated the world with newfound apprehension. 

How funny it was to find someone who had suffered at the hands of one of Gotham’s criminals like you did. One would think it would be a common enough occurrence in a place like Gotham, but with a population of 6.3 million people, it was easy to feel alone. 

Jason’s wounds were deeper than yours, tortured by the Joker for over a year in an abandoned wing of Arkham Asylum. You couldn’t even imagine what that must have been like. The fear he felt. The pain. The hopelessness. It was when you met him that you finally did consider yourself lucky. His body told his story, a branded ‘J’ under his left eye announcing a troubled past to everyone he met. You knew that he, too, was unable to forget. How could he?

It was because of his own past that he was so gentle with you, and you always returned the favor. Every flashback, every intrusive thought, every anxiety attack — you were there for each other. He knew how to navigate your trauma in a way that nobody else could. He knew what boundaries to never cross, what soothed you. Despite the way he carried himself, with unwavering brashness, he was always so soft in your presence. 

Every time your wounds were torn back open, he was there to aid in the healing. Sturdier than any suture, he held you together. 

Your paranoia was often unwarranted, though you figured it was better to be safe than sorry. If there was anything you had learned the hard way, it was that you can never be too careful. Not in Gotham. Though your life had thankfully gone without incident since your abduction, as far as you were concerned, you were living on borrowed time. 

You had only just left your apartment after scrambling to get ready for a date with Jason. You were running late, and had plans to meet at the restaurant around the block for dinner. After not seeing each other for a few days, you were looking forward to it. It wasn’t a far walk, and it was still light enough out to where the streets were still bustling with life. You convinced yourself it was safe, and for the most-part, it was. Your luck had just run out. 

Before you knew it, you were dragged into the alleyway beside your apartment building by a man who looked like he had affiliations with Two Face. Clearly he wasn’t paying his henchmen enough. He slammed you against the wall behind the set of dumpsters that lined the building’s exterior wall. You let out an instinctive whimper as pain shot through your back as it collided with the brick. 

The man looked into your panic-stricken eyes with such callousness, you weren’t sure if he was doing this to survive or for his own pleasure. Though you weren’t sure of anything. Your mind raced at such a speed that you could hardly keep up with it, misfiring short bursts of incoherent thoughts. 

This couldn't be happening again.

You let out a small pitiful “please” before his hand covered your mouth, knife suddenly pressed against your throat. You whimpered again, breathing becoming erratic at the feeling of the cold blade against your skin. “You’re gonna shut up and give me everything worthwhile in that bag, got it?” he demanded, his voice gruff and cold. His body was so close to yours that you could feel his breath on your skin as he spoke. 

Surely people had to have seen you. Someone had to notice you get dragged into the alley. Help should have come, but then why would it? Gothamites were self-serving by nature. It was best not to get involved in these types of things. You never knew where they might lead, or who you’d be making enemies with. 

You fumbled around in your bag, not moving your head even slightly out of fear that the knife would press further into your skin, and pulled out your wallet. All you could think of was how badly you wanted to be freed from this situation; to be on your way to the restaurant, as torn up as you were, calling Jason and explaining what had happened. 

The man withdrew both of his hands and grabbed the wallet, dark eyes flicking back up at you with aggravation when you didn’t reach back into your bag. “What, you ain’t got a phone?” 

Your heart nearly leapt from your chest, and suddenly something in your mind seemed to snap. You felt it — the exact moment that all inhibitions were lost to your fear. 

In an instant, you were reminded of how you wouldn’t be able to call Jason. You wouldn’t be able to call anyone. You’d lose what felt like your only connection to the world. It wasn’t, but in that moment, it were as if your brain were irrationally latching onto the concept of your phone’s significance. A million anxiety-fueled questions were brought to your attention, inescapable questions that demanded answers. How would you call Jason, or the police? How would you afford a new one? Would this man use the information on your phone against you? Would he make use of your photos? Your contacts? Would he be able to find you again? The most irrational of all, your trauma crafting creative scenarios in which to paralyze you — what if you were abducted again?

You cried erratically, at full volume, unable to control yourself. You begged in incomplete sentences — something you couldn’t do the last time you found yourself a victim. Though the danger of this situation wasn’t on the same level, your body did not discriminate. 

You raised your shaking hands defensively as you pleaded. “Please— I— I don’t have the money to— I can’t—“ 

The man cautiously looked to the end of the alleyway before turning back to you and harshly grabbing your face. “You’re gonna shut up before I make you shut up. Give me your phone. Now.” 

You reluctantly reached into your bag, doing at least one of the two things asked of you. But you couldn’t stay quiet. Once you started crying, you just couldn’t stop. That might have been your savings grace. 

The man snatched the phone from your hand just as it barely left your bag and stuffed it into his pocket, but just as he did, you spotted someone coming down the alleyway. You could only make out a silhouette, his footsteps quiet, and for a moment you feared that it was another one of Two Face’s henchmen or someone else taking advantage of your vulnerability. His footsteps were quiet, but your fixation on him made the man in front of you turn around. 

The knife fell from your throat, and as the mysterious form moved closer, you realized that it was Jason. 

You spoke his name, voice violently trembling — an indirect plea for help — but before you could say more, the criminal lunged at him with the knife. You screamed, hands instinctively flying up as you flinched. 

Jason was quick to disarm him, and you were pretty sure you heard the distinct sound of bone crunching as Jason gripped his wrist and twisted it unnaturally. Jason fought with such ferocity, an anger in his eyes that you had never seen before. He slammed the man into the dumpster beside you, the sound of his body colliding with the metal echoed through the alleyway. You jolted, nerves fried. 

Jason stood just before the man, glaring him down. He kept a firm hand on his chest, gripping his shirt. “You give me what you took or I swear to God I will kill you and take it anyway.”

Reeling in pain from his likely-broken wrist, the man spoke through gritted teeth. “N-no way man.” Jason scowled. “Who do you think you are anyway, huh?”

Jason didn’t appreciate his defiance. He was going to make him realize that your phone and wallet were not worth the pain he was in for. 

He sighed sarcastically and shrugged, an heir of casualness laced the words he spoke. “Suit yourself.” 

His fist collided with the man’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of him and sending him to the floor with a yelp. And Jason continued — kicking him over and over, with unrelenting fierceness that made it clear that this was personal. That nobody was to violate you or your boundaries, jeopardize your safety, or they would suffer violent consequences. You had been through so much, he knew how you suffered, and could not stand the idea of anything more being done to you. You deserved peace.

The man finally retreated, frantically pleading for Jason to stop before returning your belongings. Jason was courteous enough to let him run off, bruised and beaten — a blow to his ego that hopefully prevented him from seeking revenge. 

Your body buzzed as adrenaline began to wear off, watching the man scramble down the alleyway, back out to Gotham’s bustling nightlife that would pay him no mind or sympathy. You slid down the wall, mind blank, and curled your knees up to your chest as a means of self-soothing. You rubbed your neck, checking for any sign of injury, and watched silently as Jason gently picked your belongings up off the ground. 

The man before you was completely different than the one you had just seen. His face softened at the sight of you, his eyes alone disclosing his pity. His empathy was clear in the way he moved — slow and cautious, as if not to startle you. He could see the toll this took on you, your eyes glazed over your lip trembling as you tried to withhold your cries. Though that was all you wanted to do. 

Your thoughts felt fragmented, the world around you nothing more than a hum — unimportant background noise you couldn’t be bothered to pay any mind to. Yet you felt so overstimulated at the same time. If anything were loud enough to cut through, it’d feel like a defribulator to the chest, thrusting you back into reality, heart pounding. 

The feeling felt so familiar. 

You felt as if all the progress you had made had been undone. All your fear, all your precautions — they all ultimately meant nothing. You weren’t sure if you could handle that. 

Jason sat beside you, leaving a bit of space between you. He tilted his head to get a good look at you, brows furrowed over glassy eyes. “Did he hurt you?” he asked. His voice was soft, every word laced with concern. 

You were spiraling, but the sound of his voice was enough to bring you back, just enough. 

You removed your hand from your neck and shook your head — a knee-jerk response. Jason nodded. “Good.” 

He granted you the courtesy of a moment of silence for you to decide what to do next. He wanted you to feel in control. He knew that was important. Though it did not take you long to throw yourself into his arms. Gotham’s undertow was deep and forceful, and you clung to Jason like he was the only thing preventing you from getting swept up in its current. Though the salt of its tides stung your freshly torn wounds, Jason’s warmth offered you relief. 

He rubbed your back, letting out soothing shushes between affirmations that the nightmare was over. “It’s okay,” he told you. “I got you.” 

He held you in his arms with an ardent desperation that nearly matched your own, as if he felt guilty for not getting there just a bit sooner, trying to rectify that fact by putting every ounce of energy into consoling you. 

You pulled away when you were ready. “I’m so glad you found me,” you sobbed, wiping remaining tears from your face. “Why were you even here?”

“I texted you and told you I was gonna meet you here instead,” Jason noted. A distinct tremble was evident in his voice as he continued. “I heard crying in the alley as I walked by…” 

“I was running late and I—“ didn’t look at my phone was the rest of the sentence, but the words didn’t come. Instead, only the sound of your unsteady breathing escaped you. If only you had looked. If only you managed your time better. If only— 

“Hey,” Jason’s voice brought you back again. He could see the panic in your eyes. “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”

He placed a hand on your cheek, keeping you grounded with his touch and your head steady so that your eyes could remain locked on his. His words were spoken with adamant sincerity. “I’m just glad I came.” 

Silence fell over you again as Jason’s hand fell from your face. He reached into his jacket pocket, collecting your wallet and phone, and quietly handed them back to you. You stared at them for a moment, almost resentful of their significance, and placed them back in your bag. “Thank you.”

A barely-noticeable smile appeared on Jason’s face, brief but earnest. “Of course.” 

You both sat there as you gradually returned to baseline. Jason quietly rubbed your back until you were ready to leave — ready to move on, but only physically. There was an unspoken understanding between you that moving on mentally would be a process, just as it was for you before. You would once again have to learn how to navigate the world. Once again find fragments of yourself. Though this time you would not be pieced back together so crudely. Jason would help you uncover those pieces as you would continue to help him uncover his. You would find each other, just as you had before, just as Jason had found you now. 

Tenderly, lovingly, he would help you heal, if only to witness the beauty of it. To see your wounds finally become scars, forever being a part of who you are, but fading into obscurity with time. That was all you wanted for each other.

Even if you were never able to forget a single grim detail of what occurred, you would remember Jason's actions as well. His protectiveness. His understanding. You would remember the panic you felt as you handed over your wallet, and Jason's softness as he returned it to you. You would remember the feeling of the man's breath on your skin as he made his demands, and the feeling of Jason's arms around you as you cried. You'd remember sitting on the cold asphalt of the alleyway, with Jason sitting right beside you for as long as you needed.

You'd remember that you would be okay. And you would heal. Together.

—all rights reserved to @monstrouslyobsessed​, the beastfolk character rough design for "Scar"/the scarred one + rough birb design concepts for my au with a funny sketch.

well, these were supposed to come out...yesterday, but my body said lol fek u. anyway, more doods for my beastfolk au, with "scar's" rough design and overall very basic ideas for the winged people anatomy.

the pieces featuring "scar": —ce'ce

Idc if you think "poor little meow meow" is annoying, it's not the same as "cinnamon roll/smol bean" and you KNOW this. Cinnamon roll and smol bean were cutesy complimentary words used to mean "precious" or "adorable." When I call someone a poor little meow meow I am embodying the essence of a wealthy victorian widow lifting the chin of a shivering street urchin with her cane.

I just wanna give him a good ✨MASSAGE✨ 😎😬🥴💦