#it’s the Jason Todd virus

[ishika-star]

Why can’t i find anything on Roy Harper. I’m half convinced that Roy is another Wes Weston where the entire fandom gaslit everyone into thinking he’s an actual canon character

[ghost-bxrd]

Jaytim spite fic:

Me: hm, how much innuendo can I fit in here without Jason catching on?

Brain: y e s

[fuckyesbrucewayne]

Insane tender moment from Joker: Year One...

[lady-luckk]

Can I get more magical girl content? I love magical girls so much :3

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ lights, glitter, action!!!

# pairings: yandere batfam x magical girl reader

# synopsis: you randomly fall out of the sky and into the arms of the batfamily. now you get to experience wacky adventures with them.

# warnings: this will contain dark themes such as obsession and possessiveness. if you are uncomfortable, please block me. viewer discretion is advised. minors DNI.

# notes: reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated!

thinking of a drabble about a magical girl (aka you) who crash-lands—quite literally—into gotham, face-first into a rooftop during a red hood stakeout. your transformation sequence sparks brighter than the bat-signal, and jason todd immediately points a gun at you before you finish your glittery intro pose. “i am celestia radiant, guardian of purity and—” click “you’ve got three seconds to explain the sparkles.”

“do not shoot that sparkly person,” dick grayson says through comms, voice full of older brother exhaustion. “that’s not a sentence i thought i’d say today, but here we are.”

you insist your wand only “dispels negativity,” which doesn’t go over well when you try to boop jason with it and his helmet actually falls off. “what the—kid, that thing costs more than your tiara.”

tim drake attempts to scan you with his tech. the scanner explodes in pink glitter. he blinks. “great. now my system’s infected with lisa frank malware.”

“i can sense your inner turmoil,” you tell him, solemnly. “do you even sleep?”

“define sleep.”

“when your soul regenerates through restful peace.”

“yeah, no. i run on coffee, spite, and childhood trauma.”

damian challenges you immediately and calls you “a delusional pastel distraction.” you politely deck him with a glitter beam. alfred bandages him while muttering, “perhaps don’t insult people with projectile sparkles next time.”

you enter the batcave and gasps, “so much repressed emotion... this place reeks of unhealed trauma!” bruce walks out of the shadows and deadpans, “welcome to gotham.”

dick pokes your wand, curious. it responds by turning into a cat. neither of them say anything. they just nod like this is normal.

bruce finally sits you down and says, “are you a threat?”

“only to sadness, injustice, and tight schedules.”

“...”

you’re officially listed in the batcomputer as “magical girl (?) – harmless (???) – very pink (confirmed).”

after months of you showing up to “aid gotham’s bravest hearts,” the batfam starts developing a crushing, all-consuming soft spot for you—like an airborne glitter virus of affection.

jason is furious about it.

“they’re weird, they’re loud, and they smells like vanilla cupcakes!”

“you mean the vanilla cupcakes you keep stealing from them?”

“THAT’S NOT THE POINT.”

dick develops a habit of dramatically appearing next to you with his shirt slightly torn. “oops, must’ve gotten grazed again. guess i need magical healing?”

“you’ve got twelve band-aids on and none of them are real wounds,” tim whispers.

“don’t ruin this for me.”

tim claims he’s above it all. “we don’t even know what dimension they’re from.”

“your made them a custom batphone,” jason says.

“for tactical reasons.”

“it’s shaped like a heart.”

“tactical. heartline security.”

damian insists he feels nothing. "you’re a distraction." but when you calls him “gallant” after he saves a kitten, he literally freezes. the kitten escapes. he doesn’t notice. he’s still staring.

bruce has, very clearly, stated:

“i don’t care about you personally.” completely straight-faced. like he’s reading a grocery list. everyone heard it. everyone quotes it.

and yet… every time you so much as glance at something remotely out of budget, he’s already pulled out his black card.

“i’m just funding mission efficiency,” he says.

“that’s a limited-edition 40th anniversary magical cow figure from meow meow doki.”

“you seemed interested. we might need it.”

you mention wanting snacks once during patrol. the next day, the cave fridge is stocked with every brand you’ve ever casually mentioned.

“it’s for team morale,” bruce says, not making eye contact.

“you bought six flavors of celestial-themed ice cream.”

“they were on sale.”

you say it’s cold in your room once.

bruce upgrades the entire manor’s heating system by the end of the day.

“old wiring,” he says. “dangerous.”

over time it becomes apparent that they’ve grown an unhealthy attachment towards you.

whenever dick spots you, he clings to you like he can't bear to be apart. he’ll throw his arm around your shoulders with a grin, holding you a little too tightly. “did you miss me?” he’ll ask, leaning in just a little too close as he whispers in your ear. you can feel the weight of his gaze even when he’s not looking directly at you

jason has a habit of “accidentally” touching you. when you're walking together, his fingers will brush against yours, lingering just a second longer than necessary. he’ll give you a low, almost inaudible chuckle when you flinch. “i know you don’t mind,” he’ll say with a wicked grin, his hand remaining a little too close to yours.

tim loves to stand behind you when you’re busy, too close for comfort. you’ll feel his breath on your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your back as he "casually" adjusts your chair. “just making sure you're comfortable,” he’ll say with a tone that feels like more than just a comment. when you turn around, he’s already walking away, as if he never meant to invade your space at all.

damian doesn’t shy away from showing his possessiveness. if you're out in public, he’ll stand a little too close to you, his presence always hovering just behind you like a shadow. sometimes, when you’re sitting, he’ll casually rest his hand on your knee, as if to remind you that you’re his responsibility. “stay close,” he’ll say, his voice unyielding.

bruce doesn't need to say much; his actions speak louder. he’ll touch your arm with a hand that's just firm enough to be a reminder. if you're sitting near him, he’ll make sure his leg brushes against yours, the slightest physical connection making it clear he's always aware of your presence. “are you comfortable?” he’ll ask, his gaze unreadable as if keeping you within his reach is the only thing that matters.

something that i've wondered was what people did during those long ass magical girl transformation.

imagine this: the city was in chaos. explosions echoed in the distance. the batboys were in the middle of a high-stakes battle against a villain whose name they still hadn’t quite figured out, but who was throwing around enough toxins and lasers to give gotham a new reason to be paranoid.

dick was leaping from wall to wall, trying to outmaneuver the villain’s henchmen. jason was head-butting a wall, making sure no one tried to flank them. tim was hacking into a control panel, eyes flicking between screens like a caffeinated squirrel. damian was already fighting the villain head-on, his sword clashing against their armor.

then, a voice crackled over the comms, interrupting the chaos:

“hey guys, be ready—i’m just finishing my transformation!”

everyone freezes. like someone hit pause on the action.

dick paused mid-flip, hanging from a ceiling beam. “wait—did they just say ‘transformation?’”

jason’s fist was raised, but he didn’t punch, staring at the comms like he’d been told the laws of physics were invalid. “they’re really doing this now?”

tim blinked. “are they seriously transforming? right in the middle of all this?”

damian, standing with his sword poised and looking perfectly ready to end the villain’s reign, sighed audibly. “this is… highly inefficient.”

but he didn’t move a muscle. not even to attack. he was waiting.

bruce, who had been silently observing the chaos and directing the others via comms, sighed too—his voice just low enough to avoid detection. “if we’re waiting, then wait. no need to rush this. hold positions. let’s see how long this takes.”

there was no mistaking it. he was as much a part of this ridiculous ritual as everyone else.

the villain, who had been watching the absurdity unfold, narrowed their eyes. “what are they doing? are they—waiting? are they—really pausing for a transformation?” the villain scoffed, clearly annoyed by the delay.

they pointed a glowing gauntlet at the group. “you’re all pathetic!”

but the batboys? completely unmoved. they were all still. all waiting. they were locked in place, every one of them silently enduring this ridiculous delay.

jason, gritting his teeth, turned to face the villain for the first time in a few minutes. “we’d love to keep fighting, but... you know. waiting on them.”

tim, flipping through some data on his wrist computer, half-checked out. “i’ll just optimize our schedule for the next one, but... they better have a good reason for this.”

dick was already making a list of things he could do during the wait. "i mean, it’s a whole process. at least we get a breather."

the villain, becoming increasingly frustrated, clenched their fists and began pacing. “no. i will not wait any longer!”

they leveled their weapon toward the batboys, preparing for an attack—but they didn’t move. everyone stood frozen—the batboys too disciplined to break formation, and you?

still getting ready.

there was another long pause. the villain shot a glare at bruce, who was calmly scanning the room, not even bothering to acknowledge the interruption. “are you all seriously letting this happen?” the villain snapped, voice rising. “i can’t believe i’m waiting on—”

and then it happened.

the unmistakable sound of sparkles filled the air. a soft chime echoed through the comms.

“magical girl transformation, initiate!”

dick’s eyes practically sparkled. “here it comes…”

jason let out a low groan, leaning back against a pillar. “this better be good.”

tim was frantically refreshing his mental list of everything he’d need to do to process this information later.

damian folded his arms and glared at the villain. “this delay better be worth it.”

there was a soft flash, a trail of glitter, and—there you were. in your full magical girl outfit, sparkling like a dream—the colors bright, the fabric catching the light, and your transformation complete in all its glory.

there was an awkward silence.

jason blinked, covered in what was still residual glitter from the earlier mishap. “okay, that... took a little longer than i thought.”

tim let out a long sigh. “i swear, the next time we’re scheduling this—everyone gets a 30-second limit.”

“done!” you announced, twirling dramatically. “let’s do this!”

bruce stared at you with a level of composure that barely hid his tiny sigh of approval.

“...now, we can continue.”

dick, ever the dramatic one, clapped. “absolutely worth it.”

jason just groaned and rolled his eyes, but the tiniest hint of a smile twitched on his lips.

“yeah, yeah, but next time, let’s maybe—i don’t know—not do this during a fight?”

the villain, now fuming, was clearly done. “this is your strategy?” they snapped. “you’ve got to be kidding me!”

they swung their weapon, clearly intending to take you down—but the batboys weren’t having it anymore.

in perfect sync, they moved, attacking from all angles.

you, of course, were already ready, using your powers to effortlessly counter their attacks.

the fight lasted all of five minutes after that.

once the villain was down, the batboys stepped back, eyes on you. jason let out a snort. “well, that was... something.”

tim raised an eyebrow. “maybe next time we make a better schedule for these things?”

damian just crossed his arms. “you’d think after all these months, we’d learn not to wait for their transformation.”

dick, flashed a smile. “what can i say? it’s worth it.”

bruce, just muttered, “next time, no delays.”

you, oblivious to their frustration and somehow enjoying the chaos, smiled brightly. “i’m glad you guys handled it without me!”

the villain, now completely defeated and embarrassed, could only mumble as they were carted off. “i cannot believe i lost to these people.”

and the batboys? they’d just endured yet another ridiculous chapter in their lives with you. but they all secretly agreed on one thing.

no matter how much it annoyed them… they’d always wait for your magical girl transformation.

[wingfiled]

Gotham Drawl: Effective Under Duress

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader

Genre: Aggressive fluff

Warnings: Mild swearing, illness, mentions of past trauma

Word Count: 3.7K

Summary: Jason Todd has faced death, war, and worse - but a nasty case of the flu might be his greatest nemesis yet. Refusing to rest, he suits up in pyjamas and a helmet for a late-night patrol … only to beef it on a rooftop and get ratted out by Damian.

Part four of my Unfit for Duty series. Find the other parts here!

He says he’s fine.

Which, of course, is a goddamn lie.

Jason Todd says he’s fine the same way Gotham says it's “under control” - with blood in its teeth and a twitch in its left eye.

You find him exactly where you left him this morning: slouched on the couch like a fallen statue, half-buried in a mess of mismatched blankets he definitely didn’t fold himself. His hoodie is bunched up awkwardly around his ribs, one boot still on like he lost the will to finish the job halfway through. The coffee table looks like it got looted during a riot - bottles of cough syrup, fever meds, vitamin C tablets, and what is unmistakably an almost-empty bottle of whiskey with a half-peeled label.

And tissues.

God, the tissues.

Crushed into balls, some soggy, some flung like he was aiming for a bin and missed. One is tucked into the collar of his shirt like a sad little surrender flag.

You don’t even step inside at first. Just lean in the doorway, arms crossed, your coat still damp from Gotham’s signature mix of icy rain and godless wind. You stare. He glares.

“You’re sick,” you say flatly.

Jason grunts. It’s low, throaty, miserable. Not a word, just a noise. The same kind of noise he made the time you found him bleeding in an alley and he insisted, “It’s just a graze.” That graze needed seventeen stitches.

“That wasn’t English,” you deadpan. “Wanna try again, Shakespeare?”

He groans, dragging the blanket higher over his face like he can disappear if he just commits to the bit hard enough. “M’not sick.”

“Bullshit.” You kick off your boots with a thud and stalk in. “You sound like you gargled broken glass and washed it down with cement.”

“I’ve had worse,” he mutters, congested and hoarse, which only proves your point.

You snort. “That is not the flex you think it is.”

He glares at you again, red-eyed and fever-glossed. His nose is raw, his skin pale and waxy, and the faint sheen on his brow tells you he’s burning up. But the jaw? Still clenched in that signature Todd pride. Like being sick is some sort of weakness. Like letting someone see him this way might crack the street-tough armour he’s welded into his bones.

You’ve seen him shot. You’ve seen him bleed. You’ve seen him curled in bed after a nightmare so bad he couldn’t breathe, saying your name like it was the only thing tethering him back. But this - this flu? This refusal to admit he’s not invincible?

This is a different kind of stubborn.

“I’ve been stabbed and walked it off.”

“Yes, and now you’ve been felled by a virus like a Victorian orphan,” you mutter, crouching beside the couch. “What’s next, Jason? Consumption? A tragic monologue about the cruelty of fate?”

He sneezes like a cannon blast, then groans so loudly it echoes, sinking lower into the couch like death itself is pressing down on him.

You try - really try - not to laugh.

You press a knuckle to your lips, trying to contain the laugh. It bubbles up anyway.

Because it's Jason. Gotham’s snarling, brooding, trigger-happy avenger. The guy who once uppercut a man through drywall because he was “having a bad day.” The man who has more scars than healthy coping mechanisms. And here he is, drowning in DayQuil and denial.

He notices. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, absolutely.” You rise and grab the whiskey, eyeing the label. “Is this your idea of NyQuil?”

“It’s aged,” he rasps.

You give him a look. “So are your sinuses, apparently.”

He groans again, lower this time. The sound shudders through him like a dying engine. You move around the couch, lean down, and run your fingers through his hair. It’s sweat-damp and tangled, the strands sticking to his forehead.

“Jesus, Jay,” you whisper. “You’re burning up.”

He tries to shrug. “I run hot.”

You pause. The joke lands. But underneath it, there’s a quiet crackle of worry that burns in your chest.

He leans into your touch anyway, miserable and mutinous. The hoodie shifts as he moves, revealing a flash of skin beneath the hem, the scar that curls beneath his left side like a memory.

Your voice softens. “You should’ve called me.”

Jason’s gaze doesn’t quite meet yours. “Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Your jaw tightens. It’s not the first time he’s said something like that - some echo of the guilt that crawled home with him from every rooftop, every busted job, every failure he never really forgave himself for.

“You’re never a bother, Todd.”

He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You tilt his chin, gently, until he’s looking at you. “Like what? Human?”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Just breath. Shaky. Warm. A little desperate.

Then closes his eyes.

You see it now - not just the fever or the flu or the lingering ache behind his eyes. But the weight. The kind he’s always carrying, like if he lets go for even a second the whole city will collapse under him. He's tired. Not just flu-tired. Bone-tired. The kind that slips in when the adrenaline fades and all the armour cracks.

You kiss his temple. “Get under the blanket.”

“I am under the blanket.”

You roll your eyes. “Properly, Jason.”

Grumbling, he shifts, shedding the boot, then the hoodie, wincing as he tries to sit up. You help him, hands steady and warm, and he lets you. That alone says everything.

When he’s finally curled under the weight of the blanket, head in your lap, you brush the hair from his forehead and whisper, “You know you don’t have to be the strong one all the time, right?”

His voice is barely audible. “Don’t know how not to be.”

You lean down and kiss the words into his skin. “Then we’ll learn together.”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to.

His hand finds yours, callused fingers curling into your palm like a tether.

The chicken soup is non-negotiable.

Jason finds this out the hard way.

You walk in from the kitchen, one arm balancing a steaming bowl like a weapon of war, the other braced at your hip. There’s still a faint simmer of garlic and thyme in the air behind you, a warm curl of broth and heat clinging to your clothes. The second he spots you - eyes narrowed, lips chapped, hoodie half-zipped and one sock missing - he visibly regrets whatever plan he was hatching.

He’s halfway through a half-assed attempt at sitting up. Shirtless, hair a wreck, a tangle of blankets trailing behind him like the world’s saddest cape. There’s a bruise peeking from beneath his ribs and an empty tissue box balanced on the armrest like a throne of lies.

You take one look at him and scoff. “You are going to eat this.”

Jason squints at the bowl like it might bite. “That smells like guilt.”

“It smells like chicken and survival,” you correct, setting it down with a thunk that says I dare you. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

He groans, low and guttural, flopping back against the cushions with the kind of drama reserved for Shakespearean death scenes. “Sweetheart. Angel of my nightmares. I don’t need soup. I need a bazooka.”

“What you need is a thermometer, hydration, and to stop being a dramatic little bitch about it.”

He peeks out from beneath his forearm, fever-glazed eyes narrowed. “You used to love me.”

You kneel in front of the couch like you’re about to perform a citizen’s arrest. “I still love you. That’s why I’m threatening bodily harm if you don’t eat.”

He holds your stare, defiant. You’ve seen this exact expression before - the night you dragged him out of an alley with a shattered rib and a busted knuckle, and he still tried to drive his motorcycle home. That same stupid pride. That same aching, bruised tenderness beneath it.

“You wouldn’t hit a sick man,” he says, smirking just enough to make you want to roll your eyes clean out of your skull.

“Jason Todd, I have made grown men cry with words alone. Try me.”

The smirk falters. Briefly.

Then: “You gonna feed me, then?”

Your brow lifts. “You seriously trying to weaponise your man flu into hand-feeding?”

“Don’t got the upper body strength right now, doll. You gonna let me waste away in front of you like this?”

You sigh like the heavens themselves have failed you. Then you stab the spoon into the soup and lift it to his mouth. “Open up, crime prince.”

He grins, croaky and triumphant. “Y’know, there’s a joke in there-”

“Swallow it and live.”

He does. Grumbling like it’s a crime against humanity, but he swallows.

“Tastes like manipulation.”

“It tastes like not dying of influenza, you idiot.”

He tries not to enjoy it.

Fails.

By the third spoonful, the fight starts to fade. His shoulders slump. His lashes droop, sticking together from a low fever-sweat. He goes soft in that way he only ever does around you - half-lidded and heavy, his breathing evening out with every bite.

“You called Bruce yet?” he mumbles, slurring a little at the edges now.

You reach for your phone. “Was going to wait until you finished your soup so he wouldn’t hear you whining in the background.”

“I don’t whine.”

“You whined when I made you take your hoodie off.”

“That was tactical resistance.”

“You fake-coughed when I brought the thermometer.”

“I hate things in my ear, doll-”

You tap your phone speaker. The line rings twice.

Then: “Wayne.”

“Hi, Bruce,” You say sweetly. “Just calling to let you know Jason is not going on patrol tonight.”

Jason snaps upright like a cat dunked in bathwater. “Don’t tell him-!”

You press a palm to his chest. “He’s sick,” you say calmly, like you’re ordering a coffee. “And full of shit.”

There’s a long pause on the other end. Then a weary sigh. “How bad?”

“ Wretched. An absolute menace to himself and the couch cushions. I caught him trying to suit up earlier. I’m putting him on legal lockdown.”

“I hate you,” Jason rasps, glaring like it might work if he weren’t wrapped in three layers of flannel. You glare. He immediately sinks back into the couch like a scolded dog.

“I’ll inform the others,” Bruce says, unaffected. “He’s benched until you say otherwise.”

“Thank you, Bruce,” you say primly. “If he tries to sneak out the window, I will physically fight him.”

Jason coughs - innocent, definitely not guilty.

“You looked at the window,” you snap.

“I was just checkin’ the weather!”

“You don’t even have shoes on!”

“I’ve done worse with less,” he mutters. “Ain’t that deep.”

“You’re not allowed to slip into your Gotham gremlin accent to distract me, Jason.”

He groans, voice low and nasal. “C’mon, babe - jus’ lemme do one rooftop. I’ll be real quiet. I won’t even punch nobody-”

“No,” you say, your tone firm. “If you set one toe on a fire escape I will file an injunction against you personally and get Alfred to enforce it.”

Jason pouts. Full lower-lip tilt. “You wouldn’t.”

You lean down, cup his fevered face in both hands, and kiss his forehead with the kind of slow, devastating fondness that makes his ears go red.

“I would. Because I love you. And because you're a stubborn bastard who thinks coughing up a lung is a character arc.”

He smiles, sleep-soft and miserable. “Y’know what’s real messed up?”

“What?”

“You bossin’ me around like that’s kinda hot.”

You sigh, laughing as you brush his hair back.

“I know.”

Jason curls into your side, finally giving up, finally letting himself rest.

And you hold him there like a secret, warm and steady, the sheer force of your love enough to wrestle even Jason Todd into submission.

At least until the next spoonful of soup.

The fever wakes Jason up at 2.14 a.m.

Hot. Achy. Breathing like a car with a dying transmission. Jason blinks up at the ceiling, disoriented and pissed off, every breath rasping like sandpaper down his throat.

He’s drenched in sweat. Skin sticky, shirt clinging, the sheets kicked halfway to the floor. His muscles ache like he spent the night fist-fighting concrete and lost.

He turns his head.

You’re curled beside him, cheek tucked into your pillow, one hand reaching for the space where he used to be. Peaceful. Beautiful. Entirely unaware of the criminal intent radiating off the man you love.

Good.

Because Jason Todd has made a decision.

A bad one.

He drags himself out of bed like it’s a war effort. His spine protests every movement. His knees crack like gunfire. He pauses halfway upright, swaying, and catches the edge of the dresser like it might keep him tethered to this mortal plane.

“I’m fine,” he mutters hoarsely. “I’m Batman’s worst idea. I can survive a cough.”

He’s sweating through your stolen Gotham U hoodie. The one you ripped off Tim out of spite when he made a crack about Jason needing therapy. His pyjama pants are a Wonder Woman print you got him last Christmas as a joke. (He wore them so often, it stopped being funny. Now they’re a comfort item.)

But he’s a vigilante, damn it.

He’s been shot, stabbed, drowned, resurrected. A head cold isn’t going to stop him.

And he’s got a lead on a burner arms cache out in the Narrows that cannot wait.

Even if his vision blurs every third step.

He gets halfway through the living room before he remembers to grab his helmet off the console table, slipping it on with something close to reverence. He adjusts it with slow, practised fingers. It’s heavy. Grounding. A second skull that doesn’t feel the fever.

Good enough.

He opens the window.

Does not cough.

(Progress.)

And swings into the Gotham night.

The air hits him like a slap - cold, wet, and soaked with city rot. It cuts right through the fever haze, but not in a helpful way. Just enough to make him shiver violently as he stumbles his first landing, his knees barely catching the weight of him before he pushes off again.

One rooftop.

Two.

On the third, he lands ugly - an off-kilter roll, a misjudged pivot. He stumbles, catches himself, coughs so hard his ribs ache. The kind of cough that lights your lungs on fire and makes your ears ring. He wheezes through it, doubled over, gasping for air that won’t settle.

There's a brief moment where he genuinely thinks he’s about to go face-first into a chimney.

That’s when he hears it.

A soft tsk from the next roof over.

From the roof opposite: Damian.

Balanced like a gargoyle on the ledge, arms crossed, expression carved from contempt.

Jason blinks through the haze of fever and humiliation, helmet fogging up as the kid’s voice slices through the silence like a scalpel:

“Interesting.”

Jason straightens slowly. His balance shifts like the floor’s moving underneath him. “Damian,” he rasps, voice full of gravel and doom. “Be cool.”

Damian’s eyes gleam with glee - the kind of evil joy only younger siblings can muster. “You’re in pyjamas.”

Jason glances down at the Wonder Woman pants. “I’m doing recon.”

“You’re wheezing.”

“I’m still operational-”

Damian doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Already pulling out his comm.

Jason takes one wobbly step forward. “I will pay you.”

Damian's smile is pure poison. “You don’t have enough money.”

Before Jason can stop him, the kid’s already tapping his comm.

Jason lunges forward. “Damian-!”

“Father,” Damian says calmly, not even flinching. “The idiot has breached quarantine. In sleepwear.”

Jason groans like a man already halfway to the grave.

There’s a pause. Then Bruce’s voice, sharp and low through the comm: “Copy. Tell him to go home.”

Damian’s tone doesn’t change. Doesn’t even glance at Jason.

“Oh,” he says coolly. “He will.”

Jason stares at the skyline like it’s personally betrayed him. He wipes condensation from the outside of his helmet with the sleeve of his hoodie, breathing like he’s run a marathon underwater.

Then he glances down at his pants.

“… Fuck.”

The window creaks like a guilty hinge as Jason climbs back inside - soaked, freezing, and moving with all the grace of a zombie burglar.

His hoodie clings to him like betrayal, rainwater dripping from the hem, sleeves sodden and heavy. Every part of him aches. His ribs throb from coughing, his knee’s got a new scrape, and his helmet? So fogged up he damn near kissed the fire escape on re-entry.

He drags it off his head with a wet shlup and lets it fall to the floor. Then he collapses next to it, limbs folding like bad origami. He’s exhausted. He’s sweating through his fever again. He smells like cold metal, rooftop grime, and a terrible idea.

He’s already bracing for impact.

But nothing - and he means nothing - could prepare him for the sight that greets him across the room.

You.

Awake.

Leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed, eyes murder-sharp and glittering. You’re wearing his shirt - oversized, hitched up one hip - and an expression like someone who just caught their man cheating with death itself.

The kitchen light’s on behind you, casting gold across your face and catching the snarl on your mouth. You look like Gotham’s vengeance incarnate. He’s seen Batman less terrifying.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you say, voice low and deadly, “I swear to God-”

“Hi, baby,” he croaks, hands up in surrender like he’s being held at gunpoint. “Before you say anything, I just wanna point out that I made it back alive.”

“You left. In pyjamas.”

“I was being stealthy.”

You stalk forward, slow and measured, like you’re debating which bone to break first. “You were sick, Jason. Are sick. I tucked you in like a burrito. You had a fever. You were sweating. You couldn’t sit upright. And still you had the audacity to swing out of our bedroom window-”

“Technically,” he mutters, “it’s the living room window-”

“Do not finish that sentence.”

He freezes, mid-shrug, caught between a charming grin and death.

“You had a fever,” You continue, voice rising. “You were half-delirious, you forgot your comms, and you left this apartment in Wonder Woman pants, which means you are legally unfit to make field decisions!”

Jason rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “In my defence, those pants are insanely comfortable. And I didn’t forget the comms - I left ‘em so I wouldn’t wake you.”

“Oh, how noble.” You jab a finger at him. “Leaving me to find out from Damian. Who called me. At two-thirty in the morning. With the joy of a six-year-old setting a house on fire.”

Jason grimaces. “Yeah, Dami ... got me good.”

“You beefed it on a rooftop.”

“I didn’t beef it,” he mutters, half-collapsing on the edge of the couch. “I ... stumbled with purpose.”

You glare. “Did your purpose include landing on your ass?”

“It’s Gotham architecture! Not up to code.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, breathing like you're trying not to commit a felony. “I’m going to scream.”

“Please don’t. I think m'ears are clogged.”

Silence.

Then, your eyes narrow. “You’re trying to distract me.”

“I would never-”

“You’re using your hoarse voice.”

Jason gives you a slow, greasy grin. “Is it working?”

“No.”

“Really?” He thickens the Gotham drawl until it drips off his tongue like molasses. “Doll, don’t be mad at me - I was jus’ tryna keep the city safe, is all.”

You almost crack. Jason sees it - the twitch at the corner of your mouth - and presses in.

“Y’know how it is, baby. Boots on the ground. Crime in the alleys. Vigilantes in thermal jammies.”

“You are-” You choke on a laugh, rage and affection warring across your face. “You are unbelievable.”

He shrugs, wheezy and triumphant. “Couldn’t sleep. Felt like hell. Figured if I was gonna suffer, might as well do it on a rooftop like God intended.”

“God didn’t intend shit,” you snap. “And if you ever pull that stunt again, I’m taking your bike to the shop and selling it for parts.”

Jason leans back, eyes heavy-lidded now, the pain catching up with him. “Yeah, okay. I’m sorry, alright? I was stupid. Thought I could push through. I’ll ... I’ll be good now.”

You stare at him, hard. Then disappear into the kitchen. He hears the tap. The clink of glasses. You come back with water and press one into his hands, your expression unreadable.

“Bed rest,” you say. “You’re grounded.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have the authority to ground me.”

You tilt your head. “Wanna bet?”

He drinks his water.

You follow him to the bedroom, nudging him ahead like a very determined nurse with violent tendencies. He shrugs off the soggy hoodie under your glare. You towel off his hair with brisk, efficient movements that make him feel like a damp retriever who got caught in a sewer grate.

But beneath the fire and fury, there’s something else.

Care. The kind he doesn’t know what to do with.

You push him gently onto the mattress, haul the blanket over him, and settle beside him. Your palm finds his fevered cheek, thumb stroking just beneath his eye.

“You’re staying in this bed for the rest of the week,” you say softly.

“Can I make requests?”

“No.”

He laughs - raspy and wrecked - and closes his eyes. The ache doesn’t matter so much now. Neither does the guilt or the fever or the bruised pride. Because you’re here. Because he’s warm, and home, and safe in a way that doesn’t feel like weakness.

“You’re scary when you’re mad,” he murmurs.

“You’re an idiot when you’re sick.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“…You did like the accent though,” he murmurs, lips curling.

You don’t answer.

But you kiss his forehead, long and slow and grounding.

Which is as good as admitting it.

He notes it for later - Gotham drawl: effective under duress - and lets himself drift off, safely home, thoroughly chastised, and, for the first time all night, just the right temperature.

[bluelotuswrites]

2024 fic rec list :)

So here's a list of fics/authors that I read in 2024! A lot of them are Batman-related, and Jason-centered :P

Six Degrees of Separation by @oliocelottafanfics. It's a Criminal Minds crossover with Batman, where Penelope Garcia is the one to find Jason after his resurrection and adopts him. This is one of those fics where I didn't know I needed it until I saw it, and now it's stuck in my brain.

The Right Substitution is Key by Addicted Apple. A fun what-if story where Batman and Nightwing go missing, so Robin recruits Red Hood to fill in as Batman while completely oblivious to the fact that Red Hood is Jason Todd.

Five Reactions to Pepper's New PA by @gladdecease. Short, but Bucky ends up becoming Pepper Potts' personal assistant. It's very funny and wholesome.

@cdelphiki's Three Terrors Cinematic Universe is a top fic that many probably already know. Talia tried to escape the League with Jason, Damian, Anathasia, and Mara al Ghul. She didn't make it, leaving Jason to be the one to protect them.

Along with that is cdelphiki's The Time Before. Jason got sent back to the past by Black Mask, who wanted to kill him before he became Red Hood. Jason goes to Bruce for help and ends up healing and learning more about Bruce.

A League of Her Own by @comebackolivia. Immediately after the UtRH, Talia finds Jason in the rubble, kills to Joker, and takes him back to the League, where they try to take over and rebuild it with Nyssa. Jason becomes one of her generals. You might recognize them for their work on Not-So-Outlaw :)

VermillionFlame is another more recent author that has been working on Arkhamverse Jason. For Want of a Savior and Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) are two of my favorites.

For Want of a Savior has comic Jason wind up in Arkhamverse, and saves AK!Jason. He then helps him heal and the Batfam is in a panic after realizing Jason may be alive.

Hold Fast (Don't Let Go) is another AU where Jason shot Deathstroke while working on his revenge plan that would be seen in Arkham Knight. He then shows up at Wayne Manor for protection, throwing the family's peace into chaos as so many things come to light and people butt heads.

Echoes of Future Past by orangesky37 on AO3/ @kindlingkeen. Immediately after Jason's throat got slit in UtRH comic, he gets yeeted back to the past and is found by authorities. James Gordon brings Batman onto the case, not realizing Batman is Bruce Wayne. He gets protective of Jason when he tells Gordon that 'his dad did it.'

Going Down Like the Titanic by @sunnylighter A shortish Arkhamverse AU where Joker succeeds in getting Bruce to succumb to the Titan virus by showing Jason still alive in Arkham Asylum.

Bruce Wayne Must Die by @reginalusus. Jason wants to kill Bruce, only to find out that he's missing. He teams up with Harvey Dent to find him, and there's father-son bonding vibes between Harvey and Jason.

Do Unto Others by @romiress. Arkhamverse again (listen, I'm a sucker for that storyline when it comes to Jason. It's maximum angst potential). Khalid Nassour (Doctor Fate in DC comics) worked at Arkham Asylum under the payroll of Joker, albeit reluctantly. He was brought on to fix up Jason, and eventually he sneaks him out to help him heal.

Don't Let Them See You Cry by @daisyapples. Oh my god, you guys. Let me tell you. This series is vibrates in my brain to an insane degree. Shortly after Bucky breaks free from his Winter Soldier programming, he finds Jason and adopts him. It's so good, y'all. I literally drop everything to read this whenever it updates.

The Glue by sleepynarwhal. Daredevil is the one to mentor Spiderman instead in the MCU and it's very adorable how much Matt goes from reluctant mentor to embracing it, as well introducing him to the other Defenders.

the road home by @drakefeathers. Jason is homesick during his Lost Days Era world murder-tour and ends up returning home.

I'll Catch a Break Someday by @victory-in-the-skye. Fullmetal Alchemist crosses over with the MCU. It has Fem!Ed, which might not be everyone's cup of tea, but it definitely contributes to the story in a way that makes it interesting. The author does a fantastic job of capturing Ed's voice, even in first person! It's a series, but it hasn't been updated in a while and I hope the author is doing okay!

Arkham Compendium by @lananiscorner. If you're a fan of Arkhamverse, I cannot recommend this series enough. Focusing on Jason before, during, and after Arkham Knight, the author does a fantastic job of delving into Jason's psyche during the course of his life. Ill Weeds Grow Apace is my favorite of the series, focusing on Jason healing after Arkham Knight, and slowly reconnecting with his siblings. Lanani also has many other fantastic fics in DC, especially with Jason. While the author might not be in the fandom anymore, I will always be grateful for the fics that were written because they are masterpieces.

(If you're one of these authors on the list and I missed your tumblr @, let me know and I'll edit them in!)

[stele3]

Naw, but I'm still kinda stuck on Countdown to Infinite Crisis.

Jason Todd, Donna Troy, Kyle Radner, Mary Marvel, and Firestorm get handed the mostly-dead body of Karate Kid and told by Ray Palmer aka Atom Man that he's been infected with the deadliest virus in the universe, and that if they take KK to Earth, everyone on Earth will die.

Jason immediately offers to finish the dude off, multiple times, and everyone reacts as if this is a horrific thing. They then take the mostly-dead body of Karate Kid to Earth (albeit Earth-51, an alternate version of Earth Prime).

Shocking news: everyone on Earth-51 gets infected with the virus. Billions-with-a-B of people die.

The story ends with the heroes realizing there's nothing they can do and they just...leave. They doomed an entire Earth to die because they couldn't stand the idea of killing 1 (one) person, and then they just peace out.

People who have read more comics than me, does this have any ramifications?? Like, are Donna et al wracked with guilt afterwards? Because if I was single-handedly responsible for killing AN ENTIRE PLANET I think I'd have to hang up my costume and admit that maybe I'm not cut out for the superhero business.

[harbours-lighthouse]

COMPANY IN A BONE DEAD LAND — PART ONE

SERIES MASTERLIST

— PAIRING: Jason Todd x F!Reader

— SUMMARY: The world as you know it is broken, crawling with those infected by the virus. You're one of very few survivors, and you're cautious of each step you take. When a man breaks into your house, you're torn between kindness and survival.

— AN: Hi loves! First thing I've been able to work on and actually finish, so hopefully you guys enjoy (a lot of inspo taken from Bird Box and The Last of Us). I'm thinking of making this into a series, but I'm not sure. Let me know if i should make a part 2!

cw: apocalypitc setting; possible slow burn; semi enemies-to-lovers; death; gore; violence; graphic descriptions; overall feelings of dread wc: 5.7k

IT’S HOT AND DRY, and the ants are swarming. They march in dotted black lines, trailing through your garden towards the fence. You squint against the harsh white light of the sun, your skin burning beneath the thin layers you wear. 

Since the Fall happened, the seasons have become more brutal, more violent. Summer kills everything, from the bare bushes surrounding your property to the few people that stumble across the plains. But like an angry god whose vocabulary doesn’t include the term ‘fair,’ the few of those who survive the scorching summers are picked off when winter comes—leaving behind faces frozen in terror, lips nearly as blue as the lake near the Old Town when it freezes over. But winter won’t be here for a long time.

The line of ants isn't usual, so you follow along the trails, unlocking the gate and circling around the fence. Dried soil shifts beneath your shoes; twigs crack in the stale air. Flies buzz around sun-bleached bones, and it’s the tip of your boot that kicks them away from the fence that wraps around your property. 

The mesh buzzes, a low hum that sings of the electricity coursing through it. The ants swarm around the corpse as it lies face-first in the brown grass, bony hand stretching forward, and only a single phalanx hooked around a loop in the mesh.

You move the tip of your boot against the side of its head, peeling skin and tufts of brown hair shifting with the light breeze that smells of dust and rotting flesh. There’s a low crack, bones that were stiff beneath the sun moving against their will as you reveal the face of the corpse. 

Blank white eyes lock with yours, and bile rises up your throat. Relief accompanies it. The birds haven’t been able to pick at the eyeballs yet, so you’re now able to identify that it’s a survivor and not one of the infected—a gouger. 

You sigh heavily, feeling as if those lifeless eyes are staring up at you, pleading. Why didn’t you save me? I was right here!

You know exactly what Johnny would say if he were standing beside you. 

“Poor guy probably died before he even felt the shock.”

He would’ve said it with that gravel-laced chuckle of his, though there wouldn’t be any humour in it at all.

You watch the rotting corpse with the sun beating down on you, wisps of wind pushing your hair into your face. There’s a bitter taste in your mouth, and you shove the sound of Johnny’s voice to the back of your mind. You don’t want to remember him.

Brows pinched inward, you wonder why you hadn’t noticed the corpse until now. It’s obviously been here for a while, with much of its skin already peeled away like dried parchment. The clothes that barely hang from its skeleton are tattered and bleached, but it’s in far better condition than what any of the gougers wear. With a calculating survey across its unmoving form, you decide that there’s nothing you might poach from the body. Nothing useful. 

Leaving the ants alone to feast on what little is left of the decaying man, you circle around the whole fence to check for anything else, though you have a feeling you won’t find anything. It’s not common for anything to show up here—at least not in the last seven months. This lonesome survivor is the first in a long time. 

The plains themselves are mostly empty and have been for years. Only a small smattering of twig-like trees dot the landscape, reminiscent of thin lines dashed across the horizon. Excluding Old Town, your property is the only splash of colour to be seen for miles: a white farmhouse with bleached siding and a partially broken porch, a rusting generator that still rattles with power, and the electric fence Johnny built three years ago.

It’s the fence that makes sure they never come too close. The infected. Or the more common term given to them: ‘gougers.’

Not only do you find the remains of those who crawl to the fence for protection—and ultimately die there with nothing and no one—but you also find the remains of those whose minds were whittled away to nothing, reeking of rotting flesh and gore.

It’s been years since fear accompanied the thought of them. With age and loss, you’ve only grown more angry. And since Johnny’s death, the pistol strapped to your hip feels heavier than normal, and your fingers twitch with the animalistic urge to go searching—killing those that took everything from you. 

The last thing Johnny saw was their broken faces, the dark sockets where their eyes should be—gouged out in their insanity. And you couldn’t do anything.

Swallowing thickly, you pull yourself away from the lingering images of what were once people, sane and normal. 

Idly kicking away loose stones and twigs, you amble back towards the gate. Looking over your shoulder, you linger to watch the horizon; waves of heat warp the line between land and sky.

Frowning, you notice a tree in the distance, and it’s larger than the rest. Squinting harder against the sun, you watch its thin figure, a pale grey shadow in the haze of heat and dust. But it’s not a tree, you realise, and your heart stutters inside your chest.

It’s smoke. 

Feeling your throat seize, your heart starts thudding against your ribcage. What you thought was the distant canopy of a large tree is really the billowing cloud of a column of smoke. And it's not the heat warping its shape, but the smoke rising higher in the sky, a fist of ash, and a sign of fire. 

You move on instinct.

You rush through the gate, making sure the several locks and chains rattle behind you, securing your home. Hopping up the steps of the porch, the floorboards groan under your weight, and you glance back at the dark pillar in the sky. 

You can’t take any chances. 

The front door slams shut, rattling the old picture frames on the walls. Your breathing deepens, your pulse throbbing inside your ears as adrenaline rushes through you. Like a well-trained soldier, you check that each of the windows has its curtains drawn shut, wooden boards hidden behind thin white lace. 

The house is dipped into pale light and shadows. Only slivers of sunlight that shine through the wooden boards peek through the gaps in the curtains. It’s quiet, not even the wind whistles through the cracks in the glass. 

But your heartbeat doesn’t slow.

Glancing at the heavy chest of drawers in the foyer, you exhale sharply through your nose before striding towards the old piece of furniture. Pressing your palms against the side of the once-polished wood, you dig your feet into the floor and push. It barely moves.

“C’mon, c’mon,” you mutter harshly, pressing your shoulder against the chest and leaning all your weight against it. With a sharp scrape against the floor, the chest dislodges. You almost trip, feet sliding, before pushing it with relative ease to barricade the door. 

Straightening with your shoulder aching, you glance over the barricade with a small pang of satisfaction, but you know that a lone piece of furniture won’t save you. 

Moving through the house with purpose, you cut through the living room to the kitchen, and you pull open a cabinet mounted on the wall. The hinges squeal in protest, but the gold glint of ammunition is what you're after. Grabbing as many of the cardboard boxes as you can, you carry them upstairs.

There are three bedrooms upstairs and an attic. Every single window has been boarded up ever since you found out the hard way that gougers can climb, though you still had Johnny back then, and you hadn’t set up the electric fencing yet. 

Dropping the boxes of ammo, you crane your neck upwards at the string hanging from the ceiling. Jumping, your feet land with a thud at the same time that your fingers wrap around the wooden knob at the end of the string, and you pull.

A groan deep inside the house reverberates around you, and the attic ladder unfolds with a wooden creak. Inhaling sharply, you gather up the boxes again before ascending the ladder.

The attic itself is mostly empty, save for only a few boxes sporadically piled around and the thin mattress and blankets tucked in a corner that you keep up here in case of emergencies—like today.

Hunching your back so as not to hit your head against the slanted ceiling, you shuffle further into the wide room towards the two windows on your right side.

These windows remain open and unboarded, giving you a clear view of the front yard, and specifically the gate to your property. If things hit the fan in a disastrous way, you’ll be able to slide out one of the windows and scurry up onto the roof. Thankfully, you’ve never had to resort to that. 

You let the boxes of ammo clatter to the floor, and the smell of dust is so thick, you can taste it on your tongue. You move to the other side of the room and pull away a pile of boxes. A plume of dust hits the floor, and you sputter out a choked cough, gagging as your eyes flood with water.

Waving a hand in the air to dispel the yellow cloud, you kneel to the floor and pull at one of the wooden boards.

There's a soft creak before the board pulls away and reveals a hollowed-out space. It's large enough and deep enough to hide away a perfectly intact, gleaming M21 sniper rifle.

Your heart stutters against your chest, the steady beat of your pulse loud inside your ears. You haven’t touched it in seven months.

The gun glints in the bright light that streams through the windows, winking at you with all of its memories just as clear and bright as the nocturnal scope mounted on the barrel of the rifle. Swallowing thickly, you push through the nerves that hold you captive for only a moment and gently ease the gun out of the empty slot.

“Alright,” you murmur into the empty space around you, “let’s get this show on the—” 

The explosion rattles your entire house. Gasping, your fingers tighten around the body of the M21 as the frame of your house shakes violently. The noise rings inside your ears painfully, rippling through the air and piercing through the walls of your home and straight through your chest.

Staggering forward, you move to one of the windows and peer out across the plains. You can't see anything other than the column of smoke in the distance, but you rapidly scan the horizon for anything else—a mushroom cloud punching through the sky or an orange-red ball of flames.

With your ears still ringing, all you can do is wait as the earth slowly settles again, the soil no longer quivering and the floorboards no longer shaking beneath the soles of your feet.

Panic hits you like a truck. It's been months since anything like this has happened—which is why you had stored the M21 in the attic in the first place. You didn’t need the gun, and its owner is dead. For whatever foolish reason, you’ve let your guard down.

Sucking in a trembling breath, you realise just how tightly you’re gripping the M21. Unclenching your iron-tight grip, your mind races.

Someone must have caused that, and not just anyone. Sure, gougers weren’t entirely dumb, but they weren’t usually capable of setting off explosives either. And as for survivors…it was rare that anyone had the means or strength to detonate something that powerful. 

This was something else, and your skin crawls at the thought. Quickly, you snap your gaze to the electric fence, staring hard at the mesh and waiting for a tell-tale spittle of electricity to catch your eye. You need to know if the generator had been affected by the shockwave; if your generator was down, so was your fence.

There’s a spark of blue, and you breathe a sigh of relief before returning your hawk-like eyes to the horizon. You sigh heavily. 

Tonight’s going to be a long night.

━─━────༺༻────━─━

The crickets chirp angrily inside leafless bushes, perched on thin twigs as they play their nightly choruses. Usually, you take comfort in the noise they make, but now, it only adds to your nerves.

Lying on the thin mattress in the corner, you strain your ears to listen above the sound. Anything out of place could mean something—a twig cracking, a rustling of leaves or clothes. Nothing can be brushed aside as simply ‘nothing.'

It’s too hot for any of the blankets, and even if it were cold, you wouldn’t dare slip underneath them. If you had to jump up at a moment’s notice, the blankets could entangle you and cost you precious seconds.

Seconds that could result in your death. Or worse. 

The M21 is cradled in your arms, fingers resting lightly along the stock. The safety is on, but you can just imagine Johnny scolding you for sleeping with a firearm. 

“You try’na kill yourself before anything else can, kid?” 

A fragile smile pulls at your lips, though it disappears as your thumb gently brushes across the initials engraved on the side of the stock.

J. B.

Jonathan Barnes. 

Johnny. 

Your throat tightens, and you swallow thickly. It’s been seven months. You need to stop crying about him. 

With a hollow exhale, you curl around the M21, ears perked for any noise. All you can hear are the crickets and the low groan of the house as the wind pushes against it. 

You’ve gone over every possible situation that could have resulted in the giant explosion, and you guessed that it came from the Old Town. It didn’t make much sense, though, considering the Old Town is miles away and completely deserted. Nothing but hollowed-out frames of what were once bustling stores and stylish saloons remain there. Relics of a past you can hardly remember now. 

There’s a scuffle outside, and you immediately shoot upright. Your fingers flex around the sniper rifle. You sit and wait. 

The house remains quiet; the crickets keep chirping. For a long, drawn-out minute, you sit as still as a statue and listen. Even your breaths are quiet, too scared to miss any other telltale noise that you’re not alone. 

You don’t hear anything else. 

Your muscles are as tense as a coiled-up snake, but you slowly shift back onto your side. The grip you have around the gun doesn’t ease up, and your heartbeat is painfully loud in your ears. The night will drag on, and you’re sure you won’t be able to relax the entire time.

Johnny’s voice rings softly in your ears.

“Loosen up, kid. We’ll be fine.” 

You close your eyes, wishing that Johnny could be as quiet in your mind as he is in the grave. The grave you dug. The one you filled with dirt and tears. 

You fall asleep within seconds. 

***

Your eyelids are heavy as you peel them open, and dread stirs inside your stomach. Confused, you prop yourself up onto your elbow, squinting through the inky blackness and listening to the noises around you. 

The crickets are utterly silent, and not even the wind whispering through the bushes can be heard. It’s only your soft breaths that seem loud in the still atmosphere of the attic.

You groan lowly beneath your breath, rubbing a hand over your face. You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. How stupid could you be?

Just as you're about to stand and move to the window to get a better look at the horizon, a noise stops you in your tracks.

It was low, barely perceptible. But with the silence of the crickets and wind, you could make out the sound.

Footsteps.

Your pulse bursts to life, throbbing almost painfully in your throat. Swiftly, your fingers latch onto the M21 that had drifted from you in your sleep, fingers flexing against the polished wood.

Straining to hear any more sounds, you eye the panel of wood you placed over the attic hole and the heavy box you had placed on top of the panel as an added precaution. It was something Johnny had done when you'd both camped out in the attic. He said it made it look as if there was wood nailed to the entrance of the attic and would possibly deter anyone from even trying to climb the ladder.

You hoped that it would work this time too, as the footsteps grow louder. They're heavy, belonging to something that must be large and bulky. Your stomach twists with anxiety, sweat gathering along the back of your neck.

Slowly, as if you were a hunter stalking prey, you stand on your feet, making sure your movements are measured enough to avoid making any noise. You can’t afford to be heard from below, can’t afford to make any of the floorboards creak beneath your weight as you stand.

With your breathing strained, you press the butt of the rifle into your shoulder, and your fingers are shaking. It's been months since you've had to fire a gun at something that wasn't a rabbit or shrew, though those were extremely rare to find in and of themselves.

The footsteps are loud. They thud along the upstairs floor, directly below you. Your brows furrow.

Whatever or whoever it is, it's not consciously trying to be quiet.

There's a low scrape, shuffling footsteps, before a long pause rings in your ears.

The silence is loud.

You flinch violently when the first thud echoes, a step taken down the staircase. Breathing in a shuddered breath, you close your eyes, relief flooding through you. Whatever it was, it wasn't interested in the attic ladder leading up to what looked like a panel of wood.

You listen intently to the footsteps thudding down the stairs before the sound recedes, and you're thrown back into silence again.

The muscles in your arms are taut, your thighs braced to run to the window and climb onto the roof. You want to relax and unclench your jaw, but you know that the thing must still be inside your home.

Then it dawns on you. The fence. The electricity.

How did it get in?

Taking tentative steps, you make sure to walk where the wood doesn't groan, and you move to the open window.

Your heart drops to your stomach. Next to the gate, the mesh wiring has been cut in a large arch, opening up a hole in the fence for anything to slip through and into the yard.

Swallowing down the bile bubbling in the back of your throat, you take a deep, calming breath, though it does nothing to soothe the panic that's rooted inside your chest.

This thing is smart, you think. It's capable.

Gougers aren't able to problem-solve. They don't have eyes to see, and their minds are purely animalistic. Carnivorous. If something in front of them is alive and moving, they'll ravage it and tear it to shreds. But if there's a fence in the way, the gougers are useless. They can only wail and shriek, but they can't solve the problem.

So whoever is inside your house isn't a gouger, and that's ten times worse.

"Remember," Johnny grumbled, "you can always outsmart a gouger. But an uninfected? They can be just as smart as you."

You need to kill this person before they find you.

Slowly, you walk over to the box and the panel and sling the rifle over your back. Crouching, you nudge the box out of the way, careful to move it gingerly enough that it doesn't scrape along the floor.

Once the box is out of the way, you shimmy your fingers under the panel and carefully dislodge it from the opening.

Looking down, fear curls inside your stomach. The lower floor is shrouded in darkness. Leaning over the edge of the hole, it feels as if you're staring into a void, and you can just imagine bright eyes looking up at you from below. Murderous. Inhuman.

Shaking the thought away, you remind yourself of your safety. Of your home. Some jerk had decided to trespass on your property, and with your life on the line, you were going to put a bullet through their head because of it.

With tentative steps, you ease your way down the ladder. You don't let the ladder fold in on itself again, just in case you need to book it to the attic and climb onto the roof.

Glancing down the hallway, you bring the M21 back into your hands, fingers flexing near the trigger guard. None of the lights are on. 

It's completely dark.

Breathing through your nose and out through your mouth, you do what Johnny taught you to. Steeling your nerves as best as you can, you slowly descend down the stairs.

You know this house better than anyone. You know exactly where to step, an ingrained map of the house's aches and groans etched out in your mind.

When you reach the ground floor, your skin crawls. A quick glance down the foyer reveals the front door wide open, pale light spilling across the dust-coated floorboards. Outside, the hole in the fence gapes mockingly at you, and the thin trees look like sentinels watching you. Waiting. 

You listen for noise, for footsteps. Moving through your house, you stare into every corner and every shadow, waiting for something to reveal itself. The M21 is heavy, but the trepidation inside your chest is heavier.

If Johnny were here, he'd be taking point. He'd be holding this gun. Not you. Never you.

"I don't want you touching my gun, kid."

"Why not? Scared I'll break 'her'."

"Smart aleck."

"Old man."

A shrill clatter reverberates through the house, and you slap a hand to your mouth to keep from gasping audibly. Your fingers are shaking as you peel your hand away, and you swallow thickly.

Get it together.

The noise came from the kitchen.

With the butt of the M21 digging into your shoulder, you cut across the living room, eyes carefully glancing around you before snapping to what's ahead of you.

You nearly gag as the overwhelming odor of gunpowder and sweat floods your senses, and your blood pulses inside your ears. 

The shuffling becomes louder, and you're sure you can hear someone breathing. It's strained, laboured.

You press your shoulder against the barrier between the living room and the kitchen, hands clenching around the pistol grip. Peering around the corner, you breath locks inside your throat.

Shoulders as wide as the doorway are illuminated by the moon's pale light, and you catch the glint of a bolt cutter languidly thrown across the kitchen island.

That must have been what made the loud clatter earlier, you file away mentally.

You watch with piercing eyes as the giant man leans heavily against the kitchen counter, spine bent inward as harsh breaths leave him, his head dipped.

For a moment, your grip around the rifle slackens. If it weren’t for the moonlight slipping into the kitchen, you would have mistaken the broad frame for Johnny.

Dark hair. Creased leather jacket. Deathly pale skin. 

No, you close your eyes briefly; this isn’t Johnny.

Clenching your fingers around the pistol grip tightly again, you inhale deeply and step through the doorway. The barrel of your gun points directly at the man’s head. Your finger hovers above the trigger. 

It must have been the shaky breath escaping past your lips that alerted him to your presence. The man’s head snaps up; obsidian eyes lock with yours; they glint coolly, as if the dark abyss of them had captured slivers of moonlight.

Your breath stutters. They’re the opposite of the lifeless eyes belonging to the corpse still clinging to the fence outside. 

The fence this man tore apart. 

Tense silence settles heavily between the two of you, and your heartbeat is thudding against your ribcage like a wild bird beating itself to death.

Like two predators silently watching each other with bated breath and flicking tails, you stare at each other with calculating glares.

You break the silence first, doing your best to keep your voice firm and steady.

“Who are you?”

The stranger stares at you, his breathing strained. Johnny’s voice had matched his looks: gravel-laced, rough. You half expect the same from this boar of a man, but instead, you’re surprised when a smooth, deep voice echoes in the kitchen, although it quivers subtly.

“No one.” 

“Cut it, edgelord,” you snap, though your voice remains low. “What is your name?” 

Your feet shift, hips trading weight as you keep the barrel of the M21 level with the man who lets out a long exhale, and you catch the hitch trapped inside of it. 

“My name’s Jason,” he says quietly, eyes sliding languidly along the kitchen island and the bolt cutter, before flicking up to you. 

They seem canine, but not in a domesticated way. His eyes give you a glimpse of a wolf silently studying you, calculating whether or not you are worthy prey. It sends a cold shiver slithering down your spine. 

 “Okay,” you mutter, “Jason. Why are you here, in my house?”

Johnny would have rolled his eyes and said, “Yeah, sure. ‘Your’ house.” 

Jason’s brows lift close to his hairline in what you can tell is faux surprise.

“Oh? Your house? Sorry. Didn’t see a sign out front—thought it was abandoned.” 

You bristle at his tone, and skepticism coils inside your chest.

"You thought that a house with a fully functioning electric fence and generator was 'abandoned'?"

Jason's eyes watch you carefully, as if he's surprised that you caught that inconsistency. Does he think you're stupid? Blinded by fear?

He shrugs as if it doesn't matter, though his stance heightens your anxiety; there's a stiffness to his shoulders, and a clear bell rings inside you: something is wrong.

"Look, lady—"

"Why are you here?"

You stare at each other, the tension akin to a pot of water simmering on the stove, slowly beginning to boil.

When he realises that you're not going to let him leave without answering and that you're not lowering the sniper rifle any time soon, he relents with a harsh exhale and a swift nod.

"Alright, fine," he straightens, and you clock the sharp jerk of his hand moving to his side. Instantly, you square your shoulders, knuckles turning white with the iron-tight grip you have on the pistol grip.

Jason lifts his other hand, brows raised in caution. You scrutinize him, and he purposefully keeps his movements slow.

His hand slips to his side, hidden behind the leather jacket, and you brace yourself for the glint of a gun, maybe even the impact of a bullet. Your finger hovers dangerously over the trigger.

"Chill," Jason mutters, and you suck in a sharp breath.

Jason removes his hand from his side, and instead of the metallic sheen of a gun, you're left staring at the gleam of blood dripping from his fingers. It shines black in the moonlight, but if you were to turn on the overhead light, it would drip to the kitchen tiles in droplets of crimson.

"I need—" his voice cuts out before he swallows thickly. "I ran into some trouble...thought I might find medical supplies here."

Your gaze snaps between the blood on his hand and his face. There's a tightness to his jaw, as if he's bracing himself against waves of pain.

Sympathy pulses inside of you, something you thought had died long ago. But you think back to the fence, the hole that you don't know how to fix. It was Johnny that set up the fencing—who speared the poles into the ground and cut the sheets of mesh. Who made sure that the generator worked and brought electricity sparking along the metal wiring.

You only helped where you could, but you don't know where to get supplies to fix the fence in case of something like this happening. It's too late to ask Johnny—something you should have done three years ago.

"You ruined my fence," you say lowly.

Jason's eyes flicker shut for a moment, a puff of air pushed through his nose.

"Yeah, look. I wasn't going to get myself—"

"You could have at least cut the padlock on the gate instead of the actual fence."

"That's—" he stops, realising the truth of your statement.

You scoff, eyes flickering to the side before returning to him again. Two parts of you are warring against each other. There's a desperate, instinctual urge to switch the light on and bring out your medical kit, but another, fainter desire to pull the trigger—rid yourself of the problem in front of you.

So, in true survival mentality: if you help him...what's in it for you?

You opt for another question. "How'd you get hurt?"

Jason hesitates. His gaze flickers over you cautiously, warily. A spark of annoyance heats beneath your skin. After destroying a part of your fence in an irrational move and breaking into your house, bleeding all over your kitchen floor, do you not deserve an answer?

"Buddy," you level, "if you don't answer me, I'm letting you bleed to death or I'm shooting you. Your decision."

After a moment of stiff silence, Jason relents. He glances down at his hand, taking in a sharp breath.

"I ran into some trouble with a couple of gougers."

Your hackles rise. Instinctually, you take a step back, but keep the gun's barrel steady. Panic begins to claw inside your chest again, and Jason notices.

His hands raise again in a placating motion, "the gougers didn't cause this. It's a gash from barbed wire."

It's hard to believe him. In the past, people have lied—said that they got hurt from something else and not the sharp nails or yellowed teeth of the gougers. Once you're marred by a gouger, you run the risk of catching the virus. You risk losing yourself to insanity, to becoming something inhuman.

You've seen people scratch out their eyes, wailing and shrieking. People you knew. People you loved.

But you don't know Jason. He's only a stranger that's jeopardized your safety and broken into your house—Johnny's house.

He could be lying just so you don't shoot him on the spot.

And you're trembling without realising it.

"How do I know—" your swallow thickly, taking another step back, "—that you're not lying to me?"

"You'll know in a day's time."

The words hit you like a ton of bricks, though you don't know why. It's true, though. The virus eats away at the mind in a matter of days—hours even.

There's a bitter taste in your mouth, and your hands feel clammy around the M21. You've put more space between you and Jason, but you feel as if you're suffocating. There's not enough light in the kitchen to give you a good idea of what he's saying with his eyes, and his rough exhalations grate against your ears.

If what he says is true, then you have nothing to worry about. But if he’s lying, you’ll be faced with a gouger inside your home in a day or two, ripping you to shreds. 

Or, you could shoot him when that happens. 

You think it over in your head, your stomach knotted with anxiety. 

You have three options: help him, let him bleed out, or shoot him—either now or later. 

It's Johnny who makes that decision for you.

"You've still got a heart, kid. You don't find that anymore."

You inhale slowly, eyes fluttering closed for a moment as you give in to the deeply ingrained part of you that can't not help.

"If I help you," you say slowly, "then you have to help me in return, got it?"

Jason eyes you, and you can see the way he's mulling over your words. There's a sag to his shoulders, a tremor in his breath.

He'd be dumb to not take up your offer.

"Fine," he says gruffly, glancing away from you briefly. "What do you want?"

"Fix my damn fence."

"Done."

You blink, surprised. It was that easy, huh?

"One condition," Jason adds, and your surprise is immediately replaced with suspicion. Who does he think he is?

He points a finger at the M21, brows raised. "You put away the gun."

You open your mouth to argue, but cut yourself off before you can say anything. Glancing at the M21, you wonder if it's a smart decision to conform to that condition.

What if he takes you off guard?

What if he grabs it and shoots you?

Looking back at the bolt cutter on the kitchen island, you sigh heavily before returning your gaze to Jason, who's already watching you.

"If I put away the gun, you can't have those."

Jason glances at the bolt cutters and scoffs. "Really? It's not even a weapon."

"Anything can be a weapon," you say flatly.

Jason tilts his head, brows furrowed. The reality of your words isn't lost on him. There's a short pause before he nods his head softly.

"Alright," he says quietly, "fair enough."

With measured movements, you slowly lower the barrel of the M21, feeling exposed and vulnerable immediately. Holstering it across your back, you move forward to take the bolt cutters. The rubber handles feel warm still, and you wonder if electricity burns inside the material.

Jason observes you the entire time while you move towards the kitchen entrance. You make sure to not turn your back to him.

"I'll put these away, and I'll come back with a med kit. Don't move."

Jason huffs, glancing down at his side before looking back at you with an unimpressed look.

"Trust me, doll. Ain't going nowhere."

Your face pulls into a frown, and your gaze lingers on him for a second before you take a step back into the living room.

Then a thought dawns on you. And you quickly look back at him.

"Jason?"

There's a low hum in response.

"Did you cause that explosion—earlier?"

You watch wordlessly as he shuffles into the kitchen entrance way, and you take another step back into the living room. His hunched shoulders brush against the frame, leather jacket creasing.

The look of genuine confusion on his face says everything, and your blood runs cold.

Something else is out there.

Thank you for reading, God bless <3

top divider credit: @/saradika-graphics

© harbours-lighthouse 2025 / i do not give permission for my work to be reposted, translated, or fed into ai. all works belong to me unless stated otherwise.

[tinfoil-jones]

Jerk Ford AU: Rumour Mill

Jerk Ford's only confirmed ally in the multiverse is the Anti-Ford. Any further rumours that they are friends, or that he has other allies that can considered friends, are nothing but unfounded nonsense.

The individuals named in these rumours include:

S, the Archivist from The Great Archive had been investigating Jerk Ford after he infected a different galactic archive, one belonging to a textile company, with a virus that changed every third noun to the word "d*ck", as retribution for the company continuing to email him ten years after he'd bought a coat from them. Jerk Ford may or may not have thrown him off of a roof, and there might have been a following rooftop chase, but nothing came from that. This incident happened around fifteen years after Jerk Ford fell through his portal.

[People who know him as Samuel

People who know him as ???

Imagine "the boiled one"]

"Watchdog" Ford-419"3 also known by a myriad of nicknames by Jerk Ford such as "John McClane", "Clearance Rack Jason Todd" and "The Ford Punisher" had considered killing Jerk Ford once, around twenty years after Jerk Ford fell through his portal, but Watchdog had more important tasks at hand than entertaining some mostly-harmless cosmic nuisance.

[Jerk Ford is the figure on the left and Watchdog Ford is the figure on the right]

Their dynamic of mutual disrespect never changed.

Further rumours about all four of these men (?) regularly meeting up at O'Sadleys to drink together is also nonsense.

[S: 'Oh my God, he's gonna kill me'

Watchdog Ford: *does not care*

Watchdog Ford: 'Oh my God, he's gonna kill me.'

S: *does not care*]

An oddly specific story has cropped up about S being an alien shapeshifter who was forced into a smaller, infantile form after an incident at said bar, where he then had to be taken care of like a baby by Watchdog Ford's brother Lee-77/H. And he reportedly stayed that way until Jerk Ford, who is an absolute lightweight who can get trashed after two beers, recovered and could formulate a regeneration cure.

[Jerk Ford and Anti Ford: *Drunk*

S: This is not how you hold an infant-

Watchdog Ford: Help us.]

And while all of this was happening, Watchdog Ford had to take S's place at The Great Archive where all of the other Archivists assumed he was just S going through another identity crisis and taking a different human form.

And the Anti-Ford was babysitting the drunk and/or hungover Jerk Ford, swearing that he would never let him drink another Long Island Iced Tea ever again.

This story is so outlandish, especially the ending where S is still treated like a child by Lee who goes so far as to make him bug-themed lunches with cute little notes, that truly it can't be believed by anyone with an iota of sense.

[Kids bento]

It's important you do yourself a favour and don't believe everything you hear.

[Art and S The Archivist by @tearosepedall]

[Watchdog Ford and Lee-77/H by @nowimjustastranger]

[froggibus]

Ohh, okay okay I see! lol I wasn’t using my head after all 🤣 ty! Still! I wish you a happy Valentine’s Day with lots of chocolate and fun! 💖💖 (Chucks virtual chocolate your way 🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫🍫)

I love, love the batboys and Kon-el! 🥰🥰🥰

Valentine's Day - Batboys, Wally West & Kon-El Kent

Pairing: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Kon-El Kent and Wally West

Genre: fluff

Summary: what they do for valentines day with you

CW: kinda corny tbh, valentine's day & classic tropes, gifted jewellery

hey hi! happy valentines day :) sending some virtual chocolate to you too B) i hope you like this! i've never written for kon before but i based this off what i remember from young justice, so hopefully he's not too ooc?

valentine's day 2023

wanna get in on the valentine's fun? send me a 💘 and your favorite character, and i'll write a short blurb/hc for them!

Dick Grayson:

Dick’s always looking for fun, new outings—and he treats Valentine’s Day no differently.

He asks you to be his Valentine by surprising you at work with flowers and your favorite lunch. It’s simple and sweet and just the right amount of showy.

He takes you out for a night on the town, starting with trying that new food place you’ve been talking about. He can’t take his eyes off you at dinner, insisting on taking a picture to ‘capture your beauty’.

He takes you to an adult arcade after dinner, where he treats you to fun new cocktails and your favorite arcade games. After kicking his ass at most of the games in the arcade, he’s taking you back to his place.

He gifts you a bracelet with his initials on it and the two of you spend the night talking about your future together. 

Jason Todd:

Jason surprises you with a homemade dinner and a quiet, intimate night.

He’s had it planned for weeks—what he’s making, what he’s wearing, what you’re doing. Everything is preplanned and prepared ahead of time to make it stress free on both of you. 

He asks you to be his Valentine on the first of February by giving you a book bouquet—complete with the books you’d been wanting to read, a sweet note and your favorite flowers. He keeps the dinner part a surprise, only telling you when and where to show up.

Dinner goes off without a hitch, and then he’s breaking out the rosé and chocolate covered strawberries (he made them himself). 

You spend the night drinking, chatting and watching a cozy movie on his couch. 

Tim Drake:

He wants to do something casual but sets out to do something extravagant. In the end, you have a lowkey night together.

He asks you to be his Valentine by hacking your computer, giving you a ‘virus’ that prompts you to be his Valentine. You accept—and then call him to have a serious conversation about internet safety.

He invites you over to share your favorite takeout and a fancy cheesecake. You spend the night playing video games and watching movies on the couch, cuddled up closely. 

He makes up silly side quests throughout the night—like if he gets five kills with his ultimate, you have to kiss him. Or everytime the main character in the movie you’re watching is rude to someone, you have to get closer to him (if that’s even possible.)

At the end of the night, he takes you up to his room. He shows you a cute little puzzle game he made for you, with each puzzle corresponding to an important night in your relationship.

You only cry a little.

Kon-El Kent:

Kon prefers a lowkey night together, but he’s willing to do anything to make you happy.

He asks you to be his Valentine by showing up at your door with a sign, flowers and a box of chocolates. It’s dorky, but it’s cute and it has your heart melting. 

He takes you out for a classic Valentine’s date—a fancy dinner and a movie right after. 

The restaurant he takes you to is quiet and intimate, and the food is delicious. You chat over drinks and food, and he insists you get dessert to take home with you.

He takes you to see that new superhero movie you’ve been wanting to see, making little jokes about how he’d ‘solo’ that guy in his sleep. You just laugh at him and hug his bicep.

At the end of the night, he takes you to a 24hr florist where the two of you take turns picking out flowers for a very special bouquet. He gifts you the bouquet with a handmade card and a promise ring.

It’s a beautiful night. 

Wally West:

He’s trying to make Valentine’s perfect, and nothing’s gonna stop him.

He asks you to be his Valentine by handpicking your favorite flowers and showing up at your door with them. He offers you a lopsided grin and stumbles through his words, but eventually the word ‘Valentine’ leaves his mouth. 

He brings you little treats throughout the whole day. A coffee at work/school in the morning, your favorite lunch in the afternoon. When it’s finally time to pick you up, he’s waiting outside your door with yet another bouquet. 

He takes you to the beach for dinner, the two of you watching the waves. Wally keeps his arm around you the whole time, awkwardly eating with his one free hand. 

When it gets cold, he’s dashing away and coming back an instant later with one of his hoodies to shrug over your shoulders. It’s comfy and warm and smells just like him.

After dinner, he’s taking you to an arcade and challenging you at every game in sight. He beats you at almost everything but trades in his tickets to offer you a ring pop.

At the end of the night, he’s taking you back to his place where he already has your favorite movie queued up.

thanks for reading ^.^

masterlist | dc masterlist

[forsaken-headcanons]

silly favorite song or musician hcs!! :3

(totally not just songs I like,, ehe,,)

Builderman: Weird Al's biggest fan, favorite song is probably Virus Alert

Telamon: Definitely listens to KMFDM, no further questions (I heart you not!!)

But Shed?: Gives Will Wood (and sometimes the tapeworms) vibes, so maybe Dr. sunshine is dead or main character

Elliot: Miss wanna die (JubyPhonic) or November Waltz (work at a Pizza Place) he gives nostalgia needy tbh, and Waltz music is likely a comfort genre

Toe time: Obvious Maretu fan, but also religious music, because of Spawn. Their favorite Maretu song would be Ashiteitanoni, and only because they relate to it. (+The song Two time for sillies :3)

Noob: 6arelyhuman and Asteria. Fav songs would be Pretty Scene girl and what you want, just fit the theme!!! (We <3 party noob :>)

007n7: Hard choice, but MSI, from when he was younger, during his hacking days. He probably also listens to Weezer because he's weird. Prescription and Island in the sun.

Guest1337: Anything classical, or reminding of Daisy. Favorite song is likely В последний раз (For the Last Time)

Chance: Roll or die and Unhealthy Obsession, gotta go gambling!!!!! 777

Dusekkar: That Handsome Devil, and some forms of Classical. Favorite may be 'The heart that goes to heaven, and the head that goes to hell.'

Taph: Mr. Kitty and some forms relating to heavy metal. Secret hc that while in hiding made covers of rock and other genres like that (Mb if wrong, I'm not big on names of genre stuffs)

Jane Doe: Not in game, but I don't care. She would relate to the song Bernadette, and also like Mr. Kitty. Her and John would have likely sang songs like Impacto and 'O sol e a Lua' with eachother pre-corruption.

Jason: Momma's boy. He probably doesn't remember much of pre-forsaken, or does a lot, I'm going with the version that Jason's drowning, then spree, then forsaken. Still, he probably reminisces about his mother if he did.

C00lkidd: Obviously 100% Jojo Siwa- He probably enjoys Vocaloid, so I'd say his favorite is Poppipo/Vegetable Juice, because :)

1x1x1x1: They seem like the type to enjoy 'Abnormality Dancin' girl' and songs like that, but also Will Wood and KMFDM, Telamon probably introduced them to that when they first attacked Robloxia (going with hunt 1x here) but also would probs like Odetari by themself.

John Doe: Mili, Kihow and Ghost & Pals if forsaken v. Pre corruption is same as Jane, and his favorites would obviously include Compass, Through Patches of Violet, Hero, Candle Queen, and probably Housewife radio.

Noli: Ohy gos im in pain but Noli would def like Odetari, 6arelyhuman and Maretu. Also gives Kikuo vibes. His favorite is definitely Angel Breaking. (Needy girl overdose)

Itrapped: Berdanette and Unhealthy Obsession. Likely also a fan of types of Classical and Waltzes. Probably has the whole Bridgerton and Sweeny Todd soundtrack saved if he had Spotify/youtube.

Azure: Pre-sacrafice would be a fan of religious music, like two time, but also Jack Stauber. His old favorite would be 'for the love of God/sweet religion.' (MSI) Forsaken Azure would like MSI still, but take on Kikuo and grunge music.

Ts all :3 (I think I got everyone lols)

° - Freezing Winters Anon

WEIRD AL MENTIONED!! WEIRD AL! Telamon listening to KMFDM is perfect. Amazing. And Shed listening to Will Wood? Real!! Absolutely.

holy lord that's a lot of tags.

[kitkatscabinet]

DC DRABBLES

Characters to request for: Kyle Rayner, Jason Todd, Dick Grayson, Wally West, Tim Drake, Hal jordan

Crossed out prompts have been claimed.

fluff/light hearted

Tim Drake: first sleepover together

Wally West: starting a family

Wally West: positive pregnancy test

Tim Drake: possessive kisses

Dick Grayson: proposal

Kyle Rayner: bringing the others lunch to work

Kyle Rayner: showering together

Jason Todd: morning cuddles

Barry Allen: only one bed

Hal Jordan: drunken marriage

Hal Jordan: one night stand to expecting parents

angst/whump

Wally west: amnesia

Kyle Rayner: fever dreams

Dick Grayson: contracting a deadly virus

Kyle Rayner stalking

Hal Jordan: begging them to stay

black eye

Kyle Rayner: fainting

rescue

Jason Todd: torture

Tim Drake captured

Hal Jordan: injustice universe

[monotonesmile]

[Love, Death, and…Zombies? Teaser One: Status]

[The virus had appeared from seemingly nowhere, starting its spread in the now desolate city of Gotham, millions evacuated, even more were infected, wandering the ghost city in search of survivors, the air smells of death and rotting flesh, the bridge out of Gotham was destroyed, leaving thousands trapped inside, fending for themselves now. Humans have turned on themselves, fear the cannibals, fear the raiders, fear the humans.]

[Gotham Status]: Ground Zero: Do not enter.

[World Status]: The majority of the west has been infected, the infection has spread to Europe. Stay inside, lock your doors, and prepare for the apocalypse.

[Bruce Wayne Status]: Missing, Last seen: Hall of Justice

[Richard “Dick” Grayson Status]: Missing, Last seen: Bludhaven

[Jason Todd Status]: Missing, Last seen: Downtown Gotham

[Tim Drake Status]: Missing, Last seen: Gotham City

[Damian Wayne Status]: Alive, Last seen: Gotham City

[The rest of the Wayne family are missing and presumed infected until proven otherwise.]

[pinkhoodi]

and the results are !

✎ᝰ — bat boys finding out their partner is pregnant

♡⃕ — dick grayson & jason todd x black!reader

♡⃕ — genre + warnings: fluff + mention of past sex but nothing in detail ! dick + jason are both worry warts, mention of children

꒰ DICK GRAYSON ꒱

Ꮺ the evening was quiet and chilly from the late autumn season. you were wrapped up in a blanket, watching tv, while dick was cooking dinner for the both of you. minimal sounds were heard throughout the house, besides the tv, but your groans interrupted them

Ꮺ the past few weeks haven’t been easy on both of you, dick has been busy working with bruce and you’ve been throwing up for the past few weeks. at first, you believed that you had caught the flu so you just bought some medicine and treated it how you usually would, with some herbal tea and soft food. though that didn’t cure much and you continued feeling unwell

Ꮺ as weeks passed, you’ve been throwing up more often than not. dick was growing fearful that you caught a virus and suggested that you went to the doctor, you scoffed at that idea and reassured him that you’ll be fine. but after some time of back and forth, you sided with the doctors

Ꮺ the doctor did ask the usual questions, “are you active?” “do you take any birth control pills or contraceptives?” “are you pregnant?”. however, you mind started wandering the answer to those questions, which were yes to most of them. while you and dick were active, you both didn’t do it often since you both had to work around the clock

Ꮺ the doctor suggested a pregnancy test after hearing your symptoms and answer to the questions. you did take it just to be sure and the doctor told you that she’d be in contact for the results

Ꮺ present day, the house is filled with the sizzling sounds of dick in the kitchen and dialogue heard from the tv. you were groaning and moving anxiously on the couch as you waited for the results. the level of anxiety has been filling the air since the last visit but both of you try to hide it for the sake of the other

Ꮺ dick comes over to the couch to take a quick break from cooking and kisses your forehead as he sees your worried look. he laughs a little and positions you to lay on his lap, your head laid on his thighs as he looks down at you and kisses your forehead again. your muscles slowly ease from the intimacy and you finally down as dick gives you shoulder and back rubs

Ꮺ out of the blue, your phone rings from under you, and you shift around to grab it. the number appearing on the screen is familiar and you answer immediately, your voice is shaky as you speak. the doctor introduces herself and tells you the purpose of the call, but you already knew and was anticipating this phone call

Ꮺ the doctor tells you that you have no indication of any illness but does tell you the bombing news that you have a positive pregnancy test. dick can already tell the results from how your pupils dilate and your facial expressions makes you seem brighter than before. in his head, there are only two thoughts, “I’m going to be a father!” and “I’m going to be a father?”. though the same thought, both had different emotions behind it. one was filled with excitement and joy about this new addition for you and y/n and the other was filled with worry, concern, and fear for the newborn. but dick covers the fearful thought with joy instead

Ꮺ after the phone call, dick pulls you into a deep comforting hug and celebrates that he’s going to be a father. he peppers kisses all around your face as the both of you are smiling at each other. the both of you filled with endless amounts of bliss after learning that you’re soon-to-be parents

Ꮺ dick is already throwing compliments, telling you that you’ll be the best mother to your child, you’ll look so beautiful pregnant, you’ll look so beautiful as mom, the child will be as gorgeous and graceful as their mother. he’s filling your head with peace as he continues to shower you with compliments

Ꮺ instantly, dick is already in dad mode and pulling up the target website to start shopping for his unborn child. you laugh and continue to carry on the conversation, feeling the complete opposite of how you felt earlier this evening

Ꮺ dick grayson and y/n grayson, soon-to-be parents and determined to be one of the best parents in this world <3

꒰ JASON TODD ꒱

Ꮺ in the middle of a movie night, jason looks to see you drifting asleep. the movie wasn’t boring, you were very tired from work and your body hadn’t been feeling the best. you were throwing up everywhere and your body ached more than it usually did

Ꮺ at the second you closed your eyes, the uneasy feeling of throwing up came up again. your face twisted into an uncomfortable look and you groaned while rubbing your stomach. you got up and ran to the bathroom before you threw up all over the couch, or even jason himself

Ꮺ jason asks if you’re okay and you reassure him that you are. he doesn’t believe you and tells you that he’s going to a nearby store to pick up some items for you. one of which is a pregnancy test but he kept that to himself

Ꮺ for the past few times you’ve been throwing up and complaining about your body, jason did research on what illness you could possibly have. but all that came up were life-threatening illnesses, a virus, and signs of pregnancy

Ꮺ pregnancy raised curiosity out of jason, since you both were very active and rarely used protection. he started doing the math on the last time you both had done it and the date your body started feeling unwell. let’s just say, the potential of being a father clouded his mind indefinitely

Ꮺ once jason came back from the store, he placed the items on the kitchen counter. he grabs the four pregnancy tests and hands them to you, you raise an eyebrow at him and he explains how he believes that you’re pregnant. you on the other hand don’t believe it but decide to take it anyway since you felt too weak to argue

Ꮺ you go into the bathroom and lock the door, your mind is racing with fear and anxiety as you take each test. as amazing as it would be to be a mother, you were worried for jason would be as a father and begging that the child doesn’t end up on the same path as jason. even though batman took him in and raised him somewhat well, you wanted better, you wanted more for your child

Ꮺ as time passes, you go in and out of sleep waiting for the results until jason wakes you up by knocking on the bathroom door. he’s asking you if the results have come in yet and you groan at the question, reminding you of the reason why you were even in the bathroom. you unlock the door and you step out to let him see the results first since you were too nervous

Ꮺ it was quiet for the first few minutes, you sat on the carpet of your living room while you waited. you were concerned, actually growing worry that you’ll be hit with bad news. but instead you were hit with a hug and a sniff?

Ꮺ was jason crying? why yes, yes he was. he felt joyful, happy, excited, yet overwhelmed and fearful. but mostly excited by the news!

Ꮺ he let go of you from the hug and showed all four pregnancy test showing positive. you were hit in a state of shock and immediately hugged jason back, crying into his shoulder as he cradled you. the both just were in amazement that you’re going to be parents. you’re going bring a new soul and raise a human being together

Ꮺ worry did start to grow in the both of you, and you both felt it in each other, but jason leveled it by kissing your forehead. he reassured you that both of you will be amazing parents and your child will love you more than you two love each other (quite impossible if I may add but hey)

Ꮺ for the rest of the night, you both continued the baby talk and playfully went back and forth on what the gender will be. you simply don’t care but jason is one hundred percent sure he’s gonna be a girl dad <3

♡⃕ hope you guys enjoyed my first post :) feedback is accepted !

𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐏 💗: acts 20:24

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟥 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[ao3feed-brucewayne]

this is the way the world ends

by celestiangel "Cass sighs. She knows she doesn’t have to be Batman all the time, but Batman provides hope. And Gotham needs all the hope she can get." or The world is still reeling from a virus outbreak, killing the diseased and turning them into deadly zombies. Cass has taken over the Batman mantle after Bruce's passing, taking over a post apocalyptic Gotham. But an old foe is creating monsters of long dead rogues, and it's up to the batfamily to protect Gotham and prevent any more from getting infected. Words: 1594, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Batman - All Media Types, Batman (Comics) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Major Character Death Categories: Gen Characters: Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Dick Grayson, Barbara Gordon, Tim Drake (DCU), Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Rogues Gallery (Batman) Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Cassandra Cain & Bruce Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Dick Grayson, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Jason Todd & Damian Wayne, Cassandra Cain & Damian Wayne, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown & Cassandra Cain & Barbara Gordon, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Batfamily Members & Cassandra Cain Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Zombie Apocalypse, Post-Zombie Apocalypse, Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Cassandra Cain-centric, Protective Cassandra Cain, Good Older Sibling Cassandra Cain, Cassandra Cain is Batman, Dick Grayson is Nightwing, Protective Dick Grayson, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Hurt Damian Wayne, Tim Drake is Red Robin (DCU), Tired Tim Drake, Stephanie Brown is Spoiler, Stephanie Brown Appreciation, Barbara Gordon is Oracle, Good Older Sibling Barbara Gordon, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Hurt Jason Todd, Mentioned Bruce Wayne, Bruce Wayne haunts the narrative, Angst, Fluff and Angst, Batfamily (DCU), Batfamily (DCU) Feels, Batfamily is a Mess (DCU), Batfamily Angst (DCU), tagged as major character death cuz Bruce dies in the prologue lol, CASS IS BATMAN WOOO, there will be some violence but nothing too graphic, There will be Warnings via https://ift.tt/0hEVwgu

[cemeteryspider]

DCeased: Shadows of the Bat

Jason Todd x GN! Constantine! Reader

Summary: In a Gotham overrun by chaos and loss, you and Jason Todd struggle to survive and escape the city while confronting the devastating deaths of their loved ones.

*Set in the DCeased Universe*

*No use of Y/N*

Trigger Warnings: Death of Loved Ones, Gore, Violence, Zombie Apocalypse, Grief, Summoning of the Dead, Sacrifice

Word Count: 1.8k

You made your way to Wayne Manor as soon as you heard about the virus. The exterior of the mansion almost looked peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos erupting across Gotham. For a moment, you could almost imagine Bruce inside, sipping his black coffee at 5 a.m., preparing for another day after a long night of fighting crime. But as you stepped inside, you felt a chill crawl up your spine—a telltale sign that something was very wrong.

The air inside the manor was thick with a metallic scent, the smell of blood lingering like a ghost in the hallways. The once-pristine carpets were stained with dark, dried blood, and shards of broken mirrors littered the floor, reflecting your fragmented reflection. Your breath quickened as your eyes fell upon a particularly large bloodstain, smeared as though something or someone had been dragged down to the Batcave.

You carefully maneuvered through the glass, trying to muffle the crunching sound beneath your boots. The manor was silent—too silent. Every step you took echoed in the emptiness, and as you descended the long, dark staircase to the cave. At the bottom, you paused, straining your ears for any sign of movement—breathing, footsteps—but the silence remained unbroken.

Turning the corner, you found them. Three bodies lay side-by-side, the Bat-Family, still and lifeless. A long black cape draped over one, a familiar blue symbol on another. You blinked rapidly, fighting back tears, but they welled up regardless, blurring your vision. The overwhelming urge to flee seized you, to run back up the stairs and search the streets of Gotham for Jason, but you couldn't bring yourself to leave. You needed to know for certain.

Cautiously, you approached the bodies. Each step felt heavier than the last until you were close enough to see their faces. Your hands trembled as you peeled back their masks, revealing the familiar features of your friends—no, your family. Red Robin, Batman, Nightwing... All gone.

Your knees buckled, and you sank against the nearest wall, burying your face in your hands as tears streamed down your cheeks. What use were your powers if you couldn't protect the people you loved most? The thought gnawed at you, a cruel reminder of your limitations. Your sobs were the only sound in the cave until the door creaked open, and you heard heavy footsteps descending the stairs.

Instinctively, you reached for your lighter, ready to defend yourself with a burst of flame, but you hesitated as a familiar figure emerged from the shadows—Jason. Relief flooded through you, and you flung yourself into his arms, burying your face in his neck as he held you tightly.

"I was so worried, baby," you whispered, feeling the cool metal of his helmet against your cheek. With a clatter, he removed it and tossed it aside.

"Me too, doll," he murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

You clung to each other, drawing strength from his presence. When he finally pulled away, Jason's eyes wandered to the three bodies lying on the ground. His expression froze as he stared at the fallen members of his family. The normally stoic Red Hood blinked rapidly, struggling to keep his composure.

"They can't stay like this..." His voice was barely above a whisper, his grief evident.

You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, offering what little comfort you could. "I can bring them upstairs if you want to..."

Jason sniffled, quickly wiping his eyes with the back of his hand before standing up, fists clenched in a vain attempt to suppress the tears threatening to spill over. "Yes, that would be very helpful."

As Jason's heavy boots echoed up the stairs, you were left alone with the bodies once more. Your heart ached, but you knew what you had to do. Retrieving your spellbook from its hiding place, you flipped through the pages, your fingers trembling slightly. The ancient incantation you needed was familiar yet no less daunting. You gathered three pieces of parchment, carefully inscribing the incantation on each one, and placed them on the bodies.

Standing over them, you began to chant, your voice low and commanding. "Admovendum corpus, spiritus vagans, audite me. Per vim occultam, surgat corpus hoc et locum mutet!"

The temperature in the cave plummeted, your breath visible in the cold air as the lights flickered ominously. The bodies, once still and lifeless, began to rise slowly, as if pulled by unseen strings. With a gentle nudge of your powers, you guided them up the stairs and out to the estate's cemetery, where you knew Martha and Thomas Wayne were buried.

Jason was already there, digging a second grave beside the first. You laid Tim’s body in the freshly dug earth, waiting patiently as Jason finished preparing the other two. Once he started to cover the bodies with dirt, you turned your attention to creating makeshift gravestones. Large boulders were carved with the names of the deceased, and you carefully set them in place.

"What do you want them to say, Jason?" you asked softly.

Jason was lost in thought, staring at Dick’s headstone as if in a trance. When you repeated the question, he knelt beside the stone, guiding your hand to engrave words that reflected what his family meant to him. His arm wrapped around you as tears flowed freely, his sobs shaking his entire body.

"I never thought it would be them, you know," he choked out, his voice filled with heartbreak.

You held him tighter, offering silent comfort as he grieved. The memory of your own father abandoning you in the rain flashed through your mind, a reminder of the pain that only family could cause. But your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a low growl.

You and Jason whipped around, weapons ready, only to see Ace, the loyal Bat-Hound, trotting toward you. Relief washed over you as you knelt down, petting the dog, while Jason took a deep breath, regaining his composure.

Ace led you back to the Batcave, where he stopped in front of the Batmobile, his eyes fixed on it. Jason chuckled sadly, "He never did let me drive the car."

You gave him a small, bittersweet smile, then turned to the Batmobile. "Car, show me the locations of all the Bat-Family in Gotham other than Jason."

"Eight located in Gotham, Mx. Constantine."

Jason's expression darkened as he asked, "How many with heartbeats?"

"Two."

Your heart sank as you climbed into the passenger seat, Jason taking the driver’s seat. The Batmobile's display showed two small bat symbols—Cassandra Cain and Damian Wayne. "Take me to Cassandra," Jason commanded, and the car’s GPS began calculating a route to the GCPD.

The drive through Gotham was harrowing. The Batmobile’s tires crunched over countless bodies, living and dead, as you made your way through the city’s ravaged streets. When you finally arrived at the GCPD, Jason rammed the Batmobile straight into the cell block, the vehicle’s armor shielding you from the chaos outside.

"Batman?" Jim Gordon’s voice was shaky as he approached, but Jason only lifted his helmet slightly, revealing his face.

"No, not Batman. Get in."

Jim and Cassandra quickly climbed into the backseat with Ace, and once again, you were speeding through the streets of Gotham. Jason explained your plan to escape the city, but Jim interrupted, desperation in his voice. "No, we can’t leave. Not yet. My daughter is out there somewhere."

Your heart ached as you turned to Jim, knowing the truth. "No, Commissioner, Barbara is... gone."

Jim’s face contorted in denial, his voice trembling. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Car, show heart monitor for Barbara Gordon."

The low hum of the Batmobile’s display filled the air as a flatline appeared on the screen. You averted your eyes, unable to meet Jim’s gaze as he stared at the evidence of his daughter’s death.

"How do you...?" Jim’s voice faltered as realization dawned on him, his eyes flicking between Jason and Cassandra. "Jason. Cassandra..."

"We’re the only ones alive in Gotham, so we have to get out," Jason said softly.

But Jim shook his head, his voice breaking. "I have to see for myself, Jason."

Reluctantly, Jason guided the Batmobile to the location indicated by the tracker. There, strung up in vines, was Barbara’s body, limp and lifeless. Jim fell to his knees before his daughter, tears streaming down his face as he struggled to accept the sight before him.

"Oh, God," he whispered, his voice cracking.

Through his tears, Jim looked up at you, desperation in his eyes. "Do you think you could... you know."

The request hung in the air, heavy with the weight of what he was asking. Summoning the dead was never easy, and it was something you had always hesitated to do. But this was Jim, and Barbara was a friend who never got to say goodbye. You gave him a small nod, feeling Jason’s hand tighten around yours in support.

You began to mutter the ancient words under your breath, calling forth Barbara’s spirit. The air grew colder, a chill settling over the alleyway as shadows twisted and contracted around Barbara’s body. Slowly, her ghostly form materialized, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and pain that gradually softened as she realized she was no longer in pain.

“Why did you call me back? I thought I was finally free…” Barbara’s voice was barely a whisper, carried on the wind. Her eyes met yours, filled with hurt and confusion.

But before you could respond, Jim stepped forward, his voice trembling. "I asked her to, Barb. I just needed to see you one last time."

Barbara’s gaze softened as she looked at her father, still wearing her Batgirl suit. "Oh, Dad, I’m sorry I never told you."

She reached out to hug him, but her spectral form passed through him, sending a shiver down his spine. Your hands were growing colder, the strain of maintaining the connection to Barbara’s spirit taking its toll.

Jim reached out as if to take Barbara’s hand, though he knew it was futile. "Oh, it’s okay. I am so proud of you and everything you’ve done to help our city. We all have a debt we can never repay you. I love you so much."

Barbara’s form began to flicker, her connection to the physical world weakening. “I love you too, Dad,” she whispered before vanishing in a gust of wind.

Jim wiped away his tears, his voice thick with emotion as he turned to you. "Thank you."

You nodded, understanding the depth of his gratitude as he retreated to the back of the Batmobile, needing time to process his grief. You exchanged a glance with Jason and Cassandra, a silent agreement to give him the space he needed.

"Want to help me string the Joker onto the hood of the car?" Jason asked, gesturing to the lifeless body of the man who had caused him so much pain.

You shook your head in disbelief, leaning against the brick wall with Cassandra as you watched Jason attach the Joker’s body to the front of the Batmobile. Despite everything, you couldn’t help but feel a small, bitter sense of satisfaction as the Batmobile roared to life, ready to leave Gotham behind.