messenger-of-babel

[messenger-of-babel]

Please drop your saddest cry in the car songs so I can write more angst- my playlist isn't cutting it anymore and I need to feed. I want my heart to hurt.

[messenger-of-babel]

Rumours

Summary: People love to talk about Jason behind closed doors, he just didn't think it would affect you. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.4K

Notes: Welcome Back- this is OOC, written in a day since it came to me in a fever dream. Listened to some new albums, put one song on repeat and wrote and edited this piece like it was my messiah. Since it's a sudden scene please don't expect much setting or anything like that I just wanted to cry on my floor and put it on the page. Praying for more inspiration to violently grab me again.

Enjoy~! RiRi xoxo <3

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Despite how he looked, Jason wasn't a drinker.

People usually looked at him in his Red Hood gear, hair mussed and eye bags dark, and would joke about him needing a drink. He couldn't deny that he looked the part, with his rugged demeanour and weathered expression, grumbling to anyone who came to close to 'Fuck off' when he was tired.

He knew what the image was.

He wore leather jackets and rode his bike around the dark streets of Gotham, his moniker being passed around the rougher streets of Gotham and whispered in hushed tones Downtown.

Even when he was Jason Todd, son of Bruce Wayne, people told him he looked like a drinker.

Coming back to the social spotlight under mysterious circumstances, scars littering his hands and hidden under the tight clench of his jaw, he knew what they whispered about. The unspoken rumour that had floated around was that he had been involved in something criminal- which wasn't too far off from the truth. However, the story got twisted when the rumours spoke of him being the perpetrator, being the ring leader of a gang that got caught for some shady reason or another, before getting daddy to bail him out. They said that he had been taken to a youth prison for killing a man, and that Bruce had simply tried to keep it under wraps for his image.

Jason almost wanted to scoff at the absurdity of it, but the more the rumour circulated the more it started to solidify in the minds of Gothamites as the truth. He was used to the struggle to be liked, hell, even just tolerated, something that seemed to come so easily to his adopted brothers. yet he was happy for them to have the spotlight and lead the public away from the true family business.

It wasn't the nature of the rumour that hurt the most he supposed, but everyone’s reaction. He had lived with it for years, when it was more quiet whispers and he had just returned. At the time the media was all over him and his beaten experience, flashes of bulbs going off in his face, capturing his dilated pupils and vacant expression as he relived the bomb with each blur of white. Tabloids had run wild, 'SON OF GOTHAM MOGUL RETURNS', 'WAYNE'S KID: BACK FROM THE DEAD?', 'JASON TODD: KIDNAP VICTIM', and painted him with false sympathy in the hopes of getting an exclusive interview. He had denied them all at the time of course, spending most of his days with the curtains drawn and lost in his own head, staring forward blankly at the wall opposite his bed. It didn’t matter that years had passed, that he had been working as the Red Hood and out on Gotham’s streets at night alone. As soon as he came back as Jason Todd, truly Jason Todd, the years he lost caught up to him and it was like he was fifteen again, trapped in a body that had moved on without him.

Yet despite it all, Bruce did nothing. The rumours grew larger in number, circulated down to even the back streets where he had patrolled. When Dick had been involved in a scandal that led to a little more heat than any of them would have liked (and Jason didn't blame him, the guy deserved a day off even if it meant he was caught a little loose at the Iceberg Lounge), Bruce was the first to act. Tim wiped drives, published articles were recalled before anyone even knew that they had hit the press and the image remained intact. It was only then that he realised he had the power to do that, of course they could do that. He didn’t know why he didn’t think of it before, but maybe that was still the part of fifteen year old Jason in him.

The part that with wide and trusting eyes looked past the cold and almost mournful glimmer deep seated in Bruce's when he looked at him. The part that still somewhere glanced at him more of a father figure and forgot about the cowl and cape. But the older and wiser part of Jason knew better, reigning in his younger counterpart. This was the man that had a countermeasure for all of his co-workers, the people who trusted Batman with more than just their lives. This was the man that refused to kill the Joker because of a moral line in the sand, and now as the rumours worsened, who let Jason take the fall to further protect the alibi of the rest of them.

Maybe he thought Jason was strong enough to take it.

 Maybe he thought that he was someone else now, returned from the pits and stronger than ever in both body and soul. Maybe Jason let it go on so long because he thought he was. But if he was, he wouldn’t be here, drinking a double scotch that he didn't even like, in large sips that burnt his throat and made him feel disgusting.

Jason had never been that man by himself, feeling more some days like a lost boy feeling his way through the night. However, when he was with you he really thought that he could be that man. the shield that stood between you and the outside world that almost took pleasure in scorning him. Who stood between his family and the public that thrived off of quiet scandals.

Yet Jason should have seen it coming sooner or later. It was the young boy in him that looked at you with the same quiet love he held for Bruce, trusting and hopeful. Jason could have sworn that when you looked at him with those eyes and that gentle smile, that you saw him, all for him in those moments. Man and boy, Todd and Wayne, but still just Jason. Maybe he should have done more to dissuade you from the rumours, to fight for his reputation and name a little harder. Maybe he should have stood in front of the cameras and called it all a smear campaign, or to join the face of Bruce's company and try to turn it around.

He took another sip of the drink, the sounds of the bar fading into a quiet buzz around him. It burnt his throat and made him feel sick, rolling around in the pit of his stomach. Was this his second or his third? he didn't know. What he did know was that the intended effect was finally kicking in, making his cheeks numb and slowing his thoughts while his blood warmed.

God, he was pathetic.

Moping in a bar that he didn't even want to be at, hushed whispers occurring behind his back debating why the son of Wayne would be in this part of town so late at night. he clicked the screen of his phone on, bright numbers reading a little past midnight. If this had been a few months ago, his home screen would be filled with worried texts from you, asking where he was. You had moved from Metropolis to be with him, away from the shiny art deco buildings and blue skies.

So, you had set a midnight curfew to keep both of you safe.

You had exchanged your skylit apartment in the city with its rooftop garden, for a downtown apartment with seven locks on the door and shutters you didn’t dare open. Your sun had been exchanged for overcast horizons and rain, and every public gathering or parade was laced with more fear and anxiety than joy. You had traded in your job at the Daily Planet for the Gotham Gazette, so he knew it was only a matter of time before the gnawing teeth of Gotham and its whispers wore you down too.

He had done his best to help you settle in, desperate to try and help you find the small glimmers of beauty that still remained in the city. He soothed your anxieties when you were worried you weren't fitting in with the rest of the Gotham, but that's exactly what Jason loved about you. He loved that your eyes always searched for the sun when you went out, irises sparkling as they scanned for a gap of blue through the clouds. He loved that you were still optimistic, throwing out Metro-slang when you got excited and ignoring the odd looks of Gothamites when your city accent slipped out. He adored how your hand fit in his, softer than his own yet holding on firmly lest you be separated in the busy subway.

Yet when he held your hand now, your grip was softer, a little loser. Your eyes were a little more dull, reflecting the grey of the sky a little more often. When he had first noticed it, it had made his heart stir uncomfortably, a flicker pulling his lips down. He began noting your longer shifts at work on his phone, writing the time you were home and what days you weren’t. Sure, some could consider it obsessive, especially when you tiredly mentioned how badly you wanted a holiday despite Jason knowing you had all your holiday and paid leave built up to the max, free to take a month off anytime.

He felt it in the way you never held his hand anymore going out, the way you turned your cheek when he leant in, the half-hearted participation in conversations and then the holiday issue all pointed to one sign.

Jason was not Tim Drake, but he wasn’t an idiot.

You didn’t want a holiday, you wanted a break.

That was the best outcome, he told himself. The faint hope that you might come back, that you could work out whatever issue was bothering you if you both had some space. But Jason knew it wasn’t like that. The indifference had morphed into something else, something that sat underneath your skin and rose its head every time your eyes locked with his. He could feel it, the lack of warmth he now received from your gaze despite how much love he tried to return in his own. It didn’t matter how tenderly he held you in his hands if his hands were scarred and calloused like they were.

Working at the Gazette was the only thing he could think of that had caused this, but he didn’t know. With every sip of his drink, his addled thoughts started pointing fingers back to himself. Maybe it was the way he spoke and not the hundreds of articles that passed through your hands each week with a new theory about him. Maybe it was how little time he had at night because of patrols, or maybe it was the wagging tongues that swore he was running some fight club down on the South Side. Maybe it was the harsh way that he dealt with that one mugger that tried to get your wallet when you went on a date, maybe you thought that the whispers were true that he'd do that to regular civilians. That he'd to that to you.

He would never.

But it was harder to change people’s minds when they were made, especially over time. Jason tipped another sip back and cursed whoever said that it was easier to edit a full page than a blank one, because they clearly had never tried to rewrite their own story when it was riddled with unwanted co-authors. Maybe he had pushed you away, tried too hard.

Alfred had caught him in the library in Wayne Manor one night about a week ago, a room hardly used so he was less likely to be disturbed. Jason hardly visited, but the ice he had felt from you when he went to your shared apartment was enough to drive him back. Green eyes rimmed in red, peeking up at the old man through tousled black fringe. A picture of the two of you on his lockscreen revealed when he closed the phone app, hiding the string of calls that failed to connect.

"How much did you hear?" he asked the old man hoarsely, trying to be nonchalant and aloof as he leaned on the bookshelf behind him. Alfred just looked up at him with a warm kind of pain in his eyes, yet keeping his distance.

"Everything, master Jason."

That had been great.

Jason had never been good with putting his thoughts into words, so when he had called you spluttering like a five-year-old, tearfully asking you to call him back and leaving voicemails, it was like his brain shut off in that moment. he felt the pit of embarrassment in his stomach knowing the old man had been behind the shelf the whole time hearing him sob on the phone, pouring out his heart as he promised to change, to do anything in exchange for you telling him why you didn’t love him anymore. why you hated him.

Him and Alfred hadn't talked since that interaction.

Not that he gave him a chance to, he hadn't gone back to the manor. He took one of the cars and had been sleeping in it for a while, floating between the idea of going back to your place, or to the manor. He decided on neither. Shaking the memory from his head he tipped back the last of the drink, and he thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

His vision was a little blurry as he hopped off the stool, throwing down a wad of cash on the bar and ignoring the eagle eyes that bore into the back of him as he made his way to the exit. Maybe he was a little drunk right now, and the cold rain that greeted him outside wasn't enough to bring him back to sober just yet. Maybe he was holding on too tight, and he needed to do what you were too scared to do, and let you go. To stop holding onto the 'we're fine' you delivered immediately before you'd sigh. Maybe he really was all that the rumours made him out to be.

Two years you had been in his life, small in the grand scheme of things. One year since you had moved to Gotham to start your life over. 'Guess you got your wish' he thought to himself, wondering if you could hear his thought if he wished it hard enough. You had finally fit into Gotham, united in hating the common enemy.

Him.

[messenger-of-babel]

losing my mind over the new Resident Evil 9 announcements I've literally called an executive meeting with every person I know to yap about it so if you're a resi fan and havent seen the trailer, RUN.

[messenger-of-babel]

Rattled

Summary: The cracks in your relationship all stem from that one night . (Nightwing x batsis!reader)

Word Count: 2.5K

Notes: Here's another one loveliess~! Warning for description of injuries if you're not cool with that, and then just some changing tenses for tiny pieces that I was too brain fried to fix up while editing. First of the sequels to come out (first fic linked below), so I hope you enjoy!

Part 1

RiRi~ xoxo

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You and Dick had always had a sibling relationship that everyone joked was unbeatable.

You had always been the pair known for late nights and laughter, conversations that flowed for hours without a hitch. Everyone could see how the creases smoothed from Dick's forehead when his eyes settled on you, and when he'd playfully wack at the back of your head. He wasn't supposed to have favourites as the older brother, but everyone knew he that if there was a contender you would be up there no questions asked. You knew it too, in the way that you'd ask Dick for permission if Bruce had told you no or asking him first if you knew Bruce was going to deny you outright. Dick knew what you were doing, even if he sighed and shook his head when you asked. Yet he'd still just berate you lightly before giving you permission and instructions not to come crying to him if things went badly. The same man who'd blink owlishly at any other member of the family if they interrogated him on the soft spot he had for you, responding with a 'I'd do it for any of my siblings,' before walking off.

Partners in crime, and you were to be partners in justice.

Now as he sits in his room, eyes trained on the bland ceiling above him, he wished for you to come crying to him more than anything.

When you came back, you came back different.

Even you could feel that, and it wasn't just the throb in your leg or the persistent limp that told you. When you first woke up after the Black Mask incident, it had been in the back of the Batmobile. As you blinked languidly, staring at the roof of the car, your surroundings began to take shape. First had been the burn. The god-awful burn that started in your thigh and shoulder, and made you want to throw up from the intensity that it struck you. When you groaned you could hear worried voices, the sound of Dick yelling something at someone. You could feel the hum of the engine through the leather seats as it worked harder, and the vibrations rattled your skull until you felt the familiar black fog close over you.

The second time that you had woken up, you had been in your bed. The roof of the batmobile had been traded for the canopy of your four poster, and the hard leather traded in for the plush familiarity of your mattress. there was still the persistent stinging in your leg of course, but it had died down some. Pulling back the cotton sheets revealed a tightly wrapped bandage, just a dot of red peeking through. Your arm was stiff as you rolled it, pain squeaking through your joint at the action. The wrapping was the signature of Alfred, the tight yet even tension throughout the bandages speaking to his countless years of wrapping up child soldiers. You winced when you put pressure on your leg, a jolt running up the back of your thigh like a live wire. That wasn't enough to stop you however, merely making you grimace as you shuffled to the door, threading your arms through your fluffy, printed dressing gown.

Your bedroom door creaked open, letting spills of golden light into the darkness of your room. Faint chatter could be heard from down the hall, leading to the foyer. You looked both ways, trying to see who was around before stepping out and closing the door softly behind you. You had only made it about six paces down the left hall, headed for the library to where Jason often visited, before a voice called out to you.

"You should be resting."

Those words were enough to make your shoulders hunch, like a deer caught in headlights. When you turned back around you were met with the cold eyes of your father, jaw set tight, and arms crossed. He was imposing as ever, whether you saw him dressed for patrol that night or if he was simply Bruce Wayne like he was now. You just wrung your hands, looking down to your feet. You couldn't help but feel the scalding in his tone, the disappointment enough to make your eyes water. You didn’t really consider yourself to be a cry-baby, but the tiredness that clung to your brain like a fog, paired with the stare he normally gave your older siblings was enough to make you curl up inside.

You heard his footfalls, and it was like the world was shaking with each heavy step. Bruce crouched in front of you, sleeves rolled to his elbows which he rested on his knees. "Look at me." he commanded, voice a touch softer than it had been before. Reluctantly, you pulled your eyes up to meet his. His eyes were dark but not angry, searching yours silently before flicking around your face. A rough hand came up to the side of your face, reaching for your cheek. His hands were large and rough, but they tucked hair behind your ear so softly you almost didn’t realise he had.

Involuntarily your lip wobbled, closing your eyes as you felt the familiar sting. "I'm sorry." you forced out, throat feeling like sandpaper after waking up so recently. You only had realised how thirsty you were, now that you had used your voice. Bruce sighs and stands up, warms hands coming to rest on your shoulders before softly pulling you in. "It's okay, chickadee." he murmured lowly. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

The use of your childhood nickname made the hot tears beading your eyes finally sink into his shirt. You wrapped your arms around him as your brain flashed with pieces of what had happened last night, each one that zapped through your brain making your leg sting and pulse.

You wrangled your emotions under control, taking a deep breath. even breathing felt like a chore, having to push each breath past the built-up knot in your chest. You parted your lips, wanting to say something to the silent yet steady father before you, but the words caught on your tongue.

He had just come up the stairs, rounding the corner when you saw him. Dark hair damp from an earlier shower, it hung in strings in front of his face. He was in a pair of ragged pyjamas, feet tucked into battered grey slippers. He looked up from his phone, freezing as he catches your eye. The glare from the phone screen highlights the bags under his eyes, heaver and darker than usual. His face was a little more sunken in the cheeks, and a worry line seemed to have taken residence on his forehead.

Not able to stand the building pressure in the small distance between you both, you looked down and away. It was like your gaze was the only thing keeping him a voyeur to the moment between you and your father, and you could see his slippered feet shuffle for a moment, before eventually continuing down the hallway. The tired image of his face lingered in your mind long after Bruce had walked you back to bed and tucked you in, like a persistent itch on the inside of your eyelids.

When you slipped back into sleep, you dreamt of it.

You dreamt of being back in that shipping container, body thrumming with pain and warning signals firing in every corner of your brain. your teeth could feel the texture of the wooden spoon you bit, mouth dry and tongue aching from the texture. Pain boiled through your veins like acid, and the spoon clatters from your mouth. Your mouth is dry, but your cheeks feel as wet and you beg Dick to stop, and you can feel that your leg is sickeningly wet and warm.

While you're tossing lightly in your sleep, Dick is awake down the hall. He couldn't sleep, but not for the usual reasons. For reasons unknown to you, he was staring at the ceiling with his heart in his throat. If he took his eyes off it for too long it warped back into the shipping container roof, his vision blurring like they were covered in tears. He had to keep his eyes trained on the ceiling to make sure he didn’t accidentally slip back there, to prove to himself that he was in fact here in his room, and it wasn’t some trauma response imagining he was. His hand clenched and unclenched in the sheets, repeating to himself over and over that he was safe, you were safe. It was just a nightmare that never seemed to end, but he had gotten you back safely.

If his eyes closed for even a second too long, his ears rang with the sound of your sobbing and the pleading that came from your lips. With a sigh he wipes his face with his hand, blinking languidly as the air puffs out from his lungs. Who was he kidding. Safe? You were hardly safe. You had been bleeding all over your suit, all over that medical chair, all over his hands. That red was still staining the backseat of the Batmobile, and no matter how many times Jason told him he had cleaned it fully, he was convinced he could still see it there faintly.

He wasn't your hero.

Dick knew that much, and it hurt. He hadn't been the one who eventually saved you, that had been Tim. Who had come to him with a kit and the car, who had helped him pinch off the bleed, who had driven as fast as he could to get you back to Alfred and the med bay while all Dick could do was hold you in the back of the car. He was supposed to be unshakeable, your rock and foundation. He had advocated for you to be able to come out with them, promising Bruce, promising himself that he would sooner die than let anything happen to you.

What a lie that was.

Despite his best efforts, when he looked down to his bloodied lap, the sight he saw was not the debut vigilante. It was his little sister back when she was ten, in the gala dress Bruce had bought her. Hair slightly messy from running in the halls and roughhousing with Damian, knees skinned from tripping over near the garden well. It was the little sister that would fling herself into his room whenever she wanted or would come charging at him down the driveway when he came back from a trip to Bludhaven. The little girl who had posters of all of Gotham's vigilantes on her bedroom wall but had a few extra Nightwing ones tacked up on the inside of her wardrobe. That was the one he had failed.

With a crushing pain in his chest he swung himself upwards, tousling his hair with a shake of his head. Alfred should have given you another round of painkillers, which meant that more than likely you were going to be knocked out for a while. He shoved his feet into slippers, sighing as he turned the handle of his bedroom door. This was a bad idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. It's not like he was going to be sleeping much tonight anyways.

The lights of the hallways were dimmed but still bright enough to hurt his eyes, and he solemnly wondered if that was how Bruce felt constantly. Your door wasn’t too far away from his, yet he still hesitated outside. He steeled himself, taking a deep breath and checking to see if anyone was around before he grabbed the handle and pressed it down, your door swinging open silently.

The beeping of the monitors near your bed made his heart pang, and he looked over your sleeping figure. Your eyes were closed, lips parted softly as your chest rose and fell. The sheets were tucked up neatly under your arms, no doubt Alfred's work, while one arm rested in your lap and the other by your head. Your shoulder was padded thickly with gauze pads, strapped tight to your skin. He sat gently on the side, trying to not let his weight dip the bed too much. A hesitant hand brushes across your forehead so he can see your face clearer, a faint smile flickering across his lips. His eyes trail down to the blankets that covered the wound site on your leg, and his brain was filled with images. He wanted so badly to know what it looked like, if it was healing, how much gauze was needed to patch up his mistake.

"I'm sorry." he whispers into the air, gazing down at you. "I'm so so sorry, birdie."

His hands fiddle in his lap as he lets a sigh out. He moves one of his hands stiffly to yours in your lap, gently curling his hand around your fingers. When your digits twitch in your sleep and curl around his back, his eyes burn, and he holds the back of his other hand to his nose to stop a sniffle. "I'm so sorry." he whispers again, throat on fire. "I should have been there sooner. I should have caught you. I should have checked for an explosive, I should have kept my promise." he confesses quietly, the bleeding of his heart spilling past his lips. "I should have been a better brother, birdie. I wish I could take it back."

He swallows thickly, eyes flicking over your face constantly to check for signs of you waking. "I understand if you hate me. Why you don't speak or look at me, and I understand." he tries to smile weakly. "I understand. Bruce was so mad at me, but that's what I deserve. It was all my fault, it truly was." His voice aches as tears finally drip off his nose, a hiccup building in his chest. "But I'll try to make it up to you. I'll earn your trust again, if you'll let me. I promise you; nothing is ever going to happen again."

He wipes his face and stands up, aching as he slips his hand from yours. Your fingers twitch at the loss of the warm contact, and he would give the whole world if he could have the chance to interlace his fingers with yours. Yet he holds himself back, leaning over to give you a featherlight kiss on the forehead, like he used to do years ago when you came to him with nightmares. "I love you, birdie. Forever, I promise." he whispers, stroking your head once gently before he quietly stands up, trying to not jostle the bed. He pads quietly to the door, opening the handle a fraction so that light doesn’t spill into the room, giving him a big enough gap to just slip out. He closes the door, forehead pressing against the wood for a moment before he pushes off and heads back towards his own bed.

Away from the four walls that held you and the sun faded rectangle right above your bed, where a poster clearly used to hang.

[messenger-of-babel]

my shayla 💔💔

250513 - Color study

[messenger-of-babel]

First Fallen

Summary: Jason's first snow back, but you wouldn't know that. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 1.5K

Notes: I feel like I'm constantly trying to defend the fact that I'm not dead so please take my apologies, a fic I dug up from the Christmas event last year (stopped due to emergency), and my four hours of sleep.

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"Slow down, you need to put your jacket on." Jason grumbles, eyeing you busying around his room. He follows a step behind you like a disgruntled parent, hands hovering in case you trip over something.

"But it's snowing!" you chirp back excitedly, casting a glance to him over your shoulder. "We need to get out there and enjoy it before it goes all slushy."

When you send him that smile his breath stutters in his chest, and it pulls a grin from his own lips. It makes his brain short circuit, the way that you look at him like that. The way that you looked at him, it was like he had never disappeared. Like he hadn't left you alone and grieving. You looked at him like he was still as free spirited and snarky as he used to be, the kid that gave Bruce Wayne and Alfred an equally frustrating headache (even though he still did at times). Like he had never died, or what you had thought, been put in a witness protection program. You didn't question where the muscle suddenly came from when you hugged him, or how he grew a full head taller than what he was last. You never commented on the green in his usually blue eyes, or the white in his hair that never washed out.

He knew that you'd seen the scars across his back and down his arms, and the burn pockmarks left on his hands and shoulders, but you still kissed along the skin like it had never been marred. There was so much change in this one bedroom that now felt too young for him, but your smile was the same that he remembered.

You were there sending him that same damn smile.

"Snow ain't going anywhere, sweetheart." he says back, helping you sling one of his jackets over you and funnel your arms through the sleeves.

"Yeah, but still." you protest, sending him a pout before pecking him on the cheek. "Come on, grumpy, let's go." you pat his arms and reach down for his hand, his fingers interlocking with yours on instinct.

"You don't have gloves," he points out as you begin to lead him out of the room and into the manor hallway.

"Don't need them." you say, eyes still forward but you raise your linked hands together. "Your hands are warm enough."

"What if I let go?"

"Then don't." you tease back, dragging him to the front door.

The snow falls gently outside, and you race forward without fear, footfalls crunching with each step that you take. He watches as you track marks through the fresh white carpet, beaming all the while. The white powder is slowly starting to decorate your hair, covering the oversized sleeves of the jacket. He watches you from the doorway, laughing to himself as you trip over your own feet and stumble in the snow, racing around like a child and taking large handfuls of it. Once your hyperactivity has worn off, he pushes from the doorframe, shaking his head as you return. He takes your hands back into his, bringing them to his mouth to blow warm air into them.

"Told you, you needed gloves." he scolds, the biting temperature of your frozen digits bleeding into the warmth of his palms.

You don't say anything as he heats up the frozen fingertips, you just stare at him with that soft gaze.

"What?" he huffs, lips tilting and making the scar at the corner of his mouth twitch.

"Come outside with me." you say softly, folding your hands so you can take his in yours instead. "Come enjoy the snow."

His smile tilts downwards a little. He isn't against it really, he's just more surprised than anything.

"Nah, I'll stay here sweetheart, you go enjoy. I'm cold enough to last another lifetime."

However the defiant gleam he loves so much takes over your eyes, and you tighten your grip on him. Wordless and with a clenched jaw you tug at his hands, leading him step by step outside. He feels a shiver rush over him as the chilled breeze darts across his exposed skin, biting into the flesh of his hands and the tips of his ears.

"It's cold." he says, tone warning but it only makes you smile wider.

"of course it is, smartass. it's snow."

you pull him a good distance from the door, the warm light from inside hitting your backs. you watch as the scar on his lip dips down slightly in a frown, his eyes reflecting the glow as he looks over his shoulder towards shelter.

You would never tell him this, but you thought he looked beautiful right now.

There was something angelic about the curves and contours of his face, the slight sheen of red making its way over his nose. He grumbled anytime you called him a name, whether that was beautiful or handsome or cute. Any form of endearment was merely brushed off with a shake of his black mop and a wave of his hand. So, you kept it to yourself, eyes flitting over him soft and reverent. So lost in trying to capture the picture in your mind that you were unaware of your hand tightening in his instinctually.

"Hey." Jason manages to snap you out of your daydream. "What are you thinking about?"

Blood rushes to your face and warms your cheeks. Your brain flips into overdrive, thinking of how to play it off. "Nothing." you bite out a bit too quickly. "Just this."

Without thinking about it you crouch to the ground and grab fistfuls of fluffy snow, crushing it between your fingers before grabbing the back of his hoodie and shoving in down his back.

Jason, who had been too curious to respond in time, screams as the cold snow hits his back. His hands reach for the back of his hoodie to flap it, trying to create space between the snow and his back. He whirls away from you, huffing when he empties the flakes from the bottom of his jacket.

"You brat." he grins back, dropping to the ground for a second before flinging a handful of loosely packed snow at you. You shriek as it collides on the side of your head, smattering the cold particles through your hair and down your neck. "Jason!" you scold, hands coming up defensively but grinning widely.

"Don't 'Jason' me," he grins, covering the distance to wrap his arms around your waist and spin you. "You're the one that started it."

smiling you lean back, taking in the glimmer of his eyes as they look back down at you. They were warmer than they had been before, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something behind those blue irises, something behind the curtain you were blocked off from.

"You make me feel alive again, you know that?" he breathes out. Your smile falters slightly but you keep it up.

"You make it sound like you were dead," you scold slightly, whacking him playfully in the chest. "Trust me, if you were dead, I'd be the first to know about it. I'd be inconsolable." you giggle, the downturn of his lips and the sad flicker in his eyes going unnoticed by you.

He knew that you knew about the scars but chose not to say anything. He had no shame in showing you those, the lines and bruises that you traced so reverently with your fingers and sealed lips. It would be a silent ritual between you both, except in those few times where you'd mumble under your breath how strong he was, how strong he must be to endure whatever he was keeping from you. But one thing he would never tell you was that those scars you so gently praised as a symbol of his strength, murmuring quietly of his survival, were the opposite. When he looked at the mirror he didn't see the evidence of a survivor, and his heart ached at the idea of trying to tell you that those scarred over wounds had in fact claimed him.

So, for now he'd settle with you in his arms, grinning up at him like the world revolved around him. He'd forgive the snow dusting his hair if it meant he got to stare into those glimmering eyes of yours for just a moment longer, withstand the biting cold if it made your nose crinkle more often.

"Merry Christmas, babe." he murmurs silently, voice full of a heavy warmth as he places a soft kiss on your forehead, looking out at the rest of the gardens gradually succumbing to the winter blanket.

It may not have been his first snow with you, but as he held you in the garden, he couldn’t help but feel like a stranger reliving his own memories again.

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I finished moving house (again. please....no more....im so tired...) and tried to come back and was LOCKED OUT of my tumblr I've been fighting to get it back and just got it back. I've got fics just sitting here I was waiting to upload, and I will, once I ensure no funny business occurred on my account in my absence. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

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I am back~! My work trip was good but did in fact mean I had to be away from my laptop for those two weeks. I'm currently working on some part 2's, so I hope that everyone who was keen for sequels feels satisfied with what I've done. 🙂‍↕️

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Quick little note because I wasn't able to post one before I left- I'm currently travelling and working a conference and gala this week so I'm interrupting your somewhat regular posting. Will be back sometime around next weekend and will take some time to recover (that's a lot of work, facilitating and presenting 😮‍💨😮‍💨) and then we will be back into the swing of things!

Keep yourselves safe, lovelies~

RiRi xoxoxo <3

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yeah no Attachments absolutely gutted the FUCK outta me but it was so GOOD i love the way you paint the picture and set the stage!! i’m alr knowing Leon’s about to apeshit

🪷

I'm so glad that Attachments and Voicemails caused absolute MAYHEM across people's dash, that makes me feel very accomplished. Nothing gets me more than the last goodbye trope I have to admit. Just you wait till I pump out that mini series for it. 🤭

(Y'all might get a sprinkling of comfort amongst your angst as a treat).

Can't wait for you to see it! 💖🤭

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Hey i just finished reading your angstober masterlist- thank you for stabbing me in the heart in the best way possible. Why am i crying in the club right now oh my god, love your writing hope everything is going well! :,)

I admire your resilience to get through that entire masterlist, and I salute you 🫡🫡. I'm sorry for the absolute shattering of your feels, I take full responsibility. 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

I'm also doing well, thanks for checking in! Work is going alright and I'm post most of the flood recovery so everything is back on track. I actually have a gala to attend as part of work so I get to go play princess for a day 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️.

Hope to see you hanging around in the future anon!! <33

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Could you write about the sweetheart grips? Soldiers in ww2 used to put photos of their lovers on the grips of their guns and I think that would be cute with Jason.

Eye for An Eye

Summary: Jason keeps a photo of you in his gun to keep you close to him, even in his hardest moments. (Jason Todd x reader)

Word Count: 2.7K

Notes: dear anon I really, really wanted to make this sweet. But then I got an angst idea and- I tried to do it justice without too many tears. Forehead kisses for you because as soon as you sent this in I legit thought about this idea for like three days straight I fell in love with the concept. I might use it again for other Jason fics you got me hooked (I was a MASSIVE military history nerd). Warnings for description of violence and injury, character death, some choppy writing. Back onto my angst train, I'm so sorry y'all (I'll write this concept sweeter sometime, I SWEAR).

ALSO HAPPY 100 POSTS. It's crazy when I remember I'm still a baby blog. <3

Enjoy~! RiRi xoxo <3

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Bruce had never been one for guns, and while Jason was Robin, he hadn't either.

He didn't consider himself a particularly violent child or had any real craving to use weapons. After all, he never really hit anyone who didn't deserve it, and he got great satisfaction of getting back at people who thought they could hurt innocent civilians just because they were bigger and older than him.

That was until he was taken by Joker and showed just how much hurt someone older and bigger than could inflict.

April 27th, the date that the Joker killed Jason Todd.

Now, he couldn’t imagine his hands without the comforting grip of his pistol. The grips were designed just for him, slotting into the contours of his fingers and worn away in the areas he instinctually rubbed. They were wide so they sat snug in his large palms, with a coarse texture in the areas he habitually flexed. The grip allowed it to stick to his gloves for a steadier shot while it would simply irritate anyone else who tried to hold them.

Everyone knew that those guns were Jasons, but nothing said it quite like the new addition of the faded photo tucked into the grips. The colt's had originally come with wooden handgrips, which were quickly removed while he made his modifications.

"You know the Bat isn't gonna be happy with you getting another set of guns." Dick calls out, approaching his worktable in the cave. Jason just grunts at him over his shoulder, making sure he keeps the screws where he can see them.

"Bruce can honestly suck it up." he huffs, the mention of the Bat souring his demeanour immediately. Jason had wanted to do this in his apartment for this exact same reason. He knew Stephanie would annoy him with questions if she caught sight of him, and that Tim would interject constantly with 'improvements' he deemed necessary. Duke he could deal with, and Cass would leave him well enough alone.

Dick and Damian just managed to piss him off simply existing sometimes.

Mostly when he was already in a bad mood.

His older brother trots down the stairs, a frown forming on his face as he puts his hands on his hips to observe.

"Quiet." Jason mumbles flatly, knowing the older vigilante was giving him a disapproving stare. Dick ignores him, eyeing the photo tucked up near his water bottle.

"Jason," he says, voice a warning tone.

"I said quiet." he cuts off, wiping the area down with a damp cloth. Dick just sighs behind him as Jason gingerly picks up the photo, rubbing his calloused thumbs over it. Dick wants to say something as he eyes the photo but can't bring himself to speak above the block in his chest. He watches the tension ease from his brother’s shoulders, the muscles that had been stiffly held by his ears for weeks. The scowl he wore softened slightly, and he could actually hear him exhale for once instead of wondering if his chest actually was moving or not. Instead, Dick sighs in reluctance, giving in. Dick watches him with sad eyes, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a slight squeeze. "Don't forget to, you know," he leans forward slightly and draws a circle with his finger on a certain point of the photo. Jason's face ripples with a flash of pain, but he watches his younger brother grit his teeth and nod.

"Look after yourself, Jay." he murmurs, pulling back. "Don't do anything stupid."

Jason waits a little bit before turning back the photo, ensuring that Dick had left the cave. A still silence settled over the dim space once more. It didn't help the hum in his head, making his fingers and muscles shake, the white noise refusing to settle in his conscious. He gently drew on the photo of you with pencil, tracing the shape that he needed for the grip and ensuring that you weren't cut out by accident.

It was a favourite photo of his, taken at one of Bruce's galas. He hadn't wanted to go, hardly showing to the events in the first place. "Full of rich idiots trying to get even richer." he had told you, tossing a look over his shoulder to you. You were standing at the door, holding the invite that had been slipped through the mail slot. You waved the thick cardstock, a small smile on your face. "Aw, but I was kinda looking forward to going." you say, looking over the details. "I think it'll be fun."

"The only one who thinks those things are fun are Dick and Steph if she's around. Tim will get bored and probably turn into a loan shark if left unattended too long. So yeah, fun." he grumbled.

"What about Dami?"

Her turns around, eyebrows raised.

"I’m sorry?" he asks. "When did we start calling the demon child, Dami? We're on nickname level now?"

He hates how his heart flutters in his chest when he hears you laugh, melting away his annoyance.

"He's sweet, just a little prickly. like you." you grin, coming to wrap your arms around his neck, pecking him on the lips.

"Yeah, he's sweet to you, he's a little shit to everyone else." he grumbles.

"Sounds like someone else I know." you tease.

He can't help but grin, sighing out through his nose softly. "Fine. we can go." he grumbles, knowing he won’t be able to stay mad at you for long.

The photo he traces was from that night, you tucked into his side. You're staring at the camera with a sparkle in your eye, lips pulled back into a wide grin. You're wearing black to fit the theme of the ball, with red accents, matching him. He’s got his arm around your shoulder, taking the photo with you pressed up against him. He thinks you look stunning, eyes twinkling at him from the page.

He takes the exacto knife and gently runs it over the image, cutting himself out so that he can focus on you. The piece pops free, and he trims the edges. His heart thrums as he slides you onto the handle, fluttering with a tame delight.

"Don't forget to, you know..."

Dick’s voice floats back into his mind, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards once more. Reluctantly he pulls your photo from the handle and reaches for a screwdriver to his left, bringing it above the paper. He feels like he's about to stab you, the way the metal tip hovers above the image smiling back at him.

But he does it, heart clenching with each scrape across your eyes, slowly erasing the twinkle he loved so much. There's something sickening about the feeling of scratching your face out, the gritty sound of the photo tearing and leaving white streaks in its wake making his stomach flip. Finally, it's done, stark white lines blotting out your gaze. All that's left is the upturn of your lips, and the soft smile you wore.

With a heavy sigh Jason slots it back onto the handle, placing the clear protector over you. At least nothing could damage you more than he already had. He told himself it was for the better, as he cleaned his hands on a nearby rag and bit the inside of his cheek. You weren't the most supportive of his guns, but you liked that they kept him safe. You had had a few conversations with him about it but never an argument. He wanted to keep you close, but he knew he wasn't going to be an idiot about it. He wanted to protect you, hide your identity from any eagle-eyed thugs.

"Besides," he thought to himself. "Don't want em seeing what I'm about to do."

Maybe it was for the best that he covered your face for this.

His body hums with adrenaline, still alone in the Batcave. With scarred fingers he screws the cover onto the grip, clear cover sitting flush and keeping your photo secure. Jasons tosses it a few times in his hand, getting used to the feeling of the new colt pistols and making sure you weren't going to shake loose. When he was content, he looked over his shoulder, scanning the shadows for movement.

He knew that Bruce would condemn his actions, he didn’t even need to ask on that front. Dick would be understanding but try to hold him back, and Tim would try to talk him out of it. The only person he felt that silently agreed with him was Damian, the pair of them fostering an unlikely bond in the last few weeks.

Everyone in the manor knew what Jason was thinking.

What Jason was doing spending his nights in the Batcave, the one place he had grown to hate ever since coming back.

What he contemplated as he haunted the halls of the manor, the place he often traded in for the comfort of his downtown apartment.

Everyone knew what Jason was going to do tonight, yet none of them were game enough to say it out loud or stop him.

Therefore, Jason took their silence as compliance because he knew somewhere deep down, they wanted him to do it.

Or was he deluding himself?

He shook the thought from his head, holstering the newly decorated pistol. He was already dressed and strapped for this mission, no turning back now. With heavy hands he donned his helmet, taking a deep breath as he pushed Jason aside to become Red Hood. The air was still, as if the Batcave was filled with spirits watching him in silence as he mounted the bike and pressed the key for the garage door, speeding out.

He was already haunted by too many ghosts.

The streets of Gotham were relatively quiet, the usual alleys he stalked devoid of the thugs he would have expected. It seemed that even the city was holding its breath, civilians tucked safely inside. He knew where he was going.

He had been receiving mocking invites in the mail for the last week, notes attached to crime scenes in a gory fashion just to mock him. So really, it was no surprise when he arrived at Gotham cemetery, parking outside and not even bothering to kill the engine. He wasn’t going to be long anyways.

Just past the cemetery was the crumbling shell of Arkham, ivy covering the brickwork and roof caving in. His boots crushed broken panes of glass as he entered the decaying mental hospital, leaves scattered through the building from wrinkled trees that had cracked through the floors. He slowly made his way to the upper floor, where he had seen the lights.

Instinctually he reached for his gun, and he felt his heart calm sliding his hand over your picture secured into his sweetheart grip. He hadn't felt this anxious fighting in a while, unused to the way that his pulse thudded against his neck or the dryness that crept into his mouth. The corridor felt like it stretched on forever, making his vision swim trying to reach the light at the end.

Candlelight flickered weakly at the end of the hall, luring him in like a moth. As he stepped in he took note of it, hand tightening. Jason knew he was going to play with him, taunt and torture him. The images of you taped up on the peeling walls were enough. Photos that spanned back months, photos of you on dates, at work, in his car, in your apartment, blurry photos of you and him in his bed. His thumb instinctually placed itself over your eyes, despite them already being scratched out.

He didn't need you seeing the messy patchwork of your life.

Jason didn't even mind the photos, knowing the sadist would be doing something like that. What he did mind though were the images of you from three weeks ago, the same images that Dick had refused to let him see, that Tim wiped off the Batcomputer hard drive and Babs had removed from the GCPD database. The ones displaying the blood, the bone, the bruising.

Your eyes, unseeing.

Everything that was so familiar to him, but so foreign on you.

Everything that that one curved piece of metal had caused way back when, stained a dark brown. The same piece of metal that was sitting in the middle of the desk at the centre of the crude shrine, drying with a fresher coat of oxidised red.

He felt his heart rise to his throat, but he wasn’t sure if it was bile in his throat or the taste of blood from his bitten lip. His grip turned white, muscles flexing under the skin and pressing unnaturally hard. He felt the green tinged mania inside him rear its head, threatening to take over his mind and act purely on instinct. The Lazarus pit clawed and pulled at his soul harder that it had in years, gasping at him like a beggar, screaming for a shred of violence to feed it.

He knew the game. He knew all of this was to provoke him, try to get Jason to release the rage inside him. The monster wanted to see him squirm, see him struggle to keep himself in check. He wanted to watch Jason Todd fight against the Red Hood, watch the Bats moral code play out on his face.

Well, Jason wasn't Batman. He wasn't Bruce.

As soon as a skinny figure moved from the shadows to his right, his pistol was out in a flash. His free hand ripped the mask from his face, jaw tight and eyebrows furrowed, but he felt more relaxed than he had been in ages.

He was no Batman. He was Jason Todd.

And Jason was going to do the one thing Bruce had always been too much of a coward to do.

With one crisp bang the clown couldn’t get a single word out before he was splayed on the floor. As Jason stepped over the body he regarded it apathetically, barely biting down the urge to step on it. The bastards’ lips were pulled back in a wide smile, even in death. Maybe he had expected Jason to do this, maybe it was his last hurrah as an asshole, but Jason didn't care.

He didn’t even feel scared at the idea of the aftermath as a retraced his steps out of the abandoned building, mounting his still-running bike.

There hadn't been a single gloat before the gun cracked through the night, not a single joke or pun or taunt to leave the devil’s mouth. Bruce might have entertained it, let him play it out, but not Jason.

For Jason, everything that needed to be said had been said in actions.

The air was strangely cool, devoid of the humidity that nomrally hung in the streets. The city itself seemed to be sighing, taking a breath like the chord holding the city on a leash had been cut. He relished the feeling of it on his skin, the cracks in his suit letting the breeze run across his knuckles and where his mask met his neck. He imagined the cool fingers were you, cradling his face and whispering for him to take a rest, and he let his eyes flutter closed briefly.

 As he hit a red light he took a pause, reaching his hand down to pat where you were, tucked tightly under his hip. He didn't care what the reaction was going to be when he reached the manor, or the screaming match that was likely going to destroy what was left of his relationship with his pseudo father. All that matters is that he had done right by you, that he had done what he wished someone had done for him.

April 17th, the night Jason Todd killed the Joker.

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Yes I’m still around! I absolutely loved the Attachments fic! It was so well written, you basically hit it on the head of what I was thinking about.

ILY ANON thank you for submitting such a good request, it was so fun to write. Voicemails was a fic I really enjoyed writing so thank you for giving me an excuse to write a similar one. 🩵🩵

related fic for context: here

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hey hey first off OWWWWW

secondly im off to delulu land thinking leon was able to save his partner because he also is still an agent 🥳🥳🥳

Honestly you don't understand the urge that I have to write a follow up to this spin off but I still have to write a sequel to the original. It's going to have to be a full mini series at this point because I even got invested myself. 🤭

(try not to turn the next bit into angst as well challenge).

related fic for context: here

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i need Dr. House to be Batman's temporary doctor for a month while Dr. Leslie Tompkins is recovering from some sort of rogue activity.

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After seeing that 'Just Like Him' is my most popular fic (yummy Jason content) I want to make a confession that I had never heard 'Like Him' by Tyler the Creator until people started commenting it on the post. 🫣🫣😂😂

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https://www.tumblr.com/messenger-of-babel/770023528831598592/blue-is-a-christmas-colour

THIS WAS AMAZINGGGGG I NEED MORE OF DICK CRUSHING ON READER <333

Ask and y'all shall receive, now that I know it gets reciprocated well. 🤭🤭 But thank you for your support anon! It means a lot that you liked it <3.