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Fukuzawa's so fucking funny to me i cant even. He's insane. Raised up in a state sanctioned military school. Raised to master several martial arts styles and taught to master a sword since he was a kid. Didn’t go to war because he hated the army hierarchy. Stopped being a government’s catspaw because he realised liked killing people too much and Thats A Bit Fucked Up. Mind you, not that he was killing people, that he liked it. He can get so angry that people stop their cars on the road mid-movement on the road in horror at his rage. He's a freak magnet. He meets Ranpo and thinks of 50 different ways of killing him. His act of helping a 14 year old with no job, no home and no parents is to offer him assistance as a bodyguard. Free for once. He's insane. He then builds up an entire agency of gifted people and gets into several wars to assist this kid. He killed the Minister of Justice’s father. This is never addressed beyond the guy framing the Agency for mass murder (including his own). He likes cats. His main shipping partners are the maybe-pedophile main villan of the thing they're directly enemies with and also his also-main enemy ex-bff military dude with a time travelling stabby stick who kills his not-grandkids. His childhood friend of thirteen years started to hate him because Fukuzawa refused to fight a full on fucking military war with him. After refusing to fight a war he decided to skip a step and just become an assassin. He thinks you should’nt critisice other people’s food choices. He steals all of his other ex-husband’s kids in their divorce battles. He wears a haori, yukata, tabi and zori plus is a trained swordsman in modern day japan. His afformentioned ex-bff wants to make him into the leader of the world because he thinks Fukuzawa’s an uncorruptable person. Fukuzawa liked murdering people.

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oh you have done it again

omg yes like cowboy jason working around the ranch in a tank top or without it tbh, all sweaty, muscles flexing. what a sight for sore eyes😫😫 and the hat !!! he'd never take it off i bet

teehee 🤭

farmhand!jason todd x reader. reader owns a farm, jason helps. tw minor cut. lots of ogling 😋

****

"Horses need to be taken inside."

You look up from your seat on the porch swing. You've spent the better part of the hot afternoon in the shade, doing your taxes. Possibly the worst part of running a farm, besides all the excrement.

Jason's got a bridle over his shoulder and a pail of feed in the opposite hand. His neck gleams with sweat. His biceps bulge in his flexed arms. His hat sits low to block the unforgiving sun, so you can't see his eyes. You hope he can't see your wandering gaze.

"Oh, okay. Because of the heat?" This is your first summer on your farm. You're trying to learn everything you can for the future.

He nods. "Then I'll move the rest of the hay."

You make a mental note to watch when Jason starts tossing hay bales. Woof. "Okay. Thanks, Jason. I'm gonna make lunch soon."

He gives you a thumbs up and walks away. You do not (repeat, do not) stare at his broad backside as he walks away. That would be unprofessional and really, really stupid because Jason's the only good farmhand you've found in a sixty-mile radius, and it was sheer luck that brought him here. You can't afford to go searching for someone else because your little crush got out of hand.

It wasn't your dream to own a farm. Your uncle died suddenly in March, and no one else in the family wanted the land. You were convinced by a family friend that a farm was a great way to be self-sufficient. Start anew.

They weren't wrong; you just aren't much of a farmer. It's only because of Jason that you've made any profit at all, or you might've run the farm into the ground.

Jason Todd. You met him by accident in town when he was passing through one day. He told you he was looking for work in an accent that wasn't from anywhere around here. He refused to answer any further questions. That suited you fine in your desperation. You were too frazzled to think about the consequences of hiring a mysterious, handsome stranger. But it's been two months now, and you're regretting everything.

Oh, he's fantastic help. That's not the issue.

The issue is how gently Jason speaks to the cows and the horses, squeezing them affectionately when he thinks you're not watching. It's how he doesn't say much, ever, but he somehow knows when you need help with a chore or when you're daunted by the responsibility of a farm.

Wordlessly, he goes where you go, shouldering the majority of labor. Jason will let you do chores long enough so you learn how they're done, and then he'll take over, shooing you away in minimal words.

He's good at what he does; he's worked on plenty of farms and ranches before. It's entirely professional on his end. It's a little more than that for you.

It almost feels domestic some days: Jason tending to the livestock, you handling the business end of things. Jason offered to make deliveries for you, and you agreed, but he wouldn't accept extra payment for it. At first, you tried to pay him for everything, unsure of the proper etiquette. Jason had very firmly told you that that was a good way to be robbed blind.

Jesus, you're already housing me, feeding me, and paying me. This is my damn job, got it?

And did that deter you from developing a crush? No! If anything, it made it worse, working with a guy who insisted upon being honestly compensated. You overdo it now by making extra pies or chicken bakes for Jason to graze on throughout the day, especially if you're not home. He tells you it's too much, but he won't refuse the extra food.

Sometimes, it feels like he knows exactly what you're doing and why you're doing it. He looks at you with such a piercing gaze, you feel unraveled. He must know your feelings. You hope he doesn't. You hope he does.

You finish the last tax form, happy to be done. Then you stand and stretch before going inside to start lunch. On his days off, Jason cooks for both of you. But being that he takes on the chores and deliveries, you don't mind cooking most days. It's nice to cook for another person, especially one who appreciates your efforts.

Embarrassingly, you've fantasized about Jason coming into the kitchen and sipping kisses from your lips, squeezing your waist, telling you how good the food smells and how good you taste. Your spine goes straight when Jason passes by and gets close to you, so close that you can feel his earthy heat. But he never touches you. And he certainly doesn't tell you how you good you taste.

The curtains on the kitchen window are parted. You have a perfect view of Jason in his white undershirt and jeans and boots. He's stocky and taller than any man you've ever met, all muscle and fat, built like an ox. He told you once it's all he's good for, his strength. You don't know about that, but you can't deny that he's built for farm work.

He lifts the hay bales now, tossing them easily. You absently prepare chicken salad sandwiches while you watch Jason work. You feel like a pervert, gagging for a glimpse of your employee doing his job. You don't possess quite enough shame to stop, though.

Maybe you need to start dating again. Maybe this is just because you're lonely and Jason is the person you interact with the most. You should go to the events they host a few miles away for single people. You're sure you'd at least find someone to occupy your time for a little while.

Then again, you need to focus on the farm. You can't let yourself get distracted by some nobody. Jason cares about your farm's success, so he's okay. But you can't invite anyone else into your life right now.

Cosmic forces deal you your payback then. You're chopping celery for the salad and the knife slips. It's not a serious cut, but it's deep enough for blood to gush from your finger.

The porch door swings open then. Jason hangs up his hat on the hook. His eyes immediately fall onto your bleeding finger.

"It's just a little cut," you begin, but Jason ignores you. He herds you like a sheepdog into a seat at the kitchen table, and you obey, dazed by his bulk and easy command. No wonder the horses listen easily to him and not to you.

Jason washes his hands, then gets the first aid kid from under the sink. He's the one who insisted on you getting it. It's been used quite a bit, you being accident-prone, especially with unfamiliar equipment. The first time you needed it, Jason looked at you with a little smugness, proud that his suggestion came in handy. Your crush blossomed.

"I can do it," you say when Jason sits down next to you with the kit, but he wordlessly ignores you and you watch, almost through an out-of-body experience, as Jason takes your wrist and gently cleans your cut. It stings, and you hiss. He squeezes you in apology, then continues, sealing your cut with a band-aid.

Jason's hair is spiked with sweat. He's got a smear of dirt on his cheek. God, what you'd give to see him in the bath. He only takes five minute showers for as long as you've known him: quick and efficent.

As soon as your cut is tended to, Jason stands, the chair scraping back. He puts away the kit and continues where you left off with the celery, using a fresh knife and a fresh board. Luckily, no blood got on the food.

"I can keep cutting," you say. "Jason, you go wash up. I can do it."

Again, you're ignored, and it's not like you can muscle your way to the counter. So you huff and take the iced tea out of the fridge instead. It's not long before Jason's putting two plates down, yours with potato chips inside of the sandwich, just how you like it.

"You're so stubborn," you say, huffing without any heat.

"Takes one to know one," he says neutrally, filling the glasses with water first. He's always getting on you about staying hydrated. Caffeine is a diuretic, he reminds you.

You grumble. "Kicking me out of my own kitchen..."

But you can't shake the feeling of Jason's calloused hands on yours. His skin was sun-hot. How are you going to manage when he inevitably leaves for more work?

"Thank you for taking care of everything, though," you say, unable to stop your soft words. "And me."

"'S my job," he says, hunched over his sandwich, not looking at you.

"To take care of me?" you ask, face getting warmer.

"You're the boss. You're part of the farm."

"Oh."

God, you're in trouble.

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alright people where’s my bsd x batman cross overs

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i have no idea where my original post of this is if i ever made one. a timbit in a box of his kind.

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villian ready who is so angry all the time, who has been hurt and betrayed over and over again. they’ve become accustomed to violence and are comfortable with their anger, who lashes out whenever someone gets too close.

and then there’s jason todd who understands, jason who doesn’t let himself be pushed away— doesn’t let the reader go through whatever it is that happened alone, who understands anger.

she’d threaten him and he’d let her, she’d yell and scream and he doesn’t blink— he’s knows you don’t mean it, understands it’s all you know right now.

idk something abt him holding a angry reader while she lashes out, screams and cries n he’s just there holding her through it—hands carding through her hair, rocking them back and forth the same way he wanted others to do with him.

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I know Jason was dead-set on revenge and sticking it to Batman in UTRH but now I’m making myself sad thinking about a Jason who finally sees Bruce as Batman again after so many years, and he sees Nightwing and another Robin but he can’t hear them. For the first time ever, he’s not on their comm frequency. He’s locked out of Bruce’s quiet field orders and status checks. He can see Bruce but he can’t hear him. All he gets is the mask.

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might be ooc but thinking abt bruce wayne disassociating *bad* and somehow hes gotten himself into another argument with jason and the rest of the team. would any of them notice or would it just keep going until alfred intervenes, who is following.

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i need active discord servers to join :( where my dc and marvel freaks at

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I reread young justice guys 🧍‍♂️ did I spell mistake wrong OMFG I DID FFS

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frantically trying to explain the geography of the tiny universe i created in my head and how marvel dc and jjk all exist at the same time listen to me if i could show you the map it all works PLEASE

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jason leaving a voicemail when dick doesn’t pick up before he goes to ethiopia vs dick leaving jason voice mails every single day after his death

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<!-- BEGIN TRANSMISSION --> <div style="white-space:pre-wrap"> <meta bat-file="89_rewatch_glitch"> <script>ARCHIVE_TAG="BLACKSITE_VHS_CORRUPTION_001:BATMAN_SAID_MF" EFFECT: Mandela Effect escalation, memory bleedthrough, cinematic delirium </script>

🦇 THAT TIME BATMAN CALLED THE JOKER A MOTHERF*CKER

---

Let me take you back.

It’s 1989. You’ve just popped that Blockbuster rental copy of Batman into the VCR. Tim Burton. Michael Keaton. Jack F*cking Nicholson. You’re 7 years old, wide-eyed, unsupervised, and this isn’t just a movie — it’s a holy document. A rite of passage. A VHS scroll of Gotham scripture.

You’re deep into it. The museum scene just passed — Joker’s dancing to Prince, defacing priceless art, and trying to woo Vicki Vale with homicidal paint fumes.

Batman busts through the skylight, grabs the girl, batarangs a couple of goons into trauma therapy, and disappears into the night like a cryptid with a grappling hook addiction.

You’re hooked.

But nothing — nothing — prepares you for what happens next.

Bruce is in the Batcave.

He’s running files. Pulling receipts. Zoom-enhancing like a 1989 hacker-savant on high-octane vengeance. And then — he remembers it.

Remembers something Joker said as a homicidal bar off the dome.

> “You ever dance with the devil in the pale moonlight?”

That line. That cursed little nursery rhyme Joker drops before he shoots people in the face with Looney Tunes handguns.

And Bruce pauses.

The air gets thick. He flashes back to that alley. The pearls. The scream. The muzzle flash that turned him from boy to bat.

That line — it’s not just villain shtick. It’s the password to his origin trauma.

Fast forward.

Final act. Cathedral. Joker’s dragging Vicki Vale up what feels like 7,000 haunted stairs. Batman’s in pursuit, pissed, bleeding, emotionally cooked.

The belfry showdown begins.

And here it is.

The moment.

You swear it happened.

Batman grabs Joker by the collar, throws him into a pile of gothic architecture, and rasps out in his Michael Keaton bat-growl:

> “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker.”

Not “scum.” Not “joker.” Not “you killed my parents.”

Motherfucker.

You paused the tape.

You rewound it.

You called your cousin in from the hallway.

> “Did you hear that? He said motherfucker.”

Your cousin shrugs. Your mom yells at you for rewinding too much. Your sibling’s trying to fix the tracking on the VCR.

But deep in your soul?

You know what you heard.

Except…

That line?

Doesn’t exist.

Nowhere in the actual script. Not in deleted scenes. Not in director’s commentary. Not even in the weird foreign dub where Joker laughs in French.

But you remember it.

You remember it.

Clear as day.

That’s how powerful Batman (1989) was.

It didn’t just tell you a story. It installed a glitch in your cortex. A false memory so emotionally potent that it warped VHS playback and left you with cinematic PTSD.

And don’t even get me started on the Joker’s line about rhubarb.

> “Never rub another man’s rhubarb.”

What?

Why?

What does that mean?

We don’t know. We didn’t know then. We still don’t.

But it was iconic. It felt important. It felt like… prophecy.

Let’s be real.

Michael Keaton was unhinged Batman before Bale made it method. Before Pattinson made it depressive. Before Clooney added nipples.

This Batman said “You wanna get nuts? Let’s get nuts,” like a man who eats drywall and challenges demons to bare-knuckle therapy.

So yes.

You remember him saying “motherfucker.” Because it felt earned.

Batman had been holding it in for 90 minutes. For 30 years. For his entire goddamn inner child.

And when he said it? You felt seen.

Mandela Effect?

Maybe.

Or maybe you just had the unrated cut that played only in your head.

And maybe that’s the only cut that matters.

Sleep well.

And if you ever catch a rerun of Batman (1989), turn the volume up. Right at the belfry fight.

And listen closely.

> If you hear it… > If you hear that raspy growl say > “I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker…”

You’re not crazy.

You’re just remembering the Bat-F-bomb Timeline that VHS tried to erase.

🦇 Reblog if you swear you heard Batman say “motherf*cker.” 🕰️ Reblog if your childhood memories came with static lines and tracking issues. 🃏 Reblog if Joker’s rhubarb line lives rent-free in your frontal lobe.

💥 Reblog if you’re 91% sure this happened… and 9% willing to fistfight over it.

</div> <!-- END TRANSMISSION [AUTO-GLITCH IN: 91% CERTAINTY] -->

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forever a red hood girl

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little jason blurb? to get into the feel of writing for him :) cw: smoking

“Those’ll kill you, you know,” you hear a man’s voice gruff from behind you. Your ankles knock against brick, legs dangling over the ledge of a roof to hit wall. Glancing back, you catch just the edge of his jacket before the smoke you exhale clouds your vision. His gloves graze your fingers as he takes the cigarette from you.

“Not enough crime out tonight?” you ask, watching his figure fall into place beside yours. He’s a tad less graceful than you had been, lugging what’s easily two hundred pounds of muscle over the three foot ledge to sit beside you. 

“Plenty,” he hums. He pushes up his mask just enough to reveal his mouth and take a drag of the cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment before he exhales. “Not enough to keep me from you, though.”

The helmet falls back down, blank white eyes finding yours.

“Do you want your own?” you ask as you take your cig back. 

“Nah,” he hums. “I shouldn’t stay for long.” He will, though. He always does.

“Suit yourself, hood,” you hum. You’re not entirely sure who the man under the mask is, or why he comes to visit you at night when you ought to be sleeping. Not sure why he takes your cigarettes, but won’t take a smoke of his own, or why he seems to linger far longer than he says he should. It started a while ago. A habit you’d fallen into by accident after you’d slipped out of your own New Year’s Party to find a little semblance of quiet outside of your apartment. He’d been a little bloodier that night than he was tonight, little more run down, out of breath. 

He’d stumbled onto your rooftop and stolen your cigarette, claiming he needed it more than you, and spared you only a few words–thank and you–before he’d stumbled back off into the Gotham night. He came back a week later with a fresh pack. Then the next week, and the next, then twice in one week, before you’d ended up where you’re at now with the vigilante making a pit stop on your roof nearly every night at one point or another. 

You can feel his gaze still locked on you, even if you’re currently eyeing a gargoyle a block away and trying to catch it come to life. He doesn’t say much. He never does. And you’re more than okay with that. 

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all of the robins edited to this song PLEASE

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BATBOYS BUT THEY SEE SOMEONE THEY RECOGNISE ON F!STREAMER!READER'S IRL STREAM. FT. WALLY WEST!

★ TAGS: older!damian wayne, older!duke thomas, absolute crack energy, the boys are still majorly obsessed with you, jealousy, death threats, wally—sorry, the flash—flirts with you like there's no tomorrow, your username is just your name

★ A/N: more batboys being super fans of you since you all asked so nicely <3333 you don't need to have read the first part to read this btw!!

The day starts off normal.

Dick is sifting through the fridge for a snack. Jason is sat at the kitchen island with his elbows propped up and a book in his hands. Both Duke and Tim are sat on the couch, scrolling through their phones with seemingly no thought behind their eyes. And Damian is stabbing into his freshly made pancakes like they've personally wronged him just by existing.

So yeah, a normal day at Wayne Manor.

That is, until, all of their phones chime at once.

Dick, Jason, and Damian all exchange a glance, each with one brow quirked up and the other furrowed down.

Duke and Tim, on the other hand, shoot up from their seats like lightning, hands burning with the answer to the question in their brothers' eyes.

Duke is the first to speak.

"[Name]'s streaming," he says, slow and in a bit of disbelief.

"[Name]'s streaming?" Dick echoes, "But today isn't Friday."

"You would know, wouldn't you, Dickhead?" snorts Jason, the memory of the last time his older brother mixed up the days still fresh on his mind.

"Shut up."

"An IRL stream," Tim cuts through the two eldest's bickering. "Look who I ran into," he quotes slowly and with furrowed brows.

Then he clicks onto the stream, and immediately, all of his brothers rush to his side.

Tim's screen is black—not a hint of colour, or even a speck of your pretty smile, displayed upon its surface. Just the reflection of all the boys staring back at themselves.

The sight makes Tim's jaw tick.

"Why the fuck are you all crowding me?"

Dick shrugs. "You're the first one to click on the stream."

The detective narrows his gaze, lips parting to retort, when he's interrupted by the phone in his hands.

"Is this thing working?" your voice breaks through the screen, and in an instant, all the boys' chests flutter. "Sorry guys, still not used to the whole IRL streaming thing. Can y'all see me?"

Tim's hands move before he can even think.

@/greatestdetective donated $1,000! nope, just a black screen

"Shit. Okay, hang on a second."

A shuffling sound then follows your voice, moments passing by before the screen alights like a flame, and the warmth of your face travels through Tim's phone to bless everyone's eyes.

"How about now?"

@/therealdamianwayne donated $10,000! Perfect, Habibti.

"Huh?" Duke mutters in confusion, turning to the left along with all his brothers.

Damian stands there, phone shamelessly situated in his hands as he stares back at them all with a quirked brow.

"What?" he scoffs. "Did you just expect me to watch my beloved's stream without donating to her? What type of future husband do you take me for?"

"The non-existent type." Tim deadpans, turning back to his phone screen and ignoring the demon head's electric glare.

"—and I'm rambling again, aren't I?" You nervously laugh on the other side of the screen. "Anyway, sorry about the sudden stream, guys. I know I'm not much of an IRL streamer, even less one that doesn't stick to a schedule, but I think today is a special exception."

You grin wide after your words, eyes sparkling with an excitement that has the bats' breaths hitching in their throats, hearts swelling with such love and adoration that it seeps into their eyes and blinds them all for just a split second.

Then you turn the camera, and their vision clears up again.

"Look who I ran into!"

On the other side of the screen, holding a red-gloved-hand up in a peace sign, stands a man.

Red hair exposed at the top of his head, lightning bolts strapped to the sides of his mask, freckles peeking out from just underneath his cowl—to anyone else, the civilian identity of the hero would be unknown. But to the bats, it can't be more obvious.

Dick snatches the phone out of Tim's hands.

"Hey—!"

"Is that Wally?!" shrieks the eldest like a teen girl who just found out her best friend attended a party without her through someone else's Snap story.

Duke squints, lips pulling into a frown. "Seems like it."

Dick lets out another shriek.

"I was in Keystone," your voice sounds from the phone, "and just so happened to come across my favourite Flash!"

Dick stops breathing, despair choking him as his siblings peer over his shoulders just in time to see the way Wally's lips quirk up into a smirk.

"Your favourite Flash, huh?" He winks. Dick chokes. "I'm honoured, doll."

"Doll?" Jason's hair casts a shadow over his eyes. "I'm gonna kill him."

"Thank you for agreeing to be on my stream, Flash," you say, and your voice carries warmth, gratitude, that big smile they can't see because of the camera angle but know is still there anyway. "It really means a lot."

Wally's smirk softens a bit at the edges, and he regards you with the same warmth. "Anything for a beautiful lady such as yourself."

"Grayson," Damian growls through gritted teeth, "Tell West to use that super speed of his and run a hundred thousand miles away from my beloved before I slit his throat."

But he didn't even have to say anything, really, because as soon as Wally started talking to you in that tone, Dick handed the phone back to Tim and pulled his own out, furiously typing on it before hitting that big send button.

On the stream, a phone buzzes in Wally's pocket.

The camera lowers, and your form peeks from the corner of it, a step closer to Wally as you ask in a quiet voice, "Do you need to get that?"

Wally pulls his phone out, glances at it for a brief moment, then stuffs it back in his pocket. "Nah, it's nothin'."

Dick's veins bulge, his own phone starting to shake in his grip. "Did that little shit just leave me on read in front of eighty thousand people?"

As if to further Dick's swelling rage, Wally's smirk broadens.

Boiling beneath his skin, the oldest of all the siblings starts typing again, and Wally's phone buzzes once more.

"Are you sure?" you ask, tone a little wobbly with uncertainty.

Then, Wally West, the little shit, fucking turns his phone off, right then and there. "Yup."

"I'm gonna kill him," Dick mutters.

"Oh okay." You adjust the camera back to its previous position.

"Now, where were we?" Wally grins, and all the boys see the way he looks at the camera, that knowing glance—the piece of crap knows exactly what he's doing. "Something about me being your favourite Flash?"

"How fucking dare he?" Tim mutters, already planning on burying his oldest brother's best friend's reputation in the dirt. Maybe he'll conjure up a scandal, or start a rumor—people usually mindlessly believe those, right?

"Oh yeah!" You perk up, beaming. "Y'know, super speed is actually my favourite super power."

"Favourite super power..." It's Duke's turn to mutter in despair, heart shattering in his eardrums as he all but hugs his sides. "Super speed..."

He's broken out of his little trance, however, at the sound of a new voice coming from the hallway. A new voice that catches everyone's attention.

"Master Damian, where are you heading off to?"

Alfred. And he seems to be looking straight towards the door of the manor.

Everyone's heads whip in the same direction.

There, somehow fully suited up in his Robin armour—hood pulled over his head and all—strides the demon head, one hand curled firmly around the handle of his katana, the other already on the knob of the door.

"To take out the trash."

No one stops him.

Later that day, Dick's phone lights up with a message notification.

'GET YOUR LITTLE DEMON BROTHER AWAY FROM ME'.

Dick leaves it on read.

COMING NEXT -> BATBOYS BUT THEY ATTEND F!STREAMER!READER'S MEET-N-GREET.