#why did i kill him

[narcolini]

the first drop

juice ortiz & oc: ava gomez x oc: sebastian, 1970 words

warnings for depictions of kidnapped hostages

for day 20 of whumpril: sensory deprivation | ‘where am i?’

a/n: ive officially gone mad with power, because now im doing SOA crossover prequels with the in his shadow babes.. i can’t even explain myself. i just needed to see ava being kind to juice LMAO

tagging: @drabbles-mc @cositapreciosa @hausofmamadas​ 

She was younger then. Young enough to act with her heart and nothing else, which could’ve ended worse than it did. Would have, even, if Sebastian wasn’t the way he was. The club came first, sure, but only after Ava.

‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he said, hands on her hips. He was sitting on a stool by the bar, half his usual height, but eye level with her, standing in the spread of his knees. He sighed, thumbs toying with her belt loops. ‘But.’

She smiled, echoing him, ‘But.’ He could never send her away—unless she was in actual danger, then he kept her far enough that she wouldn’t know about it, until it was done already. ‘No-one will know,’ she reassured him, stroking a hand through his hair. He’d just started to grow it long, past his ears, a style that he kept right until the end. ‘They’ll call when it’s time to move them, right?’

He nodded.

‘Then I’ll be gone before anyone even knows.’

‘You got it all worked out, huh?’ A kiss, stolen from her lips, words said smirking into the skin afterwards. ‘You’re more Mayan than I am.’

But she was just visiting, taking the opportunity to kill some time with him, alone in the clubhouse. He was the one on duty, playing guard to the two men tied up in the room behind.

‘Are they important?’ she asked, inclining her head to the back.

He sniffed, shrugging. That was his tell. Not lying, but not spilling secrets either.

‘You won’t tell me?’ she assumed, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. ‘Too dangerous?’

‘Mhmm.’ Another kiss, he was hungry for it. His teeth grazed her bottom lip as he pulled back again. ‘Part of another club,’ he admitted after, sparing what little information he could. ‘Not civilians.’

Because that made all the difference to her then. That made it palatable. They weren’t innocent, but club on club warfare was hardly safe.

‘Sounds risky.’

He smiled, deflecting any worry with the white of his teeth. ‘Risk’s my middle name, chula.’

Her laugh was interrupted by the shrill of his phone, blaring from his chest pocket. He patted her thighs, signalling for her to give him space to stand, then disappeared with it out the front. Another precaution of his: he never took calls that could be incriminating in front of her. Always answered them in another room with an apologetic look, a flash of a tight-lipped smile before he went.

It didn’t bother her. She was there for him, not to eavesdrop. She was about to leave, she was, assuming the call was the signal that the rest were coming back—but then she heard it. Movement from the room Sebastian had told her to steer clear of.

It wasn’t loud, or noticeably human really. It sounded like dogs against a door, scratching and scratching, nails to the wood. There were no dogs, of course, just two men. But the repetition was the same. The desperation was the same. She had never been good at ignoring that, heart over head.

Just a minute. Just while he was on the phone.

She grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge behind the bar and went, hot-footing before she could be stopped, before she had time to think better of it herself. Because she would’ve, right? She would’ve recognised the recklessness of it eventually.

The door wasn’t even locked when she got to it, just pulled shut and left like any other day. When she slipped through, she half expected to find them both pressed against the other side of it, but they weren’t, because no one had been pawing at it the way dogs do.

It was a bedroom, one of the spare dorms for members to crash in. Curtains drawn, dark, stale like it hadn’t been aired out in a while. It smelt like damp, or sweat. Some chemical she didn’t recognise.

They were tied to the bed frame opposite, sat on the floor with their arms behind their backs. Hoods over their heads, legs forced to sit crossed, knees straining against two pairs of jeans. The one on the left was slumped still, bagged-head facing down toward his lap, body leaning forward from the anchor of his tied hands.

The other was the source of the noise. He was awake, she could see the rise and fall of his chest from where she stood, elevated by his panic. The scratching had been the sound of zip-ties, rubbed up and down on the frame behind him frantically, relentlessly. Like the rounded metal would ever bore through the plastic of them.

It would only take a minute. She didn’t even have to remove his hood.

‘Careful,’ she said, quiet but enough of a surprise to make him jump still, his back hitting the end of the bed with a rattle. ‘You’ll do more damage to your wrists than the ties.’

She was in front of him now, on one knee. The second time she spoke, he had stilled, chest heaving, but panic easing. Her voice was registering with him then, proving to be less of a threat. She was a woman. It made a difference. He didn’t flinch when he felt her shoe against his own, or her fingers around the hemline of the hood.

‘Where am I?’ he asked, stuttering at first.

‘I can’t tell you that.’ She folded it up a couple inches, over his chin, until it stayed. Just high enough to leave his mouth free. ‘I brought you some water.’ Her hands were shaking slightly, knowing the time pressure, the risk, but her voice stayed steady.

He swallowed, then took in a breath big enough to make him cough, desperate for the cool, unrestricted air. ‘Jax?’ he asked afterwards, which she could only assume was the name of the man beside him.

He hadn’t moved still.

‘He must’ve had a bigger dose of whatever they gave you.’ She leant across and put her hand under the other hood to press two fingers to his throat. There was pulse, slow but regular. ‘He’s fine,’ she told him, ‘just asleep.’

The first man nodded, his cover slipping back over this lip slightly. They didn’t have time for conversation. She shouldn’t be telling him anything at all, had probably caused some domino effect she couldn’t even imagine just by opening the door and looking in.  

‘Here.’ She unscrewed the water bottle, holding it up to his mouth. ‘Have some.’

His head must have been spinning, his tongue must’ve been dry enough to make every breath feel like a gag, but he refused it still. Set his lips together when she began to tip the bottle.

‘It’s water,’ she insisted, trying to hide her urgency. To him, rushing would make it sound like whatever she was offering was dangerous, a threat. ‘Look, I’ll have some.’ She pulled the bottle back, taking a large gulp from it. She did it as audibly as possible, because he couldn’t see at all, made sure to slosh the water against the rim, to swallow loud and sigh afterwards. A dumb theatre, but it was all she could think to do.

‘The fuck is this?’ he breathed, voice pinching. He was beginning to panic again, wrists tugging against the bars behind. Zip-ties scratching. ‘Where the fuck am I?’

‘Shh, shh.’ It was infectious, his panic. She shouldn’t be in here. Sebastian was only taking a call. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, spouting the first thing that came to mind. ‘I’m Ava.’

He stopped wriggling. A tear ran down his cheek, from the eyes beneath the black cloth.

‘I’m not even supposed to be in here,’ she confessed. She definitely wasn’t supposed to have given him her name, either. The reality of that was beginning to set in. ‘So, I help you, and you help me, by forgetting I was ever here, okay?’

There was a fraction of movement, a half-committed nod. ‘Juice.’ He panted, swallowed back the dryness of his voice. ‘I’m Juice.’

‘Okay, Juice.’ She put the bottle to his mouth again, tilting it with him as he put his head back. ‘Sorry.’ Some spilled from the lip, wet down his chin, not that it mattered. It obviously didn’t matter. He was drinking like he hadn’t in days.

Had it been days? She didn’t even know how long they’d been in there.

When he pulled away, she did too, re-capping the bottle. She couldn’t leave it there, he didn’t have the hands free to use it.

‘Thank-you.’ He was breathing slower then, and not bothering to lick the water from his lips, but instead enjoying the relief of it. Just for a little longer.

She sat back onto the heels of her shoes. You’re welcome felt inappropriate. She was part of the crime now. She could have easily cut him free if she wanted to, could have let him slip out the back with Jax over his shoulder, and claimed she had nothing to do with it. But her heart only went so far. She was scared too.

‘I should—’

The door swung open behind her, wood hitting the closet beside loud enough to make them both jump. She was on her feet, water bottle scattering away from her, before he had even said anything—it could only have ever been Sebastian. There was no-one else around and conscious.

‘Sorry,’ she said, apologising already.

He was speaking over her, sharp brows tugged together, his face livid. It wasn’t anger, really, but fear, disbelief.  ‘The fuck, A…?’ He stopped himself, stealing her name back defensively, as if she hadn’t already given it to Juice on her own accord. ‘No puedes estar aquí.’ He was panting, head shaking. Tongue slipping into spanish for the sake of secrecy.

‘I was just giving him water.’ She couldn’t offer anything but English herself, her brain had frozen in the panic of getting caught. ‘That’s all.’

‘Water?’ He crossed the room in a step, hand reaching for the folded hood. ‘No es una casita, nena.’ He tugged it down roughly, hiding Juice’s mouth and chin again, before turning back to her. ‘No sabes que lo peligroso es esto? Si algún chingamadre…’

She followed his meaning well enough. If it got back to the rest of the club, or worse, the Sons themselves. If anyone connected her, to this, to them. ‘He didn’t see my face,’ she rushed, head shaking.

Juice was sitting statue-like, obviously awake but doing his best to act otherwise. He could’ve said something. He could’ve used her name in his favour, and made a threat, scared Sebastian into making a deal for their release. But he said nothing. Just sat there listening, shoulders rising and falling with each cutting breath.

‘Oyó tu voz,’ Sebastian insisted, grinding it through his teeth. He took her by the arm then, pulling her with him, back across the room and through the doorway. ‘Fuck, Ava,’ he muttered, shutting the door behind him. ‘You know how much shit I’d be in if the guys knew about this?’

But it was just water. And they made a deal, right? Juice would forget she was even there.

She paled regardless. ‘You won’t tell them, will you?’

He sighed, staring at the wood for a moment before replying. ‘You need to go,’ he said, ‘they’re on their way back.’

He wasn’t looking at her, but when he did, glancing up before he could step away, he saw the doubt printed across her features. The worry that she’d gone too far this time; that she’d tripped up and he wouldn’t catch her.

‘Of course I won’t,’ he added, frowning. ‘Why would I?’

Because she came first, she always came first.

[inkskinned]

it's extremely critical that you see the photo of the perp walk for luigi mangione as being propaganda. i've seen so many people wave it off and instead fawn over his looks. and trust me, i know it ended up being kind of pathetic and weird - but please don't brush it off as a "modelling opportunity" for him. it's a fucking terrifying message the police are sending.

i want to make a few comparisons here, in case you're not from the US or familiar with why the perp walk thing is something to pay attention to. just to set the groundwork for why this is a purposeful, unusual, and cruel act by the nyc police - for why this is not a common occurrence and for why that matters.

the prosecution alleges the show of force is due to the charge of "terrorism." for comparison, in june 2015, tsarnaev was found guilty for the boston marathon bombing, which killed 3 people and injured hundreds. his actions are considered to be an act of domestic terrorism. i have spent the last hour looking through google for pictures of similar to mangione's perp walk - and so far, i have found zero. i also just do not personally remember a moment like that, despite living in boston at the time.

they allege that luigi is a stone-cold killer who carried out a longterm plan, making him particularly dangerous. again for comparison: in nyc, recently cory martin was found guilty of the killing of brandy odom. the murder was planned and premeditated to steal insurance money. and yet no staged perp walk. why didn't her life matter enough for a "show of force"?

but mangione gets paraded by a veritable army of police officers as if he is a rabid animal. for a single citizen who allegedly killed one other single citizen, the "largest perp walk ever" occurs.

so what is the "strong message" that the mayor and the police were trying to send here? the mayor speaks as if mangione is already convicted of terrorism. there is a very thin number of people who feel threatened by the CEO's death. none of us felt like mangione needs to be under massive armed guard.

the message is that you shouldn't resist. they are trying to "make an example" of him - that if you behave badly and kill a single rich person, you'll be treated as if you killed hundreds of people. you will be treated worse than a man who was found guilty of terrorism. you will be considered guilty without trial. the message is that the rich are a protected class, and you cannot touch them without massive punishment. they are trying to prevent a revolution by showing dominance and force against you.

the message is that the police are a puppet of the wealthy and that the law is not equally applied across class disparity. it is "some are more equal than others." it is "one life is more precious than another."

the show of force wasn't for luigi. it was for us. it was a warning. they are trying to remind us who is really in control.

[hinamie]

恵 ; "blessing"

12/22: consider this piece my love letter to a character who has become so near and dear to me and who has inspired so much of my artistic growth this past year <3 happy birthday megumi, your name becomes you ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[nixthelapin]

I find this dichotomy so funny:

Odysseus, who has been in war for years and is quick to be crafty and trick his enemies: *laments and mourns giving up mercy and being forced to become the monster*

Telemachus, the one with a reputation of being small and weak with a good heart: *kills a man from behind while they’re distracted without any hesitation or remorse*

[fincherly]

my gf was looking through wesker's wiki page (as you do) and sent me this

and i lost my shit bc it just seems like they're looking at him like girls look at a weird bug

[lotus-pear]

mourning black and the death of ideals

[dykedvonte]

I think about the fact Anya locking herself in the infirmary with Curly to kill herself and how it is in way reclaiming a space that was initially hers from Jimmy.

Not to mention how she must've been aware of Jimmy's obsession with Curly and the idea that he would lose his power over the both of them (based on the fact she likely thought they would never get the door open) and having to face the responsibility of two deaths being on his hands as acting captain.

It was her final act of agency stuck on that ship with her abuser and it says something that she chose to die next to Curly, despite his inaction, leaned against him as if they were just in a casual conversation before her death. Despite everything, Anya made the final decision on her own terms and it speaks volumes considering her treatment and demeanor up until that point.

[starry-bi-sky]

Blood Blossom Au: Baby's First Commissioner Meeting :)

TL:DR This Post: Danny (orphan) gets poisoned with blood blossom extract by Vlad. He runs away from him and ends up under the care of one Pre-Robin Battinson Batman! Starry is loudly pushing her batdad agenda.

(Also known as "Late At Night, When The Nightingale Sings" on my ao3!)

This was a fun rough idea I've been sitting on for weeks, thinking about how Commissioner Gordon and Nightingale's first meeting might go.

---------------

Commissioner Gordon likes to think that he's adjusting to the new normal of Gotham very well, -- the new normal being grown men running around dressed like bats, in military-grade strength body armor, committing acts of vigilantism, -- and slowly, little by little, he was no longer being surprised when this new normal pops up out of the shadows like the world's most terrifying daisy. His shaving lifespan thanks him for it.

....

The kid is a surprise though.

Granted, he seemed to be a surprise to the Bat too.

There's been a string of murders lately, -- which, in Gotham, is kind of like saying there's been another storm during monsoon season. And there's just been another; in some dilapidated building down in south Gotham, with the broken, boarded-up windows and mildew-crawling walls to match. The victim is a man in his thirties, multiple gunshot wounds to the chest, left in the center of the room for the blood to pool out around him.

The place is already secured when he arrives, the building swarmed with officers and the forensic detectives. The Bat emerges shortly after he does -- or, he might've been here the whole time, hiding someplace dark and shadowy. For his own sanity, Gordon doesn't think about it too hard.

The kid is a surprise, and he appears like a bolt of lightning.

He shows up in the middle of a conversation Gordon is having with the Bat.

A whistle, sharp and loud, slicing through the air, meant for open air rather than a confined space. Gordon's ears pierce and protest the sound, and the solemn, murmured chatter floating through the room abruptly cuts off like the swing of a gavel. As he turns towards the sound -- as they all do -- he swears, up and down, that he sees Batman's shoulders jump, just slightly.

At the source, perched on the window, is a boy. A boy in a gray-blue scarf and an oversized black hoodie, one that hangs off his frame and has ace bandages wrapped around the wrists in some attempt to cinch the sleeves. The hood is up, big like the rest of it, and threatens to swallow the upper half of the boy's face whole in the fabric. What upper half Gordon can see, is smeared with some kind of opaque, black face paint. He's holding onto the side of the frame with one hand, on his hip is a grappling hook. A familiar grappling hook.

Gordon has multiple questions, and his officers tense up.

Martinez puffs up, brows furrowing as his face shapes into a frown. Shoulders rolling back. "You can't be here, kid--"

The reaction is immediate, like a spark to gunpowder, the boy yanks his fingers from his mouth and his mouth twists into a scowl. Head snapping over to Officer Martinez, his hood manages to stay on but Gordon swears that as he bares his teeth, the glint makes them look sharper than they should be. His voice is rasp and quiet and harsh; snappish in its hissing; "Put a fuckin sock in it, Martinez. I'm not stayin."

Martinez reels back, and the boy immediately veers his attention off him. Like a switch, his demeanor drops. Despite half his face being covered, his mouth twists into a cringing, apologetic smile. Slanted and off-beat, embarrassed. It'd be disarming if this wasn't Gotham, and if he didn't just hiss at Martinez like he was about to bite his head off.

"Sorry." He whispers, voice deceptively polite and softer now. Gordon has to strain his ears to hear him. "I was looking for him."

He points his finger towards-- Gordon? No, Gordon follows the direction, and finds himself looking at -- the Bat.

The Bat, who always looks stiff as a pole, now looks even stiffer. Somehow. Well, the explains the grappling hook attached to the boy's waist.

"What are you doing here?" The Bat says, gruff and unable to completely smother the stumble of surprise in his tone.

The boy still holds a sheepish smile, and slips off the window ledge. His feet hit the creaky boards with a near-silent thud, the Batman finds his feet and rapidly begins crossing the room.

Gordon notes the slight tremble in the boy's legs as he straightens. He adjusts his scarf, which droops close to his knees now that he's standing, and slings a backpack -- how long has had that? -- off his shoulders. When the Bat reaches his side, he does as he always does, and looms over the boy like a spectre. A threatening mass of shadows cloaked in all-consuming black. Standing next to him, the boy looks teeny in comparison.

The Bat is a man who terrifies even the most hardened criminals, Gordon has seen grown men shiver in fear at the mention of his name. And yet when the boy looks up at him, he doesn't even flinch.

Instead, his sheepish smile melts away like ice under the sun, holding only traces of his previous embarrassment. It remains as a shadow on his face, a small upturn at the corners of his mouth. The boy pushes his hood back just enough to reveal glinting, ice-flint eyes surrounded in tar-black face paint. He holds the backpack up with one arm. "You forgot this."

[bixels]

The Ryoko Kui interview's reception is such a disaster over a pretty normal (yet still flawed) interview between a non-Japanese fan and Japanese artistic. This is discourse for discourse's sake, and it's no surprise that almost every Twitter user I've looked at who's using this interview to parade Kui around as a goated mangaka standing strong against Western ideology is anti-trans.

Like, I do think the interview was kinda wonky with its focus on fandom culture, which Kui clearly didn't have much interest in. But sometimes that happens. Sometimes interactions between two people, especially a fan and a creator, two people who view and interact with a piece of media in completely opposite perspectives, don't click. Does this really need to get blown up into a "West vs. East culture war" issue.

Anyways, Kui saying "I don't consider my audience's interpretations when writing. I leave it to their imaginations, but I have my own read on things too" is the healthiest, most normal thing an artist/writer who wants a non-parasocial audience could say. Artists and writers use this line all the time. If Kui didn't enjoy autistic Laius or Farcille headcanons, she would have probably voiced/signalled her discomfort, like she did on the topic of Senshi fanservice. Overall, Kui handled the interview really well. Props to her to sticking to her guns and keeping a healthy disconnect from the fandom. While I think the interviewer could've/should've been more tactful and restrained, the flaws in their questions is not a symptom of the woke mind virus trying to wriggle its way into the pure Japanese psyche. It's the sign of an over-eager fan who sees a piece of fiction differently than its creator.

[sharffffff]

Pangi: I know that, Pili. Because you can't kill me.

Pili: Are you sure about that?

Pangi: (takes off armor and totem) Go on.

Pili: I have the opportunity to do the funniest thing right now.

Pangi: Go on.

Pili: Wait. Where's my thing?.. Okay, how would you like to die?

Pangi: (sighs) However you'd like.

Pili: Why are you so quiet? Why are you so quiet?

Pangi: Here, I'll even put my bed here, you can kill me three times now. Go on. Do it.

Pili: You look so naked right now.

Pangi: Kill me! You said you could! You said you would! Do it! You said you would! I'm literally a one shot for you right now, Pili.

Pili: That's a crazy sentence to say.

Pangi: Is it wrong?

Pili: No... You know, maybe the Derapchu effect is real-

Pangi: No, nononono, where did your big talk go, Pili? Where did your big talk go? "I could kill you", "I would kill you", "Yeah, let's kill Pangi!", huh?

Pili: (starts punching Pangi with a fist) See, I'm doing it!

Pangi: Yeah, go for it!

Pili: Why do you have no knockback?

Pangi: I don't know.

Pili: Why do you have no knockback, this is not fun, I can't push you into the water. I can't push you into the water! This is not fun!

Pangi: So when are you going to kill me, Pili? I'm waiting.

Pili: Why are you so... suicidal? You are-

Pangi: No! Nononononono, don't make this about me, don't make this about me! You were just like "Oh, let's kill Pangi, let's kill Pangi!" Nono, this isn't about me. You were just a second ago "Let's kill Pangi, let's do it, let's do it, let's kill him, let's kill him, I would kill him, what if I join the yellow team? What if I kill him?"

Pili: (still punching Pangi with a fist)

Pangi: There you go, you're almost there, you're getting there, you're getting there. Fi- si- five hearts. Come on. You got it. You were like "I'm gonna kill Pangi, I'm gonna kill Pangi."

Pangi: But you can't.

Pili: (stopped hitting him, laughs, continues to hit him)

Pangi: But you can't.

Pili: It would be so funny if I killed you, wouldn't it.

Pangi: It would be really funny. Two hearts.

Pili: (stops hitting him) But you will also get really pissed off at me... (walks off)

Pangi: (chuckles) That's what I thought.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Let the revenge games begin.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[heartorbit]

so when's the wxs phantom of the opera set

[infinizero]

Demon Twin AU but Damian has been seeing ghostly visages of his twin slowly growing up with him

So, the Danny Damian Twin AUs! They're fun!

But what if, when Danny fakes his death/is killed, he actually dies and becomes a halfa as a kid? Danny because he is Danny, has the great idea to live a double life upon figuring out he can be both ghost and human!

As a human, he goes to America where he gets adopted by the Fentons and live as Danny Fenton

I headcanon that halfas are very adaptable and basically get powers according to their needs. So he figures out how to portal.

As a ghost, Danny stays around Damian and helps him out. Sometimes he slips up and Damian sees Phantom right next to him.

To Damian, this is the Pit Ghost of his brother who has come back to haunt him, made even worse when he realizes that Danny is also growing exactly at the rate he was despite being dead. He thinks that Dannys last wish was to grow up with Damian that's why he's doing that.

It gets even worse for Damian when he realizes the ghost of his dead twin brother has been helping him invisibly the entire time and it's possible that that's why Danny's staying around

Now, I need you to picture one of the Batfam seeing Danny

Imagine them asking him about it

Imagine Damian having to explain that the ghost of his dead brother sometimes accompanies him

Of course, on Danny's human side of things, the Fentons finally made that portal and he has to take up being a hero in Amity Park. Meaning he has less time to look over Damian.

What does this look like to Damian?

It looks like his brother is fading away slowly because Danny's decided Damian is now in a safe place

This all comes to a head when Danny disappears for a long time, long enough for Damian to think he's gone gone

And then Danny comes back and he's injured or maybe he has a baby Ellie and for the first time in years actually talks to Damian and asks for help

[ganondoodle]

master koga propaganda

[stillwaterinc]

i have nowhere to put my batman thoughts so they’re going here

jason comes back as the red hood, planning to take out his little replacement or at least hurt him bad enough that he drops the suit and lets robin die but suddenly, a month before his plan is to start, robin disappears. and so does the joker.

what? jason looks, he scours security cameras and internet forums, even weasels his was into the gcpd’s files and…

nothing. there’s nothing.

no bodies reported, joker’s not in arkham or black gate or any other prison, he hasn’t finally been given the death penalty he just. disappeared.

he can’t find anything on robin either, or tim drake, for months until he stumbles upon a nearly perfect patient file in some hospital records.

nearly. it’d be perfect to anyone else but jason, even years later, can recognize bruce and barbara’s finger prints all over it. it’s a cover. a cover for what though? he reads through the file, tim drake’s file, presumably and finds… well.

someone clearly tortured the kid, and with the meds he was being prescribed it got to him. it would’ve gotten to anyone.

jason shudders reading the initial injury report. electric burns, lots of them, are what catches his eye the most but there’s all kinds of stuff. what catches his eye the most though is the lacerations that had to be stitched either side of the kid’s mouth. shit.

he doesn’t get the full picture, not yet, but pieces are starting to come together. the joker has been missing for a while, just a little longer than jason’s replacement has been in the hospital for some violent injuries.

the joker is missing.

tim drake is in the hospital.

something happened, clearly. the joker did something to tim, something awful, something bad enough that the joker disappeared and the kid’s been in the hospital for weeks.

bruce didn’t make it in time, only this time robin wasn’t dead, he’d been broken.

someone had gotten to robin, to tim drake, before jason could, had gotten to him so badly that even after he was released he wasn’t robin anymore.

not because he didn’t want to be, a few bugs here and there in the manor let him know that much, but because bruce wouldn’t let him.

it comes out, in one of these arguments, that time killed the joker. shot him dead. and jason almost wants to congratulate the kid for it, or wants to strangle bruce and ask him how the hell he let robin, who’s just a kid, tim, who’s just a fucking kid, get anywhere near a position where he had the means and desire to fatally shoot the joker.

because that’s it, isn’t it? the reason jason’s like this, doing this, is because of the joker. jason knows how to use guns because of the joker. he’ll never go to college like a normal kid because of the joker. and now tim.

tim wants to be robin, asks for it, begs bruce to let him back out in the suit and jason nearly finds himself agreeing with bruce. the joker’s gone sure but what if someone else tries the same thing? what if someone tries worse? being in the suit’s already gotten tim this much pain, why risk more?

it hits jason, one night, that he stopped being angry at tim a while ago. a long while. he can’t be angry at bruce either, because the joker is dead. there’s no one to enact vengeance for his death on anymore.

anyways most of my posts are about incest please don’t follow me for batman content

[im-smart-i-swear]

coming back home.

@barrenclan