I desperately need a crack treated seriously fic of Batman pulling out more and more specific and random items from his belt. It starts off innocuous with, like, a snack for Flash and just goes from there. Next thing you know he's pulling out a geode with some ancient water trapped within and everyone is like why and where and how. And Batman is just this one time in Gotham-

I had a fic idea a while back anon where Jason and Bruce both have to unload their pockets/belts and it's just piles and piles of knives, wrapped candies, half a human finger (Jason), a suspicious amount of reinforced zip ties (Bruce), weapons that don't look like weapons (both), a full day's worth of MREs, and like 60 million random little screws or bullets from the bottom of both of their utility belts.

Neither of them, as you mentioned, see any problem with what they're carrying.

I've been going through your writing tag and I know you said you don't want to share your Ao3 until you've actually published something for us to read, but I'm obssessed with your writing. is there anything in any one of your WIPs you're willing to share with us while we wait for you to finish them? Maybe one of your Batfam or Six of Crows WIPs?

Anon I've been sitting on this ask for awhile because I didn't know how to properly express my love for it. Thank you so much for your love and support. I know I'm taking a long time to get any of my (several) WIPs done, and I'm super thankful for your patience.

So yes, I will very happily share something from my WIPs. I'll actually even give you a couple, since you asked so nicely. I honestly haven't written much on any of my Batfam fics in the past couple of months (despite my Cass character study fic being mostly done and my Jason and his Many Mothers WIP haunting my dreams) and I don't really want to give too much away on those, so I'll share a couple of snippets from some of my Six of Crows WIPs.

Here's a bit from my Kanej love language WIP, 'to love him is freedom', from the "His Hands" section:

He hesitates, his hands hovering just over the jut of her collarbone. This time, Inej knows that the hesitation is not for his sake, but for hers. She’s oddly moved at even this small consideration. They’ve touched so many times now, and he still hesitates. He so often carries violence in his hands, the weight of it making him pause, but there is no pain to be found in this moment. There's nowhere she’d rather be than here, still and waiting beneath his steady hands. “I’ve survived far worse things than your hands on my body, Kaz,” she murmurs softly, reminding him as she always does that his hands are welcome where others aren’t. His bare hands, gentle but searing on her skin, are a novelty. He doesn’t push, doesn’t try to take more than she’s willing to give. His eyes are steady as he carefully cradles her face. She closes her eyes and leans in, tilting her head into the warmth of his palm. She feels held, cradled, protected. There is safety in his hands.

A tiny snippet from a fic I'm working on about how Inej acquired each of her knives called 'To Build a Legend', from a bit about her buying the knife that will become Sankta Anastasia after her first kill:

The knife was plain, unadorned. Simple wooden hilt, simple silver blade. Useful. Practical. Deadly. It will get the job done just as well as any other knife, Inej thought dully as she took it over to the shopkeeper to purchase. She was a killer now, and she needed a killer’s tools to survive. But that didn’t mean she had to take pride in her murder weapons. Murderers didn’t have the right to carry pretty things.

And finally, a bit from the Forced to Choose fic featuring Kaz, Jesper, and a pissed off mercher playing Russian Roulette:

“Any new information coming to mind, Mr. Brekker?” Kaz couldn’t bear to watch, but he wasn’t coward enough to turn away. Jesper had done nothing except volunteer for pain that never should have been his; Kaz owed it to him to stay with him. He watched the blood slowly drip down Jesper’s face and struggled to string together a coherent response. The heartrender, he thought dizzily. Remember the heartrender. He couldn’t lie; de Klerk would know. But he couldn’t tell the truth, either. It would be as good as signing Inej’s death warrant himself. “No,” he finally gasped out, keeping his voice as neutral and firm as he could manage with the shrieking pain radiating down his arm. De Klerk sighed. “A pity.” He looked at Jesper, almost casually tapping the gun against his bruised temple and smiling at his wince. “You’d think he would care more about the people who risked their lives trying to rescue him, wouldn’t you?” Kaz’s heart pounded in his chest as Jesper met de Klerk’s eyes with a determined glare, unwavering and unrepentant. Don’t do it, Jes. Don’t make it worse for yourself. Jesper spat in his face.

and my final piece so far for @geekinthecorner‘s @batfam-big-bang fic Bats Of The West, it’s Jason Todd! ngl i think this is one of the ones i had the most fun with, and also the one i crammed the most details into that no one but me will ever know exist, but i’ll share a few of them under the cut, along with the image description. plus, a list of all of Jason’s scars in this au, and how he got them.

also, like i said, this is my final piece so far but i fully intend to come back and round out the batfam, draw all the other characters i havent had a chance to get to yet, so keep an eye out for that, and in the meantime here’s some fun facts!

alright so. first off, just some general overall thoughts on Jason and some of the details i added here.

 his gun in the first pic is super expensive and pretty, but i imagine he doesnt use is as often as some of his other ones, simply because when he’s out in The Wilderness tracking down criminals for weeks on end, it’s not really the kind of place you want to bring your prettiest, most expensive gun. when he’s on the ranch or in town tho, or really just anywhere where he doesnt anticipate needing to rough it for more than a couple days (which isnt the same as not expecting the need to get rough), he’s probably got this gun.

his gun belt and holster are a whole other story tho. he spent exactly zero dollars and zero cents on them, just assembled them from some spare leather they had lying around, which is why theyre in such Not Great condition, and also why the belt itself ended up so long. he could cut it down to a more reasonable size, but it’s not like there’s anything else he could make from those scraps anyways, so why bother.

that big gun in the second image isn’t technically his tho, it’s the Communal Ranch Rifle. mainly it’s just used to scare away coyotes (or, yknow, actually hit coyotes) but it does occasionally see real action as well, tho not often.

also. does it even need to be said? his hat.. holder... bead... thing. with the turquoise inlay. is a gift from Dick

alright and now the fun part! i go through all of jason’s scars, and how he got them. there are quite a few and a lot of them are. Sad. so be warned, and take care of yourselves! (also just for the record, i promise the fic itself isnt actually as dark as this will make it sound. basically none of this shows up in the story, i was just given free reign to design whatever i wanted, and poor jason ended up paying the price)

ok so. scars. 

first off, the claw and bit marks on his arms and shoulders are from getting attacked by some coyotes back when he was still just a kid. to quote my explanation back when i pitched this to Em, “bc as a Young Human with minimal supervision and not necessarily having someone to call him inside once it gets dark, he was unfortunately Very Delicious, if somewhat scrawny, by coyote standards”

next up: a bullet scar on his abdomen, on his lower left side (our right), from some kind of shootout with a criminal. this one is middling-recent; after bruce adopted him, but before the joker thing. i dont really have anything concrete for that one but it was a through and through, and somehow, miraculously, missed hitting any bones, and any organs. just missed his lower rib by like. an inch. that one messed bruce up more than jason, honestly. if anything, he was just surprised it took him that long to get shot, with the life he's had

the ones on his cheek and on his chin were just Regular Childhood Shenanigans scars, no real story.

the one through his mouth is from his time with the joker though. there's also the J brand on his right bicep, also from the joker.

also joker related, hes got a lot of scars on his hands, especially his knuckles and fingertips, from trying to fight his way out of his captivity, and scratching his fingers raw trying to pry open the door to his cell/untie the rough rope he way tied with/whatever the specific situation was. also some minor rope burn scars on his wrists from the same deal.

also some blade scars across his palms from trying to stop/block knives. definitely with the joker, but probably at some point in his youth as well

a few faint lines across his neck from being a temporary hostage a few time while helping Bruce on cases when he was younger, but none of them ever went deep or caused any serious damage

oh and also, whip scars on his back from his time with the joker, which arent too prominent, and mostly cant be seen from the front, except for a couple of spots where they crest over his shoulders and the very tail ends of them can be seen, but they’re there 

and also some kind of straight scar on his left forearm, which was a carry-over from my usual Jason design, that i like but dont really have a story for, so that one’s purely aesthetic, lol

and that’s it! i think? that’s all my notes on that? either way this post is getting Way Too Long, and i still gotta do the image descriptions, so i’m calling it there. 

[IMAGE ID: two images of Jason Todd in old-fashioned cowboy clothing. He has red, curly hair with a streak of white running through it at the front. his skin is pale but sunburnt, has deep-blue eyes, many freckles both on his face and on the rest of his exposed skin, and his body is broad and muscular, and he has many scars. he has small round metal piercings in the lobes of both ears, as well as an additional two in the top cartilege of his right ear.

in the first image, he is facing directly at the viewer with his arms crossed, and a challenging look on his face. he is wearing a maroon cowboy shirt with checkered red accent at the chest and the sleeves rolled up to his upper arms. he has a dark blue polka-dot bandana tied around his neck, and over that pass two strands of red braided cord holding his tan cowboy hat, which is visible hanging off his neck behind him. the cords are tipped with small metal beads, and pass through a large, dark brown wooden bead inset with turquoise, which regulates their length. he is wearing dark-wash blue jeans with prominent yellow stitching, pulled over his cowboy boots up to the ankle until only the foot of each boot is visible. the boots are dark brown with pale seams and red stitching, and light brown heels and soles. fastened around each boot are embossed red spur-straps, with metal spurs extending from them behind the boots. at his waist are two cracked leather belts. one is dark brown, with a pale silver buckle stamped with vine designs, and it is threaded through his belt loops. the second belt is hanging diagonally over his hips and holds his gun and holster. this belt is a reddish tan with a pattern of darker brown, overlapping rings down its length, and has a darker silver buckle. it is long enough that the loose end of it wraps back around itself several times before hanging down. the holster is simple brown leather folded over the gun, with two straps to tighten it. the gun itself is an ornate and expensive-looking revolver, black metal with intricate gold detailing and a mother-of-pearl grip.

in the second image, he is facing slightly to the side, with a long shotgun propped over his shoulder with one hand and an unimpressed expression on his face as he looks somewhere to the right of the viewer. he is shirtless, and his torso is muscled, stocky, and as sunburned and freckled as the rest of him. his cowboy hat is hanging off his neck again behind him, once more held in place by the braided red cord and round wood-and-turquoise bead. he is wearing tan, high-waisted pants tucked into his cowboy boots, which are the same as in the first image but now fully visible, with red pulls at the top. the pants are attached to red suspenders, though they are not on his shoulders and hang down around him instead. his gunbelt is once more around his hips, but the holster is obscured behind him, and isn't visible. the hand not holding the shotgun is down loosely at his side, and has a red and white bandana wrapped around the wrist. END ID]

when the night had veild the pole

@silverhawkeye221 asked for: Alfred shoots Joker in the head

Also on AO3

...

Alfred Pennyworth was a man of good.

Every minute of his life he had attempted to be a man of honor, a man of justice, a man of good.

He started out young and naïve, playing on the theatre, so many decades ago he barely remembered the stage. But, sometimes, if he closed his eyes just right and caught a whiff of petrichor, he felt the thick velvet of the curtain, the nervous actors whispering right before getting out and playing their part. He could feel his heart pounding in anticipation, the feeling of the tights covering his thighs, the dread of going blank midsentence and starting to improvise. For a golden instant, he could feel it all. And just as soon, it would all be slipping through the cracks of his mind, back to that specific corner in his memories.

He had always differentiated every part of his life, so many years gave him time to process it. To treasure the best parts, to bury the ugly ones.

Sometimes, he would be working in the kitchen, thinking about nothing in particular and feel a change in the air, a creak on the ceiling, and instinctively reach to where he would have carried his gun, a lifetime ago. It was funny, indeed, how the tiniest of stimulus could trigger the memories, the pain, a completely different Alfred Pennyworth.

Some nights, usually when galas took place in the manor, he would look up the staircase and be sure Martha and Thomas Wayne would be descending, hand in hand. In more than one occasion, Alfred would stare at Master Wayne and feel almost horrified by the lack of that characteristic moustache, moments before realizing it was his boy at whom he was looking. Those memories stung.

But some memories would tear the old man to shreds. They would carve and burn and claw their way through him. They would make his knees buckle and his skin prickle. They would make the tears feel like acid on his cheeks, blind him with pain for a few seconds. Sometimes he would serve coffee to the man he had raised and discover himself already preparing hot cocoa for a scrawny, very tiny boy. He would dust the abandoned bedroom (intact, like a macabre museum of the past) and see him stomping his way into the room, telling Alfred all about his classes because Alfred, we’re reading Hamlet and I think I like it, but everyone’s just crazy, amiright?. And then he would stop and bend over and try to get past the urge to puke on a dead child’s duvet.

His dead grandson’s duvet.

And he would run to bathroom that hadn’t been used in years and throw up and let the pain run him over once again.

He would walk into a room where Master Bruce and Miss Barbara would be talking and feel the reflexive there’s no need to stand up, Miss Gordon almost leave his mouth. He would swallow and not meet Master Bruce’s eyes, because he would feel it. He would see it. And god knows the poor man had suffered enough.

He watches, every night, as a man who’s his son (by definition, by fate, by right) stands in front of a glass case (a reminder, a torture, a trap) and then walks away, dresses up as a flying rodent to save a city that doesn’t deserve the sacrifice. He sees a father and a son, too hurt to talk, too afraid of losing each other once again (but that’s what they do, the chasm between them turns a little rockier, a little bigger, each night.)

He sees an exceptional young woman that has been pushed to change her life, to work harder to keep up with the others. Someone, who has a gifted mind that makes her the biggest threat in the family. A fighter, a warrior, a woman who can no longer stand, but stands up for herself.

So, when Alfred Pennyworth prepares to leave the manor on an unremarkable Tuesday eve, there isn’t really much to think about.

He checks his holsters, palming the guns, and tucks away the silencer in his coat pocket. The walk is uneventful, peaceful, he feels comforted by his decision of avoiding vehicles. There’s something cathartic in having to do everything himself.

He almost feels stupid for having wasted all this time pondering the possibility, trying to hire people to do what he knows he would do better. Not that he’s going to take pleasure in it.

But he’s sure he’s going to enjoy the light coming back to his grandson’s eyes, the lightness in Miss Barbara’s. He’ll enjoy letting them know they don’t have to worry about their next patrol, anymore. They won’t have to wake up sweaty and in tears, wondering for some agonizing minutes if everything had been real. If it had happened again.

He would do that for them. He would provide that comfort. It was the least he could do.

The warehouse is filthy and dark. Neon lights in shapes of smiles and guns are the only thing illuminating the space in red and green tones. The clown is cackling. Alfred’s waiting.

The henchmen are retreating to the nearby warehouse, where they, no doubt, have their accommodations. The only one left around is the unfortunate Miss Quinn, who leans over the madman.

Alfred’s patient, that’s something the British intelligence appreciated about him on his missions. He makes himself comfortable in his hideout. He prepares his gun and screws in the silencer. He checks the magazine and the chamber. He checks twice for the safety mechanism.

The sun is rising when the clown shoves the woman to the floor and kicks her without holding back. Alfred’s blood freezes in his veins and watches as that excuse of a man kicks her again and shouts at her to get out of his face.

The list of people benefitting from his, soon to take place, assassination grows by the minute.

The clown sits back on his desk, taking notes frantically and pulling at his hair every few seconds. He’s murmuring and crossing out scribbles, a collection of knives carefully ordered on the table. The only thing ordered in the table.

Some of the knives are still bloodied.

Alfred Pennyworth is a man of good, but he’s been also a man of war, a man of life. He’s no stranger to taking lives, to placing the safety of thousand before the survival of one killer. He has been awarded with the highest honors for serving his country.

But when he shoots the gun, twice at the head, twice at the heart, he realizes there’s no biggest reward than protecting his own family. Than protecting his adoptive city.

He lets the body bleed out. The blood will be good proof of what has happened in this unimportant Tuesday night, where an unimportant deranged killer has been put down. History will not remember this. Will not remember an authorless kill.

He takes the Polaroid from his pocked in his gloved hands (nothing personal, a mere camera that nobody would miss from a lost property section in a Central City library). He takes the picture and leaves it near the knives, and then takes one of them and starts to cut off the right hand.

It’s when he has completely cut it off and laid it on the table when he sees it. The scribbles, the photographs, the scheme that would have involved each and every one of his family members. Plans of torture and murder.

Alfred doesn’t let it get to him. Maybe in a couple of days, he’ll let himself feel the fear, he’ll let his mind wonder what would have been of his son, of the children, had he not decided to continue with his plan.

He’s careful not to step too much on the blood with the boots he got in a shelter for old homeless people in Star City. He cuts two strands of hair and puts them in two separate plastic bags. Then, he drags the body by the armpits and takes him to the back door.

It takes him more time than he would like to admit, but he’s not a lad anymore.

The months he’s been planning the deed have let him study his target. He was fairly acquainted with him, that’s true, but meticulousness was always required. Alfred shoves the body in the truck of one of those hideous purple 4x4 and ignites it cutting some cables. He drives very slowly and avoiding any other vehicle. His own warehouse is not very far.

He introduces the body extremely carefully into the hydrofluoric acid inside the plastic container. Alfred picks up a duffle bag from a corner and starts changing into one of his regular suits. The madman is still disintegrating when he gets closer again and throws the clothes inside.

When he leaves the warehouse, far enough from the crime scene that they won’t discover it in a few hours, he’s still wearing the shelter’s boots.

He walks at a normal pace, covering his face with his favorite trench-coat until he nears a populated zone. Then, he takes off the boots and throws them in a dumpster (the garbage truck won’t take long to do the route in this neighborhood). He takes off the plastic bags covering his feet, too, and puts them in his pocked after putting on his dress shoes.

It’s 4 AM when he finally gets off the bus in Old Gotham and then takes a taxi to the fields surrounding Wayne Manor. He tips the driver generously and proceeds to take the Batcave entrance.

Master Bruce finds him at 5:33 AM, dusting off the T-Rex suspended by the ceiling.

“Oh, Master Bruce, I see you’re finally awake,” the butler hums.

“How are you functioning at this unholy hour?” Master Bruce groans, the moment reminding Alfred of every time he begs for just five more minutes, Alfred. No, no! Don’t pull the curtain-

“I can assure you, Master Bruce,” the old man huffs, descending from the ceiling and unclasping the harnesses, “That this is a perfectly holy hour to be awake for us, normal human beings.” He places a hand briefly on his son’s cheek, smirking. “Breakfast will be served at six o’clock.”

He hears the defeated sigh behind him and lets himself enjoy the moment. He feels a tangible weigh being lifted from his shoulders. He has some writing to do.

  ᴥ

  Dear Master Jason and Miss Barbara,

 By the time you read this, you will, most likely, have already heard the news. I assume you may have also noticed the strand of green hair attached to this letter.

I will not apologize for what I have done. I could not simply ignore all the pain and trauma that man has caused to this family, to my family. I do not seek after your forgiveness or approval.

I wanted you to know who did it and why, to know you can stop looking over your shoulders, wondering what he might do next. I wanted you to know this old man did it not only for the both of you, but for the people who were going to be next on his list. The mothers and fathers, and children that were going to suffer and those who were going to die.

I am no stranger to murder, I was, after all, in the army. So this was not a sacrifice for me. Do not think for a moment that this will bring me despair.

I only hope I can see a smile again on you faces when you see me. I only hope you do not look differently at this old man when he hugs you.

Having said that, I am not asking from you anything you are not willing to give. I will understand if you do not immediately burn this letter and the biological proof. I will understand if any of you tells Master Bruce.

After all, what I did was illegal, but someone had to finally do it. Someone with the skills, someone too old to care for what happens to him.

I have lived a long and happy life. Whatever you decide to do after this letter, I only wish two have a long and happy life, too.

 Yours truly,

Alfred T. Pennyworth

...

If you liked this prompt, you can ask me for one on my writing blog @anchinoe

Support (Jason todd x Reader)

A/N: Really liked this request. Kinda made it into my own though. (Not sure to write more for this, I might? Depends on the feedback I guess.)

Jason felt uneasy when he took one of the seats in the circle. They had put fluffy red pillows on the seats, some softness to make up for their fucked up experiences. Wonderful how naïve people could be… as if that’d help. He took a look at the other people, they seemed about as happy to be there as him. Probably persuaded or blackmailed into seeking help as well. He hadn’t even needed such desperate measures: anything to stop Dick’s constant nagging. “ You have to give yourself the chance to heal.” (He felt like he healed up well enough, ya know, for a dead guy his skin looked fantastic.), “ You will be able to meet people who share your experience .” (Zombie friends. Exactly what he needed.)  And last but not least: Damian’s addition that he didn’t even need hubris to bring him down just a crowbar. Eventually he grew tired of it and decided to go. He was barely there in time, but he was there. After him, a woman barged in, a lot less nonchalant than he had. Backpack in hand, and  saying ‘sorry’ to the person who seemed to be the guiding speaker/psychologist. The woman had a certain kind of guilt in her eyes as she was saying it, too. The psychologist immediately said it was no problem with a warm smile, as the other latecomer took the free seat across his. 

You were still out of breath. Traffic was terrible as is but it got so much worse as you were trying to keep a busy schedule to forget about all the other shit that went wrong. You weren’t sure if it was a good idea, whether it would even remotely help you to actually throw it all out on the table. But… you could use talking to someone about this who wouldn’t look at you with pity while they were uncomfortably shifting in their chair. Everyone here had their fair share of emotional scars to get them to this place. You scanned the room while a woman started to talk. “ Each of you is here because you are battling the aftermath of dark period in your lives. Someone has abused you, and you are here with people who have experienced abuse as well. Speaking is part of the healing process. Knowing you are not to blame for what happened to you is the aim. I will give each of you the chance to talk about what happened. You choose how much you feel comfortable sharing. Please be respectful towards one another and allow the others to talk, and tell their story, they…” the rest of the explanation was lost on you entirely. You felt eyes on you, and noticed the man across the room. Jet black hair with a white streak, icy blue eyes and quite frankly possibly the most handsome man you had seen in a very long time. But from all places to develop a crush on a total stranger, this was probably not the best one.

You focused on your surroundings again when people were starting to share their names. Only one name stuck. His. “ Hi, I’m Jason. I’ve been told I may be suffering from PTSD after being kidnapped and tortured.” After him another person spoke and also shared their name and in one sentence why they chose to be here. The man smiled at you and you weren’t sure how to respond with that so you looked anywhere but at him. “ My name is y/n. I was ..” You swallowed, not entirely having such an easy time to say what happened with all those eyes on you. You naturally started to look at him again. He gave you an encouraging small nod and  somehow you managed to continue. “ I was physically and emotionally abused by my ex.” Something seemed to flare up in his eyes at those words. Not the usual pity. Not the usual shifting eyes trying to find the nearest exit. Anger. Not directed at you but at someone who wasn’t there. You wondered if it was the man who kidnapped him or your ex. As he only got that look in his eyes after your story you could only guess the second... but why would he get that angry over that? He didn’t even know you... you shook the thought and listened to the other stories. Some people had come here before, but they seemed there to show the beginners that recovery was possible. After everyone had been spoken to, she asked who wanted to share their story with the group. Everyone seemed less than interested to go first.   “ ‘C mon, nobody will judge you here, we’re all here to listen and to talk.” Her glance landed on you. “Could you perhaps...?” Your felt your heartbeat in your throat and tried to swallow. This was too soon. All those eyes on you… when you opened your mouth the handsome stranger, Jason, spoke up instead. “ Sure, I’ll go first.” Everyone in the room knew damn well she had been talking to you. But you were grateful he took her cue instead so you didn’t have to. He was still speaking to you rather than to the group. “I was kidnapped as a teenager. A typical Gotham psycho got to me and tortured me. They… got to me in time, obviously, I’m still alive.” He seemed to disbelieve those words and said them mockingly. “.. but I’ve been beaten with a crowbar and he played psychological tricks on me, I don’t want to get into detail. He tortured me in most ways I could imagine and then some, except for sexually that is. It pisses me off that he’s still alive. As long as he lives he’s a danger to people. They didn’t put enough effort into stopping him. In the meanwhile…  I have to deal with the fallout. The flashbacks, the nightmares. So essentially I got fucked over by the people I trusted, because they did not protect me as they promised me they would, and then there’s the fact I was beaten to a pulp. So yeah, that’s my sob story. Well, half of it. There’s also my deadbeat dad and my the fact that my mother didn’t make it beyond my teenage years but that’s a story for another day kids.“ His voice was laced with a mocking, devil may care attitude, but you could tell it was the truth. You were the one staring now, your gaze locked on his. He really had been through hell and back. The woman nodded and thanked him for his open-heartedness and willingness to speak first. After him, the others were more willing to also speak up. He mouthed ‘You’re welcome’ to you as you gave him a grateful small smile. You felt lucky that they ran out of time before it was your turn. Each person who did not get the chance to speak would get their chance the next session. With that promise, you considered not attending that next time anymore. You put your own jacket back on, as well as your backpack and headed towards the door. As soon as you stepped outside you felt something was off. Something or someone was watching you. Jason, you did remember his name, walked out of the door and approached you and acted casual while zipping up his jacket. “ Don’t panic but I’ve got the feeling someone is watching you.” “  So I’m not going mad?” “  No guarantees there. We might be going mad together. I know you don’t know me but will you let me walk you home? ” You looked him in the eyes. You really wanted to say yes. “ No, sorry. It’s not you it’s just…” “ I get it. Don’t worry about it. Just…” He handed you what looked like a combat knife. “ be careful.” ” May I ask why you’re carrying out spare combat knives to hand out?” ” Do you want to know?” You swallowed.  ” Next session maybe.” ” Let’s make sure you get there safely first. Watch your back. Something’s out there, I can feel it.”

You walked on and heard something again. Something creeping up on you as sudden but as clinging as a shadow.  You clutched the combat knife as you walked to your car. Someone grabbed you from the back and knocked the knife out of your hands.  “You think you could get away from him that easily sweetheart?” There was a hand on your mouth, muffling noise while you struggled to get away from the man’s grip. You were considering your options, trying to remember how to twist your arm when someone interfered. “ I think she fucking can.” The man who grabbed you was looking into the barrel of a gun. A red hooded man stood there.  “ Get out of here. She’s under my protection now. Come after her again and I will find you. “  A flash of recognition went over the guy’s face as he ran for it. You thought you heard someone curse and a shiver went over your spine. He lowered his gun, picked up the combat knife and walked over to you. He handed the knife back to you with the hilt pointed at you while you rubbed your wrist and leaned against the car door, shaken up. You instinctively clung to him, as a means to stabilize you from the shock and get you up straight more than anything else.  “ Jason?” Anyone else didn’t make sense. You weren’t sure if he’d even speak up. “ Good guess.” “ I changed my mind. ” He nodded and walked behind you towards your car.

 “ It’s him. “ You hissed in a quiet tone. “ Figured as much. Want me to get into the car or can you handle it from here? Does he know where you live?” “ Yeah, haven’t found a new place yet.” He nodded.   ” Want me to join you there? Keep you safe? If you trust me that is. “  ” Yeah. I do. “ He got into the car, looked around and took off the helmet once he was inside of the vehicle. “ What about the motorcycle?” “ I’ll pick it up after we got you home safely.” The car ride was considerably silent. You weren’t sure what to ask him or tell him. He leaned with his elbow on the armrest of the car door. “ He seemed to recognize you.” “ He probably did. I’m not your average guy. But I don’t hurt people unless it’s to save others.” You opted to just take his word for it. There was something strangely soothing about having him around. You had this feeling that you could trust him, which you in all honestly hadn’t ever had before. But you weren’t sure whether to trust your instincts anymore. “How did you stop the nightmares?” “ I didn’t.”   You swallowed. “ I get it you know. “ He looked up, slightly frowning, unsure what you meant. “I get that you want to kill him. That’s what you meant isn’t it? But it wouldn’t fix the broken pieces. “ You stared at the road ahead, lights flashing by. You continued. “You know what they told me? That hating him wouldn’t heal me, loving another might and it would break him. Because it would show him he didn’t own me anymore.” “ What do you think about that?” You shook your head at his question. “ I think I couldn’t if I tried. Not that easy to trust anymore.” “ You can. It’s fear that’s holding you back. It’s what he wants.”

“ You think he’s gone? That he will stay away now?” He shook his head.  “ You could stay with me instead. Until you find a new place. No expectations, I won’t try anything with you. Could teach you how not to get disarmed so easily.” He sighed. “ I can protect you there, if you think you need protection.” “ So what are you? A cop?” “ Not quite. But I don’t want you to get hurt and after what happened tonight…” “ I might take you up on that offer.” “ Okay, then turn right here. “

You could use a protector, or at least someone who understood who didn’t look at you as a work in progress when you were putting the pieces back together.  

“ But there are some things you gotta know about me before you get into my apartment…”

Judge, Jury, and Jason Todd

Warning: Swearing, snippets of Jason’s time with the Joker, and dark themes implied.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Notes: This is the first part to what will hopefully become a series. I think that someone should be there for Jason with all he’s been through.

Gotham has this stench that clings to it.

Rats poke out of dingy alleyways and skitter around, disgustingly overgrown tails sweeping behind them. Graffiti is splayed out over Gotham; it suffocates the rundown diners that serve their customers with dirty plates instead of smiles, the motels with stiff beds that are less comfortable than the floors, and the old apartments where someone’s always moving in right after the last person left. Everything is fair game in Gotham, and there’s always some hotshot saying he owns the city because he scored on drug deal.

Except the upper side, that is. You know, the place where the houses hang over the beaches, and if you’re lucky enough there’ll be a photogenic sunset waiting for you. An ocean breeze will flutter by, tickling your nose just enough to make you forget that you’re in Gotham. The upper side doesn’t deal with the graffiti or gangs squabbling for power. Not publicly, that is.

But make no mistake—they have their rats too. Their rats dress up in suits that cost more than a semester at Harvard. They’ll give charismatic speeches about how they’re going to clean up the city streets, about how they’re fully devoted to the city, and how the donations to their charities go to bettering students, Gotham’s future. Promises are made in speeches. Promises are swept under the rug immediately after. One thing’s for certain: the streets of Gotham still look the same as yesterday.

Jason wrinkles his nose as he sits down, secluded by Gotham’s permanent shadows. Faint moonlight peeks above battered rooftops. Flickering signs from nearby businesses keep the alleyway somewhat lighted. Creeping up his spine like a spider, there’s a pang of fear that looms over him. The hairs on his arms are standing, he can feel it. A gulp. His heart’s beating faster, and his mind sprints in all directions. Heavy breathing.

His wrists burn. Jason hisses, like his bones were just smashed over and over again with a crowbar decorated in his blood. Scurrying through the alley, the rats make it worse, staring at him like he’s on display. Like he can’t move. That fuckin’ deranged grin is burned into his retinas.

Gotham has this stench that clings to it. Jason, unlike some people living in blissful ignorance, sees this city for what it really is—a shithole. If Bruce isn’t going to cross the line and wipe those pieces of shit from Gotham, then he will.

Snow in Gotham is pure white at first, the kind that’d pop out of a fairy tale book. One minute it’s picture perfect snow, and then the next minute the snow is muddy, tinted with a repulsive brown. There’s dirty snow in places all over the world, Jason knows this. He’s seen it firsthand after waking up in the scorching Lazarus Pit. Alive, not dead. Not buried six feet beneath the ground in his best suit. He’ll always be able to recognize Gotham’s snow, no matter where (or maybe when) he is; for as much as he hates what’s happened here, this is where he grew up, where he made a name for himself.

Jason remembers red snow and a German accent that’d get thicker with anger.

After being warped by the Lazarus Pit, fueled by raw, unimaginable hatred, Jason realized that the world didn’t give a damn about the boy who left the world too early. The world kept going. So did Bruce. Talia, though, she understood him, understood his drive for vengeance. She made this possible with a fat bank account and setting him up with the best of the best—the teachers that wouldn’t care who you were if you had cash and wouldn’t mind staining your hands.

Half of his teachers wound up dead for good reasons. He killed them because they didn’t deserve to share the same air as everyone else. The pedophile, the woman who was plotting to kill her husband and kid, the German assassin that sold drugged Chinese and Thai kids for an extra paycheck. Those types of people don’t get better if you throw them in Arkham and hope by some miracle that they don’t break out. Coffins hold them better than Arkham could dream of doing.

As he finishes cleaning his prized guns in his apartment, he stares at the red mask next to him on the cheap sofa. This city shaped him, the kid who grew up scamming on the streets to get by, the street rat who’d become Robin, the teenager who glared at the face of cruelty and spit on it. Gotham made him what it needed most: someone who’d cross the line. Someone who wasn’t Batman. It needed a permanent fix to the rampant problems. And that answer came in the form of Jason Todd—Red Hood.

Standing up, the couch springs groan in relief. Jason stretches and tries to free his neck and arms from the tense knots that refuse to let go, digging their claws into his muscles. He grabs his guns, calloused fingers wrapping around familiar handles, and puts them away, stashing them all over the apartment in case of emergency. When he has his guns in hand or nearby, there’s a sense of security that tumbles around in him. Holding enough firepower to make anyone back off, the apartment has enough weapons to fill a military arsenal.

Sluggishly walking to his bedroom, his footsteps are heavy, solid.

It’s 3:40 in the morning by the time Jason collapses on his stiff bed. Click, click, click the ceiling fan rattles. Burned into the back of his brain, he counts that click, clinging to it knowing he won’t be able to sleep. Sleep doesn’t come easy to him anymore. At most he gets a couple hours. Even then he bolts up multiple times with streams of sweat sliding down the sides of his face. There’s something wrong with him and he knows it, but this is his normal now and he’ll deal with it how he wants to.

Tossing and turning for hours, he finally sinks into a restless sleep, with his face twitching and scrunching all the while.

Again.

Again.

Again, he launches upwards. Chains of sweat trickling down his face are back. The heavy breathing is too. One, two, one, two. Jason’s eyes are wide, irises almost shaking. He can’t think. Can’t scrape his way out of the nightmares that haunt him. They cling to him more than Gotham’s stench suffocates it.

His hand immediately flies to the gun stashed beneath his pillow, fingers curling around it in a death grip, enough pressure to cut off someone’s breathing.

“So, let’s try and clear this up, okay, pumpkin? What hurts more? A—”

Bones shatter as he’s clobbered with a crowbar.

“—or B?”

A series of grunts.

“Forehand—”

The crowbar digs into his flesh, tearing at him. He’s gurgling on his own blood.

  “—or backhand?”

His blood tastes like iron.

Jason hears that psychotic cackling in his head. It rings out nonstop, and one of his hands is pulling at his black hair. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. He can’t be hurt like that anymore. He refuses it—refuses to be vulnerable.

Rusting ships sit in the shipyard, caressed by the sea’s fingers, and the ships loom over everything in sight. Dull colored crates with black numbers sprayed on them don’t compare to the massive ships that feel like they were at the forefront of an armada.

Hawkish and focused, Jason’s eyes are fixed on a nearby section of the shipyard. Some mildly important people are going to be meeting here tonight, according to his source that vomited up information to save his own skin.

He waits. There’s movement in the corner of his eye, something small, something fast. Tiny legs skittering across cracked concrete sound. Craning his neck and squinting, his eyes are locked on it instantly. His fingers reflexively twitch, and he has to resist the roaring urge to reach for one of the numerous guns he’s got and put a bullet right through the center of whatever is crawling around.

It’s a roach, an ugly version of brown, antenna poking up, and unfortunately, not lying on its back, dead.

Averting his gaze, Jason looks back to the spot from earlier. To take over a big hellhole like Gotham, he’s going to have to play it smart and provoke everyone just enough so that they move right where he wants them. That’s how things are done here. That’s how things have always been done here; it hasn’t changed since he was Robin. Guns blazing and ordering glasses of towering demands comes later. That’s the fun part, when his heart is rushing blood to every corner of his body and he can barely hear over the stampeding adrenaline in his ears—but for now he’s got to wait, patiently perched in permanent shadows.

More roaches come within twenty minutes. They’re in moderately nice suits (hell, one of them has a cigar in his mouth, saying he’s some kind of bigshot) and carrying black briefcases of cash that blend in well with the dim surroundings. What really matters here are the people. The cash is a bonus for him.

To have friends in high places and provoke the important guys just so, you’ve got to be standing on someone else’s back already, like these guys here.

The smell of salt from the water is light as his muscles strain in anticipation. He doesn’t hear the soft skittering roach as adrenaline electrifies his body. Fingers twitching again, he’s reaching for his guns, gloved fingers coiling around familiar handles.

He steps out of the shadows.

Footsteps dauntingly chilling; guns out, pointed at foreheads; and a sliver of moonlight shining on his red hood.

Jason’s met with furious expressions coupled with harsh, biting storms of swearing. They’re reaching for anything they’ve got to defend themselves, knives, guns, you name it. Regardless of whatever miracle they’re hoping to rip from their asses, they’re too slow. Footsteps shuffle over the concrete as some of them try to run with their tails between their legs.

Shoot first, ask questions later.

Fingers rapidly pulling triggers, bodies plummet to the ground, legs crippling at unnatural angles. Several jaws hit the concrete hard. Cracking nastily on impact, stained, yellow teeth burst from mouths. Teeth launch in every direction and are followed by endless streams of blood that leak from the buckled mouths. Agonized shrieks shred out of dry throats. A silent wave passes over.

The moderately important people are left unscathed for now. He needs them unscathed physically, but mentally is a completely different story.

“So,” Jason says and focuses on the remaining people, “let’s talk.”

Growing Up Damaged: CH 1

Warning, this is going to be a long Authors Note:

So this is my baby, and it’s a little odd lol. 

It’s a future fic, about 10 years into the future. On the show Cameron is technically supposed to be older than Molly lol. But in my world I made them the same age.

It centers around Cameron, but it’s kind of told from Jason and Sam’s POV.  Without much explanation, you’re thrown a few facts about Jasam. If it’s confusing… I’m sorry. JaSam kind of play supporting characters in Cameron’s world. 

Also I was about half way through ch2 when I decided 2 major things that had happened, to shape the characters histories… and had to rework ch1 and the first part of ch2 to fit those in. so if it sounds off, sorry. 

This was inspired from the LnL2 family dinner scene, the “brownie wishes” scene to be exact. Cameron made a wish for Jake, Liz made a wish for Jake and Lucky made a wish for Jake and I felt bad for Cameron. So I had Cameron on the brain and ta da! This fic was born. 

Stay tuned and enjoy the ride!!!

PS. All mistakes are mine, I tried to catch all the typos but if I missed some, again… sry! 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

CHAPTER 1

A loud knock could be heard echoing through the house. Three knocks, then a pause. Three more knocks sounded again, but louder, and more persistent, followed by silence. The noise finally shook Sam from her sleep. Rolling over she looked up at Jason, still sleeping, soft snores coming from him. This time, five loud knocks sounded followed by a muffled voice “Please, open the door.” 

Sam didn’t recognize the voice, but sleep still clouded her mind. Slowly she got up, more annoyed now that Jason was such a sound sleeper. Pulling her robe on, covering her still growing belly she made her way through the hall, stopping only to check on Daniella and Nikolas to make sure the knocking hadn’t woken them as well. Sam stepped lightly down the stairs trying to get to the door to stop the persistent noise, but more loud knocks kept echoing. “I’m coming, I’m coming.” Sam called out in a loud whisper. Finally reaching the door, and flipping on a light, she opened it, and was surprised as to who was responsible for all the knocking.

“Cameron? What are you doing here? It’s like 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t have any other place to go. Can I come in?” Sam noticed the worn look on the teenagers face. 

“Of course you can.” She opened the door wider to let him in. Closing and locking it as he made his way to the couch. 

The normally vibrant 18 year old seemed like there were heavy thoughts weighing on his mind. His brow furrowed and a frown on his face.

“What’s going on Cam?” Sam asked, sitting down next to him. 

“I got into a fight with mom.” He said quietly while Sam gave him a questioning look. 

Cameron sighed, “I sort of snuck out to see Molly again. I borrowed the car and mom blew a gasket; grounded me for life.” 

“Sounds fair, seeing as you got your license taken for four traffic violations.”

“Sure, that part was fine, I deserved it. But then I overheard her talking to dad on the phone. She was saying how Molly was fine, but that she didn’t like her family, didn’t like that I was spending so much time with you and Jason. She told dad she was going to make me stop seeing Molly because of it.” Cameron paused to look up at Sam, “I knew you guys aren’t like best friends or anything, but the things she was saying… she hates you.” Sam let out breath. She didn’t expect Cameron to say all that. He was right about them not being best friends, but she thought that they had put everything in past. Apparently she was wrong.

“Why does she hate you so much?” he asked. 

Sam let out a breath, trying to figure out a way to best explain the long history she had with Elizabeth. “A very long time ago, some stuff happened and your mom and I made some bad choices. We put that all behind us but it seems like your mom hasn’t ever truly forgiven me.”

“Are you talking about before Jake was born and then when he died?” 

“How much do you remember from back then?” she asked.

“I know mom wasn’t happy that you and dad were hanging out and didn’t want Jake to be with you.”

“That’s true.” She nodded. 

“Then she was okay with it, but then you stopped coming around because you and dad broke up, right?” 

“Yes.” She nodded again.

“I don’t get why she would be okay then but not now.”

Sam let out a sigh and slightly shook her head, “That I don’t know, Cam.” 

“I know Jason was Jake’s real father, like Zander is mine. Mom must still be mad that Jason picked you. I catch her sometimes looking at a picture of Jason holding Jake. She tries to hide the picture so that I don’t see it, but she has been looking at it a lot more lately.” Sam didn’t really know what to say, only nodded once again. It seemed like Cameron needed to get something off his chest, and Sam was happy to sit and listen.

“I remember spending a lot of time at the hospital daycare, at grams and with dad; with Jake and before Jake.” Cameron looked sad at the memory. “Mom was always running off to see Jason, wasn’t she?”

“I think so.” Sam didn’t realize how much the quiet boy noticed back then. Hearing and seeing everything they did. How much it affected him. 

“But Jason was in the mob with Molly’s uncle Sonny back then right?” Sam sighed trying to find the right words. “Jason used to work for Sonny, yes.”

“When mom thought I was asleep or playing, I used to hear her talking about the danger. She hated it, but Jason is out now right? He works with you and Spinelli as a private eye.” Sam stayed silent, once again only nodding her head in response.

“You still deal both deal with dangerous people sometimes.”

“Yes, some situations are tricky.” She was trying to keep her answers as short as possible. She didn’t want to scare him or have him tell Molly or anyone else that while they didn’t have shoot outs as often, they still had to fight their way out from time to time. A lot of their work dealt with information they could get off a computer. Of course, Sam worked from home now that she was pregnant. But soon, she would be back in the office doing the occasional field work.

“You carry guns and knives and stuff.” Sam looked surprised that Cameron would know that. Both she and Jason tried to hide that from their family, mostly their kids. Keeping all their weapons at their office.

“I was at the office once and saw Spinelli trying to hide them before we saw.” Cameron said, answering Sam’s unasked question.

“Yes we do, but we keep everything at the office in a safe, and only use them when necessary.” Sam assured him.

“So, mom hates that stuff, and I can kind of understand her point of view. But I love Molly, and I want to marry her after college.” Sam smiled a little. She knew her sister and Cameron were serious, have been for a year now, but she didn’t know they were that serious. Sam was happy that her sister found the love she almost gave up on when she was younger.

“Molly really isn’t a part of your world, but I can’t tell her to stop being your sister.” Cameron sighed, working through his thoughts. “I just wish that mom would understand that.”

“I’m glad that Molly has someone like you in her life, loving her.” Sam placed her hand on his knee in a soothing motion. “I can’t tell you what to do about your mom. She’s right about our lives. Sometimes it’s dangerous.”

“I won’t stop seeing Molly. That’s why after I heard mom saying all those things about you, I snuck out and went to see Molly. But then her mom almost found me and I didn’t want Molly getting in trouble so I left and came here.” 

“If Elizabeth finds out you came here, you will be in even more trouble.” Sam didn’t want Cameron to get into any more trouble than he was already in and if Elizabeth was already upset with him and apparently her, she didn’t want to add more fuel to the fire. 

“I’m 18. I’m legally an adult. She can’t make me do anything. I can live anywhere I want.” Cameron’s anger and stubbornness was starting to break through. Sam smiled to herself remembering when other sister used to say the exact same thing.

“Legally, you are right, but she’s still your mother and you live under her roof.”

Cameron let out an exasperated sigh. “I can leave! She doesn’t pay for anything of mine. I work at the Pizza Shack, I have scholarship’s to pay for PCU, and I would have a car if it weren’t for those traffic violations.” 

“Yes, but…” she tried to interrupt only got cut off by Cameron’s new found anger.

“No! I have my own money; I buy everything that I need, including food. I’m never home anyways, except to sleep. I’m always with Molly here, at her house or out someplace.”

“I understand Cam, I do.” Sam saw the expression in Cameron’s face change. He was all worked up, but now he seemed shy.

Cameron looked down, like he was trying to gather his thoughts, to find the right words. “So, can I move in with you and Jason?” 

“What!? Do you want your mother to really get mad?”

“I can’t live with her forever, and I’m hardly home anyways. Like i said, I spend more time here than anywhere else. Aiden is with dad and Siobhan, mom only gets visitation now since that whole court thing years ago. I still don’t get why mom doesn’t like Siobhan.” He looked off, seeming to get lost on his own train of thought.

“You really want to leave your mother alone?” Sam asked.

“It’s been only me for the last five years. You know how bad that’s been? Why do you think I started spending time with Molly in the first place? Why I’m here so much?”

“Why don’t you just go stay with your dad and his family?”

“It’s so crowded there, with him, Siobhan, Aiden and Gaila. While I love my new baby sister, she gets into everything, plus there’s no room there. I’d have to share with Aiden and I’m too used to my own space. I mean I could get a dorm room, but I didn’t plan on moving out of moms so I didn’t sign up for one. I can now, but I’d be on a wait list and who knows how long that could take.” Sam couldn’t fault his logic. She sighed knowing she couldn’t turn him away, at least not tonight.

“Fine, tonight, because it’s so late, you can sleep in the guest room, but I think you should at least call your mom and tell her where you are and that you’re okay.” A smile broke out across Cameron’s face, happy that Sam was going to let him stay the night but it faded a little when she mentioned calling his mom. He inwardly groaned at the thought. 

Sam sighed, slowly standing up. Who knew that only being five months pregnant would still make it difficult to get around. Cameron stood up next to her, took her hand and helped her to steady herself.

“At least call and tell her you are fine, if you don’t want to tell her where you are. You can talk to her tomorrow about everything.” Cameron nodded. “Okay, I’ll call her.” 

“Thank you. And I’m on your side Cam, so is Jason, but we don’t want to upset your mom any more than necessary.” They both headed back towards the stairs, Sam turned off the lights as Cam walked next to her up to the bedrooms.

“I know, and thanks Sam.” With that, Cam headed to the guest room, to call his mom, then sleep. Tomorrow he would deal with everything else.