The biggest problem with the Batman universe is that they tried to make it into a bunch of big blockbuster movies. It was meant to be a hallmark channel christmas special
The biggest problem with the Batman universe is that they tried to make it into a bunch of big blockbuster movies. It was meant to be a shitty teen-geared tv show with
cheesy fantastic music in the backround.
Yes, it had to be the deluxe edition – it just had to. I haven’t read it yet and probably won’t for a while. I’m still in the middle of If You Tell by Gregg Olsen – I’ve been reading this book for two months now; it is PAINFUL and it is LONG (405 pages). And I just rented a copy of The Devil All Of The Time by Donald Ray Pollock, which I have roughly about a month to read.
And that’s not even including the books on divination and Norse Paganism I’ve been trying to work my way through. Its just – its a lot of books, yall.
Jason remembered there were four season but he felt as if he was living in a fifth one, suspended in space and stuck in a time warp. He was cold. He had never been so freaking cold before in his life. His blood felt frozen, his heart beat slowly, barely pumping it through his numb body. With bones broken and muscles torn he crawled with the strength he left in his spirit for a way out. Feeling the cold tendrils of death creeping up on him, lingering at the edge of his consciousness, as though they were waiting for him to reach out a hand. His eyelids were getting heavy and growing weary, so damn fatigued. His breath came in labored gasps as he lay there. Where? Where exactly was him now? Impenetrable dense darkness surrounded him and there were no scents or sounds to give him a clue. He tried to focus perceive any sounds, intensity, patterns, frequency of any vibration, anything to explain the reason behind his limited sense of perception. He used his hands to try to gain a sense of his environment, but all they met was air. Even beneath him nothing existed but air, which made no sense.
He tried to reach back in his memory to understand what was happening to him, but his mind wash abnormally blank. Where fond memories should be, instead there were holes, gaps, vacant spots that are only filled with dried up dirt and burnt ashes, the soil for what used to be there. Now he could heard them. Distant voices calling his name. Familiar voices he recognized. His name. What was it again? Ja…Jason.. Jason Todd. Discerning grief, frustration, mysery and rage. But he can’t find his own voice. He was left with motionless lungs, frigid fingers and toes. There was a huge figure cradling him, rocking his body back and forth in his arms with desperation. A man he knew. What was his name? Bru…Bruce. Bruce stroked his raven locks, asking him with a surprisingly soft broken voice to calm down because he was going to take him to a hospital. Jason could detect the feeling on the man’s face. He hated the feeling of powerlessness, impotence, as if no matter how much he pushed himself, he knew he couldn’t get in time. Bruce’s calloused hands were covered in Jason’s blood, and anguish like he’d never known washed over him. Tears were mixing with the blood flooding in his lap, as his eyes clouded over. Jason with fallen limp body, chest stopped rising, lungs not pushing for oxygen any longer. Bruce held his son tightly mumbling comforting words, a promise about taking him home.
Jason thought grief was a tricky thing, in his years with Bruce he never showed him such raw emotion. He probably only allowed himself to be expressed in his most private and vulnerable moments. He had given his whole life to upholding justice and keeping the civilians safe, because that had always been what he believed in. But as a parent…His back and heart had never felt heavier.
There’s too many feelings to be sorted now, too many feelings Jason didn’t want to sort out. He was too confused to think clearly. There were blurry flashes of green hair, yellowish-brown eyes, a damn infuriating Cheshire grin, and that fucking crowbar already raised to strike him. One time. Another. Harder. Faster. Swearing under his breath, aching, pressure, throbbing pain on the side of his head. The pain was moderate at first, intensifying until it pierced throughly his whole body to the very core. The familiar maniac laughter he could hear echoing in his head. He couldn’t get away from the wicked laugher of that stupid clown. The weight of the world is hammering against my chest, his mind plagued with thousand of memories and thoughts. What was real? The people he trusted him shockingly stabbed him in the back. He was walking around in circles clueless, helpless and restless, like a fool wandering into a storm. A castaway. Now he was unjustly sentenced to a living hell. Fucking limbo.
He clenched his fists, knuckles white and shaking with untamed fury, endless wrath. Jason was furious. At the fact that the same piece of shit who should have been put down for what he did to him had been given the opportunity to traumatize innocent people, maybe children. What the hell Bruce? He let that insane murderer free while his body hardened, lifeless and the door was slammed shut on his tomb. Vengeance. He wanted vengeance with his very own hands. He would enjoy punching the clown so hard he wouldn’t be able to breath, old lungs struggling for air. Pinning him down to the floor where he can’t move, where he felt powerless, trembling with fear. Kicking him time after time until pale skin turned blue and dark. Take his sweet time torturing him and then he would kill him slowly and painfully. He would enjoy that.
His funeral. Bruce could have done a million things as he was left alone for a couple of minutes, bidding his goodbye to his son. He could have sobbed for his lost son who died in his arms, he could have screamed at the universe for taking his family away again. He could have yelled at himself for failing. He could have prayed that at least Jason would find peace now. But he just stood there, in front of the casket, stone faced and unmoving. Nothing. Perhaps then Jason would have forgiven him. Maybe he didn’t want to forgive him he thought to himself. No.
It was a rainy and gloomy day at the Wayne cemetery. Indeed a fitting weather considering his he lived his life. Not many people attend the service, not surprised as he didn’t have many friends. None of their acquaintances had ever bothered to get to know the rough around the edges of Jason Todd. Barbara sheds tears with rough mournful cries. Dick knelt down. Dick’s pained expression and the fresh wave of tears cascading down his sculpted face is one of his last memories.
They whisper a muffled goodbye as they place lilies at his feet. Fungal mold begins to grow surrounding his remains, vines replace nerves and veins. His chest hurts but there wasn’t a beating heart where it should be. Numbness.
He died young and tragically some would say. Pathetic was the word he would use. He died young, weak, naive and credulous. They’d thought him weak, harmless prey, another piece of rubbish in an alley called ‘Crime.’ He would show them what this piece of trash could accomplish. He was reborn with such mighty and brute strength. He would become a great unstoppable soldier.
Jason’s head was a sea of emotions that he had to try hard not sink under. He was given a chance, newborn opportunity. And he couldn’t lie at the bottom of the sea now, he was the captain and he would never go down with the fucking ship, not with the waves, and not even with the lifeboat that was struck.
He continue punching, his knuckles having gone past the point of feeling to just a sense of motion now. Ripping through the air, developed muscles strained and trembling. Things were under my fists, cracking, breaking and now the voices whisper in his ear encourage him to go on. He couldn’t stop. It had started off with a scream, like he was finally letting out something that had been simmering inside and it was escaping out through his throat, down to arms and exploding from my fists.
Release. Anger. Wrath. Revenge. Payback.
Jason Peter Tood had died pathetically.
But Red Hood was a survivor and victor.
He was ready to go back.
Jason eyeing Damian: You know that compulsion to hit your sibling that you get whenever they walk into a room? Like they come in and you go ‘fuck it, looks like I gotta end you’
Tim: Mhm. The Cain instinct.
Jason: Must be it.
Dick: The WHAAT
… Am I high, or does this not make any lexical sense?
Anyway, Poison Ivy is bae, is a bisexual icon, and I love her very much. Please watch the Harley Quinn animated series, it’s INCREDIBLE.
Jorge Jimenez & Tomeu Morey
Hey guys!! Sorry I haven’t been that active recently. I’m taking it easy with my illness. But I’m working on a ‘short’ Damirae prompt and I’m open to batfamily prompts too if you want to send some my way. I miss the batfam domesticity. ☺️☺️
I’ll work on the next chapter of skate into love soon with DoomBeThyName. 💜
Here’s a bit of what I’ve got.
Raven walked into the familiar bookstore and inhaled deeply. She loved bookstores that make her feel small. They were dreams build of wood and paper, time travel machines to the tragedy of Patroclus, the overwhelming rage of Achilles lost in his affliction, the temples of Artemis its magnificence taking the breath anyone holds and heart away, the ambition of Cleopatra and the great lovers she bewitched with her seductive charm. She loved the smell of old books. The crowded and cozy aisles of secondhand bookstores, not because she couldn’t afford a brand new one, but because they had a backstory. It gave them personality, discovering notes left in the margins of her favorite novels. Book pages turned yellowish, tattering covers, smelling sweet from all the fingers that have turned them, reading the same lines thousands of times. Holding memories behind printed pages. Every single book could have been somebody’s treasure, cradled in different arms. Such was the legacy that an old book held. ‘One hundred years of titles’ was her favorite bookstore in Jump City, a jewel she discovered a couple of years ago. Words couldn’t describe how much this place meant to her. She build a home of her own between these four walls. From the pretty glass lanterns dangling from the wood-beamed ceiling, varying in size and colour, kissing the spines of neatly shelved books with unexpected shafts of gold and emerald. The huge stone fireplace was unlit, close to it was a pine small coffee table, placed on top a Japanese iron teapot engraved with a golden peony containing freshly brewed jasmine tea. She walked closer to find a handwritten note. ‘We are expecting a visitor. I’ll be back soon. Z.’
As expected of Ms. Z to leave her alone to deal with clients. Who exactly was this visitor? It was only last year when she convinced Zatanna Zatara, the owner, to let her work part-time, considering she spent four to five days out of her week here. The bookstore specialized in antique and rare books, however they sold secondhand books too, mainly relying on customer donations, which Raven had to check for missing pages or overly damaging coffee spills.