ARKHAMVERSE: ENEMY
The underworld of Gotham has never had a princess—until now.
For the first time, the story of Amelia Victoria Carroll—black-market arms dealer, heir to AmerTek, and the woman bold (or dangerous) enough to lock horns with the Arkham Knight himself—goes public.
This isn’t the Gotham you think you know.
This is war staged in shadows, laced in silk and blood and whispered names never meant to be spoken aloud.
In this chapter, masked threats meet velvet power.
A shipment exchange becomes a declaration of control.
And Amelia? She doesn’t play by rules.
She flips the table.
🩸 Anti-hero x anti-heroine
🩸 Canon-divergent Arkham Knight timeline
🩸 Enemies-to-co-conspirators energy
🩸 Power, posture, and unspoken war
🩸 And one crate full of trouble.
Read below
....
EPISODE 1 : Unexpected Cargo
Location
22:38 - GOTHAM DOCKS
In a city that never truly slept—only held its breath between crimes—there existed pockets of silence so tense, they bordered on sacred. Tonight, Gotham's east dock was one of them. The warehouse, outlined in the sharp teeth of sodium lights, stood like a forgotten god—still, monolithic, waiting to be worshipped with violence.
High above the concrete and the rusted shipping containers, a figure moved like smoke across the rafters.
The Arkham Knight, his armor matte and broken in with war, crouched in the dark. The HUD embedded in the panel on his left arm flickered once before powering down. AmerTek’s coordinates had led him here—though something about this entire transaction smelled off.
He wasn’t the type to be surprised anymore, but that didn’t mean he trusted easily. Especially not when it came to shipments of military-grade weaponry. This one was supposed to contain new ammunition belts, EMP disruptors, and a custom tactical firearm—one that was designed exclusively for his hands. The type of thing worth killing over.
Jason Todd—though the city no longer knew him by that name—never relied on faith. Only intel. And even that, he checked twice before pulling a trigger.
“You better not be fucking with me…” he muttered under his breath, voice low and rasped with suspicion.
There was movement below. Just one heat signature, standing beside a lone crate. Odd. No backup. No guards. No forklifts. No smugglers with itchy trigger fingers.
Just Her.
He didn’t move. Just watched.
The woman was poised, almost statuesque in the moonlight slipping through broken panels above. Long blonde hair loose around her shoulders, down her back, hands resting lightly on the edges of the crate like she owned it. She wasn't dressed like a dockworker or a smuggler—or any kind of threat. But that made her more dangerous. No one walked into a drop-off for the Arkham Knight alone unless they had a damn good reason... or a death wish.
He adjusted his scope. She didn’t flinch. Didn't even look around. She knew she was being watched.
That was when he knew: this wasn’t a setup. It was an introduction.
She wasn't meant to be the one standing by that crate—yet there she was, in the flesh, throwing a match into the underworld by showing up herself. The shipment was hers. The deal was hers. And now… she was his problem.
The woman, Amelia didn’t flinch. She stood there in the center of that forgotten warehouse, one heel hooked slightly in front of the other, the curve of her body framed by the single overhead light that buzzed like a dying insect. The crate beside her—an unmistakable AmerTek build, polished even in the grime of this godforsaken place—wasn't just a crate. It was a message.
And she was the signature on it.
Her hand remained rested lightly on her hip, nails tapping the casing of her concealed weapon with a rhythm that betrayed her patience—or lack thereof. She knew he was watching. She could feel it. That sickening prickle that ran up the spine when eyes lingered just a bit too long. The kind of gaze that didn’t see skin, but saw through it. She smirked.
"Come on, darling," she whispered to herself, head tilting, blonde hair catching the warehouse light like a blade. "Don’t be shy now..."
She didn’t move. Didn’t need to. A woman like her knew the art of stillness. The kind that lured predators into the open by simply looking... tastier than the trap. Her attire—tailored, dangerous, deliberate—hugged her just enough to leave questions unanswered, but her boots were thick-soled, military grade. She wasn't here to pose.
The Arkham Knight wasn’t the only one studying.
Amelia had read the intel. The shipment was bait. She made sure of it. Not for the Gotham underworld, not for Cobblepot or Black Mask... but for him. The one that didn’t answer to the syndicate, didn’t play by codes or alliances.
A ghost dressed in armor.
Her lips curled slightly.
He was everything she liked in a man: unpredictable, dangerous, obsessive, and so, so goddamn violent. Amelia didn’t believe in fate, but if she did? Tonight, she'd say it was finally in the mood to entertain her.
She turned her head just a little, giving the rafters a side profile worth bleeding over. "You got sixty seconds before I start stripping parts off your new toy and sell them to Blackgate’s inmates for fun," she called softly into the emptiness, voice thick like honey and twice as tempting.
And just like that, her eyes flicked upward.
She didn’t need night vision. She didn’t need thermals.
She had him—his silhouette, that cursed posture, gun always cradled like a religious relic. She could feel the venom he was choking down. This wasn’t about a drop anymore.
It was about her.
The Knight heard her voice before she ever spoke.
It slipped through the static like velvet—low, deliberate, brushing against his comms with a silk-wrapped chill that didn’t belong in a place like this. Not in Gotham’s rusted underbelly. Not in his domain.
His helmet’s interface blinked to life, whispering its readouts straight into his vision:
She was standing dead still beside the crate, yet every part of her read like a coiled trap. No panic in her heartbeat. No frantic movement. Whoever she was, she wasn’t new to the game. And she wasn't afraid.
She didn’t flinch when he adjusted his stance. Didn't glance around when the HUD flickered HOSTILE AIM POSSIBLE. It was like she already knew. As if this was exactly the moment she was waiting for.
He moved one step closer along the rafter. Still cloaked in shadows. Still nothing more than a ghost overhead.
Her hand, gloved and casual, tapped the edge of the crate once—rhythmic. Intentional. Almost like a metronome meant to provoke. The Knight didn’t miss that. He didn’t miss anything.
Stillness stretched.
Then he moved.
Quick, clean.
With one motion, he drew his sidearm, the weight familiar, the motion practiced to the point of instinct. The click of the safety disengaging rang out like a shot of thunder through the empty warehouse. A deliberate sound. A warning.
He aimed.
The weapon locked on her silhouette—a slim frame wrapped in shadow, unapologetic in its stillness. The HUD followed suit, tracking every shift in her balance, calculating velocity, response time, threat level.
She didn’t duck.
She didn’t run.
And that made him speak.
His voice filtered through the modulator in his helmet, rough, robotic—stripped of humanity, engineered for fear.
“Dare to threaten me? On my turf?”
The words hit the concrete air like a challenge carved in stone. Not shouted. Just… declared.
And yet—somehow—she smiled.
The sound echoed first—a metallic click, clean and deliberate. A weapon raised. A boundary drawn.
Amelia’s eyes flicked in its direction, lashes barely lifting as the sound ricocheted through the warehouse like a whispered promise of violence.
The sound echoed first—a metallic click, clean and deliberate. A weapon raised. A boundary drawn.
Amelia’s eyes flicked in its direction, lashes barely lifting as the sound ricocheted through the warehouse like a whispered promise of violence.
She didn’t flinch. She never did.
Instead, she smiled.
Not the sweet kind. Not even the diplomatic one she wore at board meetings and family funerals. No, this smile was made of something far more lethal—something rich with danger, decadence, and a spoiled-girl edge that warned she'd grown up knowing exactly how to get what she wanted. And how to ruin anything that didn’t hand itself over willingly.
Her heel kissed the floor as she took a step forward—slow, intentional. The click of leather against concrete was almost hypnotic, a siren’s rhythm in the stillness of the bay. Her hips tilted subtly, hands raised just enough to show she wasn’t holding a weapon. But everything else about her was armed.
The curve of her spine. The challenge in her posture. The way she stood there—an open invitation, laced with venom.
She didn’t look for him. She found him.
Her eyes tracked straight into the rafters, locking onto the shadows until they met the gleam of that helmet—dark, reflective, watching her like a predator calculating distance.
“You must be fun at parties,” she said, her voice smooth as aged whiskey, low and teasing. “But if you’re gonna pull that trigger, sweetheart…”
A pause. A smirk.
“…you better pray your aim’s better than your manners.”
Silence answered her, but she wasn’t finished. Not even close.
Her chin lifted in a slow, almost reverent gesture, spine straightening as if daring the dark to come closer.
“This crate?” she tapped its side with the heel of her boot—thunk. It reverberated through the steel bones of the building like a dare. “Wasn’t meant for just anyone. But maybe AmerTek overestimated who they were dealing with.”
Another step forward.
Measured. Brazen.
She walked like she was already winning. Like she owned the floor she stood on, and the air he was breathing.
And then, she stopped.
Directly beneath him.
Head tilted back, lips parted in the ghost of something between a warning and a kiss. It wasn’t seduction—not really. It was worse. It was dominance. Like Eve in a backless dress, offering the apple already laced with poison.
“You point that thing at me again,” she said, her voice velvet over steel, “and I’ll make sure you’re the next item on Gotham’s black market. Dismantled. Branded. And sold for parts to every freak still breathing in this hellhole.”
She let that hang in the space between them.
Then, a flutter of her lashes.
Wicked. Delicate. Almost pretty.
“...Unless you’re here to negotiate, soldier,” she said, the word laced with mocking sweetness. “In which case, get the fuck down here and let’s talk like big boys do.”
Even behind the helmet—hidden beneath layers of carbon plating and voice modulation—he frowned. She couldn’t see it, but somehow, she’d already touched a nerve. Her words had come too sharp. Too sure of herself.
There was dominance in her voice. A calculated defiance. The kind that came from someone not just unafraid of the dark… but raised in it.
He’d never seen her before. And he would’ve remembered.
Still cloaked in shadow, he shifted his stance and drew his grapnel with smooth precision. The mechanism hissed once as it latched onto a steel beam, and with a soft thwip, he descended. Silent. Clean. Tactical.
The ground cracked slightly under his boots as he landed just a few feet in front of her.
Up close, the contrast was almost theatrical.
He stood tall—armor-clad, cold, a walking weapon engineered to unsettle. Every inch of him designed to send a message: you don’t want this fight. He didn’t need a cape to strike fear. His presence was the cape.
She didn’t back away. Of course not.
But the air thickened between them. A magnetic tension. Power meeting power.
He tilted his helmet just slightly, as if recalibrating the threat. His voice came through low, mechanical, untouched by emotion.
“I wasn’t told I had… another order coming in with the shipment.”
There was weight behind the pause. Not confusion—suspicion.
“My question is—how did you know about it?”
The way he said it wasn’t curious. It was calculated. Probing. Designed to strip her down and dig through the lie—if there was one.
He wasn’t here for games.
But whatever game this was…
She was already playing it better than most.
She didn’t flinch when he landed.
Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe differently.
In fact—her expression darkened.
Not with fear. But with something dangerously close to delight.
Up close, the Knight was bigger than the whispers. Broader than the back-alley rumors that circulated through black market channels and underground war rooms. The armor wrapped around him like a second skin—bullets had kissed it, fire had tried to melt it, and yet here he stood, unmoved. The weight of his silence alone was enough to shake most men.
But most men weren’t her.
Amelia tilted her head, slow and feline. Studying him like a weapon on display, or worse—like something she was already planning to break and rebuild. There was no fear in her eyes. Just calculation. Just challenge.
“You weren’t told,”
she echoed, her voice smoky, dangerous—sultry in the way storms were before they hit.
“Because not everything gets run past the precious Knight.”
The words were sugar-laced with steel.
“Your shipment might’ve been yours… but where it landed?”
She stepped forward, deliberate.
“That’s mine.”
Now she was close. Too close.
Inches from his chestplate. She could smell the oil woven into his armor, the steel of the weapons he wore like bones, and beneath it all—something darker. Grit. Gunpowder. A scent soaked into men who lived through their own deaths and kept coming.
Her eyes flicked across his helmet—measured, intimate. Unbothered by the fact that his gun could be raised again in less than a second.
“You’re used to being the last to know, aren’t you?” she murmured.
Velvet. Wrapped around a dagger.
“You bark at shadows. Paranoid of betrayal.”
She leaned in closer. Her voice didn’t rise—but it tightened, like a silk ribbon pulled taut against a throat.
“But baby… if I wanted to sabotage you?”
She rose just enough for her breath to ghost his visor.
“You’d already be on your knees. Bleeding from three places.”
Her fingers ghosted along the edge of the crate, a delicate gesture masking the iron grip beneath. She never broke eye contact.
And he didn’t move.
“Now here’s what I think…” she said, voice curling like smoke.
“You want answers.”
Her smile curled with it. A secret on the verge of spilling—or slicing.
“And I don’t give those for free.”
There was a beat. A heavy one.
Then, her lashes lowered slightly, that wicked gleam in her eye sharpening.
“But maybe…”
A pause. Sweet as poison.
“…if you stop pointing guns at me like an overcompensating frat boy…”
She let her gaze flick to his holster, then back up with exaggerated sweetness.
“…I’ll let you buy me a drink.”
A smirk.
“And we’ll talk business.”
The offer hung in the air like a blade on a silk thread.
Then she smiled. Bright. Pretty.
Feral.
“Or,” she said lightly,
“you can pull that trigger… and start a war you don’t know how to finish.”
He didn’t lower the weapon.
Not even an inch.
Instead, the Knight reached up—slowly, purposefully—and disengaged the safety with a click that felt louder than thunder in the tight, charged space between them.
It wasn’t a bluff.
It wasn’t theatrics.
It was a warning in its purest, most mechanical form.
The moment stretched. The kind of moment Gotham carved into its bones—where breath held, and lives were decided in seconds.
Her smirk didn’t fade. But he saw it—just for a split second—the flicker of tension behind her lashes. Barely there. A note of reality in her otherwise untouchable poise.
And that was when he spoke.
His voice came through the helmet—distorted, modulated, stripped of anything human.
“I’m going to ask again.”
Low. Even.
“Who are you?”
“And why are you on my turf?”
The words dropped like weight onto the concrete between them. No flair. No performative edge. Just ice. Precision.
It wasn’t curiosity. It was control. He was giving her one chance—just one—to answer the question before everything that followed got messy, loud, and possibly fatal.
He didn’t twitch. Didn’t breathe heavy.
Just stood there—armor-clad, gun steady, the city’s silence wrapping around them both like a noose.
This wasn’t negotiation.
Not yet.
This was the line in the sand.
And she had just stepped over it.
She exhaled softly—through her nose, not her lips. A sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a purr.
The click of the safety?
It didn’t rattle her.
It intrigued her.
Her eyes flicked down to the barrel now trained on her chest, then back up—slowly—locking on his visor like she dared him to do it. Her gaze didn’t blink, didn’t blink. Just burned.
“You must be so fun in bed,” she murmured.
Her tone was dipped in honey and laced with venom, each word dripping with mockery dressed as flirtation.
“All edge. No patience.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But the atmosphere around her shifted. That easy, teasing charm sharpened at the edges—became colder. Cleaner.
This wasn’t a game of seduction anymore.
This was calculation.
The coil tightening beneath the silk.
“I don’t answer to masked men with itchy trigger fingers,” she said smoothly, gaze never leaving his. “Not unless they’re paying top dollar…”
A beat. Her head tilted.
“…or making me cum.”
She let that hang.
Deliberate. Deadly. Daring.
“Are you doing either?”
Her voice was low, velvety in the kind of way that wrapped around the bones, crept down the spine. And then silence filled the warehouse once more—thick as fog.
The tension coiled again between them, no longer just electric. It was chemical. Alchemy. Two volatile forces, circling each other in steel and shadow.
Then—finally—her tone dropped.
The tease peeled away.
Cool. Controlled. Lethal.
“My name is Victoria.”
A lie.
But delivered like gospel.
“And I’m not on your turf, sweetheart…”
She took one final step, now close enough to invade his air. Her breath ghosted over the modulator on his helmet.
“…I’m reclaiming mine.”
The words landed like a blade unsheathed in velvet.
She leaned in. Closer. No hesitation. The kind of closeness that demanded dominance or surrender—and she never picked the latter.
“Now either lower the gun…”
A whisper. Barely spoken.
“…or let’s see which one of us survives the fallout.”
Because whether he liked it or not—
the game was already underway.
And she never played to lose.
Silence bloomed between them.
Not empty silence—but heavy. Thick with unsaid things and thinly veiled restraint.
He didn’t respond to threats.
Never had.
But he wasn’t stupid either.
His rifle remained steady, aimed dead center at her chest… until finally, he shifted. Just enough. The barrel dipped, lowering by a few inches—not as a gesture of trust, but of strategic recalibration.
He didn’t engage the safety.
The message was clear: this wasn’t surrender. This was pause.
His voice cut the silence like a blade drawn slow.
“Who are you with?”
Not a question.
A command.
Each word clipped, precise, cold—filtered through the helmet’s modulator like gravel wrapped in wire. He wasn’t curious. He was extracting.
His gaze flicked past her, momentarily.
To the crate.
AmerTek’s logo was still visible, slapped across the steel with that industrial arrogance unique to weapons manufacturers who believed their brands mattered more than their blood trail. The edges of the container were clean—no signs of tampering, no damage. But something about this delivery… about her… felt off.
Too off.
He didn’t let it show, but gears turned violently beneath the armor.
She was trying to craft an image—Gotham-born, dangerous, unfazed.
But he’d never seen her. And he saw everything.
Her accent wasn’t local. Her movements—refined, intentional, a little too clean for someone claiming turf in the slums. She was either new… or lying.
Or both.
He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak again. Just stared, waiting. Measuring her silence, watching for a crack in her poise.
She thought she was holding the cards.
But he was already counting the deck.
She felt it.
That shift.
A barely-there unraveling of tension—a breath loosed behind the mask, a flicker of doubt tucked between armor plates. He was thinking.
He was recalculating.
Good.
She didn’t move when the rifle lowered. She didn’t need to. That sliver of control, that microscopic crack in his once-immovable stance—it was enough. It curled at her lips, subtle and slow, like she’d just tasted something forbidden... and liked it.
“With?” she repeated, dragging the word across her tongue like it was foreign currency.
“Darling… I own half the people you'd assume I answer to.”
She stepped to the side—not to retreat, but to reveal. Just enough for the warehouse light to catch the side of the crate.
The AmerTek seal gleamed dully, imprinted like a family crest carved into steel.
“I’m not some sideline thief playing dress-up.”
Her voice was glass dipped in acid.
“That crate is stamped with my family’s blood. My mother signs deals behind champagne flutes. I ship weapons in shadow.”
She took a breath. Let the weight of that truth settle.
Her gaze narrowed, sharp enough to cut through kevlar.
“So if you want to talk about turf…”
A pause.
“I suggest you realize you’re standing in my shadow.”
Then, without ceremony, her fingers slid along the seam of her leather jacket—smooth, unhurried. She pulled it back just enough to let the dim light kiss the black pistol holstered at her ribs. Sleek. Unmarked. Customized down to the screws. Not a street piece. Not something bought.
Commissioned.
Everything about her—her stance, her silence, her smile—spoke of wealth that knew how to disappear, and intent that never missed.
“And for the record…” she added, her voice dropping an octave—cool, clipped, final,
“I’m not new to Gotham.”
Her eyes locked on his visor. No grin now. Just stillness.
A predator’s calm.
“I’m just returning… to clean up the mess the rest of you left in my absence.”
The air between them pulsed.
Her stare drilled into his, unrelenting. As if daring the visor to blink. As if she could peel away the helmet with willpower alone.
“So what now, soldier boy?”
She took a single step forward—not asking.
“You going to play detective?”
A tilt of her head.
“Or start acting like someone who doesn’t want to get outplayed on his own floor?”
The final word echoed in the rafters.
Soft. Lethal.
The kind of moment that redefines alliances… or starts wars.
…She was Janet’s daughter.
The realization cut through the fog like a sharpened wire.
Janet Carroll—CEO of AmerTek. The woman who sold death in polished packaging. A name that brokered wars over champagne.
Everyone in Gotham’s underworld knew it.
Everyone respected it. Or feared it.
Often both.
AmerTek wasn’t just a weapons manufacturer.
They were the supplier. The ones behind half the tech used by the military, by private contractors, by ghosts who didn’t exist on paper. Vehicles. Munitions. Black projects that didn’t even have names.
After the chaos of Jason’s escape from Arkham, after draining Bruce’s accounts like they were pocket change, after forming uneasy alliances with men like Slade Wilson to rebuild the militia—he was gearing up for war. A war calculated, precise. One he planned.
But this? Her?
What the hell was Janet Carroll’s daughter doing here—unannounced, unguarded, armed—standing beside one of his crates like she owned the whole damn city?
The Knight didn’t blink.
Didn’t let the helmet tip.
But inside, the gears were grinding.
This wasn’t a coincidence. This was a move. A bold one.
And now, she’d forced his hand.
His voice cut through the air, dark and absolute.
“I’m the open vein that supplies Gotham’s underworld with off-the-market weapons.”
It wasn’t bragging. It was infrastructure.
“The ones who try to play their hand on my table?”
A pause. Cold.
“They end up cancelled.”
Final. Flat. The kind of statement that didn’t need explanation.
His visor lowered, gun still down but presence fully re-engaged.
“Pick your battle.”
There was no threat in his tone.
Just inevitability.
Her eyes gleamed.
There it was.
Recognition.
Not in his words, but in the shift.
The way his voice changed—how the rhythm tightened just slightly, how the space between sentences grew heavier, like his thoughts had started slamming into each other behind the visor.
She felt it.
The weight of her name.
Carroll.
The dynasty that made war look beautiful. The bloodline that turned destruction into a luxury product.
She stepped in again, close enough to taste tension on the air.
Her movements were slow, deliberate—poised like a woman who didn’t just understand power… but had danced with it.
Owned it. Wore it like perfume.
“Cute,” she murmured, voice smooth as sin,
“The open vein… poetic.”
A flicker of something darker curled at the corner of her mouth.
“And here I thought you were just another man with a gun and a tragic origin story.”
Her tongue dragged lightly across the inside of her cheek as she folded her arms, hips tilting with practiced elegance—relaxed, defiant.
Every inch of her screamed unbothered.
Even as the air between them started to crackle like a live wire.
“You think I don’t know who you are?” she whispered.
Her voice never rose. But it didn’t need to.
Those blue eyes locked on his helmet, unwavering. Unshaken.
“The Knight. The ghost who tore up the city with enough firepower to start a second war.”
A beat.
“The cautionary tale whispered in Gotham alleyways.”
She leaned in—closer this time.
Close enough that her breath fogged the visor.
Close enough that if he flinched, he’d lose.
“Well guess what, Knight…”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. Sultry. Sharp. Surgical.
“I’m not here to play on your table.”
And then—
The smile.
Slow. Dangerous. The kind of smile you see just before the floor gives out.
“I’m here to flip it.”
She turned her back to him.
Not in defiance. Not in recklessness.
In control.
She wanted him to feel it—that calculated, surgical disrespect. That brazen turn of the spine that said I don’t fear you. I just decided you’re not worth my eyes.
She knelt beside the crate, her gloved hand moving over the biometric lock like a caress.
No fumbling. No second-guessing.
Beep.
The scanner lit up green.
Click.
The crate unlocked.
But she didn’t open it.
No. Not yet.
This wasn’t about weapons.
This was about leverage.
She looked over her shoulder—just enough to let the warehouse shadows wrap across her face, sharp and holy like ink on porcelain.
“Pick yours, soldier,” she said softly.
“Because I don’t cancel easily.”
Considering how calculating Jason is with his comically complicated plans and many backup plans and probably practiced speeches, and how starved he is for social interaction, and how he wasn't exactly socialised properly for a chunk of his childhood and like all of his teenage years- do you ever wonder if he rehearses interactions before getting into them? If he bites his tongue and spends all that time pondering how to best convey what he actually means to say, calculates strategies to get the reaction he's looking for?
Some people look at Jason Todd and see a sex god, but all I see is a traumatized man who would literally cry the first time his S/O sees his scars. I'm talking full-on waterworks, and he's so embarrassed because he isn't supposed to be emotional; he's the Red Hood, for fuck's sake, and he's sobbing over someone telling him he's beautiful.
But he only reacts like that with his S/O, someone who has meticulously built up trust with him. Everyone else can go fuck themselves.
I feel like a reason why jason todd will always be misunderstood as a character and person forever is because his emotional side of his character is so deep like genuinely it’s so deep where’ll you will think to yourself, he has plenty of sides as a character to a point it’s so pointless to try to capture his emotions in a movie or a simple writing, like genuinely imagine being tortured for 6 months - 2 years for doing good for your own city and when you come back you see someone has taken your spot and your death didn’t change anything, joker running free, batman with a robin and etc and nothing impacted on the city at all, as if you were never born and when you finally confront the closest thing you have to a father he just says “I can’t, I’m sorry..” when you poured your heart out so your emotions and pain doesn’t cloud your mind and feeling like you just born to be nothing, from coming from a semi abusive household in poverty and a trying biological father who can’t make ends meet and a addict mother to fending on the streets to resort to stealing car tires not knowing how long you’ll make it until your next meal to then becoming the mantle of robin and having pressure to live up to the past one too, it genuinely cannot be captured jason Todd’s character is so emotional and deep honestly I can talk about it for hours, and especially seeing no mourning stage ── .✦ if double perspective were two people it would be Bruce and jason, it’s a problem when you have the same hearts and different minds as some say double edged sword. Characters can be so fucking deep even then how we can compare to humanity, I genuinely wonder how deep his character goes, it’s part of the reason why so many people feel drawn to him I genuinely cannot express how much I feel that I think the whole ‘red hood’ confession was super shorten too because what do you mean that was it!?!?, like I genuinely get Bruce’s point he can’t kill because he’ll never stop once he starts but I feel like it just wasn’t right and how he expressed why he couldn’t to a “I can’t, I’m sorry (a bit of etc)” knowing jason would’ve killed anyone for bruce in a heartbeat but when the table turns bruce just couldn’t and if one think hurts it definitely loving someone but knowing they wouldn’t do the same for you, it a pistol. To. Your. Head. It’s the worst kind of love one can handle ever I think but in the interactive movie you could see jason about to do it but yk ofc Tim and etc but it just doesn’t make sense how jason fulfilled Bruce’s wishes/ morals but bruce couldn’t fulfill Jason’s. -dollish
I SEE ONE MORE FIC OR BLURB OR WHATEVER DEPECTING ARKHAM JASON AS MEAN, ABUSIVE, OR PRACTICALLY ASSULTING THE READER, I'M GOING TO FUCKING SNAP!
MY MAN IS NOT LIKE THAT.
He is traumatized and not going through a good time, but he is shown to actually care about his men, even when he's harsh on them. And do people forget how he treated Barbara? Think about it: after everything Jason went through, would he really treat the person he loves like shit and abuse them?
i thought my suicidal late teens were the hardest years of my life but nothing could’ve prepared me for my 20s waking up everyday with no purpose, feeling so lost, unable to keep up with friendships, watching everyone move on with relationships and careers and being unable to catch up. and I’m such a “life is not a race” type of person but damn I’m losing so hard rn
seeing this resonating with so many of you is actually kinda comforting. here’s a hopeful quote from Tennessee Williams “Something in me will save me from utter ruin no matter what comes.”
if they introduce harvey into the universe, i desperately need them NOT to villainize his DID. i want them to emphasize that two-face is the protector of the system, and was there defending harvey from his father abuse. his strong reaction towards his perpetrator is a last resort. harvey was terribly harmed and he need to be there for him at all times.
People who write Jason calling Sheila a bitch in his internal monologue don’t understand him I’m sorryyy. I don’t think he’s ever actually said a word against her in canon at the is point. He spent his last moments trying to protect her from the blast even after her betrayal. He is insane in ways you can’t even begin to fathom
vaporwave
titsay
romaincrisis
pixelskylines
