𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧

𝐘𝐞𝐚𝐡, 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐞. 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐦𝐞?

[graveoftodd]

"𝐁𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞, 𝐈 𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐦𝐞. 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐲? 𝐖𝐡𝐲 𝐨𝐧 𝐆𝐨𝐝'𝐬 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐬 𝐇𝐄 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞? 𝐈𝐠𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐭... 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰, 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭... 𝐈 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐈'𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭."

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━ ⌖

《 ʟᴇᴛ ᴛʜᴇ •☆• ꜰɪᴛ ᴛʜᴇ 》

𝙋𝙪𝙣𝙞𝙨𝙝𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝘾𝙧𝙞𝙢𝙚

•☆•

𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐏. 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝

𝐇𝐞 / 𝐇𝐢𝐦 𝟏𝟗 𝐀𝐫𝐨 / 𝐀𝐜𝐞

"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved; in secret, between the shadow and the soul." - Pablo Neruda

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐈 𝐚𝐦. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐲 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐚 𝐣𝐨𝐛? 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧.

𝑩𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 & 𝑹𝒖𝒍𝒆𝒔

○ My portrayal of Jason is Aro/Ace, I will not be writing romance for him, nor will I engage in any nsfw roleplays.

○ This is a batcest free blog, don't bring that shit over here.

○ This is also a side blog, all likes&follows are from @habitrabit

○ This blog is crossover and oc friendly!!

○ Heavy topics will be covered and shall be tagged accordingly, please remember to block any tags that trigger you.

○ My DMs are open for plot discussion, mutuals may also have my discord. :]

○ No bigotry is tolerated here, you will be blocked.

○ When writing with me, please don't use any double/triple space formats, it's hard to read. :]

[graveoftodd]

It's pride month, you know what that means

[graveoftodd]

🔥🔥🔥

[aggot]

weather so nice i've decided to free a hostage

[pansyfemme]

sorry for displaying suicidal tendancies do you still think im hot

[graveoftodd]

"Got a light?"

@pvnchie

He had been sitting alone, feet dangling over the edge of a building in the same way they had done for the past 4 nights that week. A certain tiredness weighed them down, joining forces with gravity in an attempt to drag him to the concrete below, should he lean forward any further.

Below him, cars crawled along the city roads like tamed predators built with metal sheets and rubber, making their existence in the world known with deep grumbles of tired engines and harsh lights that acted as their eyes. His own blue eyes, now stained with green, stared down at the metal beasts, the mind behind them wondering - for a short moment - if he would get lucky and splatter across two of them instead of just one, or none at all, if his tiredness ever did pull him down.

Dying does that to you. Or at least, dying did that to him. The shock of it wears off, replaced by the true realisation that the world really does just go on without you. It continues it's orbital path, and the people continue their own lives. Sometimes the grief period lasts a while, sometimes it doesn't even end - but ultimately, you mean nothing. Your atoms are repurposed, rebuilt into something - or someone - new, and the cycle continues on.

Except he wasn't repurposed, not really. He was reanimated. The atoms that made him were caught in a net, pulled in from the ocean of stars just to be settled into shape once more. But that didn't mean he came back right. Not at all.

And so, when the voice behind him rippled through his atmosphere, he didn't flinch. Didn't startle or yelp. He simply reached into his pocket, and pulled the battered lighter from the depths of his jacket.

Sparking it once, the flame flitting in the air like a ghost between them --

-- the Red Hood offered a light.

[drizzledrawings]

I have multiple dead horses that I beat regularly

[papayajuan2019]

i like to think i'm the dead horse that everyone keeps beating

[kaihasmoreswagthanyou3]

who needs therapy when you have “listening to music at such a high volume that you keep getting headphone warnings”

[babymorte]

i know they say no one is coming to save you but why the fuck not

[sadocanist]

I would be so good at haunting you after i die

[graveoftodd]

Suffocating.

If he were to describe the feeling in the air at that moment, the crushing weight that he'd felt settling in between his ribs, squeezing the oxygen from his lungs - the word he would use would be suffocating. His chest no longer held space for any breath, his body repurposing itself against his will.

And what, exactly, was that purpose?

For a moment, he didn't understand. Didn't see what was right there, hidden in such plain sight. Hidden in a place he didn't want to look.

Steps became uneven as he tried to press forward, boots breaking through puddles that had found solace among the potholes in the concrete beneath him. It was concrete still, wasn't it?

Concrete.

Cold.

A shiver interrupted his thoughts, forcing it's way through his body in that familiar, violent way. Risking it all for a brief moment of respite, the Red Hood closed his eyes.

Close. Reload. Reset.

But it was not comfort that he found in this alleyway alone. No, of course it wouldn't be. Comfort wasn't something that was meant for him. Instead, Jason found himself back on that cold, hard, warehouse floor. Jason found himself in a puddle of blood.

Jason found himself alone.

Jason found fear.

Fear.

And that fear was what finally broke the dam. Every breath, all at once, panicked and pained, filled his lungs with an overwhelming urgency. Blueish, greenish, death-stained eyes flew open, darting around an alleyway that didn't feel so alone anymore.

A presence had invaded.

A presence that nagged at his mind.

A presence that said:

Look up.

[jcphd]

It is interesting, he thinks, to watch the slow realization creeping over someone. The dread that pools in the pit of the subject's stomach, crawling slowly through his intestines breaking through the muscle to scrape at his spine. He could watch this same moment, repeated infinitely, with millions of different minds underneath the microscope, and he would never get bored of it. How could he, when the scent of blood in the air is so deliciously potent that it is making him nauseous?

Slowly, the Scarecrow head tilts to the side, the dark fabric of his uniform shifting silently with the movement, the dim light catching on the lenses of his mask and allowing for his eyes to glow. It is with those eyes, glowing in the darkness and piercing into the window of whatever is left of Red Hood's soul, that the Scarecrow observes this newest addition to the board. Or, perhaps, an old pawn reaching the other side and coming back anew. The Batman and his pawns, his knights, his rooks, no matter how fiercely those pieces might object to the notion, will forever be made of same wood.

Even while cloaked in shadow, the Scarecrow can feel the exact moment that they make eye contact. Like a sudden weight being pushed into place, even through the layers of metal and fabric and the costumes that the two of them wear. The Scarecrow recognizes the feeling of being seen in the way one feels electricity tearing through his limbs.

The brain will break, eventually, when the voltage gets high enough. Blood will start to fall from one's ears and their nose and their eyes, falling into their laps like gems. But it is unclear, insofar, who is the one strapped into the chair, and who is the one with a hand on the lever. He supposes that the only way to find out who the executioner is, is to wait and see who dies first. He is not a gambling man, but the Scarecrow might make an exception just this once- betting it all on red.

"Lost?"

[graveoftodd]

The eye contact alone almost crushed him, stripping him of his usual swagger and bravado. Here, standing not-so-alone, he was nothing more than a child again, staring at the creature that threatened to leave his closet at night.

It was . . . humiliating.

His jaw, shielded by metal, clenched to simulate the illusion of feeling just as strong -- just as impenetrable. But that was his first mistake, looking back on it. Metal could be molded. Metal could be reshaped. Brought forth into a new design that left the previous creation entirely unrecognisable.

He could be broken.

The creature's single word, spoken so plainly in Gotham's night air, tore itself through his mind. Was he lost? No, no he knew exactly where he was. And where he was was the place he'd ventured to. And where he'd ventured to was the place where his feet had taken him. And where his feet had --

-- where had his feet taken him?

Every synapse in his brain burned from end to end, creating a staggering sort of warmth -- but that wasn't it, was it? Warmth was comforting, or so he was told. He hadn't quite believed it. Warmth meant he had something that could be taken, torn away without any rhyme or reason. And standing there, feet melded to the concrete, the warmth he felt was certainly not comforting.

Not in the slightest.

Yet something compelled him to attempt to hide this from the creature -- because that's what it was to him, a creature invading peace. Perhaps it was because of that same childish fear that kept him frozen in his bed, when the voices no longer sounded like voices, only a slur of sound and fury.

There it was again.

Fear.

He would lie -- he had to lie.

"I'm not afraid of you."

[silvaaart]

Lazarus Pit

[batwoman-or-whatever]

The Ghosts of Gotham (Introduction)

Three years after she had first arrived in Gotham from Atlanta hunting phantoms she eventually found but almost wished she had not, Kate found herself staring at her own pale reflection as the breeze blowing in from Gotham Harbor fluttered her cape. Nearly lifeless green eyes peered back at her from the darkened window of the abandoned storefront, and as she stared, Kate briefly wondered if she, herself, had become a ghost. Unlike other creatures lionized for their deaths and rebirths, Kate never felt that she came back better, or smarter, or stronger - just tired. Just more scarred. Just haunted, with more nightmares that followed her down dark alleyways, more memories standing at the foot of her bed so she couldn't sleep.

The dust of time had settled on Gotham's streets and within her heart, and it seemed to coat everything she touched. The Shadow was long since buried. Kate's hands, forever stained with blood, were at least as clean now as they could ever be again, her relationships mended as much as they ever were. Kate had done the work she could; time had handled much of the rest. Many people she had once loved were buried or missing, but also missing was the thirst for vengeance that had gotten her so drunk on grief that she had become unrecognizable to herself.

At least now, ghosts and all, Kate recognized herself again. Whatever she thought of the woman looking back at her, at least she was someone familiar.

Behind her, out the corner of her eye, Kate saw movement. A woman dressed in a white diaphanous gown floated down the cracked road silently. An icy chill rocketed through Kate's spine, the air turning frigid. Distant wailing could be heard echoing through the lifeless streets, like the souls lost to the Harbor waters were crying out to the woman in white.

Right, Kate thought to herself. The whole reason she was out this way at this time of night.

The Ghosts of Gotham, both figuratively and literally. Kate slowly turned, the red bat symbol emblazoned on her chest almost as bright as the Gotham Lighthouse. Hand on her python coil attached to her utility belt, she began stalking behind the apparition, a faint smile creeping across her face at the absurdity of how it easy this felt - leave it to Katherine Kane to feel more comfortable among the dead than the living.

The Rundown:

Hey everyone! I'm sort of back, and as promised, we're going to be leaning more into Kate's affinity for encountering supernatural forces, getting herself into all kinds of trouble, and her detective skills. This timeline picks up a year after Renee corners The Shadow on that rooftop (a conversation I plan on finishing at some point as a memory), and Kate comes back home to herself.

This Kate is still Kate, but less fist and more finesse. Less hammer and more scalpel. Less wounded and more wound up, but also on the path to finding her passion for life again. If The Shadow arc was her descent, I imagine this arc as her making a pilgrimage out of her own personal hell and finding her way back to the living. The world around her will be much, much darker, but the world within her is on its way to being lighter, and in this, we have balance.

As always, no bigotry of any kind will be tolerated unless that's part of someone's character, but even then, Kate does not abide that kind of bullshit so be ready for confrontation.

I, the mun, am Cait (29, she/her, Taurus, lesbian), but Cait is not Kate, so please respect that distinction; I don't necessarily condone everything Kate has done or will do, so keep that in mind, however -

Please, please, please feel free to tell me if I ever do or say something, either as Cait or as Kate, that makes you feel uncomfortable or doesn't fit the vibe. This is supposed to be fun and an outlet for all of us because real life is hard enough, so the last thing I want to do is say or do anything that is hurtful or harmful.

I'm going to do my best to stay true to this interpretation of her character, but there will be some canon divergence (when is there not? lol). Any critiques and feedback are welcomed but I ask that they are given kindly

Yes, she still has Wiley Jr. He is three apples tall now and well-trained as her occasional sidekick, but not well-behaved in civilian life because he's her son and she spoils him; this means that he might make appearances alongside her on patrol, but will continue to jump on guests excitedly

This blog might feature some darker topics than before, but I will appropriately put trigger warnings on any of those threads so you know what you're getting into.

Bat-Facts might be resurrected but I'm thinking of changing the format/storyline for them, something more akin to a newspaper/newsletter or another in-world narrative device, so stay tuned.

I think that's it for now, so feel free to send me asks, prompts, messages, etc. and let's get spooky with it.

[graveoftodd]

🔥🔥🔥

[shmooseee]

he was definitely not old enough to buy alcohol here either

[graveoftodd]

🔥🔥🔥