𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓲𝓷 𝔂ou

Like bro. Please everyone manifest this for me.

US Use of Weapons of Mass Destruction The indiscriminate use of bombs by the US, usually outside a declared war situation, for wanton destruction, for no military objectives, whose targets and victims are civilian populations, or what we now call “collateral damage.”

Japan (1945) 

China (1945-46) 

Korea & China (1950-53) 

Guatemala (1954, 1960, 1967-69) 

Indonesia (1958) 

Cuba (1959-61) 

Congo (1964) 

Peru (1965) 

Laos (1964-70) 

Vietnam (1961-1973) 

Cambodia (1969-70) 

Grenada (1983) 

Lebanon (1983-84) 

Libya (1986) 

El Salvador (1980s) 

Nicaragua (1980s) 

Iran (1987) 

Panama (1989) 

Iraq (1991-2000) 

Kuwait (1991) 

Somalia (1993) 

Bosnia (1994-95) 

Sudan (1998) 

Afghanistan (1998) 

Pakistan (1998) 

Yugoslavia (1999) 

Bulgaria (1999) 

Macedonia (1999)

US Use of Chemical & Biological Weapons The US has refused to sign Conventions against the development and use of chemical and biological weapons, and has either used or tested (without informing the civilian populations) these weapons in the following locations abroad:

Bahamas (late 1940s-mid-1950s) 

Canada (1953) 

China and Korea (1950-53) 

Korea (1967-69) 

Vietnam, Laos, Cambodia (1961-1970) 

Panama (1940s-1990s) 

Cuba (1962, 69, 70, 71, 81, 96)

And the US has tested such weapons on US civilian populations, without their knowledge, in the following locations:

Watertown, NY and US Virgin Islands (1950) 

SF Bay Area (1950, 1957-67) 

Minneapolis (1953) 

St. Louis (1953) 

Washington, DC Area (1953, 1967) 

Florida (1955) 

Savannah GA/Avon Park, FL (1956-58) 

New York City (1956, 1966) 

Chicago (1960)

And the US has encouraged the use of such weapons, and provided the technology to develop such weapons in various nations abroad, including:

Egypt 

South Africa 

Iraq

US Political and Military Interventions since 1945 The US has launched a series of military and political interventions since 1945, often to install puppet regimes, or alternatively to engage in political actions such as smear campaigns, sponsoring or targeting opposition political groups (depending on how they served US interests), undermining political parties, sabotage and terror campaigns, and so forth. It has done so in nations such as

China (1945-51) 

South Africa (1960s-1980s)

France (1947) 

Bolivia (1964-75)

Marshall Islands (1946-58) 

Australia (1972-75)

Italy (1947-1975) 

Iraq (1972-75)

Greece (1947-49) 

Portugal (1974-76)

Philippines (1945-53) 

East Timor (1975-99)

Korea (1945-53) 

Ecuador (1975)

Albania (1949-53) 

Argentina (1976)

Eastern Europe (1948-56) 

Pakistan (1977)

Germany (1950s) 

Angola (1975-1980s)

Iran (1953) 

Jamaica (1976)

Guatemala (1953-1990s) 

Honduras (1980s)

Costa Rica (mid-1950s, 1970-71) 

Nicaragua (1980s)

Middle East (1956-58) 

Philippines (1970s-90s)

Indonesia (1957-58) 

Seychelles (1979-81)

Haiti (1959) 

South Yemen (1979-84)

Western Europe (1950s-1960s) 

South Korea (1980)

Guyana (1953-64) 

Chad (1981-82)

Iraq (1958-63) 

Grenada (1979-83)

Vietnam (1945-53) 

Suriname (1982-84)

Cambodia (1955-73) 

Libya (1981-89)

Laos (1957-73) 

Fiji (1987)

Thailand (1965-73) 

Panama (1989)

Ecuador (1960-63) 

Afghanistan (1979-92)

Congo (1960-65, 1977-78) 

El Salvador (1980-92)

Algeria (1960s) 

Haiti (1987-94)

Brazil (1961-64) 

Bulgaria (1990-91)

Peru (1965) 

Albania (1991-92)

Dominican Republic (1963-65) 

Somalia (1993)

Cuba (1959-present) 

Iraq (1990s)

Indonesia (1965) 

Peru (1990-present)

Ghana (1966) 

Mexico (1990-present)

Uruguay (1969-72) 

Colombia (1990-present)

Chile (1964-73) 

Yugoslavia (1995-99)

Greece (1967-74)

US Perversions of Foreign Elections The US has specifically intervened to rig or distort the outcome of foreign elections, and sometimes engineered sham “demonstration” elections to ward off accusations of government repression in allied nations in the US sphere of influence. These sham elections have often installed or maintained in power repressive dictators who have victimized their populations. Such practices have occurred in nations such as:

Philippines (1950s) 

Italy (1948-1970s) 

Lebanon (1950s) 

Indonesia (1955) 

Vietnam (1955) 

Guyana (1953-64) 

Japan (1958-1970s) 

Nepal (1959) 

Laos (1960) 

Brazil (1962) 

Dominican Republic (1962) 

Guatemala (1963) 

Bolivia (1966) 

Chile (1964-70) 

Portugal (1974-75) 

Australia (1974-75) 

Jamaica (1976) 

El Salvador (1984) 

Panama (1984, 89) 

Nicaragua (1984, 90) 

Haiti (1987, 88) 

Bulgaria (1990-91) 

Albania (1991-92) 

Russia (1996) 

Mongolia (1996) 

Bosnia (1998)

US Versus World at the United Nations The US has repeatedly acted to undermine peace and human rights initiatives at the United Nations, routinely voting against hundreds of UN resolutions and treaties. The US easily has the worst record of any nation on not supporting UN treaties. In almost all of its hundreds of “no” votes, the US was the “sole” nation to vote no (among the 100-130 nations that usually vote), and among only 1 or 2 other nations voting no the rest of the time. Here’s a representative sample of US votes from 1978-1987:

US Is the Sole “No” Vote on Resolutions or Treaties

For aid to underdeveloped nations 

For the promotion of developing nation exports 

For UN promotion of human rights

For protecting developing nations in trade agreements

For New International Economic Order for underdeveloped nations

For development as a human right

Versus multinational corporate operations in South Africa

For cooperative models in developing nations

For right of nations to economic system of their choice

Versus chemical and biological weapons (at least 3 times)

Versus Namibian apartheid

For economic/standard of living rights as human rights

Versus apartheid South African aggression vs. neighboring states (2 times)

Versus foreign investments in apartheid South Africa

For world charter to protect ecology

For anti-apartheid convention

For anti-apartheid convention in international sports

For nuclear test ban treaty (at least 2 times)

For prevention of arms race in outer space

For UNESCO-sponsored new world information order (at least 2 times)

For international law to protect economic rights

For Transport & Communications Decade in Africa

Versus manufacture of new types of weapons of mass destruction 

Versus naval arms race 

For Independent Commission on Disarmament & Security Issues 

For UN response mechanism for natural disasters 

For the Right to Food 

For Report of Committee on Elimination of Racial Discrimination 

For UN study on military development 

For Commemoration of 25th anniversary of Independence for Colonial Countries 

For Industrial Development Decade in Africa 

For interdependence of economic and political rights 

For improved UN response to human rights abuses 

For protection of rights of migrant workers 

For protection against products harmful to health and the environment 

For a Convention on the Rights of the Child 

For training journalists in the developing world 

For international cooperation on third world debt 

For a UN Conference on Trade & Development

US Is 1 of Only 2 “No” Votes on Resolutions or Treaties 

For Palestinian living conditions/rights (at least 8 times) 

Versus foreign intervention into other nations 

For a UN Conference on Women 

Versus nuclear test explosions (at least 2 times) 

For the non-use of nuclear weapons vs. non-nuclear states 

For a Middle East nuclear free zone 

Versus Israeli nuclear weapons (at least 2 times) 

For a new world international economic order 

For a trade union conference on sanctions vs. South Africa 

For the Law of the Sea Treaty 

For economic assistance to Palestinians 

For UN measures against fascist activities and groups 

For international cooperation on money/finance/debt/trade/development 

For a Zone of Peace in the South Atlantic 

For compliance with Intl Court of Justice decision for Nicaragua vs. US. 

**For a conference and measures to prevent international terrorism (including its underlying causes) 

For ending the trade embargo vs. Nicaragua

US Is 1 of Only 3 “No” Votes on Resolutions and Treaties 

Versus Israeli human rights abuses (at least 6 times) 

Versus South African apartheid (at least 4 times) 

Versus return of refugees to Israel 

For ending nuclear arms race (at least 2 times) 

For an embargo on apartheid South Africa 

For South African liberation from apartheid (at least 3 times) 

For the independence of colonial nations 

For the UN Decade for Women 

Versus harmful foreign economic practices in colonial territories 

For a Middle East Peace Conference 

For ending the embargo of Cuba (at least 10 times)

In addition, the US has: 

Repeatedly withheld its dues from the UN 

Twice left UNESCO because of its human rights initiatives 

Twice left the International Labor Organization for its workers rights initiatives 

Refused to renew the Antiballistic Missile Treaty 

Refused to sign the Kyoto Treaty on global warming 

Refused to back the World Health Organization’s ban on infant formula abuses 

Refused to sign the Anti-Biological Weapons Convention 

Refused to sign the Convention against the use of land mines 

Refused to participate in the UN Conference Against Racism in Durban 

Been one of the last nations in the world to sign the UN Covenant on 

Political & Civil Rights (30 years after its creation) 

Refused to sign the UN Covenant on Economic & Social Rights 

Opposed the emerging new UN Covenant on the Rights to Peace, Development & Environmental Protection

Sampling of Deaths >From US Military Interventions & Propping Up Corrupt Dictators (using the most conservative estimates)

Nicaragua – 30,000 dead

Brazil  – 100,000 dead

Korea – 4 million dead

Guatemala – 200,000 dead

Honduras – 20,000 dead

El Salvador – 63,000 dead

Argentina – 40,000 dead

Bolivia – 10,000 dead

Uruguay – 10,000 dead

Ecuador – 10,000 dead

Peru – 10,000 dead

Iraq – 1.3 million dead

Iran – 30,000 dead

Sudan – 8-10,000 dead

Colombia – 50,000 dead

Panama – 5,000 dead

Japan – 140,000 dead

Afghanistan – 10,000 dead

Somalia – 5000 dead

Philippines – 150,000 dead

Haiti – 100,000 dead

Dominican Republic – 10,000 dead

Libya – 500 dead

Macedonia – 1000 dead

South Africa – 10,000 dead

Pakistan – 10,000 dead

Palestine – 40,000 dead

Indonesia – 1 million dead

East Timor – 1/3-½ of total population

Greece – 10,000 dead

Laos – 600,000 dead

Cambodia – 1 million dead

Angola – 300,000 dead

Grenada – 500 dead

Congo  – 2 million dead

Egypt – 10,000 dead

Vietnam – 1.5 million dead

Chile – 50,000 dead

Other Lethal US Interventions CIA Terror Training Manuals Development and distribution of training manuals for foreign military personnel or foreign nationals, including instructions on assassination, subversion, sabotage, population control, torture, repression, psychological torture, death squads, etc.

Specific Torture Campaigns Creation and launching of direct US campaigns to support torture as an instrument of terror and social control for governments in Greece, Iran, Vietnam, Bolivia, Uruguay, Brazil, Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Panama

Supporting and Harboring Terrorists The promotion, protection, arming or equipping of terrorists such as:

Klaus Barbie and other German Nazis, and Italian and Japanese fascists, after WW II

Manual Noriega (Panama), Saddam Hussein (Iraq), Rafael Trujillo (Dominican Republic), Osama bin Laden (Afghanistan), and others whose terrorism has come back to haunt us

Running the Higher War College (Brazil) and first School of the Americas (Panama), which gave US training to repressors, death squad members, and torturers (the second School of the Americas is still running at Ft. Benning GA)

Providing asylum for Cuban, Salvadoran, Guatemalan, Haitian, Chilean, Argentinian, Iranian, South Vietnamese and other terrorists, dictators, and torturers

Assassinating World Leaders Using assassination as a tool of foreign policy, wherein the CIA has initiated assassination attempts against at least 40 foreign heads of state (some several times) in the last 50 years, a number of which have been successful, such as: Patrice Lumumba (Congo), Rafael Trujillo (Dominican Republic), Ngo Dihn Diem (Vietnam) Salvador Allende (Chile)

Arms Trade & US Military Presence

The US is the world’s largest seller of weapons abroad, arming dictators, militaries, and terrorists that repress or victimize their populations, and fueling scores of violent conflicts around the globe

The US is the world’s largest provider of live land mines which, even in peacetime, kill or injure at least several people around the world each day

The US has military bases in at least 50 nations around the world, which have led to frequent victimization of local populations.

The US military has been bombing one Middle Eastern or Muslim nation or another almost continuously since 1983, including Lebanon, Libya, Syria, Iran, the Sudan, Afghanistan, and Iraq (almost daily bombings since 1991)

This, then, is a sampling of American foreign policies over the last 50 years. The FBI uses the following definition for Terrorism: “The unlawful use of force or violence committed by a group or individual, who has some connection to a foreign power or whose activities transcend national boundaries, against persons or property to intimidate or coerce a government, the civilian population or any segment thereof, in furtherance of political or social objectives.” This sounds like the terrorism we just experienced. It also sounds a lot like the US policies and actions since 1945 that I’ve just described.

This is a version of an an original page atributed to Robert Elias, a US Professor of Political Science , a list which, like so many others,  has otherwise ‘disappered’

via https://web.archive.org/web/20161125052245/http://www.the-philosopher.co.uk/whocares/popups/warcrimes.htm

An introduction...

FILE 002 — DOWN BAD

listen here.

“For a moment I knew cosmic love. Now I’m down bad crying at the gym, everything comes out teenage petulance. Fuck it if I can’t have him. I might just die it would make no difference.”

Our favorite Tortured Poet is featured in this x reader fanfic. For more info about the department see here. (Starwing’s 400 followers special event)

Case file summary: Jason Todd was your boyfriend, and your favorite person in the whole world. Your entire life was him. It was as though he beamed you up into space in a cloud of sparkling dust. Then he died, dropping you back to earth. When he comes back he’s changed. He thinks it’s better leaving you safe and stranded.

Warnings: angst angst angst angst angst angst angst angst angst let’s all go cry! Mentions of death and violence. hurt no comfort. so much hurt. I might make a part two to comfort everyone if this doesn’t flop.

find the request here

Chapter One: DID YOU REALLY BEAM ME UP?

The Gotham City transit bus always smelled like wet asphalt, rusted sheet metal, and smoke. On a Tuesday afternoon at exactly four o'clock, it was less a mode of transportation and more a rolling purgatory. The heating vents beneath the cracked vinyl seats didn’t blow warmth; they rattled out a thin, metallic hiss that smelled faintly of scorched oil, doing absolutely nothing to combat the damp November chill creeping through the window panes.

You sat with your knees pulled neatly together, your spine pressed perfectly flat against the corner where the window met the seat back. It was the art of keeping to yourself. If you held your breath just right, if you kept your eyes glued to the scuffed rubber floorboards, you could avoid the meaningless, draining small talk of the people around you. You faded into your own mind, following the thread of your imagination, stringing words together and sewing up new realities, completely content to let the crowded bus happen somewhere else.

But if your demeanor was quiet, your wardrobe certainly wasn't. Even on a gray, miserable Gotham afternoon, you were a riot of color. Today, it was an oversized, chunky knit sweater in a shade of pink, with little orange flowers cluttered all over it, paired with a yellow scarf wrapped around your neck, and vintage pins cluttering the straps of your backpack. You loved bright things; you just didn't always love bright crowds.

Then, the bus hit a massive pothole on 4th and Atlantic, the suspension groaning in protest, and Jason Todd dropped into the aisle seat right next to you.

He effortlessly occupied the space. His heavy leather jacket, scuffed at the elbows, smelling intensely of old rain, cheap cedar woodsmoke, and a hint of mint gum—slumped heavily against your orange sweater. He possessed a lithe, wire-thin athletic build that was just beginning to broaden out into lean muscle. He was finally growing out of his scrawny phase, and his presence came more from a restless energy.

You didn't move, your thumbs digging into the edges of the thick paperback book clamped in your lap. You were acutely aware of him, his scuffed combat boot resting inches from your own bright pink high-tops.

For three blocks, the only sound was the roar of the bus engine. You kept your eyes locked on your book.

Then, the pneumatic doors hissed open at the corner of Grand, and your best friend, Maya stumbled down the aisle. Her eyes scanned the crowded bus, lighting up the second she spotted you. She squeezed into the narrow, empty space of the bench directly across the aisle.

Before she could even shake the water from her hood, she pointed a finger at the cover of your book.

“The perks of being a wallflower? Again? How many times are you gonna read that fuckass thing?”

You roll your eyes in offence as she continues, “I mean seriously? Are you not emotional enough without reading shit like that? What’s even the point of that thing.”

You want to whack her for referring to a master piece as ‘that thing’, but instead, you chose to launch into an elaborate explanation about it.

The low-energy demeanor you usually wore like armor dissolved, replaced by the sudden, white-hot spark of an obsession. When you were comfortable, when you were talking about something that actually made your blood run hot, you didn't just speak—you ignited. You entirely forgot about the crowded bus, the gray weather, and the boy whose shoulder was literally pressed against yours

“No, no, you don't understand at all, Maya!" you blurted out, your hands flying up, your fingers gesturing wildly in the cramped air between the seats as the words tumbled out of your mouth in a passionate, breathless rush.

“Oh my gosh. It’s quite literally the best book ever written— okay one of the best, save the classics. But still just listen, it’s so well written and like ugh don’t you dare say I’m glazing it. It’s soo underglazed.”

You went on for four blocks. You started with the book and somehow ended up talking about Harry Potter. You went from the book, to the movie, to Emma Watson’s performance to Harry Potter. You talked about how it wasn’t even a book but a spell that lit up your entire childhood, but JK Rowling ruined it all by being a transphobic bitch. Your face was entirely alive, glowing under the flickering fluorescent lights of the transit bus. When you were on a roll like this, you were similar to a wildfire, completely unstoppable, and completely unnoticing of the boy who sat next to you, watching you talk in complete awe and admiration.

It was only when the bus screeched to a halt at 12th Street and Maya stood up, throwing her hands up in a laughing gesture of surrender, that the spell broke.

“Okay okay I get it. Remind me never to ask you about books again, you weirdo.”

The doors hissed shut. The bus pulled away from the curb. And the sudden, heavy realization of how loud you had just been hit you like cold water.

"Hey."

You turned your head by a fraction of an inch. Jason Todd was leaning back against the cracked vinyl seat, his head tilted slightly to the side, watching you. A broad, incredibly charming smile was tugging at his lips, dimpling his cheek. His blue eyes were bright, locking onto yours with an intensity that made the entire floor of the bus feel like it was tilting under your feet.

So you do actually talk," he murmured, his voice carrying a warm, teasing weight.

Did you really beam me up…

"I... yeah," you said, your voice instantly dropping back to its usual quiet volume, though you didn't look away. "I uh tend to get carried away when it's something I actually care about. I didn't mean to shout. Okay fine, maybe I did, just a little bit."

"Don't apologize," Jason said, his chuckle low and rumbling. He leaned in just a fraction of an inch closer, his blue eyes dancing with mischief. "It was fucking awesome."

Fucking awesome. No one ever talked about you like that before.

And for a moment, you didn’t reply. You were too heaven struck by the beautiful pair of eyes staring right through you to think straight.

“I’m Jason.”

I know.

You shake your head, realizing you only said your reply in your brain. “I know.”

The second time was a week later. The Gotham Public Library was a fortress of dark oak, green-shaded brass lamps, and the heavy, comforting smell of old paper. It was your absolute sanctuary on mundane evenings.

You were navigating the narrow, shadowed aisles of the classic fiction section, your arms full of three massive anthologies and a yellow notebook that was practically overflowing with loose sheets of colored sticky notes. You were looking up at the high shelves, trying to read the faded gold lettering on a spine, taking a blind step backward to get a better angle.

You smacked directly into something solid.

It wasn't a bookshelf. It was a lean wall of a leather jacket and warm skin. The impact sent your balance flying, and the three heavy anthologies slipped from your grip, crashing to the carpeted floor with a deafening series of thuds. Your notebook followed, flipping upside down and spraying bright pink and neon green sticky notes across the aisle like confetti.

"Whoa, whoa—easy there," a familiar, raspy voice chuckled, steadying you.

Before you could tumble backward, two hands came, clamping firmly around your elbows. His grip was steady and firm, anchoring you instantly, but his fingers didn't squeeze hard enough to hurt. They just held you, balancing your frantic, wobbling frame.

You looked up, your breath catching. Jason. He was wearing a simple gray hoodie under his usual leather jacket, a bright, cheerful grin plastered across his face.

Your face burned a deep, immediate scarlet, but his easy, lighthearted tone kept you from panicking. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry, I completely lost track of my own feet."

"Hey, relax. It’s fine," Jason murmured, his voice dropping to a theatrical library whisper. He released your elbows slowly, his hands lingering for a fraction of a second before he dropped to his knees on the carpet.

He began to gather the scattered pages of your notebook, picking up the bright neon sticky notes one by one with an amused expression. You dropped down beside him, your fingers trembling slightly as you tried to grab the sheets before they slid under the bottom shelves.

He picked up a sheet of paper covered in your neat handwriting. "Tragic theory? Damn. You really are intense." Jason teased softly, flashing you a dazzling, boyish smile.

In a cloud of sparkling dust

He stood up, holding the perfectly reassembled stack of papers, and offered his other hand to help you up. You took it, his lean, rough palm swallowing yours. He pulled you to your feet effortlessly, a soft, genuine smile replacing his mischievous grin.

"Thanks," you mumbled, brushing a piece of lint off your skirt, feeling suddenly very perceived.

"Anytime," Jason said, handing over your notebook with a dramatic little bow. He leaned one shoulder against the heavy oak bookshelf, crossing his arms over his chest, looking down at you with that same undivided attention he’d given you on the bus. "So, do you come here to study or what?”

"I come here because well, I love books. And it’s quiet. The good kind, not the scary kind. It lets me live inside my brain for a bit," you said, a tiny bit of your vibrant bus-energy returning as you looked at him. "And because the books don't ask me how my day was."

"Ouch," Jason laughed softly, his eyes crinkling. "Fair enough. But what if the guy asking actually wants to know?" He reached out, his thumb lightly brushing a stray strand of hair away from your cheek, the gesture made you blush a shade even brighter than your magenta skirt. "Come on. Let me buy you a ridiculously overpriced coffee down the street, and you can tell me all about what you’ve written on those little sticky notes."

In the months that followed, being with Jason felt exactly like being beamed up into space. He pulled you out of your quiet, gray existence and dragged you into a galaxy that belonged entirely, exclusively, to the two of you. By the time senior year arrived, you weren't just dating; you were existing in a cloud of sparkling dust.

Chapter 2: FOR A MOMENT I KNEW COSMIC LOVE.

Loving Jason was like stumbling into a localized gravity well where everything was warm, bright, and slightly breathless. He didn't love halfway; he threw his whole soul into it. It was almost like sitting too close to a crackling fireplace on a freezing night cause you knew he carried a dangerous, unpredictable heat, but you never wanted to step away from the warmth.

"Pack a bag," he’d whispered into your ear at your locker on a crisp Friday morning, his hand resting on the metal door right above your shoulder, his thumb lazily tracing patterns against the steel. "We're doing a stakeout."

"A stakeout?" you asked, a bit incredulously, looking up from your backpack, "Who are we tracking? A gang or something?"

"Better," he grinned, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of your ear. "The elusive, mythical creature known as 'peace and quiet.' I found a spot."

That spot turned out to be the dilapidated, long-abandoned neon sign room at the top of the old Gotham Theater in the Diamond District. He had rigged the door lock weeks ago, clearing out the dust and setting up a makeshift fortress. When he pulled you up the final iron ladder, you gasped. The room was surrounded by massive, structural glass windows, and laid out across the floor was an absurdly plush setup: three thick, heavy comforters, a mountain of velvet throw pillows, and a battery-powered lantern casting a warm, amber glow against the brick walls.

"Welcome to the galaxy," Jason said proudly, dropping his duffel bag and turning to you with his arms wide, a brilliant, cheering grin on his face.

You spent the entire night curled together under the heavy blankets. Jason was an incredibly physical person; he couldn't keep his hands off you, but it was never demanding. It was this constant, grounding presence. His lean, warm hand was always wrapped securely around your ankle, or his fingers were tracing the hem of your bright sweater, or his arm was slung heavily over your shoulders, pulling you against his side until there was no space left between you.

You brought a thermos of hot cocoa, and as the neon signs of the city flickered like dying stars below, you opened up, your reservation entirely melting away in the warmth of his presence. You talked for hours about everything and nothing—your random conspiracy theories, the weird nightmares you’d been having, the poetry you never showed anyone else, the dreams that never came true. Jason listened to every word as if you were delivering the secrets of the cosmos, his blue eyes bright, chuckling softly at your wilder theories, his chest rumbling beneath your head.

And then he kissed you. Jason’s kisses weren't gentle, polite things. They were deep, breathless, and entirely consuming, tasting faintly of the mint gum he always chewed and the cold city air outside. He kissed you until your lungs burned, until your hands were gripping his jacket for dear life, until the entire world outside that glass room dissolved into a cloud of sparkling dust.

When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together as you broke into sudden, giddy laughter for no reason at all. It was the pure, unfiltered euphoria of being seventeen and entirely, recklessly in love.

Fighting with Jason would never be serious. they were usually born from Jason’s dramatic pouting when he got too stubborn to admit he wanted your attention, or from your stubbornness— or maybe both.

It happened five weeks later in your bedroom. It was raining—a miserable, relentless Gotham downpour that beat against the glass. Jason had showed up with a petulant, brooding look in his eyes, his posture rigidly slouched. For two hours, he sat on the edge of your bed, scrolling on his phone and barely speaking. He was in one of his moods, trying to act detached and tough, pulling away into a quiet sanctuary just to see if you’d pull him out of it.

"Jason, seriously, stop being dramatic," you finally said, dropping your textbook onto the floor with a dull thud."If you're going to ignore me, you can do it from the fire escape. What is your problem tonight?"

"Nothing's my problem," he muttered, not looking up from his screen, though his jaw clenched just enough to prove he was putting on an act. "I'm just chilling. Go back to your homework."

"Oh, please. You've been sighing loudly every five minutes," you said. You crossed your arms, walking over to stand right in front of him. "You do this every time you're bored or stressed. You slide into this ridiculous, brooding tough-guy routine and expect me to beg you to talk. It's childish, Todd. If you want to talk about whatever's bothering you, just open your mouth."

Jason’s head snapped up, his blue eyes flashing with a sudden, competitive spark. He stood up, his lean frame easily towering over you in the narrow space, but his expression was more annoyed than actually angry. "I'm not doing a routine! Maybe I just actually want five minutes of quiet. You're the one making a federal case out of it, baby."

"I am not making a federal case!" you scoffed, stepping right into his space, your fingers playfully poking his chest. "You're a terrible liar. Your shoulders get all stiff and you pout. It’s pathetic."

"I do not pout," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, though a faint, telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. He looked down at you, trying to maintain his stony facade but failing miserably under your sharp, unimpressed gaze. "You're just being bossy."

"And you're being a big baby."

The childish insult hung in the air, instantly breaking the last of his fake gravity. Jason let out a sharp, amused breath, his eyes darkening as the fake irritation crumbled into an immediate, magnetic pull.

He closed the remaining distance in a fraction of a second. His hands came up, crashing into your hair, his fingers gripping the locks with a sudden, playful intensity as he pulled your face up to his, and his lips met yours.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down, your mouth opening against his with an equal, matching hunger.bickering, you were still entirely possessed by each other.

Afterward, the room was completely quiet, the silly argument entirely drained away.

You lay tangled together on the soft carpet beside your bed, the blanket pulled loosely over your shoulders. Jason was lying on his back, his arm slung heavily beneath your head, pulling you securely against his side. His other hand was wrapped around your fingers, his thumb lazily tracing the knuckles, his breathing deep and steady. The guarded, moody teenager was gone, replaced by a seventeen-year-old boy whose chest rose and fell beneath your cheek.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that?" he murmured into the dark, his voice rough, low, and completely stripped of his defensive armor. He turned his head, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss into your hair.

"You started it," you whispered, shifting slightly to look up at him, your eyes adjusting to the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds.

Jason looked down at you, his blue eyes incredibly soft, a faint, genuine smile finally breaking through his exhaustion. He reached out with his free hand, his thumb gently smoothing over your bottom lip, which was still slightly swollen from his kisses.

"Yeah, whatever," he whispered, a tender, aching warmth in his tone. He pulled you up until your chin rested on his chest, his hands coming around to securely lock behind your back.

That’s how easy it was with Jason. You felt so free around him. This was the person who you’d sing Taylor Swift songs to at 3 AM while he pretended to love the songs. This was the person who’d clean up the massive messes you made while baking burnt cookies. This was the person who’d hold you as you cried at the depressing movie you forced yourself to watch.

The true test of your quiet, insular bubble came two months later, on a terrifyingly formal Saturday afternoon when Jason dragged you into the orbit of his family.

Meeting Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson was like stepping directly into a high-stakes play where everyone knew their lines except you. Jason had been uncharacteristically fidgety all morning, He had brought you to a sleek, immensely private café in Bristol, away from the prying eyes of the Gotham press.

When you walked in, Bruce Wayne was already sitting at the corner table. Being around Bruce was like standing in the shadow of a massive, silent mountain. He had this like staggering, overwhelming presence—quiet, hyper-observant, and intensely guarded. He didn't speak much, but his dark eyes seemed to read your entire life story in a single glance. You immediately wanted to shrink into your hoodie, but Jason instantly stepped into the gap, slinging a arm over your shoulder and pulling you close against his side.

"Bruce, this is her," Jason said, his voice carrying a proud, defiant edge. "The one who actually makes me do my homework."

Bruce looked at you for a long, silent moment. Then, the stern lines of his face softened, and he offered a surprisingly gentle, formal nod. "It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Jason talks about you constantly."

Before you could even process the shock of the billionaire's approval, the front door of the café swung open, and Dick Grayson practically bounced inside.

Meeting Dick was the exact opposite of meeting Bruce. If Bruce was a mountain, Dick was an absolute sunbeam. He was tall, lithe, and radiating an effortless, high-energy charm that instantly filled the room. The second his eyes landed on your bright sweater, his face lit up with a massive, cheering grin.

"Oh, thank god, you're real!" Dick laughed, immediately sliding into the booth and leaning across the table to shake your hand with boundless enthusiasm. "Jason’s been keeping you a secret for months. I was starting to think he invented a fake girlfriend just to get Bruce off his back about his terrible attitude."

"Hey! Shut up, Dick," Jason snapped, his face flushing a furious, embarrassed pink, though a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. He squeezed your shoulder tightly, his warm hand anchoring you.

"Don't listen to him," Dick teased, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief as he looked at you. "He's been a completely different person since he met you. Less slamming doors, more listening to Taylor Swift. I don’t think he really likes her music but he sits through it all for you anyways. You're performing miracles."

For the next hour, the overwhelming weight of the Wayne family dissolved into something surprisingly comfortable. Dick kept the conversation bright and loud, throwing out endless embarrassing stories about Jason that had you breaking out into your unbridled, joyous laughter. Bruce remained quiet, but every time you glanced over, he was watching the two of you with a soft, quiet happiness in his eyes.

Sleepovers at your apartment remained your favorite, secret ritual. Your parents worked late shifts at the hospital, leaving the small, colorful space entirely to you on the weekends. Jason would arrive around midnight, never using the front door. He would tap rhythmically against your bedroom window, standing on the fire escape with a ridiculous, lopsided grin on his face, holding a greasy paper bag from the 24-hour diner down the street.

"Did someone order a disruption of the peace?" he’d ask as you slid the window open, letting the cold night air and Jason’s tall frame tumble into your bedroom.

He would instantly shed his heavy leather jacket, throwing it onto your desk chair, and drop onto your bed, his long legs taking up the entire mattress. He’d be wearing a faded gray t-shirt, his hair messy from the wind, looking younger and softer than he ever did anywhere else.

You would sit cross-legged on the floor, eating cold fries and drinking terrible milkshakes, the two of you whispering and giggling like kids avoiding a scolding. Jason had a wicked, dry sense of humor, and when he wanted to make you laugh, he was relentless. He would do impressions of the snobbish politicians he had to see at formal charity galas with Bruce, using a ridiculous high-society accent that had you burying your face in a pillow to muffle your loud, unbridled laughter.

"I am telling you, darling," Jason snobbishly mimicked, holding a French fry like a cigarette holder, "the vintage of this caviar is simply offensive to the palate. Dick practically inhaled it, of course. No class."

"Stop, stop, I can't breathe!" you gasped, your shoulders shaking with silent, laughter that hurt your ribs, your eyes tearing up.

Jason watched you, the playful smirk on his face softening. He slid off the bed, dropping down onto the floor beside you, and pulled you into his lap. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You giggled as his hair tickled your jaw, your hands coming up to smooth through the dark locks.

"I love your laugh," he murmured against your skin, his voice suddenly quiet, serious. His hands slid under the hem of your oversized sweatshirt, his warm palms resting against the bare skin of your waist, his fingers splaying out. He squeezed gently, anchoring you to him. “I love you.”

You turned in his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist, looking down at his handsome face. The playful charm was still there in the crinkle of his eyes, but underneath it was an intensity that always left you breathless.

“Well?” He asks, “say it back.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and his hands met your waist as he started to tickle you.

“Say it.”

You shake your head, breathless with laughter. When his hands move lower down your stomach— your tickle spot— you finally caved.

“I love you,” you gasp he pulled you down into another deep, lingering kiss. He rolled the two of you over until you were lying on the soft carpet, his body hovering over yours, his hands moving to tangle in your hair, holding you captive in the sweetest way possible. You kissed until the sun began to peek through the blinds, painting your room in shades of amber and gold.

The last night you saw him before the world ended was a Friday in late October. The air was biting, a fierce wind howling off the Gotham river, carrying the scent of impending winter.

Chapter 3: Tell me I was the chosen one, then sent me back where I came from.

He had showed up at your window unusually late, around two in the morning. When you slid the glass open, he didn't give you his usual cheerful grin. He looked tired, his shoulders tense, a strange, restless energy vibrating beneath his skin. But the second his eyes landed on you—wearing a bright neon-pink oversized t-shirt and fuzzy yellow socks—his face relaxed, a soft, familiar smile breaking through his exhaustion.

"Hey," he murmured, stepping through the window and pulling you into his arms before he even took off his jacket. He held you incredibly tight, his face buried deep in your hair, inhaling the sweet, vanilla scent of your shampoo. His grip was almost desperate, his hands flat against your back, crushing your blanket between you.

"Jason? What's wrong?" you asked, pulling back slightly to look at his face. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine," he said quickly, putting on that familiar, reassuring charm, though it felt a little frayed at the edges. He reached out, cupping your jaw with his hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. "Just a lot of noise lately. Needed to see my favorite person to clear my head."

He shed his jacket and pulled you onto the bed, wrapping himself around you like a shield. For hours, he didn't want to talk about books, or school, or the city. He just wanted to hold you. His hands were completely restless, his fingers tracing every line of your palms, mapping the curves of your shoulders, twirling strands of your hair around his fingers as if he were trying to memorize the exact texture of your existence.

Every few minutes, he would lean down and kiss you—not with his usual playful energy, but with a deep, consuming, almost frantic tenderness that made your chest ache. It felt like he was trying to pour his entire soul into you through his lips.

"Jason, you're acting weird," you whispered against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. "You're scaring me a little."

He pulled back, his blue eyes locking onto yours in the dim moonlight. He looked incredibly young in that moment, the weight of a heavy secret resting on his seventeen-year-old shoulders, but when he looked at you, the love in his face was absolutely blinding.

"Don't be scared," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly. He leaned down, pressing a long, warm kiss to your forehead, his hands sliding down to securely lock with yours, squeezing tightly. "I love you. You know that, right?"

"I know," you whispered, your heart swelling, a tear slipping down your cheek for reasons you couldn't explain. "I love you too, Jason."

"Good," he said, a faint ghost of his cheerful grin returning as he wiped the tear away with his thumb.

He stayed until the first gray light of dawn began to bleed through the window. He kissed you one last time—a sweet, lingering, devastatingly soft kiss that tasted like a promise—before he slid out the window and disappeared into the Gotham mist.

Three days later, he was dead.

Chapter 4: in a field in our same old town. which somehow feels so hollow now.

The devastation wasn’t that your life had stopped, or that you had become a ghost. It was that you were moving forward, carrying a sadness so heavy and vast it felt like a physical weight inside your chest, yet you still managed to wake up every morning and put on your clothes.

You didn't stay in bed forever. You went to your classes, you took your exams, and you got a quiet job at an archival library downtown. You moved into a small apartment. everything felt gray.

Because loving Jason had been like finding a secret, sun-warmed clearing in the middle of a dark forest. Before him, you were a quiet, low-energy creature who kept to herself. But being around Jason was like sitting wrapped in a heavy, plush quilt right by a roaring fireplace—he brought this immense, protective, radiant warmth into your life that made you feel completely seen and incredibly safe.

Touching him was the sweetest, most grounding thing you had ever known. His skin always felt a few degrees warmer than yours, his palms slightly rough but incredibly reverent whenever they brushed against you. When he held your hand, his long fingers would weave through yours with a soft, steady squeeze, as if he were silently reminding you, I’m right here. I’ve got you.

And fighting with Jason was never mean or heavy; it was just a dramatic, endearing flare of static. He was a sweet boy, but he was also a massive, performative flounce when he didn't get his way. If you were busy studying, he would pace your bedroom floor, sighing loudly, his leather jacket creaking as he crossed his arms and slouched into your desk chair. He would pout with his entire face—sticking his lower lip out, giving you a dramatic, highly competitive side-eye, entirely waiting for you to break the silence.

That was the boy you lost. And the sadness of losing him didn't fade; it just became a permanent feature of your landscape, like a mountain range you had to walk around every single day.

The true heartbreak was the utter, hollow normalcy of the after. You would sit in a crowded university seminar, taking neat notes with a pink gel pen, and suddenly your chest would tighten so hard you couldn't draw a full breath. You would look down at your hand and realize with a sudden, devastating pang of grief that you couldn't perfectly recall the exact, rough texture of his fingertips against your palm. The memories were still there, but they were softening around the edges, turning into a beautiful, tragic story you told yourself in the dark. You were growing up, your life was happening, and he was staying seventeen, forever frozen in a drafty November.

Three years after the funeral, you were helping an archivist at a high-end gallery opening downtown. You were wearing a striking, tangerine-orange silk blouse.

When you turned around, Bruce Wayne was standing near the mahogany bar.

He looked so much older. The silver at his temples had spread, and his dark eyes carried a permanent, unfixable exhaustion that mirrored the heavy ache in your own chest. He was surrounded by wealthy donors, but he looked completely isolated. His eyes scanned the room until they locked onto you.

He froze. For a long, agonizing moment, the billionaire just stared at you. He didn't see a girl who had forgotten; he saw Jason. Not in you, but in your eyes.

Bruce excused himself and walked over, his massive frame blocking out the gallery light.

"You look well," Bruce said, his gravelly voice hollowed out.

"I'm trying to be," you said softly. Your voice was quiet, thick with a sadness that you didn't even try to hide from him. You looked him dead in the eye, your fingers tightly gripping your clipboard to keep them from trembling. "I graduate next semester. I’m managing the archive project. But... it’s still very quiet, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with a profound, breaking sorrow as he realized that you hadn't moved past the grief at all—you had just learned how to carry it with you. You were a grown stranger now, living a life, but you were still mourning his boy with every breath you took.

"Good," Bruce whispered, his voice cracking by a fraction of a decibel. He reached out, his large, heavy hand resting on your shoulder for a brief, anchoring second, a shared acknowledgment of the permanent ache between the two of you. "He... he would have been proud of you."

"No, he wouldn't," you whispered, a tiny, watery smile breaking through the sadness on your face as a single tear finally slipped down your cheek. "He would have called me a sell-out for working a corporate gig, and then he would have pouted until I used my paycheck to buy him a milkshake."

A sharp, painful breath left Bruce's lungs—a sound that was dangerously close to a sob. He looked at you, seeing the sweet, ridiculous boy reflected perfectly in your memory, and the shared weight of your tears seemed to break something old and rigid inside him.

"Yes," Bruce murmured, his voice thick with an ancient, heavy grief. "He would have."

He turned and walked out of the gallery, disappearing into the cold Gotham night, leaving you under the bright lights.

Chapter 5: Now I’m down bad crying at the gym, Everything comes out teenage petulance.

At twenty-one, your life was a carefully constructed fortress built out of routines, silence, and academic deadlines. Four years had passed since the sky fell, and you had grown into a deeply quiet senior at Gotham University, completing an undergraduate thesis in archival preservation. You were a machine that turned coffee and fourteenth-century Latin ledger scripts into an impeccable grade point average. You spent your days buried two floors beneath the subterranean stacks of the East Wing, behind a reinforced fire door that smelled of grease and old rubber. Down there, the atmosphere was strictly controlled: fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit, thirty percent humidity, and an absolute, deadening silence that could swallow a human scream without an echo. It was your bunker. You sat at the long zinc-topped table with your legs pulled tightly up beneath you, the oversized, heavy wool hem of a sweater tucked securely under your heels.

The true, quiet heartbreak was that you were functioning, but you were functioning through a permanent, heavy fog of longing. You were down bad, crying at the campus gym at eleven o'clock at night, staring blankly at the white cinderblock walls as the tears blurred your vision while your feet kept moving mechanically on the treadmill. Everything came out in those hours—that raw, ugly, teenage petulance you couldn't show to your professors. Fuck it if I can’t have him, you would think, your throat burning. Fuck the books. Fuck the future.You spent your nights staring at the dark sky from your bedroom window, your fingers gently touching the silver Saturn pin on your collar, silently begging the universe to give him back.

Then, on a rainy Tuesday in late October, the reality of Gotham violently shattered your careful routine. You were driving back from a late-night research session, the windshield wipers of your ancient sedan throwing up a rhythmic, deafening clatter against the downpour. The streets near the lower quad were completely deserted, dark shapes swallowed by the heavy fog.

You stopped at a red light on 4th Street, the car idling with a low, shivering hum. A sudden, sharp crash broke the rhythm of the rain.

You snapped your head up, your eyes widening as you looked through the rain-streaked passenger side window. In a recessed brick alcove beside a shipping warehouse, less than fifteen feet away, a massive figure clad in dark gray tactical armor and a scuffed brown leather jacket was relentlessly beating a man against the brick. The attacker's face was completely hidden behind a smooth, lidless dome of polished crimson fiberglass that caught the weak orange glare of a nearby street lamp.

The Red Hood.

You froze, your hands locking onto the steering wheel with a white-knuckled grip, your breath catching so violently in your throat it felt like swallowing glass. You weren't a hero; you were an introvert who shrank away from loud voices, and this was an unbridled, visceral manifestation of Gotham’s worst nightmares.

Through the blurred window, you watched in pure, paralyzing horror as the crimson-masked figure raised a heavy automatic pistol. There was no hesitation. Just a casual, sickening efficiency. He pulled the trigger, and a bright muzzle flash illuminated the alleyway for a fraction of a second.

The dull, wet thud of the body hitting the asphalt echoed across the empty street, perfectly audible over the roar of the storm. The light turned green. A primal, frantic panic seized your limbs; your foot slammed onto the gas pedal, and the sedan's tires screeched wildly on the black ice as you fled into the dark, your heart hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs.

The terror didn't leave you. It followed you into your marigold kitchen, into your dreams, turning your quiet life into a constant, paranoid spiral. Every time a door slammed or a motorcycle engine roared on the avenue, your stomach dropped into a bottomless void.

A week later, the spiral hit a jagged, impossible rock.

You were walking the long way around the university district after a grueling six-hour archive shift, your sweater damp from the freezing mist, your chin tucked deep into your scarf. As you passed the entrance to a narrow, dead-end alleyway behind the old Grand Theater, a sharp, metallic sound—the distinct clink of tactical armor plates—made you pause.

You slunk into the deep shadows of a brick buttress, your breath shallow, your survival instincts screaming at you to run. You peeked around the corner.

A broad figure in a scuffed leather jacket was standing beneath a flickering amber security lamp, his back half-turned to you. He reached up with both hands, his large fingers catching the hydraulic seals at the base of the crimson helmet. With a sharp, pressurized hiss, he lifted the mask off.

He shook out his hair, a heavy sigh escaping his lips. A stark white streak cut cleanly through the front of his dark, wet curls. He turned his head slightly, his sharp profile illuminated by the weak light, exposing a pale scar that cut across his cheekbone.

The world stopped spinning. The library of facts you kept in your head to maintain your sanity was entirely, violently overturned.

It was Jason.

The sweet, pouty boy who used to trace the patterns on your skin was standing in a filthy alleyway, holding the helmet of an executioner. He wasn't seventeen. He wasn't frozen in a drafty November. He was alive, he was three inches taller, his shoulders were broad enough to block out the light, and he was right there.

"Jason?"

The name died in your throat, a breathless, strangled whisper that never made it past your lips. You tried to step out of the shadows, your hand reaching forward, your heart fracturing into a thousand jagged pieces.

But before you could clear the buttress, before you could make him see you, Jason pulled the red helmet back over his face. The fiberglass locked into place with a heavy, mechanical click. He turned, vaulted up the iron rungs of a fire escape with an impossible, fluid grace, and disappeared into the foggy Gotham sky.

He left you behind again. And this time, you knew he was running.

You didn't go back to your apartment. You drove straight to the Bristol district, your hands shaking so violently on the steering wheel that the car fishtailed twice on the wet asphalt. You stood at the iron gates of Wayne Manor in the pouring rain until the private security cameras whirred, and Dick Grayson found you sitting on the bottom step of the grand stone porch, your knees pulled up to your chest, your chin shaking uncontrollably.

He brought you inside, wrapping a heavy wool blanket around your soaked hoodie. He didn't offer a cheerful smile; he looked down at you with a permanent, haunted exhaustion that mirrored the heavy ache in your own chest.

"He's alive," you whispered, your voice cracking, raw and bleeding in the quiet of the foyer. "I saw him, Dick. He’s the one in the red mask. I saw him... I saw him kill a man a week ago. And tonight I saw his face. What happened to him? Why is he—?"

Dick sat on the step beside you, burying his face in his hands. A long, suffocating silence stretched through the mansion before he finally spoke. He told you everything. He dragged the secret world out into the light—the training, the masks, the cave beneath the foundations, and the name Robin. He explained the night in the canyon, the warehouse in Ethiopia, the explosion, and the unyielding, ancient grief that had broken Bruce.

"He came back through something terrible," Dick murmured, his voice thick and fragile, completely stripped of his usual light. "He thinks we abandoned him. He thinks the whole world left him to rot in the dirt. He’s not the boy from the transit bus anymore, sweetie. He’s angry. He’s so angry it’s eating him alive. He's trying to rewrite the city in blood."

"I didn't abandon him," you sobbed, your fingers digging into the wool blanket until your knuckles turned white. "I stayed right here."

Dick didn't have an answer. He just held your shoulder while you wept, the world turning completely unknown, hostile, and terrifyingly vast.

Chapter 6: I’ll build you a fort on some planet where they can all understand it. how dare you think it’s romantic, leaving me safe and stranded?

The air in Crime Alley was a suffocating mix of wet trash, ozone, and the metallic, copper tang of your own blood. You had walked these streets for three nights, a lure in the dark, and tonight, you had finally caught the predator. You see, you had a plan. A reckless, dumb, very foolish plan.

When the three men circled you, you didn't fight back. You let the first blade bite into your shoulder, the searing heat of it making your vision swim, and when the second man kicked your ribs, you crumpled, welcoming the black spots dancing in your eyes. You were a mess on the wet pavement, gasping for air, when the world suddenly turned upside down. Where the fuck was Jason? He should’ve been here by now?

A shadow—massive and terrifying—dropped from the fire escape with the weight of a falling wrecking ball. The first thug didn't even have time to scream before Jason— red hood’s— fist connected with his jaw, a sickening crunch of bone that echoed off the brick walls. He moved with a brutal, efficient violence, slamming the second man’s head into the dumpster until he slumped into a heap of dead weight. (Yikes)

But it was the third one where Jason kinda went insane.

He didn't use his guns. He didn't even use a knife. He grabbed the man by the throat and slammed him against the wall, his own breath coming in ragged, savage gasps. He didn't stop punching even when the man went limp; he only stopped when his own knuckles were split and bleeding, leaving the thug broken and unrecognizable in the mud.

Only then did he turn to you.

He moved instantly, shedding the lethal persona like a discarded skin. He knelt in the grime, his hands—the same hands that had just shattered a man’s ribs—hovering over you with a trembling, terrifying tenderness. He tore your coat open, his tactical vest discarded, and as he saw the blood blooming across your side, his breathing hitched into a jagged, broken sound.

"Jason," you whispered, the name forcing its way past your lips.

He froze. His hands stilled on your side, and his head snapped up. The moonlight caught the raw, agonizing shock in his eyes as he stared at you. He looked older.

“Don’t. Fucking. Call. Me. That. How long have you known?”

"Long enough to know that you’re still Jason?," you whispered, your hand reaching for him.

He recoiled from your touch, his chest heaving, his eyes wild as they darted between your wound and the broken men on the ground. He grabbed a roll of gauze from his tactical belt, his fingers frantic. He pressed it to your side with such intensity that your teeth gritted together, but his eyes remained locked on yours, searching for a lie.

"You are insane," he hissed, his voice thick with a rage that wasn't directed at the men he’d just destroyed, but at the sheer recklessness of your survival. "You think this is a reunion? You walked into a slaughterhouse just to get my attention? Look at you! You're bleeding out because you’re obsessed with a ghost!"

"I'm not obsessed," you gasped, the pain making your head spin. "I’m just... tired of being alone. I miss you. I’ve missed you for years.

"Then you’re an idiot?!" he roared, though his hands remained steady as he began to bind your shoulder, his movements desperate and efficient. "Things have changed. I’m not a little kid anymore. I hurt people. What if I hurt you, huh? Then what?”

You reached out, your fingers slick with your own blood, and gripped the cold, hard armor of his chest. "I don't care," you choked out, the tears finally cutting tracks through the grime on your face. "I don't care if I get hurt! I don't care if it’s dangerous! I just need you. Please, Jason, don't make me live another day knowing you're out here all alone. I’m not asking for safety. I’m asking for you."

He let out a sharp, ragged sound, a mix of a growl and a stifled shout of frustration. He looked at the blood on your arm—your blood, the blood he’d failed to keep safe—and it seemed to shatter his resolve. He pulled you into his lap, his back against the wall, cradling you as if you were made of glass, even as his eyes burned with a mixture of hatred for his own existence and a desperate, agonizing irritation at your persistence.

And even between all the pain you were feeling, you also felt a comfort you haven’t felt in years. Just being back in Jason’s arms, it felt so good.

"Do you have a death wish?" he hissed, his voice trembling, his forehead pressing against yours. "What if I wasn't here? What if I was two blocks over? You would’ve diedYou would be dead right now, and for what? To look at my face?"

You stared up at him, your vision swimming, your heart aching with the weight of the last three months. "That’s exactly what it’s like without you, Jason," you whispered, your voice a hollow, broken echo. "Every day you’ve been 'dead,' I’ve been feeling exactly like this. I don't feel alive. I don't feel anything but a cold, empty weight. So, yeah—if I died tonight? It would make no difference. I’ve already been dying for months."

Jason stared at you, his jaw working, his eyes searching yours for a lie and finding only a bone-deep, exhausted truth. He looked gutted, his posture buckling as if your words had physically knocked the wind out of him. He looked like he wanted to pull you into his armor and never let go, but his hands stayed curled into white-knuckled fists at his sides, as if he were holding himself back from committing the ultimate sin of letting you in.

"You can't do that to me," he whispered, a broken, wretched sound. "Im not the guy you deserve, and I am certainly not the guy who can keep you safe."

He shifted, and you pulled out of his grip. You looked at him—the man who was trying so hard to be a monster—and you felt a spark of something sharp and unforgiving ignite in your chest.

and that was it. that was the end. The cosmic love you knew was gone— abducted. And you had finally come to the realization that it’s going to be like this forever. You’re filled with anger and guilt and a sickening sadness. How dare Jason think it’s romantic leaving you safe and stranded?

"I'm not doing this to you, Jason," you whispered, your eyes locking onto his with a finality that silenced the entire alley. "You’re doing this to yourself. Fuck you if I can't have us."

Fuck it I was in love, so fuck you if I can’t have us.

A/n I’ve been writing this for over a week guys I really hope it’s good🥹🥹

@starrydustedwinter requested!!!

1k followers celebration! - YOU get to pick the fic!

Rules - For the build - a - fic challenge, you get to help write the fic! Below, I'll have different tropes, plot points, and details to vote on in each category for a special x reader fic in honor of reaching 1k followers! There will be three rounds for three different sets of characters. Whichever parts get the most votes, I'll combine into a fic! Overall, there will be three fics, and three different rounds of voting for each set of characters

Featuring - Bucky/ Clark Kent/ and the Batfamily

First Round: Bucky! - Vote below!

Thank you to everyone for helping me get this far!!!