Do You Like Take Requests Or Do You Write On Your Own? If I Have A Request Can J Send Jt

Just the facts

Just in case

i love tragic characters who get their whole world ripped out from underneath them and then completely fuck themselves and everyone around them over in the most violent unnecessary ways imaginable

i know i’m late to the party, but i’ve been staying off tumblr for a while.

what a mistake on my part. what is happening now on tumblr is amazing and i love it from the bottom of my heart.

y’all are amazing :’)))

anywayy

getting into the goncharov (1973) fandom is truly something i will never regret because this movie is amazing.

idk is it old news already? hope not ;))

anyway, I was out before and found harringrove’s sleep masks. you’re welcome. (also, someone who can art, please draw them wearing these and I’ll love you forever)

Why won’t you speak?

“As I am standing over your dead, rotting body, I wonder: are you cold?”

Story: between Dick and Jason, Bruce adopts another hurt boy. M/n was around before Dick left, so he really considers him his older brother. When Jason comes around, M/n can’t help but feel jealous. After all, M/n is weak. He can’t be Robin.

Warnings and additional notes: M/n is using crutches to walk because of a car accident in which he took part at the age of twelve, the car accident that killed his parents. Bruce Wayne takes him under his wing, making sure he gets all the medical support he needs, making sure he is cared for. M/n is envious of Bruce’s soft spot for Jason. Major character death. Canon compliant… ? There are things added by me, of course.

—. —

The large doors of the library open with a burst of uncharacteristic storm.

“When has Batman died and put you in charge.” Jason’s shoes make an almost soundless approach in M/n’s direction.

M/n chuckles, “Oh my, aren’t you an opinionated little brat?”

Jason’s tongue clicks. No. He ain’t doing this shit. He takes a few more steps towards his tormentor.

“ I am Robin.” He points towards his chest. “Me. Not you, M/n. I should be in charge, not you.” He might not be in his suit, but he is Robin. And not even this bastard could take that away from him.

“Yeah, yeah. Listen here, you little asshole. You need to calm down. I don’t like you getting in my face. You annoy me. ” M/n rolls his eyes, and crosses his arms, leaning on the windowsill. The library is getting too crowded for the both of them. “Well, you don’t really have a choice. I’m older, more responsible. Don’t you have to listen to me or something?” Jason locks eyes with his fake brother, watching the words fall from his lips like boredom in the wind.

“You’re only two years older. Don’t act superior just because you’ve been here a little longer than me.” Jason wants to scoff, instead he draws back. Only to rethink his decision and bite. “Even so, I am Robin. And you’re just sickly prickly M/n. Nothing special there.”

There is a crack in M/n’s smile. Small, but noticeably there. Almost makes Jason regret it. Almost.

M/n scoffs, hiding the hurt, “You need to calm down, little asshole. It’s Alfred who holds the rule anyway. Don’t even know why you’d think it’d be useless, little me.” M/n tilts his head tauntingly, picking up his crutches and making his way out of the library. “Congratulations though. You’re pathetic.”

Jason rubs his eyes in exasperation. They will never get along. Never.

“Master M/n, is everything alright?” M/n tries to calm himself, almost bumping into Alfred. He feels like he’s gonna burst, but he can’t let the tears fall.

“Oh, Alfred… Sorry. I didn’t see you there.” M/n forces a smile. And he is sure it doesn’t fool Alfred. The elder man always knows.

“It’s quite alright, Master M/n. My question stands, however. Is everything alright?”

M/n averts his eyes, “Of course.” He stumbles a bit with his crutches as he tries to pass Alfred.

“You should try and get along with Master Jason. He is family. You two are family now, Master M/n.”

M/n doesn’t even feel like protesting. This Jason boy came after Dick left, almost as if their father was trying to replace his oldest son. And M/n can’t bear the thought of that. Of course he doesn’t like Jason. They’ll probably never get along.

“Alright then.” Alfred smiles and helps M/n down the stairs. “How about some tea?”

M/n relaxes slightly in the comfort of Alfred’s warm arms, “That sounds great, Alfred.”

Going down the stairs is becoming harder and harder for M/n. It’s like his legs are becoming lazier and lazier, which is normal considering the doctors already informed them about the changes waiting to happen. M/n doesn’t dwell on it most of the time. However, there are those moments of silence in which he can’t help but want to hit his head with something or accidentally drop one of those candles onto his own clothes. Jason had caught him in one of those moments in the library earlier. M/n gets nastier in terms of behavior around then, and truly he doesn’t have any interest in insulting Jason that much (just a little). The little prick just knows how to find his moments.

They get to the bottom of the stairs, but Alfred doesn’t let go. The man really knows everything.

When Bruce gets home, things haven't necessarily changed in any way. Alfred meets Bruce in the foyer, as it usually is when Bruce comes back from business. And then there is Jason who runs ahead of his brother and forcefully throws himself at Bruce with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it. The man once young boy himself remembers owning the world once, it was not bare then. Behind, with struggle unfit for a child, M/n staggers forth with his ebony crutches. Jason does not let go of his hugs easily, in fact he holds on as if Bruce would disappear if he ever dared to let go earlier than he should. Thus, the man lets his son hug him tight. Moments later, Jason reluctantly lets go, making way for his older brother, who visibly stumbles on an uprise in the carpet.

M/n yelps as one crutch gets caught in the crimson material. He falls in front of everyone's eyes, but is caught by Alfred who is nearer to him. Bruce wants to reach out, he would've reached out. Yes. If, just so, he were closer to his son. Alas, distance is great in between them.

They head into the living room where Jason tells Bruce all about his exploits around the manor and how Bruce’s bedroom is actually haunted when he isn’t there. That gets a smile out of the man, rare as they are. His life has become increasingly livelier since Jason became part of the family. After all, the quiet of Dick’s departure was sadly difficult for one little M/n to fill, though the efforts were there. Bruce just… couldn’t make himself meet his son halfway.

After dinner Alfred corners him in the emptiness of Bruce’s study (not his, his father’s study). The older man wears that look on his face, the one he shows only to Bruce and especially when he ‘s done something bad, like stealing a cookie when he was younger, or choosing to dress up as a bat.

“You should talk to him more.” Alfred keeps his eyes on Bruce and the man once boy under that gaze doesn’t know if he should look away or try to dominate the stare down. It’s an automatic response, he reckons. It would never work on Alfred, either way.

“Jason is fine, he talks to me now.” That gets another smile out of Bruce. He fears these days he is getting stiffer, body hardening with the darkness and the years. Maybe he is actually growing softer?

“It’s not Jason I’m worried about, sir.” Alfred leans forward and places a tray with two cups and a teapot on it. It smells good, roses and camomile?

“M/n? Should I think there’s something wrong with him?” Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“I don’t know, sir. Should you not?” Alfred continues to look at him, almost as if his eyes harden. It’s hard to tell, even with the bat’s experience.

“Is something wrong with him?” Bruce takes a seat on his father’s old leather chair that was once black but now tints to brown. The chair sighs underneath him with tiredness becoming of age.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, sir?”

Bruce would ask. He really would. He should… but it’s late. The boy probably sleeps already. “It’s late, Alfred. Some other time, perhaps?”

Alfred scrutinizes him, yet ends in a half concealed sigh. He wasn’t going to tell his Bruce, the stubborn and with years worth of guild child he so much wished fulfillment to about how his son still stands at the dinner table, ashamed to ask for help and beating himself down over how he would never be good enough to help his father the way his younger brother does. No, Alfred shall deal with that himself, as he always does. Foolish master Bruce. He ends with a, “You know best, sir.”

Bruce doesn’t know best. He’s never felt himself as holding the power of knowing whats and ifs and what ifs. The ‘what if’ of the situation, it always arises at the time when his weakness fills him with the dread of what has been. What if he’d said “let’s stay for another movie” the night his parents died. What if he’d spent more time trying to talk with Dick instead of arguing foolishly and towards nothing, like the boy wasn’t the son he so cared for, like he hadn’t been the only once. What if he’d listened to Alfred and talked with M/n more, mended the disruption between him and Jason. What if he’d protected Jason the way he should’ve protected him, the way his soul screamed to keep the boy safe because how can you let someone else suffer when it is you who should have been? It should never have been Jason. Not his Jason. Not his boy. Not his hope and his dreams and the one he holds as if he were holding his younger self. Not the Jason who laughed so hard whenever something remotely funny came to light. Not the Jason who ran to the door to welcome Bruce, jumping into his arms with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it. ‘Welcome home, dad.’ Not… Not Jason. Not Jason, God, please, not him. Don’t let it be like this, Bruce’s soul screams as it trashes and shoves and splits, stabbing and scratching and killing to get out.

Jason Todd, beloved son and brother, full of fire and full of life

with all his young years and fire thrumming in his veins, like he owns the world and Bruce, as well, with it

The morning Bruce has to come home and let Alfred and M/n know that Jason won’t be home for dinner tonight or any other night, the sun shines on a clear sky. It smiles upon the Wayne lands, over the gardens and the pond. M/n is there with the flowers, reading a book. ‘The three musketeers’ the title reads. Does M/n enjoy reading? Maybe he does. Bruce isn’t around enough to figure out a pattern.

M/n’s eyes raise from the pages, smile a bright one, as the sun above them with a glint in his eyes and hair tussled with sleep and the ends of dreams.

Bruce must look all the wiser and the better and the all powerful because his son’s smile becomes smaller with what Bruce can only read as surprised… a little concern as well.

“Welcome back, dad.” The boy speaks, voice carried by the breeze and the petals of the flowers.

Bruce says nothing. He can’t bring himself to. Because how can you ever begin. How… How do you tell your son his brother has died before they even had the chance to make up after an argument? How do you let your son know, he will be in a quiet house yet again? How do you tell your son you’ve killed his brother?

M/n’s smile falters yet again. And he must sense something because he looks around. Behind Bruce, to the gate, to the flowers and to the door where no one but Alfred stands.

“Where is Jason?” His smile is gone by now, replaced by something akin to curiosity. “Did he get lost?” A small laugh bursts at that.

M/n locks eyes with Bruce again.

Bruce isn’t smiling. His lips haven’t even twitched. In fact, Bruce thinks he is getting worse by the second and it must be showing in some way because M/n forces himself to keep a smile on as he struggles to get up with the help of a crutch. He almost falls twice, but stands almost straight soon, book closed in hand, a finger inside to keep the page. The boy is pretty far into the book. Bruce doesn’t know if it’s the first, the second or the third volume.

“Dad… are you alright?” His son asks him with those alight eyes that speak the language of the sun and the moon. He looks around again, maybe he hopes to see the brother he so is annoyed by. There is no annoyance in his eyes. “Where is Jason, dad? I didn’t see him go inside.”

There’s a shake in Bruce’s eyes, a tremor of the lips. M/n pushes himself forward on the crutch. It gets stuck in the grass for a second, but it does not stop the son from approaching the bat with no suit, no protection.

A shove closer, half a stumble backwards.

“… dad?” Bruce lets his son see his head fall down, down, down, looking at the grass next to his shoes. Bruce thinks he shook his head somewhere in between the burn of the sun on his neck and the thud of ‘The three musketeers’ by Alexandre Dumas, fallen to the earth. For a moment, Bruce imagines the volume as his own head, rolling on the too green grass, blood dried and burned by the sun.

“M/n… Why do you hate me?”

“…”

“Have I… done something that wrong? I know I can be annoying and loud and sometimes want attention, but I don’t mean what I say to you. I never do, not the bad stuff at least.”

“I… I don’t hate you, Jason. How could I? You’re everything I wish I was.”

“Why?”

“Aha… I think I say all I say and blame you all the time because, not so deep down, I’m envious of you.”

“Envious? How could you possibly be envious of me? You’re older and you’re smart… and you don’t get into trouble with the teachers.”

“Ha, well, I suppose I’m envious because dad is close to you, the way he isn’t with me. And… and because you are with him the way I could never manage.”

“But… it’s really not that hard. Just talk to dad, I’m sure it’s gonna be alright.”

“Aren’t you wise.”

“Ha ha. I’m serious, M/n. If you want something, just do it.”

“See? That’s why I’m envious of you.”

… or maybe I admire you for it. Is what M/n imagines late at night, a conversation that could have been between Jason and him, especially close after the funeral, when Dick drinks in his room and their dad drinks in his study and Alfred cleans up the dinner none of them really taste any more, but only eat as unfeeling corpses coveted in a quiet house.

Part 2:

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Why won’t you speak?

“Even dead they ignore you, huh?” This is the second part. If you want to read the first part, the link is at the end. Sorry, it took me a

current fan creation landscape is kinda like if you went to a party with a homemade cake and everyone takes a slice and silently thumbs up at you with no attempt to start a conversation except for occasionally some guy sits in the corner with a tape recorder critiquing the cake as though he was a restaurant critic and another guy is handing the cake to an uber driver like "yeah i need you to find a restaurant that makes cake like this so i can have more of it" and the only person that's talked to you in 30 minutes is a very sweet little guy who was like "hey i liked your cake" and then ran away apologizing for bothering you the moment you said thank you.

ICE PICK JOE ?!

Is that you ?!