TW: Pedophilia

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge. 

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go. 

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs. 

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.” 

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens. 

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before. 

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long. 

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?” 

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this. 

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion. 

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up. 

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works. 

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt. 

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.” 

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits. 

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily. 

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey. 

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least. 

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.” 

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?” 

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.” 

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing. 

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you. 

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago. 

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you. 

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it. 

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him. 

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?” 

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this. 

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking. 

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter. 

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room. 

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air. 

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it. 

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence. 

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

You stare at him incredulously. 

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer. 

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment. 

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him. 

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind. 

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck. 

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you,  “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it. 

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official. 

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

There's something so incredibly shitty in the way spop characters act like they constantly have to worry about Entrapta, where she goes and what she does, when in reality Entrapta is the most capable and smart of them all. Think about it. Entrapta was able to hide from the infected robots until Glimmer and Adora found her. One could argue that was easy for her because she was in her own casle, but remember what happened in the Fright Zone?

Entrapta separated from the other princesses, she found a robot friend (Emily), even saved Sea Hawk from Scorpia and then she returned to her friends like she went to take a smoothie. All of that in a place she has never been. Of course, Entrapta also survived the fire trap that her friends thought killed her.

When Catra and Scorpia interrogated her, Entrapta set herself free from the handcuffs and even took the taiser from Catra's hands like it was nothing.

What else? Oh yeah. She also surved on Beast Island without magical powers. In season 5 she got the datas to locate Glimmer and repaired Mara's ship from space with a spacesuit she made. She also took off Catra's chip and found a way to deactivate all the chips.

The list of good things that Entrapta did is longer than Catra's list of crimes, and that's a list longer than Doofenshmirtz arms!

Now, I'm not saying that Entrapta is so talented that she doesn't need anyone and she didn't need rescuing. At the end of the day everyone needs a little help, like how Entrapta needed help to stop the infected robots and to leave Beast Island.

I'm saying that it's really unfair how Entrapta is portayed like someone who needs babysitting because she can't take care of herself, when it's clearly not like that. It would have been great if the princesses worried the right amount for Entrapta, like Scorpia did, instead of treating her like a problematic child. I have the feeling all of that was rooted in ableism and the love for the writers to babyfy Entrapta.

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T

…You know what? I’ve decided something.

If ever I were somehow able to get isekai’d into the DC Comic!verse, and somehow get close enough to Jason to do this, I’d slap a sticker on his face. Like, those really awesome scratch-n-sniff stickers you could get at Scholastic Book fairs that just reminded you of the smell of books (my favorite was the popcorn). And I’d just slap a bunch of those suckers on his face. Bruce would NEVER have any of those stickers on his face! It’s not much, but eh, it’s something!

Or I’d use face paint if he’d let me. I’d make him look cool, like a dragon! Or I could just make him look silly. Let’s see him be as sad now!

Jason canonically looks really fucking similar to Bruce. During off days, he avoids mirrors and reflective surfaces because all he sees is his dad who failed him

Incredible how dc pushes the "Jason died because he was reckless" narrative to try and absolve Bruce of blame because, victim-blaming aside, that's worse, right? You understand how that's worse?

No matter how you interpret it, in Jason's post-crisis run, Bruce is gonna be partially responsible for Jason's death, because he was the one to offer him Robin in the first place in exchange for a good foster home (Batman 1940 #408), and because he had fucked up with Jason to the point he felt the need to run to a whole other continent in search for family (Batman 1940, a death in the family). Like, that part of responsibility, that remains no matter how you spin it, because regardless of why specifically Jason went in the warehouse, that's why he was in Ethiopia with the Robin suit in the first place.

But this aside, in canon? Jason goes in the warehouse because Sheila betrays him and he does what any hero, and many children, would do in his place: he wants to help Sheila, he listens to her, he trusts his mother. The people directly responsible for Jason's death, in canon, are Joker, Sheila, and crowd of goons that helped Joker and Sheila take Jason down in the warehouse. It's clear as day who the villains are in there and it doesn't add any stain on Bruce's ledger.

But according to that victim-blaming narrative that Alfred and Bruce (and others later on) spin in-story, and that dc spins in meta? Jason died because he was reckless. So it's Jason's fault right? Yes and no. I need to write a more detailed meta about the two types of recklessness and how confusing the two accidentally led to Starling writing a compelling narrative with Jason, but basically the important question here is why was Jason reckless. And Starlin answers us, in text, in a death in the family: Jason has been behaving abnormally recklessly recently, because he's suffering. Bruce tells us, straight up, that he suspects Jason to be suicidal. This isn't the first time Starlin's Batman says Jason is suicidal: even in Batman (1940) #416, Batman explains Jason's "reckless" behaviour to Dick as a symptom of being mentally unwell, and very clearly implies Jason already struggles with suicidal thoughts (which I maintain is the reason why Dick changed his mind on Jason so quickly and gave him his number with a "you can reach out to me, don't let a lack of communication become your achille heel" talk at the end of #416.)

And Bruce's POV mind be often biased, but we see, ourselves, Jason jump in front of bullets in aditf and it's like... As much as I'm not convinced with Bruce's random explanation for Jason's struggles in aditf, I do agree that he is being suicidal (and considering the stories that come right before this one, I completely understand why he would be.) So that's why Jason is reckless in aditf. It's not why he died, but if we listen to that victim-blaming narrative that claims his recklessness is indeed what killed him, doesn't that make Bruce more guilty? Because that means Bruce knew Jason was suicidal (literally jumping in front of bullets with apparently no consideration for his life) and left a fifteen years old active suicide risk alone in a completely foreign environment after having messed up very severely with him during the whole issue, and then he told him "do not go into that warehouse alone, there's a very dangerous guy who wants to kill you." In terms of responsibility, Bruce is actually very damn lucky Jason, like some impulsive suicidal teenagers his age would have, didn't think "oh well, I'll try my luck against the guy who wants to kill me alone and that way either I win and get reassured in my heroism and right to be alive, or I die and that saves me the trouble of buying rope and a step ladder!" Bruce took the Robin costume from Jason to protect him from this exact type of situation but didn't seem to realize the danger he was putting Jason in at that moment. And it's not just me saying that! I don't have the exact reference (I think it was in Gotham Knights?...to verify) Barbara, after finding out about Jason's death, literally tells Bruce that this is his fault and that she warned him Jason had issues.

Of course, all of this is moot point, because it's not why Jason went in the warehouse in the first place, but I can't help but feel baffled at the audacity of DC, who are so deep into their psychophobia, classism, general victim-blaming bullshit and ingrained stereotypical conception of the "troubled teen" that they don't realize that the revisionist interpretation of Jason's death they are defending is literally worse for Bruce. And I have to say, it certainly doesn't paint people trash-talking Jason and blaming him for his death to prop Tim up as "better" and "different" in a very good light either (especially since, if i'm not wrong, there's an arc in which Tim struggles with suicidal thoughts himself... especially since Tim's trauma happened after he became Robin and is, for the most part, a direct consequence of his heroism. Doesn't exactly paint the adults in Jason and Tim's life in a favourable light...)

Anyway, stop blaming Jason's death on his recklessness to absolve Bruce: you're only making it worse.

“Those poor boys”

“She deserves to be punished too.”

“I’m not saying I support rape, but-”

“Sorry to say - she deserved it.”

“She put herself in harm’s way”

“But if she was fingered, then that’s not rape.”

“She ruined their lives.”

I think “Mastermind” could have been a stronger episode if the trial focused on the fact that Stolas’ incompetence has led to humans discovering the existence of Heaven and Hell.

In the past, there have been alluded to consequences about I.M.P creating a commotion up top and not being careful, so why not have that finally come back to bite everyone in “Mastermind”? But, what do I mean by saying it’s the fault of Stolas, you may ask? After all, it was I.M.P who did their business without being properly careful, right?

That’s still technically on Stolas.

Alright, consider the other two times we see Hell-born doing a job up top, that being Barbie-Wire and the succubi. Both parties not only had a way to get there, but a human disguise as well. Presumably, Barbie-Wire and the succubi were given both Asmodean crystals and human disguised by their employers, because you know they’re supposed to be discreet and all. We could also assume they all got some form of training on how to act, too. Why am I bringing this up though?

It’s because Stolas irresponsibly let I.M.P have access to the living world without training or human disguises!

A high-ranking Goetia prince gave access to his grimoire, and that was all he did, presumably with an assumption they would be careful. And then in the D.H.O.R.K.S episode, he just leaves the two head agents alive! Two humans who have knowledge about Hell being a thing are just hand-waved away by him, simply stating that nobody would believe them. No wiping their minds or anything, they’re just left there!

Which comes back to bite everyone because those two had actual evidence that was believed, and now they’re working to open a portal to Hell. Even after that episode and “Seeing Stars”, Stolas doesn’t give them human disguises, even after Blitzø had asked about getting some earlier.

Tl;Dr of it all is that Stolas is responsible for I.M.P’s actions up top and them not being properly careful. Mostly because he didn’t give them the resources needed other than the book.

Ok, but how would Andrealphus know all about this?

That…actually comes with a bit of a rewrite. So imagine if Andrealphus, after Stella won’t get anything from the divorce, sends out an imp to spy and regularly report back to him about Stolas (and eventually I.M.P’s) actions through one of his tail feathers. In this rewrite, Andrealphus has the ability to see things through his tail feathers, making the fact that he’s a peacock matter in the narrative.

So through his spy (sent after the events of “Western Energy”) Andrealphus learns that Stolas gave the grimoire away to be used. But not only that, the spy sees the fight with the cherubs, as well as them leaving via portal that doesn’t look like a standard one used often in Hell, and it doesn’t look like something Heaven would use either. So the spy brings back their findings, which Andrealphus brings to the Sins. An investigation is then launched (presumably during the time period between “Apology Tour” and “Ghostf**kers”), and a lot of damning evidence is found by the agents that were sent (presumably by Satan).

So, that’s when the trial is set up, and both I.M.P and Stolas are brought in. Several things are properly brought to light, Stolas is found guilty (but I.M.P got off scott-free, a rarity in Hell), and he’s striped of his title, legions, everything. Satan states that it’s a fitting punishment, since he can’t be trusted with his former position and the responsibility that vmcomes with it. And Octavia’s still 17, so Andrealphus temporarily serves as a regent until the day of her 18th birthday. Meanwhile, the Sins go to talk about just how bad the damage is, and what they can do to fix it.

Maybe one of them suggests bringing Lucifer in, but that’s shot down by Satan, alluding to how Lucifer hasn’t gotten involved in the state of affairs in Hell for a while now.

…So that’s my vague idea for a rewrite that I think makes a better episode. What do y’all think?

people who act like batman isn't "judge jury and executioner" because he doesn't kill people are like. genuinely so funny to me because. they're very obviously thinking of "executioner" as like. the stereotypical guy with axe who chops people heads off, and not, yknow, the literal definition of the idiom itself, which is about someone who has the ability to judge and then subsequently punish someone unilaterally. which is quite literally what batman does.

he has the ability to decide what is a "crime" to him, he is the one who decides whether people are guilty of those crimes, and he is the one who executes their punishment. the severity of the punishment doesn't matter - he is unaccountable to anyone else, and indeed is allowed to commit as many crimes as needed to reach his arbitrary ideal of "justice."

the ideal of batman is this: a man who is so fundamentally changed by an act of senseless violence that he takes it upon himself to fight back against the rot and corruption in the world. he does this not through political activism, not through ridding himself of his wealth in favor of a greater good, not through community outreach, but through an individualistic fantasy of being a hero.

and you'll say: charlie, but he does do that !!! he donates his money all the time, he funds social programs, hospitals, orphanages, gets people jobs -

and i will say this: so why don't things get better?

because here's the base of it. gotham, at its core, can't get better. no matter what bruce wayne does, there will always be more crime, more villains, more death, more people for batman to beat up in back alleys. because that's what sells.

reoffending rates don't matter in gotham, prison reform doesn't matter in gotham, what actually causes crime doesn't matter in gotham because that doesn't sell books.

and so here it is; dc has unintentionally created a world where batman can't win, but can't be wrong, and where thousands of nameless, faceless, only-created-to-die civilians must be pushed into the meat grinder that is gotham, to fuel bruce wayne's angst and vindicate his constant, tireless, noble fight against the forces of evil.

and then: a new robin, who is poor and who's parents are dead or gone because of this cycle; who is happy go-lucky and hated by editors and fans for being robin, for not being dick grayson, for being poor.

and this robin is written, unintentionally or not, to be angry at the ways in which batman's (the narrative's) idea of justice is detached from its victims. bruce seems perfectly fine to allow countless unnamed women to be at risk from garzonas in his home country, yet robin is the one who is portrayed as irrational and violent.

this robin is not detached from gotham in the way bruce wayne is: this robin is a product of gotham.

(and here's the thing. you can't punch aids. you can't fight a disease with colorful fights and nifty gadgets. and how would robin dying from aids add to batman's story; it would call into question the systemic changes that haven't been made in gotham. how does a child get aids, in batman's city?)

so robin dies, and then bruce (the narrative) spends the next couple of decades blaming it on him. it is jason's fault; he was reckless, he just ran in, he thought it was all a game. if only bruce had seen what was coming, if only he could have known that jason wasn't rich enough or smart enough or liked enough to be robin.

batman gets a little more violent, a little more self destructive. he hurts people more and almost (!!) kills a couple guys. this is bad because it's self destructive and "not who he is." it is not bad because batman should not be able to just beat people up when he's angry.

and then he gets a shiny new robin - who is all the things jason "wasn't": rich and smart and rational and he doesn't put who batman is into question. batman and robin are partners, and jason is a grave and a cautionary tale, and (crucially here) never right.

the joker kills thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be killed.

batman beats up thousands and it doesn't matter because they were written to be criminals.

and then jason comes back, and nothing has changed. there is a batman and a (shiny! rich!) robin and the joker kills thousands. (because it sells)

and jason is angry - he has been left unavenged - his death has meant nothing, just as willis' had, just as catherine's had, just as gloria's had, just as -

thousands. ten of thousands. hundreds of thousands. written to be killed.

but one of them gets to come back.

and he is angry - not only at the joker, but at bruce (the narrative) - because why is the joker still alive (when thousands-)

here is the thing - jason todd is right. not because the death penalty is good, not because criminals deserve to die, not because of everything he says -

but because of what he calls into question. why is the joker alive?

because he sells books.

and dc has written a masterful character, through no fault of their own, because jason knows what is wrong, and he knows who is at fault - batman. (the narrative)

so the argument that bruce can't kill because he's not judge jury and executioner; the argument that jason is a cop or that jason is insane or that jason is in the wrong here; they hold no weight.

batman can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

and jason can't kill the joker because the joker sells comic books.

so he will beg and plead and grovel - he will betray everything that is himself, he will forsake his family and his city and kill himself - just so that bruce (the narrative) will let the joker die.

he was condemned to death by an audience, and after he came back he has spent his whole life looking us in the eyes and screaming, asking, pleading; why is the joker still alive?

why are thousands, tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands (the number doesn't matter, see, because they're just a number. not people. not real.) why are we expendable for his story? why did i have to die just for nothing to change?

and the answer is money. and the answer is the batman can never be wrong. and the answer is shitty writing. and the answer is -

nothing jason can ever change.

which is the worst of it all. he is a victim with no power, and no one else in the world can see it. he is raging and crying and screaming at his father and his writers and you - and it doesn't matter. jason doesn't matter. and he knows it.

Not the 51st State: A Canadian Reflection on Tariffs, Trust, and the State of the Press

Not the 51st State: A Canadian Reflection on Tariffs, Trust, and the State of the Press

By Duncan Fraser for Winding-Roads.ca

On March 3rd, 2025, President Donald Trump made a false claim that huge amounts of drugs were being imported into the United States from Canada.

He used that claim to justify the opening salvo in what has since escalated into a trade war—one that now threatens workers, businesses, and entire industries across borders. The U.S. Senate has since rejected that justification, confirming what many of us already knew: it was a political stunt with no factual basis.

That same day, I began a project to archive and analyze the front pages of major news outlets around the world. I wanted to document how this crisis is being reported, whose voices are being heard—or silenced—and how different media ecosystems interpret the same moment in time.

So far, I’ve digitized the front pages from the BBC, CBC, New York Times, Globe and Mail, and occasionally, the Vancouver Sun, which has been notably quiet on the gravity of the trade war.

I will include the Vancouver Sun a Postmedia publication before concluding the project on April 30th after Canada’s federal election on April 28th and the announcement of global tariffs on April 2nd.

My goal is not only to capture facts but to trace how the framing of truth differs depending on who owns the press.

And ownership matters. It matters when Postmedia, Canada’s largest newspaper chain, is two-thirds owned by Chatham Asset Management, a U.S.-based firm with deep ties to the Republican Party.

It matters when senior editorial figures within Postmedia call their own network “insufficiently conservative” and restructure reporting to ensure more ideologically aligned coverage.

When a foreign-owned media conglomerate influences the political narrative of a sovereign nation during an election and a trade war, we must ask: what’s the difference between that and foreign interference?

April 4th, 2025 – A Snapshot of the Press: What Did They Choose to Tell Us?

The two most pressing issues facing Canadians:

A rapidly escalating Trade War with the United States, triggered by misinformation and now entering global territory.

An upcoming Federal Election on April 28th, with the central question: Which leader can best stand up for Canada on the global stage, particularly against Donald Trump?

On this day, I captured the front pages of:

BBC (UK)

CBC (Canada)

The New York Times (USA)

The Toronto Star

The Globe and Mail

The Vancouver Sun

This visual comparison highlights not just what's being reported—but what's being left out. And in that silence, we can see the shape of influence.

In Vancouver, a city with global connections, economic vulnerability to U.S. trade policy, and a long history of activism and press independence, The Vancouver Sun’s decision to underreport or soft-pedal the trade war raises questions. Is this an editorial oversight—or an outcome of Postmedia’s central direction toward a “reliably conservative” voice?

As a Canadian by choice and a Scot by birth, I take this personally. I was born in a country that fought tyranny, and I chose to live in one that believes in fairness, decency, and the rule of law. Canadians stood with Britain and the United States in both World Wars. The blood of our youth still stains the beaches and fields of France. So when Donald Trump casually refers to us as the “51st State,” I don’t just hear arrogance—I hear the erasure of a friendship forged in sacrifice.

I love the United States. I’ve travelled extensively in that remarkable country and have deep respect for its people. But this attack on America’s closest ally—on its best friend—will take a long time to heal. And it won’t just hurt Canadians. It will devastate millions of hardworking Americans, too, along with families and businesses across the globe.

We’ve seen what trade wars can do. The Smoot–Hawley Tariff Act of the 1930s triggered a spiral that helped turn a financial crash into a global depression. We don’t need to repeat that mistake. Not now. Not again.

So I continue to watch, and archive, and reflect—not because I expect to change the minds of politicians, but because history deserves a witness. Because truth, however fragile, must be protected. And because maybe, just maybe, someone will listen before it’s too late.

Edited with the help of ChatGPT.

Source: Not the 51st State: A Canadian Reflection on Tariffs, Trust, and the State of the Press

Wether people want to admit it or not(they never do,out of a moral superiority complex),they view unpalpability in female characters as reasons they're bad and unpalpability in male characters as reasons they're attractive.If a girl in media is angry and snarky and selfish and volatile,she is dubbed an irredemable monster who must be punished or the writers are 'abuse apologists' and she's 'the bitch','the cheating whore','the faker' and so forth.If a boy in media is angry and snarky and selfish and volatile,he is good deep down all along and never meant all the things he did and he was raised in a way it was inevatable and he's the protagonist true soulmate they just misunderstood and something something if villain bad why sexy

Prince Zuko was a teenage terrorist because he wanted his dad to love him and ignored his sister psychosis enabled by their father's grooming to beat her ass and said so much misogynistic shit someone was able to do a whole fancam and called the tibetan buddhist genocide survivor his direct ancestors cleansed 'Guru Goody Goody' and did the quivalent of breaking up with his girlfriend through a text message and if you act like he's not just an awkward turtleduck you get people screeching until their mouths start bleeding over how you hate abuse survivors and men who're perfect for every feminist woman and Katara was a teenage anarchist brown native girl who kicked off the series by bringing back the protagonist to save the world by going off at her older brother for sexism and spent the rest of the series an activist too and literally has the same sense of humor and attitude and even powers 2000s darling Percy Jackson does and she gets called a concervative basic white girl who talks about her mom she saw murdered by colonizers in her toddler years too much and should never speak out of turn lest she hurt men's feelings and a mary sue and her antis demand you never speak positively of her without reminding us she's not a perfect precious sharkangel who did nothing wrong ever(she is one and didn't)

Y'all be like the Rodrick meme but instead it's 'say sorry women'