rambling-at-midnight

[rambling-at-midnight]

Second Chances (Part 2)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Vigilante!Reader, Jason Todd & Damian Wayne & Reader

Summary: Your and Jason’s relationship gets off to a rocky start in that, well... it doesn't have a chance to start, because the whole universe is conspiring against Jason. Everything comes to a head when a particle collider in STAR Labs malfunctions.

Word count: 5.8k

Six days after Jason discovered your regeneration abilities finds him waiting at a coffee shop at 8:53 a.m. He anxiously checks his watch again. You agreed to meet at 9, which really means you’ll be there by 9:10. He didn’t want to drink his coffee too quickly (how long did coffee dates last? He looked it up online and the results were inconclusive) so he drank a cup at home before leaving to sate the caffeine addiction every vigilante in Gotham suffered from.

It hadn’t made him more alert. Just more jittery.

Jason’s knee jogs beneath the table. It felt too high school prom to ask what you planned on wearing beforehand, so he used his best judgment (Damian would say Jason’s judgment was never good, but what did Damian know) and wore his only pair of jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. He knows a suit is too formal for a coffee date, and his usual sweats or gymwear is too casual. You’ve seen him in all kinds of clothing, so his appearance barely even matters, but at this point he’s going to sweat through the t-shirt before you even get here.

Instead of fiddling with his clothes, Jason combs his bangs back again.

As he walked through the door, Jason’s stomach had flipped like it was freefalling. A hundred little thoughts occurred to him, like, What if the shop’s closed today or What if this is the only coffee shop in Gotham that requires formalwear?

All his fears were unfounded. In the corner, a hipster wearing a fedora sips on his iced macchiato. Two tables down is a gaggle of GCU students that look like they’re cramming for finals. No one even looked over when he sat down to reserve this table for the two of you. It’s right next to the big ornamental bookshelf in the back of the shop, so hopefully you two will have a little more privacy.

Everything should be fine.

Everything is fine.

Jason checks his watch again: 9 a.m. sharp.

Shit. Should he order you a coffee before you get here? Is that presumptuous? Jason knows your usual order, but what if you have a different one here? What if you’re running even later than normal and by the time you get here all the ice is melted and you drink sad, watery coffee to make him feel better?

He should order your drink. Or maybe he should let you order your drink, and he should buy your pastry. Jason stands, then checks his phone to see if you’ve texted. You haven’t.

There’s no line, so he has no time to ponder the decision. When the barista asks what he wants, Jason panics and orders two drinks and two pastries. He saw something on the internet the other day about how women don’t like that anymore because then they feel obligated to stay at the date, but you know that he won’t pressure you, right? Like, sure, he’s never been in a relationship before, and Jason’s pretty sure he’s been in love with you since before he died, and he also wouldn’t be mad if you moved into his apartment tomorrow and never left, but he doesn’t have any expectations for today.

He thinks you two are compatible. Jason hopes so.

He checks his watch again: 9:04. A terrible thought occurs to him. What if you sleep through your alarm and never show up?

At 9:07, Jason’s order is ready, and when he turns around with two drinks and a bag of pastries in his hands, someone says, “Hi,” at his elbow.

Jason is a highly trained vigilante. The sight of him makes criminals crap their pants. He’s mastered over twenty styles of combat.

Jason jumps and drops the coffees.

Because you’re also a highly trained vigilante, you catch them without a drop spilling. “Hi, Jay,” you say again, eyes crinkling with your smile. You look… nice. More than nice. Just like you’ve seen Jason dressed any way, he’s seen you wear anything, and you never look anything less than perfect. But he appreciates that you put in the effort today.

Jason swallows. “H—” His voice cracks. “Hey, Y/N.” He cringes internally. So smooth.

You check the labels on both drinks and tape a sip of the one for you. “Thanks for ordering. Sorry I was late. Wanna sit down?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Jason. He sits in the chair across from you, then feels awkward with his hands. Should he put them in his lap? Keep them in sight?

You, on the other hand, seem completely at ease. Your eyes flick over him as you take another sip of coffee. Jason’s whole body flushes at your examination. He busies himself with his drink.

After about thirty full seconds of silent coffee drinking, you tilt your head and ask, “So how have you been?”

“Good,” Jason says. “I’ve been—good. You know. Recovering.” Internally, he curses his twisted tongue. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good,” you reply. Take another sip of coffee. Maybe you’re just as nervous as he is.

Jason nods. “That’s good.”

After another brief silence, you sigh and lean forward. Your eyes sparkle, like you’re trying to share a secret just between the two of you. “This is awkward, isn't it?”

Oh, God. You’re about to tell Jason that you two are better off as friends. “I mean, first dates are supposed to be a little awkward, aren’t they?”

“Well, yes, but because you’re essentially meeting a stranger. We’re not strangers, though. I know basically everything about you, and you know all about me.”

“Oh.” The thought of meeting up with a stranger to establish a relationship doesn’t appeal to Jason, honestly. He doesn’t think he could ever love someone he didn’t know. He doesn’t think he could love anyone more than you.

You cover your mouth with one hand. “Holy shit. I totally forgot. This is your first ever date, isn’t it?”

Jason feels his cheeks flush scarlet. “Well, technically, but—”

“Yeah, hanging out with Janie Morris in the library in seventh grade doesn’t count.” You wave your hand. “I’m so sorry. I’m totally ruining your first first date.”

“I wouldn’t call this ruined,” says Jason. He asks hesitantly, “Would… would you?”

You smile sweetly. “No. I’ve just never gone on a date with someone I liked this much. I’m a little nervous.”

Jason’s stomach flips. He opens his mouth to say something, but the sound of gagging cuts him off.

Damian and his friend, the youngest Kent kid, stand in line for coffee behind an absolute dickhead wearing a Blüdhaven police officer uniform. Dickhead has his back turned to you, ordering for the ungrateful kids, and Damian’s lip is curled while Jon Kent has his tongue out and finger pointed at his mouth, pretending to retch.

“What are you doing here?” you and Jason ask at the same time, but with vastly different tones.

As soon as he pays, Dickhead turns around and grins brightly. “Hey, guys! So you’re the reason Dami insisted on getting coffee before school.”

“Did Alfred give permission for that?” you ask.

Jon shoves his hands in his pockets and whistles. Damian suddenly finds the ceiling very intriguing.

Jason checks his watch. “He’s going to be late,” he says pointedly.

Dick shrugs. “That’s okay. I was late almost every day to Gotham Academy.”

“Yes, because you were a teenage delinquent. Those of us that actually care about our academics—”

As Jason continues to argue with Dick, Damian turns to you and says plainly, “You could do so much better, Y/N.”

“Come here, Dami.” You beckon him forward, and he sidles over reluctantly. You rub at his cheek with your sleeve. Gently, quietly, so he isn’t embarrassed, you chide, “That’s not a nice way to talk about your brother.”

Damian scowls. “He is not—”

Suddenly, the cash register topples over, pushed out of the way by Kite Man’s expanding kite.

You shove the kids behind you. Jason shoves you behind him. Dick shoves all of you behind himself.

Kite Man shouts at the underpaid barista, “What do you mean no one ordered my special drink this week?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the barista says. “Nobody wants green raspberry lattes.”

“Green raspberry?” Jason asks in disbelief. “Does that even exist?”

Kite Man whirls around. “Yes, it does, and it’s fabulous!” He stands in front of the door and shouts, “Nobody leaves until you all have tried my signature drink!”

Well, of all Gotham’s rogues, Kite Man is relatively harmless. It’s probably easier to just try the drinks and tell him that it tastes good instead of fighting.

Judging by the look on your and Dick’s faces—mutual exasperation—you’re all on the same page.

Unfortunately, the hipster in the corner doesn’t agree. He throws his fedora on the ground and raises his fist in the air. Presumably he has something motivational to say about nonconformity or whatever they care about nowadays. Unfortunately, the shop’s glass windows shatter, and four men with Penguin masks and large guns enter.

“Hey!” Kite Man complains. “I was in the middle of holding these people hostage!”

A squat figure waddles into view. “Fly away now, little birdie, or you’ll find yourself between my minions and a hard place.”

Kite Man shakes his head. “Just because you buy into your bird theme doesn’t mean we all have—”

One of the goons cocks his gun.

“Fine,” he huffs, “I’m going. But I’m telling everyone that you stole my heist.”

Cobblepot rolls his eyes. “You do that.”

Clothes rustle behind Jason, and when he glances over his shoulder, your date clothes have been replaced by your Ghoul costume. How did you even do that?

The Ghoul mask has no visible eyes, but Jason sometimes thinks he can see yours through it. “Get down.”

“Ghoul—”

“All right!” Cobblepot shouts. “Everyone, hands up and wallets out. As long as you’re smart birdies, I’ll let you all fly the coop.”

“Speaking of flying, has anyone here ever seen a flying idiot before?”

Cobblepot pauses. Everyone slowly looks up, and up, until they see you perched on top of the ornamental bookshelf.

“They’re about to,” growls one of the goons. He raises the barrel of his gun, but you’re already jumping to avoid the spray of bullets, feet out and aimed right for Cobblepot’s middle.

The force of your jump sends him across the shop. You land much more gracefully, put your hands on your hips, and say happily, “Now everyone has.”

The goons open fire.

Jason flips the table up, then crouches behind it. He pulls Damian down and curls around his soft human body. The Kryptonian kid will be fine. In fact, he’s in front of Dick, doing his best to use his invulnerable skin to deflect any bullets that fly in their direction.

Jason’s teeth grind. He hadn’t brought his helmet because he’s an idiot. There are a couple knives tucked into his left boot, and one handgun hidden in his right, but bullets spew so heavily over their heads that he doesn’t think he can join the fight without his armor.

Bodies hit bodies and people grunt. A man grunts, and you cry out. You grunt, and one of the men cries out.

Dickhead finally does his job. He twists around, face twisted into a snarl, and tackles someone out of sight.

“It’s Signal!” one of the goons screams.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut and covers Damian’s when the force of the sun lights up the room. Judging by a couple screams, the goons weren’t so smart.

When Jason straightens up, two of the goons roll around on the ground, clutching their faces and screaming about going blind. Dick has the other two handcuffed, and Signal has Cobblepot pinned.

Where are you?

Jason scans the entire shop, but he doesn’t see you.

“Todd!” Damian tugs his hand. “This way.”

Jason lets the kid steer him through the shop and out the back door. After a second, he realizes that the kid is following a trail of blood.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

You’re in the alley behind the coffee shop, wedged between two dumpsters. Judging by the smear of blood in front of the one meant for recycling, you collapsed in front of it, then dragged yourself between the two to hide. Blood stains your pale suit from the trail of bullets in your stomach. One of the goons managed to hit you with at least seven. They’re all in a straight line across, too, and Jason would admire the marksmanship if it didn’t mean you’re bleeding out in the middle of an alley.

You rip the fabric of your suit until the torn skin is visible. Then you reach into one wound with your bare fingers. Sharp, pained gasps escape your mouth, sounds that would be screams had you more strength.

You pull out one bullet. It rolls away underneath the dumpster.

Jason drops to his knees. As much as he knows, intellectually, that you won’t die, it’s something else entirely to watch you bleed out. “Ghoul?”

Your helmet lolls. You cough, and red stains your mask from the inside out. “Hey, Jace. Sorry. Give me a sec.”

Damian pushes past Jason. You manually push your legs out of the way so he can crouch next to you, ignoring the puddle of blood growing around his shoes. They’re black, so the stains won’t be visible.

“Hey, bud,” you say weakly. “You okay?”

Damian nods. “I am fine.”

“Fucking Gotham,” you mutter. “Not even nine-thirty…”

Someone gasps behind Jason. He whirls around, ready to defend you when you’re unable to.

Dickhead has one hand over his mouth and another over Jon’s eyes, even though the alien can probably see right through his fingers. “Oh, that’s not good.”

“S’okay,” you say. Try to give them all a thumbs-up. “They nicked my spine, actually, so I can’t feel anything.” You cough again, make a choking sound, and go limp.

Jason feels it when you die. His heart twinges, and everything in his vision goes half a shade grayer. There’s less color when you aren’t in the world.

“Oh, my God.” Dick pulls on his hair. “Oh, my God, they’re dead.”

Jason tilts his head. “You don’t know?” He looks at Damian. “He doesn’t know?”

“I don’t know what?”

“Ghoul’s healing abilities are more advanced than we were led to believe,” Damian says briskly. He pulls tweezers out of somewhere and roots around in your wounds, extracting each small bullet with expert precision.

“Dami, stop that,” Dick says. He pulls out his phone. “We need to call someone. Jason, you stop Damian—”

“He has to remove the bullets before they can heal around them,” Jason says.

Dick stops dialing whatever number he’d thought of. He stares at Jason. “What? Jay, Ghoul’s—”

“Dead.” Jason’s mouth is sticky around the word. “Yeah, I know. But not for long.”

“Whoa,” breathes Jon. “I can see them healing.”

“Okay, someone had better explain to me what’s going on right now.”

Jason opens his mouth to, but then you suck in a deep breath and sit up, patting your stomach to check that you’re intact again.

And. Well. That pretty much explains it all.

You and Jason try to plan a makeup first date four days after, just a quick lunch on your work break, but that’s interrupted by a last-minute order, and you cancel when Jason’s already outside the building with flowers in hand. Then you stop by Jason’s apartment for a bookshop trip, but find him passed out on the ground from several stab wounds, and ‘patching Jason’s wounds and ordering takeout’ doesn’t quite count as a first date. Every time Jason visits, Damian is already there with a smug smile to belittle everything he says. Your relationship deserves a proper first date, with nice clothes and the right setting, and he can’t do that simple thing for you.

Two weeks go by, and Jason still can’t take you out on a proper date. The whole universe, and especially Damian Wayne, are conspiring against him.

But tonight will be the night. Tonight, Jason set up a (fake, he doesn’t want to set the whole building on fire) candlelit dinner in his apartment. Tim has been thoroughly bribed to keep Damian busy no matter what, Cass and Babs are handling Crime Alley, and Nightwing is patrolling your usual stomping grounds. Bruce accepted all this as measures to keep Gotham nightlife on its toes, so Jason doesn’t expect any issues from him.

Tonight, nothing will go wrong.

Only two minutes after the arranged meet time, you knock on his front door, and Jason trips in his haste to answer it. He almost brings down the entire table, but his hand narrowly misses hitting the edge. Jason catches himself against the wall and wrenches the door open.

“Hey, Jay,” you beam. You’re dressed somewhat nice, not that Jason’s complaining, but now he feels overdressed in his button down. At least his feet are bare. Speaking of, where are his socks?

“Hey. How are you doing?”

“I’m good, I—”

You stop short at the sight of the dinner. Jason swallows. Is it too fancy?

Then you snort.

Jason’s chest hurts.

“Sorry, I’m sorry,” you say immediately. “Just—I didn’t think you were the kind of guy to celebrate every milestone.”

“What?”

“Well, I mean, this is our two-week anniversary, right?” You step further into the room and shed your jacket. “It’s sweet, Jay, really, but it’s really not necessary. Between the two of us, I’ll probably forget our one-year anniversary, so at least you’re good with dates.”

“Hang on,” Jason interrupts. “What do you mean, it’s our two-week anniversary?”

“Um, yeah?” You give him a weird look. “It’s been two weeks since we started dating. Or did I get the dates wrong?”

“We’re dating?” Jason squeaks.

You squint, open your mouth, and check the date on your phone. You close your mouth and say hesitantly, “Aren’t we?”

“You never told me that!”

“I didn’t realize it needed to be said!”

Jason splutters. Of course it needed to be said! “I never asked you to be my partner!”

“Well, duh, but you asked me out and brought flowers to my work.” You put a hand on your hip and pop it out. “I thought we would work out the details later. Look, am I wrong? Did I interpret this all wrong?”

Jason could rip his own hair out. “I’ve been trying to take you on one good date this whole time!”

Your face is blank for a while. Then you cover your mouth too late to hide your snort. “Sorry, sorry.” Your hands flap in the air, then you give him an apologetic look and set them straight at your side. “I’m being serious. Just, hon, what about the other dates weren’t good?”

Jason bluescreens at the nickname. He’s not sure how long he stares at you, but once his brain reboots and he realizes he’s standing like a creep, he wipes his chin to make sure there’s no drool on it, then says, “I didn’t even say anything to you when I dropped off the flowers!”

“Yes, I was on call, but I appreciated the gesture.”

“Then that other time, I nearly bled out and stained your clothes with my blood.”

“Yeah.” You bite your lip. “That was kind of stressful, but you weren’t in any real danger of bleeding out. I would have freaked out a lot more if that was the case. Besides, I like taking care of you.”

You have got to stop saying cute shit like that, because Jason’s whole face heats up like a tomato and he can’t muster up any real words. What is it about you that turns him into such an idiot?

“Every time I go to your place, Damian’s there.”

“Damian is literally always at my apartment. I’m afraid that you’ll see even more of your brother if you really start dating me. Since we haven’t been already.”

Jason sheepishly rubs the back of his neck as you sidle closer and grab his other hand. Your fingers intertwine with his. “I guess that was kind of stupid of me, huh?”

You shrug. “Not stupid. A little silly. But still cute.” You bounce on your toes and give Jason a look, and all he can think is Oh my God.

Because this is it.

He might have read everything else wrong, but Jason is pretty damn sure that you want him to kiss you for the first time. He might be awful, might be the worst goddamn person you’ve ever kissed, but he’s willing to practice until he’s the best.

Jason’s neck cranes. He leans down and you lean up, eyes fluttering shut, and…

Your phone rings.

Everything pauses. Your eyes open, and a crinkle appears between your brows. “I should take this.” You silence the sound, then look over the electronic screen. Jason doesn’t peek, although his Bat-paranoia is begging for him to.

“Isn’t your ringer always off?”

“Yeah, it’s, um… it’s an alarm,” you say.

You’re a terrible liar.

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” You smile, but this time it looks forced. “I’ll see you later, Jay.” Instead of trying for a kiss again, you trap his arms to his side in a bear hug, then dart out the door.

Jason sticks his head into the hallway and shouts, “Are we still getting coffee tomorrow?” That was his backup plan for if something fucked up this attempt at a first date.

And something did.

You’re already gone.

He goes to your weekly coffee spot anyway in the vain hope you’ll show up. Nine o’clock passes, then nine-thirty, then ten.

After two hours of waiting, Jason has to concede that you’re not showing up.

The moment he stands, someone clears their throat, and when he looks back, Damian is in the chair across from him.

“Do you ever go to school?”

“At approximately nine-forty last evening,” started the brat, but Jason cut him off.

“Not interested in whatever tantrum you’re pitching now.”

“Sit down, Todd.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I know where Y/N is.”

Jason sits down.

Damian clears his throat again. “At approximately nine-forty last evening, Barry Allen sent a distress signal to the Justice League. Batman went to Star City to investigate, and he took Ghoul with him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“How should I know, you insufferable hooligan?”

Seriously. Victorian child. It was honestly ridiculous.

Damian lost a bit of confidence. “I am…” He bit his lip. “Worried.”

“Why?”

“I have not heard from Father or Y/N since their departure.”

Shit.

Jason shot to his feet. “Do we have a zeta to Star City?”

Damian scoffed. “Of course.”

“Good. We’re going to use it.”

“Affirmative.”

Jason drags the kid by the collar of his shirt. His bike is too far, so Jason hotwires a car and hauls ass to the Cave. Everyone else in this stupid nocturnal family is still asleep, so no one interrupts them when Damian turns off the zeta’s parental override and plugs in their coordinates. It’s a good thing he keeps a spare suit in the Cave; he hadn’t even thought to grab it from his apartment.

Jason takes a deep breath before stepping through. He’s had some time to think, so he knows exactly what he wants to say. He’ll apologize. He’ll ask to work through why you think your pain is such a non-issue that you’ll throw yourself at death headfirst. You’ll explain your thoughts, and agree to start thinking about your own health, and then maybe you’ll say ‘I love you’ to each other and kiss and live the rest of your lives happily ever after.

Jason steps into a tornado.

A metal plate zips by so close it nearly shears off his nose. Jason cries out and stumbles back, tripping over Damian as he emerges from the zeta.

“Are you sure you took us to the right place?” he shouts over the whirlwind screaming in his ears.

“Of course!” Damian yells back. “I do not make mistakes.”

“Then what the hell is going on here?”

“Unclear! The zeta should have put us in STAR labs!”

Jason stares at the big metal contraption in front of them. “I think it did.”

“What?”

He shouts, “I think it did!”

If Jason is ever going to look at a machine and think, Wow. That looks exactly like a time machine, this is that machine. It’s almost too massive to take in. And something is definitely wrong with it, unless lightning is supposed to be crackling around it and its metal plates are supposed to be peeling off.

Why had the Flash called Batman to help? What could Bruce do that a speedster couldn't?

“He’s gonna kill me for bringing Robin here,” Jason groaned.

Damian shouted, “What?”

“Nothing!”

Something yellow zips in front of them, and all of a sudden Jason can hear. His stomach just about falls out between his teeth when he pukes.

Damian doesn’t puke, although he does look queasy.

They’re now in another room in the lab. Thick glass windows separate them from the tornado. Watching the metal whirl around is kind of hypnotizing.

“Sorry,” says the Flash. “That happens a lot, actually.”

When Jason looks up, Batman and Ghoul are glaring at him. Funny how he can tell, even though neither vigilante’s mask exposes much (or all) of their face.

“Red Hood,” growls Batman, “what are you and Robin doing here?”

Jason looks past him and says to you, “Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving?”

Flash looks between you and Jason and coughs into his hand, “Awkward.”

You roll your eyes beneath your mask. “I thought this would take an hour, tops.”

“Things have gotten… out of hand,” says Batman, which is akin to someone else screaming about the apocalypse and end of all humanity.

“Two important pieces in the collider disconnected early this morning,” says Flash.

“Okay,” says Jason. “So put them back together?” Aren’t these two supposed to be Earth’s smartest heroes?

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Quantum mechanics,” says Batman. “Too complicated to explain.”

You whisper behind your hand, “He’s been trying to help me understand all night.”

“So there’s technically good and bad news,” says Flash. “Good news: the malfunction is fixable. Now. It wasn’t before. Bad news: holding the machine together while it resets will kill you of radiation that unwinds your DNA. Good news: if I vibrate at just the right frequency, I may survive.”

“Okay, great,” says Jason. “What are you waiting for?”

“For you four to get out of range of the blast zone, mostly,” Flash says. “There is a small non-zero chance that the whole building will combust.”

“Five minutes should do it,” Batman growls. “Come along, Robin.”

Instead of coming along, Damian says, “What is that?” and points over Batman and Flash’s shoulders.

Everyone turns to look.

“I don’t see anything,” says Jason. He turns around to see Damian’s arms wrapped tight around your middle. By the time Flash and Batman turn back around, the boy’s arms are crossed over his chest as if nothing happened.

“Apologies,” Damian says stiffly. “I must have imagined it.”

Batman knows his son well, and he eyes Damian suspiciously, but at that moment a piece of debris hits the glass at the right angle, and shoots into the room. Flash jumps out of the way and it buries into the wall behind him.

The tornado’s cacophony is even louder, if that’s possible. Flash blurs into motion, and the ground pulls away from Jason. When he stops moving at the speed of light, he’s crouched beneath a desk next to you. Damian and Batman are together under the desk to your right.

Jason peers around the edge. All he can see of Flash is a yellow blur darting all over the machine. For a moment the wind stops, and every piece of debris clatters into the walls, then onto the floor. Jason’s ears ring.

“Is that it?”

There’s a tremendous crash, and Flash slams into the wall. The force of it holds him there for a moment, and then he tumbles to the ground, unconscious.

Batman darts out from the desk to pull the man’s body to safety. He taps Flash’s cheek, but the man doesn’t stir.

Well, shit. How long can they wait for Flash to wake up?

You say something, but Jason doesn’t hear. He shouts, “What?”

Your hands pull at your mask, and you yank it off, ruffling your hair. Jason smoothes it away from your face on instinct.

“Just tell me what to do,” he shouts.

Your eyes close against the wind. Tears escape the corners of both.

Jason feels your gentle fingers around the edge of his mask, and he helps you remove it. “What is it, Y/N?”

“I’m sorry,” you say. “This isn’t fair.”

“We can—why are you saying this?” His eyes dart between you and Batman. The tornado in the other room is growing worse by the second, but he’s just looking at you two like some soap opera.

“Hey!” Your fingers latch in the front of his collar, and you yank Jason’s surprised mouth down onto yours. Your noses bump, and he forgets to breathe (he should joke that you take his breath away when all this is over) but it’s… It’s perfect.

His first kiss.

Damian yells, “Gross!”

You pull back. A brilliant smile lights up your face. “Hey. I love you.”

“I love you too,” Jason breathes.

Metal clicks around his wrist.

Jason looks at the handcuff, not really understanding your plan until you latch the other cuff around one of the desk’s bolted-down legs. “Don’t you dare,” he says. Jerks his wrist back. The cuff clatters but holds.

“I’ve got a chance.”

“Not a good one!”

“I’ll see you in a sec.” You stand up.

“What are you doing?” Damian hollers.

“Don’t do this!” Jason shouts. He fights with the handcuffs, and they creak, but he won’t get out of them in time to stop you. Anxious desperation courses through his veins. “Y/N, get back here!”

Damian’s head whips between you and Jason. His eyes widen, and he lunges out from behind the desk to stop you, but Batman catches him around the middle and hauls him back kicking and screaming.

You shout to Batman, “Get them out of here!”

The cowled man looks at you for a long moment. Jason’s spirits rise: will Batman stop you?

But then he nods smartly, giving you permission to exit the room and enter the tornado. Batman tears the door handle off seconds before Robin hits it, banging his fists on the metal and screaming your name. He lets Robin tire himself out doing that and crosses over to Jason. “Will you fight me?”

Jason stares at his father, tears brimming in his eyes. “How could you let them do that?”

Voice completely emotionless, Batman says, “It was the most practical risk to take.”

“I hate you.”

“That’s okay.” Batman crouches and reaches a hand out. He strokes Jason’s hair twice, the way he used to when they were younger, and Jason hates the way he leans into it. “I’ll be back for you, then.” He straightens and barks, “Robin, to me!”

Damian whirls around, teeth bared in a feral snarl. “I will not leave Ghoul!”

Jason can’t hear whatever Bruce says to him, but somehow he persuades Damian to help pick Flash’s limp body off the ground. With a flourish of capes, they disappear, and Jason’s left alone, handcuffed to a desk, listening to the tornado in the next room tear apart the love of his life.

The wind crescendos.

Abates.

The building holds its breath, and then—

Whoosh.

Jason curls up into as tight a ball as possible, teeth gritted against the terrible flooding heat. If not for the shelter of an entire wall and desk separating him from the flames, Jason would be burnt alive. No one could withstand—

Jason whirls around and screams, “Y/N!” The stupid fucking handcuff, he pulls against it, and it bites into his wrist, drawing blood. “Fuck, I’m being so fucking stupid—”

Jason braces the metal chain against one of his knives and applies pressure until it snaps. Then he’s up, feet skidding over glass and metal shards, and he bursts through the door to the particle collider. “Y/N! Ghoul!” He can hear his own panicked breathing, but he can’t regulate it.

You’re okay. You have to be okay. You survived a broken neck, severed spinal cord, and seven bullet wounds to the abdomen. Just because Jason can’t find your body doesn’t mean anything. Just because the room is filled with ash and dust and dirt and no fucking body doesn’t mean anything.

Jason screams your name until his throat is raw. The particle collider is ruined, partially collapsed, and Jason slices open his palms on jagged edges trying to shove it away. Are you stuck beneath it? Jason doesn’t even know what parts were broken.

Something clatters behind him, and Jason whirls around, but it’s just Batman.

Surveying the damage, the man abruptly looks old beyond his years. He barely spares Jason a glance before beginning his own search for you.

“Y/N! Please!” Jason begs. “You can’t be dead, you promised—”

“Red Hood,” Batman says, and his voice is so raw that Jason whirls around.

There’s a pale-clothed arm in Batman’s arm. Jason gasps.

Then he sees that it’s attached to a torso.

Batman grunts and tugs, and the rest of you slips out from under a thick sheet of metal. “Oh, fuck,” Jason says hoarsely. He stumbles over the mess and falls to his knees in front of you. “You smart little asshole, you—” Jason feels for a pulse.

Nothing.

What had Flash said? The radiation unwinds your DNA? Is that something Professor Pyg’s sick experimentation could protect you from?

“Hood,” Batman says.

“No.”

“Hood—”

“Fuck off, B.”

Instead of fucking off, the older man pulls down his cowl and sinks to Jason’s level. “You’re bleeding, son.”

“It’s fine,” Jason mutters. His hands are rubbing it onto your suit, but you’re good at getting bloodstains out of the fabric. It’ll be okay. “Come on, Y/N.” His lower lip wobbles, but Jason resists the stone forming in his throat. You’re fine. You’ve always been fine.

Maybe you just need to breathe better. Jason rips off your mask, but that doesn’t help. Maybe he needs to breathe. He removes his own helmet, but that, too, makes little difference.

Physically, you look fine. Jason doesn’t see a single wound.

Of course, it would be hard for the naked eye to recognize unwound DNA, wouldn’t it?

Jason abruptly has a rush of sympathy for Dr. Fries. He doesn’t give a shit how long it takes or if the technology hasn’t been invented yet, your DNA is getting re-wound.

Then you suck in a deep breath. Your eyes fly open.

DC taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3

forever taglist

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[rambling-at-midnight]

hello! your writing is actually a gift to this world💕 is a part 2 to second chances in the foreseeable future? thank you and much love from chicago🥰

-🪷anon

Hello to Chicago from Vermont 👋! Honestly I wasn’t planning on writing a sequel but I will since you requested. Give me a couple days to come up with a plot!

[rambling-at-midnight]

just read your please come home fic and first of all AMAZING i rlly rlly rlly loved it. second of all i’m shaking jeez it’s 1am and i’m scared help MDHXKDHXKJSKSHSKSJSKKS i swear i read this SO TENSE

Omg I’m so sorry literally the only reason I wrote it is because two nights ago I scared the bejeezus out of myself at midnight because I saw my own shadow on the wall and thought there was someone else in my apartment lmao

[rambling-at-midnight]

Please Come Home

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: You never realized how many places there were to hide in your apartment, but you’re pretty sure someone else is in here with you. Whatever they want isn’t good.

Word count: 3.3k

TW: home invasion, violence, curses as insults

Your spare key is missing.

Fuck. You always keep it in this drawer. Where the fuck is it?

When you told Jason he could just grab your keys to take your car instead of his bike to the store, you’d been relying on using your spare to lock up the apartment when you left for work. You never, ever moved it, but it was gone all the same. Did he take it instead of your keychain? Nope, that’s missing from its hook next to the front door.

When was the last time you used it? Not too long ago. Had you been careless about putting it back?

You text Jason, Did you grab my spare key?

Shit. You had to leave for work, like, five minutes ago, and you have no key to lock the front door.

At least you have a fire escape. You bolt the door from the inside, then slip out the window. You can’t latch it from the outside, but it’s a little harder to break in through the window than the front door.

You’re only two minutes late to your waitressing shift. Your manager swipes you in, lets you know that a server called out so you’ll be handling two sections today, and the host runs up to tell you that you’ve already been sat.

In the middle of the shift, when you have a minute to catch your breath, you check your phone. Jason had texted, No, I took your keychain. Is your spare missing?

I think I lost it.

I’ll look for it when I come home before patrol. Will I see you before heading out?

Not looking like it. Things haven’t slowed down at all.

I’ll see you when I get home, then. Don’t wait up.

I’ll have dinner in the fridge when you get back. Gotta get back to work. Love you

I love you, too.

A couple hours later, Jason texts that he has no luck locating your spare. Since he’s paranoid, he’s going out for a new lock tomorrow, but there’s important business with a drug ring that he can’t miss tonight.

That’s okay. It’ll be a pain to climb up the fire escape, but you don’t really mind that much. You’ve been meaning to get more exercise, anyway.

You finish work at six and the walk back to your apartment building is pretty peaceful. Unusual for Gotham.

It lulls you into a false sense of security.

You’re not really in the mood for leftovers, and not really in the mood to cook. You stare between your phone and the pantry. Takeout is easy. So is pasta.

With a sigh, you decide to spare your bank account. Delivery fees are getting ridiculous nowadays.

You text Jason just to see how his night is going. You’re not sure he’ll respond; sometimes, like during stakeouts, he turns his phone off completely so the sound or vibrate doesn’t reveal his presence. He doesn’t respond after a minute, which means he’s busy. You sigh and set down your phone, then change into comfier clothes. As soon as you’re out of your room, you grab a pot and box of pasta. You can’t sit down, or you’ll put off dinner for at least another hour.

The water is set to boil when you turn around to look at your phone, vaguely hoping Jason has responded by now.

Your phone isn’t on the counter.

You frown. You’re pretty sure you left it there.

Maybe it’s in the pantry when you grabbed the pasta?

It’s not.

You must have left it in your room when you changed. You check, and it’s sitting right on your bedside table. “Jeez,” you mutter, picking it up and slipping it into your pocket. After a long day, it’s okay to be scatterbrained, but this is a bit much.

Still no response from Jason.

You walk out of the bedroom to see that the stove turned itself off and the pasta water is barely warm. “Gotham appliances are such pieces of shit,” you mutter. You know what, fine. A shower and feeling clean will make you feel better to try again. The saying is that a watched pot never boils, but hopefully a watched Gotham stove never turns itself on and off randomly while you cook.

The apartment’s a bit chilly, so you take your pajamas with you into the bathroom and sit under the water spray until all the grime of the day washes away. It’s a bad habit, but you bring your phone with you in the shower to scroll through social media until your skin starts to get pruny. You step out, wrapping the towel around yourself in a vain attempt to stop shivering, and… your pajamas are gone.

The pajamas that you’re sure you took with you. You distinctly remember putting them on the sink counter.

And now they’re gone.

Something clenches in your stomach. You text Jason, Hey are you home yet?

He doesn’t respond right away.

Jay, this isn’t funny.

Still nothing.

Is it possible you forgot to bring the clothes with you? No, you distinctly remember the thought process.

Someone moved them, and you can’t think of s single reason anyone you know would do that. That kind of prank isn’t funny.

You text Jason, I think there is someone in the house with me. Then you try calling him.

You go straight to voicemail.

You bite your lip, trying hard not to panic. Jason never sends you to voicemail. He’s answered your calls in the middle of shootouts, voice strained, “Hey, kinda busy right now, is it an emergency?”

His phone is turned off, so who knows when he’ll see your texts. He might not turn it on again for hours.

You text your best friend, I think someone broke into my house. Don’t call me. Please help.

You chew on your thumbnail.

Either she calls the cops, or she shows up with a baseball bat and her scary-ass motorcycle dude boyfriend. He’s secretly a softie, but his appearance doesn’t match his personality.

He’s a lot like Jason, actually. Who would have thought you two had the same type?

You call Jason again.

Voicemail.

Again.

Voicemail.

Your best friend texts, Omw. That’s it, but it’s the best text you’ve ever seen in your life.

Okay. Either cower in the bathroom until someone shows up, or play along with the same game the possibly-real-intruder is playing, that everything is normal.

No matter what happens next, you want to be dressed for it. You peek under the door, but you don’t see anyone’s feet.

Maybe this is all in your head, but you have a terrible gut feeling that it isn’t.

Your heart pounds, but you maintain a leisurely stroll into your room through the kitchen, palming a knife as you go, and locking the door behind you. The intruder may be in your closet, so you hold the knife out as you swing the door open.

Empty.

You throw on the first clothes you see and debate hiding in your room until your friend arrives. But adrenaline is pumping and you think you might shake out of your skin. You sit on the edge of the bed and take deep breaths.

There’s a window in your room, but it only opens three inches and it’s not connected to the fire escape, so that’s not an option. The window that leads to the fire escape is in the main room, so you’d have to walk through the kitchen to get to it, and the intruder may be hiding in the pantry.

You could try the front door, but the storage closet is right next to it: another likely place for someone to hide and jump out at you.

Your room is only as safe as the strength of the door. And the wood is pretty thin.

All of a sudden, your phone buzzes, and you drop it. You snatch it up to see an incoming call lighting up the screen with your boyfriend’s handsome contact photo.

You accept the call immediately. “Jay?”

“I’m on my way,” he rushes out. You hear the roar of his motorcycle in the background. “Are you okay?”

“I’m okay.” You whisper, “I think someone is here.”

“I know.” His voice is strained. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to be fine. I’m five minutes away. Can you get out?”

“I don’t know. I’m in my bedroom, I locked my door. I think he’s hiding somewhere in the apart—”

A hand shoots out from under the bed and grabs your ankle.

You scream.

Your phone flies away when he yanks you off the bed. You go down swinging with the knife and make contact, accidentally swiping your own ankle in the process. The man grunts with pain and lets go, and you scramble to the door. You don’t even feel the pain in your ankle, although you’re actually bleeding a lot.

He’s wriggling out from under your bed when you get to your feet and twist the doorknob. “Get the fuck out of my house, you fucking pervert!” you scream. You yank the door open and run…

Right into a stranger’s chest.

There are two of them?

An iron grip clamps over your shoulder. His other hand fists in your hair. “Well, hello, pretty. You’re not the Red Hood.”

You stab him in the stomach.

Unfortunately, that only makes him mad.

“You bitch,” he groans. The slap is so powerful it nearly breaks your neck. You can’t breathe for a second, and then the first man catches up to you. His hand is bleeding. Like, a lot. They transfer you over so the stabbed man can groan about being stabbed. It’s only in his gut, so he should be fine. “Walk it off,” you goad. It’s the Gotham in you.

The first man digs his bloody knuckles into your cheek. “Fucking whore cut me,” he says. “Where’s the Red Hood?”

“He’ll kill you both,” you spit. “He’s on his way to shoot you in the head.” The threat should have scared them, but they were dumb enough to break into the Red Hood’s apartment and beat his partner. They had not been blessed with many braincells.

“Good,” he says. “He’ll get here just in time to see his pretty pet die.”

Someone pounds on the door and everyone freezes. Fear flashes over their face, but Jason wouldn’t have knocked. He would have kicked the door down or gone through the window.

Your best friend calls your name through the door. She’s trying to sound casual, but things are so far past casual.

The man holding you sees you draw in a breath to scream. “Don’t you dare,” he warns. “Do it and I’ll kill them, too.” The barrel of a gun presses to the side of your head.

Where is Jason?

You don’t think he’ll get here in time. He doesn’t deserve to carry the weight of that failure, but he will. Your Jay thinks he’s responsible for every bad thing in the world.

The man’s ugly face explodes.

You register the concussive sound of gunfire half a second later. Your ears ring. You lose your balance.

More gunfire. It’s so loud all you can do is cover your ears. Who’s shooting who?

It stops as suddenly as it started, but you don’t look up. You can’t hear anything. You don’t want to see their ugly faces anymore.

Then hands grab you again, and you shriek. Your kitchen knife is still buried in the second man’s gut, so you have no defense. A man with a gun is going to kill you in your apartment.

Despite all your attempts at fighting, he’s too strong. Iron hands pry your hands away from your head, but you still can’t hear anything. Your ears are still ringing too loud. Your eardrums might have burst.

Then gloved hands cup your cheeks.

You know those gloves.

Jason is kneeling on the ground in front of you, absolutely frantic. His mouth moves, but you don’t hear anything. You don’t even hear your sob, but you definitely feel it right before you throw yourself at him.

Strong arms wrap around your back. Jason cradles you, hugs you so tight you can’t breathe, tries to hide you from anyone that might hear you. You still can’t make out his words, but you’re beginning to hear a muffled voice.

You’re sitting completely in his lap, his legs behind you to support your back. You cling to him, trying not to shake. You’re a pretty unflappable Gothamite, but a home invasion is enough to rattle anyone. You’re supposed to be safe here.

Jason pulls away just enough to kiss your forehead. His green eyes squeeze tight like he’s in pain, and a single tear slips from the corner of one.

You wipe it away.

Jason wipes the blood on your cheek away.

You read his lips when he asks if you’re okay. You nod. You’re alive, and that’s what matters.

Jason holds you still when you try to look around. He says something that you can’t read. He must know that you don’t understand, because he just uses one huge hand on the back of your head to pull you forward. His mouth presses against your forehead, not quite a kiss, just relishing the connection.

You hear the banging first. Then you hear the shouting.

Oh, God. Your best friend.

You scramble out of Jason’s hold so fast he can’t stop you. You stumble past two dead bodies, both with three bullets in their heads. The floor is ruined beyond belief.

Jason helps support you. He needs to touch you somewhere to reassure himself that you’re okay, that you’re alive. You unlock the door, and barely open it a crack before your friend pushes it all the way open.

She gasps at the sight of you. “Oh, my God!” Her arms wrap tight around your neck, and you squeeze her. Jason’s hand remains pressed against your back. Her boyfriend stands behind her in the hallway, and he eyes Jason somewhat suspiciously. The two have never met before.

Your best friend pulls away, and Jason folds you against his side. His hand runs up and down your arm.

“Are you okay? There’s blood all over you.” Her eyes drift past your face and land on the bodies on your floor. Her mouth tightens, but she doesn't scream or call the cops immediately.

“It’s not mine,” you say faintly. “Well…” You look at your ankle. “Most of it.”

“Jesus,” says Jason. “They did that to you?”

"I did it to myself," you admit. "But I stabbed that one." You point.

He kisses the top of your head. "I'm going to teach you how to defend yourself. I never should have left you alone." Jason fixes your friend with a look so stern that she actually gulps. "Can you watch them for a little bit?"

"Yeah," she says. "I'll take care of them."

"Good." Jason takes your face in his hands. His eyes blaze. "I'll be back as soon as I can. You hear me? You're not gonna be alone ever again."

You nod numbly.

Jason carries you to the couch, then coaches your friend through applying pressure to your ankle. He gently places an icepack in your hand, then moves you until it's pressed to your numb cheek. Then he kisses you. Pulls back. Kisses you again. It's not sweet—he tastes like blood, or maybe you do—but it's firm, and it's real, and it's a promise.

He stands up and asks your friend's boyfriend, "You wanna help me with these?"

As far as you know, the other man's never hidden a dead body in his life. But to his credit, he hardly hesitates before nodding.

Jason's already calling someone when he walks out. One of his criminal contacts, you're sure. You don't know and you don't want to know.

They're gone for twenty minutes. You're still in shock when they get back. You know you're in shock, but you can't snap out of it. You don't think you want to.

He gently nudges your friend's hands away to peek under the gauze. "You want stitches for this, honey?"

You shake your head. The cut's too close to bone, and you don't want a needle going anywhere near your bones.

"Okay." He changes the gauze, then tapes it in place, then puts a sticky wrap over that. "I'll change this in the morning. You're gonna be okay."

"I'm glad you're all right," your friend's boyfriend offers. You don't know each other all that well, but he just helped hide two bodies that you and Jason killed, so he must be an all right dude. You nod, give him a shaky smile, try to wave.

Your best friend bends over to hug you. "I'm going to text you in the morning," she says. "You'll be okay with Jason. I'm so proud of you. I'm so glad you're okay."

You hug her back until she puts the icepack back in the freezer.

When they leave, Jason stands up from the couch. You make a pleading, confused noise in the back of your throat, and he smooths your hair away from your face. "I'll be right back, honey," he promises. "I'm gonna lock the door. No one's ever getting to you again, you hear me?"

As soon as he pulls away, you shiver. The only thing keeping you warm was his body.

True to his word, he locks the front door, then heads right back to you.

"Do you want to go to the bedroom?" Jason asks softly.

You shake your head. There was a man hiding beneath your bed tonight. It was worse than any monster you used to be scared of as a child.

"Okay," he says softly. Jason eases onto the couch, but he has so much bulk that it's impossible to lay side-by-side on your backs. Jason twists onto his side, and after a moment, you do too, using one of his massive biceps as a pillow. He smells like gunpowder. You smell like blood. You fit together like two terrible, violent puzzle pieces.

He kisses your forehead again. Pulls a blanket over the two of you, makes sure it's snug around your feet. You enjoy the fussing.

When he has nothing left to fiddle with, Jason sucks in a ragged inhale, then says, voice cracking, "When I saw those texts, I was terrified."

"I'm glad you checked your phone," you say. "For a while, I thought you wouldn't."

"I could feel that something was wrong."

Your throat hurts. "Did you mess up your mission tonight because of me?"

"Honey, I would do anything for you," he says. "I'd abandon a thousand missions to keep you safe. I'd burn this city to the ground."

Another night, you would remind him that he's a hero. That he fights for the greater good. That he is good.

Tonight, you take comfort in the vow.

"I'm so proud of you," he whispers. "You were so brave. You did so well."

Your fingers twist in his shirt. Your nose nestles into the hollow at the base of his throat perfectly, so you hear every breath he takes, every rumble in his throat when he talks. You press a kiss to his chest just above the neckline of his shirt, and his throat jumps.

Jason makes a strangled noise, then wraps his arms even tighter around you. He throws one leg over your hip, completely covering you, pressing you into the couch. You would feel suffocated if it was anyone else.

You fall asleep faster than you ever have before, secure that Jason won't let anything happen to you during the night. The last thing you register before unconsciousness is his dry lips pressed to your forehead again. Making sure you're alive. Reassuring you that he's here and always will be.

DC taglist:

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts

Forever taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

Let me know any requests you guys have or if you want to be added to a taglist!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Second Chances

Summary: It’s not common knowledge that you have a superpower: regeneration. You didn’t think that would be a problem... Jason and Damian think otherwise.

Relationships: Jason Todd x Vigilante!Reader, Damian Wayne & Jason Todd & Reader (platonic because they’re brothers duh)

DAMIAN WAYNE IS MY SON I LOVE HIM SO MUCH (I just watched the Supersons movie he makes me smile so hard)

Word Count: 4.8k

Content warning for temporary character death. Reader’s vigilante name is Ghoul, BTW.

Jason is in the shower when he hears someone break into his apartment.

He groans, makes sure all the shampoo is rinsed out of his hair, then grabs the knife mounted to his curtain rod. It’s not the first time someone has attacked him in the shower, and it probably won’t be the last. Still, Jason wishes they would at least give him time to grab a towel. It’s just as uncomfortable for him as it is for them.

This time, they actually do. Maybe they’re going to be polite enough to wait for him to finish cleaning all of Gotham’s sludge off his body. Jason would appreciate the sentiment more if the upcoming fight wouldn’t immediately dirty his body again with their blood.

He doesn’t turn off the shower when he steps out, dries his feet on the bath mat. He’s reaching for his towel when he hears one of the intruders say something.

He recognizes that voice.

Jason sticks his head out of the bathroom and glowers. “What are you doing here, brat?”

Damian Wayne, one of Bruce Wayne’s many children and the current Robin, scowls right back. “Why is your shower still running, Todd? Do you not care for conservation efforts? There are people in Michigan who would—”

“Okay, Dami,” interrupts another voice.

Jason’s whole body flushes. He makes sure every part of him except his face is hidden behind the door when a second person comes into view.

Your vigilante costume is zipped halfway, the top pulled down and sleeves tied around your waist, exposing the compression shirt with kevlar-like weave you wore beneath it. A large bandage is wrapped around your upper arm, growing redder by the second.

“Hi, Y/N,” Jason says. Does he sound too excited? Does he not sound excited enough?

You just smile. “Hey, Jace. Sorry, we came by for first aid supplies. We’ll be out of your hair in just a sec.”

“No, don’t rush on my account,” Jason says. Does he sound too desperate? “Just give me a—”

He ducks back into the bathroom to turn off the shower after making sure he’s clean and one hundred percent soap-free. Not expecting company, he’d only brought a pair of boxers and military-style shorts in with him. Rushing, hoping you don’t leave before he gets out (Damian can leave, though) he pulls both on and slams the door open.

It hits the wall so hard it rebounds back into Jason’s hand. You jump at the sound, nearly poking Damian with the needle in your hand.

“Watch it, idiot!” Damian snaps. To Jason, he says, “You just dented your wall. Moron.”

“Don’t talk to them like that,” Jason says sternly. God, he knows why the brat is so prickly, but he still got on Jason’s last nerves. He checks the wall, hoping the brat exaggerated, but nope. Another dent to match the nicks, scrapes, and bullet holes that already littered his apartment.

He is never getting back his security deposit.

You’re about to stitch up a cut on Damian’s arm when Jason clucks his tongue. “That doesn’t look good.” The bandage around your arm is sodden with blood.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” you say dismissively. “Ready, Dami?”

Interestingly enough, the brat doesn’t tell you off for giving him a nickname. It seems to be a privilege reserved exclusively for you and Dick; every time Jason tries, he’s vehemently told off.

Then again, his nicknames are usually derogatory. That might contribute to it a little bit.

Damian sets his jaw and you stitch him up quickly, murmuring, “I’m sorry,” every time his fingers twitch—the only indication of pain he’ll show. Jason eyes the bandage around your arm with worry, but the blood stain doesn’t grow any more in the interim.

As soon as you tie off the thread, Damian hops to his feet and scurries for the bathroom. You start to get up, brow pinched with worry, but Jason says, “Let me look at your arm.”

Your eyes take a while to slide from the shut bathroom door to Jason’s face, but then you say, “Yeah, okay,” and sink back into your chair.

To distract you as he unpeels the sticky bandage from your arm, Jason asks, “So you’re on babysitting duty now, huh?”

“Oh, no, Damian and I patrol together every Friday night.” You use finger quotes with the other hand and say, “B think it ‘promotes more accountability’ when someone gets injured during patrol if they have a partner.”

Jason frowns at the sight of the cut. It’s obviously from a knife, and not pretty, exactly, but also not big enough to let out as much blood as soaked through the bandage. “Who did this to you?”

“Just a typical goon. It’s really not a big deal.” Your eyes follow Jason’s gaze. “I guess it bled a lot, huh? Like a head wound. You know, disproportionate.” You tug your sleeve over the wound.

“Y/N is not as weak as the rest of you,” Damian sneers, having vacated the bathroom on silent feet. You jump, and so does Jason, even though he has Batman-honed instincts.

There’s just something intoxicating about your presence. You’re… distracting.

It was manageable back before Jason was Robin and you were one of his classmates. You were obsessed with Batman and crimefighting, and Jason was a bookworm, so your friendship shouldn’t have worked, but it did.

Then, ironically, Bruce Wayne adopted him and Jason became the crimefighter. He never told you about his identity to protect Bruce’s, but you figured it out when he died.

Then he came back to Gotham, hellbent on revenge, and burned every bridge he’d ever built. Including the one with you.

Jason still could barely believe you give him the time of day after all the awful things he’d said and done. But you’re just as obsessed with redemption and forgiveness as Bruce, and he will never take that for granted.

His fascination with you was manageable before Jason died, but it’s downright consuming now.

Jason can’t believe how you’d grown up to be so… so flat-out amazing. Graceful, and maybe not as skilled at hand-to-hand as the rest of Gotham’s vigilantes, but you adapt with a long-range fighting style. You’re strong, and self-assured, and really, seriously gorgeous.

Jason realizes his hand is still on your arm, touching the soft skin, and he yanks it away as if burnt. He doesn’t understand how you remain so scar-free despite years of crimefighting, and he’s abruptly self-conscious about the marks that litter his torso, arms, and legs. Your eyes roam over them, lingering on his chest and stomach

He’s most self-conscious about the jagged ‘J’ carved into his cheek, and Jason tries to cover it with his hand without drawing attention. That doesn’t work—he looks like a weirdo waving his hands around—so he tilts his cheek away so you don’t have to see it anymore.

You clear your throat and look away, as if embarrassed for some reason.

Damian’s gaze pingpongs between the two of you before he rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Are you two finished?”

You push away from the table and make a grabby hand. Damian rolls his eyes again, but he sidles closer, and you check his stitched cut. Your thumb rubs over the raised line of stitches like you’re trying to wipe his pain away.

Jason realizes he’s staring at the bottom lip you’re jutting out in sympathy. He flushes again.

After everything he did, he can’t expect anything more than friendship from you. If that’s what you’re willing to give, he’ll never push for more.

“I am fine, Y/N,” Damian said, pushing your hand away, albeit gently. A hint of whine entered his voice and Jason blinked. It wasn’t often that he heard Damian sound like an actual kid. “Can we resume patrol now?”

“Wait,” Jason hears someone say, and it’s—him, he’s the one saying it. “Are you hungry? I have a casserole in the oven.”

Damian snorts. “My apologies. I did not know you had adopted the personality of a middle-aged white wom—”

You cover Damian’s mouth with your hand and say, “That sounds great, Jay. Thanks.”

Jason’s greedy. He’ll take whatever scraps he can get from you.

The three of you eat, the conversation pleasant whenever Damian isn’t threatening Jason because Jason taunted him. You laugh as they bicker, used to the antics of Gotham’s vigilantes by now.

Once everyone is done, it’s just about time for the Red Hood to start his patrol, so with a little cajoling from you, Damian agrees to let Jason tag along until your patrol ends. Jason suits up, and you lead the charge out of his apartment window, followed by Damian. Jason is last out, stopping briefly to make sure the window latches before stepping off the fire escape.

The sensation of his stomach rising is familiar from so many years of grappling through the city, but no less exhilarating. He follows your and Robin’s flipping shapes as the two of you tear through the city. The bright primary color accents on Robin’s suit and the pale gray color of your own shouldn’t blend in so well with Gotham’s shadows, but you and Damian manage pretty well. It turns into kind of a game of tag, and whenever he gets close enough, you grin and twist away, muffling laughter behind one hand.

He could definitely catch you, but he thinks you’re enjoying the game of cat-and-mouse just as much as he, if not more.

Jason’s just thinking to himself that there’s not much crime tonight when the Batsignal lights up the sky.

“Way to ruin the mood,” he grumbles. The game is over. The three of you grapple toward the giant light without any more flipping or laughter.

Jim Gordon obviously isn’t expecting them when they land. After all, it’s common knowledge that Ghoul is a Bat-affiliate, but Red Hood’s alliance with the Batclan is still relatively new. Shaky.

And a lot of people still think the Red Hood hates Ghoul. Admittedly, the way Jason tried to kill you when he returned hadn’t helped the rumors.

It made sense at the time. He’d also tried to kill Batman, Nightwing, and Robin, so it’s not like it was entirely personal. You don’t hold a grudge.

“Where’s Batman?” is his first question.

You shrug. “Running late.”

Jason’s not sure if that’s true. With you and Robin patrolling Newtown and Otisburg, Spoiler and Red Robin handling everything from the Coventry to the Upper East Side, and Black Bat and Batwing watching over everything else but the Tricorner, the city is in pretty good hands for the night.

And yes, Jason’s knowledge about patrol schedules is from his days as a crime lord, but it still comes in handy as a reformed vigilante.

“Why did you summon us here, Commissioner?” Robin asks.

“Bane escaped Arkham earlier tonight,” says the Commissioner. “We have reason to believe he’s hiding out in Amusement Mile. The Joker’s not out, for one, and we have a… witness… that claims to have seen Bane in the park.”

“Where is this witness?” Robin demands.

“In our holding cell, sobering up,” Gordon says with a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, great,” Jason says. “So it might have been Bane, or it might have been one of those giant stuffed bears at every amusement park.”

You elbow him in the side and promise Gordon, “We’ll check it out, Commish. Let you know when he’s handled again!”

You and Robin balance on the edge of the roof. Jason asks in a low tone, “Batman’s not coming tonight, is he?” He would have already been here.

You and Robin share a guilty look.

Jason sighs. Bane is a tough opponent, possibly their strongest rogue. It’ll take a lot of force to bring him down… force he’s not sure you and Robin can muster. You’re good vigilantes, don’t get him wrong, but Robin is a prepubescent boy and has the height and muscle mass to show for it. You’re strong and graceful and should be fine as long as you keep your distance, but Jason’s the only one that comes close to Bane in terms of muscle mass.

It’ll be up to him to keep the two of you safe.

“I think I parked my bike somewhere around here,” you say. “It’ll get us there faster than grappling.”

Jason thinks something is stuck in his throat. He croaks, “You have a motorcycle?”

You nod. He can’t see your face beneath the mask, but he’s pretty sure you’re smiling. “Got it just a couple weeks ago, but I needed Earl to paint it over.”

“It is parked in that alley.” Robin points.

“Okay,” Jason says. “You two drive to my apartment. I’ll follow above, then we’ll head to Amusement Mile.”

“Aye-aye,” you joke. “Come on, bud.”

You and Robin swing away, the younger boy loudly complaining about the myriad nicknames you think up for him. Jason swings away to get a headstart. A minute later, the sound of a bike engine revving hits Jason’s ears, and it isn’t long after that he looks down to see you and Robin on a pale bike painted in the same colors as your suit.

You look up and wave.

Jason almost misses his next swing. He swallows and has to look away. Seeing you on a motorcycle…

As soon as he puts the key in his bike’s ignition, you speed away, tires squealing against the asphalt. Jason grins and twists the throttle. He shoots onto the street and hunches low to decrease wind resistance, pushing the bike hard to catch up to you.

You wear no helmet, but you’d forced Robin to wear one. He sits behind you on the bike, arms locked around your waist. At the sight of Jason, he makes a rude gesture, but Jason just huffs out a laugh. The brat likes to aggravate him on purpose, but it’s hard to feel annoyed when he drives next to you, racing side-by-side.

It doesn’t take long to reach Amusement Mile. You and Jason shift gears, rolling to a stop.

“You and Robin go high,” Jason instructs. “I’ll go low.”

“Roger.” You kick the stand for your bike, then you and Robin shoot your grapples for the nearest roof.

In seconds, the two of you are out of sight.

Jason swallows. He hates this strip of clown-themed land. The Joker isn’t in it currently, but it still reminds him of that madman.

Come on. He shakes himself. Jason can’t afford to get distracted. Bane is dangerous.

Jason makes no effort to muffle the sounds of his footsteps as he strolls through the park. A plastic bag drifts along the path with a gust of wind, and a couple bowling pins on the ground roll. But apart from that, the park is empty and quiet.

Too quiet.

Jason turns just in time to avoid a crushing blow to his head.

He hits the ground rolling and comes up with guns blazing. Bullets deflect off Bane’s armor, and he doesn’t seem to feel the ones that burrow into his skin.

“You will not stop me, Red Hood,” says the mechanized voice. “No one will stop me in my pursuit to break Batman, even though he sent you in his place.”

“He didn’t send me,” says Jason.

Help comes from above. A steel bola��one of your weapons of choice—whips through the air and wraps around Bane’s throat. He chokes and reaches up to untangle it. At the same time, a Batarang slices through the air and cuts straight through one of the hoses pumping super-steroid into his body.

He groans. Drops to one knee.

Jason spares a glance to the rooftops, but he only sees Robin.

That moment of distraction costs him. Bane surges back to his feet and tackles him. Jason hits the ground, the back of his head colliding against the pavement so hard his vision blacks out for a moment.

He blinks away the darkness in time to see a punishing fist aimed right for his head. There’s not enough time to dodge. Jason can only brace for an impact… that never comes.

The hook of a grapple is embedded into Bane’s wrist. Its line is taught. On the roof of a decrepit popcorn stand, Robin yanks back with all his might.

Jason knees Bane in the crotch, then elbows him in the face.

Bane grunts and yanks his arm forward, pulling Robin right to the ground in a flutter of cape, but Jason slips out from beneath him and rolls to his feet. Bane may be strong, and his hits may hurt, but that’s only if they connect. And Bane isn’t very fast.

The engine of a bike roars, and your voice shouts, “Hood, out of the way!”

Jason obeys without thinking. It’s a good thing he doesn’t hesitate, because he barely dodges your motorcycle before you ram it full-speed into Bane.

Not even the giant can resist a motorcycle going full-throttle. He topples back, and you keep driving, treating his body like a ramp.

Jason laughs despite himself. “I can see tire tracks on your face, ugly!” He and Robin throw knives at the same time. Robin’s slices off another steroid line. Jason’s lodges in Bane’s shoulder. It should have severed his deltoid, leaving his arms useless, but the man doesn’t react to the pain at all.

Getting run over pisses Bane off. You turn in a sharp circle on the bike and rev your engine, obviously ready to try the same trick twice.

But Jason sees the tension in Bane’s legs, and he’s shouting for you to stop after you start.

You don’t listen. You just drive.

Bane sidesteps your bike at the last possible second, and his arm shoots out. His hand is large enough to wrap around your entire throat, and it yanks you off your bike, which skids away with a screech of tire and metal. You choke, scrabbling at the iron fingers around your throat.

Jason has his gun out in a second, but Bane holds your body in front of his. So Jason shoots his foot. It doesn't have an effect.

“Ghoul!” Robin shouts. He unsheathes his katana.

“I tire of this,” Bane says through his modulator.

He snaps your neck.

“NO!”

It’s like the world slows down. Jason can only watch as Bane carelessly drops your lifeless body.

He sees Robin lunge with his sword. He sees Bane casually backhand him so hard he drops his katana. Robin flies backward, hits the popcorn stand, and slumps to the ground, motionless.

Bane steps on you—your body—and something in your spine cracks. Something in Jason’s chest cracks, too, and he sees green.

The Pit surges.

After it recedes, Robin’s katana is lodged firmly in a moaning Bane’s side. Every one of his steroid pumps is severed, and his mask is cracked. He’s weak enough without his Venom that three Bat-restraints and a set of handcuffs can hold him.

Huh. Jason’s surprised he didn’t kill him.

His knuckles are bleeding; they’re slick inside his gloves. When he flexes his fingers, pain screams up his nerves, through his arm all the way to his heart. At least two are broken, and another knuckle might be dislocated. His jaw hurts, his brain is pounding—concussion, probably—and his knee feels swollen. But he can put pressure on it, at least, and he limps to a stirring Robin.

“Hey,” Jason says. His voice is rough. He doesn’t remember yelling. He tries to crouch, but can’t with the stiff knee, so he just kind of collapses in front of the kid. “Robin. Status report.”

The kid looks at him, wobbling even though he’s sitting down. One hand goes up to touch the back of his head, and the tips of his gloves gleam with dark blood when he pulls it back. “Possible concussion,” he says with a wavering voice. “Ribs—”

Robin gasps and stumbles to his feet.

“Don’t—”

Jason tries to grab him, but Robin wobbles out of his reach. He walks hunched over in a zigzag, limping to your—

Jason grunts and stands back up. “Hey, hey, Robin.” He gets between the kid and you. “Don’t. Don’t—don’t look.”

“Do not stop me, Todd,” hisses the kid, and wow, he must be seriously out of it to use Jason’s civilian name. “Let me see them.”

“You don’t want to,” Jason says grimly. He’s seen snapped necks before, and they’re… Well, they’re as unnatural-looking as they sound.

He hears a rushing in his ears. A wave of grief is cresting, ready to sweep him away, but Jason has to keep it together for Robin. He barely hears his own voice when he says, “Ghoul’s gone.” He can’t say the ‘D’ word. Not when he feels like puking.

“Unhand me, you blackguard,” Robin hissed. “You do not understand. They might be—”

“They’re not.”

“Todd!” the kid says, voice rising into a shrill.

Something clicks behind them.

Jason whirls around to make sure Bane hasn’t broken out of his restraints.

He hasn’t.

So what made the noise?

He and Robin are looking right at the body when some invisible force takes your head and—and wrenches it.

Robin lets out a low cry.

Jason feels frozen. He doesn’t stop the kid when he stumbles forward and collapses next to the body. His shoulders shake, head bowed with grief.

Jason is still watching when he sees your chest rise and fall with a breath.

“Oh, what the fuck,” he whispers, stumbling back. “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the—”

Your head raises, and you reach to your neck with a wince.

Robin freezes.

“Ow,” you grumble, pushing up to your elbows. “That sucked.”

“What the fuck?” Jason exclaims.

“What is going on?” Robin demands.

You look between the two vigilantes. “Sorry to freak you out, guys.” Which is a completely underwhelming thing to say when you just died and then unsnapped your own neck.

Robin makes a low, wounded sound, then throws himself at you, wrapping his arms around your neck and squeezing hard. You hug him back just as tight, murmuring low things that Jason tries not to hear. It’s a personal moment, and he feels like an intruder, but he can’t move. His feet are planted to the ground.

Seconds ago, you’d been dead. No doubt about it. Bane had snapped your neck and you had crumbled like paper.

Now you’re breathing and alive.

It doesn’t compute. It doesn’t make any sense.

Robin comes to the same conclusion, because he pulls away and pinches your arm. “How is this possible?”

“Bud, do you remember when… you remember when Pyg got me, right?”

“Of course.”

“Well, I don’t,” says Jason. Professor Pyg kidnapped you? What the fuck? When did that happen?

You look up at him, still holding Robin close. “We weren’t exactly on speaking terms when it happened, Hood.”

Oh.

“But Father ran his tests and said his experimentation just gave you advanced healing,” says Robin.

“Which is technically true—”

“Resurrection is quite different from healing!” the kid says.

“Wait, you knew they had powers?” Jason asks Robin.

The kid sneers at him. “Of course. I was the one that found Ghoul, and I patrol with them at least once a week. It would take an unobservant fool to miss their obvious healing abilities."

Jason bristles with indignation.

Robin's head turns on a swivel to glare at you. "It was less obvious that you have nothing to fear from physical injuries. Informing me of this fact would have greatly reduced the chances of experiencing emotional distress at the sight of your dead, mangled body."

"I know," you say, cupping his chin in your hand. "I'm really, really sorry, Dami."

"Do not address me as such," he says, "we are in costume." Robin huffs and scrambles out of your lap, brushing debris off his suit. Then he wobbles and nearly falls over, and you lunge to catch him.

"Woah, bud, you okay?"

"He's concussed," Jason says.

"Too concussed to ride on the back of my bike?"

"Of course not," says Robin. Then he leans over and pukes.

"Oh, Batman's gonna kill me," you mutter.

It's a much tamer drive to the Batcave, in case Robin rolls off the bike accidentally. He doesn't, but you do have to stop a couple of times so he can lean over the side and retch.

When all is said and done and you're back at the Cave and Alfred and Bruce are fussing over Damian, you and Jason hang back a bit. He can't stop sneaking glances at you. Your Ghoul mask is off, and there's a little dried blood around your nostrils, and your hair is a little sweaty, but you're the most beautiful thing Jason's ever seen.

You're alive. He can hardly believe it.

You suddenly sigh and mutter, "I guess you're mad at me, too?"

"What?" Jason startles.

"For not telling you about my abilities."

"Y/N—"

"I just didn't want you guys to think of me differently. Duke has his powers, yeah, but he was born with them. I got mine from Pyg. I didn't want everyone to start treating me like a victim."

All things considered, you're remarkably well-adjusted for someone that survived Professor Pyg's experimentation. "You're the strongest person I've ever met, Y/N," says Jason. "Your powers don't change that. They make me feel a little better about you patrolling at night, anyway. They're basically like... a second chance."

You snort. "I think I'm on my fifth chance by this point."

Jason shakes his head. "How did you keep your powers a secret, again?"

"Well, the first time, Pyg shut off my heart, but that didn't shut down my body. When I actually noticed that I couldn't die, though, was that time one of Cobblepot's goons stabbed me in the neck and I woke up in the middle of a shootout. Now that wasn't fun." You grimace. "A bullet caught me in the head and I died as soon as I sat up. The Bats were too preoccupied to notice me, luckily. Then there was that time with the poison dart that I kept a secret, and now this time." You smirk, cross your arms, and bump Jason's hip with your own. "I'm beating you in the resurrection department, aren't I?"

Jason huffs, pretending to be offended, and your eyes widen. "Oh, my God. That was in such poor taste. I'm so sorry."

"No," he says, trying to hide the twist of his lips. If it was anyone else saying it, Jason would probably kill them. "No, it's okay. I'm just glad you're all right. It would have been awful if you'd died and I never took the chance to..."

"Chance to what?" You look up at him through your eyelashes.

Jason's breath catches in his throat. He's never done this before, dammit, but seeing you die today made him remember just how limited their time is as vigilantes.

Well, maybe not yours, but he walks a thin line.

"Doyouwanttogetcoffeewithme?"

You blink. "What?"

"Do you," Jason says slowly, feeling sweat prickle on his hairline, "want to... Um. Get coffee? With me. As in, like—"

"A date?"

"Only if you want to."

You nod, eyes sparkling. "Hell yeah I want to!"

Damian, Bruce, and Alfred look over at your raised voice. Their disapproving smiles are all eerily similar.

"Sorry," you whisper. You look back at Jason and say, "Yeah, I'd like that. I've been waiting ages for you to ask."

Yes. You said yes. Adrenaline rushes through Jason's veins, and he only barely resists the urge to pump his fist in the air like a moron. He's brave enough to tease, "Well, why didn't you ask me?"

Your face flushes and you look away.

It's at that moment that Damian calls, "Y/N. Stop twittering with Todd and come here. Your presence is required."

"Seriously," Jason said under his breath, "the way he talks like a Victorian child doesn't bother you at all?"

You're smiling. "I think he's adorable." You walk backwards to the brat, making a phone gesture with your hand and mouthing to Jason, Call me.

He definitely will.

"Master Jason," comes Alfred's disapproving voice when he turns back to his bike. "Don't think I didn't notice that you have your own injuries to tend to."

Of course, that sets off Bruce's worry alert even more.

Jason groans. He won't be able to sneak out for coffee with you for an entire week after this whole debacle.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts

Forever tag list

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

Let me know if there's anything you guys want to see with Jason in the future. My requests are open!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Don't Go Disappearing On Me Again

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason's lost too much to lose you, too. (We stan healthy communication in this house)

Word count: 2.3k

Ow.

You've never worked Friday nights before at the restaurant, and you never want to again. And you'd thought Saturday mornings were bad.

But one of your favorite coworkers had called you in a panic early this morning, begging you to take her shift, because her lab group's department at GCU was going out to bowling and it would be a great networking opportunity. You were the last person she called, but everyone else before you had declined because they were either scheduled or determined to avoid the shitshow.

And because you were weak, you gave in and said you would cover her Friday night shift as long as she covered your Friday morning shift.

So you two swapped shifts, and you went into your library internship in the morning instead of the evening. It wasn't a particularly hard job, but end-of-week returns had you dashing all over the three floors, so your feet already hurt before you walked into the restaurant.

Right before coming in, you'd texted Jason that you'd gotten held up, and it was a good thing you did, because you haven't had a single break to look at your phone the whole shift. He likely wasn't even awake yet—last night's patrol had been tough on the both of you, him because he came home half beaten to death, and you because you'd had a heart attack waking up in the middle of the night to your bloody boyfriend passing out on top of you in bed. But you usually got home around six from the library, and it was looking like you wouldn't be back until ten at the earliest, so you wanted to let him know. It was going on hour seven after starting at two p.m., when the restaurant switched from its brunch to dinner menu. Personally, you think two p.m. is obscenely early to eat dinner, but apparently rich people loved eating at weird hours, because you had had nonstop tables the entire night.

But the good thing is that the restaurant closes at nine, so you’re almost there. After your last three tables eat and leave, all you have to do is clean your section, close your checks, and clock out.

In the kitchen, you lean against the fridge, rubbing your hips and knees. You’re a little too young to feel so creaky after seven hours on your feet. After all, Jason works all night, doing athletic feats you could never dream of.

You can't really complain, though. You'd gotten lucky with your tables; they'd all tipped well. Maybe you could even add a little bit to your savings account instead of shoving every paycheck right at your student loans, which just keep growing, no matter how much you pay.

“Oh, no,” says Charlotte, one of the other veteran servers at the restaurant. She’s staring at the camera feed display, which is tuned to a livestream of the restaurant’s entranceway. “Don’t you dare seat me now, Ashley, I swear to God.”

“What time is it?” your head jerks up. “We’re about to close, right? Is someone looking for a table?”

“Yeah,” she says, pointing to the screen. “The hottest man in the world just walked in our front door.”

You just hum, not bothering to look in favor of pulling out your phone. You know for a fact that the hottest man in the world is actually at home in your bed right now. “The kitchen’s stopped receiving tickets. No way Ashley seats someone right now.” The screen doesn't light up when you click the power button. Well, shit. It's dead.

“I can’t tell what he’s saying.” Charlotte squints at the screen. “He’s, like, huge. Does Ashley look a little scared to you?”

You’re out of the kitchen without even looking at the screen. You speedmarch right past your tables, ignoring one man’s halfhearted attempts to flag you down for more ketchup. A righteous fire is boiling in your gut. You’ve been here long enough that the managers won’t fire you for telling off any customers that harass the younger workers that are more scared to stand up for yourself.

Your mouth is already open, ready to spew forth the beginning of your tirade, when you recognize the man in front of Ashley at the host stand.

Dressed in gray sweats and a dark T-shirt, slouching slightly, he looks even worse than when you kissed his forehead goodbye that morning. The bruise on Jason's face has properly colored now, purple and blue along his jawline. His hair looks a little flat, like he's been wearing his helmet, which is strange.

Jason's eyes snap onto you the second you appear, and you falter at the intensity there. Something has happened, but you're not sure what.

"Hey," you say, a little hesitant. "What's up?"

Ashley exhales with relief. "So you do know him."

"Yeah," you say without breaking eye contact with Jason, who's staring at you with the same expression you think a wolf would wear when stalking a hare. "He's my boyfriend."

You expect Jason to tell you that someone was in an accident. Someone's in the hospital. Something terrible happened to your apartment while you were gone.

He says none of those things. Instead, Jason says, "I didn't know you picked up a Friday shift."

Ashley's face goes blank.

"I told you I would be home late."

“No,” he corrects. “You texted me that you were being held up.”

“Yeah, at work.”

“And then you disappeared.” Jason’s jaw clenched. “Did you know that a bank was held up this afternoon? Your bank?”

“Oh, shit,” your hand flies up to cover your mouth. “My phone died, I don’t know when. You couldn’t check my location and see I was here?”

He just shakes his head, stiff and wordless.

“Hey, Y/N.” It’s your manager approaching the host stand now, customer service smile on and eyes taking in Jason’s appearance. “What’s going on up here?”

“Hey, Steve,” you say. “Sorry, this is my boyfriend Jason—Jay, this is my manager, Steve—”

Jason gets the hint and smiles close-lipped, reaching to shake Steve’s hand.

“My phone died so he came to see if I needed a ride home.”

“As soon as your tables leave and your section’s clean, you’re good to go. Oh, and you have to roll silverware.”

“It’ll be at least another hour,” you say apologetically to Jason.

“Okay.” His eyes keep boring into you like he’s trying to send you a telepathic message. He’s mad, you get it, but it makes you a little mad, too. You’re a grown adult. Yeah, the miscommunication was your fault, and it’s fine for him to be worried, but he looks close to Red Hood levels of anger, which is totally unwarranted for this situation. “Is it cool if I wait at the bar for you, then?”

“Of course!” Steve answers for you. "Our bartender, Lacy, will be happy to serve you while you wait." He checks his watch. "Until last call, that is."

"He didn't scare you, did he?" you ask Ashley as soon as Steve leaves. You smile at Jason, trying to tease him, but his expression doesn't twitch. "He looks mean, but I promise he's a big ol' softie."

Jason just grunts, but on his way to the bar, he doesn't forget to drop a kiss to your forehead. It warms you from the inside out.

As soon as he's gone, Ashley blurts out, "What happened to his face?"

"Motorcycle accident," you fib. "Oh, my table's calling me."

You rush over to take care of the poor man's ketchup—he's been waiting almost five whole minutes—and check out another party. The back of your neck prickles as you do. Every time you glance at the bar, Jason's green eyes are locked on your every move. It flusters you so much that when your table leaves, they say thanks, and you respond with, "Good morning!"

"What?"

"Thanks, you too!"

You run back to the kitchen, and everyone immediately starts interrogating you about your 'huge hunky boyfriend' (Charlotte's words, not yours).

By some miracle, all your tables clear out by closing time, and you’re out by 9:20. There are still a couple people at the bar, but Jason’s up immediately to walk out with you, leaving his water glass on the counter.

He doesn’t say anything, though you can feel his eyes on you whenever you aren’t looking. You won’t fight in public, so you follow his lead and stay quiet.

He drove your car to pick you up, and even though he’s obviously mad, he holds the passenger door open for you before getting into the driver’s seat.

The drive home is silent. He parks in the spot for your shared apartment, then immediately, quietly, asks, “Why’d you pick up a shift without telling me?”

"It was super last-minute," you say. He's still facing forward, so you do the same, eyeing his profile out of the corner of your eyes. "Like, it happened this morning. I thought you were sleeping, so I didn't want to blow up your phone with texts. I thought you'd just check my location and see where I was when you woke up."

Jason's hand clenches on the center console. "I woke up and I was terrified."

"I'm sorry—"

"And the bank, and your wording, and your phone was off—"

"I know," you say, putting your hand over his fist. He unclenches immediately to lace his fingers with yours. "I'll make sure I tell you next time."

Jason takes a deep breath in, then lets it out. In a rush, he finally turns to face you and says, "I don't mean to be controlling."

You blink. "I don't think you're being controlling."

"You don't?" Jason frowns. "Then why were you so mad when I walked into your work?"

"Mad? I'm not mad—you're mad at me."

"I'm not mad at you, what are you talking about?"

"You've been glaring this whole time! And you didn't say a word this entire car ride."

"Because I thought you were angry. I wanted to give you space."

"Okay, wait, wait, wait." You hold up a hand. "Let me get this straight. You're not mad at me?"

"No," he says earnestly. "I was worried and scared, but you're an adult. You don't have to ask for permission if you want to pick up a shift at work." He makes a face like the thought disgusts him.

"Okay," you say. "Okay, well if you're not mad at me, I'm not mad at you, either."

"Then why did you look so pissed when I walked in?"

You press your lips together to keep from smiling. "Well, we have cameras that show us up front while we're in the kitchen, right? One of my coworkers was watching and said 'the hottest man in the world' walked in and I didn't look because I thought the hottest guy in the world was still asleep in my bed—"

Jason covers his face with his hands. You can't stop your smile now, and you pull them away so you can look at said handsome face. "And I didn't even look because I'm such a loyal, awesome partner—"

"You are pretty awesome," he agrees, trying to sound serious, but he's grinning like an idiot, too. His cheeks are flushed pink.

"I know I am. But then Charlotte said that the hostess, Ashley, looked a little intimidated by him, so I walked out to see if she needed help."

"Aw," Jason says. He lowers his chin to look at you from underneath his lashes, pretty as a picture. "Were you going to give me a stern talking-to?"

"I can still give you one," you offer.

"Maybe later."

He's still grinning, and you're still grinning, so the both of you are grinning at each other like idiots in the car.

You want to kiss him, and he's your boyfriend. You're allowed to do that whenever the two of you want, so you take Jason by the chin and pull his mouth to yours.

Jason sighs against you, and it's like all the tension in his body melts away. One hand comes up to cradle your jaw, the other on the back of your head.

You break away to murmur, "Are you patrolling tonight?" He's still so beaten up.

"No," he whispers, voice low and gravelly in a way that has butterflies whipping around like a tornado in your stomach.

"Good. Wanna go up and be the hottest patient in the world while I look at your wounds?"

"Only if you're the hottest nurse in the world."

"Oh, but then who will be the hottest chef in the world who makes dinner?"

"The hot chef is on vacation right now," Jason joked. "But I can be a really hot food-orderer. What takeout are you in the mood for?"

"You're the injured one. What do you want?"

"I want whatever you want."

You narrow your eyes in a glare. "Well, I want whatever you want."

"You gotta make a decision," he says, already on his phone. "You're the hottest decision-maker in the world, I'm the hottest food-orderer."

"Chinese?"

"You got it."

Right before he dials the number, you grab him and kiss him again. When you pull back, he chases after your lips. It's so tempting that you give him another firm peck before you pat his chest once.

Jason blinks twice, looking dazed. "What was that for?"

You shrug. "I just wanted to kiss the hottest man in the world."

"Oh, my God." He groans and covers his face again, but you can see his red ears. "You're never gonna let that go?"

"Mmm." You pretend to consider it. "No."

DC taglist:

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts

Forever taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[rambling-at-midnight]

Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks (Part 3; final part)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Civilian!Reader

Summary: Just minutes after discovering his secret identity, it’s time for you and Jason to clear the air about how the two of you actually met.

Word count: 3.4k

Your heart is racing a hundred miles a minute when you make it back to your apartment. And not just because of the five sets of stairs you have to walk up, although that's pretty bad.

You make sure that your roommate isn't home, then usher your cat out of your bedroom and open the window. You sit on the edge of your bed, nerves twisting in your stomach.

No, you can't stay still.

Also, your cat's scratching at the door, furious that he's been locked away.

You decide to wait in the living room instead.

His approach is soundless. You don’t hear him come through the window, or when he opens your bedroom door, but your cat meows happily and you turn around to see your six-foot-two lying boyfriend looming in your apartment.

“Is your roommate here?” he growls through the mask. Your cat yowls at his feet, wondering why Jason—the Red Hood—hasn’t begun to lavish him with attention yet.

“No, so you can take that off.”

You’re a little pleased with yourself for figuring out his identity so quickly. Unfortunately, you’re much less pleased with him for messing with you. You’re not mad that he didn’t tell you his vigilante identity; you’ve known each other about a month, which is nothing in the grand span of a lifetime. You’re not a pessimist, but you are realistic, and you’re not sure if your relationship is going to work out yet after a week and a half of dating. Any disgruntled ex-girlfriend could reveal his secret identity to the press—not that you’re that type of person.

No, it’s smart to be cautious with his identity.

So wearing a costume that displays one of his most unique features isn’t the brightest.

Also, now that you think about it, Jason wandered into the library the day after the Red Hood walked you home.

So you’re not exactly worried, but you are a bit cautious. You’ve seen that Netflix show You, where that perfectly charming man kills every woman he’s in a relationship with. If it came down to that, you wouldn’t be able to beat Jason in a fight.

Also, you don’t want to fight in front of the cat.

With a click and a hiss, the mask—more a muzzle—comes off, and there appears your handsome boyfriend, a little disheveled and sweaty from the five-story climb to your window after stowing his bike. He’s still beautiful, and it’s such a shame. He could have been the one, had he not stalked and lied to you.

You think.

You’re going to find out.

Jason’s eyes dart to your dominant hand, which is hidden behind your back with your trusty pepper spray ready to go at the slightest sign of aggression. “I take it I’m in trouble,” he says, light, almost joking, and bends to pick your cat up. The little bastard squirms every time you do that, but he settles right down in Jason's arms and gets to purring.

“Jason—” You start, then falter, because you don’t actually know his last name. Or his middle. “Jason,” you say again through gritted teeth, trying to make it as menacing as possible. “I think we have something to talk about, don’t you?”

“Y/N,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Yes, I am the Red Hood. I couldn’t tell you bec—”

“I don’t give a shit that you’re the Red Hood,” you interrupt.

Jason’s mouth clicks shut. He gives you an odd look.

“Well, that you didn’t tell me,” you amend. “We’ve known each other a month. It would be pretty pathetic if you couldn’t keep the secret that long. Everyone in the city would know by now.”

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what are you mad about, exactly?”

“That I was right!” You exclaim. “You were stalking me! I thought you just liked coffee and reading, but you were following me the whole time. You even offered to beat yourself up. What else about you is a lie?”

“Okay, whoa,” he says, holding his hand up, and if you weren’t mad before, you’re getting there now. He has no right for you to motion to calm down. “Okay, I’ll admit it. I guess I kind of did start this all out by following you.”

Your hands fall limply to your sides. Now that he’s admitted it, all the wind is out of your sails. You’ve never been so disappointed to be right. Secretly, you were hoping he would write it all off as a freak coincidence so thoroughly that you’d have no choice to believe it, all the way up until he strangled you. “Okay,” you say calmly. You hear your own voice, but it’s from very far away. “Are you going to hurt me now?”

“What?” He looks aghast at the very thought. “No, no, I won’t—why would I—No.” He’s so firm in the reply, so utterly certain, that your grip loosens on the pepper spray. He might be a really good liar… or he might be telling the truth. “No, Y/N, I really like you, which is why I asked you out, and even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t hurt you anyway because you’re my friend. And you’re a good person. The Red Hood punishes criminals; he’s not some crazy serial killer.”

“I mean, you kind of are,” you mumble. You’ve seen the statistics. He ruled through fear for several years. But, like he’d said earlier, he’s reformed himself. He still kills people, though, but you find that it doesn’t bother you as much as it should.

“I am not—” Jason stresses, looking you right in the eyes— “the kind of man that hits women.”

There’s a story there, in the way he says it, but it’s not the time to ask. You’re not sure that your fledging relationship is ready for it, either, but you’re still curious. You’re also curious about why he killed so many people when he started out. You’re curious about everything about him. You think you could listen to him talk for hours about himself and you still would only touch the surface of everything that makes up Jason.

“Okay,” you say. His eyes track your hand as you set the pepper spray down on the counter.

He repeats it like a question. You’re a little surprised, too, but— “Jason, I wouldn’t have agreed to be your girlfriend if I wasn’t sure that you’re a good person. But I need you to tell me about how we met.”

“You mean the robbery?” He looks confused. “That really was just a coincidence. I heard that something was going down and stopped by. I had no idea who you were before that night, I swear.”

“Okay. So why did you follow me to the library?”

“Oh.” Jason coughs. “Yeah. Okay, well, the first day, I actually was following you.”

You slap the counter with an open palm, triumphant. Your cat hisses at the sound. "I knew it!"

"Wait, wait, just hear me out. I was following you to make sure that you didn't die of blood loss. Or sepsis. Or gangrene. Or—"

"So you were stalking me... because you cared?"

"It's how my family shows love," he shrugs.

Your eyes widen. Because you hadn't considered it, but if he's a Bat—and he is, judging by the red shape on his chest—then his family is the Batclan. "Oh, my God. Batman is your dad."

Jason folds his arms over his chest like he's self-conscious about the symbol. "Yeah, and I've got the weird attachment style to show for it."

"Wait," you blurt out. "The brother you were supposed to meet in the coffee shop—were you supposed to meet Red Robin?"

"Um..."

You can't believe you were almost in the same place as the actual Red Robin. "Wow. Is his civilian identity as cool as his superhero one?"

"Please don't tell me you're a Red Robin fan," Jason says, his voice pained. "We might actually need to break up."

"Do you think I could meet him sometime?" you whisper.

"He's a huge loser," Jason tells you. "He's short and scrawny and actually pretty ugly beneath the mask. He looks like a troll. Also, I think he watches Andrew Tate videos and moderates Reddit forums in his free time. You really don't want to meet him."

You can't stop grinning. "There's no need to be jealous, Jason. Red Robin's way too young for me, but I think it's cool that he uses his brain to fight crime."

"What, and I don't?" he scoffs.

"Okay." You hold up a hand, determined to get the conversation back on track. "So you wanted to make sure that I wasn't actively dying. Why'd you keep coming back?"

"Well, then I thought you might be a supervillain," he said casually, like that's a normal thing to spring on someone.

You just gape at him.

"You treated a gunshot wound like it was nothing!" he defended himself shrilly. "Most civilians would be a little more concerned about an open wound in their side."

"I'm a medical student. Doctors make the worst patients."

"Yeah, well, Gotham has a pretty bad track record of doctors becoming supervillains, so excuse me for trying to curb a new one before she had the chance to turn."

You cross your arms. "What did you think would happen, Jason? I'd accidentally take a dip in Gotham River and the bacteria in there would travel from my side to my brain and make me go crazy?"

"I mean, yeah. That's pretty much exactly what happened with Harley Quinn."

Well, shit. He's got you there.

"Okay, well then why approach me at the coffee shop?"

Jason raises his eyebrow. "You were the only one there and I had a spare coffee. Am I not allowed to do nice things?"

"It was right after I told the Red Hood that I thought I was getting stalked. Did you do that on purpose?" you accuse.

"No, I swear. I didn't even know that you liked that place. Red Robin mentioned liking it.” Oh, my God, you and Red Robin like the same coffee shop. “I just… kept showing up after I saw you there the first time." He must be scratching your cat too hard, because he wiggles out of Jason's arms and runs over to his food bowl, looking at you pleadingly like he's been starving for a hundred years, even though your roommate texted you earlier saying that he'd already fed him. "I was planning on disappearing from your life and telling you as Hood that I'd, I don't know, threatened the dude or whatever, but..."

"But what?"

He shrugs. "You're pretty, Y/N. You're smart. And you were funny when I talked to you as Hood. Is it a crime for me to want to make a friend?"

"Just a friend?" You squint at him.

"Yeah. Just a friend." Jason tousles his hair again, and this time you let yourself admire the way the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms flex at the motion. "Believe it or not, I've never been in a relationship before. This wasn't what I was expecting—I never expected anything—but I'm happy. You're happy... aren't you?" He's pleading now, and it tugs on your heartstrings.

You sigh, but take a step closer to him. "Yes, I'm happy, Jason." It's definitely not the most conventional way to start a relationship, and most other people would be running for the hills by now, but this is Gotham. You moved here and stayed here because you fit in with the crazy. "I just need you to tell me one thing." Step. "One honest thing."

"Of course," he says immediately. Big green eyes pleading for you to bridge the gap between your bodies, to forgive him.

"What's your last name? I can't date someone whose last name I don't know."

For some reason, he grimaces. "Uh... my full name is Jason... Peter... Todd." His voice gets quieter with every word, until you're straining to hear his surname.

That rings familiar with something in your memory. You frown. "Jason Todd... not like Jason Todd Memorial Library?" Usually with memorials, the person they're named after is dead, but Jason's real and in front of you. Also, wasn't Jason Todd the kid that Bruce Wayne adopted several years ago?

The corners of Jason's lips turn down. "Yeah, I wasn't thrilled with your choice of study locations at first. But it is quieter than my apartment. B adopted too many fuckin' kids, and they always find my place, even when I move—"

"Does Red Robin hang out at your apartment a lot?" you ask, just to see him scowl.

"No, he's never there, and I'm going to dropkick him off a roof the next time I see him unless you stop talking about him."

"Okay," you say. You're close enough now to put a hand on his forearm, so you do. "I'll stop talking." You have to get on your tiptoes and pull the back of his head a bit, but you kiss him, and somehow it's even better than the first time.

Jason's lips are a little dry, but not chapped, soft and pillowy. He blinks when you rest back on your heels, looking dazed like someone hit him over the head with a frying pan. "Am I forgiven now?"

"Mmm..." You pretend to think it over. His hands snake around your back and pull you flush against him, stomach to stomach. "I think so," you say through a gasp, which might be embarrassing if he didn't bend to kiss you before the words had fully left your lips.

You kiss for a little while after that, shivering when his hands slip beneath your jacket. Not quite up your shirt, but getting there. He's got huge hands, and he grips your waist firmly, using his thumbs to gently rub at your hipbones as he pulls you even closer. That small contact, so gentle yet also a little greedy, heats your body from the inside like an inferno.

You're starting to bend backwards now, and the hand on the back of his neck is less there to pull him down and more there to keep you up. Are you lightheaded? You might be. You breathe in through your nose, but it doesn't help.

Jason may be inexperienced, according to his own testimony, but he doesn't kiss like it. He kisses with his whole body. He keeps leaning forward, moving his lips against yours with the single-minded intensity that took you by pleasant surprise the first time you kissed. Soft but firm, pressing against you, in a way that makes you think he'd really like to crowd you against a wall and cage you in. Not that you want to escape.

When you're bent over, you take Jason's chin in your hand and slowly push his head back. He resists at first, eyes fluttering as he chases after your lips, but you're about to fall over, so you murmur, "What's the plan here, babe?"

"No plan," he says, voice low and gravely in a way you've never heard before. Jason looks at you from beneath his long lashes. A heat flashes in his eyes. Something flutters in your stomach, bigger than butterflies. Maybe birds? Maybe robins.

And then you feel his hands on the bare skin of your back when they slip beneath the hem of your shirt. You gasp and jerk away on instinct because his hands are so warm, so calloused, but he's got a good grip on you; you're not falling anytime soon.

Then your entire world shifts as Jason yanks you upright, at the same time pulling the hem of your jacket and shirt up enough so he can see your wound.

"Oh, my God," you groan, embarrassed and a little amused. "You little pervert, were you doing all that to distract me?"

"No." Jason's voice is still gravely. He looks at your hip, then stares at your mouth like he's making a decision. He kisses you again, a firm press, and nips at your bottom lip before he leans back to squint at the scar. "Is it still bruised?"

"Yes," you sigh, covering your eyes. You're embarrassed for reasons you can't quite explain. Maybe because he's pulling your shirt up and you're not quite as firm everywhere as he is. You're pretty sure champion bodybuilders aren't as firm as he is. "It's gotten much better, though. See? No infections or anything like that."

He measures the scar against his hand: it's about two fingers wide, and one finger long. It scabbed over a while ago, and now that the scab's gone, it's just a shiny pink patch of skin.

"You could have stitched it anyway," he sighs.

"I don't care." You grab him by the chin and force him to meet your eyes. "I don't care about scars. Mine or yours. Most of the time, they're sexy. And apart from me, you're the only one seeing it." His hands clench your waist at the words, then loosen. He sends you an apologetic look. You continue, "So as long as you don't mind it, then nobody does."

"I wish it had never happened to you," he sighs.

"Well, it did. But it wasn't your fault and we can't change the past."

Jason's still mulling over your words when you start to work at his belt. He makes a choked noise and grabs your hands. Doesn't push them away, just holds them still right where they are. "What are you doing?"

"Well, I showed you mine." You grin up at him. "It's only fair that you show me yours."

He snorts. "You don't trust your own handiwork?"

"It's a follow-up appointment," you say. "To make sure everything's healing normally. Now take off your shirt, Mr. Todd. This veterinarian's apartment does, after all, moonlight as a strip club."

He undoes his belt buckle with one hand, and you have to make sure that your mouth isn't open. That was probably the hottest thing you've ever seen in your life. "You ready?" he grins, cocky in the way he only gets when he's flirting with you. "One look at me and you'll forget all about Red Robin. Forever."

"God, don't bring up your little brother while we're making out," you groan.

"Good to know that you plan on kissing me some more tonight," he says casually. Then he peels off the skintight gray shirt, and every thought wipes from your mind.

His muscles have muscles. And, somehow, despite your apartment's shitty lighting, he's glowing. His pants sit low on his hips like he's a model or something.

How has no one ever dated him before? He's actually perfect.

The longer you stare without saying anything, the more uncomfortable he looks. Finally he says, "I know I've got a lotta scars," his native Gotham accent bleeding through a little, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. He's warm and firm and soft, just like you thought he would be.

"My God," you whisper. "You're beautiful."

Jason goes beet red.

"And the one I stitched is healing up nicely," you continue, tracing your fingers lightly over the slightly raised line.

His whole body shudders. He swallows almost violently, eyes clenched tight like they're in pain. Then they fly open, and you gasp, because they're glowing green. Not metaphorically glowing. Like, actually glowing.

Jason kisses you again like he's trying to herd you. You don't know where's all right for you to touch, so you cup his face with both your hands and pour everything that he gives you right back at him. Warmth, affection, something bright that you can't name.

Then you lean back. Your lips disconnect with an audible pop.

"Hang on. Is Bruce Wayne Batman?"

Jason's chin drops down to his chest. He groans, deep, and you pretend that warmth doesn't pool in your stomach at the sound. Voice thready, he says, "You know, talking about my dad really kills the mood."

"Oh, my God, he is." You pump your fist in the air. "I'm two for two. Who's the world's greatest detective now, Batsy?"

"If I kiss you again, will you shut up about Batman?" Jason asks.

You grin. "I don't know. Maybe you'll have to find out."

He does.

And you do.

You've decided that the Red Hood is your favorite superhero, anyway.

~~

Forever taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit  @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

DC taglist:

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts

[rambling-at-midnight]

omg a part 2????

i loved it so much!!!

Ahh I'm so glad you liked it!!! It's my first Jason x reader fic :) Here's a part 2!

Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks (Part 2)

Pairing: Jason Todd x Gender Neutral Civilian!Reader

Summary: Now it’s time for a meet-ugly-ish with some dude named Jason. Also, you see the Red Hood again.

Word count: 6.3k (holy shit)

You’re not crazy, right? It’s weird that the library is completely empty because it closes in two hours and the weather is actually nice outside for once, and some random dude wanders in and sets up two seats down from you. He’s not even here to study; he pulled out a sci-fi novel as soon as he sat down.

Who comes to a GCU campus library to read recreationally? The seats are uncomfortable and plastic. And the sun is shining. Everyone else is outside soaking up the Vitamin D.

Honestly, you’re mostly surprised the chair he’s on didn’t snap as soon as he sat. The dude is huge. Football player huge. Shouldn’t he be at practice, instead of forcing the chair to make the most irritating squeaking noises known to man every time he moves an inch?

You grit your teeth and put on your headphones, but you can still hear the poor chair’s dying lamentations, so you turn on an instrumental playlist that hopefully won’t distract you too much from studying.

You let yourself stew over the annoyance until your stomach growls so loud you hear it over the soft music. He has the good grace not to look at you, but you definitely see him pause.

Okay, you’ll call it even. This is what you get for running to the library right after six hours of classes. You need to cement the knowledge in your mind while it’s still fresh, and if that means you have to forego lunch…

He’s still there two hours later when the closing time alarm goes off. It’s a shrill old-school bell, the kind no one can ignore, and he jumps like he’s never heard it in his life. The poor chair finally gives up. He tumbles to the ground.

You look over in case he needs any help, but he’s scrambling for the book, face bright red.

If he is a football player, you wouldn’t be surprised that he’s never heard the bell before. That sort rarely stays this late at the library—if they enter at all.

He rushes out. You pack up a little more methodically. All that’s left for you to look forward to tonight is trying to study in your apartment, but you never have much luck.

He’s outside the library on his phone when you walk out. Maybe waiting for a ride? You’re a little on edge from the events of two days ago, so you watch him out of the corner of your eye as you walk away.

Thankfully, he doesn’t follow you.

At least the library closes earlier on Wednesdays, 6 pm instead of 9:30. You don’t know why. It’s still a weekday. But it forces you out while the sun’s still shining, which is probably a good thing.

Within two minutes of the twenty-minute walk home, your hip hurts. By the ten-minute mark, you’re trying not to limp.

Despite your better judgment, you keep your gaze turned to the rooftops, even though you know the vigilantes are nocturnal. It’s stupid to want to see a flash of red helmet, anyway. The Red Hood probably saves hundreds of people every week; there’s no way he would remember you.

Of course, when you finally get back, there are the stairs to contend with.

Your cat, that ungrateful little beast, beeps at you furiously for being gone so long. Never mind that your roommate works nights, so at most the cat’s been alone for an hour. He makes a break for the hallway, and you box the doorway with your legs and slam the door closed against your hip as you slip through.

Your injury explodes with pain, but at least the cat doesn’t get out. Ungrateful little beast. As if he isn’t fed and loved enough.

You finish slipping through the doorway and just stand for a moment listening to the blood rushing through your ears. Damn, but that hurt.

In the bathroom mirror, you hike up the hem of your shirt and check the state of your injury.

All in all, it could have been much worse. The bullet scooped out a fair chunk of skin, but it was just a surface wound. There’s no fresh blood on the gauze, and when you change the wrappings, the skin is pink and raw but starting to scab. It scooped out a chunk and left a trail of bruising, but you got off fairly lightly, all things considered.

The GCPD released the robber’s mugshot yesterday morning. In the picture, the man’s eyes were so swollen from your pepper spray he could hardly open them.

You preferred the bullet, honestly.

You try in vain to study a bit more, but even after you take more painkillers, you’re not in the mood. You feed your cat, then curl up on the couch to watch a couple episodes of the show you’re currently in the middle of.

That was the first time you see the huge guy, but it’s certainly not the last.

You wouldn’t notice him so much if he wasn’t the size of a damn refrigerator. He’s gotta be a linebacker for the Knights, but he’s not on their roster. You looked it up after the third time he wandered into the library just a couple minutes after you. It’s probably not updated yet, but you see him so often, you’d like to know his name.

Also, he’d bleached a patch of hair right at the front of his head—was that a trend now, or something?—so it wasn’t hard to spot him.

On Saturday, your feelings shift from mild annoyance and curiosity to a sinking sort of dread when you notice him at the coffeeshop you always visit on the weekends. The employees know you by name and use it to call out your order, so now he knows it, as long as he’s paying attention.

You think he might be.

You don’t want to be that person. Not everything in the world revolves around you, obviously. But you might still be shaken from what happened on Monday, because the thought wiggles in the back of your brain: what if you have a stalker?

You try to tell yourself that it’s just paranoia. GCU isn’t that big a campus, after all, and there are only so many places in the city that are: A. close to campus, B. reasonably priced, and C. comfortable to work in. You’ve run into classmates here before, and you don’t have a monopoly on the library or this coffeeshop. Just because he shows up at the same time you do doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He might be establishing a schedule that just so happens to line up with yours.

But, you have to admit, it is easier for stalkers to stalk people when they know their regular schedule.

You keep a watchful eye out and are pretty good about keeping off the streets after dark, but a week and a half later finds you stranded an hour’s walk from your apartment. The buses worked for two days, then shut down again, and you foolishly believed that following the detour that said would get you home would actually get you home. You don’t want to call an Uber because traffic would make the ride longer than the walk and bankrupt you in the process. Same reason you can’t call anyone to pick you up unless you waited the two hours until rush hour dies down.

Walking is, unfortunately, the best option.

So you clutch your trusty pepper spray and prepare yourself for a long night of looking over your shoulder and ignoring the pain in your side. The wound has mostly closed, although the bruising has gotten worse.

Three minutes later, you hear the roar of a motorcycle followed by angry car honks. You barely pay it any mind until the motorcycle pulls up next to you and doesn't pass.

You keep walking, avoiding eye contact. Maybe ignoring them will dissuade the rider from catcalling you.

It doesn't work. "Hey," the rider says, and it's only because the voice is mechanically distorted, recognizable only because of how many videos of him that you won't admit to looking up the last week, that you look at him. "What are you doing?" asks the Red Hood.

"What are you doing?" you counter. He's blocking the flow of traffic talking to you.

The Red Hood looks over his shoulder, flips off the person honking behind him, and steers his motorcycle onto the sidewalk. He drives fast, and you flinch in case he tries to run you over, but he screeches to a halt at the last second.

"Haven't seen you in a couple of weeks," he says casually, like you two meet up often.

"I've been staying out of trouble," you say.

"Not tonight?"

"No. That wasn't my fault, though. I took the Southwest bus because it was supposed to connect with the L line, but all the signs they posted were a lie, apparently, because—" You cut yourself off. "Never mind, I'm sure you don't care. Point is, I'm walking home. It's not too far."

"It's about an hour," he points out. "How's your bullet wound? Will it object to that walk?"

"I'll be fine."

He pats the back of his motorcycle seat. "Hop on. I'll drive you."

You take a couple hasty steps back. It may not be a white van, but you know better than to follow candy into someone's vehicle. "Oh, no, thanks. Traffic's pretty bad right now."

You get the sense he's smiling when he says, "I bet I can get you back faster than walking." If only he wasn't wearing the stupid shiny helmet, you would be able to read his expressions better.

"Really, I'm okay. I'm sure you have better things to do than drive me home."

"Helping people is literally my job," is his response. "I have to make sure you get home safely. So either you get on the back of my bike, or I follow you the whole walk back to your apartment."

You know a losing battle when you see it. As a general rule of thumb, it's usually smart not to argue with the dude carrying at least two guns. "Don't kidnap me," you order before slinging your leg over the seat.

He chuckles. It's the first time you've ever heard him laugh, and it makes him sound so much younger. "You can't ride like that."

"Like what?"

He cranes his neck to look back at you. There's at least six inches between both your bodies. You clutch the sides of the seat with both your hands, hoping he doesn't take off with such a lurch that you topple off the back. "I drive fast. You'll have to hold on."

"I am holding on."

"To me."

You've only met the man twice. You're pretty sure clinging to someone's back is at least a third-meeting type of touch, but he reaches back. The Red Hood snakes a hand nearly twice the size of yours into the crook of your knee, then yanks you to him. You shoot forward with a strangled yelp and catch yourself on his back.

You've never before understood the phrase 'wall of muscle,' but you get it now.

He is huge. And strong. You gingerly put your hands on his shoulders. That's not an inappropriate touch, you think.

He has to live at the gym, right?

"You're still not holding on," he chides. "I don't have a helmet for you, so you really shouldn't fall off."

You swallow and move your hands, but he's too thick for you to link your hands around his front. So you fist both of them into his jacket. It presses your bodies tight against each other from shoulder to thighs. Through the layers his body radiates heat, but you shiver.

"Going," is all the warning you get.

Then you're gone; the bike shudders beneath you, then takes off like a jet.

You can't catch your breath. This must be what riding a dragon feels like, is your first nonsensical thought, a side effect of your roommate's obsession with Game of Thrones.

The bike roars beneath you, but you can hardly hear it over the rush of wind and the pound of blood in your ears. You can't see much with the wind drying out your eyes, so you press your head against the Red Hood's back and squint to one side. Cars and street lamps blur together into a stream of mismatched lights and colors.

The Red Hood drives fast. He weaves between lanes, runs through red lights, cuts onto the sidewalk. A couple bikers shake their fists at him when he passes them in the bike lane. A lot of cars honk at the two of you.

Judging by the way his shoulders shake with laughter, he likes pissing them off. You have to admit, the feeling is a little intoxicating.

You can't hear the sound, but your front is plastered to his back. Even with the layers of his suit and leather jacket, you can feel the vibrations of sound deep within his chest. He has a fairly deep voice, after all, unless the helmet changes that.

No less than ten minutes later, he parks abruptly. You lift your head, blinking moisture back into your eyes, and stare dumbly at your apartment building.

He'd actually brought you back.

Maybe he really was reformed.

You stumble off the bike onto unsteady legs. The Red Hood kicks his stand into place and rests against the bike, leaning with elbows on his handlebars. Like he expects a Midwest goodbye. And you find yourself dawdling.

Maybe you want one, too.

"Thanks for the ride," you finally say awkwardly.

"Anytime," he says, and you laugh, thinking it's a joke, but he doesn't. After a brief awkward pause, the Red Hood tries, "So how have you been?" as if you're old pals meeting up for brunch, and the question is so ridiculous coming from a sort-of-reformed crime lord slash serial killer that you respond without thinking.

"Pretty good, except I think I may have a stalker."

His helmet doesn't do a great job translating whatever sound he makes in response to that. It comes out as a crackle. "What?"

"I've noticed this dude recently showing up wherever I go," you say. "But I think it's just a coincidence. Sorry. That was a bad joke." It wasn't, but you don't want to accuse someone without proof of stalking you. If he's not, you'll seem self-obsessed. If he is, then he knows that you know, and it's not like the GCPD will do anything. One of your friends from your hometown had a stalker for literal years, and the police never did anything, even after he sent her death threats. They said there wasn't enough proof to make an arrest then, so someone showing up at the same places you are definitely isn't enough proof now.

The Red Hood tilts his head. "Does he make you uncomfortable?"

"You don't need to beat him up or anything on my behalf," you say. "I mean, you've seen me with a bottle of pepper spray. I'm pretty sure I can handle myself."

"I know you can," he says. You can hear the smile in his voice, like he finds something about the situation funny. "And I'm pretty sure that you know that I'm going to check this out anyway."

"No," you say, surprising yourself with your firmness. You can't rely on vigilantes to solve all your problems for you. "Seriously, it's okay. Thanks for the ride. Maybe I'll see you around."

"I'm counting on it," he calls as you walk away.

And he's right. Two days later finds you at the gas station at ten-thirty at night. You don't want to see him, per se. You're definitely not looking over your shoulder at the slightest sound. You definitely didn't check the parking lot for a notorious red motorcycle on your way in, and you certainly aren't taking peeks out the window every time headlights pass by on the street.

You're just... curious.

Maybe.

But you have absolutely no warning, not even a suspicion that someone is behind you, when you reach for a box of Cheez-Its. Someone else's hand gets there first and you nearly jump out of your socks.

"Hey," the Red Hood wheezes. He's clutching his side like he has a cramp. "Question: if I buy these for you, will you patch me up?"

"What?"

"I may have been cut," he admits. Judging by the angle of his hunch, it's a little more serious than just a 'cut'. "So: do we have a deal?"

The thought occurs to you, as you help him up five flights of stairs to your apartment, that you're escorting a strange man into your place of residence. You haven't even given your roommate a heads-up, though you're pretty sure tomorrow's his night off.

Sure enough, the only person there to greet you when you walk in is your cat. As per usual, he tries to escape. The Red Hood gently but firmly ushers him inside with his foot with such ease he must have one of his own. "It's cute," he says, still clutching his side.

"Thanks," you say. "He always tries to get out, but if he actually escapes then he just freezes in the hallway until I bring him back inside." Then you realize that you're discussing your cat, of all things, with the Red Hood. You clear your throat and say, "Let me take a look at you."

The crime lord and cat trail after you into the bathroom. It gets a little cramped because the Red Hood's about as small as a fridge is small, but you two figure out a passable system: he's too tall, even while sitting down, and you don't want to bend in half while you stitch him. So you sit on the toilet, he stands in front of you, and your cat jumps on top of his leather jacket on the counter to observe and judge. Luckily, the suture kit is still in the bathroom from when you thought you would have to stitch yourself up, so it's not long before you're instructing him to lift up the hem of his shirt so you can see the damage.

You hiss between your teeth at the sight. Someone grazed his side with a knife, by the looks of it, but the wound is deep. It might go all the way to his subcutaneous tissue.

After you clean it off, you're sure that it does. "You call this a cut?"

"I've had worse," he says gruffly.

"And you're still alive?" You squint at him.

He huffs like that's funny.

"They basically cut you in two! I don't know if I can fix this. I've never stitched someone up before!"

"What do you mean?" He tilts his head. "You stitched yourself up, remember? You told me you would."

Shit. Of all the ways to stick your foot in your mouth—

"It wasn't that bad," you say weakly.

“It looked pretty bad.”

“It just looked bad because I was wearing a light colored shirt. Don’t worry; I’ve learned my lesson.”

The Red Hood scratches under your cat’s chin. “About wearing light colored clothing, or about getting shot?”

You’re trying to thread the suture needle, but the stupid thread won’t cooperate. “Hmm?”

“Which lesson did you learn?”

“The former, mostly. Believe it or not, ‘try not to get shot’ is something most people, including me, know intuitively.”

"Let me see."

"Yeah, right," you say, "my apartment's basically a strip club, isn't it? First your shirt's coming up, then mine. Absolutely—" You slap his hand away— "Not. I'm fine. Now hold still while I stab you."

The process goes by quickly. He stands like a statue the whole time, like he's used to the pain of getting stitches. Considering his profession, he probably is.

Actually, you can see a couple healed-over scars on his torso just from the small bit of skin he's revealed by pulling up his shirt. And, you're pretty sure, a perfectly defined six-pack, but that's none of your business.

"I don't have the fancy dissolving sutures, unfortunately," you say while you tie off the thread. "These should come out in about a week."

"Yeah, I know," he grunts, letting his shirt fall back down. And you're not disappointed. At all. "Same time next week, then?"

"What?"

"To get them out."

"Uh." Your brain stalls out. You'd been operating under the assumption that this was just another freak coincidental run-in.

Is it just you, or is the Red Hood looking to make a friend out of you? Or maybe just a free pseudo-surgeon?

"Sure," you say. It's not like you can stop him, really.

"Thanks," he says, stroking your cat one more time. Then he nudges the pest off his jacket and shrugs it on, even though there's not really a need for it. The weather's been pretty mild the last week.

You walk him out the door. He pauses in the hallway, turns, and says, "By the way, what's your name?"

You tilt your head and tell it to him.

"Nice to meet you," he says. Then he walks away.

You watch him walk down the hallway until your cat escapes, and then you have to chase him. You're pretty sure the Red Hood sees it, because low-pitched laughter hits your ears as you gather the little bastard up, but when you look, the vigilante's gone.

"God, I hope he's up to date on his tetanus shot."

You find yourself at the coffee shop the next morning, determined not to let a buff bookworm change your routine. You're the first customer, and they have your order ready by the time you finish setting up your stuff on a small table in the corner of the shop, far from where the line will build up when more people trickle in.

Like clockwork, the bookworm wanders in just a couple minutes after you do, orders two coffees, and settles down across the room with his front to you.

Every time you glance up, he's utterly focused on his book. He's probably not watching you. Right?

Fifteen minutes later, the coffees untouched, he stands up. You watch out of the corner of your eye as he picks one up, approaches the counter, and...

Walks right past it.

Walks in your direction.

You stare blatantly, and he holds your gaze with a set jaw and something a little challenging in his gaze.

He's walking to you.

The coffee cup slams on the table, splashing a little over the edge, and you jump to move your laptop away from the liquid.

"Shit, sorry," the bookworm says. He runs away.

You stare until you realize he's grabbing napkins and hurrying back. At least ten, even though the spill's pretty small, and he piles them all onto the table.

His face gets redder the longer you watch without saying anything.

Once he's absolutely sure your laptop is safe from the couple drops he spilled, he balls them all into one large fist and rushes out, "I'm sorry—I was supposed to meet my brother here, but he canceled, and your drink cup's empty, so I was just wondering if you wanted this one? It's a little warm, but..."

"But free is good," you say, deciding to put him out his misery. And he certainly looks miserable rambling in front of you. Like he's mortified for some reason. "Um, thanks. What..."

"Just an iced coffee. Probably watered down."

You take a sip, just to be polite. It is watered down, but he didn't add any milk to it, so that's probably a good thing. "Thanks..." You tilt the cup to look at the name written on the side. "Jason?"

"Yep." He nods. He's still standing in front of you, like he wants to be invited to sit, but you have a lot of work to do, and he's a complete stranger, and all his stuff is still on his table across the room.

Something clatters behind the counter. You both turn in time to see the two baristas duck out of sight, whispering furiously. Probably about the spectacle you two are making.

"You go to GCU's campus library a lot, right?" Jason asks suddenly.

"Yeah, I do. So do you." You don't phrase it like a question.

"Yeah," he says. "It's peaceful to read in there. Quieter than my apartment."

"Okay," you say slowly. You're really not interested in this conversation, but you don't want to be rude.

He must understand you, though, because he rubs the back of his head and steps backwards, mumbling something about getting back to his book.

Jason's brother never does end up meeting him. You tell yourself that's why you keep glancing at him. Once or twice, you two peek at each other at the same time, and you always look away first, face hot like he's caught you doing something wrong.

The next time you go to the library, it's packed. The weather has turned, so students have nothing better to do than prepare for their finals. You head to the quiet floor, slowly losing hope that you'll find a seat.

A head snaps up the moment you walk in, dark-haired with a striking streak of white at his forehead. Jason.

Something like relief passes over his face, and he waves you over.

"I saved your seat," he whispers, dragging his bag off of the chair.

"Thanks," you say, actually touched. "You didn't have to."

He shrugs. "You're my reading buddy."

The next day, he's sitting at the library's entrance when you walk in. Jason shakes his head. "All the seats were already taken when I got here."

"Ugh." Strictly speaking, you don't need to study tonight. You're pretty confident about the next test's material, and you're also pretty burnt out.

"We could check out the Student Center?" he suggests. As if it's a given that the two of you are going to spend the afternoon together. And, you realize, after two straight weeks of studying in his proximity, you don't mind the presumption. That's how you made your closest friend in undergrad, anyway.

In fact, you think you might want to get to know Jason. Maybe ask about his white streak; you've been growing more and more curious about it. And why he's about seven feet tall and two hundred fifty pounds of muscle but has a passion for romance novels.

"I don't think I've studied in there before."

"It's not too bad, but it's a little louder than the library."

So you two head to the Student Center, but he doesn't open his book, and you open your laptop but don't turn it on. He buys you coffee, though you insist that you can pay for it yourself, and a simple query into what book he's reading currently turns into a two-hour conversation.

Jason likes to read every genre, but he likes classics and romance best. He doesn't just have one brother, he has four, and a sister. He's not on the football team like you'd assumed; he just likes to work out. He's finishing up his sophomore year of undergrad studying English Lit—he sees how your smile freezes at those words, and you're asking how old he is, and he's laughing when he tells you he took a couple gap years. He's your age, actually, and that's relieving for reasons you can't quite put to words.

When you check your watch and curse at the time—it's almost time for your cat's dinner—he asks for your number, and you put it into his phone.

You feel good on your walk home. You haven't made a new friend since the first semester of vet school; the course load is too demanding for you to participate in any GCU clubs. Your roommate asks why you're smiling and you wave him off. Of course, your cat doesn't care that you're in a good mood. He only cares about getting fed.

You see Jason a couple more times over the week, and soon you're too embarrassed to admit that you thought he was stalking you. He's almost as bad a texter as you are, responding at such hours you're half-convinced he doesn't sleep, so you're less self-conscious about taking hours to respond.

You've just gotten around to answering his last text when something knocks against your window.

You drop the phone on your face.

The Red Hood is laughing at you when you open the window to let him in. You'd forgotten he was coming, but you don't say so. He tumbles in, moving a little stiffly, but a lot better than he'd been last week. Your cat, the little traitor, runs to greet him and rubs against his ankles, purring like an engine. The Red Hood bends to pet him. "Hey, kitty." The red helmet tips up and those unnerving white lenses fix on you. "Hey, doc. Here to get my stitches out."

"How have you been feeling?" you ask.

"Good," he says, almost defensively.

It makes you suspect that something is wrong, but when you all pile into the bathroom again like it's a clown car and he pulls up his shirt, the wound is healing nicely. No pink or heat that signals infection, no puffy skin. You remove the stitches quickly, and again he hesitates, like he wants to stay longer.

You find yourself thinking about Jason. You're pretty sure you wish he was here.

"Well, thanks."

"Anytime."

He pauses. "Really?"

You shrug. "I mean, not if you need a hospital. Then I'd expect you to head straight to a hospital. But stuff like this—no worse than this, ideally—I guess I can help you with."

"You're pretty cool for a vet," the Red Hood says. "The last one I visited kept freaking out on me for stealing codeine."

"Well, that's a restricted—wait, you were stealing codeine? What for?"

He shrugs.

"What were you using it for," you repeat sternly.

"Okay!" he says loudly. "Well, thanks for patching me up, doc. I'll see you later, yeah?"

"Wait," you call out uselessly, but he vaults out the window. You gasp and rush to the sill, but there's no Red Hood-shaped puddle on the ground. Instead, his rapidly shrinking form disappears in the distance, swinging between the buildings that make up the Gotham skyline.

You don't see the Red Hood for a while after that, but you hear whispers of him wearing a new costume. You get caught up with finals and Jason, who asks you out after the semester ends.

Your vehement 'yes' takes you by surprise. Him, too, judging by his wide eyes and wider smile. You wonder why he asked if he thought you would say no. You wonder why you didn't realize earlier how desperately you wanted him to.

Now that you're out of school, you pick up shifts at the vet clinic. By some unhappy circumstance, they can only schedule you for the evening shifts. Jason works nights, too, and you've never fully squirreled out where he works, but at least you can spend some days together.

It's when you're walking back from your first shift that you see the Red Hood again after almost three weeks of radio silence. He pulls up next to you on the motorcycle. It's so late that there's no one on the road, so he stays on the asphalt and idles along at your walking pace until you break and say, "Long time no see, Hood."

"Did you miss me?" he teases.

You stop walking, because.

Most of his costume changed. Because it's summer, and even the nights are hot and muggy, you assume.

The pants are the same. So are the boots. But his jacket is red and sleeveless and has a hood that goes down to his eyebrows, the armor beneath short-sleeved, which means most of his arms are bare.

And...

Your mouth is dry. You swallow.

You're pretty sure not even Batman is that ripped. He looks like he's chiseled out of marble.

The longer you're speechless, the more amused he gets. You don't know how you know that, but something about his posture seems smug.

"You're taking 'red hood' seriously now, are you?" is all you manage to say. Because what else are you supposed to comment on? His bare forearms? His veins are so beautifully pronounced, they would be a dream to take blood from, but you have a boyfriend of a whole one and a half weeks, and you may be many things, but you're not a cheater.

He laughs, then pulls his hood low when it slips back a bit. His voice is still modulated, although it's not through a red helmet anymore. This is more like a muzzle. You can't tell if the eye covering is part of it, or like the domino masks that Batman and Robin wear, but the lenses are red now instead of white.

He's really leaning into the theme.

"You want a ride?"

"We're two blocks from my apartment."

He shrugs. "I'm heading there anyway."

What the hell. You've already hopped on the back of his bike before. It's easier to do so the second time. You wrap your arms around his torso again, and when his arms settle over your own, they're warm with his body heat, but not hard, even though the muscles look sharp enough to cut glass. He's firm all over, but his skin is soft, apart from the raised, bumpy scars that seem to cover him from head-to-toe. It makes you worry about him, just a little.

He doesn't drive fast this time. He drives slow enough to hold a conversation and tosses over his shoulder, "So what's new with you?"

"Not much," you say into his ear. Is it just you, or does he shiver? "I finished another semester of vet school."

"Top grades, I'm sure. Did you get extra credit for patching me up?"

"I wish." No, your grades are good, but not exceptional. But exceptional is what got you into vet school. As long as you graduate with a DVM, even if you're the lowest in your class, you're a licensed doctor. There's some relief in that. "The dude I thought was stalking me asked me out, actually."

"Really?" he asks, interested and alert. "Was he really stalking you? Do you need me to scare him off for you?"

"No," you say, smiling at the thought of the Red Hood trying to scare off Jason. They're about the same build, now that you think about it, which you're sure the vigilante isn't used to. And Jason's never been anything but gentle and polite, but you saw an undercurrent of something strong, something like titanium, under that gentle spirit the one time he stood up for one of the baristas at the coffee shop that you first spoke to each other. He hadn't needed to do much apart from stand up and glare at the beleaguered corporate guy angry that there wasn't enough sugar in his coffee, and the dude shut up and scurried out as fast as he could.

It was probably the hottest thing you've ever seen him do, except for that one time you pushed your laptop a little too close to the edge of your desk while studying, it tipped over, and he caught it one-handed without looking up from his book. What can you say? Saving you a couple hundred dollars in getting that fixed was hot.

"It was a misunderstanding," you say. "We just ended up in the same places at the same times."

A gust of wind pushes back the Red Hood's hood, exposing a head of thick, dark hair, the same shade of black as Jason's. The motorcycle swerves in his haste to pull his hood back up, and when you reach your apartment and hop off the bike, he's pushing his hair back, back, beneath the hood.

What's the point of ditching the helmet if he's just going to be fussing with the hood all the time?

"What's new with you?" you ask, scuffing your toe against the sidewalk. Your shoes are falling apart; the sole is peeling away.

"Same old, same old," he says. His voice sounds rougher, but that might just be the new modulator.

"How's your side?"

"How's yours?" he counters. "You still haven't let me see it. I bet it scarred because you were too stubborn to take my advice and patch it up."

You will never admit that he's right. You challenge, "Let's compare scars, then," knowing full well his armor dips below his pants. It's a little silly to picture the Red Hood wearing an armored one-piece, but that's all you can imagine.

He clucks his tongue and shakes his head. It dislodges the hood. A patch of hair falls down to his forehead, and it's white.

But the back of his hair is black.

White and black—

Your stomach flips.

"I thought you had a boyfriend, honey. Why're you asking me to strip?"

So that's what all the teasing's been about. He hasn't been flirting—or he has, his own weird version of flirting, because he's a dumbass.

For a moment all you can hear is the rush of blood in your ears, then you flex your fingers to regain feeling in them. You roll your eyes and say, "I think we've established that my apartment is basically a strip club. Why don't you come up and show me, Jason?"

"Well, I'm flattered, but—what?" He splutters like he's choking on his own tongue. Serves him right. "I'm not—why do you think that—I mean, I could be anyone—"

Yeah, he can have his little crisis on the street. You tug on your own fringe, then swipe into the building.

You hear his muffled cursing as the door closes.

You look forward to him catching up.

(My requests are open, so let me know if you want me to write anything in particular! Also let me know if you want to be added to a taglist.)

Forever tag list:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[rambling-at-midnight]

Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks

Pairing: Jason Todd x Civilian!Reader. No pronouns so can be read as any gender!

Summary: Meet-ugly with the Red Hood due to a gas station robbery gone wrong.

Word count: ~2k

(I'm branching out to other fandoms, apparently. Let me know if you want a sequel. Enjoy!)

You weren't born in Gotham, so it sometimes still surprises you that you had adjusted so well to its particular brand of crazy.

You're from somewhere a little more south of New Jersey, although most places in the U.S. are a little south of Jersey unless you're a lobster farmer from Maine or a tree hugger from Vermont.

Both of those descriptions sound critical, but they weren't meant to be. Right about now you're seriously considering taking up lobster farming.

No one sane ever moves to Gotham. Everyone knows the stories, and even if most of the country didn't believe all of them, most people aren't stupid enough to disregard them. And you certainly weren't stupid. But rent was dirt cheap for a city, and so was tuition for GU's vet school. So you thought to yourself, "How bad could it really be," bought pepper spray and a taser, and accepted the admissions offer.

You'd always liked iced coffee more than green bean casserole and peach cobbler, anyway.

Reading news articles hadn't been enough to prepare you for the utter insanity of Gotham City, unfortunately. But you adapted. You always did. Upgraded your taser, memorized the bus schedule, learned the less sketchy areas of town, did your best not to get caught outside after dark. Kept your head down, ignored the crime lords and genetic experiments gone wrong and lunatics and vigilantes scurrying along the rooftops, and you'd survived for almost two years without many incidents.

But you'd gone to the library because you were critically unable to work in your apartment, gotten distracted by panicking about how little you really knew about next week's test content, and stared at the pages of your textbook for almost an hour as you fought back tears. So now you were running late and it was dark as you walked home because the buses were down. Of course they were. That lunatic that thought he was a crocodile had smashed a bunch last week and they hadn't been replaced yet.

Goosebumps prickle on the back of your neck, but you tell yourself it's nothing. Keep your head down. Criminals target the people that look most obviously paranoid first.

You're just burnt out. Severely. But the end of your sophomore year of veterinary school was looming, which meant you would have a relaxing three-month vacation before the next one started.

And no, you weren't thinking about next year's summer 'vacation' of clinicals. Because if this year was bad after a year of summer vacation, what will it do to you to have no break at all?

That's a future you problem, thankfully.

You're still feeling sorry for yourself when you reach the gas station right next to your apartment building. You walk right by it, remember what's in your fridge or pantry—thanks, grocery store self, thinking you don't need any snacking foods—then backtrack.

Since starting vet school, you've tried to be healthier with your eating habits. Brains lacking in nutrients absorb information less efficiently, after all. But you're still a sucker for Cheez-Its and energy drinks.

You won't drink it tonight, obviously.

Right as you put the items on the counter for the bored-looking cashier to scan the barcodes, something cold presses to your temple.

The cashier freezes, eyes blown wide with panic.

"Easy there," someone says to your left. A man, voice oily in a way that sets your teeth on edge immediately. "Do what I say, or I blow their brains out, then yours."

A gun.

A gun is pressed to your head.

Because of course it is. A shitty way to end a shitty day. You should have kept walking right past the gas station.

Before you moved to Gotham, you might have screamed and panicked, but you know better now. You know to stay calm.

You clench your fists to stop them from shaking so noticeably, but otherwise don't move. You've seen hostage situations before, because this is Gotham, but you've never been the hostage.

The gun feels heavy. And so cold, like it's sapping all the heat from your skin.

"Okay, dude," the cashier said soothingly. "You want the money in the register?"

The robber scoffs. "Obviously."

"All right." The cashier's voice is even and soft, unthreatening. You wonder if training for situations like these are required for cashiers in Gotham. It certainly hadn't been for your old job, although that hadn't been in New Jersey, and it hadn't been at a twenty-four seven gas station, either. "I need to get a key to unlock it, okay? So I'm reaching below the counter."

"Just get the key," the robber demands. The gun shifts against your temple. You fantasize for a half-second about acting like an action hero, disarming him and taking him down all on your own. But you're not a vigilante and you've never been in a real-life fight before. You don't think you're fast enough to get out of the barrel's way before he pulls the trigger. If you managed to shove it away, what if he fired and hit the cashier instead?

Then comes the sound of another gun clicking.

Great, you think half-hysterically. Just what we need. Even more deadly weapons.

"Lower the gun," growls a modulated voice, and everyone freezes.

The Red Hood is standing behind the robber, also pointing a gun to his head like the meme of people lined up in a church with guns aimed at the person in front of them.

The robber lets his gun dip a little bit. Distracted enough that it's not pressed directly to your temple anymore.

Not to brag, but you recover the quickest. It's probably the adrenaline.

Thank God you keep your keychain in hand while out at night. Your fingers shake, but you have your pepper spray up in a second, and the robber's turning to look at your sudden movement when you squeeze down on the nozzle.

The spray hits him directly in the eyes, and his howl of pain is immediate. But you don't stop spraying, even when the cashier starts to splutter and your own eyes water.

The gun goes off, once in the robber's hands, and a second time when it hits the ground because he's dropped it in favor of clutching his burning face.

You stop the stream of pepper spray, because now the air is spicy when you breathe, but can't force yourself to lower your hand. The Red Hood quickly handcuffs the would-be robber, which is only difficult because he's clawing at his eyes in pain, and executes a tricky-looking martial arts move to get him on the ground.

Despite everything, you're impressed.

The Red Hood is bigger than maybe anyone you've ever seen before. He could have punched the robber in half like paper, probably, but you appreciate the finesse a little bit more.

"Hey." A gentle voice, and gentle hands, take the pepper spray out of your grip. "Quick thinking there," you're complimented. By the fucking Red Hood, one of Gotham's most infamous crime lords. The first time you read about him in the papers, he was chopping off people's heads, and every story since has been similarly alarming. But he's not supposed to be here; the Red Hood stays in Park Row, which locals call Crime Alley, apparently, and you've always steered very clear from that part of town.

"Can you look at me?"

You do. Maybe he won't chop off your head if you listen well enough.

"Are you okay?"

You blink. That... does not compute.

The Red Hood doesn't save people. And he doesn't leave Crime Alley. So what's he doing outside of Crime Alley, saving people?

The robber is still screaming, eyes screwed up in pain. He's handcuffed on the ground.

"You should probably let him wash out his eyes, at least," you tell the cashier. "Pepper spray is pretty painful." You'd sprayed yourself once out of curiosity, realized how much it burned, then sprinted to the shower to rinse it off. Which, pro tip: not a good move, especially with warm water. Water reactivates it by opening your pores, or something, and when you're in the shower it just spreads all over your body.

Your eyes are watering. The Red Hood sees that, because he tells you, "Let's get some air," and tugs you out of the gas station.

He's right. The cool night air does feel good. You blink away the stinging in your eyes and he repeats, "Are you okay?" His voice is robotic from the mask, but kind of pleasant at the same time. You'd never guess just from listening to him that he's a killer.

"Yes," you say automatically. "Thanks," you add. You're lightheaded for some reason; you sway on your feet.

"You sure?" he asks critically. "You look... pale." Judging by the pause, 'pale' wasn't the word he really wanted to say. The red helmet tilts. "You weren't shot, were you?"

"I don't think so," you shrug. Then you look down at yourself and realize that there's a large bloodstain on your hip. "Never mind. I think I was."

"Jesus!" he yelps at the sight. It's kind of funny, actually, this grown man built like a brick shithouse yelping at the sight of blood. "Why didn't you say anything?"

You shrug and peel your sticky shirt away from the wound to inspect it. "I thought I just bumped something." Sure enough, it's just a graze. You weren't sure which shot had hit you, but you'd honestly been injured worse. Plus, supervising surgeries at the animal clinic you'd worked at for years has desensitized you to the sight of blood. Maybe it's also altered your perception on what 'serious injuries' count as; the amount of times you've been bitten by startled dogs...

"You need to go to the hospital."

"It's just a scratch," you argue. "I can't go to the hospital. I need to feed my cat."

"Your cat can wait. You're bleeding a lot."

"I'm already late, and if I miss dinner, he'll start pissing all over my apartment."

The Red Hood sighs. "Where do you live?"

Your mouth opens to answer on instinct. You snap it shut just in time and glare. "Why?"

"So I can feed your cat for you while you go to the hospital."

It's nice of him to offer, but... "No."

"No?"

Maybe it's not the best idea to refuse Gotham's most prominent crime lord, but it would also be pretty stupid to tell a strange man where you live. Especially when he happens to be said crime lord.

"Look," you sigh. "I'm a vet student. I have surgical tools at home to treat myself with, and I promise, under the blood, the bullet barely hit me. I've been hurt worse by Chihuahuas that hate the vet."

"There's no way I can convince you to change your mind?"

"It's been a long day," you sigh. "I really, really just want to go home." And he's blocking the path. Your apartment building is directly behind him, just calling your name.

"At least let me walk you to your building." He holds his hands up at your suspicious look and assures you, "I won't ask for the apartment number."

"I'm literally right there." You point.

He turns, sees how close you are to being home, and says, "Seriously?"

"Seriously. What are you doing here, anyway? I thought you were some kind of villain."

"I'm reformed," he grumbles.

"Well, good for you."

You make sure you have your keys and your wallet, then step around him and make it all the way to your building's door before he calls, "Wait!" The Red Hood's jogging to catch up to you, holding the box of Cheez-Its and energy drink you'd almost died for. "You forgot these," he says.

"Thanks," you say, taking them. It would have been a shame to waste four dollars.

"You're welcome," he says. There's something odd about his voice, but you attribute it to the mask, scan to be let into the building, and make sure it's fully closed before heading to the elevator.

Your cat is unhappy about dinner being an hour late. He weaves between your feet, making his protests loudly and viscerally known. You wince. He's worse than the dogs that bark in this building sometimes.

Your poor neighbors.

You give him his wet food, then hop in the shower to clean off your hip. It bled a lot, but once the blood washes away, it's actually not as bad as you thought. You've stitched up animals before, but never yourself, and decide against trying tonight. If it heals a little unevenly, who cares? No one will see it, anyway.

You pad the wound with gauze, tape it over, and fall into bed. Staring at the ceiling, you're forced to admit to yourself that you may be looking up more in the future. Just to see if anyone in a red helmet is running on a rooftop nearby.

It was a long day. But, strangely, almost dying wasn't the worst part of it.

Actually... it may have been the best part.

~~

Forever tag list:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101

[rambling-at-midnight]

Masterlist

DC

Jason Todd x Reader

(Complete) Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks, Part 2, Part 3

Don’t Go Disappearing On Me Again

Second Chances, Part 2

Please Come Home

Supernatural

A Nice Day Off (Supernatural/TUA crossover)

Sam Winchester x Reader:

(Complete) False Image: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

(Complete) Angel: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

(Complete) Four Years: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

(Complete) The Dangers of Sarcasm: Part 1, Part 2

Marvel

Peter Parker x Reader:

Dating Peter Parker Would Include…

(Complete) Hacked: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11

Sharing a Brain

Meddling

Insomnia

(Complete) Inferno: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5

Wanda Maximoff x Reader:

Art

The Umbrella Academy

A Nice Day Off (Supernatural/TUA crossover)

Five Hargreeves x Reader:

(Complete) Number Eight: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4

Invincible

(Complete) Pick Your Battles: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Epilogue

Ten Years

Ring

(Complete) Snowflakes Melt Too Quickly: Teaser, Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 5.5 (Alternate Ending)

See You Later (Or Not)

Midnight

(Im)Possibilities

Jealousy

Shy

Klaus Hargreeves x Reader:

You know?

Don’t You Believe Me?

Sherlock

Sherlock x Reader:

Slytherin Sherlock x Slytherin Reader

Slytherin Sherlock x Ravenclaw Reader

Slytherin Sherlock x Gryffindor Reader

Slytherin Sherlock x Hufflepuff Reader

Dating Sherlock Holmes Would Include…

Actors

Tom Holland x Reader:

(Mob!Tom, Trigger Warning) Rain

(Mob!Tom, COMPLETE) Protection: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11, Part 12, Part 13, Part 14

(COMPLETE) Rising Stars, Part 2, Part 3

(Discontinued) A Handmaiden’s Lies: Teaser, Part 1, Part 2

[rambling-at-midnight]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Part 3

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Tom’s honestly shocked when you show up at the camp the next day. It’s quite impressive you were able to find your way back through the thick trees and brush. The girl with the white hair scowls as she trails after you, but you’re back to being a statue as you stride past bigger, bulkier men without batting an eye. They all watch you go with barely concealed resentment bubbling in their eyes. Tom made it clear that you were not to be touched, and nobody’s going to go against Tom, no matter how much a few of them might want to.

Tom won his position as leader fair and square, no matter how bloody. Nobody wants to be the next stain of red on his hands.

The sun is high in the sky and shade hard to find. Scarce a wind blows to challenge the heat. Tom pauses in sharpening his sword and lifts his sweaty curls off his forehead, relishing the feel of fresh air on the overheated skin.

Midday patrol was just sent out, though Tom doubts they’ll find anything. Only other rogues and bandits ever occupy the forests, and most parties know not to mess with Holland’s gang. The rest of his crew mills around the camp. He knows they’re murmuring, resentful he’d called off their crusade of destruction. He tries to keep the majority happy, but they also need to remember that he is leader and that what he says goes.

If they want to challenge him on it, they can.

You don’t gloat or anything when he catches your eye. Without a change of expression, you step over a pile of horse droppings smoothly. Tom appreciates the good grace of that while simultaneously cursing the poop boys for not staying on top of their work. Behind you, the blonde has less grace; her nose wrinkles at the sight of the mess.

You stride right up to Tom. At his side, Paddy tenses. Last night Tom’s inner circle was informed of the situation, and Paddy took it as well as could be expected.

“What do you do for fun?” you ask without preamble. Behind you, the girl rolls her eyes.

Tom blinks. “Pardon?”

“Fun,” you repeat slowly like he’s not right in the head. “What do you enjoy, apart from robbing civilians and destroying property?”

As if he can’t help himself, Paddy has to open his mouth: “Better question is what you do for fun. Watch paint dry?”

Your lip curls as you look at the younger boy. “I’m sure you meant for that to be a much more cutting insult.”

Paddy flushes.

“What I don’t do for fun is insult my friends and family,” Tom says pointedly. Your eyes slide to the ground before snapping up. “And to answer your question, I enjoy riding and dueling.”

Your eyes light up at the mention of dueling and it dawns on Tom that this is your olive branch. He’d nearly rejected it by telling you off but thankfully he’d saved himself.

“Duelling looks like a useful skill,” you say.

Tom nods.

“I was never allowed to learn. It’s considered improper.”

“Everyone should be taught how to defend themselves,” Tom says. “What if you have to protect the queen?”

The girl with the white-blonde hair clears her throat and you kick her. It’s such a moment of warm familiarity that Tom has to smile. “Sorry about Henrietta,” you smile. “She considers it improper as well.”

The girl, who must be Henrietta, casts her eyes to the sky. Tom can recognize the look of someone praying for patience; he’s seen Haz wear that expression often enough to have it memorized.

“Well, you should learn,” Tom informs you.

Henrietta laughs after a brief moment of awkward silence. Your eyes widen a little as you stare at Tom, obviously waiting for him to say something, but his mind is blank. What’s neutral territory here? If he changes the subject it’ll be obvious but not as awkward as the silence. Do you want to continue talking about duelling? Is there a coded message in your abrupt question and trailing sentences? Why are you making Tom’s head spin? He’s never been this nervous around girls before.

Paddy mumbles something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Dear Gods.” Then, louder, he says, “Y/N, would you like Tom to teach you how to duel?”

Tom’s eyes widen as you smile and nod—almost shyly? He hadn’t considered you would ever be bashful about anything. “Yes!” he exclaims. “Uh, Pads, take Henrietta to, uh… Zendaya. I’m sure they’ll get along great. And, Y/N, we can go… duel. Together. With swords,” he finishes stupidly, internally cringing but unable to stop himself.

“Mmm-hmm.” You clasp your hands in front of your body and follow Tom to the makeshift armory. Most camp members just carry their own weapons, so the armory doesn’t have a wide selection to choose from. They’re all spare weapons.

Tom picks up a thick sword about the length of his arm and tests it. It’s heavy—probably too heavy for someone that’s never wielded such a weapon in her life. Life in the castle tends to have such perks.

Tom stashes that sword and pulls out a slightly shorter and thinner sword. You should be able to wield it.

Tom unsheathes his own sword from his belt and demonstrates how to hold the weapon. You take his instructions easily and sometimes anticipate them. Your eyes may be untrained in duelling stances, but they’re still sharp, keen to focus on every little difference between Tom’s stance and yours.

You’re not good at duelling. Not at first. Tom can tell you don’t want to admit you’re struggling but the sword trembles when you hold it up. Your muscles obviously aren’t used to such exertion, which makes you slow. Tom suggests a break after a while and you seize the opportunity for a rest. You’re obviously not the type of person to admit to weakness.

After the break you return to practice with renewed vigor. You practice a basic parry in slow motion until you’ve got it and only then do you instruct Tom to speed up.

It takes hours (and a few more breaks) by the time you’re able to parry at a speed remotely close to the speed of duelling, but you look so pleased with yourself Tom can only applaud you.

He can see you applying that unholy determination to any skill in your life. Tom can’t imagine you’re incapable of doing whatever you set your mind on.

“Can all of your men duel like you?” you ask just as the sun begins to set. The trees are already casting long shadows on the ground.

Tom shakes his head. “The skill variety is wide. What swordsmen do reside in the camp are impressive as well, though none have trained as long as I have.”

“Do you not tire of not having a home?” you ask again, reminding Tom of those leading questions about duelling before. He narrows his eyes slightly, wondering where you’re going with this, but replies easily enough.

“I do have a home.” He looks to his tent.

“But a permanent one,” you press. “Your skills—all your men’s skills—are impressive. Surely there are positions for men such as you in the kingdom?”

“What, so eager for me to stay now, is that it?” Tom teases. There was no home for Tom when he was a child here. Why should now be any different?

“Become a soldier for the queen,” you urge.

Tom just stares at you.

“A war is coming,” you add. “The only thing more dangerous than being a group of rogues scant forty men with no allegiances travelling between kingdoms is being the leader of said group whose soulmate is influential in a castle. Your group cannot fight off Thanatoia alone. You’ll be slaughtered. Or worse—you’ll be tortured with the hope that I’ll give up valuable state secrets for you.”

“Yes, because you wouldn’t, would you?” Tom asks bitterly, sheathing his sword.

“I’m trying to protect you,” you snap back, eyes slits of anger. All traces of comradery brought on by sparring are gone.

Tom ponders the treeline until you sigh and dash the sword to the ground, perhaps petulantly. Without even a good-bye, you take your leave.

Tom doesn’t watch as you do.

~~~

He doesn’t sleep.

Is Tom really prepared to serve a kingdom that threw him away as a child? Is he prepared to take a final side in the budding conflict?

Is he prepared to be away from you for a whole year again—maybe longer, if war is declared; barricades can be constructed, hostages taken, innocents murdered.

Is he prepared to leave his men behind?

No, Tom decides in the morning, he’s not. He won’t leave his men. He also won’t leave you without the guarantee that he’ll see you again. If his men truly decide that they would rather wander than enlist, he’ll go with them, but not without you. He’ll kidnap you if he has to. Sure, you’re stubborn and loyal to the queen and you’ll probably hate him at first. But you’ll get over it, and even if you don’t, at least Tom will know that you’re safe.

~~~

“We’ve lived for years like this!” Anthony argues. “Thantoian troops won’t dare to find us in the woods in our own territory.”

“Deesee is neutral in this budding war!” a short, squat boy with a hundred pounds on Tom chimes in. Beady little eyes peer at his leader with resentment from underneath thick eyebrows and a protruding forehead. “Worst comes to worst and we could stay there. They’re not about to drive us out.”

“And hide from the fight like cowards?” Sam argues back.

“It’s not our fight to begin with!”

Tomas swears and spits on the ground, drawing his sword. The familiar shink of metal on metal has everyone backing away. Everyone except Tom. He clenches his jaw, hand resting on his own sword.

“What are you doing, Tomas?” Harrison asks cautiously, one hand held out as if it’ll help diffuse the situation.

“I’ve had enough of Holland’s pansy ass leading,” Tomas declares, leveling the point of his sword at Tom’s chest despite being a good ten feet away. “Fight me like a man, unless you’re too much of a bitch.”

Someone in the crowd laughs nervously.

“Are you sure about this, Tomas?” Tom asks slowly, drawing his own sword.

“‘Course I’m ready,” the other boy scoffs. “Ready to skewer you.”

“I really don’t want to hurt you.”

“Trust me,” Tomas laughs, “I won’t be the one getting hurt. And after this, I’ll take the bitch that suggested this stupid idea to my tent.” He leers.

Iron meets iron in a clang that makes a few people flinch. Tom’s eyes narrow at the other boy’s strength as he pushes against Tom’s sword. Tom takes a step back, testing the waters. As expected, Tomas follows him.

“You know what I’m going to do to your bitch, Tommy?” he taunts.

Criminals. Tom keeps the best of them in line, but a few dishonourable rogues find their way into every camp. He grits his teeth and smashes the hilt of his sword to Tomas’ hand, relishing the other boy’s grunt of pain. “I don’t imagine you’re going to do anything to anyone after this, Tomas.”

Tomas lunges, his sword missing Tom’s chest by a hair. Tom barely jumps to the side in time. Before Tomas can rebalance, his arm is gone from his shoulder.

The crowd sucks in a gasp. Tomas screams.

Tom doesn’t like to leave loose ends, so he runs him through with his sword.

“Would anyone else like to complain?” he asks, eyes blazing. Tomas is dead now, but his words—what he’d said about you—they run around his brain, echoing and echoing and he wishes he could kill Tomas all over again for even thinking them.

No one says a word.

~~~

You arrive at the camp a little past high noon. You march in with a scowl on your face, obviously ready to fight even if you don’t know how, but what you see stops you in your tracks. For a brief moment, pure shock flits over your face as you stumble and your fists unclench.

The whole camp is silent. Those who had quarreled during the discussion don’t dare to do more than glare after Tom had officially shut down the debate. Little more than ten tents remain erect. All the boys and girls with rolled-up tents sit on their packs, eyes glued to your form.

The winter had been harsh and they’d lost a few men to the cold, not to mention the worry about the upcoming war that had plagued the camp, but Tom hadn’t expected quite this many people to agree to work in the castle. Not a single camp girl refused the invitation. Only the bitter men, content to suffer only to spite the kingdom that threw them out, refused. Anthony, one of them, spit on the ground by Tom’s feet and called him a traitor. It stings.

In the middle of it all is a boy lying face down on the ground. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that he’s dead. You don’t balk at the sight or even doubletake. Your eyes seek out Tom’s and he almost wants to drop the gaze, expecting shame or disappointment, but you’re inscrutable as always.

He almost feels dirty when he remembers what Tomas had said about you. Those words will always be etched into his memory, much as he doesn’t want them to be. What would you say if you knew what one of his followers said about you? What would you do if you knew that some of the men you’re taking in might have been Tomas’ friend?

If you had been expecting more or fewer men, you don’t let it show. You don’t even hesitate before calling out, “In exchange for the queen’s protection, land, food, medicine, and all other services, will you agree to be a worker in her castle? Will you clean, cook, and fight without complaint?”

“Yes,” Tom says after that anticlimactic ending. He’d expected a few more words and you’d even hesitated at the end like you’d been searching for more to say.

Harrison takes his lead: “Yes.” Soon enough, everyone that has packed has agreed and you nod, satisfied.

“The queen will go hungry before you will,” you add. “All she requires is your loyalty.” And with that, you turn to go. Tom scrambles to catch up.

“The queen won’t really…” He trails off awkwardly. That’s simply not how royalty works.

You shoot him a glare out of the corner of your eye. “The queen is connected to her kingdom, Holland. You’ve just become a part of it. She protects her own.”

“But she wouldn’t starve to death to let a soldier eat,” Tom presses. “Not without leaving behind an heir. And she’s younger than me. There’ll be no heir for a long time.”

“She has a younger brother. He’s prepared to take the throne as well,” you point out.

Tom shakes his head. He thinks you’re exaggerating your queen’s greatness a little bit, but he has to trust you. Right?

“You forget the queen’s curse.”

Tom scoffs. “That magic myth? She’s connected to her kingdom or something?”

“Not a myth,” you say softly. “You also forget that nobles are representatives of the areas they govern. Whatever the majority of that area decides on, they must support or be replaced. Marvel is not as Deesee or Thanatoia.”

Tom has to admit he doesn’t know much about how Marvel is governed. He didn’t live in the kingdom long enough to learn. He’d just always assumed it was similar to its neighboring kingdoms. Of course, resentment had kept him from studying Marvel whenever he came to ransack and destroy.

Properly chastised, he closes his mouth.

You sigh dramatically at his side and reach into the pocket of your skirt. Out comes a delicate handkerchief.

Tom’s stunned when you take his face in your hands and wipe it gently. The handkerchief dips down to his neck before you retract, showing off the red smears on the once-white surface before shoving the ruined object back into your skirt.

You say nothing about the blood or the body, but Tom knows that you know what he did. He just doesn’t know how you feel about inviting a killer into your palace. He doesn’t know how you feel about your soulmate being a murderer.

You are frustratingly unreadable.

A Handmaiden’s Lies Taglist:

@andreasworlsboring101 @juliebean247​ @lisannehus​

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight@andreasworlsboring101​

Let me know what you all thought or if you’d like me to put you on a taglist!

[rambling-at-midnight]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Part 2

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

About a year has passed since Tom last visited Avenge. He and his men spent quite a fair amount of time at Deesee, a neighboring kingdom known for mining precious jewels. In fact, they spent more time there than they normally did, so Tom cut their visit to the kingdom of Thanatoia short. It’s not like he and his men stick to a schedule or anything; they vaguely circulate between the three kingdoms to escape harsh winters and authority figures out for their heads.

It’s just that… well.

Not a day passed where Tom didn’t think of you. He was anxious and worried that something could happen to you and the way he’d find out is by waking up and discovering that the words on his forearm were gone. Or that you would find someone else and it would just be another cruel joke played by the universe to show Tom yet again that he is unlovable. Or that you would simply forget about him.

“Worrying is normal,” Haz told him again and again. “Soulmates aren’t meant to be apart for so long. It’s like how you would be worried for me if I was lost, only… worse.”

A lot worse, Tom had mentally agreed every time.

But now he’s back. Surely you’ll come to visit, right? You’ll hear about him and his men back in the kingdom you’re so protective of and you’ll come to check on them to make sure nobody’s misbehaving.

Right?

No.

A full week passes and nothing. Tom’s seething. Haz and Paddy let all the horses out of a rich man’s stable four days ago. Sam and Harry robbed a bank at gunpoint three days ago. William stole a carriage and Tomas crashed it yesterday.

Nothing.

And Tom’s livid. It’s been entirely too long and you’re ignoring him and he can hardly march up to the castle and demand to see you, can he? Especially because he doesn’t even know your name.

That’s a big part of why he’s angry. You know his. Tom hadn’t even bothered to ask you what yours is. So, really, if you decide to stay away for life, Tom can hardly stop you, can he?

So that is why he is walking up Iron Street, throwing Molotov cocktails at every carriage he sees.

Well, every empty carriage. You’re already going to be pissed about the property damage. Killing someone might be crossing the line.

Tom cheerfully lights another rag and hurls it at a red-and-gold carriage. How dare these people be wealthy when Tom and his men live in squalor. How dare these families be unbroken when his own parents told him he was unlovable at seven years old and left him and his brothers at an orphanage. How dare these couples be happy when Tom’s own soulmate wants nothing to do with him.

“That’s enough,” Z says at his side. “I’m sure she’ll get the hint.”

Tom snorts as he surveys the chaos. People running and yelling, carriages and carts going up in flames, and no one has the nerve to tell Tom to stop. Everyone knows by now that the Holland gang comes by every spring and they leave when they damn well please.

Someone shoves Tom from behind hard and he goes sprawling.

Already snarling, Tom jumps to his feet and turns around. His hands and knees sting from taking a fall on hard, unforgiving pebbles, and his pride is even more bruised but all that is forgotten when he sees who his assailant is.

“You call this a hint?” you snap at Zendaya with surprising ferocity.

“What’s your name?” Tom blurts out immediately. He might just die if you don’t transfer your attention back to him this very second.

Your mouth drops open wide and you just blink at Tom. Your hair is coming out of its braid and two pink spots of anger have appeared high on your cheekbones. You look simultaneously exactly like and nothing like the statue you’d been when Tom first met you. Finally you say slowly, “You destroy my kingdom with acts of terrorism, threaten my people’s lives, and steal our hard-earned money all because of a hissy fit that you don’t know my name?”

Tom winces. When you say it like that, it doesn’t sound as reasonable as it had been in Tom’s head. “I knew you’d never meet me otherwise.”

“Let’s go back to the camp,” Zendaya suggests. She doesn’t quail under the thunderous look you send her way. “That way you two can talk in private.”

Tom bites his lip anxiously. Thank God, but you say yes, and follow Zendaya as she leads the way out of the partially burnt capital city.

Tom studies your face as he walks. You’re just as beautiful as he remembers—more, even, if that is even possibly. But he also notices dark circles under your eyes, a bandage on your right pointer finger, and shoulders that slump slightly. The clues are faint but there and Tom’s chest floods with rage and concern at the thought of you being anything less than healthy.

“What happened to your finger?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “I just burnt it on a candle. It’s not a big deal.” Your hand goes to your skirt. Now Tom sees that there is something in a pocket he hadn’t noticed. He can see its outline as you walk.

His soulmate wouldn’t try to hurt him, Tom reasons. There’s no reason to be worried about something in your pocket that could be, quite literally, anything.

You manage the trek to the camp through the forest quite well, though you are breathing heavier by the time you arrive. Tom hopes he just imagines the condescending look Zendaya sends you. He wants the two most important women in his life to get along.

Haz looks up at your arrival. To Tom’s surprise, his face splits into a great grin when he sees you. You let out a squeak as his arms encircle your body.

Tom tries not to be jealous that his best mate is hugging his soulmate—actually lifting you into the air. He fails miserably and Zendaya snickers as she links hands with George.

“What are you doing?” you manage. Tom gets the feeling you’d be shoving Haz away if your arms weren’t trapped at your side with his.

“It’s a hug,” Harrison replies, setting you down. Confusion flashes over his features. “You do know what a hug is, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” you scoff. “But I have no idea who you are other than the boy who tried to choke me last year. So—”

“You’re family now,” Harrison shrugs. For the second time in as many hours, you’re at a loss for words. “I’m Harrison, by the way.”

You ease your hand into his outstretched one and give it a loose shake. Tom doesn’t miss the way you drop Haz’s hand as quick as you can and then wipe your hand on your skirt. “Y/N.”

He scowls. What, you’re too good to shake hands with a criminal now? Your own soulmate is a gang leader.

Then again, he knows your name now.

“Where’s your friend?” Tomas asks loudly. He’d spotted you and, still bearing a grudge from last year when you’d called him some unsavory words, is more than happy to needle you. Unfortunately, his raised tone draws attention. Suddenly there’s a crowd watching your every move, eager to pounce on weakness after that commotion you’d caused last year.

Tom spots Paddy pushing his way through the crowd, eyes fixed solely on you with a thunderous expression on his face.

Shit. He doesn’t know you’re his soulmate. Tom hadn’t told anyone but Haz. He hadn’t really had a choice about that, too; an explanation was necessary when Haz had seen his arm. Something told Tom you wouldn’t want the news spread, considering you wanted him to leave so badly. Judging by your raised eyebrows and head tilted towards Haz, it was the right call.

“I’m quite flattered to see you all remember me,” you say. “I must have made quite the impression.”

Beside Tom, Zendaya snorts. “You’re not going to be able to handle this one, Tom. This is going to be hilarious.” Wait—does she know? Tom looks at Z, who winks. Shit.

“I must be extremely special,” you continue, “for a group of half-witted common thieves to remember me when I can hardly even expect them to remember what they had for breakfast.”

That does it. Paddy lunges at you as people start to shout. Then William, who was still struggling to understand what you said, sees Paddy lunge at you and bawls, “Fight!” He then proceeds to uppercut Tomas right into Sam, and it all gets worse from there.

“Aw, hell,” Tom mutters, surveying the camp full of brawling kids. He sighs and sidesteps around two camp girls who are screeching and clawing at each other. You’re being pinned by Paddy, his arm pressed against your throat. “Paddy, stop!” He orders sharply. His little brother looks up at that, scowling, and you use the distraction to bring your knee up between his legs and bite down on his arm. Paddy spits out some unsavory words and rolls off of you.

“You were goading them,” Tom remarks with a half-laugh as he surveys the camp. You huff, standing up and rubbing at your neck with a vague look of consternation.

“Hardly.” You smooth your hair with one hand. “I’d barely started. One couldn’t dare to call one step a footrace, would they?” Maybe you had more to say, but Paddy lunges for you again.

“Where’re your Chiefs now, handmaiden?” he goads. “Maybe you’re not as important as you think to your—”

Tom steps forward, teeth grinding both at the cynical anger that his brother—his subordinate—is disobeying his orders, and the instinctual rage that someone else is touching you, someone else is hurting you—but he jerks to a halt when an arrow seemingly sprouts from a tree beside Paddy. It misses Tom’s brother by less than an inch.

“I’d say they’re still here,” you grunt from where you are underneath Paddy, “but I think that message has been received.”

“Get off her, Paddy,” Tom orders. For once his brother listens.

How you manage to look dignified as you sit up, Tom doesn’t know. You rise to your feet gracefully, still looking like all this is beneath you even though you’ve got a bloody lip and a skinned elbow. Tom doesn’t think even Zendaya could look so cool under pressure. Then again, Z rarely has legendary, mystical Chiefs guarding her ass.

“What, you need the trump card to win a fight?” Paddy snarls. “Typical. You castle women—”

“Patrick goddamn Holland!” Tom barks. “Listen to me: back. Off. If you can’t listen to my orders then don’t follow us.”

“Where are you going?” the younger Holland asks, the shock of being referred to by his birth name distracting him from the attack mission he’d set himself on earlier. He has the decency to look sheepish when he runs his hand through his hair, transforming from a rabid wolf about to pounce to a curious dog.

“To my tent,” Tom answers, “to talk.”

“Why?” Paddy asks. It’s the straw that breaks the horse’s back. “What could she—”

“None of your goddamn business!” Tom snaps. “Now you fix up this mess you started while the grownups talk!”

A stony expression sets his jaw. Paddy spins on his heel. Tom almost calls out to him, especially when Zendaya remarks that his reaction had been a bit harsh.

“Holland set very clear instructions and the boy failed to follow them,” you counter as Paddy clears up the fighting. “Everyone must learn their place eventually.”

Tom glances at you but your expression is unreadable. It sounded like you were giving him a compliment. Or at least saying that Tom wasn’t in the wrong.

“But Paddy was right,” Harrison admits while holding up the entrance to Tom’s tent and ducking inside. “What is there to discuss? I mean, I’m sure we have extra tents but you’ll probably just sleep in Tom’s, right?”

Tom grimaces. So he hadn’t told Haz about you not being in a particular hurry to get together. The strangled choke you let out while entering doesn’t encourage him at all.

“I did not come here to discuss anything of that sort,” you say primly, making yourself at home by settling down and arranging your skirt. Instinctively everyone else sits down as well. You just have that ‘leader’ sort of aura. Tom doesn’t have to wonder why you’re the queen’s assistant.

“So it’s true,” Zendaya remarks. “I thought so when I saw the words on your arm, Tom, but I wasn’t sure.”

“Who exactly knows about our situation?” you ask with exasperation as you turn to Tom.

“I’m sorry, what’s the ‘situation’ here?” Harrison asks. Tom can see his friend’s face going thunderous but can’t catch his eye to tell Haz to stop, as he’s staring resolutely at you.

“I have a kingdom to run,” you snap. “Once things are calmer then maybe—”

“I’m sorry, isn’t it the queen’s job to run Marvel?” Zendaya interrupts. “You’re just her assistant.”

“I—we—it is a group effort. No man can take on a mountain.” You flick a piece of dirt off of your skirt.

“Oh, honey, you’re still bleeding,” Zendaya notices.

“What?” you put one hand to your lip. Your fingertips come away red. “Oh. I thought…”

“So you don’t care that Tom’s your soulmate?” Harrison interrupts. Zendaya dabs at your lip with one of Tom’s spare shirts she’d found lying on the floor. Tom is too invested in waiting for your answer to be embarrassed by his messy living space.

“Of course I do!” you reply, affronted. Tom sucks in a breath of air that is entirely too ragged and loud. “But as I’ve said before, I have bigger things to worry about.” You push Zendaya away.

Harrison casts his eyes to Tom, who’s sitting subdued in his chair, eyes on the ground. Because Tom sure won’t say it, Harrison tells you that excuse is a steaming pile of crap.

Your lip curls and eyes flash dangerously. Before Tom can say ‘Oh, no’ you’re on your feet. “I don’t care what a bastard reject boy thinks of me or my reasoning. Holland is not the only person whose feelings have to be considered in this situation. I am—”

Harrison spits on your skirt, no doubt regretting the hug he’d greeted you with. You close your eyes and look up, a muscle ticking in your jaw.

“Haz,” Tom warns. He lets the blond get away with a lot more than most, but he’s rapidly approaching a line it would be best not to cross.

“Dude, I cannot believe how bad your luck can be sometimes!” Harrison exclaims. “Typical Holland luck strikes again. Out of everyone in the world, you got paired up with this bitch! What are the odds that you get the worst soulmate—”

“Enough!” Tom yells. It’s too late. Zendaya is already grabbing your arm and pulling you out of the tent. “Nice, Haz.”

Harrison scowls. “Hey, I’m calling it like I see it. There’s got to be a mistake. No way the universe hates you that much.”

“Haz, even we know about the brewing war between Marvel and Thanatoia,” Tom reasons. “Once that’s all over we can be together.”

“Have you seen her, mate?” Harrison demands, snapping his fingers in front of Tom like that’s going to wake him up. “Why would you want to be with that?”

“Because she’s my soulmate,” Tom says stubbornly.

Harrison rolls his eyes. “You poor stupid son of a bitch.”

“Excuse me?”

“Soulmates don’t always work out, Tom,” Harrison points out. “And people marry people that aren’t their soulmate all the time. Just because you’re most compatible with Y/N doesn’t mean you’re not moderately compatible with someone else.”

“She has to love me,” Tom insists. “Y/N’s my soulmate.”

He stomps out of the tent and looks around for Zendaya and George’s tent. If he can just talk to you longer, Tom will be able to convince you to give them a try. He knows he can.

As he draws nearer to the tent, he can’t help himself; he stops outside to listen to the conversation.

“—really very excited,” Zendaya says. “The year was practically torture for him, and I can tell it was for you as well.”

You must shake your head or open your mouth to contradict her, because Z tells you not to lie.

“Trust me,” she continues, “I’ve spent enough time away from my soulmate to know what you were going through. You’re tough as hell to make it a whole year but everyone here already knows that. You don’t need to prove more.”

There’s silence inside the tent for so long Tom is about to walk away when you ask, “Can you tell me about him?”

A shocked smile spreads across Tom’s face.

“Well, Tom is a total softie,” Zendaya starts with. “He loves dogs in particular but he likes all animals except birds and lizards.”

You giggle and Tom’s stomach drops.

“And, let’s see,” Zendaya continues. Tom can picture her putting her finger to her chin as she thinks. “He can’t stand blueberries but loves pretty much every other type of berry. And…”

A Handmaiden’s Lies Taglist:

@andreasworlsboring101 @juliebean247

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101​

Let me know what you all thought or if you’d like me to put you on a taglist!

[rambling-at-midnight]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Part 1

Pairing: Tom Holland x Reader

Tom is staring moodily into the fire, tossing twigs and stones into it occasionally. Harry and Haz watch him by sneaking glances in his direction and thinking they’re being sneaky. The heat is brutal from where he’s crouching, but he can’t leave the firepit. If he does, he’ll see her. The girl he’s been infatuated with for months. The girl he knew he didn’t ever have a chance with. The girl he just saw kissing George in his tent.

Zendaya.

Maybe they’re doing a little bit more than kissing now, he thinks pissily, flicking his eyes to his friend’s tent before turning around with a firm resolution not to think about Z again—at least for tonight. It’s none of his business, anyway, and he’s never let a hint of what he feels for Z show. It’s not her fault and it’s not George’s either.

He’d never really had a chance. Not really. Not after George and Z had met and their words had burned. He’d known. It was self-preservation that had kept his lips sealed.

It still hurts.

And he knows he’ll see her in the morning, all golden and glowing, and it’ll hurt a bit but he’s her friend so he won’t say anything.

A commotion distracts Tom from his brooding. Everyone looks up at the sound of someone yelling, another sobbing, and other people grunting.

Zendaya and George stumble out of their tent to investigate the commotion. Tom glances at them, sees the way their shirts are rumpled, and can’t breathe until a group of seven people break through the tree line and approach the fire’s circle of light. Five of the men are Tom’s. They’re manhandling two servant girls.

Servant girls. From the castle? What the hell are servant girls from the castle doing in my camp?

“Paddy, what happened?” Tom asks, his voice equal parts amused and worried. His brother’s shirt has a large red stain down the front of it along with the lower part of his face.

“We found these two spying on us,” a boy older than Tom answers. His name is something like Anthony.

“The one with y/h/c hair headbutted him,” another boy, William, explains with glee.

“Got me in the balls too,” a brunet called Tomas adds, prompting a chorus of cries from the scandalized camp girls and both laughter and slight scolding from the boys.

All the while during this conversation, the girl with the palest white-blonde hair Tom has ever seen hasn’t stopped sobbing while the other girl is ramrod-straight. Tom almost likens her to a statue.

“Z, you and your girls get the…” Tom waves a hand limply at the crying servant girl. “All sorted out.” No way she’s a spy; no spy acts like that when they’re caught. She could be acting, but she would have to be a very good actress to do that and women aren’t allowed to act nowadays anyway.

No, the girl Tom is more worried about is the stoic girl who apparently knows how to fight. He beckons for the men to bring the girl closer into the firelight so he can examine her.

The first sight of you hits Tom in the chest like a donkey kick. His men should definitely have warned him about your appearance. You have to be a faerie of some kind.

Luckily, Tom gets his wits about him before he looks like an idiot by gawking at you. When he speaks, he focuses on your ear lest he lost his train of thought by focusing his eyes on your face.

Damn, he got over Zendaya fast. Too bad his men kidnapped you and you’re probably scared out of your mind right now. That’s probably not the best way in the world to start off a courtship.

“Why were you spying on my men?” he demands. Tom can tell you’re staring directly at him.

“To see what they were doing,” you reply. There is no inflection in your voice, nor any emotion in your face. You really are a statue-girl. Tom wishes he could be as stoic as you, but his arm burns and he flinches.

“Well, what did you want from them?”

“An adventure, so thank you for delivering.”

Tom doesn’t know what to say to that. He opens his mouth and closes it, pursing his lips with slight irritation. The blonde’s cries have stopped, leaving only the fire to fill the silence with crackling. Finally he manages, “Why were you interested in my men?”

“Holland and his men have been a thorn in my queen’s side ever since you arrived in Avenge,” Statue replies. “I hoped I could persuade you to leave.”

“Your queen is a joke,” one of Tom’s men calls, eliciting jeers from the crowd of men watching.

“And how do you propose to persuade us to leave before we want to?” Tom asks, amusement curling his lips at the thought of your one-woman army persuading him to leave. Your bravery is admirable but fool hardy, and you will undoubtedly be killed by that trait.

“As the queen’s personal assistant, you can understand why she wouldn’t let me go alone—I am her closest friend and confidant,” you brag. “So I brought with me her Chief of the Mystic Arts, Sir Benedict, and Chief Dame, Lady Scarlett.”

Tom swallows. Everyone has heard of the Chiefs of the kingdom of Marvel, which was why his men had been hesitant about coming to Avenge, Marvel’s capital. It was said they could do things normal people couldn’t. Sir Benedict’s powers were especially mysterious, as disaster could seem unavoidable until he would appear, his necklace would glow, and all threats would disappear, despite no one noticing anything between those moments.

“You think two Chiefs could take down Holland’s entire group?” Haz sneers.

Your lip curls. “A group of reject bastards without a day of training? It wouldn’t even take one,” you spit.

Haz surges forward—his heritage and abandonment have always been a sore spot—but one of the boys holding you tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back. Your hand flies into the air, a closed fist, and Tom recognizes a ‘hold fire’ command.

“I think you’ll find I’m quite unkillable,” you mutter to the boy with his hand in your hair. Despite your low tone, your voice carries. “You, on the other hand, are toeing the line quite dangerously.”

“Let her go!” Tom barks.

“Come on, mate, you don’t really believe she brought two Chiefs with her,” Haz snaps, eyeing you with loathing. You smirk at him.

“Do you really want to risk it?” Tom replies. “She did say she’s the Queen’s personal assistant.”

“An assistant,” Haz repeats. “She could just get another one.”

“I’ll pretend you all didn’t hear me,” you say loudly. “I am unkillable, and you are rapidly approaching the point of no return.”

“Let her go,” Tom mutters.

“What?” Haz exclaims, like he really thinks he misheard him. Like he is allowed to speak to his superior like that.

“Let her go,” Tom repeats, louder. The look you give him does something weird to his stomach but he can’t afford to call your bluff just in case you are telling the truth. Only a Marvellian privileged assistant with two Chiefs at her back would waltz into enemy territory boasting loudly about her connection to the Queen. It paints too large a target on your back.

It’s either you’re telling the truth or a complete idiot. And as Tom meets your steady gaze, shadowed by the dancing flames of their campfire, he doesn’t see an idiot. He sees someone confident, used to getting their way, overzealous and brash, abrasive and aggressive, but he doesn’t see an idiot.

William and Paddy let go of your arms, albeit reluctantly. With a simple flick of your head, you reduce them to less than lumbering bears. Tom marvels at the way his boys aren’t crushed under the weight of your disapproval.

He’s heard this is what it feels like at first, but people disagree about whether or not the feeling gets weaker or stronger over time.

He is so screwed.

“Would you like to go somewhere private?” you ask with an unreasonable expression.

This isn’t what Tom had pictured. He’d pictured saving a girl from some rogues with less morals than he. He’d pictured meeting a girl in a tavern. He’d pictured buying something from a pretty vendor’s stall.

(In most of those scenarios, he’d pictured Z as the girl he flirted with)

But he never pictured her captured by his men and brought to his camp. He never pictured her as a servant in the Marvellian palace.

And yet, for some reason, he’s not disappointed. It does explain the mysterious half-sentence branded onto his right forearm. For years he’d puzzled over that phrase. For years he’s been wondering under what circumstances someone would say that to him.

For years Tom has been waiting for the one person who will love him unconditionally.

He nods and leads the way to his own private tent. Your soft footsteps follow him and he hears you close the tent before he turns around. You’re pulling your tunic away from your collarbone.

The once-black words now shine a glimmering gold in the lantern light from where they sit on the protruding bone. The handwriting is the same, even if the color isn’t; all soulmate marks are written in the same font until one meets their soulmate. That font is the type used in newspapers. It would have changed, except Tom doesn’t know how to write. His education hadn’t lasted that long. If he learns to write, Tom wonders, will the writing change too?

In return, Tom rolls up his sleeve, exposing his forearm and shivering as goosebumps appear. Belatedly, he sees your thin tunic and pants but you don’t seem to be bothered by the chilly night air.

He’d felt the burn but barely bothered to believe it. The once black, uniform letters have changed to a deep rusty red, like drying blood. The font has changed to a neat, small cursive that somehow doesn’t seem like it would be your handwriting. Tom had pictured large, looping letters to match your loud, strong personality, but perhaps that’s what happens when you’re educated in the palace.

He loves it anyway. It’s just another sign that no, Tom’s not unlovable, and the universe cared about him enough to give him someone to love and be loved by.

“It doesn’t matter,” you then say, smoothing the tunic down so the words are hidden again. “My loyalty is to the queen and her kingdom. In this time of political uneasiness one cannot afford emotional connections.”

Tom just beams at you. He can hardly believe the most beautiful girl in the world is his soulmate. And it doesn’t matter what you’re saying right now. Tom would wait a thousand years to meet his soulmate. Waiting until she’s ready for him won’t be (too) hard. He’d certainly comforted Zendaya when she was fretting about George this past week enough to know that there are always doubts. You’ll come around. You’re Tom’s soulmate.

“So tell me before you go,” you say, leaning forward to rest elbows on knees and chin on hands. “What do the foreigners think about my queen?”

Tom looks at you with confusion. “What?”

“It’s best to know what the enemy is saying,” is your stiff reply. “Might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”

“I’ve heard a lot of things about your queen,” Tom replies, leaning back and folding his hands over his stomach. He doesn’t miss the flutter of your eyelashes as you give him a quick once over and satisfaction pulls his lips up into a smirk. “That she’s a child. Weak. Stuffy for bringing back the old traditions.”

Secretly, Tom agrees with those rumors. The new Queen is a year younger than his nineteen years of age. Sure, he’s the leader of his men, but that’s much different than being the ruler of a whole kingdom. Plus, despite how no one has seen her in public for years, she decided to bring back the old Marvellian traditions of wearing a mask and not speaking in public. At this point the kingdom has no idea what their queen looks like despite her more frequent public appearances.

You might, though. If you’re her ‘closest confidant’ and ‘friend’.

“I’ve also heard,” Tom continues, “that she is so frail she sleeps frequently during the day, though I’ve also heard lazy.” He grins, enjoying the scowl that’s creasing your forehead. “And,” he admits reluctantly, “that all Marvel rulers are connected to their kingdoms with magic, and the queen is no different.”

You nod and lean back in your chair. “You and your men are thorns in her side.”

Tom doesn’t know if you mean that figuratively or literally. And frankly, he doesn’t care. He wants to talk more about you. He’d gotten you to scowl whilst insulting the queen, which means you’re not quite the statue he’d thought of you as.

And that means you can smile, too. You can laugh—Tom realizes for the first time what he would do to hear you laugh—and, most importantly, you can love Tom.

“That brings us to the true nature of my visit,” you say with a stern look like you blame Tom for distracting you. “Leave.”

“Wait, but…” Tom sits up straight. “What about…” he touches the words on his arm reverently.

“As I said before,” you say, visibly irritated, “there is no time for that.”

Tom takes a deep breath. “I can’t concede to you. Not without all my men knowing.”

You laugh bitterly. “Oh, how the governed rule the governors. That sounds like your problem, not mine.”

“I will come back,” Tom promises.

Your lip curls. It hurts him more than it should, especially considering he’s known you for about an hour at the most. “Would you really wait if I told you to? If I told you it would be years of loneliness? If I told you we might never—”

“Yes. You’re my soulmate.”

You scowl and turn away. “Hmm.”

“Wait!” he says desperately. “Don’t you… would you like an escort? On your way back, I mean?” Would you like just a little more time together?

You let out another unamused laugh. “Who would escort me? The one whose nose I broke or the one I kicked between the legs?”

“I could—” Tom begins hopefully but you hold up a hand to silence him. He doesn’t appreciate speaking to your back.

“I already have two Chiefs watching after me,” you say shortly. “And I know perfectly well that you and your men pass through this way every year. If you refrain from… Only take from those who can afford it,” you grit out. “Tell your men no destruction. And you may stay for the rest of your visit.”

“Will you be back?” Tom and his men only pass by Marvel once a year. Seeing you, his soulmate, just once, and then leaving for a whole year sounds like hell. “Just once. Tomorrow night.”

You shake your head after a moment of contemplation. Thankfully you’re still turned away so you don’t see the clear disappointment on his face. “That will just make it harder and you know it.”

He does know it. But can you blame Tom? He just met his honest-to-god soulmate.

“Doesn’t this mean anything to you?” His voice cracks.

“I can’t expect you to understand.”

“But I want to.”

“We’re all part of something bigger,” you say quietly. “And I can’t be selfish. Not right now.”

Tom stands. “All right.”

“R-what?” You turn around, pulling your eyebrows together into a frown.

“I’ll be back and you know it,” Tom promises. He brings one finger up to your cheek and barely touches the smooth skin. It feels like fireworks and the tent is suddenly entirely too hot. “And I hope you’ll be sorted out by then.”

“You’ll be better to find another girl,” you say quietly, swallowing noticeably but not pulling away from the caress. “Some camp girl who’s always with you. A girl with a choice.”

“I don’t care about any of them,” Tom insists and you snort.

“What about the beautiful girl with the large hair? It was obvious in the way you looked at her.”

All Tom notices from that remark is that you were watching him closely too, probably studying him as he’d done to you.

“Not a one,” he insists. “And even if I was, she found her soulmate a week ago when he joined the group.” You shake your head a tiny bit, a jerk he would’ve missed if he blinked. “If you change your mind we’ll be here until Sunday.”

“Find someone else,” you repeat, backing away and bumping into the side of the tent. “I won’t—I won’t come calling again. Don’t—” your fumbling fingers finally find the flap in the tent that is its opening. “Don’t get your hopes up,” you conclude, lunging forward at Tom. For one glorious second he imagines you’re going to kiss him, but then you’re tugging his sleeve down to hide his words. “I’ll—I’m not good enough—just find someone else.” And then, cheeks blazing, you slip out of the tent.

Harrison ducks in moments later after seeing both you and the white-haired girl off. Tom greets him with his sleeve pushed up again, fingers tracing over the beautiful cursive words. “Hey, Tom—holy shit!”

A Handmaiden’s Lies Taglist:

@andreasworlsboring101 @juliebean247

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight @andreasworlsboring101​

Let me know what you all thought or if you’d like me to put you on a taglist!

[rambling-at-midnight]

A Handmaiden’s Lies: Teaser

A new almost Robin Hood-esque, soulmate AU, Tom Holland x Reader series with a combination of actor and MCU characters appearing. Some people have magic. Idk how many parts yet. Let me know if you guys would like this!

If you’d like me to add you to my Forever Taglist, Tom Holland x Reader Taglist, or the taglist for A Handmaiden’s Lies, let me know.

“Holland and his men have been a thorn in my queen’s side ever since you arrived in Avenge,” Statue replies. “I hoped I could persuade you to leave.”

“Your queen is a joke,” one of Tom’s men calls, eliciting jeers from the crowd of men watching.

“And how do you propose to persuade us to leave before we want to?” Tom asks, amusement curling his lips at the thought of your one-woman army persuading him to leave. Your bravery is admirable but fool hardy, and you will undoubtedly be killed by that trait.

“As the queen’s personal assistant, you can understand why she wouldn’t let me go alone—I am her closest friend and confidant,” you brag. “So I brought with me her Chief of the Mystic Arts, Sir Benedict, and Chief Dame, Lady Scarlett.”

Tom swallows. Everyone has heard of the Chiefs of the kingdom of Marvel, which was why his men had been hesitant about coming to Avenge, Marvel’s capital. It was said they could do things normal people couldn’t. Sir Benedict’s powers were especially mysterious, as disaster could seem unavoidable until he would appear, his necklace would glow, and all threats would disappear, despite no one noticing anything between those moments.

“You think two Chiefs could take down Holland’s entire group?” Haz sneers.

Your lip curls. “A group of reject bastards without a day of training? It wouldn’t even take one,” you spit.

Haz surges forward—his heritage and abandonment have always been a sore spot—but one of the boys holding you tangles his fingers in your hair and yanks your head back. Your hand flies into the air, a closed fist, and Tom recognizes a ‘hold fire’ command.

“I think you’ll find I’m quite unkillable,” you mutter to the boy with his hand in your hair. Despite your low tone, your voice carries. “You, on the other hand, are toeing the line quite dangerously.”

“Let her go!” Tom barks.

“Come on, mate, you don’t really believe she brought two Chiefs with her,” Haz snaps, eyeing you with loathing. You smirk at him.

“Do you really want to risk it?” Tom replies. “She did say she’s the Queen’s personal assistant.”

“An assistant,” Haz repeats. “She could just get another one.”

“I’ll pretend you all didn’t hear me,” you say loudly. “I am unkillable, and you are rapidly approaching the point of no return.”

“Let her go,” Tom mutters.

“What?” Haz exclaims, like he really thinks he misheard him. Like he is allowed to speak to his superior like that.

“Let her go,” Tom repeats, louder. The look you give him does something weird to his stomach but he can’t afford to call your bluff just in case you are telling the truth. Only a Marvellian privileged assistant with two Chiefs at her back would waltz into enemy territory boasting loudly about her connection to the Queen. It paints too large a target on your back.

It’s either you’re telling the truth or a complete idiot. And as Tom meets your steady gaze, shadowed by the dancing flames of their campfire, he doesn’t see an idiot. He sees someone confident, used to getting their way, overzealous and brash, abrasive and aggressive, but he doesn’t see an idiot.

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight

[rambling-at-midnight]

Inferno: Part 5 (final)

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Your father drops what he’s holding when you literally rip the front door of the compound off its hinges and toss it a few feet away. “Were you ever going to tell me?” you yell, stomping into the room. You know your face is too hot and so are your hands but you can’t be bothered.

To his credit, Tony doesn’t pretend to not know what you’re talking about. He sighs and crosses his arms. “Y/N, calm down—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” you bellow, your eyes stinging with anger. “Don’t you dare tell me to calm down!”

“I was worried about you—”

“So you sent the one person I hate most to spy on me? To completely invade my privacy? The one person I knew I could trust—”

“Okay,” Tony admits, “so it wasn’t the best idea. And I realized that soon after. But Y/N, what was I supposed to tell you? How was I supposed to tell you?”

“Um, by telling me?” You scoff angrily. “Instead of me going through my former best friend’s texts and figuring it out for myself?”

“Wait,” Tony interrupts. “Peter didn’t tell you himself?”

“Why the hell would he? He’s too busy making fun of me with you!”

“No, Y/N, you don’t understand—” Tony shakes his head. “Peter was supposed to tell you in person. I told him to. We figured you’d at least take it better, but no wonder you’re so upset—”

“It wouldn’t matter if he told me in person, in text, or over a goddamn email!” you yell. “You still spied on me—”

“Can we please talk about this?” he pleads. “Y/N, you’re traumatized. You were imprisoned for a crime you didn’t commit. You wouldn’t talk to me and I knew that you and Peter would get along, but after the first meeting it was obvious he needed to wear the mask!”

“I don’t want to talk to you about anything,” you say, disgusted, shaking your head. “I don’t want your excuses. What you did sucked, okay?”

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry—”

“I don’t want to hear it!” you bark. “I don’t want to hear anything from you for a while. Just leave me the hell alone!”

You stomp away in the direction of your room and the fire alarm starts to beep.

“Miss Y/N, please cool yourself,” FRIDAY says calmly. “You are reaching dangerous temperatures.”

You scoff. “I can’t hurt myself with fire.”

“No, but you could hurt those around you,” the AI responds. “Including myself.”

“Did you know what they did?” you demand up to the ceiling.

There is a pregnant pause before the AI confirms it.

“Wow.” You shake your head. “Just wow.”

“I was under strict orders not to inform you—”

“Whatever, FRIDAY. I don’t want to hear from you either.” Scowling, you slam your door shut but stop short at the sight of a figure upside-down outside your window.

Spider-man—Peter Parker—taps frantically on the glass, waving to get your attention. You close your blinds and turn your back on the window, but a buzzing in your pocket catches your attention. It’s the boy outside your window. You decline the call. He’s already tried to call fifteen times and sent you 13 text messages.

For good measure, you block his number. Not a second later is he messaging you on Instagram, so you take the next logical step in your mind. You throw your phone out the window so hard it shatters the glass and hopefully hits that lying bastard, too.

You’re out of the room before Spider-man can stick his head out the window, locking the door from the outside using a special program you’d installed in FRIDAY, and decide to sleep in a guest room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thankfully your new phone has a new number that Parker doesn’t know, and you’re pretty sure Tony knows better than to give it to him. You blocked him on every social media platform you have for good measure, although that hasn’t stopped you from noticing him. In fact, you’re probably noticing him more than usual because your two fanbases have come together in a major panic over why Inferno and Spider-man aren’t hanging out, following each other, or even talking anymore.

All your mentions in the past two weeks have looked exactly like this:

just-a-dumbass: @Y/N_Stark plz respond!!!! why are you and Spider-man fighting? he won’t talk about it at all when we asked on his livestream he hung up and hasn’t done another since!!!!

that-one-asian: @Y/N_Stark and @The-Official-Spiderman you guys really need to make up you were my #1 celebrity ship and i dont understand why you broke up

spideyismydaddy: guys you can tell @The-Official-Spiderman is really cut up about this, he hasn’t livestreamed in days or even uploaded a story. @Y/N_Stark you’re a real bitch for breaking his heart

newyorkhoe: guys we don’t even know if @Y/N_Stark and @The-Official_Spiderman were dating. maybe they’re just really good friends that are fighting. either way, you can tell that both are having a rough time. lay off the negativity!!!

wyoming_isnt_real: @Y/N_Stark why are you and spidey fighting? if he hurt you i’ll beat him up :(

spideyinferno: @Y/N_Stark @The-Official-Spiderman

That tweet has a link attached. You click on it out of curiosity only to realize that actual news websites are writing articles about the ‘Feud Between New York’s Hottest Heroes’. You scroll down to the bottom where there are previews of other articles written about this. Is this really the biggest deal ever? Are people really freaking out over the fact that you’re not hanging out with a spying liar anymore?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You should have known. Even at night, civilians are still out and about, and they love to do nothing other than gossip. You’re in Brooklyn, for God’s sake, and they’re still chasing after you with cameras, screaming and asking questions about your relationship with Spider-man. These people have probably never even seen him before. He operates in Queens!

It’s no use. You have to change out of your suit. You’re too noticeable.

You duck into a tourist shop and melt the door handle so the screaming hordes can’t follow you in. “I’m so sorry,” you say breathlessly to the shopkeeper and dig around in your pockets for an empty check. You’ve learned to always keep one on hand. You have one, but you don’t know exactly how much replacing a door costs. “Do you have a pen?” Just to be safe, you write down $15,000 and grab a hoodie and sweatpants while the shopkeeper stares at the check you’d shoved into his hands. You can hear people pounding on the back entrance of the store, too, and you look around wildly for an escape.

Unwelcome, a thought pops into your head: What would Spidey do? How would he get out of this situation?

You look up and smile. You may not have webs but you can jump pretty high.

“Sorry about this,” you say to the shopkeeper again. He gapes as you leap straight up into his ceiling. You take a running leap off the roof and land on the sidewalk a couple hundred feet away. Some New Yorkers spare you glances as they step around and over you, but you don’t mind them as you pull your hood up and start walking.

A familiar thwip, though, has you stop. People start to yell Spider-man’s name and you look up, one hand keeping your hood in place. You duck behind a taller man and peek at your former friend from behind the stranger’s arm.

“Where is she?” he yells, wheezing a little bit. He must have sprinted over. A little part of your chest warms at the thought of him being frantic to see you, but then you realize that his voice really doesn’t change at all when he’s got the mask on. You were just too stupid to notice it.

The civilians start to all shout different things, mostly pointing to the store, but Spider-man waves his hands to get everyone to be quiet. “One at a time!”

“She went into that store but got out through the roof and now we don’t know where she is!” someone shouts.

“What happened between you two?”

You lean forward, holding your breath. Surely Spider-man will say that you overreacted and were the bitch most people on the internet seem to think you are. It’ll cement your belief that he’s a giant jerk and you’ll be able to go about your day feeling a little better about this whole situation.

“I messed up,” Spider-man explains, sounding sadder than he has a right to. “And I don’t blame her for being mad at me. I’d be pretty mad at me, too.”

“What did you do?” someone else shouts.

For a moment, you think Spider-man meets your eyes and you jerk back, accidentally falling into somebody else. It cuts off Spider-man, who was saying, “It doesn’t really matter what I did. I’m just really sorry and I want her to know, even if she doesn’t forgive me—”

“Watch it!” the person snaps, yanking your sweatshirt in anger. The hood slips off your head and their eyes widen. “Oh, shit, I’m sorry—”

“She’s right here!” another person who’d watched the commotion shouts. “Look, Spider-man, you can apologize to her—”

The crowd starts to scream, looking for you, and you shove your hood back up and keep up with the commotion.

“Y/N!” Spider-man shouts, his voice cracking. “Please just talk to me?”

Pull yourself together, you think viciously. You’re acting like a total idiot in public.

And you don’t look back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Y/N, come on.”

“I’m not doing it. You can’t make me.”

“We need you.”

“You have him.”

“Yeah, but we also need you.”

“I have plans for today.”

“Really?” your dad crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows. “And what are those?”

You cross your arms right back and don’t respond. You both know you don’t have any plans for today, but you’d rather do nothing than go on a mission with half of the team including Spider-man.

“I’m sure he asked you to include me?”

Tony scuffs his foot on the ground.

“Not a chance.” You shake your head.

“Look, is now really the best time to be arguing about this?” Natasha puts in, tapping her foot impatiently. “Parker and Cap are handling this mutant fine at the moment but his friend is coming. They can’t handle two of them.”

You roll your eyes. “You two can go. You’re highly skilled and experienced—”

“And one of them is a lava monster,” your dad interrupts.

“Exactly, so my powers will be useless on it.” You shrug.

“But you also won’t get hurt if you draw its fire. Plus, Nat doesn’t have powers at all. Dealing with human criminals is one thing but mutants are a bit much for even her to handle. No offense, Nat.”

The assassin in question raises one eyebrow and doesn’t agree or disagree with your father’s statement. Privately, you think that Nat really could handle at least one of the monsters on her own, depending on the tools she has to work with. But you digress.

“I hate you,” you try.

“Love you too, honey.” Your dad kisses your forehead for the first time in a month. “Your suit is in the jet. Can we get going, please?”

Okay, you will admit that maybe you underestimated these two mutants. One has heat-based powers, just like you, and flickers between a human form and a human-shaped pile of lava. The other seems merely to have super strength and is trading blows with Captain America like it’s a friendly sparring session.

You narrow your eyes and assess the battlefield from your perch in the jet. “Okay, so we obviously need to get the civilians out of here. Nat, you can handle that, right?”

The red-haired assassin nods her head.

“And I can distract the fire thing,” you decide. Anticipation curdles your stomach though it’s less at the fight and more at the thought of seeing Spider-man again—he is the one fighting that monster, after all, and dodging its streams of fire quite spectacularly, though you’d never tell him so. “We just need to knock it out when it’s in its human form. Dad, you can help Steve, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes you and you roll your eyes. “Everybody ready?”

Butterflies flutter in your stomach as the jet lowers just enough for you to leap out of it, Tony in his suit with Nat clinging onto his back just behind you.

You slam into the lava monster, knocking it off its feet and tumbling a few feet away, your teeth clanking at the impact. Through your earpiece, you hear Cap greeting Nat and Tony, before a significantly higher male voice pierces your eardrums.

“Y/N?”

You wince and look up. Peter’s staring at you, and though his mask is on, you can tell that his mouth is open with shock. Though his exclamation was loud, it was also comforting. You’d missed him more than you care to admit.

“Underoos, pay attention!” your father barks and Peter looks at the lava monster and shrieks (you make a mental note to tease him about that later) before leaping into the air and avoiding a stream of lava that would have melted him instantly.

“Inferno,” the lava mutant hisses, eyes flickering between gaping black rock pits and dark human eyes. Both appearances convey her hatred for you clearly. “You can’t hurt me.”

“Yeah, well, ditto,” you respond. “And, for your information, fire isn’t my only power, thank you very much.”

The mutant holds up her hand and a stream of lava flies toward you, hitting your skin and sliding to the ground before it hardens instantly. “You’re a mutant against your will just like me,” the lava mutant hisses. “Join us. Help us take revenge against those who wronged us.”

Peter shoots a web that disintegrates a foot in front of the mutant. The air around her is so hot it’s wavering like a mirage. Powerless against the mutant, he looks at you.

“Look, I get getting revenge,” you say. You press a hand to your ear and mutter, “Shock web when she’s human.” You continue louder, “I got my own revenge. But I didn’t do it by hurting innocent civilians. In fact, my father did it so Killian wouldn’t hurt anybody else.”

“They don’t understand our pain,” the mutant hisses. She flickers and Spider-man twitches but he was too slow and continues to creep out of the mutant’s line of vision. With her eyes fixed on you, she doesn’t seem to care. “Only we do.”

“I know,” you say soothingly. You hold your palm up to the sky and let a little flame dance over your palm. “I know it hurts. I was in pain for days straight when Killian gave me the serum. But this isn’t the way to get your revenge.”

This time, when the mutant flickers, she remains in her human form for a second longer. You smile smugly.

“We’re the same,” you say soothingly. “I know just how it feels.”

“I can’t stop now,” the mutant hisses. “They’ll lock me up.”

“They locked me up too, and I didn’t even do anything,” you point out. “But when you get out, I can help you.”

She drops the lava monster guise and looks at you wondrously.

You wince when Peter’s shock web hits her in the back. She makes a sort of choked noise before keeling over. Something fragile inside you fractures as you see what you could have been. There’s a little too much of you inside that mutant.

The other mutant roars with anger and you turn, ready to burn it. But its anger is aimed at Spider-man, who landed the final blow, and he sweeps Cap and Tony away, throwing them into nearby rubble.

You dart in front of the monster and ready your fists, even if his biceps are bigger than your waist. He shoves you away and the breath leaves your lungs but you still manage to cling onto his arm like a koala and summon the anger to the surface. Your body goes white-hot in seconds and the second mutant roars with pain and slams his arm into the ground.

You feel your spine crack in multiple places as well as your tailbone—and your neck.

“Y/N!” Peter bellows when you don’t move. “NO!”

Something wet trickles down your neck as the bones arrange themselves back into place and you sit up, tears slipping from your eyes as you do so. Now you’re pissed off.

The mutant’s arm, you can see, has a nasty-looking burn on it in the shape of your body. You relish the sight of it as you take a running start at the mutant, plowing into his back and sending him flying, landing on the ground and skidding a few feet. Since you’re half his height, it must have been a comical sight.

Peter lands in front of you and holds out his hand, which you notice is shaking. “Are you okay?”

You don’t nod your head. You’re scared that just moving it will break your back again. You might have broken your arm and ankle before, but never your neck and back. You’re going to have nightmares about it for weeks to come, you already know.

“You can cool down now,” he says softly. You realize you’re still glowing white-hot.

With a strangled sob, you let go of the anger-heat and fall into his arms, squeezing him so hard you’re sure he would have a few broken ribs if he wasn’t enhanced.

“How bad did he hurt you?” Peter asks, one hand rubbing up and down your back.

“It would have killed anyone except me,” you whisper back. And that’s all you have to say on the subject. You move to step back from him and gasp. The mutant is up and angrier than ever. He’s picking up a chunk of plaster with a few copper wires protruding from its multiple sides. He’s hoisting it above his head. And he’s throwing it at you two.

You hear multiple screams as you shove Peter out of the way, but the ginormous rock hits you in the stomach. As if in slow motion, you flip backwards, the plaster rolling with you, and hit the ground, skidding a bit. The plaster still sits on your stomach, making it nearly impossible to breathe, which means you don’t have the strength to push it off of you.

Oh God. Asphyxiation is one thing the serum can’t help you with. For the first time in your life, you might actually die from an injury.

You weakly wiggle, trying to get the plaster to tip off of you, but that causes a stinging sensation in your sternum that’s almost unbearable. Your back is getting wet. One of the copper wires must have entered your stomach.

You try to suck in a breath but barely get more than a gasp. The effort makes you cough, your throat tasting metallic.

The serum can’t work if I can’t breathe, you distantly realize. It’s a part of my bodily functions now, but my body can’t function at all without oxygen.

So you’re going to die. It’s as simple as that.

This time, when you suck in a breath, you cough on a liquid in your throat, choking as you can’t get any air in and becoming more panicked as your vision becomes more blurry. You try to blow the liquid out of your throat but you don’t have enough strength to blow hard, so all that happens is that you’re completely out of air now. You thrash on the ground but the plaster refuses to move.

Your vision goes dark. Your stomach drops. Is this it? Are you going to die now? You never even got to make up with Peter, which you now realize you’d wanted to do all along.

Then the weight on your stomach lifts and you suck in a shuddering breath that just makes you cough and choke more. The darkness lifts from your vision, making you squint and realize that someone had been standing over you and lifted the plaster from your stomach.

The person turns you over onto your side and you spit blood out of your mouth as the pain in your stomach begins to abate. When you finally suck in a shuddering breath that clears your vision, hands cradle your face and you look up into Peter’s face. It’s a bit screwed up because he’s crying.

You blink slowly at him.

“Oh, my God,” he says as though from a long way away. “I thought you were going to die. Are you still bleeding? Can you breathe? Are you all right? Do you have brain damage? Wait, are you dead? Y/N, can you hear me?” He shakes you. His voice gets higher. “Y/N, you gotta respond to me or I’m gonna think you’re dead! Are you dead?”

You cough, splattering his face with more blood and mucus, and his lips thin as he wipes it off.

“Are you still mad at me?”

“Your mask,” you croak weakly. Your eyes widen with realization. “Oh, God, your mask, Peter, people are gonna see you—”

“Thank God you’re all right,” he breathes, gathering you into a tight hug that has you gasping for air. His splayed hands on your back move up and down, probing for holes. “I think you’re okay.” He begins to rock back and forth, still holding you in his arms. “I thought you were going to die.”

Weakly, you wrap your arms around him and squeeze as hard as you can. You’re already feeling better. “Peter Parker, did you just save my life?”

“Does that mean you forgive me?” He pulls back, beaming at you even though he’s still crying.

“I guess,” you say mock-reluctantly.

“Thank God,” he breathes. “Y/N, I like you.”

“What?” You blink.

“It’s all right if you don’t say it back,” he says, rushed. “Or if you don’t feel the same way at all. I just thought you should know.”

“No, I—”

“Y/N!”

Tony sweeps you off your feet, twirling you in a circle. “Oh my God, baby, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Dad,” you reply but don’t push him away. “Peter saved me.”

Tony picks up Peter’s discarded mask and shoves it into his favorite intern’s hands before sweeping him into the group hug too. “Does this mean you don’t hate him anymore?” he asks, beaming.

Peter pulls his mask on and turns away. You glance after him, frowning.

“What?” Tony asks, deflating. “Do you really still hate him?”

You tap Spider-man on the shoulder. Peter shrugs and says without looking back, “It’s fine, Y/N. I shouldn’t have expected anything else, considering what I did to you—”

You spin him around, lift his mask up to his nose, and fit your mouth against his.

When you pull back, his mouth stays open as he gapes at you.

“I never said I didn’t feel the same way,” you say, feeling shy all of a sudden.

“Seriously?” he squeals. Then he coughs and lowers his voice. “I mean, uh—seriously?”

You shake your head and smile before planting your lips on his again. And that’s how the media finds you two. And the internet kind of explodes for the next two hours. It turns out a lot of people have been shipping you two for a while now.

Inferno Taglist:

@paullrud @eridanuswave @loveissupernatural @moistpotatobear @oh-annaa

Peter Parker x Reader Taglist:

@iconicbabesss

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight

[rambling-at-midnight]

Inferno: Part 4

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

“Okay, challenge time!” Spider-man chirps into the camera, grinning brightly. “We’re bored and there’s no criminals out at the moment so we decided to show off a little bit.”

You don’t smile into the camera exactly, but kind of smirk as comments start to roll in from viewers of his livestream. Someone suggests a race.

“We could race?” you suggest, pointing to the far end of the roof you’re on. “There and back?” Though you know it’s fruitless—you and Peter are just about the same speed, though he might be a few seconds faster while you have more endurance—you figure it’s a fun enough challenge.

“You’re going down, Stark,” Spidey says. You can hear the smirk in his voice even though he doesn’t have his mask rolled up at all. You roll your eyes and prepare yourself, muscles tensed in anticipation. The wind whips around you and you spit hair out of your mouth as goosebumps appear on your arms. “On your mark, get set, go!”

You shoot forward as he does, breaths coming in short pumps as you sprint as fast as you can go the edge of the building. You stoop to touch the elevated side and spin. Unfortunately Spidey doesn’t feel the need to stoop and he gains a millisecond lead, laughing at your squawk of indignation.

“I win!” he crows through gasping breaths, delighted. You scowl at him, panting.

“Yeah, ‘cause you cheated.”

“I did not cheat. You didn’t specify the rules.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t think you were going to cheat!”

Spidey crosses his arms. “You can pick the next one if you want, all right?”

You near the phone and squint at the comments. Someone suggests kissing each other, but you ignore that one even if your cheeks burn; no matter who you hang out with, being a young celebrity means a rabid fanbase that both wants you to be in a relationship with someone and wants you to be available for a relationship with them. You’ve learned to ignore it at this point.

After spending so much time with Spider-man during the past three months, you have to admit that the shipping has become a little out of hand. Especially considering you’re pretty sure you have a humongous crush on the guy based on the butterflies in your stomach every time you hang out (but that might also just be nerves from the height, because he prefers to hang out on top of buildings rather than anywhere else).

Someone else suggests doing a backflip, which you don’t know how to do, but that’s sort of Spidey’s specialty.

“Do a backflip,” you decide, leaning back on your heels.

Spidey huffs. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing this with me?”

“We’re showing off, not competing,” you roll your eyes. “I’ll light myself up like a Christmas tree after you.” You need the warmth after all.

“Okay, here goes.” Spidey plants his feet and executes a clean backflip. You clap a few times. “Your turn, Inferno,” he teases.

You rub your hands together and shiver. Spidey watches you shake your limbs out, preparing to call the heat always under your skin to the surface.

But it’s not under your skin.

Your eyes widen and your heart immediately starts to pump. Adrenaline floods your system. You’d completely let your guard down. There’s no heat.

“Y/N?” Spidey asks. “You good?”

“I’m fine.” You avoid his gaze by staring at the ground and clench your fists. Seconds ago you were shivering, now you’re flooded with heat. It’s never been hard to call the heat back, but it’s also never left you completely before. Within seconds you’re glowing red-hot.

“It’s like standing next to a bonfire,” Spider-man admits to the camera. “Hey, maybe your superhero name should be Bonfire instead of Inferno.”

You relax slightly. Though your hair still waves in the wind, you don’t feel its chill at all. You still feel cold. “Yeah, because that sounds so much cooler.”

Spidey waves at the phone. “Well, that’s all for today because the sun’s setting. See you guys tomorrow!” His phone buzzes in his hand and you resist your curiosity as he taps out a quick message to someone.

“Do you have somewhere to be?” you ask curiously.

“Kind of,” he shrugs. Now that the camera’s turned off, he rolls up his mask to just above the tip of his nose. “But in an hour or so. So we still have time to hang out.” His lips curl up into a lopsided smile. You stop yourself from staring at them for too long. “What are you doing tonight?”

You scowl and turn away from him, shrugging your shoulders halfheartedly. “I think the whole team wants to have a movie night. I wanted to watch Wonder Woman but Wonder Boy is coming over tonight and he loves Star Wars so we’re watching his pick. Just like we have every movie night since I came back.” You sit down on the edge of the building, letting your feet swing a little bit.

“And Wonder Boy is...?” Spidey hesitantly sits next to you. His phone buzzes again. He looks at the screen and shoves it back into his pocket.

“My dad’s favorite intern.” You laugh bitterly. “Heir to Stark Industries at this point, I assume. Dad talks about him more than he talks about his fiancee.”

“Did you tell your dad you wanted to watch Wonder Woman?”

You shake your head. “Why even bother? I stopped trying after the second movie night.”

“Then maybe he thinks you don’t have a problem with it,” Spidey concludes. “I don’t know. I don’t see him that often, but whenever he checks in on me Tony seems kind of cool. He never mentions his intern to me.”

You snort. “You obviously don’t hang out with him that often, then. I don’t think he can go five minutes without mentioning Peter Parker.”

Sounding nervous although you don’t know why, Spidey asks, “And your only issue with this Peter Parker is that your dad—”

“Clearly prefers him over me?” you interrupt. “I mean, I guess. I haven’t really talked with the dude that much.”

Spidey hums.

“What about you, huh?” You side-eye him. “What’s bothering you today?”

Spidey smiles the smile that you know means trouble. Something flutters in your stomach. “My biggest problem today is that this suit is just a little bit too tight around my more, uh...” He clears his throat and gestures at his crotch. “Private areas.”

You laugh, surprised. “You mean compression isn’t a good thing for your, uh...”

“My dangly bits?” he supplies, prompting another shocked laugh out of you.

“Well, it might be uncomfortable with girls’ chests, but that’s the best way for us to keep everything together,” you explain. “I’ll take it’s not the same for you?”

“I think for me it’s a little too sensitive for that,” Spidey grins, nudging your shoulder with his. “But I appreciate your concern.”

Your cheeks flaming red, you change the subject. “That bully still messing with you? You know, I could beat him up for you if you wanted.”

Spidey shakes his head. He sounds sad when he replies, even though his mouth is smiling. “Nah, it’s fine, though. If he stopped picking on me, he’d move on to another target. At least I know that I can take the hints, you know?”

Your chest feels a little warm at that sentiment and you lean your head on his shoulder. “You’re the best, Spidey. If only my dad would take you home instead of Parker.”

“I bet he’s not that bad,” Spidey reasons. “I assume getting to know him is out of the picture.”

You huff at that and sit up. “You’re absolutely right. First off, it would be proving my dad right. He said I can’t make friends without his help, but I’ve got you, haven’t I? Completely without his help.”

Spidey clears his throat.

“Plus, if I did decide to hang out with Parker and Dad, I’d have to deal with their inside jokes all the time as well as Dad constantly praising Parker more than me.”

Spidey shifts uncomfortably and you elbow him. “I’m serious!” you insist. “I walked into the lab when I didn’t know Parker was there and it was insane. He stared at my dad for five seconds, Dad nodded and tossed him a wrench and it was apparently exactly what he wanted. Then later, Dad literally said something like ‘two nine four cat computer’ or some other gibberish and Parker replied ‘Turn it the other way’. It’s absolutely ridiculous. They act more like family than I ever have with Dad.”

“I know it’s been a tough transition,” Spidey starts and you snort, taking your head off his shoulder and looking away. He thinks he makes a great therapist, but he really doesn’t and you’re not really in the mood.

“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” You perk up. “How’s your Lego friend?”

“Lego fri—oh, you mean Ne—yeah, I know who you’re talking about,” Spidey stutters. “We’ve been busy lately with finals and everything coming up but his parents are going to get him the Millenium Falcon set for his birthday and we’re going to spend the whole day making that together. So that’s really exciting.”

You smile at how excited he sounds.

“Yeah?” he suddenly asks.

You frown. “I didn’t—”

He holds up a finger to shush you and mouths, “Karen.” That is, you know, the name of his AI. He jumps to his feet. “There’s an ATM robbery in progress five blocks away!”

You also jump up. “You want help or something?”

“It’s fine,” Spidey assures you. “You’re not in your suit anyway.” Without warning, he reaches around your waist and jerks you off your feet. You stiffen. If you weren’t such good friends with him you would tug away, but three months does build up some trust.

Still, your heart is pounding by the time your feet touch solid ground.

“Have fun hanging out with your dad and Parker!” he calls, jogging backwards as he adjusts the mask over his face completely. “Maybe he’s cooler when you get to know him!”

You roll your eyes and wave goodbye to him. You’re about to call an Uber when someone calls your name and you look up.

“Y/N Stark, right?” what looks to be the leader of a group of boys asks. You nod. “Can we get a picture?”

“Sure.”

You take the picture and decide against calling an Uber at this time, instead opting for jogging home. Of course, your ‘jog’ could be classified as a light sprint, so you arrive at the compound in only 45 minutes.

“How was hanging out with Spider-man?” your father asks.

You shrug. “Fine.”

“You two are pretty close, huh?”

“We’re friends,” you simply reply.

And nothing more. If there’s one thing you know about Spider-man, it’s that he’s very down to earth. He would never want all the fame that’s associated with dating a Stark. He hardly likes the fame he gets as Spider-man; why else would he keep his identity a secret? Besides, you couldn’t really date someone whose name or face you don’t know, even if they are funny and goofy and sweet.

“I finished upgrading your suit,” Tony adds. “It’s in the lab. I’m having Peter look it over just in case I missed something.”

Oh, so apparently Tony respects Peter so much that he has him look over his own work. You scowl and your palms start to heat up. “I don’t need Parker to sabotage my suit. Thanks, Dad.” You stomp towards the lab.

“Come on, Y/N,” Tony calls with exasperation at your back. “Just give him a chance!”

Sure enough, stupid Parker sits with his back to the door, curls wild. He really needs to get a haircut. He’s staring at a hologram of your suit.

He hardly stirs when you enter the lab, save for examining the right sleeve of the suit where a small flame is embroidered. Somehow, his dismissal of you makes you even more annoyed, so you march over to him and turn off his hologram without a word.

“What the hell, Y/N?” he spits.

“I don’t need you to sabotage my suit, Parker,” you hiss back. “I can look over my dad’s coding perfectly well, thank you.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “Yeah, like messing with your suit is one of my priorities. It would be my greatest pleasure in life to see a criminal stab you because I loosen the weft just enough.”

“Well, considering it wouldn’t hurt me, I doubt you’d be too bothered,” you snipe back.

“It would still hurt you,” Parker points out. “It just wouldn’t kill you. As much as you dislike me, that doesn’t mean I want to cause you harm. Besides, your dad would kill me.”

You snort.

“What, you think he wouldn’t be bothered if his daughter got hurt because of me?” Parker frowns.

You roll your eyes and throw yourself into a nearby chair, pulling up a hologram for a suit upgrade for Spider-man you’ve been considering. Parker chokes. “What’s that?”

“None of your business,” you respond automatically, using your left hand to view the different web combinations you could implement. With your right hand, you unlock your phone and text Spider-man.

@Y/N_Stark: hey, you get home okay? the robbers beat you up too bad?

Your screen shows that he hasn’t read your text yet, so you leave your phone unlocked and on the table, waiting for his response. You highlight his crotch and type an equation to enlarge the area. It’s tricky because it still requires support.

Your phone buzzes on the table and you practically lunge to read his response, which is a little humiliating, but oh well.

@The-Official-Spiderman: yeah, im all good. they were no match for me and my bulging muscles. they didn’t even put up a fight. the second they saw me they gave up

You roll your eyes.

@Y/N_Stark: yes, you’re totally an intimidating figure dressed up like an arachnid and climbing the walls

@The-Official-Spiderman: hey, you love it. its part of my charm

@Y/N_Stark: and you’ve got so much of that don’t you

You glance over your shoulder to make sure Parker isn’t spying on you adjusting Spider-man’s suit. To your relief, he seems engrossed in his phone as he taps away. Thank god for technology. It’s two teenagers that like to ignore each other’s best friend.

@The-Official-Spiderman: uh, yeah, my hordes of female fans would agree with you there

@Y/N_Stark: oh my bad, forgot you were such a big celebrity.

@The-Official-Spiderman: youre damn right it was your bad

@The-Official-Spiderman: hows it going with Parker and your dad?

@Y/N_Stark: oh, you know, the usual, my dad’s letting parker sabotage my suit and trusts him to check his own work and won’t even give me projects to work on because i’m still ‘adjusting’

@The-Official-Spiderman: if you think Parker’s going to do such a bad job, why don’t you work on it with him?

He’s kind of got you there.

@Y/N_Stark: you really think I want to spend more time than is required with him?

@The-Official-Spiderman: i have to go work on hw. i’ll ttyl, ok? just try to talk to Parker, all right? you never know he may surprise you

You opt not to respond to his message and turn off your phone just as the lab’s door opens. “Y/N! Underoos!” your dad calls enthusiastically. You’ve never understood that nickname for Parker. When you asked about it, Peter turned red and stuttered. Your dad, similarly terrible at lying, looked away and muttered something under his breath.

“Oh, look at this,” Tony groans dramatically. “Two teenagers that could be talking to each other ignoring each other on their phones.”

Parker turns off his phone, grinning star-struck at your dad, and you roll your eyes. “Is it time for the movie?”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your work. Problem is, you have no idea just how much you should expand that part of his suit. You’ll have to ask Karen for his, um, measurements next time you get her hooked up. It’s not weird, right? Not if it’s just for suit purposes. Just for suit purposes.

“Almost,” Tony replies. “Episode V, right?”

“Actually,” Peter says slowly. You’re still pretending not to be paying attention, but you watch out of the corner of your eye as he taps his chin. “I know we’ve been watching the Star Wars series in order, but I think Sam’s getting a bit sick of watching it. Why don’t we change it up?”

“What should we watch, then?” Tony leans against the bench with his hip.

Peter shrugs. “Y/N, any idea?”

You also shrug. Sure, you’ve got an idea, but your dad obviously doesn’t want to hear your opinion, so why should you offer it?

“Come on, Y/N,” Tony wheedles. Maybe he’d only just noticed I’m in the room, you think darkly. “There’s gotta be at least one movie you’re dying to see.”

There are quite a few, actually. You have a list of every movie you heard about over the internet that you want to see. You probably could watch them, too, but you’ve never been a fan of watching movies alone.

Your dad’s phone dings. He looks at it and curses.

“What?” you ask, sitting up.

“Ross called a meeting,” Tony grumbles. “For all the Avengers.”

You stand.

“All the adult Avengers,” he corrects.

You sit.

“I’m really sorry, Y/N, but it looks like movie night is going to be postponed.” Tony presses a quick kiss to your forehead. “You can pick next time!” he calls as he strides out of the room, but you know he’s going to forget that promise before next movie night.

“At his office?” you hear your father say just before leaving. “Are you kidding me?”

You clench your jaw, disappointment making your eyes sting. Without taking it in, you sit stiffly and stare at the hologram of Spider-man’s suit. Your dad will never give it to him, you know that. He’ll never even look at the design.

Parker coughs behind you. You whirl, insults on the tip of your tongue, but you’re taken aback when he’s closer than you’d thought. His hands are behind his back and he scuffs his toe on the floor. Is it you, or does he look... shy?

“We could still have a movie night, if you’d like,” he offers.

Your knee-jerk reaction is a firm no. Before it leaves your mouth, however, you hesitate. You’re not sure why.

“Whatever movie you’d like,” he promises, running a hand through his hair. “And I won’t say anything to upset you.”

You frown. Your problem with Parker doesn’t have anything to do with him. It has everything to do with your father. He knows that, right? He’s got to after your very first interaction with him.

You bite your lip, studying his earnest face, his brown curls, his puppy dog eyes. He reminds you of someone. Maybe your father. They certainly act enough like family. Finally, you nod your assent.

The smile that spreads across his lips is blinding. It makes you happier than you feel a right to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You feel lighter today than you have in a while, and so cold you even bought a sweatshirt. Spider-man cracks another joke that makes you laugh, bending over. Your abs have started to hurt.

When you look up, he’s staring at you. You color. “What?”

“N-nothing,” he stutters, making a move as if he’s going to push hair out of his face but his mask covers all of that so he just looks like an idiot. “It’s just... you’ve gotten a lot happier than you first were when you were released from the Raft.”

Self-conscious now, you adjust your hoodie and look away.

“Shut up,” he says aloud.

“What?” You know he did not just tell you to shut up—after you didn’t say anything, no less.

“No, Karen,” he explains. “She keeps telling me to...” He shakes his head. “It’s stupid.”

Despite yourself, your heart rate picks up. “What?”

“It’s just...” Spider-man’s fingers twiddle together in his lap. “I’m not a very impulsive person. You know?”

You laugh. “You’re Spider-man. A radioactive spider bit you and you decided the best thing to do was become a vigilante. You throw yourself into danger every night without a second thought. I’d say you’re pretty impulsive. At least as Spider-man. I don’t know about your secret identity.” As always, you raise your eyebrows at him in silent question, curiosity burning like the fire under your skin. Though you don’t outright ask him what his secret identity is anymore, it’s no secret you’re curious about it.

Spidey’s lips twist into a bitter smile. “When you put it that way...”

You laugh softly and turn your gaze back to the skyline. You can still sense his eyes on you, though. When you turn to look at him, something in the air crackles. He’s staring at you wordlessly. You see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard.

“Y/N...”

“Yeah?” Your throat is suddenly extremely dry. Is he going to...

“Can I have your credit card?”

It feels like a kick to the gut.

“What?”

“I’m gonna go buy churros,” he explains. “I’ll pay you back. But I know that you carry your credit card and I can’t exactly carry mine in my suit, so...”

“Yeah,” you respond faintly, already digging in your pocket for the plastic. “Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks.” He smiles at you. “Hey, I bet I can do a triple flip before I land.”

“I’ll take a video so you can post it,” you suggest. “If you make it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna make it,” Spidey vows. He unlocks his phone and hands it to you, pulling his mask down in the process. “Just watch.”

You click record and point it in his face. “You’re not gonna make it.”

“Oh, I’m gonna.” Spidey jumps up and down like an athlete preparing for a race. “Here I go!” He takes a running start off the roof, sending a web to a nearby building. The web’s slack catches him just feet before he touches the ground—you gasp despite yourself—and slingshots him into the sky where he easily flips three times in the air and lands in a crouch.

You end the video and cheer. Spidey shouts and raises his arms in victory. “Did you see that?”

“That was awesome!” you shout down at him.

“Told you I could do it!” He waves. “I’ll be right back, all right?”

You wave back and click on the video to rewatch, your heart still racing after that scare. He may have advanced healing, but he’s not as indestructible as you and sometimes—like just then—you’re extremely aware of it.

His phone buzzes in your hand as someone texts him. You mean to swipe the notification up, not wanting to intrude on his privacy, but accidentally click on the text.

It’s from... your dad? You blink.

Mr. Stark: are you still with Y/N?

He won’t think it’s too much of an invasion of privacy if you only respond with a simple yes, right? It is only your dad, after all, and you’re not going to read any of the other texts.

Spidey’s so easygoing, you reason. He’ll be fine with it as long as I tell him right as he comes back.

You type out a quick yes and hit send.

You can’t stop your eyes from straying up slightly to the other texts Spider-man apparently shares with your father. Even though he says he doesn’t hear from him often, it looks like he’s been texting him... all day?

Your brows furrow as you read their conversation just from today.

Mr. Stark: Y/N’s been working on your suit for days. I noticed she had to expand the crotch... what’s that all about?

Me: ok so it is a little tight but it’s not a big deal and I didn’t think she was actually listening to me when i said that

Mr. Stark: you could have told me at any time, kid

Me: I didn’t want to bother you

Mr. Stark: you’re never a bother, Underoos

Me: I’m still on for Saturday, right?

Mr. Stark: Of course. Y/N said Wonder Woman, right?

Your hands are shaking, vision blurring as your eyes burn. Why is Tony calling Spider-man Underoos? Why is Spider-man coming over on Saturday to watch Wonder Woman if Saturday isn’t even scheduled to be a movie night?

Your stomach hurts.

You have to read more. You scroll up. Up past the constant texts where Spider-man texts your dad about where you are, how happy or sad you seem, if you got any injuries while fighting crime.

A drop of liquid splashes onto the screen. You scrub furiously at it and then at your eyes, continuing up. Up past the constant texts that aren’t even about you; about building suits together and movie nights and nicknames and gifts that Spider-man is so, so grateful for.

Up past the texts where Tony calls Spider-man Underoos, and kid, and Spiderling, and—

You stop when you see what you were looking for; (your thumb hurts. How long does it take to get churros?) proof that your father and Spider-man have been spying on you, making fun of you behind your back, invading your privacy, lying to you—the list goes on and on.

Mr. Stark: Hey, Parker, thanks again for agreeing to approach Y/N as Spider-man. It makes me so much less worried to know that she’s got a friend and someone to look out for her.

You don’t bother to read Spider-man’s response. No, Peter Parker’s response.

Much gentler than you thought possible, you turn the phone’s screen off and place it down on the ground, remembering just how many times Parker must have been laughing at you behind the mask. When you told him you can make friends without your father’s help. When you told him he’s your best friend. When you told him about your mother. When you told him what the Raft was like, something you hadn’t even told your father.

You’d spilled your entire life to him and he was just acting the whole time. Making fun of you the whole time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out that climbing up buildings with churros in each hand is difficult. Peter transfers both to one hand, but climbing with one hand is still hard. Eventually he rolls up his mask and places them delicately in his mouth, making sure his mouth is only touching the wrapper and not the actual delicacy.

Thankfully, he reaches the top of the building without dropping the churros or biting through them. He proudly displays them, looking around for you. “So climbing is a lot harder with no hands than you’d think—” He notices his phone, locked in the center of the roof, and stops abruptly. “Y/N?”

He sets the churros delicately on the ground and scoops up his phone, unlocking it automatically. When he sees what you were looking at on his phone, his stomach drops.

“Oh, shit.”

Inferno Taglist:

@paullrud @eridanuswave @loveissupernatural @moistpotatobear @oh-annaa

Peter Parker x Reader Taglist:

@iconicbabesss

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight

[rambling-at-midnight]

Inferno: Part 3

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

God I love Peter Parker so much. Anyways, he’s a dork even when he’s Spiderman. This is so fluffy I’m gonna get cavities. I have so many great ideas for next chapter! Also, I lied; there’s gonna be at least 5 parts.

You’re thankful for your fans. You really are. A good majority of them are sweet, caring individuals completely appalled at the blatant lies the American government sent out as a reason for your arrest. It’s nice to see people promoting positivity.

Unfortunately, being rich and having fans can sometimes lead people to hate you for no other reasons. You’re not saying there are rich people that don’t deserve to be loathed. Of course not. And maybe you do deserve to be hated. You’ve certainly done enough questionable stuff.

But at this point scrolling through your notifications feels like playing Russian Roulette with every chamber loaded.

cap2n/merica: Hey @Y/N_Stark, just do us all a favor and turn yourself into the authorities before you start melting people again.

bigbossbitch: @Y/N_Stark is another case of gross celebrity misconduct. Yes, her jail time was wrong, but now that she’s been released she’s just another spoiled celeb kid born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She gets away with murder just like her father does because of their wealth and it’s a sign of the American government’s (1/2)

You don’t feel like finding the second part of that tweet.

givemebackmymeat: @Y/N_Stark is an ice bitch

Stacey-Toland: yeah it’s great and all that New York gets Spiderman and @Y/N_Stark , but if they really cared about people they would branch out and help people in cities with a lot more crime. New York doesn’t need the Avengers, Spiderman, AND Inferno!

just-a-dumbass: y’all Inferno is the dumbest superhero name i’ve heard in a long time @Y/N_Stark

With a sigh, you turn your phone off. The public outcry will quiet down after the official statements are released. Everyone needs some time to cool off.

The pesky bandages on your hip crinkle as you sit up. You rip them off without looking. Tony insisted that you wear them last night after Helen Cho fished the bullet out of your hip. There’s no pain this morning, and you don’t even need to check to know there’s no scar.

The temptation is too great. Maybe you’re a masochist. You grab the phone before sitting down on the toilet, determined to find at least one positive comment about you in your feed. You try Instagram instead of Twitter this time. Since your public appearance last night, comments on your last post about a year ago have been flooding in.

spideyismydaddy: hey @The-Official-Spiderman what do you think about @Y/N_Stark? She invading your territory or what?

You click on @The-Official-Spiderman. It’s got to be a spoof or fan account, right? Sure enough, the account isn’t verified. You almost swipe out of it but your eyes catch on some of the photos he’s got uploaded. Either he’s super good at photoshop, or...

Is this really Spiderman’s account?

The photos look exactly like the crime-fighting spider you’d encountered last night. He doesn’t have a recent story that you can watch, but he does have a highlight story that you click on. In the first one, he does a backflip. The second clip is of him racing a train and winning. The third one is a pretty picture of the sunset.

You rest your hand on your cheek. Before you know it, you’ve watched his entire highlight story and wasted fifteen minutes sitting on the toilet.

“Miss Stark, your father wanted me to inform you that breakfast is ready,” FRIDAY says, making you jump a little bit. At first it had been a struggle to stop talking to her. The amount of times you’d say, “FRIDAY, turn off the lights,” or “FRIDAY, what time is it?” is a little bit embarrassing. No doubt how many times she’ll startle you will be embarrassing too.

“Sure,” you grunt, throwing a MIT sweatshirt on and shoving your phone in its pocket. “Coming.”

“Morning, sweetie,” Tony says cheerfully, attempting a smile when he looks at you. “I made your favorite—waffles.”

“Great.” You try a smile yourself. “I haven’t—that’s—thanks, Dad.” You’d been about to comment that you haven’t had waffles for over a year, but that would probably bring down both your spirits.

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” You take a big bite of waffle and look as innocently as you can at your father. “Just peachy.”

Tony gestures to his own hip. “No... pain? Bleeding? Scar?”

You shake your head and shrug. “Healed overnight.”

“Good.” Your dad actually fiddles with his fingers as you take another bite. “I, um... I don’t know what you want to do.”

I want to spend time with you is the first thing that crosses your mind but it sounds way too sappy and weak. You settle on a shrug. The familiar fire under your skin wavers and you scowl to bring it back to a simmer.

The next time they try to take you away, you’ll be prepared. Even if you have to take out thousands of agents. But you can’t let go of your anger for even a second.

“I have an idea,” you say after another awkward silence, struck with a great idea that would involve time with your dad but doesn’t involve actually asking for it outright. “I couldn’t keep up with all the new shows and movies that came out. Maybe we could get Disney+ and, I don’t know, watch The Mandalorian? I saw a lot of Baby Yoda memes online and it looks like a cool show.”

“That’s the new Star Wars show that came out, right?” Tony checks. “With the ugly green baby?”

“Hey! He’s not ugly!”

“Well,” he starts. You already know he’s about to suggest a bad idea. “Star Wars is probably Parker’s expertise. Considering both of us won’t know what’s going on, maybe we should call him and have him here? Just to translate the nerd stuff to the non-nerds?”

The hand holding your waffle clenches. You should have known that Tony would try to involve his precious Peter Parker so he wouldn’t have to spend time alone with you.

The waffle starts to smoke and you drop it with disgust. “I’m going to the training room.”

“Come on, Y/N—” Tony starts but you stomp off. Why won’t you understand that he just wants you to make a friend? He’s not trying to replace you with Peter—he’s trying to get you to replace Tony, at least a little bit, with Peter.

Tony eyes the waffle you hadn’t finished. A clear outline of fingers is burnt onto its surface.

You stalk through the compound angrily, halfway expecting a team member to jump out at you. You were the last one to be released, after all. Then again, they’re all under house arrest or on the run. But what about the ones that had sided with Tony? “Where are they?” You’d love to run drills with Nat or talk with Rhodey.

“Tony cleared his schedule for the next week,” FRIDAY informs you. “He wanted this to be a more relaxed homecoming so you wouldn’t be overwhelmed before more enthusiastic well-wishers arrived.”

“He cleared out his schedule for everyone except Peter fuckin’ Parker,” you mutter. Jesus, how important is this kid to Tony? First he never stops talking about him to you, takes him to pick you up from jail, and now he’s banned everyone but him from the compound?

For lack of sparring partners, you decide that lifting weights and running on the treadmill wouldn’t be too bad. Thankfully your muscles didn’t atrophy too much while you were locked up, though you rarely mustered the energy for exercises. You left the heat simmering under your skin at all hours. Judging by how many times you woke up to singed blankets, you started doing it in your sleep too.

No doubt due to the Extremis, you can lift every weight in the weight room—together. It’s too easy, so you move to the treadmill.

Your feet pound on the track. With every step, another thought bombards your mind: Peter Parker smiling, how you spent three months in the cage before they consented to giving you a plant, the cell smaller than your whole bed, you never even saw the sun for months, Tony coming to brag about Peter fucking Parker—

Only when your foot hits the ground do you realize that you’re running hot. “Shit,” you mutter, reaching for the ‘off’ button. Your whole body is glowing bright red and instead of turning off, the keypad melts at your touch just like how your shoes had melted off and how the track is hardly more than a melted pile of goo around your red-hot feet. The poor treadmill gurgles unhappily and its gears stop churning.

“Miss Stark, you are not wearing your fireproof clothes,” FRIDAY points out.

“Yeah, I got that, FRI,” you respond through gritted teeth, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. You need to calm down before your clothes burst into flame.

The red hue to your skin fades slightly.

You need to get your excess anger out. And you know exactly how to do that.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some guy swings a metal bar into your face. Something definitely cracks but heals within seconds, so quickly you almost don’t register the pain. It doesn’t slow you down, anyway, and you grab the man’s arm before he can whack you again with the bar. You slam his head against the side of a brick building and he slumps to the ground. If he doesn’t wake up in thirty seconds, you’ve either given him brain damage or flat-out killed him. You can’t find it in yourself to care.

Before you can turn around, your back burns. Not the comforting burn of your anger, but a stinging burn that takes your breath away.

You turn around slowly. The man’s partner backs away, his hands in the air as a scared expression takes over his face.

You reach behind you. Your hand hits something hard that makes the pain in your back worse. It’s the handle of a knife, you presume. With a wince, you pull it out of your back. The blade is dark with blood that you already feel dripping down your back. The wound will knit together, scab, scar, and fade. A body’s week- or month-long process of healing occurring in seconds.

You’re not thinking when you brandish the weapon, but thankfully a weird thwip sound interrupts you. The man’s raised hands find themselves stuck against a wall by a white, sticky substance.

“Shit!” a vaguely familiar voice hisses after a second thwip. “Oh Jesus! You killed him!”

You turn around. The man you’d knocked against the wall still hasn’t moved, but there’s a dark puddle spreading around his head. Spider-man takes a quick look at him, shakes his head, and looks at you.

“And you got stabbed!” Sounding sort of like a smothering grandmother, he spins you around and lifts up your shirt. “Oh, shit, that’s a lot of blood...”

“The wound’s probably closed by now,” you mutter. The ground sort of leans away from your feet and strong arms wrap around your waist as something swipes at your back.

“I don’t see an opening.” He gingerly takes the knife from your hand places it on the ground. Then you find that the ground is underneath your butt. Spider-man’s mask swims in your vision.

“I killed him?” you ask blearily. Shit. You can’t afford to be murdering people not two days after being released from prison. They’ll send you back. They’ll lock you in that cage! Is Spider-man here with them? You smack his hands away. He’s here to get you, he’s here to take you—

“Whoa, whoa, let’s calm down a little bit,” Spidey says beseechingly. “You don’t have any wounds, but you lost a lot of blood.”

“It’ll replenish soon,” you mutter. After some sugar. Sustenance. That would help. As if he’d heard your thoughts, Spidey waves something in front of you. It takes a hot second for your eyes to focus on it, but when you realize it’s a churro your mouth waters.

“I did not mean for this to go this way,” he mutters. Almost shyly, he thrusts it at you, saying, “Here. I got it for you.”

You’re not one to refuse free food. If he’s poisoned it, chances are the poison won’t affect you much, anyway. You’ll take your chances.

You wolf the churro down in record time. Now that you’re feeling less woozy, knots are starting to form in your stomach. Spider-man, a superhero largely known for helping people out, just witnessed you accidentally murdering someone.

And you just murdered someone. You need to take that knife and burn it in an alley far from here and toss it in the trash.

Heat rises in your cheeks, but it’s not anger-heat that can be used as a weapon or self-defense. Letting Spider-man see you like that is embarrassing.

“Are you feeling better? I can get you another churro, if you’d like, or maybe a burrito, I think I have enough cash for that...” Spider-man reaches into his back pocket, but maybe his tone is too light, maybe he’s not being nice and he’s trying to lull you into a false sense of safety.

Quick as a whip, you take the knife and hold it in Spider-man’s direction. The superhero falls back, his voice cracking as he exclaims, “Hey! Whoa! Please don’t stick me with that! Do you have any idea the potential ramifications of mixing blood? Not that I think you have STDs or something, but still, I could still get alien bacteria in me! The Extremis is still in your system, right? Well, of course it is! I really don’t need that in me because it might make me blow up! Please—”

You blink. He sounds like a kid. Like someone your age. He’s in no way your father’s age. And he’s definitely not a threat. “Relax.” You close your fist around the knife and channel your anger into that extremity. It melts within seconds and drips to the ground. You shake your hand of the last bit of molten metal and allow the flesh to return to regular temperature. “You’re not going to hurt me for killing him?” Your heart still races in his presence, but it’s starting to calm down.

“I saw everything.” Spider-man stands up awkwardly, especially for someone that can do backflips and crawl up walls, and points up to the top of a nearby skyscraper. “They attacked you. It was self-defense. Besides, these two killed a bystander in a shootout recently. I’m not saying they deserved it, because that would be really mean to say, but I’m also not saying that you’re a terrible person. You know?”

“You certainly talk a lot,” you comment. It’s amusing.

“Do you want me to stop talking?” Spider-man rubs his neck. “I know it can be annoying. My friends—”

You shrug. “Why were you watching?”

“Well, last night you got shot, right? And I see you out again fighting crime. So I’m like, ‘Holy crap, is she in pain, she’s probably not all right, maybe she’s getting mugged because she slept on the streets because I didn’t help her when she got shot in the hip and then you slammed that dude against the wall and I saw the other dude stab you and—”

“Yeah, yeah, I get the point.” You stuff your hands in your pockets. “It was my fault, anyway. If I was wearing my suit the knife wouldn’t have gotten so deep in. It probably wouldn’t have gotten in at all.”

“Why are you just wearing a MIT sweatshirt and sweatpants, by the way?”

You shrug. “Couldn’t be bothered to change.”

“Well, I think you’re going to have to now. There’s a big hole in your sweatshirt and your whole back is bloody.”

“Shit,” you mutter. “But that’ll lead people back to... him.” You shoot a glance at the dead man. “And he’s going to snitch on me.” You shoot a nervous glance at Spider-man. You have no idea how he’ll react to you considering a tied-up would-be mugger.

Spider-man shakes his head. “People will see my webs. They’ll blame me.”

“So we’ll both be blamed,” you say grimly. “Great.”

“Yeah, The Daily Bugle is going to have a field day. But we should get out of here.” Spider-man puts a hand on the small of your back (right where you’d been stabbed) and gently applies just enough pressure to get you moving. Shocked at the gentlemanly gesture, you take a few steps before remembering your bloodstained clothes. “I’ll get you new ones,” Spider-man says grimly when you voice your concern. “But then I won’t be able to get you a burrito.”

The sweet concern is touching. “It’s really okay,” you say. If you had your credit card, or any cash on you, you’d buy the poor boy as many burritos as he wanted. “You gave me your churro. You’ve done more than enough.”

“Well, I wanted to make a good impression!” His voice cracks again.

“Really?” you shoot him a glance out of the corner of your eye. “Why?”

“I don’t know a lot of other teenaged superheroes,” he shrugs. “I thought we could be friends.”

See, Dad? You think viciously. I can make friends without your interference. I’ve found a friend loads better than Peter Parker. “Get me a change of clothes and we’ll talk.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“A radioactive spider, huh?”

“Yeah. And I know all about the Extremis. Killian.”

“Yeah. He murdered my mother and then tried to blow me up but my body didn’t reject the serum.”

“Oh, shit. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Your mother’s death is like a bruise; tender when you poke at it but livable with. “What about your parents?”

“Oh, they’re both dead.” Spider-man gives you a half-shrug. “I live with my aunt. My uncle used to live with us until he died.”

“Shit, dude.” You lay down on the skyscraper, hesitant, and fold your hands together over your stomach clad in the I <3 NEW YORK sweatshirt Spider-man bought you. Goosebumps rise on your exposed legs, courtesy of the NEW YORK sleep shorts he’d barely had enough money to buy at that sleazy mart. What would you want someone to say to you?

“Like you said. I’ve dealt.” Spider-man lies down next to you, watching the sun set.

“I guess we kinda have to be friends, right?” You say after a brief pause of silence. “We got all the heavy stuff out of the way.”

“Sweet!” His phone buzzes. He pulls it out and types a quick text to someone. You presume his aunt, considering that’s the only family he has. Or one of his friends.

You can hear the smile in his voice and it makes a smile spread across your face too. For the first time you feel the wind whipping and realize you’re not angry. You call the heat back immediately, both to warm yourself and to protect yourself. What if—?

“Can I do a livestream?” Spider-man props himself up on his elbow and holds up his phone, which displays his Instagram page.

“Sure?”

Spider-man rolls up his suit to just under his nose and starts recording a video. You notice he lowers his voice slightly, probably to make himself seem more mature, and roll your eyes. “Hey guys! You’ll never believe who I’m with right now.”

Immediately comments start to roll in and people start sending emojis, mainly hearts.

You wave at the camera before unlocking your phone and following him on Instagram, now that you know it is actually him. A minute ago you’d gotten the notification he’d followed you, so you figured it was only fair.

Spider-man starts to do a run-down of his day, leaving out the man you’d killed. “Then I gave Inferno here a churro and we went shopping because we’re besties.” He nudges you with his arm. “No, but seriously, we had to burn her clothes. I can’t believe that dude threw her in the dumpster. It was disgusting.”

You wrinkle your nose at the camera, actually enjoying playing along. It does make you wonder exactly how much he says on his social media is a cover-up of some sinister stuff. He seems perfectly fine at lying about why you needed new clothes.

“Okay, now I’ll answer some questions...” Spider-man browses the flood of questions. “Okay, well, you guys know I can’t just tell you my name. No, I haven’t seen Iron Man recently. No, I’m not an Avenger. Still. And no, I do not have a girlfriend... Why is everyone asking if Inferno is—no, she’s not!” His voice cracks again and you glance curiously at him, tucking your wild hair behind your ear. The wind is whipping it everywhere.

“What?”

Spider-man just waves a hand at you. “I can’t tell you guys my schedule, either, because the bad guys will take advantage of it. You guys know that. Sheesh. Okay, well, since you guys are being jealous and immature, I’m going to log off now. Bye!”

“Let me guess,” you say sarcastically. “Mostly female fans, huh?”

“It’ll be such a shock when they all find out I’m gay,” Spider-man jokes. At least, you think he’s kidding. After a beat, he clarifies. “I’m not. By the way.”

You shrug and transfer your gaze back to the skyline. The sky is starting to turn orange and pink. “I wouldn’t really care if you were.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Hey, you know what isn’t fair?”

“What?”

“You obviously know who I am. Everyone does.” Not to sound conceited or anything, Y/N, good going... “But the only thing I know about you is that your parents and uncle are dead and you got your powers from a radioactive spider.”

So what, you’re curious about who’s under the mask. Sue you.

“My middle name is Benjamin,” Spidey suggests. “But I’m not going to tell you the rest of it.”

“So I should refer to you as Benjamin?” You don’t take your eyes off the horizon, not wanting to seem or sound pushy.

“Please don’t.” You giggle as he pretends to gag. “You can call me Spidey. I know Spider-man is a long title. As long as I get to call you Y/N instead of Inferno.”

“Sure thing... Benjamin.”

“I should not have told you that,” Spidey sighs. “Um, what else... I, uh, go to high school.”

You nod. “I should still be in high school.”

“You graduated high school when you were fifteen and went to MIT, same as your dad, for two years, same as your dad, and graduated college summa cum laude...”

“Also same as my dad.” You sigh.

“Sorry. I’m just... kind of a fan.”

A weird warm feeling spreads in your stomach, but it’s not Extremis-heat. “That’s okay.”

“And then you were arrested.” Spidey’s tone turns a little bit dark. “You turned eighteen in the Raft.”

“Happy birthday to me,” you sigh.

“It was shitty what happened to you.”

“I’m out now.”

“Still,” he persists. “It sucks I can’t make it better.”

You laugh. “What would you do? We only became friends maybe fifteen minutes ago.”

Spidey sighs. “I know. It just sucks, right? All these powers and we still can barely make a difference in the world.”

You sit up halfway, propped up by your arm. Desperate to make the subject lighter, you say, “Speaking of powers. I know you’re sticky and all. What else?”

“Fast and strong.” Spidey shrugs. “Not much else.”

“Wanna race?”

Inferno Taglist:

@paullrud @eridanuswave @loveissupernatural @moistpotatobear @oh-annaa

Peter Parker x Reader Taglist:

@iconicbabesss

Forever Taglist:

@lemirabitur @annymcervantes @queenmissfit @quiet-because-it-is-a-secret @iksey @thehyperactiveteen @luxmoonlight