rambling-at-midnight

[rambling-at-midnight]

Almost-Accidents

Pairing: Jason Todd x fem!Reader

Summary: A situation in a grocery store parking lot turns aggressive. Jason protects you.

Word count: 1.9k

Potential TW for language and Jason punching a dude for calling you names

This just happened to me but I was alone. So I wrote this to make myself feel better about the situation via Jason Todd the loml.

While Jason puts the shopping cart away, you start the car. The backseat’s loaded up with groceries, more than it usually is, but a snowstorm kept the two of you hunkered down in your apartment last weekend and there just wasn’t time to shop during the week. But no matter how much you buy, you never have to go back for another trip. Jason can always carry it all—except for two or three bags, because you have to help out somehow.

As soon as he gets into the passenger seat and buckles his seatbelt, you put the car in reverse and ease up on the brakes slightly, inching out of your spot with your head turned behind you. You couldn’t pull through when you parked, unfortunately, and someone’s still blocking your way out, so you have to back up. It’s not an issue, even though you don’t have a backup camera; you have a working neck.

Halfway out of the spot, a man appears behind your car.

Your heart leaps, and your foot jumps to the brake pedal. The car jolts to a stop.

“Whoa!”

Instead of continuing on his way, or waving you forward, the man stops. He raises one hand and shouts something you can’t even hear over the sound of the blood rushing through your ears.

“What a fucking cocksucker,” Jason mutters. “Who walks right behind a car when it’s already pulling out?”

You hum in agreement but don’t say anything, a little scared that by moving, your foot will twitch on the brake pedal and you really will hit the man.

After another second, the man walks away, still talking loudly. It takes you a second to find the courage to keep pulling out, making extra certain that no one will leap out from behind you now.

It goes smoothly, and you put your car into ‘Drive’. The man’s still walking, pushing his cart down the lot aisle, and you drive past without revving your engine or shouting at him or doing anything aggressive… but you do, maybe, shake your head at him… and also maybe return the rude gesture he’d given you. After all, who does walk behind cars that are already in motion and yell at them when they brake? You hadn’t seen him. You didn’t hit him. So what?

There’s a stop sign to get onto the main road out of the parking lot. You ease to a stop in front of it with your turn signal on. There are a couple of cars passing, so you open up your hand for Jason to take and squeeze. You’re not an anxious driver, but close calls like that make you as nervous as they’d make anyone.

You spot motion in your side mirror.

Someone running.

Running at you.

It’s him, and he’s at your door before you can even think to lock it, shouting through the window that you’re a fucking idiot cunt that tried to run him over. You can’t even turn your head as the rushing in your ears gets worse. He’s still screaming. There’s still a line of cars blocking you from turning. What if he breaks your window? You can’t pay to have it replaced. Oh, God, what if he tries to sue? What if he gets you banned from your favorite grocery store? What if—

“Oh, that’s fucking it,” Jason snarls when the man shouts another insult, and he’s unbuckled and elbowing open the passenger door.

“Jay, don’t—” You lunge over the center console, but he’s already out of the car with the door left wide open, and by moving, your foot left the brake and your car inched forward.

You clench your jaw, throw the car in park, and scramble out of it in time to see your boyfriend in the asshole’s face growling, “—can’t yell at women because you’re a stupid fucking idiot. I ought to cut out your fucking tongue for what you said.”

“Jay, get back in the car,” you say as sternly as you can manage, but your voice and hands are trembling with adrenaline. There’s a line of cars behind you that also want to leave, and the road in front of you is finally clear. They’ll only be entertained by the spectacle for so long before they get impatient, and you don’t want to piss off anyone else today if this is the reaction you’ll get.

“She tried to hit me,” the jackass tries to argue, because he’s an idiot that either hasn’t realized he’s picking a fight with a pissed-off 6’4 amateur boxer (that’s what you call his nighttime gig to people that aren’t in the know) or just doesn’t care.

“No, she didn’t, she braked as soon as she saw you, and if you’re so sensitive a gust of fucking wind is enough to piss you off to the point you’re chasing her and screaming through a window, then you’re about to be real fuckin’ hurt with what I do to you if you don’t fuck off now.”

The jackass gets the gist, but his pride won’t allow him to leave without one last stab: he sneers at you, and flicks you off, and that’s the last straw for Jason’s temper.

Faster than you can blink, your boyfriend’s fist lays the jackass out flat.

“Did you break his jaw?” you ask, staring at the weakly stirring body on the ground.

“Don’t think so.” Jason shakes out his right hand, wincing. “Damn, that always hurts more without my gloves or tape.”

“Damn,” you echo, staring at the man, a little disappointed that the confrontation happened when Jason’s in civilian clothes and not allowed to shoot people dead willy-nilly.

“I’m driving,” he says firmly. Your keys are still in the ignition, so he walks you around the vehicle—you wave your apologies to the line of cars, but the two people you can see in the car directly behind you look riveted instead of annoyed—helps you into the passenger seat, and shuts it gently behind you. He drops down into the driver’s seat, whips your car out of the lot, and the store is far behind you in seconds.

Jason’s still flexing his hand subtly, like he doesn’t want you to notice. You interlace your fingers with his, then lift his reddened knuckles to your lips. You hold them there, relishing the steadiness in his hands when yours are so shaky. For once, his hands don’t smell like gunpowder. He protected you with his bare fists. Not that there’s anything wrong with using guns, but something about punching the man… using nothing but his own pure strength to protect you…

If only you could control your adrenaline like he does, but despite it all, you’re pragmatic; you’ll always fly rather than fight.

He pulls into your apartment building’s parking lot smoothly. When he parks, you say lowly, “That wasn’t my fault, was it?” You don’t think it was, but you want to make sure.

“Fuck no,” Jason says immediately. “That dude was an asshole. He deserved what he got and worse.”

“There are probably cameras in that lot,” you say nervously. “It’s a crime to try to hit someone with a car. Or to punch them.”

“Sure, it’s a crime to run someone over,” he says calmly, folding both his hands over yours, “but that’s not what you were doing. And yeah, I punched him. For harassing you. If there are any cameras, they’ll see him yelling and chasing us down. I’m not worried about the cops—honey, my dad’s Bruce fucking Wayne. You think there’s a court in Gotham that would convict me? Or you?”

You nod. All that makes sense. But you still can’t stop replaying the encounter in your head. “I shouldn’t have flipped him off.”

“Hun.” Jason takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilts it up until you’re forced to meet his bright green gaze straight on. “This is Gotham. The only reason someone isn’t flipping someone else off is if they don’t have a middle finger. Besides, you can do whatever you like—he shouldn’t have chased you down. That was harassment. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” you mutter. It’s too much to keep looking into his eyes, so you turn your head and look out the window, for some reason abruptly feeling the urge to cry.

“I should’ve fuckin’ shot him,” Jason says.

You whirl back around. “What?”

He frowns, revealing the line between his brows. His lower lip juts out as his thumb swipes over the stress lines on your forehead. “For making you upset. No one does that and lives, not in my city.”

Despite how shitty and scared you feel, Jason always makes you smile. That’s one of the many reasons you love him.

“C’mon.” He jerks his head. “Let’s get home.”

This time, he doesn’t allow you to carry a single bag. The elevator ride to your floor has never felt so long.

As soon as the two of you are inside your apartment, he drops the bags and scoops you up. His hold is almost tight enough to crack your ribs. “Jason!” you squeak. His arms are so tight you can’t even wriggle yours out to hug him back. “Jay, the ice cream will melt!”

“Like I give a shit,” he mumbles. “You’re more important.” He lets go with one hand, but his grip with the other doesn’t even falter. That’s how strong he is. That’s how much force he used to protect you today.

That hand cradles the back of your head, because he can be gentle and good, too, as he draws you down into a sweet kiss. You breathe into it, eyes fluttering closed. The tension in your body finally drains out, because nothing can be wrong when Jason is here, when Jason is holding you. He’ll never let anything bad happen to you. You kiss until you can’t think of anything else but this moment and Jason, his devotion, your devotion to him, the apartment you share and call a safe haven from the rest of the world.

Jason pulls back and you make a sound of protest, but it’s just to say, “You’re perfect,” his lips brushing yours with the shape of the words, before he dives back in.

Your back hits the mattress, and you realize that somehow he carried you to the bedroom without your notice. Without breaking the kiss, he climbs on top of the bed, too. But though the kiss is deep, the way he holds you is tender, and you know that what he’s looking for is what you’re looking for, too. There’s no urgency to the way his lips move against yours, and when you pull away to gasp for air, his arms around you squeeze. All of a sudden you’re completely surrounded by pure Jason Todd, and you couldn’t feel safer. You clutch his shirt in your hands, curl against his chest, and breathe in your boyfriend. Until you met Jason, you didn’t know it was possible for someone to smell like protection, but he’s so consumed by it that it bleeds out of every pore. As long as he lives, and probably after, nothing bad will happen to anyone he loves.

It’s the reassurance you need.

His strong limbs hold you until the urge to shake leaves. It wasn’t even a violent encounter, not like he experiences nightly, and you’re a little embarrassed that it shook you so much. But you can’t help but think—what if Jason wasn’t there? What if you were alone? What if things went wrong?

But Jason was there.

He’ll always be there for you.

“I love you,” you mutter into his chest.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you more than anything.”

He holds you.

You’re safe.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

My requests are open if anyone wants to stop by, otherwise I will only write when inspiration strikes.

[rambling-at-midnight]

The Midnight Subway (Part 2)

So sorry this took forever. Enjoy!

Pairing: Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: It's up to you and Five to find a way to fix the timelines without destroying yourselves.

Word count: 3.9k

Fresh air hits you like a slap to the face.

“Watch it!” A man in a suit barely avoids slamming into you. You don’t move. He stalks off, scowling at you.

You turn in a slow circle, taking in your surroundings. The snake isn’t eating itself anymore—that is to say, no more ouroboros trapping you in its jaws as securely as itself—and you can feel the weight of time heavy on your shoulders, instead of the way it had wrapped around your neck in the subway.

You’d been strangling yourself without even knowing. Now your throat is clear. You take another deep breath, just because you can.

The air smells like rain. Thick gray clouds hang low in the sky.

Of course, you think bitterly. Of course you’ll spend your first night back in time drenched to the bone and shivering. That was the final straw before you left. Everything had fallen apart, you were so hungry—you’re hungry again, you realize—and you’d seen on the weather forecast that there would be heavy showers that night, and you just—

snapped.

Stepped sideways into the train that was comfortable, if not warm, and rode it out to eternity. Or not-eternity. Because you’re right back where you were the second before you stepped onto the subway as if you’d never left.

Five and Ben are nowhere to be seen. They’ll have returned to whatever time they belong to.

That is a complication you hadn’t seen coming.

You pull the sleeves of your ratty sweatshirt over your hands and hunch your shoulders against a chilly gust of wind, still in the middle of the sidewalk. The flow of people widens around you, people glancing at the strange person frozen in the middle of the walkway. You can’t move.

You have three options.

One: stay still here until the sky opens up and drenches you. Then stay standing here until you grow roots—or, more likely, pinch time into another circle and disappear again. You may not have been able to breathe on the subway, but there were no choices to make when sitting on the train.

Two: turn around and go back to the homeless shelter to sleep on a mattress so thin you can feel every wooden slab of the bed frame, surrounded by a hundred people whose hopelessness is so thick in the air you could choke on it.

Three: take a step forward. Then another one. Reach the destination you’d set out for so long ago.

Of course, if you take option three, you’ll have to take option two sometime later. But if you don’t take option three now, you never will, and that’s not fair. Not to you.

Not to her.

Thunder cracks in the sky. The first raindrop lands on your scalp.

To your immense surprise, you don’t turn around. You take a step forward.

She’d liked the rain.

Soon enough you’re keeping up with the flow of pedestrians. The rain is just a light drizzle. You barely notice it with your hood pulled up, too focused on mindlessly walking until you reach the ‘CEMETERY’ sign.

You turn in. It’s fitting to visit a cemetery in the rain, you think. And also extremely cliche. But oh well.

You don’t know where she’s buried, but the newer gravestones stand out against the older ones. You wander among the lines until you see the name you’re looking for. It was only three weeks ago—it was forever ago—but there are already two other gravestones to the right that look newer than hers.

The world keeps turning, you suppose.

As if on cue, thunder cracks overhead again, and the sky opens up.

Rain seeps through your sweatshirt and chills you to the bone no matter how low you hunch against it. It’ll be a miserable walk back to the shelter.

You suck in a breath and open your mouth to say something—anything—but a voice behind you asks, “Who’s that?”

You turn, pushing rain and stringy wet hair out of your eyes. Squinting through the downpour, you can make out a dark, lithe figure on the gravel walkway holding an umbrella. Probably a good choice, considering the muddy water seeping through the holes in your shoes and soaking your socks.

There’s no way. Four times was already improbable. Five times is impossible.

The person sighs when you say nothing. Distaste shows in his posture when he steps off the gravel and his shoe sinks into the mud. He slogs through the grass until he’s at your elbow, holding the umbrella so that it covers the both of you.

It is him.

Five smiles wryly at the surprise on your face. “I did tell you that I need your help. You didn’t think I would forget about you, did you?”

“All the others did,” you say, shivering even though you’re out of the rain. “You were the only one that ever came back for me.”

“The others were idiots,” he says dismissively, waving a hand. “That’s why I killed them all. They’d given up on the world—and on you.”

You look back at the headstone. “Maybe they were right to.”

“You didn’t answer my question. Who is that?”

You’re grateful for the rain now, because he can’t see the difference between that and the tears on your face. Through a stiff jaw, you say, “My sister.”

Five bows his head. His fringe falls into his eyes. It’s so much longer than most of the other Fives kept their hair. “That’s why you got onto the subway.”

“We grew up in the system together.” Someone should know her story. She was more than an orphan. She’s more than a grave. “We took care of each other. She even ran away from a home once after they kicked me out.”

Five makes a low sound in the back of his throat.

“She died three weeks ago,” you confess lowly, the words spilling out of your mouth like lava. The next ones burn worse: “And it was my fault.”

He doesn’t offer any of the usual platitudes: she’s in a better place, it wasn’t really your fault, at least now she isn’t suffering. The words mean nothing. She’s dead and you’re alive and it’s really not fair. That’s not how things should be.

You don’t know how long Five stands with you. He waits patiently at your side, ignoring the rain that’s surely soaking his shoes, too, until your stomach rumbles.

“You’re hungry.”

You scowl. “I’m always hungry.” A side-effect of never eating enough and never knowing when the next meal will be.

“I can fix that. Come with me.” He holds his hand out, palm up, and looks at you expectantly.

You hesitate.

Five rolls his eyes. “We both know you’ll say yes. Just take my hand.”

Just to spite him, you don’t want to, but your stomach cramps with another growl, and he makes the decision for you.

A warm hand squeezes yours, and time clamps down on you both like a python with its prey. Then it spits you out.

You land wrong, the world not-quite-stable, and only Five’s hand in yours keeps you upright.

��Y/N!”

He’s brought you to a dark kitchen filled with other people. Sitting around the table are eight people that stare at you two with wide eyes.

You recognize five of them as the original Umbrella Academy. There’s another dark-haired man, a pretty woman with dyed hair holding Diego’s hand, and a girl with long hair holding Luther’s.

Ben’s the one that spoke. He’s half out of his chair, smiling at you like he’s actually relieved to see you.

“Five, who is this?” Alison asks cautiously.

Five ignores her. He snatches a loaf of bread off the counter and grabs you again. You’re no more prepared for time to take you in hand and squeeze, but you at least keep your balance when you land in the middle of a small bedroom. An adolescent boy’s bedroom, judging by the model trains on the dresser and bird-patterned quilt on the bed.

Five sighs and flops onto the bed with the ease only the room’s occupant could possess. You stand shivering, dripping water on the blue carpet, until he lifts his head and demands, “Well?”

“What?”

He gestures to the packaged bread loaf on the bed beside himself. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Despite your soaked shoes and that you have no idea where you are, your lips twitch up at the corners. “You want me to eat that?”

“Is there a problem?”

“Well… it’s not brisket.”

He rolls his eyes so far into the back of his head you’re surprised they don’t get stuck back there. “Very funny.”

You bite your lip when he says nothing else. The weight of his attention is heavy. You’re not sure if the sensation prickling up your spine is uncomfortable or pleasant, but you’re twitching away from it either way.

“Are you cold?” he asks abruptly.

“Um…”

“Come on.”

Again he pulls you through a space wormhole. This trip is the easiest, but Five takes a long time to drop your hand. He only does it when you wiggle your fingers and pull slightly, unsure whether this is the last stop.

You’re in the middle of the largest closet you’ve ever seen in your life. It’s bigger than half of the rooms you slept in growing up, always shared with at least two other kids.

“It’s Alison’s closet,” Five says. “One of them.”

“One?” You parrot incredulously, spinning slowly to take everything in. Each wall displays a different article of clothing: one for shirts, one for pants, one for coats, one for dresses and skirts.

“Well, come on,” he says. “You’re soaked. And filthy.” He wrinkles his nose delicately, looking absolutely like he belonged in a fancy closet. The Umbrellas had grown up rich.

You could have. If Reginald had chosen you.

You wrestle down the resentment that uncoils white-hot in your chest.

“If you don’t like it, we can go to Klaus—”

“No,” you interrupt. “No, this is fine.”

As soon as you toe off the soaked socks and shoes, you can’t stand to wear any of the other sodden clothes weighing you down. Five looks away as you strip down to your underclothes.

Just touching Alison’s fine clothes feels wrong. Is she even human? Not one of the garments are ruffled or stained.

You grab whatever looks the least expensive and pull the pieces on quickly. They don’t fit you perfectly, but they’re clean and dry. You’re inordinately grateful.

Five can’t bear to look at you. He takes one glance and flushes, probably embarrassed for you that you’re trying to wear such nice clothes that obviously don’t suit you, and glances away immediately. “That’s all?”

“What do you mean?”

He gestures to the room at large. “Do you want anything else?”

“I’m not going to just—just steal straight out of your sister’s closet,” you sputter.

Five shrugs. “Why not? She has enough clothes.”

“This is good,” you insist with your arms crossed protectively over yourself.

“Suit yourself.” He rises smoothly to his feet. “Let’s go.”

This time, when he holds out a hand, you don’t hesitate before taking it.

The two of you land back in Five’s childhood bedroom. Changed out of the waterlogged outfit, you realize just how hungry you are, and tear into the loaf of bread with a delight that surprises even you. You eat the entire thing before remembering that you should have offered some to Five, who watched you eat with a bemused look on his face.

Before you can embarrass yourself by shaking the crumbs out of the bag and into your mouth, he asks, “When was the last time you ate?”

“Before the subway,” is your immediate response. It’s true for nearly everything.

“How long before the subway?”

There’s anger in the tone, and you crumple the bag between your hands. Right. Rich kid. Murderous rich kid. “Not too long,” you say vaguely. It’s not his business where you sleep and eat.

“Do you want anything else, or…”

“No.”

Five nods, a small, pleased smile on his face. And that approval shouldn’t be gratifying, shouldn’t send a flush of heat through your chest, but it does. Because this is the boy that came back for you four times in the subway, and a fifth time, you suppose, at the cemetery. That’s more than anyone ever cared to look for you in your life, except…

“Good. We have work to do. Are you ready?”

Before you can respond, his door crashes open. His siblings stand in it, staring at the two of you.

“All right,” says Diego, “you two are going to explain what’s going on. Right now. Or else.” He holds up a knife.

“Is that my shirt?” Alison asks, staring at you.

Five’s hand clamps around yours, and you’re sucked away.

When the wormhole spits you out, you ask, “We’re not going to work with them?”

“No,” Five says. “I only need you.”

You’re warm all over again. It’s hard to meet his eyes.

Five’s having the same issue.

He clears his throat. “All right. It’s not much farther.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the man that started all of this in the first place.” He scowls. “My father.”

You swallow. Whenever you saw Reginald Hargreeves on the television, he appeared stern and uncompromising. Intimidating. It makes sense that Five developed an iron will with a man like that raising him.

Reginald, of course, lives at the top of the tallest tower in the city. Men with guns mill around its outside; even more men with guns mill around its inside.

“He’ll be expecting us,” is Five’s only warning before he takes you by the hand and yanks you through space yet again.

The wormhole spits the two of you out in front of a dining room table set with more food than you’ve ever seen in your life. Two people sit at its either end: a man—Reginald—and a woman you’ve never seen before.

“Ah, there you are,” Reginald says briskly. He gestures with the point of his knife. “Do sit down, Number Five. We have much to discuss. And put that away—no weapons at the table.”

Five falters. Lowers the gun.

The strange woman smiles at the both of you warmly. “You must be two of the children Reggie told me so much about.”

“Not that one.” Reginald’s eyes skip over you. An imperceptible curl raises his upper lip. You curl into yourself against the dismissal. “What do you do, pray tell?”

You can’t find your voice.

“Hmph,” he sniffs. “No wonder I didn’t choose you.”

“Reggie,” gasps the old woman, upsetting the wine glass by her plate and spilling a couple drops on the tablecloth, “don’t be so rude.”

You hold up your hand and—

“.edur os eb t’nod” ,htolcelbat eht no spord elpuoc a gnillips dna etalp reh yb ssalg eniw eht gnittespu ,namow dlo eht spsag “,eiggeR”

—You blink and the tablecloth is spotless once more.

Reginald sets down his utensils. “Well, now that,” he says softly, “is interesting.” To Five: “Where did you find this specimen?”

“Hidden away where you couldn’t touch their powers,” snaps Five.

Reginald turns back to his plate. “Well, then that’s the whole issue, isn’t it? You know the timelines will never stop branching until all traces of my marigold disappear. I tried to give you children a second chance, I really did, but without returning to the hotel, there is no way for me to rewrite the world to allow you in it. And now, not only did you steal a precious store and restore your measly powers, you brought something into this world that does not belong. Just as you do not belong!”

Something about that strikes you as being off, but you can’t tell exactly what it is. The timelines… branching… not belong…

Five sighs. “You know, my other selves said you would say something like that.”

He fires the gun.

Reginald fires one, too.

A bullet buries into his skull—a bullet buries into your shoulder—

They do and they don’t and they fly backwards into the pistols.

Your shoulder aches with phantom pain.

Five blinks, stunned. Reginald says, “That’s what I thought. Do you hear that, Number Five?” He puts a hand to his ear. “It’s the sound of another timeline splintering. You’ll use your powers, and this child will use theirs, until every universe swallows itself back up. Have you ever heard of ouroboros?”

This time, he fires at Five, and you don’t even allow the bullet to leave its chamber. The rubber of reality snaps back into place, but something cracks in the sky. Even Five looks off-footed, staring up at it with an open mouth.

Another bullet. You’re too slow to push Five out of the way and he drenches your hands in blood and the sky cracks more, turning red, and your hands are clean and Five isn’t dying—

“We can do this over and over again until things are set right,” says Reginald. “I don’t believe the universe can take much more of this. And when its limit is reached, when the timelines collide and implode, do you know who will remain?”

Five’s quick wit and razor-sharp tongue have him at a loss. He wasn’t expecting this. You weren’t, either, and you don’t like to see him look so defeated.

“It will not be you. Now: will you sit, or will you continue to doom yourself?”

You know ouroboros. It ruled your life for an infinite non-infinite amount of time. Created by you, your creator, jailer and prisoner alike—

A subway, looping around itself, the subway. You exist constantly and it’s one stationary point and it’s a circle and it isn’t even moving.

“Yes,” you say for the both of you. Looking at Five, you say, “It’s me.”

“What?”

“I’m the problem. I’m the ouroboros.”

He lowers the pistol and steps closer, worry creasing the skin between his brows. “What are you—”

The timelines broke, and they were too scared to loop around again and eat themselves, even though that would fix them. It was your fear, even though you’ve been devouring yourself since the moment you were born. It’s why you were born.

“Hey, look at me.” Five’s hands on your face. “I don’t know what you’re thinking—”

“I can make this right. I can make all of it right.”

“Hold on. Listen to me—”

“You and your siblings will be fine,” you assure him. “You’ll be born the normal way. I promise. You’ll exist together and know each other—”

“What about you?”

“The ouroboros has to devour something.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “There has to be another way.”

“There isn’t.”

“There is,” says a new voice. Familiar, but not.

You whirl around.

Ben, covered in blood, tugs his shirt down. But he’s… not Ben, at least not the one you knew. His hair is different, there’s a scar on his face, and the way he holds himself just isn’t the same.

“Security!” Reginald barks.

Not-Ben shrugs. “Sorry. I ate them.”

“Reggie?” asks the old woman.

“Come along, darling. I’ll keep you safe.” He extends a hand, she takes it, and they rush away. You let them go. They’re not necessary anymore.

Not-Ben offers you a small smile. “The other me told me what you guys were up to. And, oh yeah, the next time you bring someone’s alternate-reality-self back from the dead, give them a heads-up, okay? Because that was really freaky.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Other Ben. Your Ben. He’s here and alive and everything, but now there’s two of us, and let’s be honest, I’m not a good substitute.”

“That’s not—”

“It is true,” Not-Ben insists. “We all know it. The other Ben’s your brother. Most of my siblings are dead, and Sloan won’t miss me much.”

The ground shakes. The world is falling apart.

“Come on,” Not-Ben says softly. “I’m the extra copy.”

Five looks between you and his brother. Head snapping back and forth like he’s watching a ping-pong match. Then, softly to the other Ben, “Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

Five grabs your hand and puts it on top of Ben’s heart. “Do it.”

You take a deep breath…

And everything implodes.

When you wake up, the sun is shining in an intact sky, the birds are singing, and you’re in a bed. Not on a bench. To make things better, you’re in a room that only has one bed, and that bed is yours.

Well, of course it is. This is your apartment. Everything in it belongs to you.

You check your phone to see a text from your sister. Why are you so happy to see it? Half the time she’s just an annoyance, but remembering that doesn’t dull the relief.

You roll out of bed to put the kettle on the stove, then pop a bagel into your toaster. For no reason at all, you’re struck with how fantastic it is to just be able to—pull food out of your pantry. Have a pantry at all.

Someone knocks on your door.

You frown. You’re not expecting anyone, and it’s Saturday.

Your pajamas are acceptable, if a little raggedy, so you don’t bother to change when whoever it is knocks again.

You wrench open the door, prepared to tell off your elderly downstairs neighbor for complaining about the noise—again—when all you’ve done was wake up, but stop still at the sight of a man with tan skin. He’s tall, and his dark hair is long, almost touching his shoulders. He’s dressed neatly, and you flush when you remember what you must look like.

“Hello,” he says.

“Um, hi?”

“I’m Max. I’m, uh, your mailbox neighbor, and I think they put your mail in mine by accident.” He holds out a stack of what look to be bills.

“Oh. Thank you.” At least you didn’t have to walk down and up five flights of stairs to collect it this time.

As you take the mail, your fingers brush against his, and it’s like a jolt of electricity zaps through the both of you. Max stands straight up, and you can’t breathe as your mind remembers.

“Oh, my God,” is all you can say as the mail flutters to the ground.

It all rushes back—the foster homes, your sister’s death, the subway, every Five and the one that always came back, Reginald and the ouroboros.

A door at the end of the hall bursts open and a man—Klaus—jumps out, shouting, “Allison? Diego? Ben? Oh, there you are, little Number Five!”

More and more doors slam open: Allison and Ray, their daughter darting out from between their legs, Diego and his wife and their kids, Sloan and Luther both with rings on their fingers, Ben and a woman you’ve never seen before emerging ruffled from their own apartment. The entire hallway opens up as the former Hargreeves remember who they were and who each other are. You’ll get a noise complaint for sure.

But you can’t really bring yourself to care about it when Five takes two steps, crowding into your space, and cradles your jaw.

“You found me,” you beam.

“I always will,” he vows.

And he kisses you.

Five x Reader Taglist

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[rambling-at-midnight]

went back and read a chapter of my wip where i described the sky as the ‘midnight-blue of midnight’ i amaze even myself sometimes

edit: two paragraphs down i wrote that someone rubbed the crust of sleep from her EARS not her EYES. what is going on.

[rambling-at-midnight]

The Roman Empire

Pairing: Jason Todd x Sionis!Reader (Forbidden romance)

Summary: Five times Jason doesn’t confess his feelings, and the one time he does.

Word count: 5.8k

Potential TW for Jason experiencing fear toxin

1.

“How are you so bad at this?” you giggle. The plastic bag of M&Ms crinkles in your hand.

“I’m not bad, you just suck at throwing!”

Batman cuts the two of you a glare and says sternly, “Shh.”

Jason salutes and says, “Yes, boss.”

Another M&M hits the side of his cheek. “Hey!”

“Robin.”

“But she—” Jason points at you, but the M&Ms have disappeared and an innocently confused expression has taken over your face.

“I didn’t even do anything,” you grumble to B, but as soon as he rolls his eyes and turns back to watch the target, you smirk at Jason evilly.

Jason turns his eyelids inside out and points his tongue at you.

A whole handful of the candies hit his face and scatter on the ground, pinging like little pieces of hail.

“B!” Jason shrills.

In a rare moment of human weakness, Batman pinches the bridge of his nose. “All right, you two are off the case. Go home. Both of you.” You earn the glare that time. Jason watches a shiver go down your spine. Living with Bruce and watching the man swan dive into fountains at galas has kind of ruined his Batman intimidation factor with Jason, but you haven’t seen his more human side. Because you never visit the manor as a civilian. Because Jason’s not allowed to know you as a civilian.

Jason thinks it’s stupid that Barbie gets to know your identity because you’re her prodigy or something, and Batman gets to know your identity because he’s Batman, but apparently Robin knowing it is too dangerous. Hasn’t he shown that he can keep a secret? No one knows his secret identity!

“The Batmobile will pick you up outside the Surh Complex,” Batman said, tapping the device on his gauntlet. “Batgirl, I’ll be tracking your progress home.”

“Sir, yes, sir!” you both chant in unison, hands up in salutes.

Jason swears he sees one of Bruce’s lenses twitch with irritation.

Normally he would argue about staying out later, but stakeouts are the most boring thing to have ever existed, especially when you’re not there. So he grapples off the roof in the direction of the complex, knowing instinctively that you’ll be close behind.

They parked the Batmobile a long way away, so as not to scare off the target they were watching. If it was to come roaring in at breakneck speed to pick Jason up, there would be no point in doing that. So he watches its slow, silent progress on his tracker screen. He has probably five minutes before it gets here.

That’s plenty of time to do what he’s been gearing up to do for the past week.

Jason’s palms are sweaty in his Robin gloves. He hopes you can’t see the sweat on his face. Just to be safe, he turns away and scrubs at his forehead before turning around. “So, Batgirl, I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

Jason’s mouth goes dry when he meets your gaze. There’s something about your eyes that tugs at his brain. He must know you from somewhere.

“I was wondering if you wanted to—”

A gunshot drowns out the rest of Jason’s sentence.

“Batman!” you cry out. “Come on, Robin!”

The two of you sprint back to where you’d left Batman and find an empty roof. Judging by the sounds coming from the building across the street, he’d ended the stakeout and started the fight.

You and Jason swing through the window and land in the middle of a goon fight.

Twenty minutes later, exhausted and wincing from a good kick to the ribs, Batman sends you home. Jason’s knuckles will be bruised tomorrow, but otherwise he came out pretty unscathed. He doesn’t remember about the question he’d wanted to ask you until he wakes up the next morning, swearing and disappointed.

Oh well. There’s always next time.

(There isn’t a next time. There’s Felipe Garzona and being benched and Ethiopia and the Joker and his mother and a bomb.)

2.

He makes sure that his boots scuff against the roof when he lands.

You whirl around at the noise. The lenses of your mask widen at the sight of him, and before he knows it there’s a crossbow pointed at his face.

“I’m not here to fight,” he says, raising his hands.

You scoff. “Like I’ll believe anything that comes out of the mouth of the dude that shot me and dunked me in the Gotham River.”

Jason winces at the reminder. These days, he’s angry more often than he isn’t. But he’s tired of being angry, so he’s trying to make amends. “In my defense,” he says carefully, “you did shoot me first.”

“Blunt arrow,” you say shortly, waving the crossbow slightly. “Real bullet. And Gotham River water in my real bullet wound.”

“My bad?”

You snort. “You’re just lucky I didn’t contract anything. Don’t you know how filthy the water is?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” he admits. “I wouldn’t have—I didn’t know. You were my best—you know who I am, right?”

You nod.

“It was pretty stupid of me not to realize,” he says sheepishly. “I mean, Delphi? Pretty obvious you’re close with Oracle. But I wasn’t thinking…”

When he trails off, you just watch him, face blank and eyes hidden. He used to be able to read you like a book. Now he has no idea what you’re thinking.

Jason hates the domino you wear now. Its white lenses match the rest of the vigilantes, but they hide your eyes. Jason hasn’t seen your eyes in years. He doesn’t quite remember the shade, the shape—in the League, sometimes all he could hold on to was the memory of your eyes and your hair. He remembers you laughing after flipping in the air, some of your ruffled hair still caught in your mouth, and himself brushing it away.

How could he have known you were Delphi if he couldn’t see your eyes? He didn’t realize until he heard you scream when he pushed you.

By the time he dragged you out of the water, you were unconscious. Jason saw Nightwing, just a furious blue blur on his way to rescue you—honestly, sometimes Jason wonders if Dick and Babs hadn’t adopted you, based on the way they act like your parents—and ran. He wonders if you know he pulled you out and not Dick.

“I don’t know if you know—” You aren’t a part of the family like everyone else is. Jason doesn’t know why you keep yourself at a distance, but you act as if you don’t like Spoiler, which means Tim doesn’t like you. You keep everyone but Bruce, Dick, and Babs at arm’s length, and he doesn’t get it. As far as he knows, you don’t even like Cass, even though everyone likes Cass. Jason likes Cass. So he’s not sure if anyone’s told you yet— “I’m trying to make amends.”

Your lips twitch. “You’re doing an apology tour?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. And,” he says quickly before you can tell him to fuck off, “I brought these as a peace offering.”

You catch the bag out of thin air and, despite the circumstances, you laugh. For the first time since Jason landed on the roof, the crossbow lowers. “M&Ms? Really?”

“For old time’s sake.”

“Thanks,” you say grudgingly, and Jason’s heart jumps.

“So.” Jason thrusts out his hand. His heart beats a thousand times a second. “Friends again?”

He doesn’t want to be friends. He wants to ask if you loved him the way he loved you as children. He wants to ask if you could love him as an adult. He wants to ask you to spend the rest of your life with him.

But Jason’s a sack of shit that shot you in the stomach and kicked you off a bridge, so he doesn’t get that. He doesn’t even deserve your friendship, but he’s a selfish sack of shit, so he’ll beg for it anyway.

You sigh and heft the crossbow. Jason braces for an arrow—it’s only fair, after all, for you to shoot him after he shot you—but you lean it against your shoulder and hold out your hand.

“Friends again,” you agree.

3.

You’re dead.

Jason’s sure of it.

“Hood, please, listen to me,” pleads Red Robin, “Delphi’s not suited up tonight, there’s no way she was caught in the crossfire.”

His hands won’t stop shaking. Why won’t they stop shaking? He needs to call you. He doesn’t have your number. He doesn’t know your name. All he can do is page your superhero comm, again and again and again—

A hand clamps down on his shoulder: Nightwing. “Hood,” he says in a low, calm tone, “you need to put your rebreather on. Your helmet cracked and you’re breathing in—”

“Don’t touch me!” Jason shoves him away so hard he almost falls.

“B,” says Red Robin, touching the comm in his ear, “Hood’s compromised, I think we need your help.”

Jason’s heart is going to burst out of his chest if you don’t pick up. He doubles over, wheezing. He can’t breathe.

Someone’s arms loop between his, locking them behind his back, and someone else clamps something over Jason’s mouth. “Hood, please,” Nightwing pleads into his ear, “we’re just trying to help. You’re not thinking clearly.”

“No!” Jason writhes, throws his body weight back and forth, whips his head back and cracks it against Nightwing’s nose. His arms falter, and Jason wrenches away, pulling the thing off his face. It was probably laced with something, a chemical to put him down. “You’re compromised!” It’s the only reason he and Red Robin would try to keep Jason from you. They locked you up somewhere, they’re probably hurting you, Jason needs to find you but your tracker’s disabled.

He pages your superhero comm again and again and again—

It beeps, the line turning on, and your groggy voice says, “Hello?” like you’re answering the phone. Did you just wake up, or are you drugged?

“Where are you?” Jason demands.

“Hood?” you sound slightly more alert. “What’s wrong?”

“Tell me where you are. No, stay back!” That’s aimed at Red Robin, who’s trying to slip past Jason’s guard with his bō. He freezes when Jason pulls out his pistol.

“What?”

“They’re compromised,” Jason says in a rush. “What did they do to you? Where are you?”

There’s a pause, and then you ask, “Oracle, what’s going on?”

“No!” Jason shouts. She’s probably compromised too. No one is safe, he has to find you and get you out of Gotham—

“Hood’s breathing in fear toxin,” is Oracle’s calm, if terse, reply. “Apparently he’s convinced that everyone else is an enemy and that you’re in danger.”

“Hood,” you say soothingly. Then, faltering, “Jay—Jason—”

It’s the first time you’ve ever called him by his name.

“I’m safe, Jason,” you say. “I’m okay. I promise.”

“I need to see you,” Jason says. “I—” Need you, love you, can’t lose you. But he can’t get the words around his clumsy tongue. His throat swells at the thought of confessing to you. You’ll laugh and reject him and never want to see him again.

“Oracle,” you sound distraught, “I can’t leave.”

“I knew it,” Jason hisses. You’re being held hostage. “Where are you?”

“No, Jason, I promise it’s not what you think,” you say, and there are definitely other words after that, but Jason’s ears ring. He feels fuzzy, except for a slight sting in his neck. Jason pulls out a needle and stares at it, bewildered.

Batman looms in front of him. His mouth moves, but Jason just hears static. All he knows is that’s his dad, and his dad just sedated him, and he’s talking soothingly but Jason hates needles.

Jason slumps. Batman catches him, and even though he’s two hundred pounds and not a kid anymore, hefts him into his arms. A gloved hand smooths over Jason’s hair, the way Bruce used to comfort him when he had a nightmare, and Jason’s eyes close.

“He’s down, Delphi,” is the second-to-last thing he hears Oracle say. “Go back to sleep.”

Everything goes dark.

4.

Two days ago, Jason traced a large transfer of laundered money back to Roman Sionis. He doesn’t know what the man’s planning, but whatever it is, it can’t be good. He’s been staking out the man’s base of operations for hours, but no one’s come in or out. He wishes that you were here to make it slightly more bearable, but according to Oracle, you’re undercover for a couple days and can’t be reached.

By Jason.

Oracle, of course, can access you anytime.

Jason’s getting real sick of not knowing who you are. As adults, Batman shouldn’t still be governing who knows your secret identity and who doesn’t.

He watches people move around in the building. The microphone he attached to the window showing the room that seems to host the most action picks up mundane conversations. Apart from the occasional comment about a fake bill being obvious, he can’t glean the endgame.

Sionis, unfortunately, hasn’t made an appearance in the day and a half Jason’s been camped out.

Of course, as soon as Jason thinks that, a sleek black car pulls up in front of the building.

Jason checks to make sure his camera is recording. He zooms in slightly when Sionis steps out of the left side of the car.

A woman steps out of the right. Jason can’t tell much about her from this far, but she looks young, young enough to be Sionis’s daughter. Ugh. He really hopes that’s not Sionis’s new, young wife.

There’s an air about her that he can’t quite place, but it’s enough to let him know that she’s dangerous in some way. He zooms in on the side of her face that’s visible. This is a rogue agent he’s never encountered before.

Her shoulders stiffen. She turns to say something to Sionis, and as she does, her eyes sweep the skyline.

Jason ducks behind the camera, sweating. Did she see him? How did she know to look for him? He watches through the camera feed as she says something to Sionis. He puts a possessive hand on her back and ushers her inside, though not with a sense of urgency like he would if she’d just said that the Red Hood was staked out on the roof opposite their operation.

Jason stops the recording and rewinds. Yes, right there her eyes widened. She’d definitely seen him. There’s something oddly familiar about her, but Jason can’t put his finger on it.

Jason downloads the footage and taps his comm. “Oracle?”

Her response is immediate: “Yeah, Hood?”

“I’m sending a clip your way. Can you run facial recognition on this woman, see if we get any matches?”

A couple minutes of silence go by, on his end and hers. Did the woman truly say nothing? Why wouldn’t she?

Oracle’s voice cuts into his paranoia: “What are you doing with Sionis?” Oddly enough, she sounds—defensive, or angry, or something he can’t place.

“What we always do with Sionis,” he responds. “Shut down his plots.”

“Listen,” Oracle says. “This one is handled. Trust me. You should focus on something else.”

Jason frowns. “Who’s handling it?” Tim would have said something. “Is it Cass?” She’s always held a grudge against Sionis after what he did to Stephanie.

“Yeah,” says Oracle, lying.

So who’s handling it?

Jason gets his answer when the mic picks up a new voice, presumably the woman he’d watched walk inside with Sionis. The man’s sexist enough that he rarely employs any woman goons. She laughs at something someone says, then makes a remark about Central City’s incompetent police work. Her voice is lyrical, light, and devastatingly familiar.

The voice, and the familiarity—Jason looks at the screen, and those eyes—

Jason makes a strangled noise.

“Hood,” Oracle warns. “Don’t.”

“Who is she?” he demands, even though he already knows the answer.

“Drop it,” Oracle snaps.

“You know I can’t. She’s in there with Sionis, O. She’s not safe.” He still remembers what happened to Stephanie. The haunted look in her eyes.

Roman Sionis is an unpredictable sadist, and Jason won’t leave you alone in there with him. It doesn’t matter what plot he’s up to if you and Jason arrest him, right?

It’s a simple change of plans. What could go wrong?

Jason packs up the recording equipment and checks to make sure he has all his weapons. Then he takes a deep breath.

And shoots the window.

He fires the grapple and shatters the glass feet-first, landing awkwardly with a skid in the middle of the room. About fifteen goons, Roman Sionis, and you stare at him with shock.

Several things happen at once:

Roman Sionis drags you behind one of the desks the goons are counting counterfeit bills on, Jason and the goons draw their guns in unison, and someone sets off a smoke bomb.

Bullets fly blindly. Jason aims as best he can, making sure to keep far away from the desk you’re hiding behind. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea, but it’s too late to back out now.

People shout. Someone screams with pain. They aren’t you, so Jason doesn’t care. Then you do scream, and Sionis yells, “Stop firing, you idiots!”

The stream of bullets ceases.

When the smoke clears, Jason finds himself in, oddly enough, a multiple-way standoff.

Someone whimpers on the ground, clutching a shoulder with a bullet wound in it. Sionis is unscathed, holding a gun not at Jason, but at a man with his arm around your neck and a gun to the side of your head. Jason’s heart jumps to his throat. He takes his gun off Sionis and aims it at the man, but with you acting as a human shield, there’s no good angle. The goons not hit during the skirmish can’t decide where to aim between Jason and the traitor in their midst.

“What the fuck are you doing, Brady?” asks Sionis.

“The Bats made us,” the man whimpers. “I’m not going down for this!”

“You take your hands off her,” snarls a blonde man in a suit. He’s ruffled from the skirmish, but otherwise unharmed. Odd to be so protective over you, but you are important to the boss, apparently. What kind of cover have you built with these people, for Sionis to level a gun at the man threatening your life?

“You’re a Bat now, Hood,” says Brady. “You wouldn’t let an innocent die, now would you?” He snorts. “Well. As innocent as this one can be.” And what is that supposed to mean?

The hand holding the gun to your head quivers. If his finger twitches just a bit too much—

Jason says calmly, “I’ll give you to the count of three to let her go. You won’t like what happens if I make it to four.”

“No. No way.” He shakes his head. “Here’s how this is gonna go: I’m gonna take the little girl—” He shakes you and your eyes gleam with rage, but whatever cover you’re using must not have combat skills. You could easily throw him over your shoulder, but you don’t. “And I’m gonna walk out of here. And you two are gonna stay right here. I’ll let her go in three blocks, but if I see even a hint of either one of you following me—boom.”

“That isn’t a smart idea, Brady,” says Sionis. “You know I’ll hunt you down for that. Now, I can chalk all this up to a mistake when you panicked at the sight of the Red Hood, but continue to threaten her life and it’ll be the last thing you do.”

Brady’s mouth trembles. So does his hand.

You grab it, pull down, and twist.

In a perfect world, the bullet would burrow into the floor. In a less perfect world, it would graze you.

In this world, you have Brady’s arm in both your hands, and he fires directly into your stomach.

You make the same punched-out gasp as when Jason shot you. It’s a sound he never wanted to hear again.

The shot is deafening. The mingled sound of Jason and Sionis firing at his skull are even more so.

Brady crumples to the ground. You don’t. The gun clatters out of your hands, and they go to your middle. You look up, bewildered, as blood starts to leak out of the hole in your abdomen. It covers your hands, so dark it looks black.

“No!”

Jason crosses the room in three strides, but Sionis is closer. He pulls up your shirt to take a look. It’s just a small hole, but it was shot at such a close range—

“No exit wound,” he says calmly, like you’re not bleeding out. He stabilizes you with a hand on your spine when you wobble. You’re deathly pale already, eyes unfocused. “You’re going to be alright.”

“She needs to go to a hospital,” Jason says. Oh, God, you’re shot again. It’s his fault again.

“I have my own doctors,” says Sionis. “Samuel, get Dr. Kriezak on the line. Tell him to prepare for emergency surgery.” The blonde man nods and dials immediately. “Now, are you going to arrest me, or are you going to let me save her life?”

What is she to you? Jason wants to ask, but he doesn’t have time.

“I know a better one,” he says.

Sionis snorts. “I guarantee you do not—what are you doing?”

Jason scoops you up into his arms. Your head lolls, but your eyes are open. That’s a good sign. “Stay conscious,” he orders.

Sionis levels his gun at Jason. “Why does everyone want to kidnap my daughter today?”

Daughter?

Jason hurls a Batarang. Sionis ducks, and in his distraction Jason leaps out the window.

You groan faintly when he lands on the roof. Jason taps his comm and says frantically, “Oracle, I need help.”

“What happened?” she asks immediately.

“Delphi’s shot.” Babs makes an involuntary sound. “Abdomen. I need emergency transport to the Cave. Fastest—”

“The Batmobile’s below you,” she interrupts. “I called it as soon as you decided to be an idiot.”

Jason looks down. True to her word, there it is, looking incongruous in the daylight. “Oh, thank God.”

“How bad is it?” Oracle asks when you’re situated and autopilot is on.

“Not too bad,” Jason says, voice higher than usual. You’re still bleeding. He packs gauze on the wound, then ties a bandage around your abdomen as tightly as possible. You’re still bleeding. He presses down on the wound until you groan again. You’re responsive, still. Good.

“Hey, hey,” Jason coos, brushing the hair away from your face like he used to when you were children. Your eyes are closed. “It’s going to be okay, all right? Delphi, can you hear me?” He taps your cheek until your eyes flutter open again. “There’s those pretty eyes.” How could he ever let the precise shade and shape fade in his memory? “Stay with me, okay?” he begs.

For a moment your gaze sharpens. You recognize him.

“I need you,” he confesses. “I—I—”

You pass out.

5.

DELPHI (AGENT)

IDENTITY: SIONIS, Y/N

RELATION TO SIONIS, ROMAN: DAUGHTER

Beneath that is your age, date of birth, contact information, and blood type.

Jason stares at your file on the Batcomputer screen until his eyes burn. One of the most encrypted files on the Batcomputer, hidden behind about fifty ghost files and labeled ‘Catwoman surveillance footage.’ Of course no one found it. None of Bruce’s children would dare look at that file.

It wasn’t a cover.

This whole time, you’ve been the Black Mask’s daughter.

Hours later, Alfred puts a gentle hand on Jason’s shoulder and informs him that the surgery is over. You’re stable. You’ll survive.

He collapses in the chair by your cot in the medbay. Somehow, despite the utter panic that clouds his thoughts, Jason falls asleep.

He wakes to the sound of people muttering and groans. His head aches. When he lifts it, even the dimmed Cave’s lights hurt his eyes.

Sometime during his sleep, his hand found yours. Yours is cold and limp, but the heart monitor steadily beeps to continually assert the fact of your life.

Steph and Tim stand at the foot of your bed, whispering to each other. Dick and Babs share a cot pressed right up to yours, faces tense. Babs in particular looks furious. The tirade she’ll give Jason soon is well-deserved.

As soon as they see Jason wake, Steph says, “She saved my life. When Black Mask had me. She let me go.”

“Did you know?” Jason can’t even muster up any anger.

She shrugs. “I guessed.”

Jason makes eye contact with Tim. “Did you know?”

Tim shrugs. “I had to know.” He’s as obsessive as Bruce.

“So everyone knew but me.”

The hand in Jason’s tenses. A hoarse voice croaks, “You knew?”

Jason whirls around, but looking at you is like staring into the sun; he can hardly bear your pallor and exhausted air. Dick and Babs bolt upright.

Dick exclaims your name, hands fluttering around. “What can I do? What do you need? More painkillers?”

You’re awake and staring at Stephanie, completely ignoring Dick’s fussing.

She shrugs. “You have a distinct fighting style. I wasn’t sure… I always wondered what happened to you. After you helped me. You didn’t patrol for a couple weeks.”

Your brow furrows. You look supremely uncomfortable. “I was fine.” At everyone’s disbelieving looks, you exclaim, “I was!” then wince.

“Lay back,” Jason commands without quite looking at you.

“I know how to handle him,” you say, pushing back against Jason’s hand as he tries to get you to lay down. “I’m sorry—stop it, Jay—that you were there so long. I got there as fast as I could.”

“I know,” Steph says softly.

“Pillows,” Dick says abruptly.

Jason goes to get pillows. Wincing, you sit up so he can put them behind you. You sit back with a relieved sigh, now upright and able to look them all in the eye. He slumps into his chair, scowling, ignoring you when you try to catch his eye.

Tim says, “That’s why you always kept your distance. You thought we’d hate you when we found out.”

“Well, don’t you?” You look around at them, confused. “I’ve been reaping the benefits of my father’s cruelty for years. No matter what I—what anyone does, the justice system won’t prosecute him, and Arkham can’t hold him.” You’re heated now. “I could have stopped it all. I could have killed him at any time, but I’m a coward. There. That’s why you should hate me.”

“He’s your father,” Dick says softly.

You look away. “That doesn’t matter.”

Babs touches your hand. You let out a shuddering breath. “Roman Sionis may be your father,” she says softly, “but you’ve been risking your life to make Gotham safer for years. We wouldn’t have stopped half as many of his plots without your help.”

You’re saved from responding by Bruce staggering into the Batcave, haggard and rumpled. “Why is Black Mask threatening to wage war on me?” He spots you, unmasked and obviously fresh out of surgery, and says, “Oh.”

“I have to go back.” You wince, sitting up again.

“No,” Jason says immediately, looking at Bruce.

“I have to,” you insist. “People will die if I don’t.”

“He’s a monster,” Jason tells Bruce. “You can’t send her back there.”

“Jason.” Your hand touches his. It’s like an electric shock. “I’ll be fine.” A touch of bitterness enters your voice when you say, “I’m a very well-kept pet.”

No matter where Jason looks, he sees no support. For the first time since you woke up, he looks at you. Voice cracking, he says, “But I—”

Everyone looks away.

Jason’s a coward.

“I almost lost you.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I can’t.”

You blink. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. Jason thinks that might be enough. You might understand without him saying the words. Hope swells in his chest like a bubble.

“I’m sorry.”

The bubble of hope pops.

You look to Bruce. “Will you take me home?”

+1

For two months, you’re radio silent. No one, not even Babs, hears from you. The only reason Jason hasn’t lost his mind is that he checks every cemetery’s records in Gotham daily. No one matching your description has died in the last two months.

Of course, that’s almost worse. Who knows what Sionis is putting you through?

All this time, all these years, Jason was sending you home to a monster. He can’t stop kicking himself.

He assumes the knock on the door is one of his siblings running from Bruce’s incessant mother henning. Jason isn’t prepared at all to open it and see your face. Well. Covered by a scarf and big sunglasses, looking like the rich girl he’s discovered you are. But your face.

You smile tremulously. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Jason says dumbly.

“Can I come in?”

He’s in the middle of the doorway. “Oh! Yeah.” He moves out of the way and shuts it behind you, doing a quick sweep of the hall as he does, just to make sure no one followed you.

Once inside, you pull off the scarf and sunglasses, and there you are.

Your bare face. He’s only seen it twice before. The first was from far away. The second was just after you nearly died and looked like it.

He feels like a bolt of lightning just struck him dead. You’re more than stunning, you’re striking. You suck up all the light in the room.

Jason feels lightheaded.

You cough.

Why is this so awkward?

“Hi,” you say again. “Um, I got your address from—well, nevermind. I wanted to let you know that I’m fine; Babs told me that you’ve been pretty frazzled. Dad had me on pretty tight lockdown while I recovered, but see—” You pull up the hem of your shirt. Just the flash of your bare midsection is enough to make his mouth go dry. “Dad has some pretty good plastic surgeons on standby. The skin grafts didn’t even leave a seam.”

It’s true. Your skin is completely unmarked, even after years of crimefighting. Jason wonders how you explained it to your father every time. If Sionis even knew.

Jason, on the other hand, is riddled with scars and pockmarks where he fished bullets or shrapnel out himself and didn’t bother to waste the time stitching the wounds up.

Next to you, he looks like Frankenstein’s monster.

You take a deep breath. “I thought you should hear this from me. In person.”

“Wait, before you say anything.” Jason had a lot of time to think over the last two months. He can’t afford any more cowardice. He can’t afford any more hesitation.

“No, really, let me go first.”

“Y/N, if you don’t let me say my piece, I’m afraid I’ll chicken out. Please.”

You close your eyes as if pained. “Jason…”

“You’ve always been my best friend,” he rushes out. “But—and you don’t have to feel the same, but what we do is dangerous, and I can’t keep putting it off—”

“Jason, please—”

He raises his voice and plows on. “You’re the most important person in my life, you’ve always been the most important person in my life, and you deserve to know how I feel about you. Y/N, I—”

“I’m engaged,” you say quickly.

The words don’t compute. “What?”

You reach into the pocket of your coat and pull out a ring with a hugely impractical diamond. You slip it onto your ring finger. “I’m engaged. I’ve been engaged for two years.”

Jason feels like you kicked him in the chest. He would rather that you had. “What are you talking about?”

“It was arranged between our fathers,” you say, twisting your scarf in your hands. “They wanted the wedding immediately, but I convinced them that I needed an education first.” You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “No idea how I got them to agree to that.”

Jason narrows his eyes. “It’s that blond man, isn’t it?” Of course he wasn’t a regular goon. He was wearing a suit!

“Yes,” you say, still twisting your scarf. “Samuel. He’s a decent man—”

“He works with Black Mask.”

“So do I,” you say sharply, “and anyway, it’s his father, really. I don’t want you to worry about me, all right? Samuel is kind. He’ll be a good husband.”

“Not for you!”

“Please, you’re making this harder.” A seam pops in the scarf, and you look down, surprised. “Jason, think about it. I know what you were going to say, and that would make things so much worse. Be rational. If I ran away from my father, I couldn’t stay in Gotham.”

“We could go—”

“You can’t leave! These people need you! You care about Crime Alley, you want to do good for the people that live there. If you ran away with me, you’d regret it forever, and I don’t want a marriage filled with resentment.” You brace your shoulders. “I can’t sneak out as Delphi anymore, not with Samuel sleeping next to me.”

Another man sleeping next to you. Jason can hardly bear to think about it.

“But I can do work from the inside. I’ll do my best. But I can’t see you anymore.”

“Why?” Jason asks weakly.

“Haven’t you figured it out yet? I may be a liar and a criminal, but I’m not a cheater. I won’t cross that line. And I would, if I’m around you. Or I would want to. But if I have to get married, it’s going to be a good marriage. I won’t be unfaithful.”

Jason’s mind works a mile a minute, but he can’t find a way around this. There has to be a way. “I should have said something sooner. You don’t know how long—”

“Probably as long as I for you.” You stare at the floor. “Goodbye, Jason.”

“Wait,” Jason says desperately when you turn to leave. “Y/N. Don’t go. I—I love you.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Jason realizes just how easy they are to say. That he should have been saying them for years. He should have told you every minute of every day: I love you, I love you, I love you.

“I love you too,” you say softly. “But one day you’ll realize that you’ve forgotten all about me, and I hope that day comes soon. I want you to be happy, Jason.”

“You make me happy.”

You make a sound that’s half-sob, half-laugh. “You’re the only friend I ever had,” you confess.

“Please don’t do this.”

He watches your back expand and deflate with your breathing. Your hand rests on the doorknob, but you don’t turn it. “Jason, close your eyes.”

He can’t watch you walk out of his life forever. He closes his eyes.

Your footsteps are soundless, so the hand that winds through his hair is a shock. You pull down, and puffs of air wash over his face when you murmur, “Just once.”

A pair of warm lips press chastely against his own.

On instinct, Jason’s hands rise to cup your cheeks, but you slip between his fingers like a ghost.

By the time Jason opens his eyes, you’re gone.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

I had actually so much fun writing this I wrote it all in one day. If you enjoyed reading it, maybe check out my ko-fi to help me out while I slog through grad school?

[rambling-at-midnight]

Iced Out

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: Jason's dating an avid hockey fan, and when your team faces off against the New Jersey Devils, the rivalry can spread all the way to your apartment. Too bad Jason doesn't care about the game. He only cares about getting you in his arms.

Word count: 2k of pure fluff

Your side of the bed is cold.

Jason’s hand feels around the mattress. He groans when the blind search leads to nothing, and prepares to begin the arduous task of wrenching open one eyelid to pinpoint his target, reel you in, and hold you in his arms as long as he can convince you to stay in bed. You’re a restless sleeper, so did you just shift over during the night?

Jason’s hand meets air: the end of the bed.

His eyes fly open, and just as quickly shut. He blinks against the morning light squeezing through the curtains at just the right angle to hit him straight on and, grumbling wordlessly, turns over to haul you against him. It’s his day off, dammit, and he’s determined to sleep in. With you.

Where are you?

The panic icing Jason’s veins fades as soon as he registers the sounds in the kitchen: the radio, just low enough that he can’t hear the words, just a steady stream of white noise; the stove, and whatever is on it hissing as it cooks; someone’s slippered footsteps softly scraping against the floor as they walk.

Jason knows many things. Many, many things. Such as: the floor of your apartment is vinyl, which you consider too cold even during the summer, so you wear slippers around the house. Such as: you don’t wear the slippers if you’re only walking for a brief moment, like dashing to the bathroom or from the bed to the front door when you realize you’re about to be late for work.

Jason realizes something terrible.

You’re awake. For the day.

There go his hopes for sleeping in while cradling you in his arms. Because of your busy schedules, it’s a luxury you two aren’t often afforded, and only during periods of light sleep—you’re kicky when you reach REM, and as soon as you’re fully awake and raring to go for the day, you can’t fall asleep again.

But Jason is nothing but adaptable, so he prepares himself to leave the warm bubble beneath his blanket pile and venture into the cold unknowns for a warm cup of coffee and an even warmer hug.

As soon as he shuffles out of the bedroom and realizes what you’re wearing, Jason is forced to accept the fact that he can get one, but not the other.

At least not for a couple hours.

Jason is a born and bred New Jerseyan Gothamite, attitude and reckless abandon for traffic laws included. You aren’t. You were lured to Gotham by the Wayne Scholarship, which pays for someone’s full tuition to Gotham University, regardless of GPA or financial status, as long as they sign a legal agreement stating that they won’t become supervillains. Usually the horror of living in Gotham City outweighs even the most desperate student’s desperation, so it’s still not wildly popular for students outside New Jersey. Still, it lured you in, and Jason had never been so grateful to Bruce in his life.

Unfortunately, because you weren’t born in Jersey, you were raised slightly differently than Jason. You root for different sports teams, for example.

Like hockey.

Mainly hockey.

Jason doesn’t even care about the New Jersey Devils. He doesn’t watch hockey games, he’s never felt the urge to pick up a stick and bat a puck around, and he certainly doesn’t follow the NHL like some people follow it.

As understanding as you are of Jason’s busy schedule, that he has to cancel or postpone plans constantly, and his vaguely criminal activities, the one thing you’ve never understood about him is that he doesn’t care at all about the Devils, because you’re probably the biggest fan in the world of your home state’s hockey team.

Their logo is large on the beanie on your head and the scarf wrapped around your neck. The name of your favorite player is written in capital letters across the back of your jersey. Your heating isn’t broken; in fact, under all the layers, you’re flushed and a little sweaty.

It’s a little ridiculous. Jason’s lips twitch with fond amusement. He tries to give you a kiss on the cheek while he says, “Good morning,” but you twist out of the way, eyes glinting.

“No, you take that back,” you say. “It’s a bad morning. A terrible morning.”

“Oh?” Jason asks, trying to play dumb. “What’s wrong?”

“We’re at war,” is your serious response.

“Are we?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I wasn’t aware that you’d issued such a declaration.”

You tsk and shake your head. “You should have known when you woke up.”

“Oh, was that what our cold, empty bed meant?” Jason tries to pout for sympathy, but you roll your eyes and gesture to the stove with your spatula.

“Scrambled eggs and bacon, if you want them.”

Jason’s over two hundred pounds of muscle and eats like it. Of course he wants them. He forgoes a plate and eats right out of the pan. Mouth full of steaming hot eggs, he asks, “What time is the game today?”

“It’s a noon game. Which is terrifying. Sometimes the boys don’t lock in for the noon games.”

“I’m sure they’ll do great,” Jason offers, which earns him a glare.

“They’d better!” you exclaim like you’re threatening Jason.

He checks the time: almost ten. Good. There’ll only be about two hours of you twitching with anxious energy before the game starts. It’s funny how seriously you take it, except when the Devils are playing your team, because the rivalry infects your apartment and every so often Jason catches you glaring at him as if he’s a Devils player himself. “C’mere,” he invites, holding out an arm because he wants to hug you.

You shake your head and wrap your arms around your body as if you’re cold, even though that couldn’t be further from the truth with the jersey, beanie, and scarf. “I don’t fraternize with the enemy.”

“You sleep with the enemy every night,” Jason points out.

“You’re not the enemy those nights,” is your response. “But you are now.”

“You know what, I hope the Devils win today.”

You let out a scandalized gasp. “How dare you!”

“And I bet your favorite player doesn’t score.”

“Jason!”

“We’re gonna get a shutout,” Jason continues. “And we’re going to score on you eight times.”

“You’re going to eat your words.”

“Make me.”

You’re face-to-face with him now, and for a second Jason thinks you’ll crack and kiss him. You’re tempted; your eyes dart down to his lips, and you wet yours instinctively, but then you look away and take a couple steps back. “We’ll see who’s laughing in a couple hours, mister.”

“Yes, we will,” replies Jason, though he doesn’t care. It’s just cute to see you so excited.

Because you cooked, he washes the dishes once he’s finished eating. You head to the living room to read on the couch while you wait for the game to start. Your cat immediately jumps into your lap and starts to knead while your fingers scratch up and down its spine.

Jason’s insides feel warm at the sight. Even one year ago, he never would have thought something like this was attainable for him. He loves the domesticity of it.

After the dishes are done, he grabs a book of his own and sits on the opposite end of the couch, though normally he’d sit next to you so that you could lean against him. You like pretending to have a rivalry, so he’ll play along.

As soon as the puck drops, the morning’s tranquility breaks. Your mouth runs a mile a minute, commenting on everything that happens on the ice, contradicting with the commenters as if they can hear you, and when your favorite player scores a goal, you jump to your feet and crow with victory, displacing the cat, who slinks over to Jason with an air of indifference. He’s the spare human, but he doesn’t mind. Just like you’re pretending to feud with Jason, he’s pretty sure the cat’s pretending to be so indifferent.

“Did you see that, Jay?” you turn around, your face glowing with excitement. And all the layers you’re wearing in the relatively warm apartment. “First goal of the game! And in the first two minutes!”

“I saw,” Jason says. “You’re off to a good start.”

“You bet your ass we are,” you say. “In your face!” You pump a fist at the ceiling.

Jason pets the cat and tries not to smile.

The game is exciting. The Devils score twice in the second period, putting them in the lead, and your anxiety ratchets up until your team scores again in the beginning of the third, making the game a tie. That actually ratchets up your anxiety more, and Jason has to lean over and take your nails out of your mouth when you start to gnaw on them. First the scarf comes off, then the hat, but you stubbornly refuse to remove the jersey. “It’s good luck,” you insist. “Almost every time I wear this, we win.”

Jason knows a thing or two about superstition, but he lets it go.

In the last five minutes of the third, the Devils score, and you gasp and sprawl over the couch as if shot. Your nerves are contagious; Jason scratches the cat faster until it swats at him. He wants the Devils to lose because it’ll delight you, so he’s invested in the game, and when your team scores in the last minute of the last period, he exclaims with you.

The game goes to overtime.

Your team has a breakaway and nails a shot into the right corner of the net, slipping just past the goalie’s glove. The light behind the goal turns red. The buzzer sounds.

You jump to your feet and scream as if you’re in the stadium.

Jason winces at the thought of the noise complaint you’ll certainly get later, but it’s worth it: you whirl around, laughing with victory, and launch yourself at him, displacing the cat once more.

Finally, finally, you’re in Jason’s arms, and he holds you tight until you wheeze. You pull back and ask breathlessly, “Did you see that, Jay? We won.”

“You beat us fair and square,” Jason agrees fondly. He pushes a stray lock of hair out of your face.

“The best team won.”

“I’m not sure about that,” Jason teases, just because he knows it’ll wind you up. You wrinkle your nose at him. Quickly, he says, “How about a consolation prize for the losing team?”

The energy in the room changes. Coyly, you ask, “What did you have in mind?” and look at Jason through your lashes. You’re warm in his arms—you make him warm in a way he never is without you—and Jason’s hands sneak beneath the jersey. You jump sharply when his cold hands touch the warm, soft skin of your sides and back, and Jason chuckles. “How about a kiss?”

A shiver runs down your spine; Jason can feel it. You tilt your head and shift, so that you’re not sitting in his lap, but rather kneeling in it. Jason has to look up at you now; his throat goes dry. “I’m not sure that Devils fans deserve kisses.”

“I learned my lesson,” Jason says. “Promise. Tried-and-true fan of your team, don’t worry.”

“Hmm.” You tilt your head. Your eyes glint. “I’m not sure that I believe you. But…” You drag out the word as you carefully arrange your arms over his shoulders and sit back down. Jason lets out a long breath at the weight of your hips cradled between his own.

You twirl one of his curls in a finger, and Jason’s pretty sure he died and his heaven is this: you, your feel and scent and weight, all around and surrounding him until there’s nothing else.

“I think I’ll make an exception. Just for this one special Devils fan.”

The hand in his hair pulls him down. Jason’s lips are chapped, and you’re smiling too wide for it to be a real kiss. He pulls back, clears his throat, says “Good game,” and goes back in for more.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

If there's anything you all want, let me know! And if you like what you just read, considering checking out my ko-fi to help me out with groceries and rent :)

[rambling-at-midnight]

Where can I read part one of Pros and Cons? The link isn’t working :<

whoops thanks for pointing out the link error! that’s been fixed in my masterlist :)

[rambling-at-midnight]

Whatever You Need

Request: Jason helping reader through their period

Pairing: Jason Todd x afab!Reader

Summary: Your period takes you by surprise. Luckily, Jason's there to take care of you.

Word count: 1.6k

Sorry this took so long... I started four different Jason fics, which means none were finished. But they should be finished and posted sometime soon.

Sprawled on the couch in your pajamas, watching an episode of The Great British Bake-Off that you’ve seen at least twice before, you feel the first twinge of pain in your abdomen. You don’t think much of it at first, which is a mistake. There are still two days before your period is supposed to start, and you ate ice cream after dinner even though you’re lactose intolerant and ran out of Lact-Aid a couple days ago. You figure you’ll head to the bathroom to deal with the consequences of your actions if the need arises, but you’re too comfortable to move when the weighted blanket on top of you has a name and that name is Jason Todd.

You’ve been on bedrest (or couchrest) for the past week and a half after a bad fall in the rain during patrol twisted your ankle. It swelled to twice its normal size. The upside was that it happened during winter break so you didn’t have to make the choice between limping to class or skipping. The downside was that you wanted your superhero persona to have more of a presence with Gotham’s goons. As a part-time hero, unlike Jason and most of his family, you get much less respect when suited up than, say, the Red Hood.

As a contestant’s dough fails to rise and they begin to have a breakdown on the screen, your stomach cramps again.

Sometimes, if you ignore it, the pain will go away. You’re too comfortable to get up now.

To distract yourself, you run your fingers through Jason’s messy curls. He doesn’t have a wash routine, so they’re always frizzier than Dick’s, but you’ve never minded. He’s devastatingly handsome either way. At least like this he looks a little bit less like something come to life straight out of your fantasies. He’s just a little more real.

Jason hums sleepily and pushes his head into your hands, a bit like a cat nuzzling at you. It’s been a lazy day for you both. You’ve been in the same position on the couch for hours—you on your back, half-watching the show, half-dozing, and him on his stomach in the cradle of your legs, head pillowed on your stomach, not even pretending to watch the show, judging by his closed eyes.

Your stomach cramps again, and this time you feel it—the ache even lower, and a wet heat blooming between your thighs. “Oh, fuck me.”

Jason takes a minute to respond, still interested in your fingers that make his entire body tingle when you massage in just the right way. Then he cranes his neck up, brow furrowed and bottom lip jutting out with his confused frown. “Okay?” He starts to sit up, hands reaching for the hem of your shirt, but you draw your legs up and out from under him and roll off the couch.

“No, not literally,” you say through gritted teeth. “Fuck—did I stain the cushion?” It was no big loss—you’d found the couch on the side of the road and Jason helped you bring it up to your apartment and sanitize it—but a bloodstain would stand out on the light brown color.

“Oh,” he says with realization as you run to the bathroom and slam the door behind you. “The couch is good!” he calls.

Your pants aren’t. It looks like someone died between your legs. You’ve always had heavy periods, especially the first couple days, accompanied by strong cramps. If you get ahead of them and take pain meds, they’re not too bad. Sometimes you can even patrol. But playing catch-up with ibuprofen is a recipe for disaster.

The rest of the day is going to suck.

Because you always feel gross when you’re on your period, and because no amount of wipes would fully clean up the mess between your legs, you hop into the shower and turn up the heat until your skin is bright pink. Jason pops in for a second to drop off a change of underpants and sweats, then ducks out just as quickly.

Turning off the water starts the race against time. As quickly as you can, you apply your preferred hygiene product before any more blood can leak down your leg. Then you towel off and shrug on the new clothes. You still feel icky, but the new clothes and shower helped slightly.

Something sizzles in the kitchen when you open the bathroom door.

“Hey, honey,” says Jason without turning around, standing in front of the stove. He points at the table. “Meds and water are right there. How are you feeling?”

“Ugh,” is your response. You down the pills and almost set the glass back on the table, but at his insistent look, finish it off. Hydration helps with cramps as well.

“You’re two days early.”

“Well, I haven’t been patrolling. Exercise changes can throw my cycle out of whack.” You sniff. “What are you making? It smells good.”

“Chicken stir fry.” You peek into the pan and see broccoli, bell peppers, and a couple other vegetables frying with the chicken. The covered pan behind it, you know without looking, contains rice. “I also have ginger tea brewing.”

All of it, every part of the meal, is meant to help reduce your symptoms and pain.

You can’t help it. How is he always so thoughtful? You throw your arms around Jason’s middle and squeeze. So he can keep stirring the food, he shifts until you’re tucked beneath one arm. His hair is in complete disarray from your fingers like he just walked through a tornado. When he notices your gaze, red colors his cheeks and he flattens his hair down self-consciously.

You press a kiss to his shoulder, the highest place you can reach without stretching.

“Go sit down,” he pretends to scold.

In response, you lean into him, heavier and heavier, until he’s practically carrying you. Jason doesn’t even blink at the added weight.

“I plugged in your heating pad,” he says. “It’s right by the couch.” Another thing right next to the couch is a coffee table he stole from the manor when he was pissed at Bruce. On top of it is a bar of dark chocolate and a freshly-washed bowl of your favorite berries.

You kiss his shoulder again. Jason kisses the top of your head, then nudges you away with his chin. “Go. Sit down. Rest your ankle and your uterus.”

“That is not how it works,” you say, mirth in your voice.

“It’s how I think it works,” he mumbles.

When the food is done, he brings two bowls over. You lift your legs and he slips underneath them. He uses your shins on his thighs as a makeshift table, balancing the bowl between them, and absentmindedly rubs your weaker ankle with the hand not holding his spoon.

The two of you eat in comfortable silence as The Great British Bake-Off plays. You finish first, and as soon as he sets his bowl down, you sit up slightly and make grabby hands at him. “C’mere.”

Jason pretends to roll his eyes, but judging by the line of kisses he trails from your wrist to the inside of your elbow as he lies down, he doesn’t mind your bossiness too much.

You shiver at every brush of his lips against the sensitive skin of your forearm. It’s almost enough to distract you from the cramping that’s beginning in your abdomen again—a cramping that eases slightly when he’s atop you again, resting the gentle pressure of his weight on your stomach. Warm, fed, and with his weight on you, is it any wonder you fall asleep?

You’re only woken by Jason’s gentle hand shaking you, telling you that it’s been eight hours since you last applied your feminine hygiene product and you need to change it. You’re tired and sore and cranky, but as soon as you blink your eyes open he has pain medication and water for you to take.

You do so in the bathroom in a daze and tumble into your shared bed, tugging Jason in with you. He goes down easily, using his huge, warm form to surround you with his easy, comforting scent. You left the heating pad on the couch, but the thick arm Jason winds around your stomach does the job well enough, and you drift back to sleep quickly, never fully awake in the first place.

The next morning, you wake to an aching back and stained sheets.

You stare up at the ceiling and swear, which unfortunately wakes Jason, who lifts his head and stares at you, one eye still crusted with sleep. His curls are in wild disarray, one side flattened from the pillow and the other on end as if he’s been spending his spare time sticking forks in electrical sockets.

If the cramps have gotten to your spine already, then the next few days are going to be hell. And this was a nice pair of sheets! The blood had better wash out.

Jason grunts and lowers his head. “Everything we own is bloodstained, honey. Though usually it’s mine.”

You leave him in bed. Your hair feels way too greasy, and your skin feels tacky, and even after a half-hour shower, you still don’t feel great.

As soon as you step out of the bathroom, Jason is there with chocolate-chip pancakes he made himself, accompanied by a fresh bowl of fruit and more meds.

Emotion rises in your throat. You want to tell him so much, like that you love him even though you haven’t said it, or that you can’t fathom going through your period on your own anymore, but all that comes out is, “You’re perfect. You know that? You really don’t have to do all this—or stay home from patrol for me.”

Jason tousles his messy curls and shrugs. “Well, I’m gonna anyway. You need me, and I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog @pastelsweaters-and-bubble-t

Let me know if there's anything you want to see from me!

[rambling-at-midnight]

hey i love reading your work! i just got done with going through your dc jason todd master list and was wondering if you could write something where jason supports afab reader through terrible period cramps? like just really debilitating pain for a week and he’s so fluffy and loving and supportive of reader?

thankyou and i hope you have a great day/night!!

hi!! thanks for your request, i have just started working on it so something should be up in about 3-4 days!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Just binged all your Jason Todd works and just gotta say woah!!! Your writing is so well done, it's such a pleasure to read! I read one and had to read all of it !

Thank you so much!! Reviews like this are what keep me going 🥰😌

[rambling-at-midnight]

i love love loveee how you write jason!!! you write such a great dynamic between him n reader… your fics are some of the best i’ve ever read <3 i dont really have a particular request i’m just excited for anything you write for jay lol

I’m so glad you like the Jason x reader dynamic! I feel pretty comfortable writing Jason in gen fics but him interacting with reader can be tricky. It’s a fun exercise to stretch my metaphorical writing legs! I’m glad you’ve enjoyed so far and hope you continue to 😊

[rambling-at-midnight]

When the Truth Comes Out

Request: Reader asks, "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" I hope I did your prompt justice!

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Summary: It’s been three and a half years since Jason asked you out, and he knows you’re the one. He knows every part of you, the good and bad, and loves it all. The problem is that you don’t know everything about him… and his secrets may ruin everything.

Word count: 3.5k

Jason’s never been one to window shop, but lately he’s been noticing the glint of jewelry.

You give him a weird look when he stumbles in the middle of the department store. It’s because a ring display caught him off guard like a punch to the gut, but he can’t explain that, so Jason waves off your concerned questioning.

You give him a weird look before turning back to the toy aisle. The two of you spent the morning bickering over what present to give Damian for Christmasukkah. You want to give him a keyboard to learn piano, but Jason’s sure that Damian would be happier receiving an art kit. He knows violin, which is a strings instrument, not whatever the piano is. Besides, the kid’s a brat. He’d want a full-size grand piano that originally belonged to Mozart or some shit and costs a hundred thousand dollars, which isn’t exactly pocket cash for the two of you.

And, sure, Jason’s got one of Bruce’s credit cards in his wallet—Bruce offered to give him one in Jason’s name, but it was the principle of using the stolen card, so Jason turned him down—but he’d be damned before he spoiled the kid any more than he already is.

He keeps his eyes firmly on you after that. It’s where they’re supposed to be, anyway.

You end up getting the keyboard after surreptitiously checking your bank account against your projected budget several times. It’s funny. After three years, you still think you can hide stuff like that from Jason. Probably because he pretends not to notice. He makes a mental note to stop by your landlord’s and see if the Red Hood can make any suggestions about lowering rent for your building.

As the two of you walk out of the store, a cold gust of wind tries to steal your breath away. You step closer to Jason, cold fingers twining with his, and he easily drapes an arm over your shoulders to keep you close. “Was that the last one?”

“I think so,” you reply, checking your list again. “The keyboard for Damian, massage gun for Dick, matching pajamas for Cass and Steph, Pokemon expansion pack for Duke, and the fuzzy socks for Tim.”

The socks are decorated with the words ‘I BREACHED CONTAINMENT’ in black stitching. Jason saw them in a tourist trap he saved from a D-list rogue and remembered how Tim looked like the bog monster after falling into the sewers the day before. They’ve been sitting in his closet since the end of August.

“I have too many siblings,” Jason sighs.

“Have you figured out what you’re giving Bruce?”

Jason bites his lip.

You say, “Ah. Well, you still have a couple days.”

Yeah. Jason has two. He’d been supposed to look out for anything to catch his eye in the store, but all he noticed was the stupid ring display.

He opens the car door for you, then shoves the keyboard in its box into the backseat and starts the engine. Jason drives home one-handed. The other holds yours loosely over the console. You’re checking your bank account again on your phone, frowning slightly, thumb brushing up and down Jason’s palm. He keeps an eye on you as he drives, playing idly by squeezing your fingers one by one until you have to try to hide a smile by looking out the window. 

He doesn’t let go of your third finger. Something nags at the back of his mind, like—

Jason realizes that he’s trying to find a ring, and his heart stops. The car jumps forward when he slams on the gas, and he drops your hand to put both of his on the wheel as he swerves around a minivan. You let out a startled yelp, hands flying out for something to grab onto. The stupid keyboard slides off the back seat and into the footwell.

Two cars lay on their horns when he nearly sideswipes them. Jason responds with an emphatic middle finger and cuts across three lanes to get away. The poor car doesn’t respond as well to his driving as his motorcycle does, and the engine whines as he leaves the other cars in the dust until he eases off.

As soon as the car reaches a relatively normal speed, you say, “Jay! What just happened?”

“Sorry,” is all he can say, keeping both arms stiff on the wheel. “Sorry, honey.”

“You okay?”

“‘M good. You good?”

“I’m okay, I was just…” You keep looking at him, and Jason’s skin prickles. Do you know? Can you tell?

Jason creaks like old wood, but he pulls back his right arm and puts his hand on the console, palm up. After a moment, you put your left overtop it. He can feel your pulse racing through the thin skin of your wrist.

He squeezes.

You squeeze back.

The day before Christmas, Jason still doesn’t know what to give Bruce. He’d hoped that baking would fix the block, but as he abuses the poor sopapilla dough, he’s no further to any answers.

You’re at the counter, offering moral support but not physical help. Jason’s a bit of a control freak in the kitchen when he’s anxious.

He’s not anxious. He’s not! It doesn’t matter if he gives Bruce something for Chrismukkah. Bruce doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. ‘Not trying to kill him’ is probably a good enough present.

Or the sopapillas. Sure, everyone’s bringing a dish, but no one said it couldn’t also be Jason’s present. But if he goes that route, then the pastries have to be perfect, and the last batch didn’t fluff up the way they did when Catherine made them.

“Jay,” you say after another five minutes of Jason punching dough that is already thoroughly kneaded.

“Yes, love?”

“I think the oil might be ready.”

Judging by the hiss and pops behind him, it is, and has been for several minutes.

Jason tries his best to follow his mother’s actions through his memory, but this batch doesn’t turn out right, either.

“Here,” he says wearily, placing the overflowing plate in front of you. “Let ‘em cool off.”

You wait as long as you can, fingers drumming on the counter as you watch tiny curls of steam drift up from the pile of pastries. Finally, you give in. “Oh my gosh,” you say around a mouthful that was a little too hot, judging by your wince. “Jay, these are amazing.”

“It’s not right, though,” he argues.

“Jay, I didn’t even think it was possible, but these are better than your last batch.”

He shakes his head stubbornly.

“Well, we’ll keep working on it,” you decide. “But really, if you bring these tomorrow, no one will complain. If they do…” You hold up a fist and shake it, mustering up (what you think is) a ferocious scowl.

Jason’s lips twitch. “What if Damian complains? Are you prepared to hit a child?”

“I can’t believe you would even ask me that,” you say. “I live in Gotham. I’ve been waiting for that moment my entire life.”

Despite himself, Jason laughs. He picks up one of the pastries from the dish and bites into it. They could have used more honey. Maybe that was the problem. But you’re right. These are good, and if they’re not, so what? It’s not like Bruce expects much from him anyway.

Jason’s chest squeezes.

Bruce should just be grateful that Jason is there at all.

Fuck.

It’s getting too hard to deny. Despite all his best efforts, Jason has to admit… maybe he does love his family.

It’s the first holiday season where he hasn’t been incandescent with rage toward one of them or another, and he’d underestimated just how nervous he would be. Despite everything that happened between them, he wants tomorrow to go well. The first night of Hanukkah is the same day as Christmas this year, which hasn’t happened for about twenty years. It’ll be Damian’s third Chrismukkah and the first where everyone is in attendance—Jason wasn’t on speaking terms with the family his first year, and Bruce was in the time stream and Tim was across the world last year.

“Hey, Jay.”

“Hmm.”

You swallow without making eye contact, and if he was paying even a little bit more attention, he would have known to prepare himself for what you said next.

“When are you gonna ask me to marry you?”

Jason is a selfish asshole. It’s a miracle that you haven’t figured that out yet after three years of dating him. He half-expects to come back to the apartment to find his stuff in bags. That’s the main reason he’s still out in the cold.

He’s in the middle of another drag when a teasing voice says from behind, “Ooh, must have been a rough day.”

Jason’s hand twitches for his gun, but he recognizes the voice. So he only rolls his eyes and says around the cigarette, “What do you want?”

“Your partner asked me to check up on you. Apparently you looked pretty freaked when you took off.”

Fuck. Jason groans. “How worried did they seem?”

“Ummm….”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, you kind of messed up.” Spoiler sits next to him, dangles her legs over the side of the roof, and lets them swing idly. “Or they messed up. I thought you quit smoking?”

He exhales a thick plume of smoke. “I did,” Jason says. Dying from smoke inhalation was bad once, but a habit is a habit.

“If it makes you feel any better, they seemed more concerned about you. Not, like, mad or anything.”

Well, that’s something.

“So what happened?”

Jason grunts. Maybe if he stares into the horizon long enough, Spoiler will give up. That was the technique Batman always used when Robin asked the tough questions like, ‘Why am I going home early so you can interrogate Catwoman on your own?’

It only worked sometimes.

Unfortunately, Spoiler seems immune.

Jason grunts and drops the butt of his cigarette. He itches for another, but you’ll already wrinkle up your nose at the smell of one. And, shit, what are you even going to think about him high-tailing it out after that question, leaving for hours, and coming back stinking of smoke?

“I’m a fucking idiot. And an asshole.”

Spoiler huffs. “Everyone already knows that, dumbass. They certainly do.”

“Thanks,” Jason says drily.

“Anytime!” she chirps.

Her heels beat against the side of the building.

She’s not leaving anytime soon, so Jason sighs and gives in. “They asked when I was planning on proposing.”

Spoiler gasps and jumps to her feet. “Oh my God!”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my God!”

“Yep.”

“So you’re engaged?”

“What? No.”

“What?”

“They asked when I would propose. That wasn’t a proposal… I don’t think so. I mean, there wasn’t a ring,” Jason says helplessly.

Spoiler socks him in the shoulder.

“Ow!” Damn, but the girl can pack a punch. He rubs at the sore spot, scowling.

“You stupid idiot!”

“I know.”

“And you just ran away?”

Jason cringes and admits to his lap, “Yes.”

Spoiler hits him in the exact same spot on his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, stop that!”

“I’m going to kill you, Jason Peter Todd.”

“You could certainly try, Stephanie… Brown,” he shoots back.

“You don’t even know my middle name?”

“I don’t care about you.”

She lifts her fist again, but Jason twists out of the way before she can hit him a third time in the same shoulder. It’ll be bruised tomorrow.

“You don’t get it,” he says, balancing on the edge of the roof and feeling exceptionally unstable, even though he’s walked across ledges like this since he was twelve.

“What don’t I get? That you have an awesome partner waiting for you at home? One that wants to get married? One that—”

“One that has no idea who I am,” Jason hisses. He brandishes his helmet at the girl. “We’ve been together for three years. They have no idea that I’m the Red Hood. It made sense, at first; I can’t go around telling everyone I kiss what my identity is—”

“Right,” she scoffs sarcastically, “like you’re some kind of serial kisser, Todd. Half the city would know your identity if you did that.”

“Shut up,” Jason half-says, half-groans, and by some miracle, she does. “At first, obviously I couldn’t tell them. Then I wanted to keep waiting. I wanted to know that they were, you know, the one and everything.”

Spoiler fake-gags. Jason ignores her.

“And after that it was just too late. I waited too long. I can’t marry them unless they know about the mask, but who would agree to marry someone that’s been lying to them for three years? The entire time they’ve known me?”

“Huh,” says Spoiler.

‘Huh’ indeed.

“So I ran,” Jason says. “I don’t even know if I said anything. The next thing I knew, I was in the street with a pack of cigs and a lighter in my pocket. I came up here to smoke a couple before going back and ending things.”

“You—wait, ‘ending things?’” Spoiler’s head whips around, the white lenses of her domino widening. “What are you talking about?”

“I can’t lie to them,” says Jason. “When I go back, I’ll tell them the truth. And they’ll break up with me for lying for years. I was just trying to put it off.”

The worst thing was, he wasn’t even trying to lie for most of it. You took his excuses easily, believed him about a boxing gym membership to explain away the bruises, and never uttered a complaint about the odd hours he worked. Every time he was late to a date or canceled, you understood. Every time he forgot something important, odds were that you’d forgotten, too, without him to remind you.

All things considered, Jason might have found the single least curious person in all of Gotham, if you hadn’t figured it out after three years. But he’d gotten so comfortable that he’d forgotten that it was a secret, really. It had all rushed back in when he heard your words like a smack to the face, and he’d panicked.

“You don’t know that,” Spoiler says softly.

“Could you forgive someone for something like this?”

She stays silent, and that’s answer enough.

Jason huffs. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the pack of cigarettes and lighter, and considers them. Then he sighs and drops both on the ground. “Might as well get this over with.”

The cold Gotham air whips away the reek of smoke by the time he’s back at your apartment. Jason looks at the door like a condemned man looks at the gallows. He could sneak in through the window like he usually does, but he selfishly wants you to open the door for him. Show that he’s welcome now, even though he won’t be for long.

Seconds drag on like torturous minutes until he hears the familiar click of the lock. The door inches open with a screech.

Jason’s mouth goes dry at the sight of your wide eyes. “Hey, darling.”

Wordlessly, you open the door further and step aside to let him in.

Funny how a place he’s practically lived in can feel so unfamiliar. Jason shifts between feet as you re-lock your door.

The moment you turn around, he blurts out, “I’m sorry.”

You say the same thing.

“What?” Jason asks.

“You don’t need to apologize,” you say.

“No, I was an ass,” he insists. “I shouldn’t have left.”

“I didn’t mean to push you. I just saw you looking at rings, and we’ve talked about it, but still, marriage is a big step, so I wanted to be prepared,” you ramble. “I mean, we said that we could get married, but we never discussed when, or when the proposal would be—”

“Honey!”

You fall silent.

“Just wait,” Jason begs. He can’t stand any more of your endless understanding. You’ve only ever understood him, no matter what, and he’s going to miss it so much. He’s going to miss you so much. “Wait one second.” He retreats to the bedroom and returns a moment later with something clutched behind his back. Your eyes dart to the awkward way he’s contorted his arm.

Your face goes blank when he pulls out the spare helmet he keeps below your bed. He’d only used a domino when out with Spoiler, but that wouldn’t do for the grand reveal.

“I’m the Red Hood,” he says in a rush, then braces for your judgment.

You don’t react except to say, “Jason.”

He doesn’t understand. You’re not scared of the killer in your apartment. You’re not furious at the man that’s lied to you for three years. Obviously you don’t understand what he’s saying. “Honey, I’m the Red Hood. The vigilante.”

“Jay—”

You’re still just standing with no reaction. Jason holds the mask up so you’re making eye contact with it.

You push it out of the way and cradle his face with both your hands. “Jason Peter Todd, look at me,” you command.

Jason holds your gaze. It’s the last time he’ll ever be so close to you, and he never wants to forget what your presence feels like.

“Jay, I’ve known basically the whole time.”

What.

Jason blinks.

“What?”

“I already knew.”

“Honey, I don’t think you understand what I’m saying. I’m the—”

“Red Hood, yes, I know.” You muster up a tremulous smile. “And Bruce is Batman. Dick is Nightwing. Steph is Spoiler, Damian is Robin, Tim is—”

“Oh my God, you knew? How did you know?”

“Jason. My love. My darling. My honey bunchkin.” You give him a mildly scolding look. “I’m not an idiot.”

Jason’s ears heat. “And you’re not… mad?”

“That you’re the Red Hood?” You cock your head. “Of course not. I worry about you, of course. But you have to do it. I know that. Or am I mad that you tried to keep it a secret for three years?” You press your lips together to hide a growing smile. “No. I’m not mad about that either. You can’t exactly go around telling your secret identity to everyone you kiss. It’s just something I had to figure out on my own.”

“You knew,” Jason marvels. “You knew this whole time.”

“Most of the whole time,” you say. “But yes.”

“Oh my God.” Jason’s moving before he can stop himself, and he wraps you up in his arms and spins you around. “I thought you would hate me,” he confesses, still clutching you like his life depends on it. “When I finally told you.”

A soft hand runs through his hair. “Is that why you ran?” you ask softly.

“Yes. I’m so sorry, honey, I just—”

“I get it,” you interrupt.

“You were scared.”

A thought occurs to Jason with such clarity he nearly drops you. “Wait, so you were going to marry me even after you knew about the mask?”

“Of course,” you say. “I love you, Jay. Mask and all.”

“I don’t have a ring.”

“I don’t need one. Don’t you get it? I only need you.”

“I only need you, too.”

“Good.”

“Good,” Jason agrees, and he probably looks like a fool with his wide grin, but you can’t stop smiling either. He dips his head, and you rise up to press your lips to his, even though with both your grins you end up clicking teeth.

“Good,” you repeat.

“Good,” Jason says, just for good measure, and this time he makes sure the kiss is better. Lightning shoots up his spine and he pulls back to ask, “Wait, are we engaged now?”

“Um… yes?”

“That’s awesome.”

Your smile is so wide that your eyes nearly close. Jason’s pretty sure he looks the same as he sweeps you up and spins you around. You fit perfectly into his arms. He’s never going to let you go.

“My fianceé,” he says fondly. “I’m never going to get tired of saying that.”

“I’m marrying you,” you marvel, sweeping your thumb over his mouth. “I have the prettiest husband-to-be in the whole world.”

“I love you,” Jason confesses. “So much.”

“I love you, too.”

Seconds before your mouths meet for another kiss, Jason’s phone buzzes. On the off-chance it’s an important alert, he pulls it out, but it’s just Spoiler asking for an update.

Jason stows the device. “I have an idea.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I know how to make the sopapillas the right way.”

“Oh? And how’s that?”

It turns out that Jason’s right.

Making them with your help turns out to be what was missing the whole time.

DC Taglist

@evalynanne @mismatchsposts @cliosunshine @fictionalwhor3 @bellathecatastrophe @lonely-star2044 @flanhog

My inbox is open! Stop by to request something or just to say hi!

[rambling-at-midnight]

Will there be a part 2 of The Midnight Subway? Thatd be really amazing 🙏🙏

ahhhh yes i will write one! glad people liked it, but now i have to come up with a plot…

[rambling-at-midnight]

May I request a Jason Todd blurb/fic and reader asks "So, when are you going to ask me to marry you?" casually and completely out of the blue, but 100% serious

oh my god?? yes?? your mind >>>>

i’m getting a baking or perhaps cooking aura coming from this prompt…

[rambling-at-midnight]

How would Jason take care of and comfort reader who is overstimulated?

—🎭

I hc Jason to be an introvert, so I think he’s had his fair share of overstimulating experiences. What works best for him is to leave and go somewhere quiet, so that’s what he does for you.

Wayne Family Dinner:

The Waynes live in an actual manor, but their dining table still hardly fits them all, and they’re all the kind of people that willingly decided to become vigilantes. It doesn’t matter how big your family is—the Waynes are bigger. And louder. And there’s so many inside jokes. You already feel like a bit of an outsider; Dick brought Barbara and Tim brought Bernard, but they both have other friends within the family. You’re the only one here solely as a significant other, and you feel a bit like a hanger-on.

Maybe it’s the noise that gets to you, the conversation that’s changing topics before you can draw a breath to voice your opinion. But it all gets too loud too quickly, and all you can think about is that you don’t belong.

Jason notices that you’re being quieter than usual, but it takes him a moment to realize that something is wrong. As soon as he does, though, he’s standing up and pulling you with him. Both your chairs screech against the floor, and the chatter around the table lulls as everyone looks at the two of you with surprise.

“I’m full,” he announces to the room at large. “We’re leaving. Bye.”

He tugs you away, and you hear a couple people muttering about how he always pulls stunts like that and wondering how you put up with it. But the blame is on him, and you try to suppress a smile as he leads you through the enormous manor and to his room. It’s just like you imagined it. Jason makes sure to lock the door behind him. He checks the latch on the window, too, and draws the curtains. The only light he flicks on is a lamp that gives off a soft yellow glow. Then he tugs you to the bed.

“Sorry,” you mutter, flopping onto the soft mattress. He flops right next to you, bouncing you into the air, and smiles at your giggles.

“Don’t be,” he says casually. “That was about all of them I could stand, anyway. Did you eat enough?”

“Mm-hmm.”

It’s a lie.

Laughter in his voice, Jason says, “Well, that’s a shame, because I know for a fact that Alfred’s going to bring us the rest of the meal. Guess I’ll have to finish your portion, too.”

“In your dreams.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

The two of you lay in silence for a moment, admiring the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling.

“You can take a nap,” he says softly. “I’m just gonna read. That okay with you?”

“Sounds perfect.”

You close your eyes to the sound of rustling pages and think to yourself that maybe he needed the quiet time as much as you did.

[rambling-at-midnight]

DC Masterlist

Jason Todd x Reader

(Complete) Pros and Cons of Midnight Snacks, Part 2, Part 3

Don’t Go Disappearing On Me Again

(Complete) Second Chances, Part 2

Please Come Home

Nightlight

Guide me Home

When The Truth Comes Out

Whatever You Need

Iced Out

The Roman Empire

Almost-Accidents

Blurbs:

Jason taking care of overstimulated reader

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

Supernatural Masterlist

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

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist

[rambling-at-midnight]

Marvel Masterlist

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

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist