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@darkstrwbrry

21 y.o|| She/Her
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Reblogged

My Boyfriend’s Brother Is The One For Me

Inspired by this post by @aryancunin

I hope this is close enough to what you were looking for!! <3

Reader does NOT cheat btw…I just thought the title was fun…and the Victorious song was playing in my head the entire time lol

Also…a lot of kissing + also making out and maybe some suggestive content but NO smut

Reader is Superman’s daughter because I like having superpowers :) also Lois is the stepmom so that you can still look like whatever you look like, if that makes sense????

Also, this is Jason x Reader in case anyone didn’t check the link!!

NOT PROOFREAD

You woke with a jolt, jumping out of bed frantically as gunshots could be heard in the alleyway right outside your window.

Right, you rub your eyes tiredly, you moved.

Deciding you won’t be able to fall back asleep, you carefully make your way towards the kitchen, once again cursing Dick Grayson for everything he’s ever done.

Except for being a hero.

But other than that? He’s the worst.

You glare bitterly at the overflowing boxes piled up in the living room, not yet having gotten the chance to unpack.

After catching your boyfriend of four years cheating on you with his partner on the force, you’ve felt like you’re living in slow motion.

Pulling open the cabinets lead you to finding no food and opening the fridge showed you much of the same. Huffing, you pulled your fluffy pink robe tighter across your chest.

Stupid Dick Grayson.

After spending the first day in your new apartment doomscrolling on your phone, you’d come across a video of someone picking a random person and blaming them for everything that goes wrong.

You quickly decided to blame Dick. Whether it’s helping or not, you’re not sure yet. But you figure you’ll stick with it a little longer, at least until you get settled into your new apartment.

It’s been three weeks since you caught him. You’d been at lunch with Cass and Stephanie when you saw him across the room, with her.

She was recently assigned to be his partner after his old one transferred.

At first you considered that they were just getting lunch on their break, but then he kissed her. On the mouth.

You had quickly excused yourself from the table to go to the bathroom. After gathering what little bearings you could, you snapped a photo of the couple and made another excuse to your friends about needing to go home.

When you returned to the apartment you shared with Dick, you wrote a very careful letter with the bare basics. We’re over, you’re the worst, you stupid cheater, I should’ve known, I hate you.

So maybe it wasn’t the bare basics, but it still left a little to be desired…you hoped.

Next to the note, you printed the photo you’d taken of them at lunch. You drew a frowny face in red marker on the border of the page, making sure he knows exactly how you feel.

After that, you’d quickly packed all your belongings and moved them to the first apartment you could find. Unfortunately that apartment just so happened to be in Crime Alley.

More shots could be heard as you sighed. You knew it was a gang fight of sorts…if it was a simple mugging there wouldn’t be this many shots fired.

Cracking your neck, you moved back into your bedroom. If you have no food, you may as well get ready for work and pick something up on the way.

It was quiet as you got ready, the fight finally having stopped. You sorted through the boxes, attempting to find another outfit to wear until you got the chance to wash your clothes.

You didn’t technically have to go into the office, your articles for the Gazette could be edited from your home, but you figure it’s good to leave the apartment…especially now that you live alone.

As you pull your door shut behind you, twisting the key in the lock, you try to hurry as you hear thundering steps from behind you.

In the few weeks you’ve lived here, you’ve yet to meet your neighbor. Every once in a while you could hear shouting coming from inside. Or the television being too loud.

But you know better than to complain in Gotham. You’ve found the people here to be a bit…trigger happy.

“Just shut up about it and get it done.”

You straighten as your neighbors door slams open.

Turning slowly, your met with a pair of widened green eyes.

“Jason?”

He repeats your name back as his mouth parts open. Glancing at his phone, he quickly hangs up the call.

He looks at you as if he’s studying you, a curious look on his face before it hardens. “What are you doing here?” His voice is tense.

You don’t miss the blood staining the side of his neck. Raising a teasing eyebrow as you point at your own neck. “I assume you had an eventful morning?”

He grunts, crossing his arms. “Nice deflection. What are you doing here?”

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, you—”

“Jason! Yes, I do live here. What is your problem?”

He scoffs, leaning back against his door. “Shouldn’t you be living with your boyfriend? What, the two of you break up?”

Your mouth drops open at his words as your mind reels. Either Dick didn’t tell anyone what happened, or Jason was choosing to be particularly cruel this morning.

“Yeah, actually. We did.”

His grin falters as his eyes trail across your stance. “You serious?”

“Yes, I’m serious. Do you think I’d be living here if I didn’t have to?” You throw your arms up, halfheartedly gesturing around the hallway.

His eyebrows furrow. “And he didn’t give you the apartment? He made you move out…to here?”

“He didn’t kick me out, if that’s what you’re thinking. Although at this point, I wouldn’t put it past him.”

He wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. He might cheat and ruin a four year long relationship but he’d never actively put you in danger. You’re sure if you’d stayed and talked with him that he would’ve gone to stay at the manor.

Or her house.

You grimace, a bad taste appearing in your mouth. “I have to go.”

Jason straightens, “Where?”

“Breakfast? It’s breakfast time, you know.”

He scowls at you but there’s no heat behind it. “I’ve got food.” He pauses, “If you want some company. Or I can go with you.”

“I’m okay on my own.”

“Yeah, but if you want company…”

“I don’t.” You don’t look at him as you leave, forcing yourself to maintain a steady pace.

The second time you see Jason, is on your way home from work a few days later.

“Here, I’ve got it.” He rushes to grab the door for you. If he’s bothered by your lack of enthusiasm at seeing him, he doesn’t mention it.

“So…how have you been?”

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. “Didn’t take you for the chatty type, Todd.”

“Back to Todd, huh? Dick messed up that bad?”

You don’t bother responding as the elevator doors open. He gestures for you to enter first, following quickly behind.

“Third floor.”

“I know.” You bite out, tightening your grip on your bag in an attempt to not strangle the man.

“I know.” He repeats and you glare at him. He laughs at the look, leaning back against the wall.

It’s quiet for several moments as you wait for the elevator to start. It only made it partway between the first two floors before it jolts, making a loud screeching noise.

You stumble, falling sideways before Jason’s arms wrap themselves around you, steadying you.

“Thanks.” You mumble, making a wide grin tug at his lips.

“Of course, princess.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He jokes and you suddenly realize his arms are still wrapped around you.

Jerking away, you press yourself against the farthest side of the wall from Jason.

He doesn’t react to the movement, instead sitting down in his corner.

“What are you doing?”

“Sitting.”

“Yeah, duh. But why?”

“Usually takes a while for the elevator to start again.”

You frown at him, sitting down in your own corner as you tuck your knees to your chest.

“This happens a lot?”

“Enough to be an issue.”

You huff, “Well then why did you get on?”

“You would’ve been alone if it broke.” You weren’t sure what to say to that.

“You could’ve just told me that it’s broken.”

“But then we wouldn’t get to talk.”

“We’re not talking.” You shake your head, wrapping your arms around your knees.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“Sure.”

You make it about two whole minutes before breaking. “Fine, what?”

If anyone asks, it’s because he’s been pouting at you for that entire time, definitely not because you’ve been so lonely the vast few weeks.

Losing Dick meant losing his entire family. And after four years together, they’d quickly taken up just about every available spot in your life. Now, you had no one.

“What happened between you two?”

“You didn’t ask him?” You frowned, finally meeting his eyes. He shook his head. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if you’re this upset over it. If you won’t talk to anyone.”

“Well then it’s embarrassing.”

“More embarrassing than the time you took out Lex Luthor by tripping over his rolling chair and making it roll into him?”

“That wasn’t even embarrassing.”

“I assure you, it was.”

You roll your eyes, but you can’t help the smile tugging at your lips. “Whatever. He literally babytrapped my dad…I think that’s much more embarrassing.”

“I don’t know…”

“Shut up, Jason.”

“Oh, phew. We’re back to first name basis. You had me worried for a bit.”

“Would you stop?”

“Fine, fine.” He relents, putting his hands up. “What happened, though, seriously?”

You sighed, dropping your head into your knees. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I just wasn’t enough for him anymore, maybe he got bored. I’ve been busy with patrol and work and maybe he didn’t want that.”

Jason’s gaze stayed steady on you, eyes baring into yours as if you’re not pouring your heart out to him.

“He got this new partner at work. She’s pretty…really pretty. And smart. Maybe…” You trail off, not sure you can continue without crying. He’d mentioned her a lot more during the last few weeks you were with him. How long had he been…?

“He cheated on you?” His voice is cautious. You nod.

He sighs tensely, leaning back against the wall as he shuts his eyes. “He’s an idiot.”

“I could’ve tried harder. Maybe if I—” His eyes snap open, locking onto you with an unfamiliar intensity.

“It’s not your fault. He shouldn’t have cheated on you, at all. That’s it, no excuses.”

“But—” You cut yourself off at his frown.

“You can do a lot better than that idiot.”

“That idiot is your brother.”

“Don’t remind me.” He groans, only cracking a grin as you laugh.

For the first time in a month, the world doesn’t feel as heavy anymore.

After that day, you spent the following weekend avoiding Jason again, until he broke into your apartment to demand to have a movie night.

It was hard to deny his presence after that.

Every morning, he’d knock on your door to pester you about something or other—often what you were making for breakfast and if he could have some.

He’d then proceed to crash on your couch for the next couple hours. After the first three days of that, he started crawling through your window as soon as his patrol ended.

“Do you really need this?” He picked up your whisk—one that looked very similar to the one he’d just broken.

“You cannot steal my whisk, Jason.”

“But I need a new one.”

“Then buy one.”

“I’m poor.”

You glowered at him over the counter. “Your dad isn’t, ask him.”

He huffs, sitting down at the stool he’d dragged over from his apartment.

“Do you want to know what I think?” He spoke after several minutes of silence, filled only by the bubbling of the water you were boiling.

“No.”

“Too bad.” He grinned at your annoyed look, knowing you weren’t actually upset.

“What?”

“See? You do want to know!”

“Jason…” You warned, pointing the whisk at him.

He held his hands up in mock surrender—a habit he’s picked up recently…or maybe he just has a habit of upsetting you.

“I think you should join my book club.”

“What?” You blink. That’s not at all what you thought he was going to say.

“I’m kidding. I think maybe you shouldn’t be as torn up about this as you are.”

“What?!”

“Relax, it’s just a suggestion.” He leans forward a bit. “You spent almost half a decade with Dick, even more time was spent being in love with him. Maybe, you’ve built up this idea in your head about how great your relationship was, but you really don’t have anything to compare it to.”

Your mouth parts slightly as your eyes run over his face. He’s actually serious.

“I said I didn’t want to hear what you thought.”

He doesn’t bother with a response, simply smiling and turning back to the plate you’d slidden in front of him.

Despite your initial annoyance at his unsolicited thoughts, you couldn’t help the way his words repeated in your mind.

Maybe, you’ve built up this idea in your head about how great your relationship was, but you really don’t have anything to compare it to.

Was he right? You worry, he definitely wasn’t wrong.

You glance towards the calendar on the wall, it’s been months since the break up, and almost every day of it was blank of personal events, made obvious by your color coding system.

There was only one date marked with something pink, and that was the day you’re going back to the farm.

But you think you’re going to cancel that one. You’ve already been fielding your parents’ calls, only offering the bare minimum information before hanging up with some excuse or another.

You still haven’t told them about the breakup, mostly because you knew they’d try to help and you couldn’t stomach that right now.

Kon would probably try to beat up Dick if he knew or if he didn’t, actually. Jon would just send you sad songs to add to a playlist he’d insisted you make, titled; :(

You’re not even sure what your parents would do. Likely write a slam article about him before never posting it. Maybe that’s what you should do.

Or maybe you should try going on a date like Jason suggested…

It shouldn’t be too hard to get a date in Gotham City. There were plenty of people, too many really. And there were plenty of places to find them.

You started with a bar, because that’s what you’d always seen in tv shows.

You didn’t even have to try before you bumped into a familiar face.

“Jason.”

“What?” The man turned around to glare at you before recognition crosses over his face. “Oh, hey.”

He scooted down in his booth, making room for you to sit beside him.

Roy Harper raised an eyebrow at you from across the table. “Huh.”

You glower at him, “What?”

“Where’s your boyfriend? I hadn’t realized you and Jaybird here were so close.”

Jason downs his drink quickly, eyeing you apprehensively as you tense up.

“Can you be sworn into secrecy?”

Roy coughs, setting his drink down as he smacks his chest.

“Sorry, that’s not at all what I thought you were going to say.”

“What did you think I was going to say?” Your brows pinch together again as you lean back against the cool faux-leather seat.

“Doesn’t matter. But sure, yeah, I can be sworn into.”

“He cheated on me.”

Both men’s mouths dropped open at your words, for entirely different reasons. Jason hadn’t thought you were going to tell him and Roy had no idea.

“He what?!” The redhead screeched, leaning towards you. Jason pushed his shoulder back so you’d have more room.

You smiled tensely, ignoring the stares of the other patrons. “Cheated on me?”

“Why would he do that?!”

“I don’t know—”

Jason frowned at you, elbowing your side. “Don’t start.” Now speaking to Roy, “Because he’s an idiot.”

Roy whistled lowly, leaning back again before sending you an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I just never thought he’d be the type…and he seemed so happy with you.”

Jason frowned at his friend’s phrasing but didn’t comment on it. You waved him off.

“Yeah, I thought he was happy too.”

The table settled into silence for several tense minutes before Roy started hiccuping really aggressively.

You and Jason looked at him and then each other, then back at him, before promptly bursting into a fit of laughter.

Once again the subject of the other guests’s glares, you try to shush Jason. But that only works so well until Roy falls out of the booth in an attempt to get away.

You groan tiredly, watching the man make his way to the bathroom. “What just happened?”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

You giggle, leaning against his side as you lay your head on his shoulder. “It was funny though.”

“Yeah, it was.” He mumbles, voice muffled through the tin of his drink. He lays a hand around your shoulder, keeping you close. You smile at the warmth.

“What’re you doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I guess.”

“You’re plotting Roy Harper’s murder?”

You pinch his side, bustling closer. “No, dummy. I’m here for a date.”

He coughs, jerking away from you. You blink at the sudden distance as he turns his entire body to face you. “What?!”

“Well, I was thinking about what you said, and you’re right. Maybe I should date someone, that way I can have something to compare my relationship with Dick to.”

“That is not at all what I said!”

“It kind of is…that I have nothing to compare it to? That sounds like I should find something to compare it to.”

“Well, that’s not what I meant.” He huffed, running a hand through his hair tiredly. “And if it was, the bar is the last place you should be for that.”

You raise an eyebrow, not glancing away from him, even as Roy slides back into the booth.

“Crisis averted,” he starts before you can speak, “And what’s the bar the last place to be for?”

“Finding a date.” He snorts, knocking over his drink before sighing loudly.

You finally look away from Jason, giving Roy a once over. “You’re a mess, man.” Handing him several napkins as you attempt to pat the table dry yourself.

He sighs, “I’m not sure I’ve slept in the past three weeks.”

“Neither has she.” Jason snorts, pointing his thumb towards you.

Roy hums before a wicked grin crosses his face, “You know, I was going to say you’ve been doing pretty good at the bar so far. You and Jason could just date, but maybe you and I should go out instead.”

It’s Jason’s turn to choke on his drink. He curses under his breath, “What are you talking about?”

“Well, don’t think I didn’t notice how cozy the two of you seemed earlier. Plus, you’re obviously still talking after the breakup. But maybe it’s better if you don’t date, seeing as he’s Dick’s brother. So that leaves the two of us.” He grins again, leaning back in his seat.

Your stomach flips at the implication of dating Jason. You couldn’t, wouldn’t. But…wouldn’t you?

He makes you feel safe and cared for. He brings you flowers when you’ve had a bad day and he always texts you when he’s done with patrol—something Dick’s never done.

Shaking your head suddenly, you laugh. “First of all, if I was going to date anyone at this table, it would be Jason. Because you’re a mess, Roy.”

He squawks, clutching at his chest dramatically. “How dare you?! You try having a four year old that’s having nightmares after watching Monsters Inc. It’s been three weeks, I’m thinking about asking Oliver for help.”

You and Jason both laugh at that.

He narrows his eyes to study the two of you. “Are you guy’s dating?”

“What? No!”

“Absolutely not.”

You both spoke multiple denials at the same time, moving as far apart as you could in the booth.

“Uh huh.” Roy hums before rolling his eyes and quickly launching into a story about how he took down an entire drug cartel with only one arrow.

You and Jason spent the rest of the meal avoiding the other’s eyes.

It’s late when you hear a knock on your door. You know it’s Jason, you’ve began to seek out his heart beat, isolating it from all the other noises.

So what if it made you feel better to know he’s okay? And is it so bad if you need to hear it to be able to fall asleep?

You yanked the door open, wiping your hands down your apron.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” He repeated back, voice tense with an emotion you can’t make sense of.

“What’s up?” You shift awkwardly before stepping aside, allowing him to come in.

You can feel his eyes trailing you as you walk back to the kitchen. He follows, leaning against the counter with his eyebrows pinched together.

“Jason?” Your voice is soft, confused as you look up at him. “What’s going on?”

His heart was racing frantically, but you couldn’t see any signs of injury.

“Would it be so wrong?”

“What?”

“For us to date. Would it really be that bad?”

“Jason.” You gasp, leaning back against the counter. He follows. “What are you talking about?”

His arms land on waiter side of you, closing you in against the granite. “Roy said we shouldn’t be together because I’m Dick’s brother. But does that matter?”

You’re speechless, eyes darting back and forth across his face.

“I don’t know…” You trail off, leaning forward slightly. Your entire body is pressed against his now as he stares into your eyes.

“Could we—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish before you’re leaning your face closer to his, lips barely brushing. “Move if you don’t want this.”

You barely finish speaking before he’s pressing against you harder, lips connecting with your own.

Your hands reach up to tangle in his hair as he lifts you onto the counter. He pulls back, gasping slightly as you follow his lips. He grins wickedly as you pout. “C’mon baby, give me a minute. Not all of us have superpowers.”

“I thought the Lazarus Pit was supposed to fix you.”

He growled, pressing his lips to yours once more. You grinned against him, pulling back to press kisses along his jaw.

He sighs, hands settling on your hips. You legs were wrapped around his torso, ensuring you were as close as possible.

“Sweetheart.” He mutters, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “Let me give you something to compare it to.”

It’s not a question, more of a plea, and you can’t help but smile. “Okay.”

He smiles back, resting his forehead against yours as he breathes heavily.

You jump with a start, spinning him backwards so you can untangle your legs from him.

“What—”

“The cookies! They’re burning!” He bites back a laugh at your worried tone, finally casting a glance around the apartment.

The counter is covered in several used dishes, measuring cups and bowls, even the whisk he’s been trying to steal for weeks.

He quickly snatches it from the counter and sticks it in his pocket. You pretend not to notice.

You pull the pan out of the oven, not even bothering to use oven mits—not needing to due to your Kryptonian physiology.

Jason immediately reaches for one but you smack his hand away. “It’s hot.”

“You’re hot.” He grinned, leaning back against the counter in what you assume is an attempt to look cool.

Rolling your eyes, you push him away from the pan with your hip. “Whatever. So, what’s your plan?”

“My plan?”

“For wooing me?” You raise an eyebrow as he flushes.

“I think I just did.”

You shrug, a wicked glint in your eyes. “I don’t know, it left a little to be desired.”

He gasps, picking you up again as you giggle. “I’ll show you a little to be desired.”

“I’m not sure that means what you think it means.” You laugh as he presses kisses across your cheeks.

He tugs you down to sit on his lap on the couch.

“I’ve heard it both ways.”

“In what scenario could you possibly have heard that in? And twice, no less.”

He groans, dropping his head against your shoulder. “Just kiss me already.”

“Bossy bossy.” You hum, pecking his lips. “So…do you have a plan?”

“What about dinner? There’s that place you’ve been wanting to try.”

“Sure, I’d like that.”

He smiles, biting that corner of his lip in an attempt to stop his grin. You quickly kiss that part of his mouth, smoothing out the bite mark.

“I’ll make reservations.”

“That’s hot.”

He snorts, pushing you off of him. “You’re such a loser.”

“Well, you just kissed this loser and unfortunately, I think it’s contagious.” You gasp mockingly, “Oh no! What if I got it from you?”

“I don’t know, maybe you should kiss me again and see if you can get rid of it.”

“I don’t think that’s how contagious diseases work, Jay.”

He shrugs, pressing a quick kiss to your lips as he stands up.

“I need to go, got some mission reports to finish.”

You smile softly at him, forcing away the unsettled feeling in your gut as he walks towards the door.

You pop up behind him as he opens it.

“Oh and Jason?”

He turns around as you tug him closer using the loops of his jeans. “Yeah?” His voice is breathless as your lips brush his.

Before he can kiss you, you snatch the whisk from his pants and push him out the door with a wink. “Pick me up at seven.”

As the door shuts, you can hear him groan softly from the other side. You smile to yourself, grin widening when you use your X-Ray vision to see him pump his fists on the other side.

In the few hours you have between Jason leaving and Jason picking up, you use most of that time to allow your thoughts to spiral.

He’s Dick’s brother, should you really be doing this?

But he makes you so happy.

And Dick cheated on you, so does that mean it’s okay?

But you were with Dick for four years.

Is this going to ruin their relationship?

You hadn’t asked Jason about him, about whether they’ve talked about you or not. You weren’t sure you wanted to know.

And Jason’s been on better terms with his family recently, you didn’t want to be the one to mess that up.

But Jason makes your heart race, something you admittedly haven’t felt in months—even before your break up. He makes you giggle and smile and kick your feet.

But what if he turns out to be like Dick?

He made you feel all those things before…why would this be any different?

Two knocks against your door break your train of thoughts.

More like train crash of thoughts. You think, before deciding that’s stupid.

“Coming!” You pull the door open with a grin, eyes widening as a bouquet of flowers is shoved in your face. You laugh, taking it from his hands. “Thanks, Jay.”

“Of course.” He says it like it’s final, like there’s not another option. Like getting you flowers is expected.

You shoot him a look over the base you just filled. “So, where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.”

You huff at his words, pouting slightly and he relents. “Okay, it’s the ballet.”

You gape at him, eyes widening. “But they’ve been sold out for months! They never have tickets available night of!”

“I’ve had them for a while.”

You raise a curious eyebrow, “I didn’t realize you were a fan.”

“Depends on the show.” He doesn’t elaborate on why he has two tickets to the ballet, just offers you his arm.

You accept it skeptically and he relents. “Okay, Cass loves ballet. I was going to take her but I think this is a better use for them.”

You snort, batting at his arm. “I don’t want to take her ticket!”

“She doesn’t even know about them, plus, she’s patrolling with Bruce tonight…they’ve all got a big stakeout.”

“Shouldn’t you be there?”

“Not until the last possible second.” He sighs, guiding you towards his car.

You raise an eyebrow at him, “I can just fly us, you know.”

“Would you let me use my car to impress you? Honestly, woman.”

You gasp, sticking your nose up indignantly before laughing. “Fine, if you think you need to. But,” you trail a finger up his arm, “I already find you impressive.”

The wind gets knocked out of him for a second before he shakes his head. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not? It’s true.” You tilt your head with a small smile tugging at your lips.

He barely spares you a glance before he’s backing out of his parking space. “We’re gonna be late.”

The ballet was beautiful, so much so that you cried. Although, you think part of it was just your mess of emotions from earlier.

Jason handed you his pocket square, to which you sent him a confused glance before quickly taking it to dab at your eyes.

You were definitely gonna make fun of him for it later. What kind of 23 year old carried a pocket square? And you were definitely telling Roy.

“You hungry?” His voice was low as he whispered in your ear, hand pressed firmly into the square of your back as he lead you through the crowded forum.

“I almost ate your pocket square.”

“Oh stop, it’s not that weird. Plenty of people have them here.”

You glance around the room, eyes the multiple geriatric men throughout. Jason just sighs tensely and tells you to forget it.

You press further into his side, allowing him to wrap his arm around your waist.

The man at the valet eyes you appreciatively, making you curl into Jason even more. He glowers at the man, making him gulp nervously as he hands the car keys over.

Jason snatches them, putting himself between you and the man as he opens your door for you.

“Thanks, Jay.” He kisses you possessively, probably a bit longer than was appropriate for public, before making sure your dress was out of the way and shutting your door.

You bite back a laugh at the smug look he send she valet, who looks like he’s going to pass out.

“So…Bat Burger?”

“Yes please.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. The idea of being stuck in a stuffy restaurant that would cost more than you could afford made your stomach churn. But Bat Burger? Easy choice.

“I’ve got it.” Jason murmured, pushing your hand down as you tried to pay the man at the register.

“I can pay for my own food, Jason.”

“I know, but let me. Please.”

“Jason…”

“I was planning on paying more at a fancier place, but you looked like you would’ve cried at the idea of being somewhere like that again.”

“Fine.”

You relent, ignoring the indignation in your chest. Now is not the time to be a control freak, you chastise yourself, plenty of time to be an independent woman later.

But part of you warms at the prospect of him paying. Not that Dick didn’t always insist on paying…but maybe that’s why you wanted to.

Just in case things go poorly…

You shake your head. Now’s not the time.

Dinner was nice, if a bit fast. But you didn’t mind the rush, wanting nothing more than to change into comfy clothes and sleep for several hours straight.

“So…?” Jason trails off, rocking on his feet nervously as you look at him.

“So…what?” You question, tilting your head slightly.

“So, what did you think?”

You can’t help the laugh you let out as he flushes. “Sorry, Jay” You smooth a hand down his arm. “You just make it sound like you were mh Uber Driver.”

He grimaces, “Yeah, I guess can see that. Sorry.”

“But, for what it’s worth…definitely 5 stars.”

He smiles softly as your lips brush his. “Is that out of five? Or out of ten? Because if it’s out of ten, I’d like the chance to improve my rating.”

“Well, that almost makes me want to make it out of ten.” Your voice is low as you meet his eyes, grinning mischievously.

He grins back, pressing you against the wall as he kisses you. You smile against the kiss before he pulls back suddenly, phone beeping in his pocket.

He groans as he reads the message, looking at you apologetically.

“It’s okay, go save the city, hero.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” He presses a kiss against your lips.

You kiss his jaw, “I’ll hold you to that.”

Things had been going well with Jason. Good even. Great maybe. But a part of you felt…weird.

He’s still Dick’s brother. Regardless of if that’s even okay, you didn’t want Jason to worry that you’d be comparing them. Or that you were using him to replace Dick.

Sure, maybe you got a little caught up in the beginning. But…when you thought about Dick, your heart didn’t burn and you didn’t feel the need to throw up anymore.

That’s a good sign that you’ve moved on, right?

But…what if you haven’t yet? Are you rushing into things with Jason?

You’re snapped out of your thoughts by your phone ringing. A glance at the Caller ID shows Dick’s contact flashing on the screen.

You huff, picking up the phone to stare at it. You haven’t changed the contact photo yet, and you obviously hadn’t blocked him.

Maybe that’s why he started calling.

Maybe you should block him.

But he didn’t call after you’d left that note and picture in his apartment, and part of you wanted him to beg for you to come back. You’re still not sure if you would’ve.

You dropped that hope a while ago.

He only started calling a couple days ago, almost immediately after you’d gotten back from that dinner with Jason.

Why? You aren’t sure. And you don’t think you want to know.

Should you tell Jason? You didn’t want him to fight with his brother, which you know he would. But you also don’t want to lie to him.

Is hiding things really lying?

Yes. You squeeze your eyes shut, attempting to stop the voice inside your head.

Deciding to tell Jason over dinner, you set to work making pizza dough.

You hear the door crack open first, then the sound of his boots being thrown at the wall.

Sighing, you peek over the back of the couch to look at him.

“Hi, Jay.”

“Hi, doll.” He stomped over, ignoring the shouts of your downstairs neighbors as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“How was work?”

“Long. Don’t worry about it.”

You frown, “I made pizza dough, I thought we could make heart shaped pizzas together but we don’t have to.”

He sends you a bewildered look as his hands drop to your waist. “Why wouldn’t I want to do that with you?”

“You said you had a long day.”

He sighs, dropping his head into your shoulder. “Not that long.”

A smile tugs at your lips as you run your hands through his hair. “You sure.”

“Course.”

“Okay, I’ll get another apron for you.” You hop off the couch, leaving his alone as you head for the kitchen. He groans at your departure.

“Fine, but it can’t be the frilly pink one.”

“Oh, it’s going to be the frilly pink one, baby. That’s my only spare.”

He sends you a betrayed look, “I’ve seen at least five others.”

You only justify his words with a wicked grin.

He shakes his head, sighing dreamily, eyes following you as you move around the kitchen.

He could get used to this, he thinks. Arms elbow deep in soapy water as you dance beside him, using the spatula he just cleaned as a microphone.

“Oops baby, I love you.”

He shook his head as you sang along to the small speaker he’d gotten you for Christmas the year he died. A part of him is surprised you still have it, but the two of you have always been friends. Even before Dick stole you away.

He was going to ask you out before he died, was going to tell you how much he liked you. But life threw a wrench in his plans, or rather, the Joker threw a crowbar.

After he came back, you were different. And he thought he didn’t feel the same anymore either, that it was just a passing childhood crush. He made himself believe that. He wasn’t going to ruin anything else with Dick after just barely fixing things.

You were kind and he was distant. You grew distant too.

Maybe it was better that way, at least it let him ignore the way his heart clenched every time you smiled at Dick.

But after the anger faded, the guilt set it. You were dating his brother, he had no right to feel anything for you. Not anymore. So he pushed it down, ignored it.

But after the breakup, after you didn’t speak to anyone in the family for three weeks, after Dick stopped coming by the manor…he couldn’t ignore it anymore.

Your phone was ringing but you’d wandered off, paying no mind to the unending buzz.

Jason dried his hands, smoothing them against his pants before picking up your phone.

Dickie <3 flashed across your screen, along with a photo of the two of you at the beach. A photo he knows is from the trip you took for your anniversary last year.

Dread settles in Jason’s stomach as he stares at the screen.

Why was he calling you? Have you been talking to him again? Did you ever actually stop?

His eyebrows pinch together as he sets the phone down. He needed to leave, needed to get out of here.

He knew he shouldn’t be dating you. You’re his brother’s ex girlfriend! The last person he should be with is you.

You were humming happily as you returned to the kitchen and Jason quickly goes back to the sink, pretending he hadn’t seen anything.

You pick up your phone before carefully tucking it into your pocket.

“So, are you staying for a movie? We can rent that old—”

“I actually have to go.”

You reel back, shock evident on your face and he has to stop himself from reaching for you. “Oh, okay. Where?”

“Patrol.” He didn’t have to patrol, he just has to leave.

“Oh. Well, do you want to have breakfast tomorrow? I just got strawberries so I can make the crepes with the cream filling and…stuff.” Your words die out at the end as he avoids your gaze.

“Is something wrong?”

“No, I just have to patrol.” He repeats, pushing away from the sink as he heads for the door.

“Okay, well, text me when you get home.”

“Sure.”

He doesn’t kiss you as he leaves.

He doesn’t kiss you as he leaves.

You’re left staring at the door to his apartment, successfully blocking you from reaching him.

A frown tugs at your lips as you think back to if anything had happened.

He did stay he’d already had a long day.

Maybe you should’ve ordered something to eat instead.

But he seemed so happy to make the heart shaped pizzas, he even made one in the shape of a bat.

You sigh, finally shutting your door after you hear his window slide open and slam shut.

Your eyes land on the soapy water filled sink and you groan. Of course he’s upset, he’d already had a long day, and then he had to make dinner and do the dishes.

But you’d offered to do all of that and he’d insisted on helping.

But maybe he felt obligated to.

You huff, deciding to leave the rest of the mess from dinner out, instead opting for go out for some air.

Halfway through your flight to Metropolis, you realized that you hadn’t even gotten the chance to tell Jason about Dick calling you.

Ugh. Maybe you can tell him tomorrow.

If he shows up.

“The prodigal son returns.” Dick claps, unamused as Jason’s bike skids to a stop in the Cave.

Jason glowers at him as he pulls of his helmet. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem? What’s your problem, Jaybird? Can’t get a girlfriend so you have to go around stealing mine?” He sneers at the younger man, eyes glaring with obvious fury.

“I was under the impression that you’d broken up.” Jason clenched his fists, trying as hard as he could not to smash one into his brother’s nose.

He ignored the confused noises of their other siblings as Dick scoffed.

“So you’re after my sloppy seconds then?”

Before anyone could stop him, Jason had lunged towards the older man, gripping his collar tightly as he slammed him into the hood of the Batmobile.

“Don’t talk about her like that.” He growled, not budging as Dick tried to push him off.

“Oh, come on, Jay! You always liked her, don’t think I didn’t notice the way you’d stare at her whenever you thought I wasn’t looking. And you decided this was your chance, huh? I mess up one time and you think you can take her from me.”

“I’m not taking her from you, she’s not yours.”

“But you want her to be yours, don’t you? Because you love her?” He emphasized the word, leaning closer.

The cave is silent for several moments as everyone watched with bated breaths before a solid crack rang out through the air.

Blood dripped down Jason’s hand as his knuckles smashed against Dick’s nose, effectively breaking it in one hit. His body fell to the ground as Jason peered down at him.

“Don’t bother getting up.”

Dick grunts, jumping up with the flexibility that only an acrobat could obtain. “You really think she could ever love you? She loves me.”

“It’s been seven months, Dick! She doesn’t care about you anymore!”

“How do you know that? Really, how can you be so sure?” Dick wiped the blood from his nose, glaring smugly at his younger brother.

Jason narrowed his eyes, blood boiling more and more with each word that left his mouth.

“Well, she didn’t seem to care too much about you when she was kissing me.”

After spending half the night flying over the East Coast, stopping only to help the Metropolis Police take down an army of the undead, you finally returned to your apartment.

You barely bothered opening the window fully, only sliding it just enough for you to fall over through it. Sitting up with a groan as you slid it shut.

After checking your phone 17 times during the flight—and dropping it twice—you decided to just come home and see if Jason’s back yet.

You needed to tell him, needed to apologize for whatever you’d done to upset him.

Using your superhearing gets you nowhere, only revealing that he hasn’t returned to his apartment yet.

So you decide to get ready for bed while you wait.

After drawing out your nightly routine for an hour longer than normal, you finally hear his heavy breathing.

Walking across the hall, you quietly open his door. Peeking through the doorway, you scan the dark room. Opening it further as you enter the apartment.

You cringe at the offensive smell of blood and gunpowder that filled the air. Shaking your head, you moved towards the bathroom.

Soft curses can be heard as he rifles through cabinet. You peek through the doorway, meeting his eyes as he freezes.

Your track your gaze down across his body, frowning at the blood stains coating his suit. He’s leaned against the bathtub, two empty first aid kits piled at his feet.

“Jay…”

“Hey doll. Mind passing me that first aid kit?” He nods towards the cabinet.

You move quickly, pulling the container out as you kneel in front of him.

“I’ve got it.”

“I can do it.” He insists, reaching for the kit as he avoids looking at you.

“Jason,” His eyes finally meet yours, “let me help you.”

He nods tiredly, letting his head fall back against the bathtub.

“What happened?”

“Dicks a…well, his name fits.”

You smile softly at that, pressing the cloth against his cuts. He winces at the feeling but nods for you to continue.

“You’re here.” His voice is tight, forcing himself to speak to stay conscious.

“You’re not going to scare me off that easily.”

His eyes narrow cautiously, studying your face. “Why?”

“Because I’m in love with you.” Your voice is soft, but steady.

He blinks, dropping his head back against with a groan. “Tell me again in the morning. Just in case I forget.”

“I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it.”

Jason blinks, rubbing a hand down his face as he sits up with a groan. “What happened?”

His eyes land on your sleeping form, curled up at the foot of his bed. Seriously, what happened?

The last thing he remembers is the Cave and then—

Oh.

Dick.

“You’re awake.” He can hear the surprise in your voice as you sit up to face him.

He nods slowly, eyeing you wearily. “What happened?”

“Apparently you and Dick got into a fight. I texted Tim afterwards and he confirmed that that’s what happened.” You nod towards the bandages on his hand. “Looks like you got a pretty good hit in.”

“He had it coming.”

“I’m sure he did.” It’s quiet for a moment as you stare at him. His skin burns beneath your gaze and he forces himself not to move. “Are you hungry?”

He steadies his breathing, meeting your eyes. “Can you make some crepes?”

“Yeah.” You nod quickly, rubbing his shoulder as you stand up to leave. “And then we can talk over breakfast.”

Jason swallows nervously as you close the door behind you. He hears the front door open as you go to get the ingredients from your apartment.

He leans back in the bed with a groan, already dreading the upcoming conversation.

Doubts seep in as he remembers the photo do you and Dick, smiling in the beach, on your phone last night.

But then he can hear your voice in his head, and he can’t help the glimmer of hope that spreads earth throughout his body.

Because I’m in love with you.

Finally.

When Jason finally managed to pull himself out of bed, you could hear him whispering a pep talk to himself as he left the bedroom.

Meeting his eyes, you send him a soft smile. “Almost done. Unless you want the first one…but it’s kinda ugly.”

“I think I’d eat just about anything right now.”

“Even a human arm?”

“No,” he wrinkles his nose as he looks at you incredulously, “why would you ask that? That’s so weird.” He mutters the last part under his breath as you set a plate in front of him.

“Just trying to get an idea of where you draw the line.”

“Cannibalism. Cannibalism is where I draw the line.”

You hum, carrying you own plate over to the couch as he follows close behind. “We have to eat here, your stool is missing.”

“You stole it.”

“You brought it into my apartment, I didn’t steal anything.” He grinned at the way you huffed.

It’s quiet for a few minutes as the two of you eat in silence. Both of you unconsciously scooting closer to each other until your elbows are bumping.

His unbandaged hand grips the plate tightly, as he looks at you. You can hear his breathing pick up in the moments before he speaks. “Dick called you.”

“Is that why you left?” Your eyebrows furrow as you think back to his quick departure. “Of course it is. Honestly, I kind of thought you were upset about having to do the dishes.”

He grimaced, looking at you with concern. “Why would I be upset about helping you? I even offered to do it.”

“Yeah, that’s why I was confused.”

He grunts, shaking his head. You tuck your knees against your chest, wrapping your arms around the tops of them. “He’s been calling the past few days—since we went to the ballet. I didn’t think much of it at first, but he patrols there a lot, maybe he saw us.”

Jason laughs lowly, shoulders relaxing as he leans into you. “He definitely did.”

“That’s why he beat you up?”

He frowns at your words, shooting you a betrayed look. “Hey, I beat him up, okay? Really, you should see him, he’s a mess.”

“Alfred said you broke his nose.”

“He had it coming.” He muttered bitterly, jaw clenching as he remembers the way he had talked about you.

“So I’ve heard.” You nudge his arm, laughing lightly.

He can’t help the way his stomach twists at the sound. You sigh, leaning into him as he wraps an arm around your shoulders.

“Do you remember what I said?” You swallow nervously after a few moments. His eyes lock on your lips, more specifically, the way you’re nervously biting it.

“You love me?” He grins widely, voice taunting.

You huff, attempting to pull away but his arms settle on your hips, tugging you into his lap.

“That’s what you said, isn’t it? That you love me.”

You scowl at the smirk on his face, wanting nothing more than to remove it. “Maybe.”

“I also remember you saying something about telling me as many times as I need to hear it?” He tilts his head, eyes locked on yours as his grin softens. “I think I need to hear it again.”

You roll your eyes, shifting in his lap as you set your hands on his shoulders. His breath hitches as you lean in, lips brushing against his ear. “I love you, Jason Todd.”

He turns his head, capturing your lips with his as soon as the last word left your mouth. Your fingers tangle into the hair at the base of his neck, tugging him closer to you.

He smiles against your lips, “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

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Keegan P. Russ X Reader: Chaotic Kids

The house was loud in the way only homes full of children could be— the kind of chaos that echoed through hallways, tangled with footsteps, laughter, complaints, and the constant thrum of someone needing something.

Y/n stood in the upstairs hallway, arms full of a freshly folded basket of laundry that had once been organized by color—now half-scattered from her hasty dodge of a LEGO minefield. Her shirt was dusted with flour from lunch, her socks didn’t match, and her hair—once a decent attempt at a bun—now spilled in frizzy, stubborn strands down the side of her face like vines refusing to be tamed.

“Grant Alexander Russ, put that paint can down right now.” Her voice rang sharp, cutting across the hallway like a warning shot.

The seven-year-old froze mid-stride, guilt written all over his freckled face, fingers gripping the can of bright red paint like it was a crown jewel. He stared at her, innocent eyes already gearing up for argument.

“But moooom,” he whined, dragging the last syllable out like it hurt. “Thomas gets to paint his room! Why can’t I?”

Y/n blinked once. Then twice.

A cold weight dropped into her gut.

“Your brother is doing what?

The laundry basket hit the hardwood with a thud, socks and shirts tumbling like casualties of war. She turned on her heel and charged down the hall like a woman possessed.

She flung Thomas’s door open with the full force of a hurricane and the tone of a military raid.

Inside, her oldest—twelve-year-old Thomas—stood on the missing kitchen stool. One hand clutched a dripping red paint roller. A tray of paint lay at his feet, teetering dangerously on the hardwood. An entire wall behind him was now blood red.

Her eyes flicked to the wall. To the floor. To the kitchen stool she’d spent thirty minutes looking for that morning while trying to reach the upper cabinet for the coffee mugs. The one she never did find because Eleanor had thrown a tantrum and needed a time-out. That was after she discovered the laundry room looked like someone had thrown a sock tornado, and before she remembered she hadn’t unloaded the dishwasher. Then Eleanor’s nap. Then back to the laundry. Then Grant with a paint can.

It was all connected, like some chaotic web of cause and effect held together by her.

“Thomas Wyatt Russ!” she barked, voice rising an octave. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Thomas’s face froze. Wide eyes. Guilt. Panic. Paint roller slipping.

Thwack.

The roller hit the floor and splattered a fresh pool of red across the bare wood.

“M-Mom!” he stammered, scrambling down from the stool, trying to put himself between her and the mess like a guilty cat covering its tracks.

“I swear on every fiber of my being I will sell you to the orphanage,” she growled, storming into the room. “Answer. Me. Now.”

“I-I was painting my room!” he sputtered, one hand reflexively grabbing the necklace around his neck—a wooden bullet with his initials carved in it. A Christmas gift from Keegan. Each of the kids had one.

“You said I could!” he added weakly.

“I said you could move your furniture around!” she snapped, snatching the paint roller off the ground and dropping it into the tray like a weapon being sheathed. “Not coat the walls like we’re redecorating a vampire den!”

“But—!”

“No! No ‘but’s. This is a base-grade primer and it smells like poison. If your sister walks in here I’ll have to call poison control!

“GRANT!” she shouted, whipping around toward the hallway.

The seven-year-old stood in the doorway like a paint thief caught mid-escape, clutching a second roller in his tiny hands. His mouth parted in an “uh-oh” as she glared.

“Back to the basement. Now. Go.

Grant turned on his heel like a soldier retreating under fire, feet thudding down the stairs.

Just as he vanished, the soft but unmistakable sound of crying reached Y/n’s ears. From the far end of the hall—Eleanor’s room.

Of course.

Y/n groaned deep in her throat. She turned to Thomas, pointed at the mess.

“You clean every inch of this up. Right now. We are not a paintball arena.”

She spun on her heel and jogged for Eleanor’s room. The five-year-old was sobbing in her bed, tangled in pink sheets, clutching her threadbare teddy bear with one button-eye hanging loose. The other eye—a small black disc—was completely gone.

The bear dropped limply from Eleanor’s arms as Y/n swept in. She lifted her daughter gently from the mattress and set her on the floor, where she curled into a ball, hugging the wounded bear to her chest and sobbing harder.

Y/n scanned the bed for the missing button. Found it under the pillow. And then she found the wet patch on the sheets. And the blanket. And the mattress.

She closed her eyes.

“Whatever deity is out there,” she whispered, tilting her head back to the ceiling, “and Charles Darwin… give me strength.

A quiet voice behind her: “Mommy, who are you talking to?”

She turned to find Grant again. His T-shirt, previously white with a dinosaur print, was now stained a vivid blue—liquid laundry detergent.

Of course it was.

“I’m talking to invisible monsters, sweetheart,” she said flatly.

“Oh.”

She turned back to Eleanor’s closet and reached for the top shelf, pulling down the emergency stuffy—a German Shepherd plush that Keegan had brought back from Germany one past  deployment. She handed it to Eleanor, who clutched it with the desperation of a survivor.

“Go help your brother,” Y/n muttered, prying the teddy bear gently from Eleanor’s hands. “Tell him I said no food until the paint’s off the floor.”

Grant vanished without a word.

And Y/n—kneeling now at the foot of the bed—began stripping soaked sheets with slow, deliberate movements. Every fiber of her body ached. Her mind buzzed. Her patience was tissue-thin.

Y/n slung the damp, urine-stained sheets over her shoulder like a deadweight tarp, ignoring the acrid smell with the skill of a seasoned mother who had long since stopped flinching at bodily fluids. The sheets clung to her back as she moved—sticky, heavy, and embarrassing only to the outside world. For her, it was Tuesday.

She peeked into Thomas’s room on the way past. Both boys were crouched on the floor, armed with an arsenal of paper towels and half a bottle of multipurpose cleaner, scrubbing furiously at the streaks of red paint that had soaked into the wood grain.

“You two keep an eye on your sister,” she called out, shifting the sheets higher on her shoulder. “I’m putting Eleanor’s bedding in the wash.”

Neither boy looked up, only gave nods—tight-lipped and guilty. She’d take it. Obedience by silence. Good enough.

Down the stairs she went, skipping every third step, her body practically vibrating with the kind of motion only overstimulated parents know. The main floor was still scattered with signs of chaos—blankets, a juice box left on the counter, a doll without its head sitting at the edge of the couch like a forgotten omen.

The door to the basement was wide open—of course it was. Grant.

She bolted down into the lower level, careful to scan the steps as she descended. No Hobo. Their Australian shepherd wasn’t waiting at the bottom, and her stomach twisted.

“Goddammit, where’s the dog…”

She hadn’t seen him since asking Thomas to let him out after lunch. And now, one more worry added itself to the ever-growing list looping in her brain like a tactical checklist she’d never get through.

She reached the washing machine, tore open the lid, and stuffed the soaked bedding inside with the aggression of someone trying not to scream. Then she turned—and saw the source of the mysterious blue stain that had ruined Grant’s shirt.

The laundry detergent bottle was weeping. Thick blue liquid oozed down the shelf like a slow-moving glacier of chemical ruin, puddling onto the floor in rhythmic plip… plop… plip.

She picked it up with one hand, eyeballed a generous pour into the drum, and slammed it back on the shelf with more precision than care. Then, without needing to think, she hit the settings for “bedding,” and punched the start button like it owed her money.

The lid clicked closed. The machine whirred to life.

She scanned the floor for the bottle cap, spotting it near the ironing board—of course it had rolled. Why wouldn’t it?

She knelt, scooped it up, and twisted it back on with tight fingers. Child-proof, her ass. Whoever had designed that cap had clearly never met her children. The Russ kids treated security lids like puzzles to be solved. Probably inherited that from Keegan.

She exhaled hard and stood.

Click.

The sound of the basement door latching shut echoed like a gunshot in a war zone.

Y/n’s eyes narrowed.

She trudged back up the stairs, hand on the doorknob, turned it— Nothing.

The lock held.

She jiggled it. Still nothing.

She leaned forward and peeked through the tiny gap between door and frame, only to find—not just the main lock engaged—but the chain lock, too.

She closed her eyes, let out a breath through her nose, and leaned her forehead lightly against the wood.

She’d meant to remove that chain lock last week after Thomas had locked Grant in the basement with all the lights off while she was vacuuming upstairs. But she'd been too busy putting Eleanor's dollhouse back together after it “mysteriously” exploded into forty-seven pieces.

Of course it came back to bite her now.

“Kids!” she called through the door, forcing a bright, syrupy tone into her voice. Sweet. Pleasant. Deceptive.

No answer. Just muffled snickering.

“Kids, can you unlock the door for mommy, please?” she tried again, as if she didn’t know exactly what game they were playing.

Silence… then a triumphant declaration:

No! I’m in charge now!” Thomas yelled. “Ice cream for dinner!

Laughter erupted on the other side—Grant’s squeals, Eleanor’s tiny voice echoing “ice cream! Ice cream!”

Y/n stared at the door. She smiled, just a little, teeth gritted.

“No. No ice cream for dinner. Unlock the door right now,” she said, voice still deceptively sweet.

The only response was the sound of little feet thundering across the floor… headed for the kitchen.

She groaned and leaned against the stairwell wall, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Oh. Fuck me sideways with a Nerf bat,” she muttered.

From behind the locked door, she could hear the distinct sound of the freezer opening.

Y/n pressed her lips into a tight, white line and took a single step back. Then she threw her shoulder into the basement door like she’d seen Keegan do a dozen times to the garage door when it got stuck.

She bounced off it like a ragdoll.

Her elbow smacked the stair rail and her heel slipped on the step. She barely caught herself before tumbling backward all the way down the stairs and into the washing machine with all the grace of a drunk gymnast. Her pride stung harder than her shoulder.

“Right. Okay. So… not busting the door down,” she muttered to herself, under her breath. “Good plan. Great plan.”

She wasn’t Keegan—broad-shouldered, athletic build, 6’1", trained to clear rooms and breach buildings. She was five foot four, running on caffeine, duct tape, and whatever residual core strength motherhood hadn’t stolen from her.

But just because she couldn’t break her way out didn’t mean she couldn’t outsmart the door.

She wasn’t exactly raised by the nuns. Keegan knew that. He liked that about her. More than once he’d called her “crafty as hell”—a compliment, coming from a man who cleared hostiles for a living.

And in her past life, before diapers and deployment schedules, she had been the kind of teenager who knew how to pick a lock.

She turned on her heel and jogged back down the steps, scanning the basement for anything even remotely useful. The guest room yielded nothing—just stiff sheets, a missing pillowcase, and a sad collection of bent hangers in the closet. The hangers were wire, yes, but too thick for the lock.

The bathroom was a jackpot. On the shelf behind the mirror: bobby pins. Dozens. Scattered like fallen soldiers of morning routines gone wrong.

She grabbed one, bent it with practiced fingers, and raced back upstairs, kneeling at the door like it was a bomb she was trying to disarm.

Five minutes.

That’s how long she gave herself.

But her fingers didn’t move the way they used to. Her grip was all wrong, her tension too high. Every time she felt the mechanism click, it refused to budge. It was like the lock knew she’d aged out of her rebellious phase.

She bit back a curse and pulled the pin out with a sharp exhale. No use. She could break the knob off, maybe, but the screws were on the other side too. Even if she got the door open, she still had the chain lock to deal with.

Which, fine—was easier. All she’d need was a gap between the door and frame wide enough to slip something through and tug the chain out of its holder. But that first lock…

She stood and stomped back down the stairs, headed for the one room she hadn’t checked: the storage room.

The storage room was the kind of space people on cleaning shows gave up on. Bins of off-season clothes, old electronics, half-empty paint cans, Christmas lights, and an ominous bag labeled “Tax Receipts 2017?” with a question mark that said all she needed to know.

She found the tool box. Opened it.

Empty.

Or rather—filled with everything but tools. Loose screws, zip ties, a broken tape measure, and drill bits. Nothing with a handle. On top sat a sticky note in Thomas’s handwriting:

“Borrowed the tools to build the tree fort. I’ll bring them back. Probably.”

She crumpled the note in her fist with a growl and launched it at the garbage can. It bounced off the rim—then dropped in.

Swish. Small victories.

She looked up.

Above the garbage can was a boarded-up window. One of those old-fashioned cellar-style windows, covered in plywood since the day they moved in. She’d never bothered asking why.

Right now, it looked like freedom.

“Okay, MacGyver mode it is,” she muttered.

She scanned the basement with sharp eyes, searching like a soldier taking inventory mid-mission.

A plaster smoother—flat, durable, narrow—sat in an open box. A screwdriver rolled half-visible under the dryer.

She dropped to her knees, reached under, and yanked it out with two fingers, muttering a triumphant, “Gotcha.

She moved into the guest room next. The old desk there had a cabinet door barely hanging on by a thread. She unscrewed the hinges with the screwdriver, wrenched the door off, and hauled it over to the garbage can.

The garbage lid was too rounded—she tested it with one foot, and it wobbled like a toddler on ice. No good. But the cabinet door? Flat. Sturdy. She set it down on top of the can like a makeshift stepstool.

Then she turned to the window. She slid the plaster smoother into the gap where the board met the frame and hammered it in using the handle of the screwdriver like a chisel, working each movement like she was defusing a bomb made of splinters and frustration.

Next problem: the floor.

If she fell off her DIY platform, she’d land hard on cold, unforgiving cement. She needed something to break the fall.

Back to the guest room. Again.

The queen mattress was thick and awkward—one of those older styles with coils that made it weigh as much as a corpse. She wrestled it off the frame, dragging it through the door with a grunt and a string of curse words that would’ve made Keegan raise an eyebrow.

After a solid two-minute struggle, she managed to drag it into place and dropped it flat in front of her garbage-can step.

She stood back and took in her work.

A mattress crash pad. A trash can base. A cabinet door step. A plaster smoother crowbar.

No. She didn’t have brute force. But she did have brains.

Keegan hadn’t married her for nothing.

She climbed onto her makeshift platform, balancing one knee on the cabinet door laid across the garbage can, palms braced against the cool rim of the window frame. The wood groaned in protest beneath her weight, but she didn’t hesitate.

With the plaster smoother clenched tight in both hands, she dug its edge into the board like a wedge and began to shove. Her shoulders trembled under the strain, muscles screaming in protest, breath punching out in short, frustrated bursts.

Push. Rest. Push again.

The fifth attempt brought a hairline crack. Not enough. But progress. She shoved again, all of her weight behind it, legs shaking with the effort, arms burning like live wires. At last—a snap. The board shifted just wide enough for her to wedge her fingers in.

She slipped all eight fingers into the narrow gap, thumbs planted flat against the wooden slats for leverage. Then she yanked.

And slipped.

Her sweaty palms slid off the board and she toppled backward like a falling domino—only to land with a muffled whump onto the mattress she’d dragged across the cement floor earlier.

She lay there for a moment, staring up at the unfinished ceiling beams, chest rising and falling like a soldier coming down from a fight. Her shoulder throbbed—a sudden, sharp burst of fire just under the skin. Her left hand instinctively flew up to clutch her right.

No blood. No break. Probably just a pulled muscle.

Could’ve been worse.

She peeled herself off the mattress, gritted her teeth against the pain, and climbed right back onto her makeshift stand.

Her fingers found the opening again, and this time she refused to lose grip. She yanked with every bit of frustration, exhaustion, and maternal rage she had built up over the past week—the tantrums, the dishes, the locked doors, the silent house at midnight with no husband’s voice on the other end of the line.

Yank. Yank. YANK.

Each pull cracked the board a little more, until with a final wrenching rip, the entire slat tore loose from the frame—snapping free like a broken rib.

It flew back with her, and she tumbled again, sprawling across the mattress in a pile of limbs and splinters.

The ache in her shoulder flared like a lit match, and she hissed through clenched teeth, rolling to her knees. With one trembling hand, she pushed up her sleeve and darted to the guest bathroom mirror.

No bruising yet. No swelling. Just fire in the muscle and the deep, undeniable soreness of a woman who wasn’t built to breach barricades but had done it anyway.

Tougher than I look,” she muttered, wincing.

Back at the window, her victory soured.

Boarded from the outside, too.

Her heart sank, frustration curling in her gut like smoke.

Of course it was. Of course it was. Nothing in this house—this day—was going to come easy.

But quitting wasn’t in her vocabulary.

With a groan, she shifted onto the shelving unit beside the window, awkwardly lying half across the wood. She positioned her hips and shoulders to brace, then drew both knees to her chest.

“Alright, you bastard,” she whispered to the board. “You’re going down.”

She kicked.

The force of both legs slamming against the outer boards echoed in the concrete room. The wood shuddered, held. She reloaded.

Kicked again.

And again. And again.

By the fifteenth kick, she’d stopped counting and started grunting with every blow, sweat dripping down her back, her shoulder pulsing with pain.

Then—crack.

Both feet punched clean through the wood. She blinked at the sudden light bleeding through the gap. A grin slowly spread across her face, wide and defiant.

Still got it.

She got to her knees and shoved the split wood out of the frame, splinters falling like hail onto the grass outside. Light filtered in through the open breach—a soft gold glow of early evening. The world beyond the window looked deceptively peaceful.

Y/n crouched low, ready to climb through. She stretched one arm forward—and pain shot down her neck into her shoulder blade.

“Shit,” she breathed.

Her leg kicked out involuntarily, a startled reflex to the jolt—and knocked over her stool.

The garbage can wobbled. The cabinet door slid. And the entire contraption crashed to the floor with a clang.

Now her legs dangled mid-air, swinging helplessly as she clung to the sill with her elbows, body stretched like a trapeze artist.

The drop below was small. It wouldn’t hurt. But setting everything up again? She couldn’t.

“Not happening,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

She braced her feet against the inside wall, adjusted her grip, and slowly dragged herself upward, elbows screaming. Her shoulder begged her to stop, but she refused to let go now. Not when she was so close.

She rested at the windowsill, chest pressed against the frame, forehead resting on the dusty wood. The air smelled like earth, freedom, and old insulation.

Just five minutes. Five minutes of quiet.

Then she’d go find the damn dog.

"What are you doing?" The voice was quiet, deep—confused.

Y/n didn’t look up as she dragged her elbow over the sill. “Going to Mount Everest,” she huffed. “What does it look like?”

It took her brain a full beat to connect the gravelly tone to the person standing there. Her head snapped up so fast it jolted her sore shoulder, and her eyes met familiar ice-blue ones, partially shadowed by messy black hair in desperate need of a trim.

Keegan.

The shift in her body weight as she looked up threw off her balance—her torso wobbled on the window frame, legs still dangling inside.

Before she could fall, his arms shot forward. One swift motion. One fluid move born of muscle memory and training. His hands hooked under her armpits, strong but gentle, and he pulled her the rest of the way through the basement window like she weighed nothing. He lowered her onto the grass with practiced care.

The second she was upright, her right shoulder pulsed sharply, heat flaring in the joint like fire licking at the tendons. She winced and instinctively rolled it back, trying to shake it off.

Keegan crouched beside her, boots grounded and heels hovering just off the lawn. His brows drew together slightly, voice low.

“Care to explain?”

She exhaled hard. “The kids… locked me in the basement.”

He helped her to her feet, fingers firm around her forearm. His expression shifted, the faint amusement in his face hardening instantly. The corners of his mouth drew flat, and his jaw tensed as he let her go.

He didn't say a word as he turned and walked toward the back porch, his strides long and silent. Years of stealth work had made even his casual movements quiet and efficient. Y/n trailed behind, every step radiating that kind of maternal fury that simmers just below a surface of restraint.

On the deck, the family dog—Hobo—lay curled in a patch of sun, tongue lolling out, tail thumping lazily against the wood at the sight of her people. Y/n gave her a sharp look.

“So that’s where you’ve been.”

Keegan said nothing. He slid the patio door open with the same kind of calculated silence he used when breaching rooms in hostile territory. Y/n followed behind him, her barefoot and him in his boots, padding into the house like a tactical unit.

Inside, the house was too quiet of children’s voices. Suspiciously so.

In the living room, the kids had set up their own little throne of chaos.

Thomas, Grant, and Eleanor sat cross-legged on the floor, huddled around a giant tub of chocolate ice cream—no bowls, no napkins, no shame. A dog movie played on the TV, some golden retriever running through sprinklers, while Eleanor repeatedly stabbed her spoon into the tub with minimal success.

Thomas sat like a criminal trying to look innocent—hands clean, except for the unmistakable smear of dried red paint on his shirt. Grant was covered in sticky, melted ice cream that had begun to dry on his arms and face like some deranged sugar armor. Eleanor had it in her hair.

Keegan stepped in first.

He walked behind them, grabbed the remote off the back of the couch, and stood tall behind their heads. No sound. No words.

Y/n watched from the hallway. Her husband was wearing his deep navy field pants—military issue—not jeans, and a zip-up sweater with black panels across the chest and sleeves the same stormy blue as his eyes. His boots were still on. No gear, no rifle—but the presence was the same.

He didn’t have to speak.

Y/n stepped beside him and cleared her throat.

Three heads snapped around.

Thomas’s face went pale in an instant—pure horror. Grant’s was a mirrored copy, like a guilty reflection. Eleanor simply blinked, then squealed and launched to her feet.

“Daddy!” she giggled, charging forward. “Uppy! Uppy!

Keegan didn’t scoop her up—he simply rested one hand on top of her head and gave her a small, absent pat.

Then his eyes moved back to his sons.

Still no words.

But that look? They were dead.

Y/n stepped forward and picked up Eleanor, settling the little girl on her hip. Pain lanced through her shoulder again, sharp and unwelcome. She gritted her teeth and adjusted her grip.

Keegan’s voice finally broke the silence—low, even, but dangerous.

“Which one of you locked the basement door?”

Neither boy answered right away. The silence stretched. Thomas’s mouth opened, then closed again.

“Thomas did it!” Grant blurted, pointing.

“No, it was Grant!” Thomas snapped back.

Keegan’s expression didn’t change. Not visibly. But there was something… tighter around his jaw. His shoulders drawn just a bit straighter. He didn’t raise his voice.

He didn’t have to.

Both boys looked like they were about to evaporate.

Y/n shifted Eleanor to her good side, hip flaring with effort. She looked at her sons, then at Keegan, then back again.

“Let’s start with who didn’t know how to use a lock,” she muttered. “Ellie, you’re off the hook.”

The toddler grinned and patted Y/n’s face with a sticky hand.

Keegan crossed his arms and took one step forward. That was it.

“It was just a joke!” Thomas blurted, stepping closer to his brother like the proximity might somehow split the punishment between them.

Keegan stared them down, arms crossed over his chest, his stance calm but heavy with unspoken weight. “Locking your mother in the basement is a joke?

“No,” both boys answered in perfect unison, voices small.

Keegan tilted his head slightly, just enough to make Thomas fidget. “How would you like it if I locked you down there? No lights. No way out.”

Neither of them spoke. Guilt twisted in the air between them like a coil pulled too tight. They shifted their feet, eyes falling to the sticky floor, unable to meet their father’s gaze.

Answer him,” Y/n said firmly, adjusting Eleanor on her hip. Melted ice cream slicked her sleeve, and she grimaced as it seeped into the fabric.

“I wouldn’t like it,” Grant muttered.

“Thomas?” Keegan prompted, voice lower now—almost soft, which somehow made it worse.

“I wouldn’t like it either,” Thomas replied, barely above a whisper.

Keegan nodded once. “Then you can both clean up this mess, and head to your rooms. Your mother and I will talk about how long you’re grounded.”

With that, he turned and walked out of the room, heading for the front entry. The deliberate clunk of his boots across the tile signaled that he was giving them just enough time to think.

Y/n didn’t budge. She stood still, eyes sharp, watching to make sure they actually followed through. She knew better than to assume—especially after the day she'd had.

Grant quickly slapped the lid onto the tub of ice cream and began gathering the spoons with hands still streaked in chocolate. Thomas disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a warm, damp cloth, crouching to wipe down the sticky mess spreading like melted guilt across the floor.

“Is the dishwasher dirty?” Grant called from the kitchen.

“No,” Y/n replied over her shoulder, already moving. Her to-do list screamed in her head—finish the dishes, finish the laundry, figure out dinner before the kids mutiny again. Keegan was home now, and that meant she'd like to have the house clean. Not because he asked for it—he never did—but because it gave her a sense of control. A sense of something done right.

She turned back to Thomas, who was wiping methodically in circles.

“Thomas,” she said quietly, voice softer now.

He looked up immediately. “Yeah?”

“When you’re done in here,” she murmured, glancing toward the hallway to make sure Keegan wasn’t within earshot, “go clean the paint up in your room. All of it. Your dad hasn’t seen it yet, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

Thomas nodded solemnly. “I promise, Mom.”

“Don’t make me regret covering for you.”

“I won’t.”

He returned to scrubbing, a little faster now.

A few moments later, Keegan came back into the room, this time carrying a worn, dark canvas duffle bag—standard issue. He crossed to the basement door, unlocked it, and descended the stairs without a word.

Y/n’s stomach sank slightly. Right. The mess.

She winced at the mental image of the mattress still in the middle of the cement floor, the tipped-over garbage can, the cabinet door-turned-stepstool, the split window boards, and the bent plaster smoother. Not to mention the detergent puddle, the unsecured screwdriver, and her personal humiliation now sitting out in full display.

“Eleanor,” she said, setting the little girl down gently despite her throbbing shoulder, “go tidy your room, please.”

“Okay!” Eleanor beamed and skipped off toward the stairs, dragging her favorite plush dog by one arm.

Y/n darted into the kitchen. Grant had vanished—either to his room or to hide somewhere less obvious—and she didn’t chase him down. Instead, she went straight to the dishwasher and started throwing dishes into cupboards with quiet efficiency.

Glass. Plate. Cup. Pan.

Her motions were sharp, practiced, fluid—like drills. Her back was tense, her shoulder aching, but she refused to stop. Not now. Not with the kitchen looking like a war zone and Keegan finally home.

He didn’t expect perfection. Hell, he knew what real chaos looked like. But that didn’t mean she wanted him walking into a minefield of melted ice cream, laundry piles, and toddler tantrums.

Not tonight.

Not after crawling through a boarded-up window like an escaped convict.

Not after being locked in the goddamn basement by a seven- and twelve-year-old domestic insurgency.

And especially not after Keegan had stood there, catching her mid-slide, and laughed.

Just for a second. Just a breath. But she saw it.

She exhaled and gave up on the stool. Her shoulder ached from earlier, and the damn thing was too wobbly anyway. Instead, she stepped up onto the kitchen counter, knees pressed into the cool stone surface, and reached up into the upper cabinet to tuck the last of the mismatched mugs into place. Her movements were quick, efficient. The kind of movement trained through habit and necessity.

Parenthood wasn’t a job you clocked out of. Especially not when doing it alone for months at a time.

She gave the cabinet door a solid shut and shifted her weight back to hop down. Her bare feet landed on the kitchen tile with a soft slap— then stumbled backwards right into something solid.

Warm. Tall. Immovable.

Two arms wrapped around her waist a beat later, low and firm. A chin rested on the top of her head, and a familiar exhale warmed the side of her face as a nose tucked gently into her hair.

“Nice escape plan down there,” Keegan murmured, voice rough like gravel, amusement laced underneath it.

She smiled lightly, leaning back into him. “Thanks. I couldn’t break the door down.”

“No,” he said, a chuckle barely audible in his chest. “You wouldn’t be able to do that.”

She pouted. “I tried.”

“I saw the damage,” he muttered, pressing his cheek to her hair for a second. “I cleaned it up for you.”

“Thanks,” she breathed again, her hand resting on his arm.

But even as she relaxed into him, her eyes landed on the unfinished dishes in the sink and her mind jumped to the laundry basket still waiting upstairs, full of half-folded clothes. Her jaw tensed. “What do you want for dinner?”

Keegan didn’t answer immediately.

“Do we still have greens in the freezer?” he asked after a moment, still rocking her gently against him.

“Yeah—just beans and corn though,” she said, her voice drifting.

His arms shifted from her waist to her shoulders so they could rock together side to side, feet swaying as though they were dancing without music.

“We’ve got frozen chicken chunks too,” she continued. “I can throw something together once I’m done everything else.”

He didn’t let go.

“What things do you need to do?” he asked softly.

She hesitated, listing them silently in her head before replying. “A list.”

“I thought I was gone another few weeks,” she added after a pause. “You didn’t say you were coming home early.”

“Things went unexpectedly well,” he replied simply, as if that explained the ghosts behind his eyes and the bags under them.

She shifted in his hold, wincing slightly when her shoulder reminded her that it wasn’t thrilled with all the movement.

“Are you hurt somewhere?”

“My shoulder’s just sore,” she replied. “Strained something trying to rip the boards off the window.”

Keegan grunted. “You need to rest.”

She huffed a breath. “I need to finish the dishes.”

His arms tightened for a moment before he released her. “No. You go take care of other things. I’ve got these.”

“You sure? I mean, you just got home—”

“I’m sure,” he cut in, that finality in his tone impossible to argue with. “You look tired, baby girl.”

She blinked, surprised by the gentleness. He never used pet names unless they were alone. She nodded and turned to kiss his arm, the soft fabric of his sweater catching her lips.

“Thanks.”

She slipped out of the kitchen and up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Her knees popped. Her back ached. But she had momentum and wasn’t going to waste it.

The laundry basket sat where she left it—clothes tumbled out like casualties. She crouched, stuffing them back in, and started her usual check of the rooms.

Eleanor was first. Y/n poked her head in and instantly regretted it.

“Are you having fun, Ellie?” she asked warily.

“Yup! My dolls are having a cult sacrifice!” Eleanor beamed, lifting a dismembered Barbie tied with a sock.

“Okay… you do that,” Y/n said slowly, backing out.

Next: Thomas.

She knocked before opening his door to find him scraping dried red paint off the floor. His cheeks flushed when he saw her, but she gave him a silent nod of approval. At least he was trying. She closed the door behind her.

Grant was sprawled on the floor of his room, snoring lightly, a blanket tangled around his legs and a blue stain from earlier still marking his shirt. She set the basket down, gently slid a pillow under his head, and pulled a fresh blanket from his bed to drape over him.

Then she moved to the master bedroom—the one she shared with Keegan.

It was still the way he liked it. Orderly. Clean. Undisturbed.

She set the laundry basket on the bed and began putting the clothes away, each folded piece slipping into its rightful place. Bra. Pajamas. Leggings. Socks. Tank tops. Every motion was muscle memory.

Something shifted in her peripheral vision.

She turned and jumped—then laughed. Keegan stood silently in the doorway, still as a shadow.

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” she gasped, pressing a hand to her chest.

He stepped forward, not apologizing—just observing. He often watched her like this. Not out of laziness or habit. It was the way he memorized her—her rhythms, her movements, the way she folded clothes or tucked hair behind her ear—so that when he was halfway across the world, he could still see her in his mind.

He crossed the room without a word and helped her finish putting the laundry away. Once the drawers were shut, he took the basket and tossed it into the closet with casual efficiency.

She raised a brow. “What’s got you in such a helpful mood?”

Keegan gave her a low smile. “Maybe it’s because I came home early to my beautiful wife.”

His arms wrapped around her waist again and in one smooth, deliberate motion, he pulled her close and then tossed her back onto the bed with a gentle bounce. She landed on her back with a startled laugh.

“Keegan—!” she yelped, giggling as he climbed over her.

Fingers found her ribs and began to tickle mercilessly.

“N-no—stop—K-Keegan—!” she cried, breathless from laughter. “Keeg—I'm gonna pee!”

That got him to stop, but he hovered over her with a grin—blue eyes alight with something warmer, deeper.

“Late dinner okay?” he murmured, fingers brushing her sides.

“You’re sure?” she asked softly, still breathless.

“The kids had ice cream. They’re good for a while.”

She nodded, and then his expression shifted—slightly more serious.

“You’re still on your birth control, right?”

Her eyes widened. Heat crept into her cheeks. “Y-yeah. I am.”

“Good.”

Keegan slid off the bed and into the hallway. She sat up, confused, until she heard his voice call out:

“Kids! Come here.”

Eleanor was the first out of her room, bouncing like a puppy. Grant stumbled behind her, rubbing his eyes. Thomas came last, cautious.

Keegan didn’t yell. He didn’t scold.

Instead, he crouched to their level.

“You three—go outside. Stay together. Don’t go near the road. If you go into the woods, take Hobo with you. Understand?”

The effect was immediate. Smiles bloomed like sunshine.

“YES!” they cheered.

Keegan watched them race down the stairs with mild amusement before turning and quietly closing the bedroom door behind him.

Then he walked back to the bed, calm and sure, and climbed back in, straddling his wife with one knee on either side of her.

“Now,” he said, voice low and rough, “where were we?”

And for the first time in a while, Y/n didn’t feel like a mother. She just felt like his again.

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marble-hornets-nest
Anonymous asked:

Toby, is your cheek okay? Actually- are you okay? How are you feeling?

“My cheeks are fine! I’m fine, and the wh-WHole damn world is just fi-ine. 

Well! Maybe Masky isn’t… I take that back.”

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Oh boi oh man found the author of my most favorite ticci toby fanart

And the author went private, I just i love this style so much, i am saddened

I wanted to see more of this ow maaan

Wonder if s/he drew more of him

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Anonymous asked:

How would Toby be with a romantic partner if he ever entered a relationship (like would he be toxic/romantic/etc??)

This will be long, buckle up, as I want to tackle multiple questions.

This is an x y/n headcanons visual thing.

Warning: Terrible writing. Might be slightly dark. Very very long

Firstly, all depends on the closeness you have with Toby.

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✶ PICK ME

SYNOPSIS. When they act like a pick me.
PAIRINGS. Yandere!batboys x Fem!reader
FEATURING. Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne.
NOTE. English is not my first language so I'm sorry for any mistake.

DICK GRAYSON

You mention you like guys who work out once. Just once.

Suddenly Dick’s doing push ups in your vicinity like his life depends on it.

“Yeah, no big deal,” he says, voice just slightly too loud. “I did 500 this morning before patrol.”

He makes direct eye contact.

You blink. “…that’s nice, Dick.”

He grins. “You could… spot me sometime.”

“That’s not how push ups work.”

“I can make it work.”

He’s the king of humble bragging disguised as self deprecation:

“Ugh, I don’t even look that good in blue, do I? Be honest, you probably think Nightwing’s suit is too much, right?”

(He absolutely wants you to say you love it.)

He’ll show off his acrobat skills for no reason at all. You’ll be walking down the street, and he’ll suddenly somersault off a lamppost.

“Why are you like this?”

“Just keeping your life interesting, sweetheart.”

He tries so hard to be chill when you talk to someone else but you can see him deflate a little. Next thing you know, he’s sending you selfies at the gym with captions like:

“Just checking in 😅 Hope your day’s as strong as my biceps 💪✨”

JASON TODD

Jason’s the kind of guy who’ll scoff and roll his eyes when you compliment someone else—

“Oh, him? Yeah, bet he cries when his soy latte’s too hot.”

But then you compliment him, and he’s suddenly soft.

“Yeah? You think I’m… better looking than him?”

“No reason, just—yeah, that’s cool. Good taste.”

You mention liking bad boys and he gets all smug:

“Yeah, I mean, I did die once. Kinda ups my street cred.”

He’ll subtly angle for sympathy like it’s a competition.

“Nah, it’s fine, I’m used to people not liking me. You probably like the perfect, clean cut types.”

“Jason, literally no one said that.”

“Yeah, but you thought it.”

He acts like he doesn’t care but will 100% send you pictures of his bike out of nowhere.

“Just tuned her up. Thought you’d appreciate a man who knows how to handle heavy machinery.”

Translation: Tell me I look hot.

And when you do? Oh, he’s cooked. Instantly flustered, red ears, looking away.

“Yeah, whatever. I mean… I do look good.”

He says it, but his grin gives him away.

TIM DRAKE

Tim’s brand of pick me energy is subtle. Manipulative, even.

He’ll drop casual little lines like:

“I don’t sleep much. Been thinking about you—uh, the case. Thinking about the case.

He wants you to think he’s the tragic, mysterious genius.

“You wouldn’t get it, it’s… dark, complicated.”

“Then explain it.”

He panic, “It’s classified.”

He’ll send you memes at 3 AM, just to see if you’re awake.

If you reply? Victory.

If you don’t? Expect him to mention it the next day:

“Couldn’t sleep last night. Guess I just needed someone to talk to.”

He acts all modest when you praise him:

“You’re really smart, Tim.”

“Nah, not really. Just… smarter than most people you know, probably.”

If you so much as mention another man’s intelligence, he short circuits.

“Oh, you think he’s smart? That’s cute. Does he have a working theory on multiversal ethical paradoxes?”

(“Tim, we were talking about a barista who can remember my order.”)

He tries to make you coffee one morning and it’s somehow awful, but he’s staring at you all hopeful like:

“I stayed up all night perfecting the ratio. You like it?”

“…it tastes like tears.”

“Yeah, mine.”

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian’s idea of a pick me moment is… well, warped.

He would rather die than admit he’s seeking your attention.

Yet every move he makes screams “pick me or perish.”

You compliment someone’s outfit?

“Hn. Their tailor clearly lacks taste. My shirt is superior in fabric and cut.”

You say you like art?

“I paint. Far better than anyone you know.”

He’ll randomly offer you fruit he sliced himself like a tiny medieval prince:

“Eat. It’s fresh. I chose the ripest one for you.”

He insists he doesn’t care what you think—then asks:

“Do you find me… tolerable? …Aesthetically?”

You blink. “What?”

“Answer quickly. I don’t have all day.”

When you call him cute, he glares at first—then preens.

“Tch. I suppose I am… adequate.”

(He will be smiling about it for the next week.)

If you laugh at someone else’s joke, he interrupts with the coldest:

“That wasn’t funny.”

Then tries to tell a joke himself.

It’s not funny either.

But he stares at you expectantly until you pretend to laugh.

He nods, smug. “See? I’m hilarious.”

do not repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on any platforms. thank you for reading :)

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Trigger Happy

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Reader

SYNOPSIS: "Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. "You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. ""Your hands are still clean." He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

NOTE: I'm semi happy with this I fear

It was an accident. It was an accident. It was an accident!

She didn't mean it, she would never, it's just...just that she was scared, and she acted on instinct, and-and Jason had told her what to do in situations like this, times when she might be in trouble on the off chance that he wasn't around to handle it.

Her knowledge of the human body is limited, but even she can tell that the bloody knife clutched in her right hand nicked something important. The man at her feet should not be bleeding that much, red trickled out in spurts and nightmarish wet gurgles.

Shaky hands fumble with her phone, fingers slick with blood trying to type in the passcode. A sob punches out of her chest as the liquid makes her thumb harder to register. The blurriness from the tears don't do anything to help her vision either.

A groan comes from somewhere to her right, the sound tightening the band across her chest. The alley walls are too close, the air is too thick and she can't breathe.

Crimson smears her cheek when she presses the phone to her ear, hyperventilating.

"Hey, what's up, baby?"

He picks up on the third ring, and she collapses against the grimy brick wall. She latches onto the voice, lets it ground her enough to find her voice.

"Jason." She sobs out. The knife clatters on the alley floor, a punch of noise in the sudden silence. "Jay..."

                                  · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

His spine straightens at the noise, hands stilling with the wrench still in hand. Immediately, he's sliding himself out from under the car he's working on and wiping his hands clean, phone pressed to ear instead of on speaker.

"What's wrong? Fuck, are you hurt?" He demands immediately. Icy dread creeps around him when all he gets as a response is something incomprehensible, and quick, small gasps. "Breathe, angel." He says, pulling up her location. Jason's brow furrows when it shows her in some random alley. There's nothing else to think about because the next moment he's grabbing his helmet, swinging a leg over his bike and kicking off.

"I'm coming, all right? Just need you to stay on the line with me." He tries to keep his voice as steady as possible, biting back the fear and the hint of green rage creeping along the edges of his vision. Someone had made her sound like that and he wasn't there. "Are you safe?" He asks, and the silence that follows nearly makes his heart stop.

"I think." A wobbly voice whispers hoarsely. "It's...it's over, Jay. I didn't..." Her voice breaks and he curses out loud, mind racing. Jason pushes his panic down and hones it into that sharp focus he only ever reaches for when he's on patrol, stepping on the accelerator.

'It's over'

The words play in his head like a broken record as he talks to her, coaxing her to breathe, reassuring her the best as possible while possibilities wreck havoc on his judgement. If someone touched her, if they so much as breathed on her, he swears. No kill room be damned, Jason would cut their fucking hands off.

The bike finally swerves into the alley, and he's off of it before it even fully stops, one hand on his holster, eyes scanning the alley with a desperation he's not felt in forever. There's no active threat, none that he can make out.

Jason doesn't give the body on the ground a moment's glance, instead hones into the figure curled up into herself against the wall a few steps to the side.

"I'm here." He says lowly, immediately crouching next to her. Large, warm hands find her shoulders, prying her upright from how she's curled into herself. He cups her cheeks, frantically looking her over. His thumb wipes away the smear of blood on her face, and the caged, thrashing leash of his anger settles down marginally when he sees no wound under the gore.

The wounded noise she makes makes his throat close up, and he hates himself a little as he tightens his grip to keep her in place against the wall when she tries to lurch forward in his arms.

"I've got you, baby. One minute." He assures, taking a few seconds to smooth a hand over the rest of her body, just to be extra sure. When he doesn't find an injury, he exhales and crushes her against him, chest to chest. Fingers tangle in her hair, rubbing soothingly down her spine. "You're okay, I'm here." His voice is fierce.

A few moments pass, but instead of calming down, her breathing seems to quicken again much to his confusion. "Tell me what's wrong." He finally says, firm but gentle. "What happened? Someone attack you?" When she pulls back, he lets her, still keeping her within arms length.

"Jay." Her breath hitches, shaking her head, eyes drifting to the body close by. Her face twists up again and Jason is quick to start connecting the dots.

"Did he do something?" He keeps his eyes on her.

"He tried." She finally says. "But I...you taught me if it happened to- but he wouldn't let me run-" She gasps, and Jason lets her talk, rubs her arms up and down, brow pinched in worry. "I panicked and he had a gun- and I-..." Her eyes flicker off to the side.

Jason follows her gaze to the bloody knife.

Her initials engraved in the hilt.

Jason had scratched them himself before gifting it to her 'just in case', a couple months ago.

"Fuck." He breathes, as everything clicks. "Shit, baby, it's-"

"I killed him." The sob that heaves out of her is gut-wrenching, and Jason's pulling her to his chest immediately. "I killed him!" She gasps wetly. "I didn't mean to, I...I didn't want to!"

He takes a deep breath, tilting his head back to look up at the sky for a second. Taking a life was never easy, it didn't matter whether it was in self defence or not.

Jason still remembers his first. A hungry kid roaming the streets years ago, shivering from the cold and picking through one of the dumpsters behind a run down movie theatre. He remembers the owners coming out and yelling at him, lunging in anger when Jason lashed out. He remembers pushing. He remembers the crack of a skull against the metal lid. He remembers staring transfixed before vomiting what little he'd managed to scrounge that day.

He presses her tighter against him. She wasn't like him, wasn't like any of them. His girl was no killer, not with how soft hearted she was, and Jason would never want this life for her in any world.

Exhaling slowly, he surveys the scene beside them once more...and does a double take. The artery the knife nicked looks fatal, there's no way anybody was getting that man to a hospital before he bled out, but the way his chest moved in small, marginal gasps said there was still some life in him.

There's something about the life he lives that hardens you, takes away your optimism and fragility. It's why Jason is able to make the decision he does so easily.

He stands slowly, pulling her up with him and twisting her to face the gory scene. "You didn't kill him." He says, squeezing her against his side.

"I did." She says, and Jason knows if she doesn't calm down soon she's going to pass out.

"Listen." He grabs her chin, tilts her face to meet his eyes. "Listen to me." In one smooth motion, he pulls out his gun from the holster around his hip and clicks the safety off.

The three gunshots are cracks of lightening in the enclosed space. make her flinch, eyes widening as her fingers clutch onto his jacket. There's a groan, and then it cuts off.

"You didn't kill him. I did." Jason says, turning her face to the body. It's still, no movement, dead eyes staring up at the cloudy sky. He steps back in her line of view, eyes serious and fierce.

"No- that...but I-"

He interrupts. "Your hands are clean. I killed him. Not you." His voice softens as she starts shaking again, burying her face into his chest. "Understand?"

After a few moments, she nods against his chest, still unsteady, but less shaky than before.

Lips press to the crown of her head, firm and grounding. "I've got you. I'll take care of it." He mutters against her hairline, slowly guiding her away from the scene.

When her hands shake, he's there to hold them steady. When she wakes up with a cry during the night, he's there to hold her back to sleep.

And she lets him, leaning on her boyfriend and letting him mutter soothing nonsense, soft and gentle in a way he only ever is with her.

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(1/11/2025)

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Dante feels so stupid. Water droplets fall down his face and neck, some go even southern, exploring the curves of his muscles before his black leather belt absorbs them. He sighs, icy blue eyes focused on his reflection in the broken mirror of his bathroom.

Your soulmate is a clean man, hair kept to perfection, organized, and not messy. You’ll always catch people's attention because he will always dress meekly to make you shine even more. It seems you got lucky eheh.” That damn hag laughed, with her raspy voice.

He kicks the sink drain, the sound coming from it was the same as a bill Dante can’t afford to pay. You two met that witch during one of your walks, when she offered to read your souls and tell you about your soulmate. Dante laughed at her, and even if you had no intention to get your soul read, he insisted; he was so sure he was your soulmate that he expected no other result.

Now, Dante isn’t so young to get his feathers ruffled by something so little; the world is full of scammers, and he knows a thing or two about that. That doesn’t mean his heart didn’t skip a beat or two at those old crone’s words. You didn’t seem to care, actually shrugging your shoulders. If anything, you seemed to be more pissed about having to pay for something you didn’t even ask for.

Are you happy, Dante? C’mon, let’s get home, we have a fresh meal waiting for us!” You said, smile able to lighten up such a gloomy alley like the one where you were.

From that day, the witch words never left his head; maybe that was the real curse. One day, he shaved clean, five days later, he got a haircut after trying to push back his hair; he looked at himself in the mirror, the bile in his mouth made him punch it, getting the splinters out of his hands was a real pain.

New look? What happened? Someone broke your heart?” You chuckled the first time you saw his new look.

Yeah, a hag.” He would have answered, but you didn’t leave him the time, kissing him in a chaste way before getting yourself comfortable in his office.

He tries to remember your face. You didn’t seem displeased by his new look; if anything, you seemed to like it a lot, but he didn’t notice anything unusual. You didn’t seem that enthusiastic about it after all. Just the usual, full of love, you.

Dantw is truly getting his feathers ruffled by a scammer after all. He scratches the back of his head, frustrated with himself, when he hears familiar footsteps at his door.

Dante, I’m here!” He sprints out, the mess he made earlier still untouched.

Wait, go out! I have to clean up.” He takes you by your shoulder before turning you around to push you out.

And since when do you care about it? I saw your place with demons' guts all over, no mess can beat that.” You turn around, releasing from his grip, and in that moment you…notice. Dante almost hears the “click” in your head. “Oh God, please don’t tell me you took seriously thayìt hag words.” You gasp in surprise when he can do nothing but lower his gaze.

Oh no, Dante.” You whine, hugging him so strongly that he can hear your heartbeat “I don’t care about any of that bullshit.” You say, your warm fingers a stark contrast to his chilly skin, caressing his cheeks, too used to brushing away hair that are usually there. “And you shouldn’t either.” Your nose brushes against his one, as a sign to look up. Words die in his throat when he sees his reflection in your eyes; they are warm and full of love. What a gullible idiot he was, to believe a stranger's words, rather than just looking at the person he loves the most.

It’s just natural for his lips to meet yours, in a flurry of pecks on your face, promising a less chaste turn of the events. “Hey, didn’t you have some cleaning to do?” You chuckle when his lips fall on a ticklish spot of your neck. “That would be the only habit I’d be happy if you picked.” He smiles on your skin, biting lightly the same spot that made you chuckle.

Sorry lass, it’s too late to change your mind now.” Dante says, a smile finally back on his handsome face. He lifts you up bridal style, finally making you enter his office.

Same office that didn’t get cleaned that day.

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