ode-to-melpomene

[ode-to-melpomene]

Control

Part 3 of 'Stray' Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: One bad idea snowballs out of control. Word Count: 2829 Warnings: Reader and Jason are both a little fucked up, allusions to depression and Jason's death, subtle size difference, negative self-talk from both parties, and a touch of angst.

Red Hood had to bend and scrape to get through your window. Had you not been in shock at the turn of events, you might have laughed at the sight of this broad, heavily armored man thrusting his arms in front of him and cocking his whole body at an angle to fit himself through your narrow window.

When his shoes touched down on the floor of your modest apartment he tracked snow in with him. Snow and slush, and despite knowing it would leave a mess on your old wooden floors you thought it looked like quite a pretty combination. You liked the grayish look of the rivulets that fell from his shoes as he stepped into the room.

Your heart beat faster when he finally stood to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and cocked his head from side to side, stretching the no-doubt sore muscles. He was broad and filled the entire space like the tiny interior was shaped around him. He hulked there like a wolf eyeing a rabbit. Were his jaws parted in hunger and salivating beneath his helmet?

He finally moved, one hand fiddling with the fingertips of his other glove. His shoulders slackened, curling in on himself slightly.

Your cheeks warmed as you snapped your attention away from him. This was definitely a mistake. This man was a known murderer and, from what you had heard from your associates in Crime Alley, was steadily building his own criminal network within the city. This was a horrible idea.

But you were lonely.

When was the last time you’d had company over? When was the last time you had spent more than a night in this apartment?

Jason observed you carefully from where he stood beside the window, watching you flit away from him. You drew your bottom lip between your teeth and turned your back to him, hiding that doe-eyed gaze. With your head on a swivel, you paced around your dimly lit apartment with a twitchy awkwardness that betrayed the discomfort you were trying to hide.

The apartment was messy. Jason felt less bad about dripping slush onto your wood floors when he saw the stack of dishes piled in your sink, the unopened letters and bills on the folding table in the middle of the room, and the basket of unfolded laundry on your orange couch. His brows furrowed beneath his helmet as he scanned the room from his position beside the window.

Like a moth to a flame, his piercing stare dragged back to you. You stood in the center of your kitchen watching him with that familiar nervous, flighty expression you maintained while meandering the twisting back streets of Crime Alley. Was it that same anxiety that got him caught by you weeks ago?

You held out a beckoning hand to him. Jason’s heart thudded in his chest.

You watched Red Hood, your own heart pounding as you stared at the unmoving figure shrouded in darkness. Backlit by moonlight. Blanketing the devil with a halo.

“The dishes?” you asked, your voice barely above a squeak. The man twitched as if your timidity spooked him. Red Hood lifted the dishes to his chest and stepped across your apartment in a few long strides. You flinched when he lurched to a stop in front of you, his movements clunky and intimidating. He didn’t move like a lithe panther like he had on the rooftop the first night you saw him–no, he moved like a teenager relearning his body after a growth spurt. All sharp angles and quick movements.

You avoided touching him as you took the glass baking dish and plate from his gloved hands and set it on the counter.

“Um,” you start, with no particular thought in mind as you skitter towards the fridge. You hear the sound of fabric shuffling and look over your shoulder to see his head cocked to the side slightly. He’s so close now, practically barricading you in your own kitchen. The apartment was so small, he could probably lash out and grab you before you had a chance to run away. A fox in a rabbit’s den.

How strong was he? If he were angry, could you throw you across the room? Would he even need his gun to kill you, or could he clasp his hands around your throat and squeeze? How much biting, scratching, and kicking would it take to get him off you?

If he pinned you down, would you even try to fight back?

You flushed as warmth spread through your traitorous body. Your shoulders trembled as you stood in front of the open fridge, filled to the brim with Tupperware and leftovers.

“I… do you like chicken parmesan?” you asked, your voice cracking. Your question is met with silence.

When you look over your shoulder you find the Red Hood looming in the corner of your kitchen, staring down at a picture frame. You liked the frame–silver, with pretty flower details at the corners that reminded you of spring in a place you didn’t call home anymore. The frame was empty, leering at you and your empty life.

“I don’t have anything to fill it with,” you answer his unspoken question, swallowing the lump in your throat. His helmet tilts again, jaw angled towards you–you can just make it skin in the thin space between the high collar of his compression-fit shirt and the edge of his helmet. You lick your lips.

“No family?” he asks. Your heart should have leapt into your throat at that–it was the sort of thing a serial killer would ask a victim to test the waters.

“None that would notice if I were gone,” you admit in a whisper. Red gleamed in the dim light of your kitchen, the solitary light in the corner of the living room illuminating his stiff figure. “They… had plans for me. College. Career. Things I didn’t want- not that they ever bothered to ask what I did want. It’s probably extreme, but… it was easier to disappear than tell them no.”

Or it’s easier to run and hide.

Jason tilted his helmeted head to the floor, his brows drawn together and lips pursed in a thin line. Growing up with- being raised to be a detective made it easy to parse out what you were doing. You were running. No concrete roots anywhere, ready to disappear again at a moment’s notice. You barely let yourself build a life, sequestered in this rundown apartment building for the sole purpose of dedicating yourself to something else. Anything to make you forget how lonely life had made you.

He knew that feeling.

“You were right the other night, y’know,” you said, rousing him from his thoughts. Jason lifted his head and fixed you with a cold stare. “When you said I don’t know what I’m doing? You’re right, I don’t. I don’t know why I’m here.”

You held his gaze steadily for the first time all evening, daring him to judge you. Some days you wondered if anyone would care if you disappeared–the answer always came back with a resounding no. That shook you to your core. No one wanted you, the hermit on the fifth floor with a dead-end job, no friends, no family.

But maybe if someone depended on you… maybe someone would mourn you, too. If you could give yourselves to others, bury a piece of yourself in their souls, maybe they would feel a piece of themselves break when you inevitably shattered.

It wasn’t kindness. It was survival. Desperation. A need to be remembered, held, cherished, and you clawed for it in the only way you knew how. Subservience.

Red Hood held your stare. Your gaze captivated him in a way he hadn’t felt since he watched the timer tick down to his death. His exhale came out shaky, his hands trembling at his sides because-

Because you got it. That ache that seeped deep into his bones, that desire to mean something to someone so viscerally that they would fight for you. Bruce had never done that.

Jason found that in the children who demanded he play games with them late on his patrols. He found it in the grateful mothers who thanked him for scaring dealers out of their neighborhoods. He found it in the fathers who stood beside him and fought for safer streets.

He found it in the reverence in your gaze.

“What do you want?” he asked, modulated voice breaking the tense silence. You blinked rapidly at his question, chasing away scattered thoughts.

“What?”

“You said… you said your family never asked what you wanted,” he hesitated, unease slipping into his rough voice. “What do you want?”

You hesitated for a moment. Jason’s gaze dropped to your parted lips before returning to the burgeoning hope in your eyes.

“Home,” you responded with a timid smile. Jason flexed his fist at his side.

When was the last time he had called something home? The Manor, maybe. Six months for him, nearly three for the rest of the world. Home wasn’t something he deserved when he had come back so wrong. Like a newborn fawn struggling to stand on tremulous legs, he fought to learn the body he had been reborn into that didn’t feel like his. He came back angry, volatile, wrong, wrong, wrong-

“Are you okay?”

Jason flinched. “Fine,” he answered curtly. He turned away from you and planted his hands on his countertop, fingers curling against the lip of the linoleum with a bruising grip. His chest heaved with deep breaths, huffing like a bull. Control wasn’t something that came easily anymore.

And then he felt you standing by his side. You, who seemed too sweet, a kindness he certainly didn’t deserve. You, who reminded him of the things he wanted but couldn’t- shouldn’t have.

“I’m not sure what I did, but… it’s okay to be upset,” you spoke softly, leaning beside him. “I can… I can go in the other room if you need a minute.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he answered with a huff, bringing one hand up to his helmet. What was he supposed to say to you, a literal stranger? That anger was easier for him to process than anything else? That it came naturally since his time in the Pit?

“Can I touch you?”

Jason’s heart raced. Every muscle in his body tensed, pulled taut with shock. His mouth felt dry, his tongue tacky, and sweat beaded on his brow beneath his helmet. You were asking to touch him?

When you finally did, Jason felt his heart stop. Your hand upon his upper arm, covered by his jacket, felt apprehensive. If not for every cell in his body on alert, he might not have felt the earnest touch.

Your own heart pounded. You didn’t take his silence as a no, but it certainly wasn’t a yes either. So you held still and offered a gentle touch to the soft, worn leather coat he wore over his armored figure. A vigilante, a murderer, a criminal, allowing you to touch him like it was the most natural thing in the world to both of you.

Or maybe just to you, given the way he shook under your hand. Perhaps you had misinterpreted the situation and inflated your significance. Of course, you had. What was a gnat to a hawk, if not a pest? You pulled your hand away.

Red Hood lashed out and your breath caught in your throat. His gloved hand tightened around your wrist in a harsh grip–not bruising, but firm enough to draw a whine from deep in the back of your throat. He relinquished his grip immediately, his shoulders sagging at the expression on your face.

“I’m sorry,” he uttered. Your hand remained raised between the two of you, and he wasn’t sure if it was a barrier or an offering. He twisted slightly to face you, looming over you in the shadowy kitchen. Jason hesitantly lifted his hand, the same that had gripped your wrist moments before. Slowly, he brought his open palm up and rested it against your wrist in a quelling gesture. “I scared you.”

“Only a little,” you answered with a shy smile. His stomach twisted. “It’s okay. I wasn’t expecting you to be a perfect gentleman when I invited you in here. It’s okay to be overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed. That was a good way of putting it. Overwhelmed by the way you smelled, how you twisted your wrist to press your palm flat against his gloved hand, and the well of sadness and longing in your eyes. Overwhelmed by life, by hatred, by you.

You interlaced your fingers with his. Jason swallowed the lump in his throat. When was the last time someone had dared to touch him like that? You lowered your joined hands to rest comfortably between you and Jason’s eyes followed, wrestling with the image of your smaller hand cradled in his. It looked unnervingly natural.

“I get it. I’m not very good at talking to people either.” You offered a reassuring smile. “But you make it easier.”

Jason scowled beneath this helmet. “Why? Because you’re talking to a helmet and not a person?”

You scoffed a playful sound that brought warmth to his cheeks. “No, because I’m talking to you. You actually bother to listen.”

Jason couldn’t imagine anyone not listening to you. Your voice sounded like a melody compared to the roar of his own thoughts. Thoughts that suffocated him, made him feel less than and undeserving. That wasn’t his fault though. His past had forced him to respond with vitriol. The way you looked up at him from under your lashes with a pretty frown on your lips quieted those thoughts, even if for just a moment.

Jason turned his wrist, dragging your hand with it. He brought your joined hands up and pressed your knuckles to the edge of his helmet. It was the closest he could bring himself to a thank you, although he wasn’t sure what he was thanking you for.

Your breath stuttered. Red Hood pushed your knuckles firmly against the cold surface of his helmet, just off-center of where you assumed his mouth was. Your heart thudded in your chest, and despite the thick gloves he wore you were certain he could feel the frantic beat of your pulse on your wrist.

His grip was tight, but not demanding as it had been earlier. Your cheeks warmed, your lips parting in a silent question as you stared at the expressionless sea of red in front of you.

Warmth pooled in your belly and crept tantalizingly across your skin. Yes, he could break you… but he wouldn’t. At least, you didn’t think so. But, God, if it meant he would continue to touch you like that, you would let him break you. He cradled your hand like a lifeline, like you were the last thing keeping him rooted. The only thing that mattered in a torrential sea of emotion that you could barely stand to sail alone.

You took a step closer. You expected him to flinch, but he remained steadfast, his helmet angling down slightly to watch you closely. You tugged on his hand and he relented, allowing you to guide him as you pleased.

Red Hood let out a choked noise through his helmet when you brought his gloved knuckles to your lips. The barest touch, one that he couldn’t feel through the kevlar, and yet his heart beat wildly against his ribs. Your lips ghosted over the fabric for just a moment, barely a hint of a kiss, before you pulled away.

His free hand twitched at his side. Your gaze flicked down at the motion and the corner of your mouth quirked up in a half smile.

“You can touch me,” you offered, giving his hand a squeeze.

Jason thought he might die.

“I’d ruin you,” he answered, his voice warbling in desperation.

Loneliness, anger, fear, longing- he saw it all on your face. You felt the same weight he did, and yet you basked in it and let it guide you towards something better. Or maybe something worse, if it was guiding you towards him.

“I’m already ruined,” you said, clasping his hand between both of yours.

Jason jerked his hand away. Your hands fell limply at your sides, disappointment clear in the way your brows knit together. He took a lumbering step back, feeling like he had let you down again. That was all he was capable of, he was sure of it. He couldn’t let himself get entangled in your life without sending it all crashing down.

He was gone before you had a chance to protest. You shuddered at the blast of cold air that filled the room through the open window. Sunlight peeked over the Gotham skyline, draping the sky and your mood in a cloudy gray.

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

Tag list: @taylorgriffin, @joonunivrs, @solari0om

[ode-to-melpomene]

Hello!! I loved your writing for Daring rescue! It was a funny but still showed the vulnerable sides of the batboys!!!

I was wanting to request some fluff with Tim? Up to you! I just feel like he needs more fics!

I agree, Tim definitely needs more love! I hope you like it 💛

Weekend Off

Pairings: Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Weekend plans are often interrupted when you are dating a hero. Word Count: 985 Warnings: Fluff, and somewhat suggestive dialogue/flirting. Maybe subtly angsty at the end.

Tim tried not to bring vigilantism into your home. He knew you didn’t mind–in fact, you had teased him about how good he looked in his suit several times… but often he fought to keep you and that side of his life separated.

Tonight was not that night.

A last-minute call from Stephanie had changed his plans. He had planned to take the weekend off with you since you had just finished midterm exams and were feeling a lull in your college workload; but, if Steph was calling him for backup despite knowing his weekend plans, it was too important to ignore.

So, Tim hurriedly gathered what he needed. He was underprepared–too few supplies in his toolkit, given he didn’t want to bring extras into your apartment. He regretted that now and thoroughly wished he could hide a stockpile in the back of your closet. You would let him if he asked.

“I’ve got a cup steeping,” you called from the kitchen, your voice carrying through the adar door to the small bedroom Tim changed in. “You want some before you head out?”

“Coffee?” he asked with a crooked grin. He could picture the way your nose no doubt wrinkled in disgust.

“Tea,” you responded with an exaggerated sigh and a hidden smile. “Y’know, the one that’s actually good for you.”

“Coffee can be good for you,” he debated with a smile. Tim sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the door, and worked on pulling his boots on. They slid on easily over his socks–a comfortable pair you had gotten for him for his birthday after complaining about his feet aching after patrols. The comfort the socks brought him made it easy to ignore the pink flamingo pattern. “It helps boost metabolism and antioxidants-”

“And causes anxiety and sleep disruption,” you argued, your voice suddenly much closer than the kitchen. Tim turned to look over his shoulder at your figure standing in the doorway, sipping from the warm mug in your hands. “You and I both know you need more sleep.”

“I sleep best when I’m with you,” he replied. Tim stood with a tired sigh and adjusted his feet in the boots.

“Have I mentioned how much I like the suit?”

Tim laughed, turning to face you and your teasing grin. Your eyes roved over the suit, taking another sip as you ogled. “A few times, yeah.”

You hummed in reply then lowered the mug from your lips. “I prefer you without the cowl. The domino mask shows how handsome you are.”

“Being handsome doesn’t exactly help me stop crime.”

“It does if your good looks distracts them enough,” you quipped. Tim scoffed playfully and turned his back to you. He pulled his belt from the suitcase he had brought with him and fastened it around his waist.

“What, like how you get distracted?”

Tim fiddled with the buckle of his belt, waiting for your clever response. His brows rose when you held off as he adjusted the straps across his chest and centered the emblem. When he finally turned to face you again you were staring at him from beneath your lashes, a coy smile on your lips.

“Sorry, did you say something? I was too busy admiring how you look in that tight spandex-”

“Alright, enough out of you,” he chastised with a shake of his head. You barked out a laugh at his response, admiring the blush that rose on his cheeks. You set your mug of tea atop the dresser beside the bed and made your way over to him.

Your hands slipped beneath the tactical straps that crossed his chest. His hands landed on your waist, bunching the soft fabric of your pajamas beneath his gloved hands. “You look nice,” he uttered quietly.

You scoffed. “It’s the same pajamas I wear every time you come over.”

“And you look nice every time,” he answered, pressing a kiss to your temple. You huffed in response and your hands moved up, one cupping his cheek and the other tangling in his hair. You tipped his head, chasing his lips with your own.

“Wish you could stay,” you muttered against his lips between slow kisses. He hummed in response and cupped your jaw with one gloved hand. “Don’t suppose I could convince you to?”

Tim pulled away and fixed you with a stern look. You sighed and dropped your forehead to his chest with a dull thump.

“I’m going to watch your favorite show without you while you’re gone.”

Tim gasped softly in offense, although the way his hands moved across your back and pulled you flushed against him told a different story. “Criminal. You know I could throw you in Blackgate for something like that?” His hands cupped your cheeks and lifted your head, forcing you to meet his gaze.

“Good luck,” you huffed out a laugh. “I’m a highly skilled individual. My boyfriend taught me self-defense–I’m not going down without a fight.”

“Wouldn’t want it any other way,” he responded, pressing a quick kiss to your lips. You sighed in defeat when he took a step away, his hands moving deftly to his cowl and pulling it over his head. “Gotta go. Spoiler wants backup before she proceeds with her case.”

You smile warmly, hiding the disappointment as best you can. “She’s lucky to have you watching her back.”

Tim hesitated for a moment as he backed towards your bedroom window, staff in hand. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I know. Stay safe,” you answered with a reassuring smile. He returned the expression as he slid the window open and planted one foot on the ledge outside. He nodded curtly in response.

Tim didn’t linger. The faster he could get this done, the faster he could return to the warmth of your apartment and enjoy his weekend off.

[ode-to-melpomene]

The Hand That Feeds

Part 2 of 'Stray' Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Confrontation rarely goes as planned. Word Count: 2791 Warnings: Stalking, minor gore/injuries, allusions to death, Jason doesn't know how to process his feelings without being mean.

Jason had tried to rationalize why he kept coming back. Really, he had tried. He had to make sure you weren’t hiding something. He didn’t trust the packages you handed out. He was just making sure you got home safe.

But what could you possibly be hiding when you appeared to lay your soul bare on Gotham’s filthy streets? What didn’t he trust about the packages when he had seen their contents with his own eyes? Why did he need to make sure you made it home safe at all?

None of it explained how comfortable he had become on the balcony across from your apartment.

Jason glowered under his helmet as snow fell in thick clumps, whipped about by the harsh breeze. You left your window open sometimes when the wind had died down. Tonight was not one of those nights. He stuck to the shadows, scrunching his shoulders, and crouched on the balcony–you would have to look out of your window and up to see him. That fact did not provide him with any sense of relief.

The lights were off in your apartment save for what he assumed was a lamp out of his view. He could hardly make out the furniture he seemed to know so well from a distance; the second hand couch you had shoved against a wall and the foldable table that was constantly covered in a slathering of random items. One of the three chairs you owned was dragged beneath one of the three large windows that allowed him to view into your apartment. To the right of the three large windows was the fire escape and the small window beside it. The thin curtains were drawn on that window.

In the two weeks Jason had been observing you he hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. You didn’t seem to spend much time at your apartment, using it primarily for sleeping or preparing your deliveries. He could tell from your clothing that you worked some middle management, decent paying job like most Gothamites in this neighborhood. He knew when you left for work, when you got home, what kind of music you liked.

He knew your name. Of course he did, that had been the first thing he had hunted for after lurking outside your apartment the first time. Lurker. Jason had never described himself as that before. It seemed to be a lot of what he did now.

The curtains by the fire escape window drew back and Jason tensed as he always did. He watched with narrowed eyes as you slid the window open, placed something on the ledge, and closed the window again. It had become a ritual by now–you, leaving gifts for him every few days, and him, never accepting them. He never strayed too close to the items you left out, and they were always gone by his next visit.

Jason curled his fingers, the tips of his new gloves pressing into his knee pads. He worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together. The one dim light in the apartment went out, and his bated breath went with it.

He stood with a ragged sigh. So that was it, the end of his nightly routine. The sun would rise in a few hours and he needed to be tucked back into his safehouse before then-

What was that smell?

Jason jerked his helmeted head towards the fire escape. A tray sat outside the window, too big to rest on the ledge, and steam wafted upward as heat met wintery chill. Even through his modulated helmet he could smell the sweet, sugary aroma that stifled his rampant thoughts.

Caramel. It smelled like caramel.

Jason hesitated, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides. He knew getting closer was a bad idea he likely wouldn’t be able to come back from. If he moved that mental boundary even an inch forward- give an inch, take a mile. That was all Jason Todd knew how to do anymore, afterall.

Snow crunched under his heavy work boots. The fire escape rattled subtly, the sound muffled by the wind. His mind screamed to stop, turn around, leave, and don’t come back. All of that came to a screeching halt when he saw brownies topped with a caramel drizzle in a glass pan. When was the last time Jason had warm brownies, or anything sweet for that matter? Not since-

Jason shook his head as if the act alone would clear the thoughts that tumbled through his head. Since dragging himself from the Pit, his diet consisted of scraps and canned food. Nothing like this bitter thing that stunk of home and burned itself into his memory.

One couldn’t hurt.

Right?

Jason was becoming too predictable. Shadowing you on your route home, lurking outside your apartment most nights, pursuing you through the tangled mess of streets in Crime Alley. It was all a recipe for disaster when someone finally caught onto the pattern. Jason couldn’t afford patterns, not when it put him in danger. And maybe put you in danger, too… not that he needed to be bothered by that. You weren’t some street urchin who needed his protection.

Yet, still, he hid in your shadow like a sheep dog trailing a lamb.

He sat on a different perch this time, making the fire escape platform that belonged to the apartment above yours his new home. He sat in a crouch, occasionally shifting to stretch his hips and work sore muscles. His elbows were planted on his knees, his eyes cast downward through the grating. The platform below was illuminated by the lights inside your apartment, that familiar golden glow bathing the rusted red metal.

Jason’s stomach lurched when the window slid open, softly clicking into place at the apex. Your hands extended slowly, clasped tightly around a plate wrapped in plastic.

“Stop,” Jason spoke up, breaking the silence.

The plate crashed onto the metal platform. He expected your hands to disappear back inside in fright and slam the window shut behind you. He expected that window to never open again.

Instead, you surged forward with your hands firmly planted on the snowy ledge. In the blink of an eye your entire torso was outside the window, your neck craning to catch a glimpse of him above you in the darkness. Jason’s heart thundered in his chest as your eyes finally met his helmet.

“Stop what?” you asked, and he thought his heart might stop at the sound of your voice.

“Stop that,” he growled with a tip of his helmeted head towards the fallen plate. He leaned forward and planted one gloved palm on the grated platform, glaring daggers at you. “I don’t need your help.”

You shuffled about so that you could sit on the ledge, paying no attention to the thin dusting of snow that no doubt wetted the pajama pants you wore. Jason squinted in the darkness at your shirt, the image of some musical group emblazoned on the front. Was that your favorite-?

That wasn’t important.

You gripped the ledge on either side of your thighs and leaned back as far as you could, holding yourself at an angle so you could stare up at him. He wished you would glare, sneer, pout- hell, if you laughed in his face it would be better than the doe-eyed stare you fixed him with.

“I just thought you might be hungry.”

His thoughts came to a screeching halt. This was Red Hood you were talking to–the new, violent vigilante who used decapitation as a means of sending a message. Jason who, quite frankly, fed himself not because he felt he deserved it but because he needed fuel to continue fighting. And here you were, gazing up at him with a blank expression as if talking to a man in kevlar and armor was the most normal thing in the world.

“I don’t need you to feed me,” he hissed between his teeth.

“Then why do you keep coming back?”

His eyes scoured yours beneath his helmet, memorizing their color, their shape, their emotion. He expected this would be the last time he would see your eyes, after all.

There had to be some reason you were doing this–people don’t just do good things. There had to be a motive. Maybe it was some sort of short-term fame you desired, being the person to finally get a close-up look at the savage animal that roamed Crime Alley at night without first having its fangs sink into you. Maybe this was some cheap attempt at an exciting seduction, one that would leave him angrier than he already was.

Or maybe you were just plain stupid.

Jason thought back to your apartment. Empty and cold and barely lived in, and, given the eagerness with which you presented yourself to him, perhaps you were the same. Lonely and stupid.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he snapped, teeth bared.

You glared. A nasty, pensive, bitter expression that sent a pleasant chill down his spine. Why did you look so sweet like this?

“Fuck you,” you snapped with equal measure. You gripped the bottom of the open window, slipped back inside, and slammed the plastic frame behind you. The glass rattled mockingly at Jason, who jolted at your sudden departure.

Oh.

Maybe he thought you looked sweet because that hateful glare was how Jason expected people to look at him. Hate, he could handle–maybe even revel in it, at this point. It was certainly easier than being loved and inevitably letting someone down.

So why did he feel like, despite your nasty glare, he had let you down?

Jason crouched there for a while after you left, long after the lights had gone out. When he finally stood, his joints ached from the long night and his chest felt heavy with unwanted emotions. His hands gripped the railing of your upstairs neighbor’s fire escape, then he swung himself over the edge.

His boots landed loudly on the metal grate of your fire escape. He stood there for a long moment, glaring at the dark window with its curtains tightly drawn. It was cold and uninviting–not that he deserved anything more. His gaze fell on the forgotten plastic-wrapped plate on the ground, then flicked back to the window.

Jason hated how much he thought about you.

His safe house apartment was, somehow, more barebones than yours. Jason lived stolen paycheck to stolen paycheck–he couldn't exactly get a job when he was legally dead. So, he spent his days preparing for his nighttime excursions, preparing to remold the Gotham criminal underworld.

Or washing dishes, as he was doing now.

Your dishes. That’s the only reason he was thinking of you, of course. Otherwise, the week he had spent far from your apartment meant nothing to him. He had left the glass baking tray and dinner plate sitting on his counter for too long, and, well…

He honestly wasn’t sure why he was washing it. He had no intention of returning the items, not when he was trying to stay as far away from you as possible. Well, except for two days ago when he had followed you through Crime Alley.

Jason just needed something to occupy his mind after his patrol. He scrubbed at the glass harder, as if the grating of the sponge could absolve him of his own sins. Blood on his hands, again. They deserved it. They always did.

Would you say the same?

Jason growled and dropped the dish in the sink, his soapy hands clasping the edge in an iron-tight grip. His knuckles turned white under the pressure, the bones sore and skin torn from endless nights of fighting. Why did his mind have to circle back to you again? Always back to you, what you were doing, if you would approve of what he was doing, what you were thinking or feeling.

It was the damn dishes. Yes, it had to be the fact that he was washing your things that made him think of you. Otherwise, he didn’t care what you thought, or did, or anything.

You were too damn sweet for his taste anyway.

Maybe if he returned the dishes and finally purged you from his life he wouldn’t think about you again. One last trip to your apartment–he wouldn’t even have to see you, he could just leave the items on your fire escape and be done with it. Knowing you, you were asleep by now and would be until mid-morning. He could leave it outside your window and if it was buried in snow before you realized it was there that wouldn’t bother him.

Jason hadn’t realized he had geared back up until he was standing beside his window. He blinked once, twice, staring down at the helmet in his hands. His heart thumped wildly in his chest.

He scoffed. He had forgotten the dishes in his haste.

Carrying the dishes during his traversal across the city wasn’t any easier the second time. He kept the plate and the glass pan tucked under one arm, carefully judging his leaps before launching himself between buildings and scaling walls. This would have been easier with his old equipment-

No. No, that door opened to a world of trouble he didn’t need. He would make do with what he had, and he would do a better job of cleaning up Crime Alley than anyone else ever could. Technology wasn’t important.

The tension in his shoulders eased when he landed on that familiar balcony across from your apartment. It was about four in the morning, and he was certain you would be asleep–the lights were out, the curtains drawn, and that was the only indication he needed to prove himself right. Jason stared for a moment longer, taking in the comforting silhouette of your apartment. He had memorized all the details weeks ago, to the best of his ability at this distance.

His heart drummed in his chest as he swung across the wide alley between the buildings. He landed hard on your fire escape and staggered to regain his footing, unbalanced with one arm immobilized by the damn dishes. His free hand hit the wall beside the small window to hold himself upright. Jason squeezed his other arm tighter against his side, pressing the dishes against his armored chest in an attempt not to drop the fragile items.

The window slid open.

Jason’s heart jumped into his throat as he tipped his helmet down to see you staring up at him, neck craning with your head out the window. Your eyes were wide, lips parted, brows scrunched together in confusion. His cheeks burned, a sharp shiver rolling down his spine.

He straightened and skittered away from the window. Your bewildered expression followed him, tracing up and down his armored figure with intrigue. This was the closest you had ever been to the mysterious vigilante–could anyone blame you for staring?

Then your hungry gaze dropped to the dishes tucked under his arm. Jason swallowed dryly as he watched the corner of your mouth cock up in a subtle grin. The familiar color of your eyes met his, and his chest ached.

This was a horrible idea.

“I waited,” you broke the silence. You shifted until your shoulders were out the window, your hands planted on the windowsill to hold you upright. You tipped your head, nodding in the direction of the building across the street. “I saw you there one of those last nights. I thought… I thought maybe you might come back. I looked for you there.”

Any retort died in his throat the moment you spoke. Part of him wanted to drop the dishes and run. Part of him wanted to scream at you, tear into you until you were nothing but little pieces. That was all he was good for anymore, ripping people apart. It wouldn’t be hard either.

You aren’t worth my time.

I don’t want to owe you.

You’re making a mistake.

Those were all things he wanted to or should say.

“I didn’t think you would want me to come back,” he answered truthfully.

You beamed. His breath caught raggedly in his throat and his thoughts came to a screeching halt. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that?

“Do you want to come inside?” you offered. You offered the very thing he had been craving for three weeks. A chance to step into your sweet domesticity, to satisfy his curiosity, to experience something warm and comforting. You cocked your head to the side, fixing him with that doe-eyed stare.

No, he knew he should say.

“Yes.”

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

Tag list: @taylorgriffin

[ode-to-melpomene]

Stray

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Jason doesn't believe in good intentions. Word Count: 2313 Warnings: Stalking, but no ill intent. Minor depictions of gore and injuries.

The first time Jason saw you, he couldn’t take his eyes off you. Enamored was too strong a word to describe the way his gaze followed your figure far below him. Captivated, maybe? Yes, captivated by the nervous way you sidled into Crime Alley, moving like an anxious cat as you hugged the wall and kept to the shadows. Skittish, and clinging tightly to the box in your hands as if it might grow legs and run away.

He watched you closely from his perch on a fire escape. The nearby flickering neon light cast a glow over you and the dirty street. Your breath fogged in front of your face.

Jason climbed to the edge of the fire escape, then stepped off onto a windowsill. He moved across the face of the building that way, clinging to sturdy drain pipes and window ledges as he loomed over you. You turned right onto an open street, and his brows furrowed beneath his helmet.

His eyes narrowed when you scampered across the open street and towards a dilapidated overhang that shadowed the entrance to an abandoned building. That was a squatter house, one he frequented on his patrols. Pretty bird in his territory, clothes too nice for this part of Gotham… what were you doing here?

His question was answered when the door to the building swung open with an echoing creek. A man with a thick beard and a knitted hat met you at the door. The warmth of a fire inside the building backlit him, obscuring his scowl.

You outstretched the box in your arms to the taciturn old man. He pulled back the cardboard flaps and looked inside, delivering a curt nod of approval in response. He snatched the box from you unceremoniously and quickly shut the door to the biting cold and your lingering gaze.

It was beginning to snow when you stepped out from under the building's cover. You rubbed your hands up and down your arms, then scampered back across the street and hid in the shadows once again. Jason watched you go, unmoving from the ledge he perched on in the darkness. When you were finally out of sight he dropped to the ground.

The light dusting of snow crunched under his boots, turning to dirty slush as he crossed the street. His gloved hand rose to rap against the creaky door. A curse came from inside, followed by shuffling.

The old man opened the door. Red Hood shouldered his way past the man and into the den, lit by the warm glow of fires in metal trash cans. There must have been twenty people inside, three or so up and moving and passing out… blankets?

“Got yourself a new delivery person, Roger?” Red Hood asked as he turned to face the old man, the firelight glinting off his helmet.

The man, Roger, crossed his arms over his chest and glared a bitter, distrustful glower. “That a problem?”

He paused for a beat, glaring at Roger through his helmet. “I need to know who’s coming in and out of the Alley,” Red Hood retorted, a mean scowl hidden on his face. His helmet turned on a swivel, taking in the state of what used to be a restaurant. “Thought I told you not to start fires in here. Don’t want you to get-”

“Carbon monoxide poisoning, yeah, heard you the first fifty times,” the old man answered with a dismissive wave. He moved around Red Hood on achy knees and snatched the now empty cardboard box from the ground. “Not much other options. You saw the snow coming down out there.”

“I won’t let you freeze to death.”

Roger scoffed and tossed the box into one of the makeshift fire pits. The flames sputtered a weak ‘thank you’ and hungrily consumed the cardboard. “Look, kid. We appreciate the bravado, but you can’t help all of us.”

Red Hood huffed out an angry breath. “I can’t clean up the Alley if-”

“You can’t clean it up at all,” the old man snapped, catching Jason off guard. He ground his teeth together when Roger turned away and marched across the open room. Jason followed close behind, teeth digging into his cheek. “It’s just how things are, kid. You’re too wrapped up in this filthy cesspool as is. We can’t exactly afford to repay you.”

Jason halted beside a fire pit. Roger froze several steps ahead of him, sensing the vigilante’s hesitation, and turned back to him with a raised brow.

“That goes for your delivery person, too?”

Roger shrugged and buried his hands in his coat pockets, chasing away the burning pink that blossomed across his cold fingers. “You’re not the first one I’ve told to not bother. It’s nothin’ malicious, I’d reckon, but self satisfaction is still a hell of a drug.”

Jason’s knuckles were bloody beneath his gloves the next time he saw you. 

The canvas of his gloves rubbed the split skin raw each time he opened and closed his fist. His eyes were wild beneath his helmet, darting across the rooftop he stood on for any other signs of life–well, life beyond the one figure who seemed to still be struggling to breath. The man leaned against the wall, face bloody, hand pressed over his abdomen, eyes closed. He looked better off than his companions.

Drug dealers. Jason lifted his helmet high enough to spit on the corpse a few feet from him, the rapidly dissipating heat of the pooling blood steaming up the cold night air. Served them right, he told himself.

It was when he looked down at the street below, gauging the drop, that his gaze zeroed in on you. A familiar figure weaving through the shadows. Your gait was burned into his memory. He knew it was you, despite the thick wool shawl wrapped around your head and shoulders to protect from the biting wind. Another box in your arms.

Jason stepped to the ledge with narrowed eyes. What were you doing this time, so close to the center of the most crime-ridden district of Gotham? The tips of your boots kicked up dirty, slushy snow, piled an inch thick on the scarcely used backroad. He walked along the ledge, following you from easily fifty feet above. His shadow fell in behind yours, looming like a wolf behind an unsuspecting lamb.

You turned left. Left, towards the red light district side of town. Jason scoffed and hopped down from the ledge, his boots crunching on gravel–if you wanted to get yourself killed, that was your own prerogative. You didn’t belong in Crime Alley anyway. Not his problem.

Jason carefully tugged on the gloved tips of each finger, slowly releasing the fabric. With a grunt, he yanked the canvas and shook his hand at the sting. His broad, scarred hands were dappled with bruises along his knuckles. Green met red in tender circles, purple blooming at the peaks of his bones. He clenched his fist, watching the skin split along the ridges, crimson rapidly filling the valley. The damage wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. His fingers pried open the glove, surveying the inside. Maybe he should invest in some gloves with better lining…

He twisted to look over his shoulder, lower back popping twice at the change in angle. He was stiff, his broad shoulders sore. And yet, he held that angle as he stared down the side street he knew would only spell more trouble tonight. He’d already accomplished what he intended for the evening. It was risky to stay out any later. Who knew what sharks were lurking in the waters?

But…

Jason turned forward again as he tugged his glove back on, stretching his fingers inside the rough material. His hands were so cold he hardly noticed the sting against his knuckles. Snow touched the black fabric, held steadfast for a moment, then melted away. He watched a perfect snowflake, fully intact, touch down on his glove in one instant and fade away in the next.

He sighed as he turned back to the ledge, stepped up, and jumped.

It didn’t take him long to spot you wedged between a dumpster and a side door that led into a less than reputable strip club. He perched on the ledge of a nearby building with his elbows planted on his knees.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door swung open and a woman stepped out. Blonde, although the color didn’t look natural, with lips that color of his helmet and strappy heels to match. A pink beaded corset, and a feather boa wrapped around her shoulders. The woman stepped into the alleyway and unceremoniously dropped against the brick wall a few inches from you.

Jason narrowed his eyes as he watched you try to pass the box to the woman. She waved dismissively and instead pulled out a pack of cigarettes from where she held it tucked under her arm. A lighter was snatched from the edge of her corset and quickly replaced when the cigarette between her teeth was lit. She stared through heavy lashes at the cherry red end, took a drag, and began to speak.

The dancer talked for several minutes, taking periodic drags of the cigarette between words. She occasionally tipped her head towards you, gauging your reaction despite the thick shawl that obscured your face. She laughed in response to something you said, then dropped the butt of the cigarette and stomped out the light.

You tried to hand her the box again and this time the blonde woman accepted. She hefted it into her arms and balanced it on one as she rifled through the contents. Jason scowled when she withdrew a soup can and presented it to you with a wide smile and a giddy laugh. She replaced the soup can and used her free hands to pat your veiled cheek affectionately.

Then she was gone, back into the shadowy, smoke-filled club. You stood by yourself outside the door, hands limp at your sides as you stared at the door. You looked so small.

Jason’s heart stopped when you turned on your heel and looked right at him. Your eyes scaled the building slowly, almost as if you were tracing his shadow until you finally settled on him with a weighted stare. A predator’s stare. Jason wasn’t used to feeling like prey.

His skin crawled, and the feeling stuck even when you turned from him and stomped through the growing piles of dirty snow back the way you came. His heart thundered in his chest as he watched you drag your heels through the slush.

Jason followed. He knew he shouldn’t, but curiosity wormed itself deep between his ribs and egged him on. He walked along the ledge above you, no longer feeling like a wolf tailing a lamb. Suspicion brewed–sure, maybe you were just being a kind person, if there even was such a thing… but how often did people spot him like that?

So, he followed, despite the way it made his teeth grind and his skin itch. Jason kept the shadows, leaping from rooftop to rooftop and scaling walls while you skittishly meandered through the streets of Gotham. Your stride shortened when you finally exited Crime Alley. The warm glow of cleaner streets blanketed you in a golden haze.

Jason jolted from his thoughts when you climbed the steps of a brownstone apartment building, your cold hands fumbling at the door knob for just a moment before you slipped inside.

So that was it. You were gone, snatched from his vision as quickly as the snowflakes that melted on his jacket. He knew he should leave, that his hunt was over… so why did he stay rooted in place?

Jason found his answer when a light flicked on in a fifth story window. Warm, golden light slipped from your window invitingly. He wondered… Jason crouched on the balcony he stood on. Yes, he could see inside. It was a sparsely decorated apartment that hardly looked lived in, a simple sofa against one wall and a foldable table with three chairs in the center of the living room.

His skin crawled.

He flinched when you reappeared, your hands carefully unwinding the thick scarf from around your head and shoulders. He was right, you were the person he had seen before. He recognized the downturn of the corners of your mouth and the crinkle in your brow as you toed your boots off.

Enamored, maybe. Yes, enamored was the right way to describe how his eyes greedily followed you shucking your coat. Enamored by the way you dropped it on the floor without a care. Enamored by the way your nails raked your scalp and your lips split in a yawn.

Sullen when you once again disappeared from view.

Jason’s mind screamed at him to move. This wasn’t something he should be watching–this was a private, domestic moment for your eyes, not his. He was no better than the men he put down.

And yet his heart raced when you reappeared. You opened the window that led to your fire escape, heat fogging up the chilly air. The curtains around the window drifted around you in the subtle, crisp breeze. Jason watched you with bated breath as you turned, bent down, and gathered something in your hands.

His brows furrowed in confusion as you held a mug of some steaming liquid in each hand. You took a sip of one, then set the other down on the ledge outside the window.

The window slid shut with a deafening click, and you disappeared. The golden lights of your apartment were snuffed out minutes later.

The steam wafting from the mug eventually faded. Jason remained frozen in place.

Masterlist ✴ 'Stray' Series ✴ Next Part

[ode-to-melpomene]

STRAY | Masterlist

Jason Todd x gn!reader

Jason struggles to find his place as a vigilante in Gotham; you struggle to find a purpose in life.

Tags: Set early in Jason's vigilante career--pre-reconciliation with Bruce. Stalking (no ill intent), minor gore, allusions to depression, allusions to death, power imbalance, eventual smut. Tags will build as the series progresses.

Part 1: Stray

Part 2: The Hand That Feeds

Part 3: Control

Part 4: Coming soon...

[ode-to-melpomene]

hi hi mel!!! i love all your works and your writing is so wonderful ^^

was wondering if you could write something where one of the bat boys reaches the reader right before they’re about to get kidnapped by some criminals?? like maybe they’re publicly in a relationship w the batboy’s wayne identity n get targeted for that reason but one of the boys gets there js in the nick of time :)

thank u sm and have a great rest of ur day ^^

Love this prompt! Some of these are pre-kidnapping, some are mid-kidnapping. If anyone wants additional characters added, let me know! Hope you enjoy 💛

Daring Rescues

Pairings: Bruce Wayne x gn!reader, Dick Grayson x gn!reader, Jason Todd x gn!reader, Tim Drake x gn!reader Synopsis: Who comes to your aid when you find yourself in need of saving? Word Count: 2466 Warnings: Established relationship! Kidnapping, minor injuries, general mortal peril.

Bruce Wayne:

Bruce knew better than to associate you with Batman. He had learned that lesson a hundred times over by now, how dangerous it was to associate the people he cared for with the cowl. But now wasn't the time to dwell on the blunder.

“Oracle, update,” he barked over the communication device. Bruce perched atop a balcony, staring down at the street below.

“Black SUV turning onto Carlton,” Barbera replied, the sound of her fingers furiously working over the keys of the Batcomputer meeting his ears. “The car is registered to a loan shark put away a few years ago. Suspected ties to Falcone.”

Bruce uttered a grunted mm in response, eyes narrowed beneath the cowl. His eyes scanned the road below. He caught the sounds of sirens wailing in the distance. “GCPD?”

“I’ve got them cutting off side roads. Headed your way now.”

He squared his shoulders and prepared himself to launch from the balcony, one hand braced on the ledge beneath him and the other on his belt. He cocked his head to the East and narrowed his eyes- yes, there. He watched the SUV turn the corner, skidding as it spun around the sharp turn and narrowly avoided oncoming traffic.

“Sixty-three miles an hour?” he guessed.

“Sixty-six. Sounds like you might be losing your touch.”

“Oracle,” Bruce warned. He scowled. That extra speed would change his entry angle.

“Sorry. Dropping in three-”

Bruce’s hand shot to his belt.

“Two-”

The end of the grappling hook shot out from the device in his hand and buried itself within the construction scaffolding across from him. He gave a single tug, then launched himself from the balcony-

“One-”

- And crashed feet first into the rear passenger window of the interior of the modified SUV, seats removed to provide more space in the back. Panicked shouts rang out as glass shards shattered across the interior. Bruce pulled his cape over the lower half of his face, preventing glass from cutting his skin as he hit the floor.

The vehicle swerved and he used the momentum to bring his elbow into collision with a man’s partially covered face, his jaw making a distressing crack at the impact. His other hand lashed out, grabbing the driver by his hair and slamming his face against the steering wheel. The driver’s nose crunched and blood sprayed against the vehicle’s dash.

Hands grasped at his suit and he drove his knee into the third assailant’s ribs, sending him stumbling backwards. Your muffled shriek filled the interior of the SUV as the vehicle swerved and momentarily rocked into the curb.

The driver’s hands gripped at Bruce’s wrist behind his head, his foot flooring the accelerator. Bruce let out a tsk as he lunged forward and looped his arm around the driver’s neck. The man’s shrill scream was quickly silenced as Bruce squeezed the man’s neck in the juncture of his elbow and bicep.

He pulled the man backwards and used his opposite hand to stabilize the chokehold. His freehand reached for the steering wheel, guiding the vehicle down the road. He just needed a moment-

The driver finally went limp in Bruce’s arms. He tugged, pulling the man from his seat and wedged a batarang against the brake, quickly bleeding off speed.

Muffled screams filled the room, followed by a grunt of pain. Familiar hands raked over Bruce’s belt. He gripped the wheel with one hand and turned his head just in time to see a zap of electricity come to life.

You dove towards the third kidnapper, barreling into him and driving the taser into the side of his neck. The man screamed, spasmed, and went limp.

You panted around the gag in your mouth, your hands chained together in front of you. You held the taser tightly in your hands, glaring down with a fiery expression.

When you turned your gaze on him, that fiery passion was replaced with a soft, mirthful glint in your eye. You gave him your best smile, despite the gag, and a cheesy thumbs up.

Bruce scowled, despite the way his heart skipped a beat.

Dick Grayson:

Why did you always have to rush into things?

Of course it was a set up. That was so obvious now that you had a split lip and blood trickling from your nose. It was a last ditch effort on the part of some petty criminals who wanted a piece of the Wayne wealth in exchange for Dick’s hapless partner.

The masked goons cornered you in your own apartment, toying with you like cats stalking a mouse. One swung a pipe wrench and you skittered backwards, nearly bumping into the end table next to your couch. You really needed to move that when this was all over, and make sure the space was less cluttered so you wouldn’t get tripped up like this again-

A blade came slashing down, glinting in the waning sunlight that filled your apartment as it narrowly missed your face. Your curse was met by vicious laughter. With a snarl, you gripped the end table and hucked it at the figure holding the blade. 

Two of the goons jumped away from the end table as it flung towards them. You took the chance to dash to the kitchen, knocking over and tossing random items in your wake. As much as you appreciated the self defense training Dick had put you through, you didn’t trust yourself against their weapons. You took solace in knowing they weren’t here to kill you… but that didn’t mean they weren’t more than willing to rough you up.

You just needed to waste some time. So you threw a plate, a beautiful, arbor rimmed plate that had been a gift to you and Dick from Selina and Bruce (you suspected Selina stole them.) The assailants dodged the ceramic, so you snatched the detachable faucet and sprayed the nearest goon in the face with cold water. Too bad they were smart enough to wear masks.

And then you saw the balcony door slide open. It all happened so fast, a flash of black, blue, and silver darting into the space. Metal clashed with skin, a sickening thunk sounding as an escrima collided with an attacker’s skull. An angered shout tore through the air, only to be quickly silenced by a thud as the outspoken figure hit the floor.

It was over in a matter of moments. Three unconscious bodies on the floor, tucked out of sight behind your kitchen island, and a shadowed figure huffing agitated breaths through gritted teeth. Spots of blood on the escrima, on his face.

You blinked once, twice, clearing the fog from your vision. Nightwing- Dick loomed across from you. He tucked the escrimas behind his back and turned to face you, the scrunch in his brow covered by his mask.

“Are you alright?” you asked, voice barely above a tremble.

His expression softened immediately. He heaved a sigh and dashed around the kitchen island, sweeping you into his tight grasp. You wrapped your arms around him just as eagerly, pressing your face to the stretchy fabric of his suit.

“Should be asking you that, love.” Dick pulled away slightly, holding you at arms length. Though you couldn’t see his eyes through his mask, you knew he was carefully taking stock of your injuries.

“Just a few scrapes,” you said with a reassuring smile in spite of the way your swollen lip burned. “You should see the other guys.”

Dick barked out a laugh and pulled you flush against him once again, burying you in a tight embrace.

Jason Todd:

You should have called a cab.

Rain poured down on you, drenching you to the skin. Rain hadn’t been on the forecast today–you always made sure to check on days you chose to walk to-and-from work. When you had stepped out of the office building to find a slight drizzle dappling the sidewalk, you had thought nothing of it. Like many other Gothamites, you had assumed it was a passing spring weather.

Now the storm drains gurgled pitifully as water gushed into it. Your clothes were sodden, shoes waterlogged, mood dampened. You squelched down the sidewalk with a sour expression plastered across your features. The torrential downpour quieted your sentences, muffling your ears to the acute sound of footsteps following you from a distance.

You turned onto the next block and huffed, the wind now buffeting you face on. What a dreary, horrible day to be let off late from work. Jason would likely be on patrol by now, leaving you to sit alone in your shared apartment, reheating whatever he had left over from lunch. Maybe you could curl up in your bed and dive into that novel you had both been reading. That could make for a good conversation to wind him down from the emotional high of his patrol-

Foreign hands snatched you from your thoughts and dragged you into a dark alley, your scream muffled by a gloved palm.

You were slammed face first into a brick wall, the rough texture scraping your cheek. You bit back a snarl as the hands turned you around and smacked the back of your head against the hard stone. The chill edge of a blade was pressed to your throat and when your eyes readjusted to the sudden darkness and stinging pain in your head you were met with a masked figure. Great, because what you really needed after a long day was a mugging.

You fought viciously as the figures around you herded you down the back alley like a spitting, snarling animal. You stomped your heel on their feet, bit at their hands, kicked and flailed until you heard muffled requests for rope and chloroform. It wasn’t until you saw the van tucked away beside an industrial grade dumpster that you began caterwauling like an anguished banshee.

You were relieved by the sound of a familiar thump at the edge of the alleyway–you would recognize the sound of those heavy boots dropping anywhere, with how often you heard them on your fire escape. Your attackers slammed you against the van and you barked out a gleeful laugh at the sight. The attackers had a moment to turn their heads before Red Hood was descending on them with ferocity. You turned away, pressing your forehead to the van.

Screams, bones cracking, bodies hitting the ground. It was over quickly. When you turned to face him, his armored chest was heaving and he clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. You knew better than to touch him when he was this high strung, so you settled for the safer option.

“Took you look enough,” you teased breathlessly, keeping your gaze one the way the red surface of his helmet snapped to face you instead of on the (you hoped) unconscious kidnappers. “I was starting to wonder if I was going to have to take care of this myself.”

The toe of Jason’s boot nudged an unconscious figure, a red and rapidly welting bite mark blossoming on the individual’s hand and wrist. “I don’t doubt you could’ve, but a little help never hurt.”

You cracked a smile, softening the hard lines of your expression in the hopes it would ease him. His shoulders relaxed at your placating gesture. You extended a hand, fingers spread in a silent offer.

“Walk me home?” you asked, more for his benefit than yours. Your heart still pounded in your chest, but the tightness eased when he interlaced his gloved fingers with yours.

Tim Drake:

Warehouses were such a cliché place to harbor an abductee. What happened to creativity? Tim crawled through an upper window of the dilapidated warehouse, some thirty feet above the ground. He stepped carefully across the rafters as he surveyed the scene.

There you were, a normal college student tied to a chair–well, normal if you ignore the fact that you were rumored to be in a relationship with the Timothy Drake-Wayne. He frowned at the sight of your arms twisted behind you and tied to the back of the chair. They had you situated in the center of the empty room with goons patrolling around you. His eyes sought a singular figure atop a pile of scrap, a rifle in hand. The figure searched the rafters–Tim would have to be careful to avoid him.

Tim stalked across the rafters, keeping to the shadows. He crept across one of the beams that bridged the center of the warehouse, ducking low and staying out of the light. His eyes were fixed on you-

Oh. You perked up, your head lifting and shoulders easing. You knew he was there somewhere, judging by the way your head turned slightly to scan the open room. You tilted your head, a flimsy gesture towards a second figure, patrolling near you with one hand tucked away in her coat. A hidden weapon? He bit back a smile at your clever aid.

Tim took another step, and something clanged. He looked below him, spotting a hook hanging from a long chain, the chain swinging under the beams subtle movements. He turned just in time to see the sniper swing his rifle in the direction of the sound-

You screamed.

The shrill shriek shook each of the assailants and all eyes turned to you. He exhaled a harsh breath of relief as you wailed and the masked figures moved in towards you. The sniper’s weapons whipped towards you and away from Tim.

Tim dropped. His landing was cushioned by the goon you had pointed out, knocking the figure to the ground. He used the momentum to carry himself into a roll, then launched to his feet and barrelled into the next unsuspecting kidnapper. This one was ready, his hands up in fists. Tim gave an opening and ducked as the man’s fist sailed past Tim. He gripped the attacker's arm and yanked, tossing him over Tim’s shoulder. The man landed with a thunk and Tim was quick to follow, extracting a pair of cuffs from his belt and linking the two fallen attackers together.

A shot rang out. It seemed the sniper wasn’t very good, considering Tim remained fully intact. His hands dipped to his belt again and withdrew a few batarangs. A quick volley knocked the sniper's mask askew and sent them stumbling down the rickety pile of scrap they stood upon. He used the opening to launch himself across the room, bo staff extending in hand. He swept the kidnapper’s legs, sending the figure tumbling down the pile.

“How did you know I was here?” he asked as he knelt to cuff and gag the attacker, kicking the rifle aside in the process.

“It got drafty,” you called back from where you sat tied in the center of the room. “Must’ve left the window open.”

[ode-to-melpomene]

hello mel!!! your jason todd x artist! reader is a real gem, so delicious i think i would like to eat it!!! could i possible request a jason todd x famous poet!reader?

Anon, you get me.

I struggled a bit with the plot for this one, but I hope you like it regardless <3

Erato

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn poet!reader Synopsis: Jason convinces you to take a break. Word Count: 1281. Warnings: Established relationship and fluff!

The living room was dark. 

Blanketed in shadows, Red Hood stepped off the fire escape and into the apartment. Muscles taut, shoulders squared, jaw clenched tight beneath his helmet, he stalked with a panther’s grace through the shadows. Light on the balls of his feet, his heavy boots hardly made a sound against the floorboards of the creaky old Gotham apartment.

Red Hood kept his hand hovering inches from the gun on his waist as he stepped warily around the furniture. The white film obscuring his eyes trailed over the lamp atop an end table beside the familiar orange chaise sofa.

Something wasn’t right. It was so dark.

Filling the shadows with his presence, Red Hood slunk down the hallway. His broad figure filled the space, looming in the narrow hallway like a beast waiting to lunge from the darkness. His skin crawled with a sense of wrong, wrong, wrong. His teeth inched to sink into something. The scent of copper and gunpowder clung to his body armor, suffocating him as he inhaled it with each breath. His hackles rose.

There, at the end of the hall. The tiniest sliver of pale light filtered through the crack of an ajar door. Red Hood’s fingers twitched beside his gun, itching to reach for the grip that he knew fit so comfortably in the palm of his leather-clad hands.

Said hands, dirty and tainted, slid across the sage green surface of the door. Claws curled around the edge of the door, sliding through the gap. He inhaled deeply, a rumble like a growl deep in his chest as he steeled himself. Something was wrong, wrong wrong-

Red Hood pushed the door open and hovered in the doorway. A hulking, heaving, monstrous figure doused in oil-slick darkness that filled the entire threshold. Sharp eyes and predatory teeth staring down at-

You.

Your eyes jerked away from the dimly lit laptop screen on your desk and landed on the shadowed figure looming at the entrance to your home office.

“You didn’t leave the lamp on,” Red Hood gruffed, his fist clenching and unclenching at his side. You always left the lamp on.

Your eyes widened as you glanced around the dimly lit room, the blackout curtains drawn. “What time is it?” you demanded with a breathy sense of panicked realization.

“Three in the morning,” Jason breathed a sigh of relief and sagged against the doorway. “Scared me, angel. Thought somethin’ might have happened.” His gloved hands reached for his helmet, dragging the metal from his skin with a satisfied exhale. He rolled his head on his neck, stretching the aching muscles. “What are you still doing up?”

“Finally found a groove,” you replied, your gaze again fixed on the dim screen. Your fingers hastened over keys with a swiftness he hadn’t seen in days. He had grown used to the sluggish drawl and frustrated taps, your dramatic grumblings begging for inspiration to strike. “If I stop now, I- I’ve gotta get this done before-”

“The end of the week,” he finished, an exhausted, lopsided grin rising on his lips. He lifted a gloved hand to swipe sweaty hair from his skin. “How many have you written tonight?”

“Six,” you answered quickly, fingers pausing over the keys. The sound of heavy boots crossing the floor drew your attention and you found yourself staring up at Jason as he leaned forward and planted one hand on the desk. His helmet thudded onto the desk next to your hand. Your eyes met his, lips parting slightly at the curious expression he wore.

Jason always seemed like a statue to you. Strong, immovable, broad. Your eyes grazed over the scrawling scuffs and scratches of his suit that spiraled like vines climbing over his marble surface. The red highlights of his armor like maroon clematis, blossoming from the vines that held him together-

“Might have an idea for a seventh poem,” you began as you turned back towards your computer. Your breath hitched at the feeling of leather sliding up your throat and stopping to cup your jaw. Jason’s fingers curled slightly as he turned your head to meet his gaze again.

“When was the last time you took a break?”

“Um…” your tongue felt useless in your mouth as you stared up at him with wide eyes. Green eyes gleamed back at you, brows pinched together in a subtle scowl. Your stare roved over his face–the subtle crook of his nose, twice broken, and the thin scar tracing from his jaw to his cheek, and the wisp of sweat-damp black and silver hair that stuck to his forehead. “Probably… noon?”

Jason sighed. “C’mon, up.”

“Jay-”

“Up,” he prompted, hauling you up from your chair. Your palms flattened to his armored chest as you sought to stabilize yourself. Your fingers fanned out wide against the red sigil scrawled across his chest, then slid down to rest over his ribs. Jason hummed appreciatively and looped one arm around your waist, the other cupping your cheek. “Take a break with me, yeah? Know you need to get this done-”

“- I’ve got the book signing next week, and I need to have my draft turned in to my editor before then-”

“- But you’ll be no good to anyone strung out and exhausted.” Your cheeks warmed and you cast your eyes down. Your hands drifted back to the vibrant symbol across his chest. He was right, of course–he knew better than most how important it was to avoid being overworked… not that he heeded his own advice very often.

You jumped from your thoughts when his gloved hand closed around your wrist. You felt a pop from between your teeth and your gaze shot down to where he pulled your hand from your mouth, nail slightly torn. Oh. You were doing it again, and you hadn’t even noticed.

Jason brought your hand to his lips and laid a kiss on your palm, then trailed down and placed another on your wrist. It was like butterflies gracing your skin. His hands were strong as oak as he tugged you tighter against him-

“Yuck,” you said, jumping as he kissed your forearm and his wet, sweaty hair brushed your skin. You wrinkled your nose in disgust. He chuckled when you tried to pull your arm away.

A squeal escaped your lips when he buried his face in the crook of your neck. You squirmed at the ticklish feeling of Jason pressing open-mouthed kisses to your skin, dragging his damp face against your dry skin. “Jason! Gross!”

You groaned in disgust at the feeling of his damp hair dappling your skin. Your hands pushed at his shoulders, but his arms just pulled you tighter against him. There was no escape from the torment, and you whined pitifully in protest. He returned your frustration with a huffy laugh against your shoulder.

“You’re the worst.”

Jason grinned a crooked smile against your skin as his gloved hand slid into your hair and cradled your head against his chest. “C’mon, take a shower with me. Save some water. I can make dinner after, and we can eat in here while you wrap up.” He pulled away, his hair mussed as he gazed at you with a gentle expression. When he leaned in again it was to press barely there kisses to your jaw, your cheek, your temple, and back down. “Take a break with me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut as a content sigh left your lips. Your eyes felt heavy under his ministrations and you finally acknowledged the weary ache in your bones. You hummed quietly, a wordless reply to his request. 

You could spare thirty minutes.

[ode-to-melpomene]

Jekyll and Hyde

Pairing: Dick Grayson x gn!reader Synopsis: Dick returns from patrol with an injury and a heavy heart. Word Count: 1914 Warnings: Established relationship. Minor gore/wound care. Surgeon!reader. A pretentious number of inferences to The Curious Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

A deep rumbling sigh filled your chest as the microwave beeped, yesterday’s leftovers reheated for today’s dinner. No, it was breakfast really, you realized as you checked your wrist watch. You groaned and pressed your palms to your face.

The tall sliding-glass doors to the balcony of your penthouse apartment let in the gray-blue early morning light as the sun began to hazily brighten Bludhaven’s skyline. The sun greeted you affectionately and chased the shadows from your home. You answered the morning bitterly, with a tired sigh and bags beneath your eyes. Too much caffeine, not enough food.

You blinked bearily as you opened your microwave. The pop of the microwave door coming unlatched wasn’t enough to drown out the sound of the balcony door slipping open.

“Late night?” called a now familiar voice, followed by sluggish footsteps.

“Always,” you answered with a dramatic sigh as you turned and leaned against the kitchen counter. Your eyes focused slowly on the figure silhouetted in your dining room. “Oh sure, please, come in. No invitation needed,” you snarked as Dick placed a gloved hand on the table and leaned against it. You furrowed your brows as you took in his posture–hunched over, eyes downcast, hand pressed to his ribs-

Damn it.

“And bleed all over my furniture while you’re at it,” you barked as you rounded the kitchen island and hastened towards him. You jerked a chair away from the table with one hand and slipped your other arm around his waist. He leaned against you, using your stability to drag himself to the chair.

“I avoided the carpet this time,” Dick said with a chipper laugh. You crouched in front of him, hands brushing over the stretchy blue and black torso of his suit. Your hand came back wet as you skated over his ribs. “New scrubs? That’s not your usual color.”

You glanced down at the blue-green scrubs you wore. “Last ones were covered in blood. Go figure- don’t laugh,” you ordered, cutting off the chuckle that bubbled up in his chest. The white film of his mask’s eyes looked down at where you crouched with a mirthful glint. “Stay put.”

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

You stood and rounded the table to the hutch backed against the wall. The bottom cabinet door squeaked on old hinges. A strip of coban wrap hit the ground with a bounce as the stack of medical supplies leaned into the now open doorway.

“You look exhausted,” Dick spoke up, drawing your attention to the items you set aside on the floor.

You hummed in acknowledgement, occupying your trembling fingers with hunting for the gauze you knew he preferred. “Long shift. Car wreck on 14th and York.”

“I heard it on the scanner. How bad?”

You shrugged and stayed quiet. He clicked his tongue in response. You heard shuffling and twisted to stare over your shoulder.

Dick reclined in the chair, one arm propped on the tall wooden back. He tipped his head, baring his throat to the auburn sunrise that filtered in through the windows. It was a striking contrast to the blue and black of his suit and the dark waves of hair that framed his face. Dick pressed his other hand to the open wound on his side, leaving a sizable tear in the side of his suit. Lithe, graceful, and heroic even while bleeding out-

You bit the inside of your cheek and cast your eyes back to the medical supplies. With a huff you gathered the items in your arms and marched back to his side.

His hand left the back of the chair and settled on your hip as you dropped the supplies on the table. “What do you think, Doc? Am I gonna make it?” he teased with a coy grin.

“You always do, despite my best efforts,” you joked sarcastically with a grumpy huff. He let out a pleasant laugh, one that warmed your heart and calmed your nerves. Years of medical work and months in the ER never prepared you for stitching him up. “Might have to cut part of your suit.”

“I’ve been meaning to upgrade to a crop top.”

“Dick…”

“Love…” he drew out the phrase to match yours, a giddy smile on his lips. 

You knelt beside his chair, scowling at the tear in his suit. It was soaked in blood by now, the wound long, thin, and jagged. You sighed as you reached for your cleaning supplies on the table. “I really should-”

“- Be wearing gloves. I know, babe,” he exhaled dramatically, his free hand reaching up to remove his mask and reveal affectionate blue eyes. “You say it every time. Haven’t gotten an infection yet.”

“One of these days,” you grumbled as you cleaned the wound. He bit back a hiss, his chest tightening at the suppression of sound. Your eyes flicked to his abs as the muscles tensed then released. “Right, big breath,” you ordered as you reached for a needle and thread, waiting for the thin sinew to flex–it wouldn’t hurt as much when he stretched if sewn while taut.

“Bet you sweet talk all of your patients like this.”

“I don’t sweet talk anyone, Dick. Don’t have time for it.” You threaded the needle and waited for him to inhale, then began weaving it through his torn skin. “Besides, it’s hard to sweet talk a patient who doesn’t talk back. Most of mine are anesthetized. You’re an unfortunate exception.”

He winced at the feeling of the cold needle dragging through his skin. You wrinkled your nose, imagining what it must feel like to have a thread sliding through your skin. Dick relaxed, the initial pain subsiding into a more familiar sting. You fell into a comfortable silence, rhythmically knitting his skin back together.

“So what happened?” you questioned, twisting the thread around your finger in a loop to draw it tighter through his flesh. “I thought we were past flesh wounds. It’s just been bumps and bruises lately.”

“Bumps and bruises for me, I can’t speak for the other guys-”

“Honey,” you spoke coldly as you pulled the next suture tight. “Don’t do that.”

Dick’s brows drew together in a furrow for just a moment before easing into that relaxed grin of his. Charming, handsome, and a large part of what drew you to him in the first place; not the cheeriness that he portrayed, but the fact that cheeriness didn’t meet his eyes.

“Do what?”

You cast him a meaningful glance, your fingers idling over his wound. His grin faltered under your scrutinizing gaze. “Don’t pretend. Wearing one mask is bad enough–don’t wear a second. What happened?”

He turned his head away, gazing out at the rising sun blanketing Bludhaven. “Nothing. Really, it wasn’t that important. Just a misstep.”

You pursed your lips in thought, eyeing his profile closely. Strong jaw, sharp nose, angular features that made him look every bit the hero he fought to be every day. The hero he didn’t always feel like he was. He was hiding it well, but he was doing what he always did– beating himself up for something out of his control.

“My patient died on the table tonight,” you spoke, voice ringing out clearly in the otherwise silent penthouse. Dick’s head snapped to the side to look down at you, eyes wide and lips parted slightly. You swallowed dryly, fighting back the lump in your throat. You always avoided talking about work. “Fourteen-year-old girl. Spinal fracture, punctured lung. It took them so long to get her out of that car… she’d lost so much blood by the time she got to the E.R. If I had just…” You exhaled slowly. “There are a hundred things I could have- should have done differently.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, it’s not. And the crash wasn’t her brother’s fault, even though he was the one driving. He’s the one who lived. He’s going to carry that with him forever, just like I’m going to carry her with me forever.”

Dick clamped his mouth tightly shut, lips drawn into a thin, pensive line as he stared down at you. The proverbial mask slipped away, the cracks in his marble surface finally showing. He hid it so well, hid behind that chipper wall he put up as a front of the dark thoughts he thought tainted him.

You tilted your head to the side and offered him a gentle, reassuring smile. “You can’t carry everyone’s suffering without also carrying their sins. Whatever happened tonight, it’s not your cross to bear.”

He held your gaze for a long moment, exhaustion pooling in his blue irises. It was a stoney, impassive expression. The change in tone unnerved some people–maybe that’s why he hid it so well–but it never bothered you.

When Dick finally broke eye contact and turned his attention back to the sunrise, you assumed the moment had passed. You returned to your work, tying off the suture and slicing a piece of gauze off the roll to cover the exposed thread.

“It was that trafficking ring the BPD had been tracking,” he finally spoke. Your hands froze, hovering over his damp skin. “The one we’ve been following for a while. I… I got a tip on where they might be running it out of.” Dick sighed and ran his free hand through his hair and brought it back down to cover his eyes. “I should have waited, gotten more information.”

You let out a soft mm in response and pressed the gauze to his wound, listening intently. Your fingers smoothed over the wound, holding the gauze flat against his skin as you reached for your roll of surgical tape.

“It was my fault, I- I dove in too quickly and tipped them off. The gig was gone by the time I got there.” He sighed, frustration evident in the way his shoulders stiffened. He bent as if he were going to hunch over, but your hand moved swiftly to his chest to push him back into an upright position without disturbing the wound. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for,” you answered quietly.

“Are you going to tell me it’s not my fault?”

“No,” you answered. His brows rose in surprise. “But regardless of if it is or isn’t your fault, you don’t need to carry it alone.” You stood to your full height, joints achy after being bent over an operating table for hours and now crouched on the ground for who knows how long.

He brought a hand to cover yours that was still pressed to chest, blanketing the vibrant symbol scrawled over his suit.  His affections grew like ivy, clawing over you, clinging to everything you gave him and budding with every kindness. 

“If I don’t, who will?”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit as you leaned in, lips ghosting over his. He closed the distance in a gentle caress, baring the good and evil chained within his soul to you. He brought his free hand to your waist, while the other, blood-stained hand hovered inches from your figure.

You interlaced your fingers with his, the warmth of his drying blood staining your pristine flesh. Dick shivered as you deepened the kiss. You pulled away all too quickly, and he leaned in, chasing the feeling.

Your lips traced over his jaw, his cheek, and planted on his temple before withdrawing. His cheeks warmed under your gaze–soft, adoring, loving. All things he didn’t feel he deserved.

“We can carry the burden together.”

[ode-to-melpomene]

"Everyone's a Critic"

Pairing: Jason Todd x gn!reader Synopsis: Art is in the eye of the beholder... Word Count: 1861 Warnings: None. Art gallery meet cute. A hint of awkwardness and embarrassment!

Jason was used to being overlooked.

In a sea of bodies he often found himself standing still. A lone rock in the middle of a raucous tide that slipped around him, dousing his cold, weathered face with seafoam. It wasn't so bad, being a rock–especially at events like these. Jason stood, like a rock, in the center of a crowd, and watched the crowd part around him.

Why would they look at him? He had mastered the art of appearing smaller than he really was–broad shoulders drawn into a tight hunch, obscuring his height. Eyes to the ground and his back to the wall. Ignore me, his presence seemed to say.

Why would they look at him when Dick fluttered about the crowd with a broad smile, a proverbial halo above his head from the soft, golden light of the venue? Why would they look at him when Tim's cleverness and etiquette outshone his? Why would they look at him when Damian spoke so maturely for his age, or Cass reveled in her most recent ballet performance, or Bruce existed?

Sometimes it was better to be the dead Wayne.

Sometimes.

The venue could have been worse. The Gotham Museum of Art was familiar to him these days, after Cass’s numerous performances and Bruce’s subsequent donations. Jason had lost track long ago of how many grateful galas had been hosted in thanks for his father’s contributions. They even had a plaque posted somewhere for Bruce–or was that Gotham General Hospital? He couldn’t remember at this point.

It was easy to hide in the shadows between the paintings, the spotlights above them only spanning the canvas’s borders. Hide at the edge of the crowd, his head ducked down, shoulders drawn tight- it was what he always did.

Until a tittering couple pressed too close to him, admiring the painting he stood beside. Ivory nails tangled in a suit jacket, heels clicking against the parquet floors. Too loud. Too close. He pushed off the wall as they approached, ignoring the side-cast glances. He felt judged at events like this. He could handle being ignored, or even ostracized. But criticism hurt. He lifted his head for the first time in what felt like ages, taking in the crowd.

There. A quiet spot in front of a broad painting, its oil surface unmarred by the demanding gazes of the gala’s attendees. Jason pushed through the crowd with his head high, watching as the chattering sea parted around him. His long stride carried him through the throng as he fled his once barren spot and approached his newfound haven. His lips parted in a soft exhale at the sight of a bench–he could sit with his back to the crowd and-

Jason’s stride faltered. There was already someone sitting on the bench, a figure with their back to the crowd. How had he not noticed them before?

The spotlight on the art cast a soft glow across your front, blanketed in a warm haze that brightened the dark clothes you wore. A deep-gray blouse fading to black, well-ironed slacks. Jason’s eyes dropped to your shoes–old and worn compared to the rest of the outfit. Tired, and scuffed, the black finish faded with age and wear. A cocktail server on break, it seemed.

When Jason lifted his gaze, he found you already staring. He jumped slightly, blinking once, twice. You smiled softly–it was a bone-tired smile that eased the tension in your brow and smoothed the hard look in your eyes. 

“Sorry, I…” he started, frozen like a deer caught in headlights. He rubbed the back of his neck and hunched his shoulders. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“You’re not,” you answered quietly. “Did you want somewhere to sit?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t.”

Jason bobbed his head in a half-hearted nod and rounded the bench. He sat at the opposite side, putting as much space between the two of you as possible. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his knees, eyes fixated on the ground for a moment. After a long pause, he lifted his head to take in the painting in front of him.

It seemed to come to life the longer he took it in. The background bustled with liveliness. Parents talking–maybe arguing, he thought–in a doorway. The preoccupied cat ignoring a mouse that went otherwise unseen. Children’s toys scattered at the edges of the canvas. His eyes roved over the child at the center of the canvas’s foreground, alone on a couch, gaze meeting the viewer. It was a modernized oil painting, vastly different from the Renaissance-like pieces that lined the wall–maybe that was why this piece went ignored throughout the night.

“It doesn’t really fit the theme, but I still like it,” you spoke up. What he first took as timidity now seemed contemplative as he turned to see you gazing up at the painting. “Seems I’m one of the few.” You shrugged, a tender smile across your lips.

Jason took in the muted colors of the background and the quiet intensity of the scene. “It feels very… isolated.” You turned your head sharply to look at him, brows raising in surprise. He quickly looked between you and the painting. “It’s… the kid feels really alone, you know? Like the whole world is-”

“Moving on without him?”

Jason clamped his jaw firmly shut as he tipped his head to meet your gaze. Your eyes sparkled with warmth and excitement, chasing away the exhaustion that once clung to you.

“Moving around him,” Jason answered, holding your intense stare, his brows furrowing slightly. “His parents are just-” he gestured to the painting, “ignoring him, I guess. I mean, he’s alone in the center of the painting, while everything else is distracted. Look, even the wallpaper looks busy, and he’s just… wearing muted clothes and sitting on a gray couch.”

“It’s ivory and phthalo blue.”

“What?”

“The couch. It’s ivory and phthalo blue, and a little bit of brown umber mixed into the shadows. Not gray.” You cocked your head to the side and offered him a crooked, toothy grin. His eyes dropped to your lips before moving back to your eyes. “I… like your interpretation a lot. ‘Moving around him.’ You’re the first person tonight to give it any thought, honestly.”

Jason narrowed his eyes as he studied you, his brows pinched together. His usual scowl sat on his lips, the one that tended to drive people away. Instead, you smiled sweetly and turned your attention back to the canvas. You didn’t stare through him–you stared at him. For once, it didn’t make his skin crawl. It didn’t feel like you were forcibly filling the silence.

“I was hoping for some exposure tonight, really. You know, big Wayne event, good time to show off,” you said with a melodic chuckle that sent goosebumps down his arms. “But no one seems particularly interested in my work. Everyone’s a critic, right? Except you. You get it.”

Jason blinked owlishly as his brain raced to catch up.

“You painted this?”

You hummed in the affirmative, gazing up fondly at your work.

His eyes snapped up at the painting and then back down to you. “I’m sorry, I- I just assumed you-”

“You’re not the only one,” you answered quickly. His shoulders eased. You picked up on his meaning so quickly without an ounce of offense in your tone. “I don’t really care how people do or don’t, in this case, see me. At least one person took the time to look.”

The tension in your shoulders eased with a visible sense of relief. Tonight wasn’t a total loss. Sure, you hadn’t received any commissions, and had been asked to refill someone’s drink one too many times, but there had been some success in the end. It only took one admirer to make hours of labor worthwhile.

“I think it’s beautiful.”

You jerked your head to stare at him, starved for feedback. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I… don’t know much about art–I prefer reading, honestly, but, uh, I think you did a great job with the colors. It does a really good job of framing the kid, y’know?” Jason glanced at you, his cheeks warming at your dazzled expression before looking back at the painting. “He’s muted, so it kind of draws your eyes to the middle instead of the super bright background. It’s like the opposite effect of some of the others.” He gestured over his shoulder at a few of the other paintings. “It definitely gives that… isolated vibe. I just… I guess it makes you wonder how the kid is feeling in all of this. He feels lonely.”

He could feel your heated stare grazing his skin. You weren’t leering at him like some of the others did. He held on to the reverent silence and fought to quell the warm blush that dusted his cheeks.

“You have a nice nose.”

Jason’s face flushed scarlet. He snapped his gaze to yours, brows furrowed in confusion.

“What?”

“Sorry, I-” His gaze dropped to your lips as they pursed in embarrassment and then parted with a shaky inhale. “I just- sorry, I do some sculpture on the side–not very well, I think, but I’m trying–and, well, I’ve been working on this one piece and I just can’t get the nose right, and you- you’ve got a really nice nose and I was trying to… memorize it… for when I work on it later…”

Jason held your gaze for a long moment. You shifted nervously in your seat at the way he straightened his back and regarded you closely. Your mouth opened and closed, tongue feeling tacky against the roof of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, that was-”

“Do you have a picture of it?”

“Of… what?”

“The sculpture. Can I see it?”

Your eyes widened as you blinked slowly at him, your mind racing to catch up. You tilted your head slightly to the side, staring at him in awe. “Yeah, I… um, I don’t have a picture, but- uh, my studio is only a couple of blocks away. Technically it’s the gallery’s studio-” you gestured widely to the gala venue. “But I use it for some of my projects. You could- do you want-?”

He smiled. The stone-faced, impassive, wall of a man that you had been sitting beside for who knows how long actually smiled a full, toothy grin. The crooked scar that crossed over his cheek and jaw danced with a subtle grace. Crow's feet decorated the corner of his pretty green eyes. You wondered if you could maybe match their shade.

You took in a deep breath, held it for a moment, and then breathed out a soft sigh. His gaze dipped to your lips at the movement, then back to your eyes.

“Would you… want to come to my studio?”

“Yeah, I’d like that.”

[ode-to-melpomene]

Pick your poison...

Hello! I'm Mel (she/her), and this is my masterlist!

Notes:

Requests are OPEN! See below for fandoms/characters I write for.

I write the occasional NSFW or dark fic. Mind the tags--MDNI with 18+ content!

This is an 'x reader' centric blog. I will not write specific OCs, but I will write an x reader with certain traits!

Please be respectful. Don't like? Don't read.

Unless stated otherwise, all the images I use come from Pinterest.

Characters I currently write for:

Pretty much any Batman character, rogues included! Romantic or platonic x reader fics by request. Willing to branch out to other DC characters if anyone has specific requests.

Series:

'Stray' Masterlist; Jason Todd x gn! reader Coming soon!

One-shots:

Jason Todd

"Everyone's a Critic" Erato Coming soon!

Dick Grayson

Jekyll and Hyde

Tim Drake

Weekend Off Coming soon!

Quick Prompts:

Daring Rescues Coming soon!

[ode-to-melpomene]

Sparkle Dividers pt 3

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