birdmeh

[birdmeh]

.The Recluse.

Dick Grayson x Reader

Warnings: implied sexual content, one-night stands

Word Count: 1k+

Summary: Since the death of his parents, finding a true sense of home had become a struggle for Dick. The world felt large and lonely. Even with Bruce Wayne's support, nothing compared to the belonging he felt in the circus, where laughter and love thrived. He yearned for a home and the comfort and connection that came along with one; and he would go anywhere and do anything to obtain that feeling even if it was fleeting.

Even if that meant he ended up in the beds of others.

Dick Grayson found himself blinking against the soft morning light as he took a mental note of the small room around him. It was this cozy little thing adorned with numerous plants, books, and candles–radiating a faint smell of vanilla that clung to the air.

He sits himself up slightly and rubs at his tired heavy eyes, hoping to shake off the remnants of sleep and confusion. A thick gray duvet covers the lower half of his body keeping him warm and snug. He takes a slow glance to the right of him and immediately takes note of his own neatly folded clothing on an old oak nightstand. Besides it a framed photo: three smiling friends stared back at him, one looking extraordinarily familiar.

The image caused the gears in his mind to churn and memories to arise, but the details of where he was and whose home he was residing in remained just out of reach. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet colliding with a chilled hardwood floor, grounding him in this new yet inviting space.

He stood up, finally allowing himself to get a good look at the room. The walls were lined with shelves containing various trinkets, novels, and comic books. The dresser’s mirror was adorned with photos and contained a few personal items on its surface–candles, a jewelry box, a wallet, and keys. Still, none of the items seemed to draw his memory about the previous night.

He took a deep breath, remaining calm despite being completely unaware of where he was and what transcribed; Dick Grayson never feared the unknown. Plus waking up in the room of a woman he hardly knew was not an unlikely occurrence.

Grayson’s loneliness would catch up to him, and he would find himself slipping into the lives of those who allow him to do so, seeking solace in the warmth of their company. He allowed himself to settle into their spaces and be someone he was not. He allowed himself to bask in dim lights and hushed words. He allowed himself to love without fear in the arms of a stranger. And most importantly he would allow himself a moment to let the weight of the world and his past lift off his shoulders. In these quiet hours he remembers the caring nature of where he grew up–and to have a place that was truly his. Where there were no spandex suits, no masks, no wounds, and no responsibilities.

Beneath a stranger's sheets he was able to drift to sleep with the illusion of stability, even if it was only for a night.

Unfortunately, he would only end up awake and alone again, the room feeling foreign once more. Reality would settle in and with that the realization that he is nothing more than a shattered and desperate man. – Grayson readied himself, putting on his black slacks and wrinkled button-down shirt: not bothering to tuck it in or button it up. He grimaces at his disheveled reflection in the mirror and combs his fingers through his sleep-mussed hair while trying not to acknowledge the deep dark circles under his eyes.

Now marks the time in his morning routine where he would make his silent exit and carry on with his daily vigilante duties. A painfully bittersweet routine.

He makes pace towards the closed bedroom door, hand lingering on the knob. There was a slight ruckus coming from the other side, a shuffling of feet, clinking of dishes, and the faint sound of running water. Someone was still on the other side of the door and Dick didn’t know how to feel about that-he never got used to the ones that stayed put.

When he finally steps out, he spots you, the woman he spent the night with, and allows himself a moment to take you in. You’re clad in nothing but an old, worn graphic tee cut at the shoulder exposing your abused and bruised neck, and a pair of black pajama shorts. His eyes linger on your neck longer than necessary. Your eyes however are still clouded with sleep as you sluggishly move towards an older-looking coffee maker, completely unaware of his presence.

Music is playing quietly on your phone, and he knows it was a conscious choice so you wouldn't wake him and he finds it beyond endearing.

It takes a minute or so for Dick to make himself known, establishing his presence with a solid “Good morning.”

Despite being initially startled by the sudden noise you turn to greet him with a sheepish and tired smile and return the greeting–voice thick with sleep. Dick swears he feels butterflies beating their wings against the walls of his stomach. Even though he did not want to overstay his welcome he makes the cautious choice to make his way towards the island in the center of the kitchen, leaning against the countertop and continuing to take you in, eyes traveling from your sock-clad feet up to your tousled hair.

“How did you sleep?” you ask pulling two mugs from the cabinet and placing them on the counter he resided on an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Dick, this made him giddy.

“Like a baby,” he mused.

“I’m glad.”

The two of you fell into a timid silence, a rare occurrence for a flirt like Dick.

Once the coffee is done you pour it into the two mugs making a cautious effort to not spill it on the counter. The hot black liquid then produces this thick steam that carries into the air and assaults the nose of the black-haired man.

“Do you take your coffee with milk or sugar?”

“Black is fine.”

You nod and proceed to put two slices of bread into the toaster, wishing you could offer him more but unfortunately, you were not much of a cook.

Something about the scene felt painfully domestic to Dick.

The comfortable silence.

The smell of the now burning toast.

The beautiful woman before him scrambling around the kitchen doing everything she could to make his morning comfortable.

He didn’t even have the heart to tell her that he doesn’t drink coffee.

For the first time in a long time, Dick Grayson felt at home.

[birdmeh]

. MakeDamnSure .

Chapter 1: City Lights

Jason Todd / Reader Warnings: canon typical violence Summary: Working at The Velvet Room had its pros: free movies, paid time off, and flexible schedules. But with every pro comes a con; for you, that con was Jason Todd. Rude, intimidating, and strangely passionate about romance movies.

Days would pass you by in a series of stale popcorn, sticky floors, dim lights, and faded posters. This specific day was a Tuesday night, which for any average person is nothing more than that, but for you, Tuesdays were the best day of your week. You got to leave work early, meaning your daily shift at The Velvet Room Theater was cut short by four hours. Instead of closing at twelve, you found yourself leaving at a promising eight o’clock.

This felt particularly rewarding following long harsh days of grueling classes and mountains of homework. The early escape allowed you to have a few extra hours of deserved freedom to unwind and keep to yourself. Despite this, you still felt as if your energy was at an all-time low, especially after being posted at the outdated ticket booth of all places. You sat aimlessly in the small gazebo-like structure at the entrance of the theater feeling completely confined by the four suffocating walls.

Business was slow, so like usual, you found yourself getting lost amongst the little things. The chipped yellow paint that lined the walls that you would gently scrape at it with your nail. The people that walked by, some the usual suspicious characters you would see roaming Gotham, others being families and businessmen on their commute back home. And most importantly the captivating neon signs that decorated the streets around you, pubs, bodegas, doctor's offices, psychics. No matter the place, the cramped street that The Velvet Room resided on had it.

When the occasional customer would stop by you would greet them with a sheepish tired smile and a default customer service voice that was warm and far too kind. Your robotic routine would consist of a greeting, understanding what movie the customer was looking for, naming the price, giving change when necessary, and handing over the ticket while informing them of their theater number. This routine ensured that every interaction went smoothly and up to par with your boss’ standards. Unfortunately, there are customers who feel the need to make the exchange much more difficult than it should be. Being the person you are you will always try to give them the benefit of the doubt not knowing what could have played out in their day to make them treat you with such hostility but sometimes assholes just want to be assholes.

This was the case for Jason Todd. _

You don’t know when but at some point throughout your shift you were taken by sleep, waking to a slow steady stream of drool dribbling from the corner of your lip to the oak desk your cheek was plastered onto. Squinted eyes take a moment to adjust to the newfound light and manage to jolt upwards at a dark-haired man aggressively tapping on the glass that separated you from him. Like a startled zoo animal, you readjust yourself into a much less compromising position, shooting upwards, flattening your wrinkled maroon shirt, wiping your face, and plastering on that award-winning customer service smile. The man did not seem amused by this. Instead, he greeted you with this intimidating cold gaze that only seemed to harden as he slowly racked his eyes over your disheveled form, clearly displeased at what he saw. He leaned over the counter making the small booth you reside in feel much smaller with his overbearing presence. The walls now seemed to be slowly closing in on you as the man inched his face towards the glass nearly fogging it up in the process.

“I’m sorry did I wake you?” There was no sincerity in his voice upon asking the simple question, instead, it was dripping with scrutiny. This made you feel small.

“No, no, not at all,” it takes the entirety of your being to recall the internal script that guides every customer interaction as he continues to look at you with that blank stare. “I’m so so sorry, is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yeah, I need one ticket for the 8 pm showing.” he's blunt, to the point, and almost snappy.

“Okay so one ticket for City Lights, would that be it?” The choice of film makes you press your lips into a thin line suppressing a smile. With all the new cliche douchebag action movies out there that you could only assume he liked, this man settled on a classical romantic comedy. A silent film about this tramp falling deeply in love with a lonely blind flower girl. He makes various efforts to help her regain her sight throughout the film in heartwarming and silly ways. It truly was a captivating piece, one of your favorites.

His fingers drum against the counter. He's irritated. “That's it.”

“Alright, that’ll be fifteen.”

The black-haired man pulls a twenty-dollar bill from an obnoxious tactical looking wallet. He slides it across the table without another word before reaching towards his chest pocket and pulling out an out-of-date flip phone as he awaited his change.

You quickly open up the register in the hopes of ending this painfully rude interaction only to realize that there are no singles or fives. There was definitely enough change to gather five dollars worth to return to the man but you used your best judgment to not do that, knowing for a fact that any Gothamite would be glad to throw said change back in your face. You were hardly able to meet the brooding man's eye as you glanced up, nervously gnawing away at the inside of your cheek. “I’m so-so-soooo sorry but we don’t have change. Do you have a ten and a five or anything more exact?”

He looks annoyed as he slips his phone back into his pocket. “No, I don't have exact change. What do you mean you don’t have any fives? It’s a five-dollar bill, any movie theater has to have fives. What kinda business do you think you’re running here?” He rambled on annoyance growing more and more present.

“We're low on small bills and we usually clear the register every few hours cause you know-,” you make a sheepish circular motion with your finger in an attempt to put emphasis on the area around you “Gotham.”

He crosses his arms over his gray sweater-clad chest, the furrow in his brow only deepening. “Listen, don’t be giving me attitude. Just because this is Gotham doesn’t mean it’s a free pass for shitty service.”

“No- that wasn’t what I was trying to do? I-” Panicked eyes glance at the digital clock beside you only to be met with a harsh red 8:03 flashing back at you.

This man was late for his movie and you were about to miss the next bus home. Trying to ignore his rude quip you spin on your heel towards the bag residing on a small stool beside you before reaching in and pulling out five crumpled-up singles. You then turn to your side to print his ticket and hastily slide both to him. Sure you wouldn’t have enough for your daily overpriced coffee tomorrow but anything was better than dealing with a disrespectful customer off the clock.

“Thanks,” he muttered, a scowl still etched onto his face as he narrowed his eyes at the ticket and crumpled loose bills that now resided in the palm of his hand. He then moved to turn away but not before backtracking and shooting you a glance that was not only laced with annoyance but curiosity as well. This was the last you saw of him before he made his way into the theater, door slamming shut behind him.

You release an exasperated breath thrilled by the fact that the confrontation was over. Obviously, you had dealt with many “colorful” personalities in your time working at The Velvet Room, it is just one of those things that you are forced to come to terms with when living in Gotham. Despite this, each confrontation does not fail to leave you more shaken up than the last.

You shot your manager a text informing her of your leave so she could ensure that one of your coworkers relieved you for the night shift. By now the clock read 8:06, and given the fact that your bus was set to leave in ten minutes, you were sure you were going to miss it. Making haste, you grab your purse, phone, and jacket, clumsily sliding the heavy leather garment over your shoulders.

As you finally step out of the ticketing booth the refreshing night air nips at your ears and nose; it wasn't like this in the morning yet with autumn coming in full swing the weather was becoming a bit more extreme. This makes you wrap your jacket around you a bit tighter as you make a beeline towards the bus stop.

— Surprisingly the bus was still there upon your arrival, sure you had run after it and flagged it down by flailing your arms around like the average Gotham madman but it was worth ensuring you got home on time. Once you're at the glass doors they swing open with a hiss allowing you to make slow calculated steps up the metallic stairs. You hesitate at the entrance scouring through your bag looking for the cash that you swore you had to pay the fare. Your hands then drift towards the pockets of your coat but are only met with empty fabric. The realization soon hits you that you overestimated the amount of cash you had in your bag and the money meant for your bus fare now resided in the pocket of the boorish customer from earlier.

Your stomach drops as you begin to acknowledge the ticketing machine waiting expectantly as well as the growing traction from the curious passenger around you, puzzled at what was taking so long. Now you make the choice to weigh your options. You could either A, ask for a free ride and explain your situation to the visibly annoyed driver or B, hop off and make the twenty-minute walk home.

With the circumstances making you wildly uneasy the second option seems like the clear choice.

You fade back into the sidewalk sheepishly as you feel your chest tighten with anxiety.

It isn’t like you haven’t walked alone in Gotham before, but with the sun having already set and the streets becoming more and more vacant by the minute you can't help but worry for your safety. To this, you found solace in the form of a small tube of pepper spray attached to your home keys that would, in the case of emergency, keep you safe. Of course this would only ever apply to some low level thug, because god forbid some Riddler or Scarecrow type decided to make an appearance. _ The street around you was dimly lit by the occasional faulty lamp post or neon bar sign that you refused to pay much attention to; for the sake of your personal wellbeing you knew to keep your head low and consciousness forward. Rapid steps carry you across the uneven pavement feeling forced to watch your footing and prevent a nasty fall.

A feeling of unease would only grow in your gut as your eyes linger on each person that passed you by. You scan their faces, taking note of the way that some would glance at you curiously while others seemed to be lost in their own world. A growing sense of vulnerability weighs heavily on you, but despite this you push on, determined to reach your home. The feeling of being watched however lingers over you, gnawing away your already decreased composure.

There is one particular man that catches your eye as walks towards your direction. He is tall and slim, the moon casting a sharp and twisted silhouette on the ground below him. A black zip-up hoodie clings to his pale figure, worn with age. His face is partially obscured by a baseball cap only allowing you to take note of piercing brown eyes that do not leave your own. He walks by allowing you to pick up on the smell of old cigarette smoke and booze. Your heart races and your posture stiffens as you pass him praying that he would not stop.

As you continue down the street you hear his foot steps slow to a halt. You cautiously look over your shoulder only to find that he has turned to completely face you, eyes locking intensely.

“Lost?” he asks, his voice low and teasing. There’s an edge to it that makes your skin crawl. He takes another step closer and you can’t help but be frozen where you stand.

“Listen..I’m just trying to get home” you squeeze out, making a weak attempt at keeping your voice steady while slowly raising your hands to put an emphasis on the fact that you meant no harm. The pepper-spray began to burn a hole in your pocket but the fear of making any sudden movements prohibited you from reaching for it.

“Here's what we’re gonna do,” he says, cutting you off as he pulls his sweatshirt up a tad exposing an old stained tank top and an opaque gun tucked into his waistband. “You’re gonna give me your bag, phone, and wallet.” His words are sharp and confident like he has done this before, and with the way things were going he definitely has. The tension is so insanely thick you could cut it with a knife. Sweat begins to bead at the palms of your hands, nape of your neck, and forehead while your chest rises and falls with quick breaths. You felt warm all over.

You try to swallow down the lump in your throat. “I don’t really have—”

“Save it,” he interrupts. “Just hand it over. Now.”

All it took was a second of hesitation and a slight twitch of your arm in the direction of your pocket for him to lunge towards you, fist connecting hard with your eye socket. You swore you saw stars. The pain shoots down your skull into your spine sending you into a panicked frenzy making you stagger away clumsily and almost immediately, you feel swelling around the eye. You don’t have the time to register what has happened before the man barks orders at you to keep it moving while shoving you towards a faulty lamp post, the cold surface biting into your back. Instinctively you raise your hands before deciding to toss your bag to the man's feet, watching helplessly as he rummages through it, pulling out whatever he finds of value.

Once satisfied he meets your terrified gaze once more. “Get out of here,”

You nod quickly, heart still pounding in your chest as you cautiously step away not even attempting to reach for whatever remained in your bag. He could keep it. You turn to sprint down the street, pain in your eye throbbing with each uncoordinated step, serving as a constant reminder of how dangerous these streets truly were.

You are not safe here in Gotham. You never were. You never will be.