#artist reader

Jason had never thought of himself as something worth keeping.

He had learned early that people didn’t hold on to things like him.. not permanently, and certainly not without conditions. Even when they tried, their hands eventually slipped, or he slipped out on purpose, because staying had always felt like tempting fate. Jason had just been... useful.. for most of his life, which meant he had never really belonged anywhere.

Your apartment didn’t feel like a place that expected usefulness. It felt lived in, cluttered in a way that was the aftermath of hobbies rather than chaos, every surface carrying evidence of time spent there slowly and without apology. There were old cups with paint rings at the bottom, a chair draped with jackets that hadn't made it to their hooks, and on the floor near the window, stacked in uneven columns, were your sketchbooks.

There were wayyy more than he had realized.

He stood there longer than necessary, helmet still tucked under his arm, boots heavy on the hardwood, staring at them like they might shift if he looked away. Each one was different, some thin and warped from overuse, others thick and nearly bursting at the seams, elastic bands stretched and fraying like they’d been forced to accommodate too much, and some looked like they'd been abandoned halfway through. (They had, you just didn't like the vibe so they became scrap paper.)

“You can look if you want,” you called again, from the kitchen this time, your voice light, distracted, as if you weren’t offering him something sofragile.

Jason didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to.

He crouched eventually, movements slow and deliberate, as though the stack might react badly to sudden motion. The closest sketchbook was warm from where sunlight had hit it earlier in the day, the cover soft beneath his fingers, edges worn smooth in places where you must have held it absentmindedly. He hesitated, then opened it carefully, expecting.... well, he wasn’t really sure what he was expecting. Studies. Strangers. Fruits?

The first page was empty except for faint graphite ghosts, erased lines that never fully disappeared.

The second wasn’t.

It was him, unmistakably, drawn from an angle he recognized because he’d seen you watching him like that. He had been leaning in a doorway, weight shifted onto one hip, shoulders loose, helmet dangling from his fingers like he’d forgotten it was there. The lines were quick and confident, like your hand had known him without needing to think about it.

Jason’s breath caught, shallow and quiet.

He turned the page.

And then another.

And another.

He was there again, and again, and again, scattered throughout the book without ceremony, tucked between studies of hands and the curve of someone’s spine. He saw himself caught mid-motion or mid-thought like you’d reached for him as muse the same way you reached for light through a window or the fall of fabric over bone.

Some versions of him were rough, unfinished, with eyes nothing more than suggestion. Others? Others lingered, shadows built patiently under his eyes, the line of his mouth softened into something that felt almost unfair. You hadn’t tried to make him prettier than he was. You had just let him be.

He saw himself sleeping with his head tipped back, mouth slightly open, jacket bunched under his neck like a makeshift pillow.. and the vulnerability of it made his chest ache. He didn’t remember that moment. He didn’t remember giving it to you. But there it was, preserved like proof that he could exist without being alert, without being ready to react.

Jason closed the book, hands steady despite the noise in his head.

He understood then that this wasn’t about obsession or fixation. You weren’t hoarding images of him because you were afraid he’d leave. You were recording him because you liked how he stayed, because he took up space in your world in a way that felt natural enough to document.

That realization scared him more than being watched ever had.

It was Tim who noticed the sketchbook first, because Tim noticed everything.

Jason’s bag hit the table with a dull thud, heavier than usual, the familiar weight of gear shifting as he let it go, and for half a second everything was normal. The screens were humming, the Cave breathing around them, Bruce’s presence was a steady gravity at the edge of his awareness. Then something slid free from the open zipper, quiet and almost polite, landing flat on the metal surface like it belonged there.

Tim’s hand moved on instinct.

“Jay, you dropped-..”

Jason turned too fast, heart kicking hard enough to make his ribs ache, the word don’t already sharp on his tongue. He saw it then, the worn cover, the bent corner he recognized immediately, and the certainty hit him all at once, cold and immediate.

“No,” he said, too quick, too loud for the space, already stepping forward, but Tim had frozen, eyes flicking down to the open page before he could stop himself.

The cave went quiet in a way it rarely did.

Tim didn’t say anything at first. His grip loosened, careful, like he was afraid the paper might tear under the weight of what he was holding, and his expression shifted through confusion, recognition, and something softer Jason didn’t know how to interpret.

Bruce looked over then, attention drawn by the break in rhythm, and Jason felt that familiar tightening in his chest. It was the reflexive dread that came with being noticed by him. Bruce’s gaze landed on the sketchbook, then on the page, and stayed there longer than Jason liked.

Dick moved closer without realizing he’d done it, curiosity pulling him in despite himself, and Jason hated how predictable that was, hated that this moment was happening at all, hated that he hadn’t checked his bag before leaving.

The drawing was simple, one of the quieter ones. Jason knew it immediately. Him, seated on the edge of your couch, forearms braced on his knees, head bowed slightly, helmet resting between his feet. No costume. No mask. Just him, caught in the kind of stillness he rarely allowed himself.

No one spoke.

Jason stood there, fists clenched so tight his gloves creaked, pulse roaring in his ears. This wasn’t just privacy breached.. it was evidence, laid bare in front of the people who had known him longest, that someone had looked at him gently and often.

Bruce was the first to touch the page, fingers hovering before settling on the corner like he needed to reassure himself it was real. His expression didn’t change much, but something in his eyes did, a tension easing into something closer to regret.

“These are…” Bruce began, then stopped, as if he couldn’t find the right word without weighing it too carefully.

“Intentional,” Tim muttered quietly, flipping the page before he could think better of it.

Jason flinched, but he didn’t stop him.

There were more of him, then. Pages full, variations subtle but unmistakable. his profile softened, his eyes half-lidded, the scar along his cheek rendered not as something jagged but as a line that belonged. None of the drawings tried to make him bigger than he was. None of them tried to fix him.

They just showed him existing.

Dick let out a slow breath. “You look… calm,” he said, almost to himself.

Jason swallowed hard. He didn’t remember the last time he’d felt calm in a way that wasn’t forced.

Damian stepped closer, silent as ever, and studied one sketch for a long moment, his head tilting slightly. Then he looked up at Jason, eyes steady and unflinching.

"These are your girlfriend's? She clearly knows her skill, and she wouldn't waste it."

The word landed harder than anything else.

Jason didn’t know what to do with the way his throat tightened, the way his chest felt too full for the space it was in. He had spent years proving, over and over again, that he could survive on his own terms, that he didn’t need anyone to frame him as something gentle.

But this wasn’t framing. It was just recognition.

Tim finally closed the sketchbook, careful, reverent, and slid it back across the table toward Jason. “Y'know,” he shrugged slightly, “most people don’t draw things they don’t want to remember.”

Jason took the book, hands steadier than he felt, and tucked it back into his bag like it was something fragile, something that could still be taken from him if he wasn’t careful.

No one teased him. No one pushed.

Bruce looked at him once more before turning away, voice low but certain. “You’re allowed this, Jason.”

Jason didn’t respond. He just nodded once and left with the weight of the sketchbook pressing against his side, heavy in a way that felt grounding rather than burdensome.

Jason didn’t tell you right away.

He moved through your apartment like he was relearning the space, boots quieter, shoulders looser but his eyes were thoughtful, lingering on things he normally passed without comment. He noticed the stack of mail by the door, the chipped mug you always reached for first, the familiar scatter of pencils across the coffee table.

He sat beside you on the couch eventually, close enough that your knees brushed, and stayed there longer than necessary before saying anything at all.

When he did speak, his voice was low, careful, like he was testing the shape of the words before letting them exist. “The book fell outta my bag,” he grumbled. “In the fucking cave.”

You looked up from your sketchpad, attention shifting fully to him, but you didn’t interrupt. You just waited, your pen resting still between your fingers.

“They saw it,” he added. “All of it.”

You set the sketchpad aside without any drama and turned toward him, your body angling in a way that felt intentional and open. “Okay,” you spoke softly, not alarmed, not apologetic, like the situation wasn’t something to be afraid of.

Your shoulders shrugged once, your eyebrows quirked in dismissal. It wasn't directed towards him or his words, but rather the tension oozing off of him.

Jason exhaled, his posture easing and the line between his brows lessening with each second. He hadn’t been worried you’d be angry. He’d been worried you’d be embarrassed of him, or worse, of how much space he took up in your work.

“They didn’t say anything bad,” he went on. “Just… surprised.”

You reached for his hands then, your touch warm and familiar, thumbs brushing over his knuckles the way you always did when you wanted to calm him. “I’m not shocked, like at all,” you smiled lightly. “You’re kinda hard not to notice in there.

That earned a huff of a laugh from him, quiet and incredulous, but the corner of his mouth tipped up despite himself.

Later, when the apartment had settled into its usual nighttime hush, you curled into the corner of the couch with one of your sketchbooks balanced on your knee. Jason sat beside you, arm slung along the backrest, pretending not to watch while watching anyway, the way he always did.

“What’re you working on?” he asked, casual, though his eyes kept flicking back to the page.

You glanced up at him, lips curving. “You.”

He shook his head slowly. “You’ve got a whole city right there,” he breathed out in mild amusement, gesturing vaguely at the room, at the world beyond it. “And you’re still stuck on me.”

You shrugged, pencil moving again lazily. “You stay still long enough.”

Jason snorted, but he didn’t argue. He just shifted closer, letting his hand drop from the cushions to your leg, the contact easy and unguarded.

You sketched quietly for a while, the soft scratch of graphite filling the space between breaths. When you finally turned the book toward him, you poked your smiling face over the top of the page to peek at his reaction.

“You always make me look like that,” he murmured.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m… gentle or something.”

You leaned in and kissed his cheek, gentle and brief, like punctuation rather than emphasis. “That’s because you are.”

Then your eyes found his, and before you could settle back again, he pulled you into a tender kiss that spoke more of love than he ever could.

Here, with you, he didn’t feel like something waiting to be taken away.

He felt chosen, again and again, in charcoal and graphite and the quiet consistency of being drawn not because he was extraordinary, but simply because he was yours.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

When you came to witness him another day, he was not mingled in the crowd. He was on display, and so was his strength, as he anchored the very end of a rope in the Tug of War. You told yourself that you were merely laying down the moment on paper, lords acting like youths, full of vigour and bustle, but you had put a lot of effort into portraying his face. With every new line curving more into him, you saw something different. Power, determination, the way his body sprang with muscle. And then the unattainable joy that came with victory, the smile on his face that could match the sun, the howling, and the little jolly boy on his arm. You even found yourself smiling.

You saw him once more, and in the dark, he looked much more imposing from a distance. Yet a flutter of those great, gleaming eyes, and a funny purse of a soft mouth, were enough to disarm him all over. You watched him speak with a salesman, how gently and politely he put down a helmet he couldn't have. You watched as he parted with one of his horses, and how much his face reminded you of an overgrown child — a sweet, lost child. There was a sadness in his gaze that made you look, but also kindness which peered through small, fleeting gestures. That was the first time you drew him, from memory after he disappeared, a little more wonky than you'd like, features not sitting well enough just yet.

Your little observations continued in hush, his face returning amid others on pages, each drawing morphing into something greater than the last. You had grown familiar with the curve of his jaw, the leaning of his nose, the steady planes of his cheekbones. It was not a distinct face, but soft in daylight and exceptionally sincere — a face you remember but not the name it carries.

“Oi! You there!”

Your head shot up from your work at the sound of a sharp, hefty voice thrown in your direction. You saw him, looking straight at you for the first time, and suddenly felt cornered. With a few strides through the grass, he reached you, his tall frame swallowing you from the rock you sat on. Your breath was stuck in your chest when you saw the subtle, even if clumsy, fire in his stare, his fists resting on his hips in obvious dissatisfaction.

“What is your problem? You've been starin’ at me for far too long!”

“Is it a crime to look?”

“N- no!” he flustered, light brows pinching together, “But it is rude.”

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight on the thick stumps of his legs as he attempted to look threatening.

“What are you starin’ for, anyway?”

Your lips parted, but no words came out. Instead of explaining yourself, you turned the sketchbook towards the man and watched the emotions passing over his face. He seemed startled at first, but his forehead then eased in the faintest of interest, and he blinked, reluctantly impressed with so many versions of himself.

“Those- those are good,” he admitted with an awkward gesture of his hand in the air that he tried to cover as a scratch of his nape. “But don't go around starin’ at people as if you want them dead or somethin’!”

“Yes, ser.”

“Good!” he nodded, puffing out his chest, all serious, that it appeared humorous on that cordial face. “Will you… Show me how you do that?”

You felt a slow carving of your mouth as you nodded back.

“Hells, that really does look like him!” Dunk laughed gleefully beside you, glancing between your sketch and the little mug of Egg sitting by your other side.

The boy studied your work very attentively and quietly, with full, smooth eyes deep in thought.

“Such talents shouldn't go wasted on commoners.”

“Who you callin’ a commoner?” outraged Dunk, though he was quick to forgive that insult. “How long had you been doing that?”

“For as long as I can remember,” you replied, leaving an efficient smudge as a shadow under Egg’s neck, eyeing the lad next to you in the corner of your vision.

“Is there anything you haven't drawn yet?” Egg asked curiously, being the best subject you had in a while, as he turned into a pure statue. You thought through a passing breeze, finishing your sketch in a final stroke.

“The dead.”

Ripping the paper free, you handed the portrait to his smaller, meek hands. He looked at the drawing, a soft, warm smile resting on his delicate face.

“Thank you. I shall keep it in my finest protection.”

“I’m certain you will, little one,” you responded in kind.

A mild rumble left Dunk as he peered at the drawing in Egg’s grasp.

“Maybe you should give me one sometime. Not keep ‘em hidden.”

“If that's what you wish for, ser, I’ll gladly do it.”

A nod was the only response you earned, along with a quelled grin upon his lips.

That was before tragedy unfolded, the puppetry show, the young dragon’s cruelty and Dunk’s honour questioned. The details obscured away from you, yet one thing was known — Ser Duncan the Tall was going to perish, or so help the Gods.

“I have a favour to ask of you,” he said urgently yet gravely serious when he found you in the service tent the night before the doom. “Could you… before I...” he didn't need to finish.

Soon, you found yourself seated in the looming darkness, hanging on desperately for the candlelight sitting on the table by Dunk’s side. Warmth flowed over the planes of his face that it could grasp, shadow drowning the depths and curves of his features. Charcoal was an easy medium to carve out the weight of each muscle, every angle and arch, and the very glimpse of tension in his eyes.

“Apologies. No one has looked at me for so long before. Not in this way-” he appeared bashful as his gaze escaped aside.

“You needn't be nervous,” you reassured gently when you lay a shadow underneath his cheek on the linen. Dunk huffed through his nose in response, shaking his head a tad.

“This might be the last time you do this.”

Your movements slowed.

“The last time we speak. The last time… I'm being seen.”

You looked straight at him, hoping that somehow that would come to be a joke in the matter of time.

“Last time I'm remembered.” A timid, unfortunate smile rested upon his lips, his posture slouching.

“I don't draw the dead, ser.” You reminded him, those shining eyes flickering towards you, a naive hope swirling in the pools of his stare.

“Do you think… I’ll come back?” Dunk's voice was small, as if he was afraid to give in to the small lilt in its edge. You blew the excessive dust that had settled in the dusk of the drawing.

“I expect you to. Otherwise, I’ll lose my muse.”

His breath stilled in the back of his throat as he looked at you, words dying in his mouth. It seemed as if his heart stopped beating altogether.

He roused himself when you gave him the drawing, his hands careful as they brushed against yours and the canvas you offered. Dunk was gaping back at himself, consumed in shade, rigid and frightened, but beautiful. Even he saw the fondness you displayed in every line, every streak, the gleam in his eyes, the tenderness of his mouth, and even his dirty, messy hair, somehow more endearing than sad. This sketch might grow into the only evidence of his existence lost to time, or something greater.

“You’re good,” he murmured with a hint of a smile that coloured his face again. “If that's the way I'm remembered… I'm happy to be.”

Your soul ached while you stared at him in silence. Your hand moved, planted itself on his forearm. You felt the softness he bore, his heart alive, and prayed that it wouldn’t stop beating.

He glanced at you, lips parted as if in a silent question, eyes wide, but he didn't flinch away.

“The Gods won't let you die, ser Dunk.” Your voice echoed in the hum of rainfall outside. “Not when you acted in good cause. And if they do…” You swallowed a lump swelling with unspoken words in your throat. “Well… then I won't believe the Gods exist at all.”

“You can't say that!”

“What other truth would it be?” you nearly pleaded. Dunk shook his head with a tight close of his jaw. “They would take one of their most honourable, good, lovely spirits, for a dragon to keep snarling?”

His fingers narrowed around the wooden frame of the canvas until they remembered they were holding something precious.

“I’m not honourable, I'm not good, and I'm not lovely.” Dunk rumbled lowly, his gaze pointed at his own mug in his hands.

“Yes, you are.”

His face winced as if that answer had hurt him, looking back at you as if to scold you, but your kind expression melted him all too quickly.

“And I’m sorry you can't see that.”

He didn't speak for a long time, but you could feel him as your hand remained in place, the twitches beneath his flesh, his breathing constant and stable in the stillness between you two.

“How much do I owe you?” he finally asked, his claw sneaking into his pocket.

“Nothing, Dunk.”

He met your stare through a sharp lift of his head, his frown telling you how much he thought you were crazy.

“Nothin’?”

“I want you only to return alive,” you whispered. Dunk softened.

“That’s a cost I'm not able to promise.”

“I know.”

Your heart, already filled with so much grief, would nearly break as you looked at his face, those eyes — they would stare back at you in your memory, you were sure of that.

You rose to your feet, closed in on him before you could think. Dunk gazed up at you from where he was seated, vulnerable and waiting patiently, as he watched you near. The hitch of his breath tickled your skin when your hands gently clasped his cheeks, the widening of his eyes not lost on you. Perhaps it was foolish, but you didn't know what words could possibly signify the weight of your care and fear for him.

You kissed him, tilting down to close your lips upon his in a kind press. He startled at first, and you tasted the tremor that quivered him, yet he didn't draw back. After you lingered, you respectfully resumed the gap between you, but Dunk didn't share your judgment. Leaning forward, he chased another kiss, his mouth grazing yours in a graceless, but fair tie. You smiled, unable not to. He was sweet, gentle, even if his clumsiness didn't allow it, and seemed to understand your gesture just fine. His breath heated your skin, lips overtaking yours in a furtive, added peck before splitting.

You saw his eyes closed, how near overwhelmed he appeared, and the faintest dust of a flush on his face. His throat worked while he built the courage to look at you, his regard sparkling up at you as he caught his breath. Met with your smile, a gasping laugh escaped him without realising it, something close to wonder.

"Be safe, Ser Duncan," you whispered into the warmth hovering between you two, thumbs slowly stroking the dear blush on his cheeks.

He nodded, the solemnity coming through his bewitched expression in the shift of his jaw, his brow tightening in a light crease.

"I'll try my best."

Flowery, as sweet and endearing as he is, can be quite invasive sometimes; him appearing out of seemingly nowhere and curiously looking over your shoulder while you're drawing the guy himself isn't exactly a dream of yours, even though you do sometimes wonder how he would react if he ever found out you draw him so often.

In a realistic style, in a more cartoony one, colored in black and white or with all the shades you have available, with one tool or technique or the other…and all of this is done in complete secret, either when you know for sure that he's busy or, like in this instance, when everyone is asleep.

It's only when you're about to take a look at what you've drawn last night that you realize - shit, your sketchbook isn't there.

It's not in your bag, not on the nightstand, it's not even somewhere random in your room after being thrown aside before you fell asleep…!

You frantically check even in the strangest places, like under your bed or, man - it could even have ended up in the space between the bed and the wall! But no matter how hard you look, it doesn't seem to be anywhere.

So there's only one thing you can do, really - you finish getting ready for the day and head out of your room, retracing your steps from last night.

Saying you end up looking everywhere would be an understatement, especially considering the most obvious place your sketchbook could've been in - the exact spot where you sat to draw last night - ends up completely empty, devoid of art supplies.

You're so desperate that you even ask the other Flowers if they've seen it around, interrupting Blue's dance practice and Green while they're busy cooking meals for later. Nobody seems to have seen it anywhere, which discourages you - at least Seth understands your panic, though.

After what feels like hours of wandering aimlessly, you end back up in the same garden you were sitting in last night, hoping to at least find a clue on where your sketchbook could be this time.

It's nearly noon at this point, so the sun is starting to bother you even though the leaves of the trees above you help filter out some of the sun rays; you sigh, and circle around the tree you were sat next to last night, checking for a hint.

"Lovely day out here, no?"

" !! " You startle, jumping slightly. The sound of Flowery's laughter fills the otherwise quiet garden as you turn around to face him.

"Easy, it's just me!"

That's exactly the problem! is what you think, but of course you can't say that out loud, so you limit yourself to a strained smile and hope your cheeks aren't as flushed as they feel.

"Yes, just lovely! What are you uh. Doing, out here!"

"That's an odd question. Can't a guy take a walk? What are you doing out here?" there's a playful little smirk on his lips as he teases you.

"Oh no, absolutely…! I was just looking for this thing that I lost, can't find it anywhere though - but it'll be fine! It's not like, important or anything," you try to play it off, hoping he doesn't suggest to help you look for the sketchbook.

However he does nothing but quirk one of his eyebrows;

"Ah, I see, it's quite the struggle losing something around here. Have you tried asking the Flowers? Some of them could have seen it around, Aqua could've taken it, or who knows what."

"I did ask all of them already, but nobody was all that helpful, so I just came back out here because it's the last place I saw it while I was- y'know. Using it last night."

"You asked all of them?"

You suppress the urge to squint at him. He looks mad suspicious right now…!

"…Yes, almost. I am actually about to ask the last of them the same question I've asked six times already…!"

He straightens up his back stupidly, and smiles at you.

"Go ahead then!"

Sigh.

"…Flowery, have you seen my sketchbook? It's…about this size-" you approximately show him the size of your sketchbook with your hands, "…it has a black cover with some decorations, but I haven't filled that up much yet, and I always keep some drawing supplies kind of stuck in-between the spirals?" you finish your explanation sounding quite exasperated, and frankly just hoping he hasn't come across it before you.

Flowery shifts slightly, and only now you take notice of the fact that he's holding something behind his back.

Oh God.

Your body short circuits, unsure if you're supposed to be flushing like crazy or become completely frozen in place.

He holds up the sketchbook - your sketchbook - in the air, and swings it around a little before extending it towards you, posing in a slight bow.

"Yes I have!"

You hesitantly grab it from him, inspecting the exterior slightly; he steps back from you, stupidly pretty smile still on his face from earlier.

"Oh. Did…you open it, or…?"

"Mostlys!"

"What do you mean- don't let your voice lines speak for you!" you grumble, flustered. His behaviour doesn't indicate that he's mad or anything of the like though, at least, so you find yourself not being all that mad either.

"Ahah! Hey, it's definitely on me and I shouldn't have looked-" he says sincerely, which takes you a little by surprise, "But you ah, how do I say this…you left it open on the first page for everyone to see, so-"

"Oooh yes of course I did that…" you interrupt him briefly, "…Sorry, you weren't supposed to see anything and this is really fucking embarassing for both of us, so-"

"I'm trying to get it across that I'm not at all weirded out here!" He's the one interrupting you this time, with a sing-songy tone of voice no less; your heart feels funny once you register his words, "I didn't look at all of them, I figured you'd want your privacy at some point, but-"

Flowery takes a slight step towards you, and pokes you on the upper part of your chest where your shirt's collar sits - a beautiful yellow flowers sprouts there once he removes his hand, and you have to do everything in your power not to faint right then and there.

He flashes a bright, silly grin.