#dawg reqs

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.