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𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐚 જ⁀➴ fifteen. she her. real life angel. baked goods. vanilla. books. soft hair. fresh linen. doe eyes. grace and elegance. blair waldorf. jeff buckley. clayton beresfords baby. jason todds bunny.

ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist. blog + request rules. requests: open

#amiratheangel ⋆˙⟡#divine scriptures ‧₊˚.#confessions of a teenage angel ༉‧₊˚.#paradises archives °˖➴#heavens diciples ✶⋆.˚

really missing pablo rn 🙁

#confessions of a teenage angel ༉‧₊˚.#pablo my baby #missing cat

faepoetry

blurb #1 | clark kent (sfw)

tw: none, fluff! pairings: corenswet!clark kent x female reader

You watched from your spot at the kitchen island as Clark collected everything he needed before heading off to work at the Daily Planet. "Okay I've got my bag, wallet..." he counted off the things on his fingers to himself as he made his way to the door. You took a sip of your coffee as you watched him pull his blazer on and his shoes.

You stood from your chair, picking up the thermos of coffee that you made him along with his car keys that he forgot. You smiled as you walked over to him, setting the coffee down by his wallet.

"Okay, I think I'm ready to go. I'll see you for lunch, right?" He asked as he turned to the mirror that was on the wall by the door, fixing his tie.

"Actually you forgot something." You said with a soft chuckle as you looked up at him.

"Oh right. How could I ever forget about you." He smiled as he gently pulled you in close, his arms sliding around your waist as he planted a loving kiss to your lips. One of his hands came up to cup your jaw as he kissed you.

You cheeks flushed a deep red as he pulled away, a big smile on his face as he looked down at you. You slowly opened your hand to reveal his car keys. "I actually meant these, but... I still liked that either way." You said softly.

"Ah, my keys. I won't get very far without these." He chuckled as he took them before planting another sweet kiss to your lips. "Thank you, sweetheart. I love you so much. I'll see you at lunch."

❀ end note: ugh i love clark, especially david's portrayal of him.

❀ clark kent masterlist | main masterlist

❀ if you liked this fic then i would really appreciate it if you liked, or commented, or reblog it! thanks for reading! ❀

©faepoetry please do not steal, copy, repost, reuse, or translate my work.

effortlesslysweet

i hate hate hate when i'm talking about something and the person changes the subject

briebrini271

Mack's yearning bottom eyes vs Will's sadness in his eyes you only see in eastern european gay porn send tweet

effortlesslysweet

what’s ur fav drink

the tears of my ops

amiratheangel

like ops as in opinions or opps as in opposition

#confessions of a teenage angel ༉‧₊˚.#get ur words correct isabel

i wish i didn’t have to pick between him and literally everything else

#confessions of a teenage angel ༉‧₊˚.

marlboroenjoyer

how it feels reblogging my favorite smut fics

harbours-lighthouse

KEEPING VIGIL

Jason Todd, who sleeps with his face pressed to the curve of your spine, who listens to the quiet sounds coming from your phone.

Jason Todd, who can't stop the love that cinches his chest tight when your back shakes with a stifled giggle.

What's makin' you laugh, baby?

Jason Todd, who rubs his thumb across your stomach when you sniffle, the muted light of your phone trickling into his hazy vision.

What's makin' you sad, with that big heart of yours?

Jason Todd, who falls asleep knowing that you keep vigil, that your heartbeat sits in front of his.

burger3316271

Drew WSH with short hair today ,and yes, the little bunny is also WSH

wingswin0516

“My wife is a raving lunatic and I like her so much”

-will smith hockey

From emmiii_712 on TT

#my boyfriend probably said this too

starl1ghtgr4yson

ᰔ 𝓢ugar High ˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙—

｡𖦹°‧ Pairing — Jason Todd x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧Content/summary — What starts as you taking up baking as a hobby quickly turns into a full-blown crisis. Jason goes from dutifully eating your rock-hard practice brownies to becoming addicted to your homemade pastries. He gains a little comfortable soft layer over his abs, smells like vanilla and cinnamon 24/7, and couldn't care less what his brothers have to say about it.

At this point, it was getting ridiculous.

When you first started baking, Jason was basically a hero just for swallowing the messes you made. Chocolate chip cookies that tasted like straight salt, loaves of sourdough dense enough to dent the wall, and strawberry cupcakes that tasted like garlic…!

He ate all of it anyway. Sitting on the counter in his sweatpants, jaw working overtime through a brick-hard brownie, crumbs flying everywhere. "Baby, it’s not bad…. you’re getting better. You should keep going.”

So you did. You learned how to brown butter, and mastered high-fat pastries.

And that's when Jason officially lost his mind.

Now, the apartment constantly smelled so sweet it was almost criminal. Warm yeast, caramelized sugar, browning butter, and that heavy, rich scent of real vanilla bean that hung in the air.

It got to the point where Jason smelled like it 24/7. It didn't matter if he'd just spent six hours fighting guys in a damp sewer—the second he pulled off the red helmet, he didn't smell like Gotham air or cordite anymore. He smelled ridiculously like warm vanilla bean and spicy cinnamon. It clung to his skin, his hair, his jacket, even his sweat. It was his natural scent at this point.

And he was completely, hopelessly feral for it.

The man was eating continuously. You’d wake up at three in the morning to the sound of plastic wrap rustling in the dark, finding him leaning against the fridge in his boxers, shoving a cold, glaze-covered cinnamon roll into his mouth before he’d even turned the light on. He’d come home from patrol covered in rain and soot, kick his boots off, and walk straight past you to grab a warm vanilla cupcake off the cooling rack.

Not one. Three. In about thirty seconds flat.

You’d sit on the counter and watch him eat like he’d been starving uin the desert, his eyes half-shut, frosting smeared across his thumb. He didn't even use plates anymore. Just stood there in his gear, breathing in the sweet bakery air of the kitchen, completely hooked.

Naturally, eating his weight in heavy cream, butter, and sugar every single day caught up with him.

He was still huge—the man was broad as a barn and could still throw a guy through a windshield—but the tight, shrink-wrapped abs were completely gone. In their place was a noticeably soft, solid layer. A cozy kind of soft. The kind where resting your head on his chest while watching TV felt ten times better because he actually had some padding over his ribs—and he smelled like a fresh tray of cinnamon buns while you cuddled him.

He didn't care. He was living in a sugar-induced bliss.

The rest of the family, unfortunately, had eyes (and noses).

It came to a head on a Tuesday in the Batcave. Jason was leaning back against the console, jacket half-unzipped, lazily listening to Bruce rant about precinct logs.

Dick walked past, stopped dead in his tracks, and sniffed the air like a hound dog before looking right at Jason’s middle. Before Jason could react, Dick darted a hand out and jabbed a finger right into his side.

"Dude," Dick said, his mouth twitching into a wide grin. "Are you getting... doughy? And why do you smell like a bakery?"

Tim didn't look up from his screen, but he snorted into his mug. "It's all he eats. Every time I radio him, I can hear him chewing a muffin. He literally smells like sweet vanilla from ten feet away. He's an addict."

"It's embarrassing," Damian muttered from across the room, scowling over a batarang. "You look like you're preparing to hibernate, Todd. And you smell like a confectioner's shop. Your conditioning is shot."

Jason didn't even blink. He reached out, slapped Dick’s hand away hard enough to leave a red mark, and reached straight into his inner jacket pocket.

He pulled out a soft, foil-wrapped vanilla bun you’d snuck into his gear before he left, peeled the foil back with his teeth, and shoved half of it into his mouth right in front of them.

"Cry about it," Jason mumbled around a mouthful of soft dough, icing sticking to the corner of his lip. "You guys are up here eating cardboard protein bars and drinking grass water. My girl makes these from scratch. Every day. I'm taking this to my grave."

Dick stared at the bun, the smug look instantly evaporating as the rich smell of cinnamon drifted across the cave. "...Is that cream cheese frosting?"

Jason zipped his jacket up over his soft stomach with zero shame, smelling like pure vanilla sugar, and took another huge bite.

"Don't even breathe near it, Dick. Get your own girl."

They should have left it at that. But Dick and Tim thought it would be funny to test the theory.

The next afternoon, while Jason was out doing a routine sweep of Crime Alley, Dick swiped the tin of fresh cinnamon rolls and the box of vanilla-bean cupcakes you’d sent Jason off with for the shift.

They realized their mistake within two hours.

Without his daily influx of sugar and butter, Jason didn't just get annoyed—he turned downright vicious.

By hour three of patrol, his radio comms were just a series of low, terrifying snarls. When Tim tried to check in on a lead, Jason cut him off by telling him to "shut your mouth before I cave your visor in." When a mugger in an alley hesitated to put his weapons down, Jason didn't negotiate; he threw the guy through a brick wall, kicked his gun across the street, and slammed the alley door so hard the hinges bent.

By the time everyone regrouped in the Batcave, the tension was suffocating.

Jason practically stomped down the glass stairs, helmet yanked off, his jaw clenched so tight the muscles were twitching. His hair was sticking up, his eyes were bloodshot, and he looked ready to murder a man with his bare hands.

"Where is it," Jason snapped, his voice dangerously quiet, stepping right into Dick's personal space.

Dick swallowed hard, suddenly realizing that a withdrawal-addicted Red Hood was not a joke. "Jay, calm down, we just—"

"I asked you a question, Dickhead," Jason barked, slamming a heavy tactical gauntlet onto the main console hard enough to rattle the monitors. "Where are the fucking cinnamon rolls."

You would’ve thought Dick killed someone by the way Jason was staring at him,

"We took them!" Tim blurted out, holding up hands in surrender from behind his chair. "We wanted to see if you were actually addicted! You've been a nightmare on comms all night, man, you're literally going through sugar withdrawal!"

"Give. Them. Back." Jason’s eyes narrowed into slit-like glares. "I have had a twelve-hour day, my head hurts, I smell like cheap exhaust, and I am five seconds away from beating both of you into the concrete if my girl's baking isn't back in my hands."

Dick frantically reached under the desk, pulling out the sealed tin and handing it over like a bomb squad tech disarming an explosive.

Jason snatched the tin, popped the lid off immediately, and took a massive, angry bite out of a roll. He stood there in the middle of the cave, breathing heavily, chewing aggressively while staring daggers at both of them.

Within thirty seconds, as the soft dough and heavy glaze hit his system, his shoulders slowly dropped. The vein pulsing in his temple calmed down. He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the scary edge melting away as that familiar, warm vanilla aroma washed over him again.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, gave Dick one last, lethal glare, and hugged the tin tightly against his chest, his softer stomach pressing into the metal lid.

"Don't ever," Jason grunted, walking back toward the Batmobile, "touch my food again."

Requested by @nightwingsbabydoll tysm! This was so fun to write.

Taglist: @leovaldez0924 @newangelle @pxrcyjcksons @rani1028 @maradcrs @purelypersistentribe @cecillia-stuff @sarahskywalker-amidala @starrydustedwinter @brucewayneisavirgin @idkwhattosaynowsorry @sexy-sadie-6505 @steadyclarityparadox @fireriyu