𝓢𝐈rizona

9TEEN|🤍🩶🖤|WOC

[fancy-possum]

WHEN YOU LEAST EXPECT IT ◞ Jason Todd

Actor Jason Todd and actress Reader are both riding sudden waves of fame when they’re cast as the leads in a big-budget 90s-style romantic comedy. Their chemistry test is so electric the room goes silent. What starts as perfect on-screen magic slowly, inevitably, becomes real.  

masterlist ◞ reqs open ◞ please follow!

Jason Todd had built his career on looking like trouble.  

Gritty indie films. Anti-hero roles. The kind of performances that left critics using words like “raw” and “unflinching.” He’d spent years playing men who didn’t get happy endings, and the industry had rewarded him for it. Then a single awards-season run changed everything. Suddenly the same people who once called him “too intense for mainstream” were offering him scripts with soft lighting and sweeping scores.  

Your trajectory had been different but just as steep. A breakout supporting role in a quiet drama had turned into back-to-back leads. Magazines liked to call you “the new face of intelligent romance.” You still found the label faintly embarrassing, but the work was good, and the pay meant you could finally stop checking your bank account before ordering takeout.  

The project that brought you together was called *When You Least Expect It* — a glossy, big-hearted romantic comedy in the vein of late-90s and early-2000s classics. Think rain-soaked confessions, messy apartments, and a soundtrack that would sell millions. Jason had almost turned it down on principle. You had almost done the same, worried it was too commercial after your recent work.  

Then the studio sent over the chemistry-test request.  

You met on a bright Tuesday morning on a soundstage that still smelled like fresh paint. Jason was already there when you arrived, sitting in a folding chair with a script in his lap and a paper coffee cup in one hand. He looked different in person — taller, broader, the sharp lines of his face softened by the casual black sweater he wore. The white streak in his hair was less dramatic under the studio lights than it appeared on red carpets.  

He stood when you walked in.  

“Hey,” he said, voice lower than it sounded in interviews. “I’m Jason.”  

“I know,” you answered, smiling despite the nerves. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”  

The director, a warm woman named Elaine who’d made two of your favourite smaller films, clapped her hands and gestured to the taped marks on the floor. “We’re keeping this simple. Scene twelve — the bookstore argument that turns into the first almost-kiss. No pressure. Just see how it feels.”  

You both nodded.  

The first read-through was polite. Competent. Jason’s character was a cynical photographer who’d given up on love; yours was a bookstore owner who still believed in it too much. The dialogue had the classic rhythm of those older rom-coms — sharp, a little breathless, full of things said and unsaid.  

Then Elaine asked you to try it once without the scripts in hand.  

Something shifted.  

Jason stepped closer on the line about rain ruining the photographs. His eyes — greener than they looked on camera — locked onto yours and didn’t look away. When you delivered the soft, stubborn reply that was supposed to catch him off guard, you watched the exact moment his expression cracked into something real and startled. The air between you changed. The next lines came out quieter, more charged. By the time the scene reached the almost-kiss, the entire room had gone still.  

Jason’s hand lifted like the stage directions asked, fingers brushing your jaw. He didn’t close the distance. He just looked at you as though the cameras and the crew and the entire industry had disappeared.  

Elaine’s voice came out soft. “Cut.”  

No one moved for a second.  

Then the casting director exhaled a quiet, incredulous laugh. “Well. That’s the movie.”  

Jason dropped his hand carefully. The tips of his ears were pink. You felt your own face warm under the lights. The two of you stepped back at the same time, suddenly aware of how close you’d gotten.  

Later, in the hallway outside, Jason caught up to you near the exit.  

“That was…” He rubbed the back of his neck, searching for a word that wouldn’t sound ridiculous. “Easy. In a way most of these things aren’t.”  

“Yeah,” you said. “It was.”  

He hesitated, then offered a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll see you on set.”  

“Guess you will.”  

Filming began six weeks later in a converted warehouse on the edge of the city. The production had the warm, slightly chaotic energy of those older rom-coms — fairy lights, practical sets, a soundtrack playing between takes. Jason arrived the first day looking like he’d braced himself for something painful. By lunch he was laughing at something the boom operator had said, sleeves pushed up, the sharp edges of his public persona already softening.  

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm.  

Jason was quieter than his reputation suggested. Between takes he sat close enough that your shoulders sometimes brushed, reading the next scene in a low voice so the two of you could find the emotional beats together. He remembered how you took your coffee after the first week. You started saving him the corner seat at the monitor because he hated feeling watched from behind. The crew began referring to you as a unit without meaning to — “the leads,” “the pair,” “Jason and—” like your names belonged in the same breath.  

The rain scene was scheduled for the third week.  

It was the emotional hinge of the film: your characters caught in a downpour after a fight, the confession spilling out under a broken awning. The special-effects rain was cold and relentless. By the third take your hair was plastered to your face and Jason’s sweater was soaked through. Elaine kept calling for another try, chasing something she hadn’t quite seen yet.  

On the seventh take Jason stopped performing.  

The words came out rough and true. When he reached for your face this time there was no hesitation. The kiss that followed wasn’t in the script. It was soft and a little desperate, rain running down both your faces, his hands careful like he was afraid you might disappear. The cameras kept rolling. Elaine never called cut.  

When they finally did, the set was silent except for the artificial rain still falling.  

Jason rested his forehead against yours for a single breath before stepping back. His voice was almost too quiet to hear.  

“Sorry. That wasn’t—”  

“Don’t apologise,” you interrupted.  

Something fragile and hopeful opened in his expression.  

That night the two of you stayed late to watch the playback. The chemistry on screen was undeniable — warm and crackling and somehow private even under all the lights. Jason sat beside you in the dark editing bay, elbows on his knees, watching the two of you kiss like he was trying to solve a puzzle.  

“I’ve done a lot of intense scenes,” he said eventually. “None of them felt like that.”  

You looked at him in the blue glow of the monitors. “Me neither.”  

He turned his head. For a moment the space between you felt exactly the same as it had under the rain. Then a production assistant knocked on the door to collect the drives, and the moment folded itself away for later.  

Later arrived two days afterward.  

You found Jason on the empty bookstore set after wrap, sitting on the floor between the shelves with a marked-up script. The practical lights were still on, casting everything in a soft gold. He glanced up when you stepped in, then shifted to make room without being asked.  

“I keep replaying the rain scene,” he admitted once you were seated beside him. “Not for the work. Just… the way it felt.”  

“I know.”  

Jason was quiet for a long time, turning the script over in his hands. When he spoke again the words came out carefully, like he’d practiced them.  

“I’m not good at the light things. The easy things. My whole career has been about people who break. But with you it doesn’t feel like performing. It feels like—” He exhaled. “It feels like something I want to keep when the cameras stop.”  

The honesty sat warm and terrifying between you.  

You reached over and covered his hand with yours. His fingers turned immediately, lacing through yours the same way they had in half a dozen scenes. This time there was no director to call cut.  

“I’d like that too,” you said.  

Jason looked at your joined hands, then at your face, and the smile that spread across his was small and real and more devastating than any expression he’d ever put on film.  

The rest of the shoot unfolded like the second half of one of those classic rom-coms. Stolen coffees between lighting setups. Quiet dinners after late calls where the conversation drifted from character motivation to childhood stories to the ridiculousness of sudden fame. Jason walked you to your car even when the lot was only half a block away. You started wearing his hoodie on cold morning call times and watched him try (and fail) not to look completely gone every time he saw you in it.  

The night they wrapped the final scene — a soft, sunrise confession in a park — the crew cheered and someone popped champagne. Jason found you near the monitors, still in costume, and waited until the celebration moved past before speaking.  

“Once this is over,” he said, “I’d like to take you on an actual date. No scripts. No marks on the floor. Just you and me.”  

You smiled so hard your cheeks hurt. “I’d like that a lot.”  

He kissed you then — properly, in front of anyone who happened to look, without rain machines or choreography. Someone whooped in the background. Jason ignored them completely.  

Six months later the film premiered to the kind of warm reviews that made studios dream of awards and audiences buy tickets twice. Critics called your chemistry “effortless” and “the reason rom-coms still matter.” Jason hated most of the attention but endured every interview because it meant sitting beside you on the press junket couch, knees pressed together under the table.  

You dated the way you had filmed: quietly, intensely, with a lot of soft laughter in between. Jason still carried the edges of the roles that had made him famous, but with you he was careful in the ways that mattered — remembering how you liked your tea, texting when he got home safe, looking at you across premieres like the rest of the room was just noise.  

On the evening of the film’s first anniversary, the two of you rewatched it on the couch in the apartment you’d started sharing. Rain tapped against the windows in a soft echo of the famous scene. Jason’s arm was around your shoulders, your legs tangled with his under the blanket. When the almost-kiss appeared on screen he pressed his mouth to your temple and left it there.  

“Still feels easy,” he murmured.  

You turned your face into his neck and smiled.  

“Yeah,” you whispered back. “It does.”  

Outside, the city kept moving. Inside, the actor who had spent years playing men who didn’t get to be happy held the woman who’d rewritten the ending with him — no cameras, no script, just the quiet, lasting magic they’d found when they least expected it.  

a/n: guys this is me manifesting my future btw.. also, it would mean a lot if people reblog 🙏 inspired by a fic by my darling @llovelygood

[torupng]

「 ENTRY 01 」 𓂃 ★ spiderman!satoru gojo shows up at your place injured again . ★ genre / themes 𓂃 andrew garfield scene ˶ fluff ˶ injuries ˶ gf!reader ˶ patching him up .

( webbound masterlist ) 𐔌՞. .՞𐦯 ( satoru gojo masterlist )

art by @to00fu — graphic by me

it’s a tuesday night, which means you’re knee-deep in flashcards. your third cup of coffee had gone cold hours ago, and your brain feels like it’s actively trying to escape this hell through your ears. finals are a bitch, and you’ve got three of them in the next forty-eight hours, which is why your bedroom looks like a research paper threw up all over it: highlighters scattered, sticky notes clinging to every available surface, and your laptop balanced precariously on a mountain of textbooks that you’re pretty sure are just a makeshift stand at this point. you’ve been stressing—and studying—all month now, and yet it somehow still feels like it’s not enough.

you’re wearing his hoodie. the one that smells like him, the cologne you bought him and maybe just a little bit of his natural musk (sweat). it’s big on you, drowning your frame in blue fabric that swallows your hands when you reach for another notecard. you don’t even realize you’re doing it, pulling the collar up to your nose and inhaling like he’s right there, like he’s not out there swinging through the city, being a damn hero while you’re here stressing over midterms like any other normal person. you don’t know how he does it.

how he balances his normal life with his spiderman life. how he’s still a teenager—just like you—just like every other student in your school, going through the motions of senior year and all. you don’t know how he can lead a double life so messy and yet so neat all at once. the kind where he’s in your room, applying to colleges with you with all the hopes and dreams of getting into MIT, but then minutes later he’s getting an alert that a bank’s being robbed and he’s jumping into his suit, ready to be the hero and not the boy with his whole future ahead of him. and yet he somehow manages to ace his tests while simultaneously swinging around the city, beating up villains or whatever.

it’s fine. it’s totally fine. you’re fine. you’ve got this. you’re a functional adult who can totally balance a relationship with new york’s favorite spider and a course load that’s actively trying to murder you.

so when you hear the familiar thwip of webs hitting glass, you don’t even look up.

“satoru, if you’re here to distract me, i swear to god i will shove my foot so far up your ass you’ll be tasting my toenails for a week.”

silence.

which is weird, because normally he’d have a quip ready, something stupid and charming that makes you want to strangle him and kiss him at the same time. you glance up, ready to give him your best death glare, and then your heart stops.

he’s on your fire escape, mask off, blood smeared across his face like war paint, one hand pressed tight against his side, fingers slick and red. his hair’s a mess, white strands plastered to his forehead, damp with sweat with sweat, and his eyes are looking at you with something that’s trying to be casual but lands somewhere closer to please don’t freak out.

“hey, baby,” he says, voice rough, and god, he’s trying to smile. he’s actually trying to smile. “miss me?”

“satoru.” your voice comes out strangled, caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream. you’re on your feet before you can think, dropping your flashcards like they’re on fire, crossing the room in three frantic steps. “what the fuck—what happened—are you—oh my god, you’re bleeding everywhere—”

he waves a hand, a gesture that’s supposed to be dismissive but makes him wince hard enough that his teeth clench. “it’s fine. it’s just a scratch. came to see my favorite girl, thought you might need a break from all that—all that studying—” he gestures vaguely at the disaster zone that is your bed, “—and i figured you’d want to see my pretty face—”

“satoru—you… you’re not fine,” you hiss, grabbing his arm and yanking him through the window, careful of his wounds. he stumbles, letting out a sharp hiss of breath, and you see the way his hand presses harder against his side, see the blood seeping between his fingers, dark and wet and too much. “oh my god, oh my god, okay—okay, get on the bed, don’t move, don’t—shit.”

you’re spiraling, you can feel it, your heart hammering so loud it’s drowning out every rational thought in your head. it’s hard to breathe and you’re trying your best for his sake. he’s bleeding. he’s hurt. he’s hurt and you don’t know what to do, you’re just a student, you’re not some miracle worker doctor, you can’t—

“hey.” his hand catches your wrist, grip warm and bloody and so steady it makes you stop breathing. for a second, your mind calms. only for a second. “hey, look at me. calm down, okay? losing your shit won’t help.”

you do. his eyes are so blue they almost hurt, and even through the pain, even through the blood and the sweat and the obvious effort it’s taking him to stay upright, he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters. and to him, it’s true. to him, you are.

“i’m fine,” he says, and there’s that smile again, crooked and stupid and so him it makes your chest ache. “just a little roughed up. you should see the other guy.”

“i’m going to kill you,” you say, and it comes out wet, and you realize you’re crying, which is the last thing you need right now. “you’re going to bleed out on my bed and i’m going to have to explain to aunt may why her nephew is dead in my apartment and i’m going to fail my finals because i’ll be too busy sobbing—“

“okay, first of all, i’m not gonna bleed out,” he interrupts, and even now, even like this, he’s got that smug edge to his voice. “that’s dramatic. second of all, you’re not gonna fail your finals. you’re like, really smart. it’s annoying, actually. and third—“

“shut up,” you snap, but you’re already moving, grabbing the first aid kit from under your sink (you’d bought it after the first time he showed up with a busted rib, because apparently being spider-man means you accumulate a truly concerning number of injuries), and a bowl of warm water. “just—just shut up and let me work.”

“yes, ma’am.” he settles back against your headboard, letting out a soft groan as he does, and you try not to think about how good he looks even like this. it’s a guilty thought, but it’s true nonetheless. he’s all rumpled and bloody and broken, like some tragic hero from a movie you’d probably cry over. his suit’s torn at the side, a jagged rip that’s soaked through with blood, and you can see the wound underneath, a deep gash that’s still sluggishly bleeding, and fuck, okay, you can do this. you can do this. you’re a functional adult.

“okay,” you breathe, kneeling beside him, hands hovering over the wound. “okay. i’m gonna—i need to clean this. it’s gonna hurt.”

“i can take it,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, that stupid, insufferable confidence that makes you want to smack him. “i’m your friendly neighborhood spider-man, remember? i can handle a little bit of pain.”

“you handle pain by showing up at my window looking like a horror movie extra,” you mutter, grabbing a cloth and dabbing it in the water. “stop talking.”

“but you love when i talk,” he pouts playfully, bottom lip bloody and jutting out.

“i love when you breathe.” you press the cloth to his wound, and he hisses, his whole body tensing, and you see the way his jaw clenches, muscles bulging under his skin. and it’s so unfair, because even like this, even with his face half-covered in blood and his hair sticking to his forehead and his body shaking with pain, he’s so ridiculously hot it makes your brain stutter. like, that’s not fair. that’s not allowed. you shouldn’t be checking out your boyfriend when he’s actively bleeding out on your bed.

“you’re staring,” he says, and there’s a hint of amusement in his voice, a low chuckle that turns into a wince. “enjoying the view?”

“i’m making sure you’re still alive,” you shoot back, but your face is heating, and you know he can see it, knows he’s watching you with those sharp eyes, cataloging every tiny reaction like he always does. “you’re an idiot.”

“your idiot, pretty.”

“unfortunately.”

you work in silence for a few minutes and he actually lets you, cleaning the wound with careful, steady hands, and you’re proud of yourself for not shaking, for focusing on the task at hand instead of spiraling into a panic. he’s watching you, you can feel his gaze on your face, and it takes everything in you not to look up, not to meet his eyes and lose your concentration.

“you’re good at this,” he rasps, soft, almost reverent. “i mean, you could be a doctor or something. if the whole ‘getting a degree in whatever it is you’re getting a degree in’ thing doesn’t work out.”

“it’s political science,” you say, pressing a little harder than necessary just to hear him yelp. “and i’d rather not spend my life patching up a guy who thinks fighting aliens is a good use of his time.”

“the avengers think so. and aliens are a threat to humanity.”

“the avengers and humanity are a threat to my gpa.”

he laughs, and it’s a real laugh, warm and genuine, even as it makes him wince. “god, i love you.”

you freeze for a second, face flushing slightly.

he’s said it before, plenty of times, casual and easy like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t make your heart stop every single time. but something about the way he says it now, bloodied and bruised and looking at you with those pretty blue eyes, makes it feel different. heavier, maybe. like he’s reminding himself, reminding you, that even when everything’s going to shit, even when he’s half-dead and bleeding out, you’re still what matters.

“you’re ridiculous,” you manage, but your voice is thick, and you have to blink hard to keep the tears from spilling over. “you’re—you’re bleeding and you’re making jokes and i hate you so much.”

“no you don’t.”

“i really, really do.”

you reach for the antiseptic, and he hisses when you apply it, his hand coming up to grip your shoulder, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. you murmur an apology, working as quickly and gently as you can, and he lets out a shaky breath, his body relaxing slightly as the pain fades from the initial sharp sting.

“okay,” you say, grabbing a roll of bandages. “okay, i’m gonna wrap this. you need to—just, hold still.”

“i’m always still for you, baby.”

“shut up and be serious for just two seconds, toru,” you whine, sighing and rolling your eyes.

“okay okay, sorry. i’ll be a good boy, promise.”

you bite your lip to try and suppress another sigh as you glare up at him then work the bandage around his torso, careful and methodical, and you’re aware of how close you are, how your forehead almost brushes his chest, how his hand is still on your shoulder, thumb tracing small circles on your collarbone. it’s intimate, more intimate than it should be, and you try not to let it get to you, try to focus on the task instead of the way his skin feels under your fingers—so ridiculously soft and warm.

“you’re blushing,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “that’s so cute.”

“i’m concentrating.”

“sure you are.” his hand moves, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and you shiver, your fingers slipping on the bandage. “you know, for someone who’s supposed to be patching me up, you’re looking pretty distracted by your patient.”

“satoru, i swear to god, if you don’t stop talking—”

“you’ll what?” he tilts his head, and even though he’s pale and sweaty and clearly in pain, there’s that spark in his eye, that infuriating, impossible spark that makes you want to kiss him until he shuts up. “leave me to bleed? abandon me in my time of need?”

“i will suffocate you with a pillow.”

“oooh. kinky.”

you finish wrapping the bandage, tugging it tight, and he lets out a low groan that’s definitely not entirely pain. you ignore it. you ignore the way your stomach flips, the way your pulse jumps, because you’re a functional adult with self-control and you’re not going to jump your boyfriend while he’s actively injured.

“okay,” you say, leaning back, wiping your bloodstained hands on your jeans which are definitely going to need one hell of deep clean after this. “that should hold. for now. but if you’re not better by tomorrow, i’m calling aunt may. and the hospital will no longer be a negotiable”

“you wouldn’t dare.”

“try me.”

he grins, that stupid, cocky grin that makes you want to scream, and then he reaches out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you toward him. you fall against his chest, careful to avoid his wound, and he wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin.

“you’re a lifesaver,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “literally. i’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

“you wouldn’t be dead if you didn’t have a death wish,” you mumble into his chest. “seriously, satoru. what happened out there?”

he’s quiet for a moment, and you feel the tension in his body, the way his grip tightens. “some new guy,” he says, and his voice is lighter than it should be, like he’s trying to brush it off. “thought he could take the spider. he was wrong. obviously.”

“obviously.”

“he had some kind of... i don’t know. weird tech. caught me off guard. but i handled it.”

“you’re literally bleeding all over.”

“i said handled it, not perfected it.”

you laugh, despite everything, and he hums in satisfaction, his hand coming up to stroke your hair. “see? you’re smiling. that’s the goal, pretty. keep you smiling.”

“you’re actually insane.”

“i’m actually charming.”

“you’re a menace.”

“that news guy doesn’t call me spider-menace for nothing now, does he.”

you tilt your head up to look at him, and he’s already looking at you, those blue eyes soft and warm, and even with the blood and the bruises and the obvious exhaustion, he’s so beautiful it hurts. you reach up, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek, and he leans into your touch like a cat, his eyes fluttering closed.

“you need to rest,” you say, and your voice is softer now, gentler. but it’s got conviction—he can tell you mean it. “no more heroics tonight.”

“can’t promise that.”

“satoru gojo.”

“okay, okay.” he holds up his hands, a gesture of surrender. “i’ll stay. for you. because you asked so nicely.”

“i did not ask nicely.”

“you asked with your eyes. same thing.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t move, and he doesn’t let go, and for a while, you just stay like that, tangled up in each other, your heart finally slowing to something resembling normal. you can feel his heartbeat under your ear, steady and strong, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding this whole time.

“you know,” he says, and his voice is drowsy now, warm and heavy with exhaustion. “i think this is my favorite part.”

“what is?”

“this.” he gestures vaguely with his free hand. “the after. when it’s just us, and you’re taking care of me, and i don’t have to be spider-man for a little while. i can just be... satoru. your boyfriend.”

your chest aches, sharp and sweet, and you press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “you’re always mine. even when you’re being an idiot.”

“especially when i’m being an idiot, i think.”

“especially then.”

he laughs softly and you feel it reverberate through your body, a low vibration that settles deep in your bones. “i love you,” he says, and this time it’s not a joke, not a throwaway comment. it’s real and it makes your eyes sting all over again. “i know i say it a lot, but. i mean it. every time. you’re... you’re everything to me. even when i’m bleeding all over your bed and being a mess.”

“you are a hot mess,” you correct, and he snorts.

“oh, so you do think i’m hot.”

“i never said that.”

“you just did. you said hot mess. those were your exact words.”

“i take it back.”

“too late. i’m telling everyone. it’s gonna be all over the news.”

you laugh, and he smiles, and everything feels just okay, for a moment. you’re not thinking about finals, not thinking about how he almost died, not thinking about anything except the warmth of his body and the steady beat of his heart and the way he makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world.

“you need to sleep,” you say, but you don’t move. “really. you need to rest.”

“mm.” he’s already half-asleep, his eyes heavy, his hand still tangled in your hair. “stay.”

“i’m not going anywhere, satoru. this is my house.”

“i know. promise?”

you roll your eyes and sigh, the corner of your mouth twitching slightly as you fight back a reluctant smile. “promise, you big baby.”

“you know, i could get used to this.”

“getting beat up?”

“getting taken care of.” he presses a kiss to your temple. “by you.”

you smile, pressing closer. “don’t get used to it. i’m not your personal nurse.”

“you’re my girlfriend. close enough.”

“i’m going to smother you.”

“you already said that.”

“i’m gonna do it.”

“mm.” he’s asleep, or close to it, his breathing evening out, his grip on you loosening. you watch him for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face relaxes in sleep, the blood still smeared across his cheek, and you feel a surge of something fierce and protective and so, so full of love it almost hurts. you don’t know what you’d do without him. you couldn’t be anyone without him.

you reach up, wiping the blood away with your thumb, and you press a kiss to his forehead.

“i love you too,” you whisper, soft, just for you.

spiderjo save me spiderjo … i need it…

taglist (open) : comment on masterlist to be tagged.

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[eunoiadoll]

seeing black writers get hate on here gets me irra to the point i gotta log off. no way you hoes sit on tumblr.com mad about what black folk are writing …🫩

[richyjerimovich]

NYT Cooking with Ayo Edebiri

[aizawash0e]

order up........ ⭑.ᐟ

Mr. Get It Done

Smoke has no problem getting things done.

Mechanic!Smoke: Stands around 6’3, Southern specifically born and raised in Mississippi. Rarely ever been up North, got an offer to work for a company up there but decided not to leave home, his roots where there in the Mississippi dirt and he wasn’t gonna leave that. Him and his twin brother of course as thick as thieves. Their bond was inseparable. Stack and Smoke also always looked after their little sister Estelle, who they often called Star.

Mechanic!Smoke: Smoke was always a man of business and money, loved himself some R&B, specifically 90's and early 2000s R&B, as it's always blasting in the speakers of the auto shop all day.

That man is built ASF. I'm talking: lifting your body weight is his minimum lift; that shit is his warm-up. For him, growing up on a farm with his family, he was technically always working out. All that running back and forth with pails of milk his granddaddy had him and Stack doing was a damn workout in that heat, and the older he got, the more tasks and the heavier the load. Lifting the hay, carrying things. Working with cars since he was a teen was just training for him. He had been built!

Mechanic!Smoke: is romantic asf, tends to smell like oil, and will take a serious shower to make sure he smells good for his lady, for whatever date or occasion he has planned for you.

He loves working with his hands; the fact that he could break something down and build it back up again (including you) he held much pride in his hands, and his handiwork. The proof was always in the pudding; he never had a customer complain, never had the same customer come back twice with the same situation. He always made sure his work was done well, no bullshit. He believed if people were paying, they should get their money's worth.

When it came to you and Harmony, his life was never the same. Your daughter Harmony became a new pulse for Smoke. When he got to hold his little girl for the first time, tears filled his eyes with a smile, and in his eyes held a promise to never fail his daughter, that she would have the best possible life he could give her.

Smoke and Harmony were two peas in a pod, she would beg and he would hold strong, until she started the puppy eyes, it started to crush him and he would eventually with very much consideration cave.

He quite literally owes Stack because if it weren't for that day Stack brought you to the auto shop, who knew if you and Smoke would have ever met? And share the life you two do now. He was always grateful for the day he met you and the day your car decided to stop working. (Plus, Stack wouldn't shut up at Reader and Smoke's wedding, taking pride in his work and telling everyone that "if it weren't for me, they wouldn't be together, y'all know that, right?" as he drank a bit of whiskey in his glass and his arm around his cousin's shoulder "Like i brought her to the shop y'all know that right? And I was there and BOOM! I shot the arrow and look at them today, married!" Stack's wife giggled at his antics, but told him to calm down just a bit, as this is the moment of the married couple, not Mr. Cupid.

Mechanic!Smoke: Before the ring was even placed on your finger, he was calling you "My Wife" and telling everyone, "Mhm, my wife told me about that". He loved the way it sounded and rolled off the tongue, and loved hearing you say "Mr. Moore" or "My Husband" even more. Just you breathing in his direction was enough for him.

That man was and forever will be whipped for you.

────୨ৎ──── ────୨ৎ────

taglist: @liliacsdelight @cravemyhoney @mtcloudsworld @jellywrites1218 @h3avenlyglory @wrestlingbaby @blcknebula @phxnomxnal @thegetou @blackbarb1e @sintizc @xeebop @bananajoeclone @devilxo @writingsbytee

╰┈➤ ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓- if you’d like to be added comment here!!

[fancy-possum]

CLINGY IN THE DARK , Damian Wayne

Damian Wayne is the clingiest sleepy boyfriend imaginable. though, he'd never admit that. every night he is practically your body guard.

The manor was quiet in the way only deep nights could be — the kind of silence that made every creak of the old floorboards feel louder than it should. You woke up slowly, blinking against the darkness, your throat dry and your mind fuzzy from a half-remembered dream. The clock on the nightstand read 3:42am. You’d only been asleep for a few hours, but your body was already demanding water.

You tried to slip out of bed quietly, careful not to wake Damian. He was curled up beside you, one arm draped possessively over your waist even in sleep, his breathing deep and even. His dark hair was messy against the pillow, his face relaxed in a way it rarely was during the day. You smiled softly, brushing a stray strand from his forehead before easing out from under his arm.

The second your feet touched the floor, he stirred.

“Mm… where are you going?” His voice was thick with sleep, rough and low, but his hand reached out immediately, fingers brushing your wrist.

“Just getting water,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “Go back to sleep. I’ll be right back.”

He made a small, discontented sound, but his eyes stayed closed. You padded to the bathroom, the cool tile under your feet a relief. You filled a glass from the sink, sipping slowly, listening to the quiet drip of the faucet. When you turned to leave, Damian was standing in the doorway, hair even messier, eyes half-open, wearing his sleeping shorts and an old t-shirt.

You nearly jumped. “Damian? What are you doing up?”

He shrugged, stepping closer. “Making sure you don’t hurt yourself." fall in the toilet.”

You stared at him, trying not to laugh. “I’m not going to hurt myself getting water. I’m a grown woman.”

He crossed his arms, looking adorably stubborn even half-asleep. “The floor is slippery at night. And you’re tired. I’m just… being cautious.”

You smiled, setting the glass down and stepping into his space. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world. His chin rested on your head, warm and solid.

“You’re clingy when you’re sleepy,” you teased softly, fingers tracing patterns on his back.

“I am not clingy,” he muttered, but his arms tightened around you. “I’m… protective. There’s a difference.”

You laughed quietly, nuzzling into his neck. “Sure. Protective of me falling into the toilet or something at 3am.”

He huffed, but didn’t let go. Instead, he walked you back to the bed, still holding you close, and pulled you down with him. You ended up curled against his chest, his arm draped over your waist, leg tangled with yours. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, already drifting back to sleep.

“Stay,” he mumbled. “Please.”

You smiled against his skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He made a small, contented sound and held you tighter.

The next night, it happened again.

You woke up around 2am, needing the bathroom. The second your feet hit the floor, once again; Damian stirred beside you. This time he didn’t even pretend to be asleep. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, hair sticking up in every direction.

“I’ll come with you,” he said, voice gravelly.

You turned, smiling in the dark. “Damian, I can go to the bathroom by myself. I’ve been doing it for years.”

He frowned, already swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “The hallway is dark. And cold. You might trip.”

You laughed softly, but let him follow you anyway. He walked beside you the whole way, one hand on your lower back like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled. When you reached the bathroom door, he waited outside, leaning against the wall until you came out. Then he took your hand, leading you back to bed without a word.

Once you were both under the covers, he pulled you against his chest again, arms wrapping around you like a shield. His chin rested on your head, breath warm against your hair.

“I'll say it again. you're clingy,” you whispered, smiling.

“I am not,” he muttered, but his hold tightened. “I’m… ensuring your safety. That’s all.”

You kissed his collarbone. “Well I love your version of safety.”

He made a small, pleased sound and fell back asleep almost immediately, holding you like you might vanish if he let go.

It became a pattern.

Every night, no matter how deeply he slept, the second you moved, Damian was awake. If you got up for water, he followed, standing in the doorway like a silent guardian. If you had a nightmare and sat up gasping, he was there instantly, pulling you into his arms, murmuring soft reassurances in Arabic until you calmed down. If you simply rolled over, he’d reach out, hand finding yours under the covers, lacing your fingers together like he needed the connection to stay asleep.

During the day, he was the same reserved, slightly arrogant Damian Wayne the world knew — blunt, focused, keeping everyone at arm’s length. But at night, in the quiet dark of your shared room, he was soft. Clingy. Needy in a way he’d never admit.

One particularly cold night, you woke up shivering. Before you could even reach for the extra blanket, Damian was already moving. He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms and legs around you like a human blanket, his body heat seeping into yours. His face pressed against your neck, breath warm and steady.

“Cold?” he mumbled, half-asleep.

“A little,” you whispered, smiling as you snuggled into him. “You’re warm though.”

He made a small, contented sound, nuzzling closer. “Stay close then. I’ve got you.”

You fell back asleep like that — wrapped up in Damian Wayne, his arms around you, his leg thrown over yours, like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between you.

In the morning, he’d wake up first, as always. He’d slip out of bed quietly, pretending the clingy boy from the night before had never existed. He’d make coffee, set out your favourite mug, and act like nothing had changed. But you’d catch him watching you with that soft look when he thought you weren’t looking. And when you’d smile at him across the table, he’d blush faintly and look away, ears pink.

But at night, he’d reach for you again. Every single time.

Because no matter how much he denied it during the day, Damian Wayne was the clingiest sleepy boyfriend in the world. And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

A/N: lil guy so cute I love him sm. sorry for constantly disappearing im lowkey setting up a queue rn

[fancy-possum]

GALA HEADCANONS ◞ Bruce Wayne

how does your other half, Bruce Wayne, treat you during the galas you attend? well, like royalty obviously.

Bruce Wayne Masterlist ◞ follow for more. 2k event soon!

Bruce Wayne, who at every gala, the first thing Bruce does when you arrive is subtly check the back of your dress. He’ll step behind you under the pretense of adjusting your shawl or necklace, running his fingers lightly along the zipper or hem to make sure everything is secure. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he’ll murmur in your ear, but the way his hand lingers shows how much he loves taking care of you.

Bruce Wayne, who when walking down stairs or across marble floors, always positions himself slightly in front or to the side, pointing out any uneven step or slippery spot with a gentle touch to your elbow. “Careful here, love,” he’ll say softly, offering his arm so you can hold on. He never makes it obvious to others — it’s just for you, quiet and protective.

Bruce Wayne, who if your dress has a long train or flowing fabric, he’ll discreetly hold it for you when you sit or stand, making sure it doesn’t get caught or stepped on. He does it so smoothly that no one notices, but you always feel his careful fingers brushing the material, like he’s shielding you from even the smallest inconvenience.

Bruce Wayne, who during conversations with other guests, he keeps one hand on your lower back, thumb stroking gentle circles through your dress. It’s his way of staying connected, reassuring you he’s right there if you need an escape or just want to lean on him. When you get tired of small talk, he’ll smoothly change the subject or pull you away with a polite excuse.

Bruce Wayne, who if you’re wearing heels that start to hurt, he notices immediately. He’ll guide you to a quieter corner, kneel down discreetly, and massage your ankles or calves for a moment, completely unbothered by who might see. “You don’t have to suffer for beauty,” he’ll whisper, kissing your knee before standing back up.

Bruce Wayne, who when photographers ask for pictures, he always pulls you close, angling his body to shield you slightly from the flashes. He makes sure your dress is sitting perfectly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear or adjusting your necklace, treating you like the most precious thing in the room.

Bruce Wayne, who can tell when the gala gets too overwhelming — loud music, crowded rooms, flashing cameras — he senses it before you say anything. He’ll wrap an arm around your waist and guide you to a private balcony or side room, holding you close until you’re ready to go back. “We can leave anytime,” he’ll murmur. “You come first.”

Bruce Wayne, who at dinner, he makes sure your plate has everything you like and nothing you don’t. He’ll quietly switch glasses if the wine isn’t to your taste, or pass you the bread basket before you even reach for it. His attention is constant but never overbearing — just steady, thoughtful love.

Bruce Wayne, who when you’re dancing, he holds you like you’re made of glass — one hand on your waist, the other cradling your hand, guiding you effortlessly across the floor. He whispers compliments in your ear the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look, how proud he is to have you on his arm.

Bruce Wayne, who if your dress slips or a strap falls, he fixes it immediately, fingers gentle and quick, shielding you from view with his body. He never makes you feel embarrassed — just cared for. “I’ve got you,” he’ll say softly, kissing your shoulder once it’s fixed.

Bruce Wayne, who after the gala, when you're both exhausted in the car ride home, he pulls you into his lap, letting you rest your head on his chest. He'll manage your feet if your heels hurt, kiss your temples, and tell you how much he loved having you by his side. "You make every night better," he whispers.

Bruce Wayne, who even when you're not at galas, the habits carries over. he checks your outfit before you leave the house, makes sure you're warm enough, carries your bag without being asked. its never showy - just quiet, consistent love. you're always his priority.

Bruce Wayne, who on nights when you feel insecure about your dress or your appearance, he pulls you close and reminds you how stunning you are - not because of the clothes, but because you're you. "you could wear a paper bag and I'd still think you're the most beautiful woman in the room. no, the world."

Bruce Wayne, who keeps a small photo of you in his wallet. ones from a previous gala where you looked especially radiant. when he's stressed during the day, he looks at it and remembers why he fights so hard. you are his reason.

Bruce Wayne, who at the end of evert night, when the dress comes off and you're both in bed, he holds you like you're the only thing that mayors. "thank you for being mine," he'll whisper against your hair. "I don't deserve you. but I'll spend every day trying to."

a/n : can you tell this is so inspired by Tom Holland and Zendaya or am I crazy. also sorry for disapearing

[ar1zonna]

The things I would do to have Bruce Wayne.

[timdrakelonghairtruther]

Batfam where everything is what you typically come across except instead of Jason calling Tim 'pretender' or 'replacement' he just calls him a larper

[lyouve]

Books are so cool because there are no fucking ads in them

[angeluary]

🩰👼🏽🎀🪽🪷 - tyla with glam by paintedbyesther for afro nation.

[pinkhoodi]

bombshell!cameron cade. 𖤓 stealer, ladies and gentlemen

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. twenty-seven. starting quarterback of the saviors. many will say that his suave and charm will have you thinking you fell in love with a prince. the way he lightly and respectfully holds a woman’s hand during a conversation, or the way his reserved demeanor changes for the sake of whoever he chats with. tight-lipped expression turned to all of his pearly whites showing; his broad shoulders relaxing as he lets himself ease into the villa; eyes of amber with speckles of brown crinkling as he chuckles at the joke that was just made

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. a sweet talker, captivating, and can talk a woman out of even forgetting who’s she coupled up with. the way his words string together as he converses feels like a magnet pulling you towards him; as much as you try to fight it, you just can’t. going from compliments about you to the way his eyes hold yours; sharp, cold, supposed to keep people away, but it keeps you closer to him. you can’t even look down without the feeling of his eyes telling you to look at him

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. not scared of any of the boys cause he came here with a purpose, with a selfish purpose at that, to steal and find a girl. he pulls any and everyone for a chat, girls and guys, to get a feel of the villa. Immediately, he informs the boys that he wanna take their girl and maybe fall in love. aye, don’t hate the player, hate the game

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. makes mini dates for the girls he’s interested in. he wants to show the girl(s) that he wants to take their connection seriously, and show her that she deserves to be considered and seen. during that date, he is listening attentively and getting a feeling of how the girl feels, not just about him but also about romance, love, her views on things that shape her

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. respectful, but a bit physical. he ups the levels of physical touch, following after your comfort level; caresses your leg as you chat with him, brings himself closer by holding onto your finger, at times tempted to lay his head on your lap and listen to you talk, but as for now, distance and respect for your couple !!

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. extremely transparent on who he wants and has no issue going after her. whether it be bringing her breakfast before her couple does, heightening his charm to woo her, or even taking her up to a more secluded location, just have her couple be a bit antsy. he’s already a competitive man as it is due to his job, fighting for the girl he desires and wants is nothing to him

𖤓 bombshell!cameron cade. recoupling night feels like a night of reassurance and poetry spoken to you under the moonlight. the way he describes you makes you feel like the only girl in the world and always winks at you before he starts his speech. dare i say after casa, he started adding, “lady in my life” before announcing your name

© 𝟤𝟢𝟤𝟨 𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗄𝗁𝗈𝗈𝖽𝗂. 𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗏𝖾𝖽

[angeluary]

🩰👼🏽🎀🪽🪷 - tyla with glam by paintedbyesther and hair by ach_hairny.

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ teenage phase ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave. pls read a/n at the end before replying !!

aka ›››› “Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.” “Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

Jason has started growing facial hair again.

It’s such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.

Not him.

His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.

The Joker had called it “light acid.”

As if acid could ever be light.

As if anything about it had been.

After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.

Jason never got that stage.

He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.

Until now.

At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.

There is hair there.

Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.

Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.

It doesn’t.

The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.

It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.

Not that time.

“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.

He looks dreadful.

That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.

He leans closer.

At least his skin looks better.

That part softens something in him.

You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You  just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.

He grumbled the whole time.

You ignored him the whole time.

In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.

Jason had fallen asleep like that.

Just like that.

He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.

“I knew it was hair!”

Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.

He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.

You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.

Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.

Like you belong here.

You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.

“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.

He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.

“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.

You hum, pretending to consider it.

One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.

“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”

Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.

Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.

“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”

The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest. 

Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.

“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”

He stills.

It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.

“I…” he starts, and the word drags.

Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.

“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

He doesn’t have to.

The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.

“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.

The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.

Jason watches you through the mirror.

Why now?

It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.

He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.

Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.

Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.

He doesn’t say that.

“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.

Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.

The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.

But you didn’t run.

The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.

If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.

You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.

“C’mere,” you murmur. 

You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.

“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.

You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.

“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”

The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.

He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.

You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.

Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.

“Hold still,” you murmur.

He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”

“You’re flexing.”

“I am not—”

“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.

He forces his shoulders to drop.

Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.

But this?

This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him. 

You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.

Your touch changes when you reach the scars.

Not hesitant. Not afraid.

Just attentive.

You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.

“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.

You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”

He snorts quietly despite himself.

The razor touches his skin for the first time.

It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.

Jason feels it more than he expected to.

Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time. 

That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.

The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.

He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.

“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.

He doesn’t hesitate this time.

“Yeah.”

The answer is simple. Immediate.

Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek. 

His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.

You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.

“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.

“Sometimes,” he admits.

You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.

Jason’s eyes close for a second.

He lets them.

There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.

When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.

“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”

“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.

You grin. “Sure, baby.”

You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.

He watches you again.

The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.

When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.

“There,” you whisper.

You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.

“Much better.”

Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.

The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.

He looks at himself in the mirror again.

The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.

But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.

He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.

“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.

Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Thats the goal,” you say.

And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.

jason peter todd tag-list : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata

Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too

(｡ᵕ ◞ _◟)

© shisuni all rights reserved

[1nsignia]

fluff, tim drake

—————————————————————————

the idea of soft intimacy with tim is just ughhh

tim would be sitting in his chair in the middle of the night, facing his monitors and typing details of a case on the keyboard while pausing his typing to click the mouse absentmindedly a few times. 

the tiredness in his face was evident, dark circles deepening under his eyes every night. even a yawn would escape him one or two times

but you would come, slowly walking from behind him and sleepily rubbing your eyes. it was obvious enough that you had just woken up from tim’s empty side of the bed, and obvious enough that he would be here at his desktop

and without a word, you quietly slid onto his lap and wrapped your arms around his neck to give him a small lazy kiss. a kiss that tim gladly reciprocated, his hands sliding to your waist to make sure you were steady

when both of you broke the kiss, tim’s eyes softened from the sight of you— hair slightly messy and eyes tired yet awake enough to hold that soft look in them— and it made a small, fond smile form on his lips “everything okay, baby?” he asked in a whisper, gently tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. 

you just quietly hummed and nodded your head, placing a small kiss on the crook of his neck before burying your face there. “couldn’t sleep without you…” you mumbled on his skin

tim hummed back, a hand sliding under your shirt and slowly running through your back while the other kept clicking on the mouse. despite his eyes being pinned on the monitor, his attention was on you. “im gonna take a while here, you sure you don’t wanna wait for me back at bed?”

but there was no answer from you. and when tim paused his clicking to look down, he was greeted by your small snores and the sight of you sleeping peacefully— a sight he would never get tired of

if it were possible to fall in love with you even more, it would be now. 

he placed a kiss on your hair before diverting his attention back to his monitors without stopping his hand on your back. sure, he’d take his hand off to type something super quick on the keyboard. but they always returned to you, forever cradling your body onto his

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©1nsignia— please do not steal, repost or reuse my work

[krys4h-deactivated20260517]

bimbo black readers i love you

shy black readers i love you

insecure black readers i love you

baddie black readers i love you

hood/"ghetto" black readers i love you

chubby black readers i love you

weird black readers i love you

nerdy black readers i love you

neurodivergent black readers i love you

mentally ill black readers i love you

they could never make me hate you <3

[igottaglockinmyrawry]

I want to look like a Blythe doll or lalaloopsy at this point UGHHHH

[torupng]

呪術廻戦 ゛★ satoru gojo gets you a blindfold like his. blurb .ᐟ ⋆ visually impaired reader ⋆ bf!gojo ⋆ angsty fluff .

satoru adjusted the blindfold over your eyes, and even though you couldn't see it, you could picture the smile curving his lips—you'd woken up to that smile nearly every morning for years. his fingers lingered in your hair, giving it a soft ruffle before trailing down to find your hand, lacing your fingers together with practiced ease.

"see?" he said, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. "now we're matching."

you’d lost your sight on a mission that went wrong in seconds. satoru had been right there, had watched it happen, had been too far, too slow, too something to stop it. one moment you were fine, the next you were panicking, head whipping around as you frantically asked why everything had gone dark.

he still remembered carrying you to shoko. remembered the tremor in his voice as he begged her to fix it, the way his hands had shaken while she examined you. but there was nothing to be done. the damage was permanent. you were blind, and you would stay blind for the rest of your life.

the guilt had nearly swallowed him whole. not because he loved you any less—he could never love you less—but because he couldn't shake the feeling that this was his fault. if he'd been faster, sharper, closer, anything. maybe he could have saved those eyes he'd fallen in love with.

weeks passed, and you were still learning to navigate the darkness that had become your world. he taught you everything he knew about living without sight—the walking stick, the textured markers on appliances, the glasses that did nothing but made you feel a little less exposed. but he couldn't fix the way you'd withdrawn, couldn't soothe the frustration that flared every time you needed help with something simple. you hated depending on him for everything. hated that you couldn't watch movies together anymore, couldn't lose yourself in the stack of books on your nightstand, couldn't cook him dinner without fear of burning yourself, couldn't step outside without feeling utterly lost.

you couldn't see it, but his smile had dimmed as he watched you adjust the blindfold, the careful way your fingers traced the fabric. he’d been trying so hard to lift your spirits, to remind you that you were still you, still his, still whole. but he knew some wounds were too deep for bandaids, too fresh for jokes.

"it suits you, y’know," he said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. his touch was featherlight, reverent. "you’re beautiful."

"this is stupid," you muttered, a tired sigh slipping past your lips as the fabric tickled your skin.

"hey, are you saying i’m stupid?" he kept his voice light, teasing, though there was something sad underneath it that he tried really hard to hide. "it’s stylish. people would kill to look like us."

"i don't think anyone wishes they were blind, satoru.”

the sigh escaped him before he could stop it, and he felt his shoulders sag slightly. the effort was starting to feel futile. maybe he needed to stop pretending everything was fine and just let you grieve.

his thumb traced slow circles across your knuckles. "you don't have to wear it if you don't want to, baby."

he reached to pull it off, but your hand shot up, gripping his arm and guiding it down to your lap.

"no—no," you said quickly, then softer, "i’m sorry. i like it. it’s just..."

"a lot to get used to?" he finished gently.

you bit your lip and nodded. "yeah."

"i know, baby." he shuffled closer, his arm sliding around your back and pulling you against him until your head rested naturally against his shoulder. his hand found your hair again, fingers threading through the strands in that familiar, soothing rhythm he knew always calmed you. "i know. i’m sorry."

a moment of silence passed, warm and yet heavy as ever, between you.

then he pressed a kiss to the top of your head and added, light as a whisper, "i’ll be your eyes. i’ve got six of 'em, after all."

you chuckled. it was genuine. the first he’d heard from you in a while. it was a sound he missed oh so much and one he’d try and coax out of you whenever he can even if it’s the last thing he could do.

© torupng | all rights reserved.