Because I miss making out without it needing to end in sex, and we need more non-sexual smooching on this app, this is just 700 words of making out with jason todd (with feelings).
pairing: jason todd x gn!reader
cw: kissing, touching, allusions to past uncomfortable experiences, other than that fluffff, they're in love your honor, established relationship, no gender specific pronouns used, no y/n (reader referred to as you)
You like to feel like you’re breathing him in, with your hands splayed against the sides of his neck and thumbs brushing against his jaw. Nothing to build up to, no grinding or dry humping, or whatever it is that is done these days. Just the press of his lips against yours, the feel of tongues brushing and time slowing.
Jason’s hands were holding your waist, occasionally resting against your ribs or following the ridges of your spine. Flesh is squeezed, but no demand lies behind it. Just comfort. You could do this the whole evening; Drowning in Jason has become one of your favorite things to do. He smelled faintly of his body wash, gun powder, and something that was so innately him you want to bottle it up and bathe in it.
Over the course of your relationship, you’ve learned exactly what it is that makes him melt into you. One hand in his hair, nails that gently scratch his scalp, has him tense up for a moment and then readily relax into the sensation. A nip to his bottom lip elicits a sigh and a squeeze of your hips. A playful lick into his mouth grants you a soft, barely heard laugh that you could mistake for mere breathing. If kissing was a way to study a person, then Jason was your favorite subject.
Jason felt as if he was on a cloud, packed in cotton, dizzying warmth spreading through his whole being. There was no pressure behind this, no need for more, and maybe that was exactly what he needed. Maybe you were exactly what he needed. One of his hands rests against the small of your back now, to make sure you can’t stray far. He’s become addicted. Utterly and entirely hooked. The feel of your hand in his hair, your nose against his, the fact that none of his scars deter you from loving on him. Yeah, you’re never getting rid of this man—not that you would want to.
You feel the muscles in his shoulder ripple and his pulse flutter when you detach yourself from his lips briefly in favor of pressing kisses to his jaw and neck. No hickeys, no excessive amount of mouthing at the skin. Just… whatever feels natural in that moment and catching more of his scent to satisfy a need you cannot name. His lips were already parted slightly when you return to them. He anticipates each and every brush of yours on his with eagerness.
If he was addicted to you, you were drunk on him. He was the vice that got you through the day, and the place that meant safety. When his hands move to the back of your thighs that were straddling his and squeezed, dread of this turning into something you didn’t anticipate filled your chest. The anxiety of him possibly flipping your positions lingers in your chest but for a moment. Remnants of past experiences, of others not being content with this form of intimacy, of previous partners wanting too much too fast. Not Jason, never Jason. He liked to savor and appreciate every form of proximity that you offer.
You were Jason’s favorite thing he learned as much as he was yours. How gentle sweeps of his thumbs over your skin make your breath hitch, how holding your waist instead of your hips has you seek more and lean into his space. He knows the rhythm of tongue and no tongue you like. What is too much and how long you can take too little. His hands on your thighs are simply there to try and pull you closer, because chest to chest can never be close enough. He’d have you crawl inside of him if you could.
But even the biggest devotees need air, your lips disconnecting just so in order for you to take in shared breath. Your eyes flutter open to find him already looking at you, his blue irises almost swallowed by his pupils—not in lust but adoration. Because Jason Todd adores you, completely. He adores being with you, holding you, touching you, kissing you. And you adore him in return, and that’s all he needs. You helped him rediscover the comfort in other people. Showed him how to be vulnerable and not push you away.
Staying by his side was the most devoted thing you could have done (in his opinion, that man lacks self confidence; you beg to differ on that one) and he wants to make sure that he can convey that through gazes and actions when words elude him. So, he dives back in when the rise and fall of your chest settles slightly, content if this was the last thing he’d get to do on earth.
a/n: I just want to kiss for the sake of kissing :( Somebody make out with me for funsies. Also, you’re never too old to just make out, people. It’s not a “teenager thing” to do. We’ve just been accustomed to an annoyingly hypersexual society.
“spicy pillow” jokes aside, I think @flowerkrone’s tags deserve a serious reply:
#my old phone looks like this on my shelf lmao #im too scared to touch it to throw it away #idk what trash this even goes into when its at this point
The pillow-shaped object here used to be the phone’s battery. It’s not a battery anymore. Now it’s a balloon full of corrosive, pyrophoric chemicals and hydrogen gas and it’s one puncture away from burning your house down. I am 100% serious. You should be scared to touch it.
But you gotta touch it, because you gotta get it out of your house before the pressure builds up to the point where the balloon pops. This isn’t going to happen soon – there is no need to panic – but it will happen eventually.
And, indeed, it doesn’t go in the ordinary trash. You put this in the ordinary trash and you’re gonna set the garbage truck on fire. Don’t do that to the garbage collectors, their job is hard enough already.
The first thing you need to do is get a fireproof container. The most common household item that qualifies as a fireproof container is a cast-iron cookpot with a cast-iron lid – often sold as a “Dutch oven.” Any other cooking container that’s unreactive, has a very high melting point, and has a lid made of the same materials will also work: enameled or stainless steel, Pyrex with glass lid, etc.
However: Do not use a pot with a PTFE-based non-stick coating. If the battery does explode, the fire will probably be hot enough to degrade a PTFE coating, producing toxic smoke. (Not that you should breathe the smoke from the battery fire either, but PTFE breakdown products are worse.) Do not use a pot made of aluminium or copper. The fire might even get hot enough to melt those.
Whatever container you use, you might have to throw away along with the phone, so don’t use your good Dutch oven for this. Go to a thrift store and buy a cheap one.
Once you have the fireproof container:
Gently pick up the phone and put it in the fireproof container. If possible, gently tape the phone to the bottom of the container to prevent it from bouncing around. Don’t put any padding in there, that’ll just make a fire worse if it does happen. Put the lid on and tape it shut.
Put a label on the container, something like “DEFECTIVE LI-ION BATTERY – FIRE HAZARD”.
It is now reasonably safe to move the container around. However, if the battery does explode, the container is very likely to leak smoke and get hot, so keep it in a well-ventilated area and away from things that will be damaged by heat. Don’t leave it exposed to the weather, either.
You need to find either a hazardous waste disposal site, or an e-waste recycler that will accept defective Li-ion batteries. I can’t help with that because I have no idea where you live.
However, your local fire department, if you have one, will probably be happy to help. Call their non-emergency number. Nothing is on fire yet, so this isn’t an emergency, but things that can easily start a fire are still within the fire department’s responsibilities. Tell them you have a phone with a bulging lithium-ion battery, you put it in a fireproof container, and you want to know how to dispose of it safely.
If the fire department tries to tell you this isn’t dangerous or it’s okay to throw it out in the regular trash (with or without fireproof container), hang up on them and write a cranky letter to your local government representatives, then keep looking for a proper disposal site.
When you do find a a hazardous waste disposal site or an e-waste recycler, call them and make sure they will take defective Li-ion batteries, before showing up. That’s also a good time to ask if they will let you have the fireproof container back.
clark shouting "people were going to DIE" in the face of the "think of the consequences of your actions" argument is so fucking important to me bc it really IS that simple you can't look at a genocide and just twiddle your thumbs bc you're a afraid of the consequences ESPECIALLY when you can do something about it and THATS WHAT CLARK DID. WITHOUT HESITATION. WITHOUT CONSIDERING HOW IT COULD HURT HIM. bc hes a good person and in his brain its really just people were going to die so i had to step in bc what else would it be. superman i love you i love you i love you
i was training a young person at work, and she referred to sexual assault as "SA" out loud, and i immediately was like, "no, it's sexual assault, call it what it is," bc idgaf if the algorithm overlords have taught y'all that you should fear direct language, how tf do any of you expect to ever address real issues with any amount of seriousness if you can't even say the words? imagine an advocate looking a sexual assault survivor in the eyes and asking "did he grape you?" it's absolutely fucking absurd, but these young interns and new hires are coming into an environment where we deal with survivors of all different kinds of abuse, and they're coming with the mindset that the words are as bad as the actions, and that makes them shitty at the job and look juvenile af
i HATE self-censorship for a lot of reasons, but being in crisis work makes it even more frustrating. who are you censoring for? like i am being so fr, WHO are you censoring for? have you even thought it through? people who have been raped know that they have been raped. if someone attempts suicide or is grieving someone who did, saying "sewer slide" isn't going to protect them from any of the feelings. a murder victim's family isn't going to feel better bc you said "unalived" instead of murdered. if anything, it's just extremely invalidating and othering. it's saying "what happened to you is so bad that i won't even say the word," which is NOT trauma-informed care. you are not protecting survivors/victims when you self-censor. the ONLY things you protect when you self-censor are the puritanical ideologies that are being encouraged by rich fascists who want your money and obedience
say the fucking words, guys. just say the goddamn words before i go insane!!!
Leon is deceptively knowledgeable about pretty much everything, and he is also pretty good at saving you.
You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue.
“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap.
“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.”
“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”
“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”
“I’m the thing?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”
You flinch a little when his thumb catches on the cut hiding within your bruises, watching with wide-eyes as his expression turns hardened, and dark. It’s like a sheet of titanium slamming over any warmth he’d been feeling, but his hands are gentler than ever as he scoops you out of his lap, kissing your dusty forehead with a mutter. “Stay put. Let me see if I can find us both some answers.”
leon never says anything right away, always taking time to observe before reacting.
he watches the way you disappear into the bathroom before dates. the faint click of your makeup compacts, the hiss of the hairspray, the soft music you play while getting ready. by the time you step out, you’re smiling at him like it didn’t take you an hour deciding between two identical outfits.
but he notices.
notices the way your lipstick matches the blush on your cheeks. the special occasion earrings you wear only on dates. the perfume that lingers on his jackets, which change depending on the season (he likes the floral one best).
and, of course, the questions you always ask.
“does this look okay?
“is this shirt too bright?...or not bright enough?”
“will these heels match your shoes?”
leon thought it was ridiculous at first. as if there could ever be a version of you he wouldn’t look at like you hung the stars yourself.
it finally clicked one day while he was waiting outside your apartment. you were running late which was a rare occasion. when you finally appeared in front of him, you had an embarrassed smile while apologizing about redoing your makeup.
that night at dinner, he caught himself staring. you looked gorgeous, you always did. but he saw how clean your eyeliner was, how smooth your cheeks were, and how kissable your lips looked despite the plate of pasta you devoured.
the thought of you taking the time and effort to be so beautiful, just for him? that settled in his chest and followed him home.
the next morning, rather than just putting on the first shirt he sees, he pauses. his hand lingers over an old, loose academy shirt before reaching for a black fitted one instead. he remembers the way you gawked at him the first time he wore it, the memory making him chuckle.
he spends more time fixing his hair, but grows frustrated that it doesn’t move with his fingers dipped in water. that afternoon, he bought a new hair serum. one of the best, at least, that’s what the sales lady said.
he starts using moisturizer before bed and sunscreen in the morning.
he’s more generous with the cologne that made you bury your face in his neck for a second longer than usual.
even his workouts change. he still trains because he has to, but maybe he adds one more set. maybe he holds the plank a little longer. maaaaybe he does pushups before he comes to see you. you don’t seem to mind when the sleeves of his shirts began to fit tighter around his arms than they used to.
leon thought it was only fair, and he doesn’t mention any of it.
it wasn’t until one evening when you’re standing behind him in his kitchen, wrapping your arms around his waist while he’s washing dishes. your fingers squeezed the taut muscle of his abdomen.
“have you been working out more?”
leon glances over his shoulder, pretending to think about it. “...maybe.”
“maybe?” you giggle, feeling his arms. “your shirts didn’t used to fit like this.”
he dries his hands before turning around to face you. he leans against the counter, pulling you close.
“you spend a lot of time getting pretty before you see me,” he said, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “figured I should put in some work too.”
you blinked. “for me?”
he could feel his ears heating up. “didn’t seem right letting you be the only one trying.”
the look on your face (and the kisses you smothered him in) made everything worth it.
BONUS
chris stared at leon from the bathroom doorway, watching as he dripped something onto his hand before combing his fingers through his hair.
“is that…hair oil?
leon didn’t even look up. “hair serum,” he corrected.
“alright, pretty boy, what’s next? face masks? cucumber slices over your eyes?”
“why? you wanna do some? I’ve got a few,” leon said, holding up a variety of sheet masks.
chris blinked. “...why do you have so many?”
“they’re moisturizing,” he shrugged. “my girl took all the brightening ones.”
leon said it so casually that chris had to stare at him for a second before breaking into a grin. leon gave him an annoyed look through the mirror. “what?” he scoffed.
“hair serum. moisturizer. lip balm,” chris pointed at the lineup on the bathroom counter. all the bottles were on a rotating caddy, courtesy of you, of course. he plucked a bottle from the shelf, squinting at the label. “cuticle oil? since when do you care about your cuticles?”
“since someone told me to take better care of my hands,” leon snatched the bottle away from him.
chris barked out a laugh. “ain’t no way.”
“you don’t have room to talk,” leon said, organizing his caddy.
chris frowned. “what does that mean?”
leon turned around, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. he eyed chris up and down.
“my hair’s healthier. my hands are softer,” he smirked. “and I dress better than you.”
chris looked at himself in the mirror. “this shirt’s fine,” he said firmly.
“shirt from ten years ago?”
“it’s cotton.”
leon chuckled beneath his breath.
“you know…jill might like it if you put in a little effort.”
that caught chris’s attention. “...you think so?”
“yeah,” leon shrugged. “my girl gives me something to look at, I might as well do the same.”
chris rubbed the back of his neck. “pass me the serum,” he said.
asking clark to get married when you’re already married do you see the vision
When your legs are hurting and you’ve spent an entire day walking around with someone’s fingers woven between yours—someone who treasures every second of your company like he’s just lucky to be in it—you find you aren’t as eager to get home as you’d imagined. You’d limp the entire night through the dark with Clark if it meant you’d get to keep talking to him.
But then you remember who you married. Clark would stay up all night with you if you enticed him in conversation.
“Baby,” you say, giving Clark’s hand a swing to make him smile. “Would you marry me?”
“Again?” He wrinkles his nose, blue eyes a little dark from the squint and the thickness of his brows pinching together, but he’s still smiling, and he’s leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Of course I would. Every day of my life, I’d marry you. That was a great day, huh?”
“Yeah.” You lay your face in his arm. “Can I put my wedding dress on when we get home?”
“If you promise not to take it off.”
“I think you’re supposed to take it off.”
Clark laughs and sweeps you up for hugging in the middle of the sidewalk, barely twenty steps from the apartment building, but he just can’t wait. He hugs you and laughs like he’s giddy by your ear. “No, please, it’s too pretty. You can put it on and we can defrost the cake, pretend it’s fresh. I have my suit pressed at the back of the wardrobe.” He frowns at your shock. “What? It’s what I was wearing when you married me. You’re lucky I didn’t put it behind plexiglass.”
(You’re not kidding around. You put on your wedding dress, and Clark kisses you in the kitchen like you’re standing at the alter.)
coming home to leon when he’s been away and no-contact for a month after Spain and turning to jelly in his lap
You know he’s home ‘cos he leaves his car parked in your spot closest to the house. You have to block him in, and you’re ravenous peering into his car window for any signs of life, but he must be inside. You almost forget your groceries, doubling back in a rush to grab them, and dumping them right at the front door, door still open, Leon waiting perched on the couch with a bouquet of wet-looking flowers on the pillow beside him.
You don’t give him time to pick them up, or take off his dark jacket. Leon is assuredly, whole-heartedly, lovingly yours, his eyes lit with affection that took months to reveal itself in a second now as you climb onto the couch and wrap your arms around his neck. He’s gotta know how close you are to tears, but he just hefts you like you weigh nothing over his lap and digs his nose into your neck, breathing, squeezing you as tight as he knows you need, even if he’s reluctant to hurt you in a way that could linger.
“Damn, I missed you,” he says on the tail end of a laugh, squeezing that little bit tighter, encouraging your face right up against his neck until there’s no room to breathe and less to miss him back.
“I was starting to worry you’d died on me,” you mumble.
“Not yet,” he promises. There’s a thread of hesitation to his hand where it tumbles down your back—he loves you, but affection is hard for him sometimes, like it might be to a collared dog. You had to earn his trust, and time apart always leaves him tentative.
You melt like butter in the sun against his chest. Mumble missed yous and you okays already knowing he won’t tell you the truth. His hair is soft in your hand when you go searching, and his lips are smiling when he fits a kiss under the hollow of your eye.
Leon is deceptively knowledgeable about pretty much everything, and he is also pretty good at saving you.
You’ve borne witness to his combat skills, his trained strength, his intelligence and his ability to think of solutions on the fly, and you aren’t silly enough to ignore how these are all things he has had to suffer for. He carries you up five flights of stairs and across a single plank of scaffold while you squeeze your eyes shut like a kid, and he says, “Hey, we did it,” when you get to the other side, as though you had any part in his rescue.
“I never thought you’d have to save me again,” you mumble, pouting, but pleased when he sits down in a dusty old loveseat and keeps you firmly in his lap.
“Mm,” he says, catching hold of your face in a gloved hand. “What are you doing here? I’d love to know.”
“How should I know?” You wriggle a little in his lap, but stop when he gives you a warning glance. “I woke up here. How long did it take you to find me?”
“Don’t insult me. You’ve been missing less than a day.” He rubs his thumb along the bruise staining your jaw, visibly stressed. “Jeez, they really hate leaving beautiful things as they are.”
“I’m the thing?”
“You’re beautiful,” he says, rolling his eyes. “And rescued, for the most part.”
You flinch a little when his thumb catches on the cut hiding within your bruises, watching with wide-eyes as his expression turns hardened, and dark. It’s like a sheet of titanium slamming over any warmth he’d been feeling, but his hands are gentler than ever as he scoops you out of his lap, kissing your dusty forehead with a mutter. “Stay put. Let me see if I can find us both some answers.”
all i want for 2026 is that gigantic rancid AI bubble to finally burst in such a catastrophic way that the consequences will be so good and i'll never have to see another AI generated image ever again
stormborns
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