MIMI . she / her . november . black . 17 . sfw content . i heart the outsiders .
i also go by dahlia or september ྀིྀིྀིྀིྀི · infp · 🧺 writer of quiet heartbreaks and honey-sweet fluff. / soft things enthusiast. gaz’s sweetheart. lives on my playlists & raspberry tea. / ౨ৎ romanticizing everything since forever. dreamer first, writer second.
𝜚 ׅ ㅤ۫ ˖ ෴ who i write for . . . ﹒ᶻz ׂ
. . m.masterlist , r.rules
. . . m.most popular post , l.latest post ,
currently : writing requests , listening to : … & On , erykah badu , reading : the foxglove king
𝜗𝜚 — in which, jason loves you so much. he just shows it in different ways. not that you mind—not when it’s him.
JASON TODD x READER just fluff, ( light ) angst, mentions of scars, jason loving reader, reader loving jason.
— happy ( late ) valentines mwa — pronouns and gender arent mentioned so this is for anyone to read ! requested —
JASON TODD’s love language is acts of service. he doesn’t always say what he feels—one of the things you help him with—but he shows it in the way he cares for you—fixing things before you notice they’re broken, cooking for you when you’re tired, or simply just being there when you need a shoulder.
hes kind to you in that way—in many ways— but you cherish the way he’s so attuned to you; always there for you when you think you need him. a massage that you feel throughout the day, the mold of his hands and how they kneed away at the knots in your shoulders, your neck, your hips. he fits perfectly with every crevice in your body, your soul.
expressing his love, verbally he struggles. though when he tries, its as if he had all the experience in the world; in his low, steady tone and a comforting hand on your hip. “it’s okay, I got you doll.”
you always feel so seen with him, so warm.
with him, you never have to ask to be understood. he sees you in the quiet moments, in the way his eyes soften when you speak, the way he tucks you closer without thinking. his love isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere—in the warmth of his presence, in the safety of his arms, in the way he makes your worries feel a lot less heavy just by standing next to you.
when he can (which is more often than not) he loves to stare. not in a romantic way (though when he does, you don’t mind), but in a gentle, fond one. his hands, though rough, are never shown with intent to hurt. but to love. when he’s gently caressing your face as he gazes into your eyes. it’s like he has no care in the world when you’re with him.
the way they fit into every crevice of your body—they belong there.
your hands are one of the many things he loves; especially when they’re on him. their intent, like his, are nothing but good. whether you’re tracing the scars that horrify him (his autopsy scars) or just holding his hand, playing with the stray hairs that frame his face, he feels grounded by your touch. he feels safe in your hands.
to others, he seems like an untouchable man, a Goliath among Davids. but you see through his tough exterior and see the gentle bear he keeps sheltered from the outside.
you see him.
him and his beautiful way of loving you and everyone he holds close to his heart, his love for literature, his love for cars, how he likes his eggs sunny side up, how his chest puffs out when he sees your smile, you see him.
and when he stoops to one knee, your face framed by the golden streaks of the sun slipping through the blinds of his favorite library (where you met) he knows that even with the tears slipping down your face, the overjoyed smile he loves so much—rivaling the sun itself, that not even death will be able to part the bond you’ll share for eternity.
John Price and his love is a map written in the places his hands settle. It’s in the broad span of his palms curving possessively around the flare of your hips, anchoring you to him with a gentle, unquestionable firmness. It’s the solid, warm pressure of his hand splayed against the small of your back, a steadying point of contact that guides you through a crowd or simply pulls you closer in the quiet of a room.
But it’s in the nape of your neck that his touch turns from claiming to something reverent. His fingers, calloused and capable of calibrating a rifle or field-stripping an engine, find the delicate bones there with a startling tenderness. A single thumb strokes the hairline, a silent, soothing rhythm that speaks of a shelter built just for you. He holds you like something both cherished and unbreakable, a paradox only a man like him could embody—where strength exists solely to make a space for softness.
