My favourite edgy man <3
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styofa doing anything
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me

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@mokyoenthusiast
My favourite edgy man <3
Clean version, early access and step by step available on Patreon
i finished my concept about stardew valley jason😋
portrait of Jason
smoke break
i like to think that he would have been like this if THAT hadn't happened
my shayla
── 𝓟icture 𝓨ou ( jackie taylor ) ּ 𓂅 ⋆
・❥・ ─── 𝓢𝗬𝗡. a quiet love story between a shy photographer and the untouchable girl she’s captured in secret.
( pairing ) — jackie taylor x female!reader 𝜗𝒞 ; fluff / college au ℳ. based off this request !! hope it didn’t disappoint 𓂃 ( 1k )
jackie taylor is the kind of girl people write songs about.
you knew it from the first moment you saw her, golden and untouchable, stepping onto campus like she owned the sidewalks. like the world belonged to her, or maybe just wanted to. she was the kind of girl you kept your distance from, because you weren't the type to belong in her orbit—just an observer, a passerby, someone with a vintage camera slung around their neck and untied laces on their worn-out converse.
your roommates, lottie and nat, always tease you about it. "there she goes again," lottie would say, watching you grab your camera before heading out. "off to capture another moment of the unattainable jackie taylor." but they don't understand. it's not about attainability. it's about preserving something beautiful, something real.
then came that night in late september, when the air was still warm but carried hints of autumn's approach. you were driving home from a photography club meeting when you saw her standing on the curb outside some frat house party, arms crossed, jaw tight, alone. the streetlight caught in her hair like a halo, and without thinking, you pulled over.
"need a ride?"
she looked at you for a long moment, mascara slightly smudged, vulnerability written in the set of her shoulders. you learned later that jeff had left her there after an argument—something about him being controlling, about her being "too much."
"yeah," she finally said, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. "that'd be great."
the drive was quiet at first, just the low hum of your car's heater and the occasional direction from jackie. but then she started talking—really talking—about her dreams beyond being the perfect preppy girl everyone expected, about how sometimes she felt like she was playing a role in her own life.
"i don't think i've ever told anyone that," she admitted as you pulled up to her dorm.
"your secret's safe with me," you promised, and something shifted between you that night.
after that, jackie started appearing in your world more frequently. she'd find you in the library, sliding into the seat across from you with a coffee and a smile. you'd run into her between classes, and somehow those brief encounters would turn into hour-long conversations. she'd text you random thoughts at 3 am, and you'd respond with photos you'd taken that day.
the camera became your bridge. "show me how you see things," she'd say, and you'd let her peer through your viewfinder at the way morning light filtered through leaves, or how raindrops collected on spider webs. you never told her that most of your photos were of her—captured in quiet moments when she thought no one was looking.
until today.
she's curled up in your bed, legs draped over yours, head resting on your shoulder. the afternoon sun streams through your dorm window, casting everything in honey-gold light. she's scrolling through your phone, casual and comfortable in a way that still makes your heart skip.
"wait—where do all your saved photos go?"
your stomach tightens. it's a casual question, but it carries the weight of all your unspoken admiration, all the moments you've collected like precious stones.
before you can answer, she's already in your gallery, thumb swiping through image after image. you watch her face as realization dawns.
"these are all of me."
not a question. a soft, stunned observation.
you watch as she takes in each photo: jackie laughing during a soccer game, hair flying wild and free. jackie asleep in the library during finals week, textbook pressed against her cheek. jackie in the passenger seat of your car at sunset, profile gilded by dying light. jackie in the rain, in the sun, in shadow and light—always beautiful, always real.
"you took all of these?"
you nod, suddenly feeling exposed. "i like capturing moments. real ones."
her eyes find yours. "why me?"
the question hangs between you, heavy with meaning. you take a breath, choosing your words carefully.
"because you're most beautiful when you're just being yourself. not the jackie everyone expects—just... you."
she's quiet for a moment, then reaches for your nightstand where your photo album sits. before you can stop her, she's opening it, discovering more pieces of herself through your lens.
the album is filled not just with photos, but with pieces of your shared history. a pressed flower from the day she picked a daisy and tucked it behind your ear. a coffee stain on a napkin from your first real conversation. concert tickets, dried leaves, small moments preserved like insects in amber.
"this is..." she trails off, fingers tracing a photo of herself reading poetry on the quad, completely unaware of the camera. "this is how you see me?"
you nod, heart thundering. "that's how you are."
jackie closes the album gently, setting it aside. when she looks at you again, her eyes are soft, touched by something deeper than surprise.
"no one's ever seen me like this before," she whispers, shifting closer until her forehead rests against yours. "like i'm worth remembering."
"you're worth every photo," you murmur back. "every moment."
she kisses you then, soft and slow, like she's trying to capture this moment too. when she pulls back, there's a smile playing at her lips.
"you know," she says, "for someone who spends so much time behind the camera, you're pretty terrible at hiding how you feel."
you laugh, warmth spreading through your chest. "maybe i wasn't trying to hide it."
jackie's smile widens. "good," she says, pulling you closer. "because i think i like being seen by you."
the late afternoon light paints everything gold, and you think about reaching for your camera. but some moments, you realize, are better lived than captured. so instead, you kiss her again, memorizing this feeling with something deeper than film and paper.
after all, the best pictures are the ones we keep in our hearts.
𝑻𝑨𝑮𝑳𝑰𝑺𝑻, @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @waitforyrlove @ncm9696 @marrykisskilled @maggot3647 @ifwdominicfike @honeymoonchem @ch6rm @freshloveee @theapollochronicles @mattsdolll @jetaimevous @secretlocket
CLOSE ENOUGH TO HURT (CLOSE ENOUGH TO HOLD)
pairing jason todd x gender neutral reader
jason todd doesn't ask for hugs. he asks you to punch him instead. it's your job to read between the bruises.
taglist @kasarian , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure
you’ve known jason todd since he was a scrawny kid in a robin suit, all sharp edges and sharper wit—a storm crammed into a too-small body, grinning at you from across the rooftops like he’d already decided you were worth sticking around for. you’ve known him through the laughter that came easy back then, the anger that never really left, the grief that hollowed you both out when the world decided he was gone. you’ve known him through the impossible return, the way he came back wrong and right all at once, a ghost with his same stubborn jaw and new scars he won’t talk about. you’ve known him for years, and still, he finds ways to catch you off guard.
like right now, for instance.
"c’mon, hit me."
your breath stutters. the words shouldn’t startle you—jason’s always been like this, all reckless taunts and testing boundaries—but there’s something different in his voice tonight, something raw under the challenge. you blink, before raising an unimpressed eyebrow, fingers twitching after you set the book you were reading aside. "what?"
jason leans back against your couch like he’s trying to melt into it, arms spread wide over the backrest, legs sprawled like he owns the place (and okay, fine, he kinda does—his favorite mug’s in your cupboard, his boots are by your door, and you’ve lost count of how many times he’s crashed here after a bad night). his smirk is all sharp edges, all i dare you, but his eyes—god, his eyes give him away. they’re too bright, too focused, like he’s starving for something and this is the only way he knows how to ask. "you heard me. punch me. right here." he taps his cheek, just below the scar, the one that cuts through his eyebrow and down to his jaw. you’ve traced it with your fingers before, when he let you, when the night was quiet enough for honesty.
your stomach twists, that familiar ache between frustration and affection that only jason can pull from you. you want to shake him until his teeth rattle, until whatever self-destructive impulse he’s clinging to finally cracks. you want to pull him close and tuck his head under your chin the way you used to when he was smaller, when the world hurt him less but he still pretended it didn’t hurt at all. instead, you cross your arms tight over your chest, nails biting crescent moons into your sleeves to anchor yourself. the fabric is soft under your fingertips, worn from too many washes—just like the way jason’s edges have softened over time, even if he’d never admit it. "you’re such an idiot," you say, but your voice betrays you, warm and crumbling at the edges like old brickwork.
"jason," you deadpan, shifting your weight onto one hip, "i’m not punching you in the face for no reason." the words taste like a lie even as you say them—because you would, if he asked right. if he ever just asked for what he needed instead of wrapping it in violence like a gift in barbed wire.
he tilts his head, the picture of innocence if not for the way his fingers drum restless against the couch cushions. the light catches the faded scar along his knuckles, the one he got years ago when he threw a punch for you instead of at you. "who said there’s no reason?" he counters, voice too light. "i’ve been annoying you all night. you’ve gotta be pissed by now."
"you’re always annoying," you shoot back, but your throat feels tight. you know this game—know how he turns himself into a lightning rod, how he’d rather you direct your anger at him than let it fade into silence. you step closer, close enough to see the way his pulse jumps in his neck. "why do you suddenly want me to hit you?"
he shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that doesn’t match the tension in his jaw. his gaze skitters away, fixing on the window behind you like the night sky might have answers. but you catch it—the flicker in his eyes, something hungry and aching, something that makes your chest hurt. it’s the same look he gets when he lingers too long in doorways, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to stay. "just wanna see if you’ve got a good swing," he says, but the smirk doesn’t reach his eyes.
you narrow your eyes, studying the way the dim light catches on his stupidly long lashes, the way his grin stretches just a little too wide to be convincing. "you're so full of shit." your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, the words crumbling at the edges like they always do around him.
jason's grin turns sharp, all white teeth and barely-hidden desperation. "prove it." there's a challenge in his voice, but his fingers are tapping an uneven rhythm against his thigh—morse code for 'i don't know how to ask for what I really want'.
you sigh, rubbing your temples where a headache is forming. this is how it always goes with him—pushing until you push back, prodding at bruises he won't admit are there, testing how far he can go before you walk away. you know this dance by now, know the way his breath catches when you call his bluff, know the exact shade of pink that creeps up his neck when he's flustered. you know him, all his jagged edges and soft spots, and that's why you can't help but play along.
so you stand up, stepping into his space like you belong there (you do). his pupils blow wide as you raise your fist, his body tensing like he's bracing for impact—not just from your punch, but from whatever comes after. the air between you crackles with something unspoken, electric and terrifying and beautiful.
at the last second, you flick his forehead instead.
"ow—what the hell?" he scowls, rubbing at the spot with exaggerated indignation, but you don't miss the way his shoulders drop just slightly in relief. "that's not a punch."
"you didn't specify," you say smugly, biting back a grin when his nose scrunches up in that way you've secretly adored since you were kids.
he growls, all fake annoyance, and suddenly his hand is around your wrist, pulling you forward with just enough force to make you stumble. your free hand flies to his chest to steady yourself, palm flat over the rapid thud-thud-thud of his heartbeat. it's racing, and you know it's not just from the scuffle.
"cheater," he mutters, but his voice is rough around the edges, his grip on your wrist alternating between too tight and barely there, like he can't decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.
"drama queen," you shoot back, but it comes out breathless. you don't pull away. you never do.
for a second, the world narrows to this: the warmth of his skin under your hand, the hitch in his breathing when your thumb brushes absentmindedly against his collarbone, the way his eyes keep darting to your lips like he's mapping out all the ways this could go wrong. his fingers flex around your wrist, tight then loose then tight again—a silent battle between want and fear, between the part of him that craves contact and the part that's still convinced he doesn't deserve it.
then, so quiet you almost miss it, he says, "...missed this." and oh, the way his voice cracks on the last syllable nearly undoes you—all vulnerable and raw and so painfully jason.
your expression softens without permission, your thumb tracing a gentle arc over his sternum. "me too," you murmur, and you mean it more than he'll ever know. you mean the easy banter, the way he fits against you like a missing puzzle piece, the quiet moments when he forgets to be angry at the world. you mean all of him, even the parts he's still learning to love himself.
his breath stutters when you lean in, just slightly, just enough to make his pulse jump under your fingertips. you can see the war in his eyes—the way he wants to close the distance but can't quite bring himself to, the way he's always been better at taking punches than kindness. so you make the decision for him, resting your forehead against his with a quiet sigh, feeling him melt into the contact like a man starved.
"idiot," you whisper, fondness dripping from every syllable like honey—sweet and slow and sticking to everything it touches. the word hangs between you, softer than the moonlight bleeding through your curtains, warmer than the june air clinging to your skin.
he doesn't argue. for once, jason todd has nothing to say, and that might be the most surprising thing of all. you can practically hear the gears turning in his head, see the way his throat works as he swallows down all the sharp comebacks and defensive quips. his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks, too fast, like he's trying to clear something from his eyes.
then he exhales—a rough, shaky thing that trembles through his entire frame—and suddenly you're being tugged forward. his arms come around you with all the grace of a collapsing building, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt while the other presses almost too hard between your shoulder blades. it's awkward, all stiff limbs and too much force, his nose bumping against your cheek before he buries it in the crook of your neck. he holds you like he's afraid you'll disappear, like he's twelve years old again and still learning how to ask for comfort without throwing a punch first.
but it's jason. your jason, with his too-big hands and his too-soft hoodie and the familiar scent of gunpowder and cheap shampoo clinging to his skin. so you don't tease him (much), just wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze until you feel some of the tension leak out of his shoulders. his heartbeat thunders against your chest, rapid but steady, a reminder that he's here, he's alive, he's yours in all the ways that matter.
"you could've just asked for a hug, you know," you murmur into the space between his throat and jaw. your lips brush against his pulse point when you speak, and you don't miss the way his breath hitches in response.
"shut up," he mumbles into your shoulder, but there's no heat behind it. his fingers flex against your back, tentative at first, then more sure as he starts tracing idle patterns over your spine. it's such an un-jason-like gesture—soft and unpracticed and so painfully earnest—that something in your chest cracks open like an egg, all yolk-bright warmth spilling through your ribs.
you laugh, quiet and breathless, and feel the exact moment he gives in—the way his body relaxes against yours, the huff of air that ghosts across your neck, the barely-there vibration in his chest when he joins you. it's not the loud, head-tipped-back laughter from when you were kids, but something quieter, more private. just for you. his shoulders shake with it, and you hold him tighter, memorizing the way his joy feels pressed against you after so long only knowing his anger and pain.
and if his lips brush against your skin when he pulls away—just once, just barely—well. neither of you mention it. some things don't need words.
..........aaaAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH JASOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN-
screaming, crying.
i like working at plant store. sometimes you ring up someone and there's a slug on their plant and so you're like "Oh haha you've got a friend there let me get that for you" and you put the slug on your hand for safekeeping but then its really busy and you dont have time to take the slug outside before the next customer in line so you just have a slug chilling on your hand for 15 minutes. really makes you feel at peace with nature. also it means sometimes i get to say my favorite line which is "would you like this free slug with your purchase"
@holyknuckled you get it. lterally what are we here on earth for if not to occasionally impose gastropods upon unsuspecting customers. this story is delightful
@holyknuckled like that?
oh? my god???
yeah, Exactly like that
cat nap!
do you happen to have a step by step of the froggies by chance? i am very bad at following textual instructions and i cant find anyone who might have done a step by step haha
@burakhovskys i can try to make a step by step post! it may be sort of long but definitely watch out for one as i'd be happy to further explain!!!
Ok so this is going to take a couple posts cuz last time i tried to post after i had all my info in and it deleted everything when i hit the reblog button 🥴
Without further a do
The Frog Tutorial
(Part 1)
1. First have all your cutouts ready!!!
you can choose at this stage to sew the eyes on or you can wait to position them how you want on the face, I’m doing it later, so that part of the tutorial will be addressed in another installment.
(Im using white thread so its easier to see how i sew)
2. Put one of the sides on top of the belly piece, lining up their nose tips in the center.
3. Stick your needle through the top of the side piece through the belly piece, pull the thread through, and loop back around to the top to sew how i do, keep repeating until you reach the arm!
4. For the arms/legs youll want to make sure in these crevices (circled in green) are sewn 2-3 times to make sure the fabric is secure and no holes open up, do this with every crevice!
5. After that sew all the way down to the almost the middle of the butt but leaving space in the middle just as the og pattern suggests.
6. Clip off the excess thread after this since we will have to start sewing in a different area in the next part.
The Frog Tutorial (part 2)
7. Line up the side pieces together, using the tips of their faces to line up the back sides
8. Start sewing again in the middle of the back end of the pieces, not all the way at the bottom where they would meet the belly piece,, otherwise the frog will have a concave ass.
9. Once youve sewn up all the back to the front the face pieces should line up, here you will just need to get as close to the belly piece then sew through to the belly piece to start doing the rest of the frog
10. Once you get to the back of the front leg, tie it off so its not getting in the way, and then were going to flip the frog inside out.
11. To get the feets out just push them using a somewhat skinny but blunt object so they stick out like this
NOW WERE GONNA DO EYES!
12. To do the eyes, push the needle through the inside to the outside after rethreading it and making sure it has a really good knot,
13. After its through pull the thread all the way through till it hits the knot and then skewer the pompom thru the middle, pushing it all the way down till it rests on the head.
14. After its on the head, pierce the pompom again and back through the interior, here you can flip the frog inside out and sew a little through the interior of the fleece and tie a knot so its secure, or you can sew the pompom a couple more times to make it more attached to the head.
Last friggin part to the Frog Tutorial
With eyes this guy should look a bit cuter lol
15. Anyway flip the frog back inside out, and sew up the rest until you have this little space left open.
16. With this little space, we will pull the frog head first out its own butt. So you may have a flat frog such as this one here.
17. Next push out the little feet nubbins and then stUFF THE FROG
18. Turn that bad boy around and the butt should look like this.
19. To fix the unfortunate butt shape, keep the fabric tucked inward towards the stuffing and keep sewing like normal until completion!
Tie the frog up and youre all done!!!
🎉🎊🎉 Congrats you’ve made a frog :) 🎉🎊🎉
jason todd with stretchmarks
I drew a lot of jasons muehehhe
domestic jason <33
knock knock, the devil's at the door
I giggled doing this hehe
Yay! I’m so glad you take requests. Feel free to decide if you want to write this or not, it’s fine either way :)
So, I was thinking about Jason dating civilian!reader, and her coming home all disheveled and horrified. Since she knows about him being Red Hood, she can confide in him. She had just killed someone for the first time, whether it was an accident, self defense or whatever, you decide.
I was just wondering how Jason would handle this situation since usually he’s the one doing the killing.
Thank you <3
oh, this is amazing food for thought. I actually think he’d be the very best person to come to in such a situation because he has experience with killing. who’s gonna understand you better than him? literally nobody. had something similar to this in my drafts but now my mind is whirling in a whole host of directions. excellent prompt, nonnie!
jason todd x f!reader. warnings include graphic depictions of violence and killing (in self defense), attempted and failed sexual assault, the aftermath of both events (reader’s in shock), hurt/comfort. this one’s got heavier subject matter so please do mind the warnings, folks. i did way too much research of the Gotham Knights map for this, but it’s my favorite depiction of the city so so be it. also reader and Jason live in the Belfry bc i said so (personal hc that i may or may not elaborate on some time). and one last thing! the romanized Arabic at the end is “حياتي ” which translates to “my life”. I love the idea that Jason picked up Arabic terms of endearment from Talia calling Bruce just about every one she could.
Jason wakes up to soft afternoon sunlight shining on his face. He grumbles out a gravelly hum and scrunches up his face in protest against being awakened when he was sleeping so nicely. He reaches out to find the comforting warmth of his beloved beside him, to pull you in and bury his face into your hair so he can hide from the morning for a bit longer.
All he finds are cold sheets and an empty pillow.
Got bored so here's the Simon Riley
I love my army wife