mostly-imagines

[mostly-imagines]

AND A KISS FOR GOOD LUCK !

i only have you. take care of yourself for me. i take care of myself for you.

cw: descriptions of scars/bleeding/wounds

Leaning closer to the mirror, Jason picks at the skin of his cheek until he feels that familiar dry sting on his face and the thin stickiness of blood under his nails. It elicits barely a wince, he’s so used to the feeling. He watches blood flood inside the abrasion, the flushing, half-healed pink turning to a watery red. 

He hears your footsteps approaching softly, but doesn’t look away from his reflection. He moves his attention to a fresh mark on his chin where the raised, jagged edges of the new scar have just started to scab— an undercover job; one where he had nothing but a thin layer of armor underneath his clothes, his helmet stashed away somewhere in the rafters. The skin is peeling at the corners, and he tugs at the bits of flesh. 

“Jay.”

He finally tears his eyes away from the mirror; you’re standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame with crossed arms. Your lips droop into a frown, teeth biting on your bottom lip. 

“Hey,” he says. He focuses somewhere between your forehead and eyebrows.

“What are you doing?” Your voice is neutral, gentle.

“These fuckin’ cuts,” he mutters. “They’re itching like crazy.”

It’s a half-truth; yes, they do itch like crazy, and it does make him want to claw his skin off sometimes. But that’s not why he’s doing it.

It has become second nature for him, scratching and tearing and aggravating the wounds on his face. Something he does when he’s antsy, or idle, or deep in thought. Just as every other time you find him like this, you shuffle forward and place your hand over his.

Reflexively, he interlaces his fingers with yours, a small, guilty smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Can I help?” You ask, softly, while leaning against his side. You place a kiss on his shoulder, over the fabric of his sleeve; the shine of your lip balm leaves a mark.

“It’s nothin’ to worry about, baby. It’s almost midnight. I have to head out soon.” The back of his hand haphazardly wipes a single swipe across his cheek, but all it does is smear the blood over his face. His jaw tightens momentarily, and you can tell it burns. 

“Come here,” you say, sliding yourself between him and the wash basin. You cup his face between your hands, dragging your thumb along his chapped bottom lip.

“You chew on your lips too much, Jay.”

He exhales slowly, sagging into your hold. On another day, he’d chuckle or playfully roll his eyes with a kiss to the pad of your thumb. Tonight, he can’t even meet your eyes.

You hop up unto the bathroom counter and pull him close to stand between your legs. There’s a clean washcloth hanging from the towel hook, and you run it under warm water, then wring it out. Jason flinches slightly when you reach out to his face, but settles back into your touch without argument. With soft strokes, you wipe away the thin line of blood, then drag the cloth across the rest of his face, careful not to aggravate the fresh mark on his chin. He remains still the whole time, gaze fixed on the mirror behind you.

“Does it sting?” You ask. He shakes his head.

“Can you look at me?”

Reluctantly, he raises his eyes to yours.

He doesn’t say it, but his eyes say enough, say the harsh assault on himself that sits on his tongue, fighting to break through his teeth.

“You’re so beautiful, Jason.” You trace your fingers along the lines of his features.

“You don’t have to do that.” He turns his face to the wall, trying to hide the frustrated tears that threaten to spill over. It cracks your heart in two, seeing the loveliest person you know blind to his own beauty.

“Jason,” you whisper, voice filled with desperation for him to hear all the words he won’t let you say. “Baby.” It’s a wish; a plea.

He’s never been good with words like these, starving for kindness with a mangled stomach. You learned this the hard way, after trying to force-feed him the intensity of your affection, thinking it would help him when it only made him sick. Now you dole it out in silent, digestible amounts; a squeeze of his hand here, a kiss to the forehead there.

He says nothing, but turns his head back to you. For now, it’s enough.

“What’s that for?” He nods to the bottle of opaque white water you plucked from your side of the sink.

“Rice water. It’s good for your skin, especially if you’re marinating under a sweaty helmet for hours,” you tease.

He grumbles out something along the lines of it’s well-ventilated, but nonetheless, he places his hands on either side of you to lean down towards your eye-level. You rub the solution between your hands and massage it into his face. He always seems to relax when your hands are on him; his eyes flutter shut and his lips part with a relieved breath.

You can’t help yourself—he really is so beautiful—and you steal a kiss to his nose.

“What’s that for?” He opens his eyes at the sound of you unscrewing yet another bottle.

“Oil. For the scars,” you say, tentatively.

His fingers twitch against the counter, but after a moment, he nods. You dab some of the pink oil onto your fingers, and carefully rub it into the jagged marks that decorate his chin, his cheeks, his jaw. He stiffens when you make contact with them, and you’re not sure you hear him exhale until after you pull away.

The bottle is replaced by a small tube of lip balm, and Jason tilts his head. “More?” One of his hands rests on your thigh and strokes up and down.

You tsk at him. “Can you just trust me?” You don’t give him a chance to argue before squeezing the tube and spreading the balm across his lips. His protests are muffled behind his mouth, which he keeps shut so you can work.

“Now I’m done.” You hop down from the sink, and he trails after you into the hall; you know he needs to stop at a safe house before starting his patrol, so you don’t let him linger in the bathroom with his hands on you— similar situations have made him very late in the past, and you’re not interested in getting another earful from his team.

His duffel bag of weapons and gear is already on the living room floor, ready for him to grab and go. A familiar thread of nerves and lonely pining run through your body.

“Okay, I’ll be back in a few hours.” Jason lifts the bag with one hand, and pushes a stand of hair behind your ear with the other.

“You better.”

He leans in to peck your lips, but you throw yourself at him for a fiery, desperate kiss straight out of a Hollywood movie. It surprises him enough to make the bag hit the ground as he wraps his arms around your waist to kiss you back with matching fervor.

He’s panting when you release him, face burning red and chest rising rapidly. Try as he might, he can’t hide the shy, flustered grin stretching across his face. “And what was that for?”

You shrug. “For good luck. Obviously.”

He blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Obviously.”

You run your hand up his arm and squeeze on his bicep. “Stay safe. Please.”

He smiles, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

“I will.”

heyyyyy guys. so lots has happened. we hit 1k😱😱I feel like a real life influencer now. Hey what’s up you guys welcome back to my YouTube channel, today’s video we are going to be fantasizing about emotionally unavailable men!!! U should totally check my recent post and participate in the celebration

This is based on this ask , read it for some more background, and the quote is from gabriela mistral’s letters to Doris Dana 👍🙏also this was not proofread don’t judge me🙏🙏

Thee divider is by cafekitsune I don’t feel like finding the post to link it I’m SORRYYYYY

[mostly-imagines]

we're not even close to 33.3% each. we have no coordination whatsoever 💔

its closer than i expected i’ll give you that

[mostly-imagines]

I’m sorry you’re getting some shithead anons dude, you’re one of the last writers on here who deserve that :(( don’t let their overflow of unhappiness prevent you from fulfilling yourself first and foremost. Love you and your writing, man. Stay safe out here ❤️

thanks buddy 💗💗💗

[mostly-imagines]

hey so why r u so pressed abt reblogging? /gen. some ppls have empty tumblrs and no personalisation on purpose LOL. arent likes enough? /gen q.

i dont have it in me to explain this again

[mostly-imagines]

this is rigged

[mostly-imagines]

hey whoever sent that last anon, maybe wanna fuck off?

[mostly-imagines]

STOP SENDING HATE ANONS

what the fuck. i cant believe i even have to say this but the shit she has been getting in her inbox is ridiculous. i never said her name publicly (bc i didnt want THIS shit to happen) so there’s absolutely no fucking reason to be spamming her account with hateful shit.

she’s over it, i’m over it, so the real fucking mystery is why people that weren’t even involved are still throwing such terrible words at somebody they don’t even KNOW.

[mostly-imagines]

I hope you know you've greatly impacted how i write Jason and I am not complaining

ooooh thank you thats so cool to hear :)

[mostly-imagines]

is it weird that i read dear god get out at least once every 2 days .. and i think about it at least once a day…….. my favorite fic ive ever read btw 😁😁😛😛😛😛😛😛😛😛

its a weird choice of fic but who am i to judge im the one that wrote it

[mostly-imagines]

you're genuinely so funny morgan

finally an anon i can get behind

[mostly-imagines]

like this if you have strong opinions about my stories

[mostly-imagines]

i ordered a minute maid fruit punch drink from mcdonald’s and it sucks

dude that sounds so good rn

[mostly-imagines]

shoutout to my emotional support group

@sunnie-angel @ananashart @janybabyy @kenzieb @xx-kino-v @fruitsaladtree @justanotherblock @julymusings