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uyinq · 23 days ago

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the weight of wanting ☆ owen taylor

part 2 — when the light flickers

[owen taylor x AFAB! reader] [somewhat slow burn] [religious trauma if you squint] [guilt] [shame] [yearning] [misty doesn't exist] [canon divergence]

❱❱ WORD COUNT﹕3,573

❱❱ SUMMARY﹕

You’re the new girl at Holy Grace; you're quiet, strange, and eerie in ways that no one can quite explain. You don't wear provocative clothing. You're not a flirt. However, the questions you pose about damnation, free will, and what it means to desire something so strongly that God doesn't seem to matter are the kind that stick in Owen's head long after they are said.

He believes you need guidance. Yet every time he tries to lead you back to righteousness, he walks away more uncertain of his own.

❱❱ WARNINGS﹕profanity, heavy religious themes, religious trauma, guilt, shame, smut!!, spitting kink, oral (f!recieving), unprotected p in v, creampie, petnames (angel + baby), uhh what else, idk i'm really bad at writing smut

❱❱ NOTES﹕ Small disclaimer!!!

This is a work of fiction based on The Starling Girl. I fully recognize that Owen Taylor is a groomer and an abusive figure in the film. I am not aiming to romanticize or excuse his actions. This fanfiction exists in an alternate context, reimagining Owen as a different character outside the film’s canon.

Grooming in religious communities often goes unpunished. And if someone is punished, it’s usually the victim. If someone ever exploits your beliefs for their benefit, you have every right to leave and to call them out on it.

Please keep that in mind, and feel free to scroll past if Owen Taylor as a character disturbs or discomforts you.

(divider from uzmacchiato)

★ parts ﹒﹒ masterlist

★ tags - @pearlstiare @marvelenthuisiast

Owen can’t focus.

He shifts his weight on the splintered log he’s sat upon, the wood digging into his khakis as he quietly clears his throat. He’s supposed to be listening to the youth group reading from Proverbs. The words sound like a foreign language when he’s like this. They sound heavy, like guttural noises instead of English.

He hasn’t even looked at you. Not since you sat down and the fire cast a warm glow upon your pretty face.

The breeze picks up, and the pages of his Bible flicker a bit, like they’re trying to draw him back in. He’s not even on the right page, for God’s sake.

He nods like he’s listening, muttering a quiet “Amen” at scripture that’s ringing hollow in his chest.

Because all he can think about is you. And how he’d rather be worshipping you at this very moment.

It feels like he should be automatically transported to Hell just for thinking it.

He finally moves past it. He’s back in the moment, knee bouncing as he follows along the lines of the oh-so familiar scripture. He’s heard it a million times, read it a million times. But he forgets about the next line.

“Do not desire her beauty in your heart, nor be drawn by her eyelids–”

Shit.

“Alright,” Owen suddenly grits out, clapping his hands once, a bit too loudly. “That’s probably enough for tonight, huh?”

A few kids look up, surprised. It’s earlier than usual.

He plasters on a smile, all tight corners and smile lines with no warmth behind them, as he moves to his feet and snaps his Bible shut.

“Rain’s supposed to roll in soon anyway, and I think we’ve all earned an early night.” He gestures toward the fire. “Good job tonight. Y’all were focused. That’s what matters.”

He tries to distract himself with mundane tasks like picking up trash and rolling up the bag of half-eaten marshmallows. He waits and makes sure the fire pit is out and not at risk of burning down the woods surrounding the church.

The last of the group begins to trickle toward the parking lot, the distant rumble of thunder finally starting to roll in, low and slow. The wind’s picking up now, and a few cold drops hit the back of Owen’s neck as he turns toward the building.

Then he hears it.

The low sputter of an engine trying– and failing– to turn over.

You should’ve known your car wouldn’t start.

It sputters once, coughs like an old man clearing his throat, then falls silent. You try again. Nothing. Just the hollow click of failure.

You lean your forehead against the steering wheel, closing your eyes.

Of course, this would happen tonight– after a bible study bonfire that ran late, after too many polite conversations and charcoal black smores. After Owen spent the last hour not looking at you like he wasn’t thinking about the last time he almost touched your skin.

There’s a soft tap at your window.

You look up to see him, squinting through the glass with his hands shoved in his pockets. “Need a ride?” he asks through a crooked smile.

You hesitate for just a second before you nod.

The ride to your house is silent, aside from the very faint sound of the radio and Owen’s hands gripping the leather of his steering wheel a little too hard.

He clears his throat halfway through the drive, catching your half-asleep attention.

“Did you come up with any new questions tonight?”

You smile faintly, tilting your head toward the window. “I had one.”

Owen glances over. “Yeah?”

You nod.

“M’just wondering when you’re going to admit it.”

His jaw tightens. “Admit what?”

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

The rain gets progressively worse throughout the drive. It feels like the storm that’s been brewing in his mind for weeks– getting more and more unpredictable the longer it goes on.

When you finally wind up at your house, it’s pouring. Thunder is rumbling, and you can’t even begin to see out the windshield.

Owen gives you a look. You give him one back.

“I can make a run for it,” You offer, with a little shrug.

“I have to walk you to your door.”

His brows furrow, like part of him doesn’t agree with that statement.

You’re both moving without thinking, slinging your doors open and slamming them shut as you run to your front porch. You squeal, and he bursts into laughter like it's the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

You get to the porch first, sundress soaking wet and sticking to your skin. Owen follows shortly after, trips on your rug, and slams into the side of your house.

You’d ask him if he’s alright if you weren’t busy laughing so hard that you’re crying.

Owen lets out a muffled groan, leaning back against the siding as he places his hands on his knees and steadies himself.

You reach out and lightly hit his arm– a habit that comes out when you’re sent into a fit of giggles.

Both of your chests are heaving as you gasp for air and laugh between exhales. Every time you calm down, you start back up again. It makes him… happy.

“Are you– you… Okay? Are you okay, Owen?” You finally manage to ask.

He huffs out a breathless laugh, wiping the water from his eyes. “You gotta get a new rug,” he says, voice rough and amused.

He pushes his hair back from his face, blinking up at you through the rainwater still dripping from his lashes. “Trying to take me out before I even get to your front door.”

You laugh again, quieter this time. There’s something different about it now– something softer, breathier. Owen notices. Of course he does.

You’re both still catching your breath, both drenched to the bone, both standing much too close. He sees the way your dress clings to your skin, sees the raindrops sliding down your collarbone. He tells himself not to look, but his eyes betray him.

“I’ll write you a sermon about it,” you say, your voice gentler now. “Thou shalt not trip over wet porch rugs.”

The mocking tone in your voice is what makes him chuckle, low and quiet.

Another crack of thunder rolls in the distance. You should go inside. He should say goodnight. But neither of you move.

You look up at him, a soft breath escaping your lungs without permission. You reach up without thinking, brushing a piece of wet hair off his forehead.

Owen’s eyes flicker shut, like avoiding your gaze will make it easier to ignore his desires. To push down temptation and save it for another day.

“Damnit,” He whispers under his breath, before he leans in to kiss you, soft and unsure of himself.

When he pulls away, your lips make the sweetest sound as they separate from his. It lingers in the space between you like a thread refusing to snap.

His breath his shaky, his gaze set on your face, trying to read your reaction.

He’s waiting for the guilt of sin to set in. The shame that sends shivers down his spine every single time he looks at you for too long. But it doesn’t happen. He doesn’t feel it this time.

Instead, he smiles, a laugh of disbelief escaping him, like he can’t believe he mustered up the courage to kiss you.

“You gonna do it again?”

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but it shakes him to his core. You’re not teasing him– You’re permitting him.

Not the kind of permission that goes hand-in-hand with consent. The kind of permission that comes with ownership. Possessiveness and claims.

Owen’s been a man his whole life. And as far as his role as a Christian man goes, he’s supposed to command. He should probably take offense to the way you look at him half the damn time, like you’re the leader and he’s the follower. But he likes it.

So he leans in again, nose brushing your own as he kisses you a second time.

This one is different. It’s not hesitant. It’s not unsure. It’s deep and claiming, and it comes from the part of him that’s tired of resisting.

He’s sure now.

Sure, that this was meant to happen. That God works in mysterious ways, and that he was supposed to sin before he found his salvation. That maybe grace doesn’t come to the clean, but to the desperate.

Your fingers curl into the damp fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and he lets you—let's you take the lead again, let's you teach him a new kind of prayer.

Salvation turns into surrender when you pull away long enough to open your front door.

Surrender turns into corruption when you push him against the wall and kiss him like you’re suffocating to death, and he’s oxygen.

His hands are big, but careful on your waist, pulling you in but not too hard. Then you bite down on his lip hard enough to make him gasp, and all rational thought goes out the window.

He grabs you harder now, calloused hands squeezing your hips as he kisses you harder than he’s ever kissed anyone else before.

You’re both soaking wet, water dripping off your clothes and onto your clean hardwood floors as you gasp and groan into each other’s mouths.

He spins you around before he can think about it, hand resting on the back of your head to prevent it from slamming into the wall. He’d apologize if he wasn’t so focused.

His kisses move away from your mouth, starting at your jaw and trailing down your neck. He’s not even conscious of what he’s doing as he sinks lower, lower, then lower. Then he’s kneeling.

His kisses move down your throat, your collarbone, kissing the middle of your chest through your dress until he’s level with your stomach.

He glances up at you– not for permission or consent. But for you to assure him that he’s doing what you want him to do.

You nod once, still catching your breath as you reach down and push his hair back with one pretty hand.

He continues to mouth at your stomach, one hand wrapping around your calf while the other finds your shoe. He slips one off, then the other.

He lets out a ragged breath, closing his eyes for a moment as he presses his forehead against your abdomen.

The soft thud of your shoes hitting the floor is barely audible over the sound of the rain still hammering the roof. The storm hasn’t let up, and neither has he.

His hands trail up your thighs now, fingers ghosting along the back of them as if he’s memorizing the way they fit into his hands.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” He rasps quietly.

You don’t. You won’t.

Instead, you tilt his chin up with your hand and say, firm and quiet, “Don’t make me ask for it.”

It unravels something in him.

He doesn’t answer. Just grips your hips like a man possessed and leans in, letting devotion take the shape of his mouth as he dives underneath the hem of your dress.

He mouths at you through your panties, a wicked smile spreading across his lips as you shudder. He could do this all night– just suck and kiss at your clothed heat for hours.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches up, yanking your panties off with one rough finger. His mouth doesn’t pause. He doesn’t stop and gaze upon you to appreciate your form or the way you’re already dripping for him.

His worship is shown through the way he immediately latches onto you with his lips, rough kisses and licks along your slit and your hood.

You squirm and he responds, balling up the hem of your dress and pinning it to your hip. Just so you can see him– just so you can see what you do to him.

The sounds he makes, the way he looks, the whole scene is completely and utterly… filthy.

You suddenly grab his hair and yank him back, palm pressing down on his forehead as he cranes his neck to look up at you. He fucking whines.

“Open your mouth.”

He’s confused. But he doesn’t show it. He listens, opening his mouth with a soft exhale through his nose.

Your hand moves from his hair to his jaw, opening it just a little wider. Your thumb presses down on his tongue and then–

You spit in his mouth.

“Fuck…”He hisses, eyes falling shut as he tries to decide whether or not he should laugh or groan.

He realizes all at once– He was never in control. He was never going to fix you or make you some saint.

You were always going to ruin him.

And he wants you to.

You pull him back toward you, and he latches onto you like a magnet, lips wrapping around your clit so that he can suckle on it. He’s not even looking at you. He’s in the moment, eyes closed as he licks, sucks, and kisses at your mound.

When he suddenly slips a finger inside, you jolt, and he grins evilly. Sneaky little bastard.

He finally looks up at you when your knees start to buckle, and you whine enough to grab his attention. He moves one of your legs over his shoulder, steadying you and pulling you closer with a rough hand.

He curls his finger, and you moan.

He decides he needs to hear that sound once a day from this point forward.

Owen’s never been a giver. He’s always taken, preferring to be on the receiving end of things like head. But it feels different with you– like he wouldn’t want you to scuff up your pretty knees or gag too hard on him.

He had no intentions of making you come when he got on his knees– he was just trying to get you ready.

But suddenly, he’s eating you like a man starved, adding a second finger just to hear you whimper. He finds that gushy spot that makes your eyes roll back and he laughs– the sound rumbling and electric against your cunt.

“Owen–”

You sputter, but he doesn’t let up.

And when you come? He keeps going, holding you up with his hands as he continues to lick and suck at you until you’re pushing him away weakly.

He stands up after a moment, hands on your hips as he pulls you into his arms. He lifts you carefully, kissing your neck while your head lolls onto his shoulder. He makes sure your legs are around him and you’re secure before he starts walking.

“Where’s your room?” He asks between gentle kisses, one of his hands gently rubbing your shoulder blade to bring you back to Earth.

“First room on the left.” You grumble out, and it’s enough to make him chuckle again.

You barely register your back hitting the bed when he finds your room. You make out the sound of him fiddling with his belt, before he’s patting you on the cheek.

“Still with me?”

You nod once, and he snickers.

“Need some verbal confirmation.”

“M’fine.” You manage to say, still catching your breath from your first orgasm. Your vision starts to focus again, and you glance down, very aware of the way he’s holding his cock in one hand.

“Jesus Christ, Owen.”

“Don’t bring him up right now.”

You sit up slowly, laughing breathily at his joke that isn’t a joke. You reach out, hand hovering over his own. You glance up for permission, and he nods once.

You run your thumb over his tip, gleaming at the way he shudders and lets out a soft grunt at the sensation. He moves his hand out of the way so you can stroke him a few times. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth while your hand works on him.

“Can I… Mnh… Have you now?”

The words seem to have stronger implications than this moment.

You run your free hand over his chest, which was once covered by the shirt that mysteriously disappeared between your front door and your bedroom. You smile, dragging him into another deep kiss.

“You could’ve had me ages ago.”

He’s on you like bees on sweet after that, kissing you harder as he presses you back against your mattress. He pulls your dress off of you, sliding it off your shoulders and down your hips with a little help from you.

He finds your gaze as he lines himself up with your entrance, triple checking that this is what you want before he sinks inside– slowly.

He’s a fair length, enough to reach those spots that’ll make you see stars. But the most impressive thing about him is how thick he is– thick enough to make you let out a little “oh!” when he starts to push in.

You cling to him, and he clings right back, pressing soft kisses to your cheek to keep you in the moment.

“S’okay, almost there. Just hold on…”

When he finally bottoms out, you groan in unison, loud enough to make each other laugh.

There’s a beat where you both pause and take each other in, and Owen smiles. Not that crooked smile he wears when he’s being a tease or a flirt, not that smile he wears when someone pats him on the back at church or tells him how good of a youth pastor he is.

A real smile.

“You’re beautiful.”

He hides his face against your neck, pressing soft kisses along your skin as he starts to move. It’s gentle– it’s slow. Something you weren’t expecting from a man like him.

When he finally gets you to moan softly, he smiles again, reaching down to hook one of your legs over his hip. He starts to move a little faster, tilting his hips and pushing in different ways to see what makes you make the most sound.

You whine when he thrusts a little deeper, and he chuckles– sucking a spot into your neck when your nails dig into his back.

“Right there?” He whispers, and you nod twice, a little too enthusiastically for your liking.

He hits the same spot again, and again, and again– until you’re squirming and panting.

Then he speeds up, low grunts and groans tumbling from his lips as he whispers soft praises into your skin.

“S’good… so good… It’s okay, angel… doing s’good…”

When you start to get quiet again, biting down on your lip to muffle your moans, he reaches down inbetween you to find your clit.

“Mnh..”

He fights back a chuckle as he starts to rub you in tight circles, enjoying the way you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into another deep kiss.

“C-close.” You whisper, and he groans against your lips. He makes a point to press his forehead against your shoulder, puffing out rough huffs and desperate sounds as he starts to thrust harder again.

You would cringe at the sound of skin on skin echoing in your room if it didn’t feel so good.

Five more quick thrusts and you're coming on his cock like there’s no tomorrow. You clench, and he gasps, his fingertips digging into your thigh as he bites down on your shoulder.

“Fuck, baby–” He starts to pull out completely and you whine at him, yanking him loser as you chase the remainder of your high. His hips start to stutter, and before he knows it, he’s spilling into you without much control.

He groans loudly near your ear, melting into you as you both pant and ride out the rest of your orgasms.

After a few minutes, he lets out a soft huff against your chest.

“Please tell me you’re on birth control.” You laugh at the grumble, reaching down to card your fingers through his hair.

“We’re fine.” You whisper, and he deflates even more with relief.

Owen presses a soft kiss to the center of your chest, sitting up with a sound of discomfort as he starts to pull out. You whine in return, and he shushes you with a soft kiss to your forehead.

“Owen, don’t make a mess, please…”

He’s laughing before he can help it, grabbing his underwear off the edge of the bed and using them to gently wipe the cum that’s leaking out of you.

“Sorry, sorry…”

He whispers, balling up his underwear and tossing them toward the corner of your room. He lies back down on top of you once he’s done, cupping your cheek as he pulls you into a soft kiss. Several more follow, and he doesn’t stop until you swat him off your mouth.

You both bask in the afterglow for a while, sharing gentle pecks and praises as you snuggle up and drift off here and there. Your room feels warmer than it usually does, like Owen has brought something a lot more stable and comforting into your home.

After a while, Owen speaks again.

“Can I take you on a date?” He whispers so quietly, you almost miss it.

You glance down at where he’s got his face smushed against your stomach, and you laugh.

“Yeah. Yeah, you can.”

And he smiles.

#owen taylor #owen taylor x reader #owen taylor x you #the starling girl #lewis pullman fanfic #owen taylor smut #smut

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strungnews · 2 months ago

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Mark peels his eyes open when he hears the chime of his phone. He’d ignore it if it were anyone else, his beauty sleep too precious for anyone’s demands at this hour, no exception.

Except one, that is.

He personalized his text notification for you, just because, he reasoned. You’d text him late at night, this was no different. You loved showing him all kinds of curious stuff he never knew existed. Usually it was pretty lively, or quiet.

But came another ping, quickly followed by another, then it went quiet.

That was less than usual. Odd.

He opens it up, lockscreen practically blinding his eyes while he tries to decipher what you’re texting. It’s punctual, direct, just your usual self.

Mark. Do you have any glue that can stick anything together.

Its important.

Odd, eery, okay.

At this hour?

What for?

. . .

No reply. The bubbles on the screen disappears, left on seen.

Okay. He needs to check up on you, right now.

“Please don’t do anything stupid.” He mutters under his breath, quickly flying over to you like a bullet to the head.

Your blinds are closed, typically. Lights are open, dim, no shadow casts near the window the closer he goes, the latch isn’t locked. Concerning.

“Hello?” He softly calls out. If this was really an emergency, him calling out to you would most likely be the cause of your death. And he wouldn’t know whether or not to laugh or grimace at that when he’s standing by the headstone of your grave. Who needs some strong ass glue for a scenario like that?

“Im just gonna let myself in…” Its the smell that hits his nose first when he slides it up, like fixing his busted nose by snapping it back into place, he can take a deep breath again. Everything is so strong, so pungent, so headache inducing.

“Why does it smell like rugby in here?” He groans, pinching his nose. It’s so quiet in here.

Usually the soft whirrs of your dingy fan was enough to be white noise, or the sound of your phone playing music faintly by the bed. But nothing, just dead silence and that familiar beat of a heart.

Mark softly calls you out, his socked feet thudding lightly on your floor. Your back’s to him, and he watches as you just eye at something by your feet.

Your favorite umbrella. It was those old fashioned ones, popular in the 1960’s since people raved about a lot of things that essentially made little to no impact back then. Now its handle has been broken and separated, the pungent glue is lathered lazily and hastily, like a doctor trying to revive a patient on the spot.

So much supplies are scattered just at the side, he guesses it was your quick panicky feeling at trying to salvage this.

Mark bought it for you at some antique shop, since you wouldn’t stop eyeing it whenever you’d coincidentally pass by the same row at the place. 100 percent from japan, the tag and the lady at the counter said so!

You paraded that thing around when you first got it, yet hesitant to even use it when you’d actually go out.

‘What if someone steals it?’ ‘What if I forget about it and I cant find it anymore?’ You’d complain, as if you weren’t opening up the thing in your room. Just sitting under it while you typed away like there was a storm inside the place. It was cute.

“Oh, man.” Immediately, he sits next to you and drapes an arm while squeezing at your shoulder.. Enough to let you lean in if you wanted, and enough room to pull away. An option in case you were ever overwhelmed.

Its a bit hard to gauge your expression and emotions in this state. You’re kind of just staring at it with a blank face, eyes while tracing over it like you’re committing it to memory, before blinking it away. Repeating the process.

“Im upset.” You finally say. Your tone doesn’t indicate you’re as upset as he’s thought you’d be. Just like a disappointed sigh kind of upset, the one he’d get from his mom whenever she caught him lazying a second too long.

“I really liked that umbrella.”

“I know.” He leans further onto you when you do first. You both sit there, watching the broken handle of the umbrella and its body just to the side. Like a wielder’s sword put to rest. Boxed and put in a glass in admiration, the rough patches and jaggedness a story of its history, of its past.

“I think Paul could help with this.”

“You think so?”

“He’s a man of many tricks, trust me.” Mark starts to rock the both of you lightly, your body now fully leaning onto him.

“Really now? I think your mom would know more about that than him honestly.” You two giggle, tracing spiraling patterns on his knee.

“Im so telling mom that.”

—

It seemed no glue would be enough to fix that crack in your umbrella shaped heart. It got fixed, of course. But the fear of it breaking even more doubled by the time you’d received it back in one rather than two.

Paul helped install a small hook to attach it at the wall of your room, presented in all its yellow glory.

Mark shortly surprises you by taking you to the same antique shop, this time they were on sale!

“It was like it was meant to be.” You said, pushing the door as the bell above jingles.

“You breaking your umbrella?” That earned a heavy yet light hearted smack on his shoulder. Too early.

It wasn’t all that hard to look for a substitute, the bright yet soft color of green had already caught your eye the moment you started looking, and he thinks there was no changing your mind.

“Look Mark! It even has a crocodile for a handle!” You beamed, brighter than that old umbrella of yours, brighter than the screen of his phone at a late night.

Man, that’ll never get old.

A/n: im so sad (?) that the handle my umbrella broke because i was too busy chasing away the ants in my room and i stepped on it sob. Here it currently lies on my floor still broken and in disrepair

#News report!#mark grayson #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x you #mark grayson invincible #mark grayson invincible x reader #im coping #i promise

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fazedlight · 1 year ago

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Supergirl the show poses a question: Who is the real Kara?

Kara Zor-El, Kara Danvers, Supergirl. Who's the mask?

In the beginning, Kara doesn't even know. In the aftermath of Krypton's and Kenny's deaths, she did everything she could to appear as normal as possible - there was little room for her own innate traits to shine through when she was being as nondescript and people-pleasing as possible.

But that's not who Kara is.

We get the first glimpse of who Kara really is during Flight 237.

This is not about her being Supergirl or her powers (though both are relevant). Kara has suppressed herself for over a decade. She's not going to make waves - until she has to. Our first real insight into who Kara is now is as a devoted sister. It wasn't until Alex's life was at risk that Kara started breaking out of her shell (and then there was no holding back).

Our protagonist is a mid-20s adult - this isn't a coming-of-age story in the traditional sense. But it is a story of finding oneself and what it takes to get there.

And it starts with defending found family after a lifetime of loss.

So Kara creates the Supergirl persona. I think the cape is a crutch.

People say "a crutch" like it's a bad thing. But crutches are actually pretty fucking useful. They support you when you need it, whether it be short-term or long-term. They help you get around when you otherwise may not be able to.

Kara was deeply traumatized by losing everyone and everything she ever knew, being thrown into a world that overwhelmed her senses and made even her most casual movements into dangerous ones, and was told she needed to suppress everything - who she used to be, what she was going through now - to survive.

To find herself again, maybe she'd need a tool to get past what she had been through! The cape became that tool. She was able to unbury the heritage she had been hiding, she was able to embrace the powers that had burdened her, she was able to find her own bravery (and reactivity, she's got flaws in there too).

Keep in mind, in the scene above, Kara isn't "human for a day". Kara is powerless... just like she spent the first 13 years of her life. Her bravery isn't about her powers or Supergirl; they just help her get started.

That's not where her growth ends.

Kara's instincts for helping people start getting unburied in season 1, and she is excited to tag along someone else's quest to figure out where future threats may lie, or figure out how she can use her powers in service to the DEO.

But it's not until this moment that she realizes that Kara Danvers can be more, too. Lena unintentionally launches Kara's career - a second pathway for Kara's desire to help people, growing into a passion she is going to pursue (even if she gets fired). Her worth is no longer just about her sun-granted powers or being Superman's "younger" cousin.

In season 4, we even see her realization that Kara Danvers can be more powerful than Supergirl, because some fights can't be won by fists. That's a real discovery for herself.

Which I think, looking back, might becoming especially baffling for her... because Kara Danvers was originally an identity imposed on her when she needed to hide.

It's important to note that, while Kara Danvers was originally a facade that Kara gets at thirteen, she doesn't stay a facade - even in the suppression era.

We don't see enough of who Kara is when she's on Earth, left to her own devices. But we see glimpses - we know she likes baking (and we know we shouldn't try what she makes), we know she paints, we know she listens to NSync and Britney Spears. She's a goofball (even when she puts on the cape). Kara Danvers starts as a facade, but becomes a vehicle for Kara to continue developing her personality, now in her new context.

Would she have the same interests on Krypton? Maybe some and not others, maybe some new ones that don't exist on Earth. We're all products of our environments, after all. Her interests as Kara Danvers aren't necessarily fake just because they're different than what she expected.

Though she'll never know who she would've become on Krypton.

Which brings us to Kara Zor-El - the identity that is frozen.

Most people aren't the same person as an adult that they were as a child. Interests, tastes, personality, world outlook, philosophy - all of these shift over time, sometimes dramatically.

Parts of her are going to be deeply rooted in Krypton, and she's going to have ties to a culture that no one else on Earth has. It's not an aspect of herself that she can erase. But it's also not an aspect of herself that was able to develop for the remainder of her childhood and early adulthood.

She, like all of us, was destined to lose pieces of herself. But some of her loss was very sudden, and the pieces she lost probably weren't going to be the same on Krypton. Of course, she has no way to know.

And I think that frustrates her.

I guess my answer to "Who is Kara?" is that the three personalities clash with and harmonize with each other. None of them are truly her. All of them inform who she is.

There's a young Kara Zor-El as her root that was torn from the ground before she could ever grow.

There's a Kara Danvers who formed the bulk of her life - a mask that was given to her, the only vehicle for her personality, who ultimately became someone she could embrace as worthwhile in her own right.

There's a Supergirl who distinctly separates from those around her, but lets her move past her numbness and reclaim her heritage.

And it's that clash that makes her a particularly compelling character.

Maybe that's a cheating answer to the original question.

But there's still a missing piece to the puzzle - because it's not just about Who is Kara? but also about Who does Kara want to be?

I think Supergirl is something that could fade if needed. If Kara lost her powers, she would find a new normal, so long as she was able to pursue her desire to help the world in some capacity.

But the truth of her is somewhere between Kara Danvers and Kara Zor-El. The truth of her is in what Supergirl allowed her to unbury, even if not directly tied to Supergirl herself. But Danvers and Zor-El are burdens, in a way. Lena is one of the few people who sees the person in between, who understands Kara on her own terms. Which is why Kara is terrified of Lena's rejection.

I think it's one of the most telling lines in the show - to be just Kara is to be free of her own baggage, to be able to embrace herself despite the pain in her history. Something I think we all want, that is never entirely possible.

But the pursuit is still a worthwhile one.

#kara danvers #supergirl #character study #headcanon #longpost #mel stuff #sg musings

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sunnie-angel · 11 months ago

Text

Nothing Fucks With My Baby (Part 2)

link to part 1

jason todd x f!reader

summary: jason has always feared he’d be the monster of his life. what he doesn’t realize is that between the two of you, you will always be the bigger monster, and you will love him anyway.

tags: violence, murder, implied child abuse, manipulation, implied sexual content

rating: mature | wc: 5.8k

a/n: this plot bunny took over my brain and wouldn’t let me go until i’d finished it. reader’s pov can get pretty twisted, so please mind the tags on this one and let me know if i’ve missed any.

Lucy Nesbit dies remarkably young. Only eight years old and she had drowned in a stormwater overflow. Poor thing, the adults had all said. Should have minded her step better, shouldn’t have been playing in dangerous places. The school had held a week of mourning. A tragedy. It hadn’t taken much effort to kill her. A sharp shove, then kneeling on her back until the bubbles stopped, and suddenly there went Lucy. Stones thrown at recess, scissors searching for your hair, harsh names and turned backs all stopped with just a few moments of effort.

The killing of Lucy Nesbit is likely the most important lesson you learned from that school. No one at the foster home had noticed you come home soaking wet, blood on the tip of your shoe. No one had asked you any questions when you didn’t gasp with the rest of your class as the principal announced the death of poor little Lucy, gone too soon. Nobody had noticed that you had been the one to make the world a less scary place. It is a lesson you keep close to you.

Only Jason Todd had noticed anything different at all. Found you in the corner of the yard staring down at the pavement during recess. Tucked his hands and looked up at the sky, squinted.

“Don’t need me to look out for you anymore,” he sighs. Nudges your shoulder with his and says “Lucy won’t be pickin’ on you again.” He’s right, of course. She won’t be doing anything important really.

“Sometimes I wished she’d die so they’d leave me alone,” you whisper. “‘Cause it was bad when you were there but when she’d wait for you to leave it was always worse. Does that mean I’m a bad person?” It’s a thought that’s crossed your mind before. Is there something so wrong, so terrible about you that the well-fed well-heeled could just look at you and know there was something awful about you? The same thing that led to getting left behind, bullied, belittled. Had Lucy Nesbit taken one look at you and known you were something to be destroyed?

“Nah. You’re my best friend and I wouldn’t be best friends with anyone bad.” He grins at you, front left tooth still missing from where you’d helped him pull it out three weeks ago. The bell rings, shrill and discordant, signaling the end of recess.

It’s only years later that you understand the tremble of her lips and the wobble of her chin before she would call you names, dig her nails into the meat of your arm, lead the other girls in pretending you didn’t exist. Lovely Lucy Nesbit, sweet cheeked with glossy curls, had been afraid. She should have been. The new girl who’d only moved to the Alley recently after her father’s embezzlement conviction, oh she should have been afraid of the children chewing her up and spitting her out like a rotten peach. Instead, she chose someone else to make afraid. The little girl with only one friend and no one waiting for her at home. All of that glitz and Diamond District shine wasn’t enough to bury the ugly truth of Lucy.

Jason Todd dies at 11 years old. He dies at the hand of the Batman, Gotham’s own protector.

Three weeks after Catherine had died and two weeks after he stopped showing up to school, Jason shows up at your foster home. More particularly, at the window of the bathroom you’re currently hiding in. The knocking startles you, hands coming away from where they’d been pressed to your ears to block out the fighting. He grins and waves at you through the window, suspicious smears across his nose and temple. You have to stand on the very tips of your toes to push open the latch but you manage it. He presses his face to the bars, hands wrapping around the solid metal.

“Jason?” you ask, tone tinged with wonder. “What are you doing here?”

“Jus’ wanted to tell you I’m okay.” Something smashes within the house and the voices raise. “Couldn’t stick around for long after the funer— after. Didn’t wanna stick around to see if they’d stick me in a place like this.”

“But what are you going to do? Where do you live?”

“Found an empty building that’s pretty warm. Sometimes I find stuff and Mr. Baker at the garage buys ‘em from me so I can buy loads of snacks. You know—” there’s a loud pounding on the bathroom door, staccato sharp, that causes you both to jump. One of the older foster kids yells at you to hurry the fuck up, then slams on the door again for good measure. In a hurried whisper, Jason continues “You know the old building across the park with the purple window sills? Come find me there.”

The night Jason Todd dies, you’d managed to sneak out again. Knew from previous trips the best way to get to the old house was to go out the back and use the garbage bins to boost over the fence. Jason’s not there when you let yourself in, hands careful to put the loose board back exactly the same. He does this sometimes. ‘Finds’ things to sell to Mr. Baker so he can come back with candy from the bodega to share with you. You settle yourself in to wait in the blanket you’d snuck out for him when there’s a noise from the lane behind the house. Clutching the scratchy blanket closer to you, you feel your way through the dark, breath held in your chest like a treasure. The slats nailed over the painted window sills have just enough of a gap that you can see between them without being seen yourself. What you see out in the night causes you to grip the old wood until splinters dig into your palms.

The Bat holds Jason in his grip even as he struggles, even as he swears. Jason’s angry, snarling face is nothing like his smiles for you. The Bat shakes him as Jason tries to twirl out of his grip, head lolling like a doll’s. Jason goes limp as he is bundled into the looming machine parked down the lane. The last thing you see of him is his eyes, wide and fearful.

Jason Wayne puppets the body of your friend for years after. He is not the boy that stood between you and Lucy Nesbit and matched her stone for stone. This Jason Wayne smiles for pictures without baring his teeth as a warning. He doesn’t remember cruel words or the way the world works. He doesn’t remember the lessons and the secrets the two of you had passed between you. No, this Jason Wayne doesn’t remember you at all. The only explanation is that your friend is dead. The fine sweet thing with his round cheeks and charming school uniform you only glimpse in the paparazzi photos printed in gossip rags half-melted into garbage heaps is not your friend. Just another leech of the city with pretty powder and paint, fattened on too much while there exists too little.

You get the news that Jason Wayne has died while at your third foster home since the one Jason had found you in. You find out the same way everyone else in Gotham does, the public broadcast of Bruce Wayne’s press conference. It steals the breath from you, the anger that slams into you. Heat surges through you and it is all you can do to uncurl your fingers from their fists. It hadn’t escaped you that four months after Jason Todd died there was a new Robin in town. That this Robin had a gaped tooth grin that would make even the dull mourning for a girl you hated seem bearable. The red rimmed eyes of Bruce Wayne on the staticky screen of the common room television confirms what you already know: Bruce Wayne is the Bat and he has killed your friend twice over.

Screaming into your pillow that night, your understanding of how the city works crystallizes. The Bat does not protect you, does not make your city better. He takes and he takes until there is nothing left for you. He throws out in a week food that would sustain you for a month, drops money on batted eyelashes and shiny new toys for him to destroy more of the city with. He is not the saviour some people say he is. He will not save you.

You are the Alley girl with the strange knobbly knees and the eyes that see too much. You will save yourself. You will keep your lessons about the ways the world works and what it takes to change them close to your heart.

The City of Gotham is never short of two things: crime and government money to prosecute it. Certifying as a court stenographer isn’t cheap, not with juggling your ejection from the foster system at 18 and having no funds to speak of. Second and third jobs keep you afloat until the scholarships and grants kick in. But by 20 your future is secured, government pension squirreling away into your accounts. You even manage to buy the house with the purple windows. It goes for a song on account of the murder that took place there all those years ago, but brand new flooring takes care of the more suspicious stains. It should be enough, to have saved yourself. It isn’t.

Every day you go to work and dutifully take down every damning word said. You record the lies and the horrors and the not guilty verdicts and every word you transcribe breaks your faith a little more. You have not saved yourself. The world has not changed, you aren’t any safer than you were at 13 and scared that the drunk man calling out crude words might actually carry them out on your walk home. No safety exists save for the pretty little lie you had painted for yourself. The only thing that has changed is that you are not scrabbling in the dirt.

Somewhere along the way, in the mess of bureaucratic paperwork that had become your life, you had forgotten the lessons you were meant to remember. Forgetting had not served you well. It takes a drunken night out gone badly to force you to remember.

A coworker pressures you to come out with the rest of the stenographers, a newly opened bar just close enough to the edge of the Alley to give the old money blood suckers the illusion of danger. The dance floor is crowded but you choose to stay hunched over your drink, wary of this glittering crowd. A man sidles up to you, rests his forearm against yours and offers you a smile that reeks of Texas oil wells and Manhattan construction firms. You look him in the eye as he fumbles through some pickup lines, nearly sick with the realization that he doesn’t recognize you. DUI, ran through a school crosswalk at the end of the school day, one child dead and two permanently disfigured. Got off with community service and a hefty donation. He wants to fuck you.

The police find him behind the bar the next morning, throat slashed and wallet missing, and chalk it up to a mugging gone wrong. He should have known better than to go flashing so much cash so close to where criminals live, the news anchors tut. Unable to withstand the scandal, the bar closes. You savour the top shelf whiskey bottle you’d bought at their closing, the same one he’d tried to buy you and drug you with, and attribute the glow in your belly to having done a good thing. His driver’s license finds a home under your living room floorboards.

The Red Hood arrives and the Alley almost seems to reverberate with the shockwaves. Still, pretty young things with a hankering for a bit of rough to tell all their friends about with champagne glasses in their hands and haughty titters wind up dead. You don’t recognize all of them from work, some of them you simply want power over. To reveal to these silver spoon fed creatures exactly how fragile their influence is. Disposing of them does not save you, but it makes you feel safe to know that the world does not turn solely around those shiny, fragile things. You are careful and you are not caught.

At the courthouse, you watch the aftermath of the Hood’s vendettas play out. Chat about cases with your coworkers between trials just to get a feel for what his game is. He’s an unknown to most of them, but not to you. You look at how the number of drug convictions of minors plummet this quarter, watch at how fewer pimps get brought in for killing their girls, note the way gang violence reduces down to just the Hood’s own orders and you understand. Whoever the Hood is, whatever he is, he knows the same lessons engraved on your heart. That the world is not safe unless you make it, and that the world doesn’t care what methods it takes to get it done.

Your first run in with Gotham’s newest crime lord isn’t planned. Quite specifically, you had never intended to make your way onto his radar at all. He had different plans, however. Taking out the garbage, you all but trip over his feet one late night. He’s slumped against your fence with one hand pressed against his neck. Blood dribbles between his fingers, dark under the fluorescent burn of the street lights.

The gun pointing at your head does not dissuade you from attempting to push him into a standing position.

“If you wanted to die in my yard, the least you could have done is climbed in through the back,” you say, voice measured and cold. “I’m not letting you bleed out in my front yard and make me a target for whoever carved you that second smile.” That jolts a reaction out of him, gun wavering from it’s unerring focus on your face. “So what we’re going to do is get you out of the open and then I’m going to call whoever you want to come stitch you up.”

A man of his size dwarfs the chair set in your kitchen but he will not be moved from his vantage point. Defensive, back to the wall and all entrances in sight. The wound still bleeds sluggishly. Determined not to have this man die in your kitchen, not when he’s actually out there doing some good in the world, you lay out your first aid kit and go for his throat. The gun jamming into the side of your ribs immediately lets you know just how badly you’ve not thought this idea out.

“You’re still bleeding, pretty badly too. I just want to take a look to see if I can patch you up long enough until whoever gets here can do something.”

The moment draws out, neither of you saying anything. With every breath you can feel the muzzle of the gun dig into you further. Something must read as sincere on your face, not that you’d ever be able to name what it was, and he reaches up for his helmet. Pushes a button at the nape of his neck to release it, before deliberately placing it on the kitchen table one handed. He smiles at you with bloodied teeth and, oh, that’s your boy.

“Well,” he rasps, “get to it.”

At that exact moment you press down with gauze, forcing a grunt out of him. Good. Jason’s scared you enough for a single lifetime. Trying to secure the gauze with medical tape and spite, you’re forced to lean into him until the feverish glow of his skin warms your own.

“Not afraid ‘m gonna bite?”

“I know you’re not going to hurt me because you’re my best friend and I wouldn’t be friends with a bad person.” Leaning back, you inspect your work. Shoddy, but it’ll do until someone actually medically trained can stitch him up. Finally, you let yourself actually look at him. Behind the domino mask you’d swear there’s slack jawed wonder. A brusque knock at the back door interrupts the moment and then great big hulking men are carrying Jason away. You know he’ll be back.

The next time you run into the man who might be Jason, you are tripping out of a bar on the arm of your next pretty bright thing, too whiskey-headed to tell that you’re nowhere near as disoriented as you should be after what you’d knocked back. He knocks over a homeless man’s collection bowl and snickers when the coins get knocked down a grate. Grabbing your wrist, he tugs, pulls you into the side alley and tries to pin you behind the dumpster. The broken bottle shard is already in your hand when the man drops down dead. A neat hole in his head sending droplets all over your blouse. There’s no way dry cleaning will save it. The Red Hood steps into sight, gun muzzle lowered. And just like that, Jason Todd — not Jason Wayne — is back from the dead.

Jason kisses you sweetly for the first time after he drives you home from the traveling fair that had set up on the outskirts of the city. The feeling of his lips — soft, chapped, heartbreakingly gentle — slots something broken back into the hollow between your ribs. He kisses you and the axis of your world shifts. He kisses you, and you know that he will look at you like you are everything good and kind that you pretend to be if only you will love him back. The tender thing in your chest growing claws, fanning hunger into conflagration. Loving him will save you both.

He pulls back and you let him. Look up at him from below mascara-lengthened lashes and allow yourself a smile. Fiddle with the hem of your dress and tell him haltingly just how much you’d enjoyed the evening and how excited you were to do this again. Jason’s declared himself as yours for the taking and you will not let him slip through your greedy fingers.

You let Jason court you. Accept the flowers he brings to your door with quiet murmurs of appreciation. Wear soft dresses that invite him to touch but are just enough out of season for the weather so he’ll wrap his own jacket around you. Send him off to patrol with packets of his favourite candies tucked into his jacket pockets and laugh with him over the meals he cooks for you in the same kitchen he had nearly bled out in. You would have done most of these things for him anyway, but now they are your weapons. Each action meant to pierce another hook into his heart until he is as unable to leave you behind as you could him. You will never believe the world is safe without him in it.

The number of Gotham’s most elite reprobates coming to unfortunate ends zeroes out. You’ve got the prettiest up and comer on your arm these days, with his many scars and fearsome attitude. Jason in his many forms makes the world a better place, makes you safer with every bullet lodged in a skull. He is not the same boy that yelled at Lucy Nesbit for you or split a chocolate bar with you in an abandoned house. The cracks show through. Violence drips out of his every pore despite his hand wringing to you late at night. You are his confessor and absolve him of any sin. A fangless creature is useless to you, though you would grudgingly love it nonetheless.

The first time Jason sleeps with you, you engineer it, encourage it. Why? Because it ties him to you. Binds him through sweat and flesh in a way that nothing else but the kiss of death can. Lean in and wrap your arms low around his stomach as he drives you home on his motorcycle. Linger in his good night kiss before inviting him in to see how the flowers he gave you are doing. Sweep your hair away from your neck as you bend down to place his mug of tea on the rickety coffee table. You close your eyes and smile where he can’t see at the feeling of warm lips pressed to your spine.

It’s slow. It’s sweet. You’ve never felt like a more precious thing than in his arms. He looks at you like you’ve hung the moon in the sky and set the sun to burning. You kiss his scars and tell him to give you his stories when he’s ready. One day there will be nothing you don’t know about him. If Jason wasn’t in love with you before tonight, he is now.

You are told the tale of Jason’s deaths and rebirths only once, but it is enough to open up the yawning chasm of fear under you again. The world is not safe, not for Jason, not for you, not when so many of your enemies still walk this side of the grave. Gotham is safer after the Red Hood. Jason is still in as much danger as he ever was. The horror, the possibility that he could be cut down — by Falcone, by Sionis, by the Joker, by the Bat — it shakes you to your core. You want to scream, to rage. What you do instead is kiss Jason on the forehead and let him go to pieces in your arms.

Jason always says you bring out the best in him. If that is true, then he brings out the darkest parts of you. The parts that twist and grow cold until you see the world as sets of acceptable losses for acceptable benefits. In your eyes, any loss is acceptable for Jason’s sake. He becomes lighter after the revelation, no more secrets between you he says. Accepts your heartbreak on his behalf with teary eyes and a wry smile. The day he tells you that Bruce — his father, the Bat — had been the one to carve him open the time he’d turned up in your garden is the day he becomes wholly yours.

“Jason, Jason he shouldn’t have done that to you,” you say gently, cupping his wet cheeks in your palms. He won’t look you in the eyes.

“He was— he was lookin’ at me like I was the monster, like my murderer wasn’t standing there too,” he confesses. “I just wanted him to love me like when I was a kid.” He shatters. “I just wanted to feel safe again.”

“Oh honey,” you coo, shears tucked into your hand. “I love you, and you’re no monster to me. You know me, do you think I could love something truly evil? You do so much good, you help so many people and you ask for so little in return,” your gaze is tender, loving. “I’d keep you safe, Jay, if I could. And I’d do it because I love you. Someone that won’t do that, well, it’s no kind of love at all.” You see the blow land, have already calculated its trajectory and velocity.

“I don’t— but he loved me. He loves me,” Jason insists, plaintive and raw voiced. “Doesn’t he?”

“I think he might’ve once. When you were younger, sweeter. But Jason, everything he’s done since then hasn’t been love. If he still loves you, it wouldn’t matter that you came back different, came back changed.” You can feel the last threads of his relationship with the Bat fraying under the blades of your words. It’s time to make the final cut. “Can you really say he loves who you are now?”

Jason asks, once, if you ever thought about kids.

“I thought maybe I’d foster some day. Save some poor kids the same trouble I went through, so that others don’t run off scared like you did.” It’s a lie, of course, but you know it makes him feel better to think of you as anything but selfish. “Not now though, not with the way the world is.” You rest your head on his shoulder, curl your fingers into his shirt. “Besides, the life you lead is dangerous enough. It would be cruel to bring children into our lives right now. Maybe one day, if the world ever becomes a little safer.”

He hums, thoughtfully, and leaves the matter there. But the seed has been planted in the dark corners of his mind and one day they will bear fruit.

The house with the purple window sills is officially only a home to you, but Jason comes round for dinner, to spend the night in your bed so often, that it may as well be his home too. He listens to you talk about your long days at work, the court cases that worm their way under your skin and won’t leave until you purge yourself of them. Really, he’s more horrified than you were at the beginning of this at how badly broken the system is. You give no names, simply the crimes and the sentences, and even those details are too much to bear.

One night you come home from work silent. Red rimmed eyes dry and sightless, you collapse into him. It takes an hour, more if you count the time spent panicking over a hypothetical injury, to coax the story out of you. A snake in the grass of a financial adviser, stolen pensions, and three suicides. All charges dropped. The testimony of crying grandchildren still not enough to make a difference. It is the first time he demands a name from you. It is not the last.

The day your old foster father comes across your judge’s docket is the day the world finally feels less terrifying. He is acquitted, of course. The testimony of trauma victims are notoriously inconsistent after all, if the witness is truly traumatized and not just lying for attention. It hurts to hear his public defender say those things, but it does make what you have planned easier.

The moment Jason comes through the door you are on him. Clinging to him all weak limbs and fought back tears. He holds you gently and strokes your hair.

“I need… I need you to do something for me Jay,” you whisper into his chest.

“Just gotta ask baby.”

“I need you to kill somebody and I need you to let me watch.” He stiffens under you, but you will not lose him here. “D’you remember when you came to find me at the foster home, the one with the yelling?” He nods, presses a kiss to the top of your head. “That foster father walked free today, acquitted and all charges dropped. I need to know he’s not gonna stay that way Jay, that someone cared enough to stop him, or otherwise I’ll go crazy.” He exhales sharply through his nose.

“I’ll take care of him, jus’ like I take care of all those names you give me. But do you hafta be there? Isn’t it enough to just know he’s dead? I don’t wanna drag you down into the dirt with me.”

“You’re not tainting me, honey. You’re freeing me.”

You watch the man die, a slow drawn out thing as he begs for kindness. His pain means nothing to you. Only the final blow, dealt by Jason’s bloodied hands, shifts the burden of memory from you. You stop being afraid of this particular threat. The body is found scattered across the railroad tracks. Police mark it down as a suicide.

This victory is twofold. Your world is a little safer and Jason has killed for you, on your express order and with you as witness. There is no greater high than this, the power that sings through your blood. Jason will reshape the world to keep you safe. Now you will reshape the world for him.

It takes three more months of witnessing his work and not flinching before Jason brings him to you. In the end, it’s really quite simple. You ask for the chance to show Jason how much he is loved, to let you take care of this one thing to keep him safe. He puts up a token fight, insistent on keeping your hands clean of his business, but the two of you know that your hands are far from pristine. The Joker is bound at your feet by the end of the day. A quick drag of your wrist and he is just another thing to be taken out with Saturday’s trash to eventually be illegally dumped in the harbour. Jason sobs in your arms that night.

He is not the boy you’d wished to have returned to you as a child. Jason is not quite the Bat’s son, or the weapon of the League either. He is some half-raised creature of the city’s own design and you love him because of that. You know he does not see you half as clearly as you see him, but you will accept his wonderful naïveté for all the ways it will let you protect him. Protect you by extension. Jason’s trust, his devotion to you, it is everything you’ve ever wanted. It is more than you have ever expected to have. That forgotten little Alley girl, now the centre of someone’s world.

And so you plan. A list of names a mile long of people who make this city worse just by breathing. Kingpins and crime lords and all their networks, culled from your networks and court cases. Heroes and vigilantes who already work tirelessly to hamstring the work the Red Hood does, uncaring of all the lives he’s saved. A list that, when all of the occupants are dead, will mean you are finally safe in a world that belongs to Jason. Convincing Jason, with all of his infinite love for you, to wipe the slate clean of them all is still no easy matter. Instead, you let the Bat make your argument for you.

Another bar, another drunk cell-less jailbird, only this time you know that Jason is waiting in the shadows, that the Bat is in the rafters. The man stumbles, his too shiny shoes catching on the cracks in the pavement. Jason moves to raise his gun and a flicker of metal sends his aim wide. The man on your arm shies at the sound of gunfire but your grip is iron. A body slides between Jason and his prey and you refuse to let this one escape. The pen knife lodges beneath the jaw bone, catches on something and sticks. His death rattle is unsightly but he goes down easy, life slipping away down the sewer grate. A booted step, heavier than Jason’s, causes your head to snap up.

A wraith looms over you and it’s pure terror that sends your stomach into free fall. The Bat turns on you, advances until your back is pressed up against the brick. A gloved hand reaches for you but pulls back like stung when a bullet narrowly misses a finger.

“Last warning. Back. Off.” growls the modulated voice of the Red Hood. He prowls forward, legs eating up the distance. The Bat simply grunts. Back to the wall, you try to inch away, but the feeling of cold metal stops you. The cuff around your wrist cinches shut so tightly you can feel the bones of your wrist grind together. You whimper, high in your throat. Jason’s fist goes crashing into the cowl.

“I said back off!” the Bat catches his next punch, before returning a hit of his own.

“She just killed someone in cold blood, Hood. You’re protecting a murderer.”

“At least she did something, Bruce! D’you even know what that man did? What you let him do to this city?” he screams the last word then headbutts the Bat.

The alley descends into a flurry of blows, bodies colliding with metal and concrete. Neither of them notice you pick yourself up from knees and flee. Home’s not safe, not until Jason tells you. But he’ll come back for you. You’ve gotten so good at waiting for Jason, what’s a few hours more?

He finds you in the safe house he’d made you memorize the address of way back in the infancy of your relationship. Nerves have you sitting in the dark, too afraid that even a light will give you away. It is a cold kind of silence that blankets the small kitchen with its empty cupboards. Dried blood has started to flake off of your skin and you begin to pick at it. For a moment, the repetitive motions distract you until you can’t bear the prickly feeling on your skin anymore. With a clatter you rush to the tap, the trailing handcuff clanging against the metal sink. A stone rolls in your gut and you retch until there is nothing left in it. Everything rests on this. The future rests on this. You lean back and rest your forehead on the cool edge of the sink.

The sound of the window jimmying open causes you to jump, whirling around to face the threat. It’s Jason, only Jason, flailing around in the dark. The streetlights reflect off of his helmet, revealing the cracks in the patina. You launch yourself at him, fingers curling into the collar of his coat. He smells of blood and grime, but beneath it all, warmth. Jason crushes you to him, hand cradling the back of your head with a tenderness that overwhelms you.

“M’sorry I’m late baby,” he murmurs. “Why’s it so dark in here?” Unable to form words, you simply shake your head and press yourself closer. Fear has always dogged you, but never have you gotten so close to the source of it. Jason raises a hand and wraps it reassuringly around your wrist. “Let’s get some light and we’ll get this thing off of you,” he says while stroking a thumb over where the cuff digs into your skin.

You have to stifle a giggle at the absurd parallel to the night he tore back into your life. The two of you sat at a table tending to wounds inflicted by Gotham’s self-titled vengeance, the uncertainty of the future hanging over you. Hands gentler than they’ve ever been, Jason traces over the blooming bruises on your wrist, handcuffs discarded on the table.

“He’s never going to stop chasing me, is he?” you whisper, slow fear poisoning your voice. “He’s never gonna stop trying to take me away from you. Not while I’m alive.” Jason trails his grip to your palm and turns it over, brings it to his lips and places a featherlight kiss on your fourth knuckle.

“No, baby. Not while he’s alive.”

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #jason todd x y/n #jason todd fanfiction #jason todd fic #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood x y/n #red hood fic #sunnie writes 🌻

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jello-library · 8 months ago

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hey so you’re the only person I can find who talked about Euclidean!reader and the original poster disappeared. Do you know anything else because the concept was soooo good but I js cannot find it anymore!

And Now There Just Two

Bill Cipher x Euclidean!GN!Reader

Aww! Thank you! This ask been sitting here for awhile and I do feel bad what happen to the original poster.

I hope I didn’t scare them off or anything 😭 But here some headcanons let me know if y’all want a part 2 out of this!

This brought a bit of comfort after everything that is going on. I hope everyone who’s been affected is safe and I wish everyone the best.💛

TW: Fluff, Angst. Toxic Relationships (Platonic and a bit romantic(?) you’ll see, Bill Cipher he’s a warning on his own. Cussing.

If they’re anything else please let me know so I can tag properly! Thank you!

GIVE IT UP FOR SEPARATION ANXIETY!

Yeah, from both sides but Bill is more secretive about it. He does not want you to be aware of him being vulnerable. But sometimes, he does come to search for you to merely sit in silence and exist.

It's comforting for him…

It doesn't matter how many times you ask why he does this he either avoids it or says that you're just thinking too deeply into it and you should be happy that he's giving you the time of day.

He's a very busy guy you know!

He can be turning someone's skin into sandpaper and their organs into rubber! But instead, he is with you. So be happy!

You two are the only ones left and Euclidea probably had their language. Most conversations are spoken in your mother tongue.

Lots of cultural aspects of Euclidea have been lost to time but there are some things you may still partake in. This is rare because it can get quite depressing for both of you. Bill won't recognize what you're doing at first but, when he does.

It's not pretty…

And we know how Bill copes with things so it's best if you give him some time alone. He will come back when ready and pretend that never happens.

I think anything that has to do with home is bittersweet to him and if this is under the notion that you are not aware of him being the reason that it is gone.

That is a whole new layer of issues to get into.

In this Au, I would like the idea of the reader discovering Ford before Bill and then becoming good friends with him. Promising him knowledge about the multiverses and different realms that exist. They have been alive just as long as Bill so they pick up a thing or two.

The reader and Ford's friendship is genuine. The reader gifts him many different types of moths to Ford, introducing them to anything earth-related.

Ford does well fall for the reader but they have no clue about it. They never allow themselves to experience a relationship or either too shy to enter one.

I mean, have you seen Bill's track record? That man is not a good partner at all! And if I wanted to add more salt to the wound.

Bill having feelings for the reader can be included in this but it would take him so long to want to pursue it because he associates the reader with Euclidea. He wants to leave that in the past but, we know he keeps his home close to his heart.

So when he's accepting his long-term feelings for the reader here's the reader and Ford slowly learning how to love themselves and each other—from late-night talks to the reader telling Ford what happened to their homeworld and why they want him to contact Stanly because you may never know when you're going to lose the people that you love.

And let's just say the reader was making good progress with Ford! Helping him interact with others and trying to get out of his comfort zone bit by bit.

Their relationship was sweet it was kind and gentle. Then Bill came in and ruined all of it.

The moment he did that it made the reader's perception of Bill change for the worst. The reader probably doesn't have a lot of friends outside of him and sticks close to him because of grief and familiarity. The reader most likely looks at Bill with rose-tinted glasses and tries to justify his actions in their head.

So when they meet Ford, they likely want to keep it private and separate from their other life.

So when Bill finds out about Ford and his intelligence, he swoops his right under the reader's nose with an excuse.

"ANY FRIEND OF YOURS IS A FRIEND OF MINE. PLUS I CAN'T HAVE SOME RANDO TAKE MY BEST FRIEND NOW, CAN'T I?"

This leads to them reader and Ford hanging out less and less to the point the reader feels like Ford forgot they exist. Ah, the angst and self-realization around this time for them was like watching a train wreck.

And we know how Bill and Ford's relationship turns out. Let's talk about the reader and fords around his paranoid era.

Ford probably thinks that they are with Bill and this whole taking over the world plan. So when the reader comes to check up on him after the whole O'Sadley incident.

The interaction that happened between them was heartbreaking. They got their answers on what happened between him and Bill and felt like it was their fault this even happening. The reader is desperate to try to fix it so they won't lose Ford but it is too late.

"I-I promise! I didn't mean for this to happen! Ford, please tell me what I need to do to fix this! To Fix us!" It's funny you were holding onto him as much as your little frame could. You gasp and whimper out promises hoping for some forgiveness. Ford can feel himself falter for a moment. He did miss you. He misses the moments you two had shared. He misses your laugh. You were so strange to him before, only to now become someone so comforting to him. Can he trust you again? No. No. No. No. No. No. No! Ford, are you stupid!? Trust them the same person who is friends with him! They probably plan this together! Get you to trust them again then the next thing you know the end of the world is here! And they made you look like an idiot in the process! Ford felt his jaw clench. Looking down at you hugging his chest, he thinks you look utterly ridiculous. You two must need him much if you resort to begging. Pathetic. "You know what I want you to do?" "Yes, please, anything!" You floated away looking at him with hope in your eye(s). Maybe the world not ending after all! "Get away from me and never come back.." and then, your world shatters.

When Bill found you after, you made hell look like a nice family vacation. You barely acknowledge him floating past him toward your room and gently shutting the door.

This type of pain was familiar to you. It felt like you lost your home and your family all over again.

What did you do wrong this time?

Did you not pay enough attention to him? Maybe you should've brought flowers or maybe you should held his hand more. He did like it when you two did that…

You felt like hours so many ifs, so many mistakes, so many should haves. Maybe it is best if you stay away from him. Maybe it was always the best if you stayed away from him. He can't get hurt if you weren't there to ruin his life anymore.

Yeah, that's what you did you ruined his life.

Bill tried cheering you up saying, that Fordsy hurt both of you and how you two should show him what is missing out. Like no one understood him as you two did. Then the camera pans over to the side to see the reader glaring at him like, "Are you serious?"

The urge to wrap their hands around Bill's non-existent neck was strong that day but, they surprised themselves by not doing it as soon as he entered the room.

When Ford fell through the portal and started his journey through the realms the moment the reader found out they were fast to start helping him behind the scenes. From secretly placed supplies to oddly convent weapons or aid whenever they saw he needed it.

When he found out, they bumped into each other in a random dimension. From their appearance alone he could tell they were going through some things. Bangs under their eye(s) and a hoodie that seems to fit their shapely body.

The colors on their body were so dim like life was suck of them. They floated close to the ground to appear smaller than they were. No direct eye contact either.

Ford can feel his finger twitch wanting to reach towards his laser gun. But with that look in their eye(s) he feels like he might not need it. But hey, it isn't bad to be safe right? "Look, I'm not here to cause any trouble. Just came to drop off this and I'll be on my way…" You snap your fingers and an oddly placed item fell in his hands. Wait this is.."How did you know I need this? And most importantly, aren't you supposed to be with Bill!?" He snarls. "One, it may not look like it but I have friends in weird places too you know, and Two no, we're not friends anymore. We never were friends.." He saw how your body color changed to red and your eye(s) seemed to try and imitate a frown. "He lied to me…He lied to me this whole time and I…I just..!" Breath In and Out Breath In…. And Breath Out… You relax the feeling in your hands and sigh. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you seeing me this way or at all, to be honest.." You made more space between you and Ford seeing him tense at your sudden outburst. By the stars! You already messed this up aren't you reader… "I know you have no reason to trust me and I get that! But we now have the same common enemy and I feel like we should work together.." Ford blink and you then blink again. Are you joking with him right now? "No." "Come on just listen to me-" "You think I'm going to listen to you after everything that happened? What do you want me to make a deal with you too so you can use my body as a puppet in your stage play?!" "No! For Fucks sake look at what he did to me!" With that said the hoodie disappears and reveals cracks. He can see them up and down your 'chest'. It reminds him of a cracked windshield one small tap and you just shatter right there. "You think after this and all the other shit he put me through that it was still sunshine and rainbows between us! I'll give you a award for being my wake-up call, Ford. He never cared about me and now I have the proof to show it." Ford saw how you tried to quickly collect yourself again. Hugging your form and rubbing your arms. Another deep breath in…and another one out. "Now how about I say this again? Since I have your attention now. Do you want to work together to kill Bill?"

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alastors-antlers · 1 year ago

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Being someone who sees a lot of talk about shipping Alastor (sexually, romantically) in fanworks, I just want to take some time to talk about both sides of the issue. It's long, I know - please, please bear with me until the end, and I hope you'll understand what I mean in a bit.

I hope this helps someone, but as an aroace person who understands the frustration and hurt, this is often how it feels to me:

Alastor, being one of the limited cases of aspec rep that I've seen and one of even fewer which I actually enjoyed, means a lot to me.

That being said, his canon rep establishes that he's aroace but not much about how this factors into his life or relationships at all -- and when there's a gap in canon, I turn to fanfiction, which tends to spotlight characters' queerness even when the source material doesn't or can't. Don't we all want to see ourselves in the media we engage with?

When I pull up AO3, there are already a good number of fics about him. Great! Some of them are definitely incredible; but as I read on, it starts to seem like a lot of fics I see acknowledge that he's asexual or aromantic in some way but don't really factor that into the story. It reads like you could have written the story without keeping his queer identity in mind, and it would've come out the same.

Even when representation that does resonate with me exists, it starts to be exhausting to pick through the slash tags to see which ones are written in an aspec-coded way, so I wonder if it would be easier to not read anything with slash at all. On the other hand, when you filter ships out completely, only a tiny fraction of the fanworks are left.

People often respond that aspec people can have relationships, and I think we tend to know that. They can have sex, some can experience sexual attraction in select situations, they can romance others beyond romantic attraction -- any combination of things. But some aroace people don't want either, and sometimes we're struggling to see ourselves in how Alastor is typically portrayed.

Out of all of the fics, sex-repulsed, totally aromantic Alastor isn't seen much. And when Alastor's limited canon seems to be pretty supportive of a reading where he is those things...

Sometimes, you start to feel lost. If fics were evenly distributed along the aroace spectrum of experiences, wouldn't you expect more fics of him being the "totally uninterested" brand of aroace? But there aren't. People seem to have a preference toward seeing him in relationships. Even if they mean well, it can make you think: what does that say about how we view asexuality/aromanticism as a whole?

Is there something less interesting about Alastor, when romance is taken out of the picture? Do others find him less appealing as a character if they can't see him dating, or in love, or having sex or wanting it? Why do we need romance, when romance is already everywhere else, when it doesn't even feel like he was originally really interested? It brings to mind a struggle to be societally accepted, even today.

Even when it's not technically wrong to write Alastor as you see him, being told that we should all be able to ship him however we want can feel like this:

It brings to mind people who try to swing in with misinformed good intentions, telling us "oh, you're aromantic? but you can still have romantic relationships, right? so you can still be normal." when all we want is to be okay outside of the normal.

Or trying to find a partner who can be with us, out of everyone who tells us "I know you don't enjoy sex, and that's okay, but I can't have a romantic relationship with you without it." and being so tired of hoping for someone who gets it.

Or talking with peers, and hearing them all commiserate and fawn over their experiences with love, then telling them about someone you like non-romantically and getting "aww, it sounds like somebody's got a crush!" but not being believed when you tell them it's not like that at all.

Alastor is not a big deal, not really, not in the grand scheme of things. But in an allonormative world, it can feel like a sudden splash of cold water when we were expecting a warm fire to sit around. Even within this ecosystem, we squint to see ourselves reflected.

Society isn't built for us. It can be exhausting to be reminded of that.

~~~

I hope to support people writing Alastor as any variation of aspec, or not even aspec at all. At the end of the day, I think that fanon is really whatever you want it to be, and everyone has their own reasons for writing what they find enjoyable. They should be allowed to do so, and I want to believe that people do what they do with good intentions.

They want to imagine scenarios with the templates of characters they love, and that's okay; even beyond sexuality/queer identities/etc., fan interpretations of characters can be incredibly, wildly different from who they really are in the story anyway, and that's what I try to remind myself. But still, I also can't help feeling disappointed about the aroace representation we could have seen.

(Is Alastor canonically sex-repulsed? Uhh, maybe. If I had to guess, that'd be my top guess, but this might be a hot take: I wouldn't really say there's enough to go off of considering that this view is supported by Angel propositioning him both times, and it's not like Alastor is a particularly big fan of Angel at those points anyway lol)

To my fellow aroaces struggling with Alastor's fandom rep: if you need a break from it all; if you need to block the tags that you hate; if you need to talk to someone about how you're feeling; that's okay. It makes sense that you'd want more representation in a way that helps you feel seen and validated and less alone. I can't speak for everyone, but I think I get it.

I don't have any solutions for how you're feeling, because sometimes I'm feeling the same way. I understand that you want others to get your position and you have the right to express your feelings, but even if you're correct, often being angry or frustrated won't help change others' minds, so let's try to save our energy and take care of ourselves.

Something that helps me to think about is that even now, asexuality is gaining more visibility. We're gaining support. Real change is happening in the world that's helping incredible amounts of aspec people feel freer to be themselves. And maybe one day, we won't be reaching to protect our scraps of representation.

Let's fight until that day together <3

#seriously I appreciate everyone who's out here posting about alastor I love being in the radio demon fanclub lol #just some thoughts that's all and maybe it'll resonate with others #please let's be patient with each other though it's rough out there already #alastor #hazbin #hazbin alastor #hazbin hotel alastor #hazbin hotel #asexual #aromantic #asexual alastor #aromantic alastor #aroace alastor #alastor hazbin #ace #aro

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bluejeanstrash · 2 years ago

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vampires pt. 3 | pt. 2 | pt. 1

tags: 2.2k, vampire! seungcheol x human reader, 18+, mdni, dubcon, rough sex, toxic codependency, emotionally volatile seungcheol, degradation (verbal and physical)

weeks, maybe even a month had passed since you’d last seen seungcheol. you couldn’t tell — time didn’t really exist within the walls of the castle. though gone, his absence was everywhere. it was an absence that made your guilt grow day by day — the weight of which was now suffocating you. what if he’d found another? he hadn’t even called for you once.

the first time seungcheol had ‘called for you’, you thought he was going to kill you. vampires never met with humans alone. they would use the slaves in groups or out in public but seungcheol wanted to see you privately. maybe since he was the one who captured you and brought you here, he felt he had the right to have you all to himself.

since that night he would call for you occasionally, fucking you alone, and until he was satisfied. but that had all stopped. until today. you’d been summoned at midnight, your mind a complete mess throughout the day. you’re not sure why you feel so anxious — you haven’t even done anything wrong.

when it came to these nights, seungcheol had three simple rules:

one, you would be freshly bathed. he wanted you to be washed off traces of anyone else — coming to him pure, untouched.

two, your hair would be tied in a single braid — neat, out of your face.

and third, you would be dressed in a modest white nightgown with nothing underneath, giving him easy access to you.

he was very particular. he liked things pretty, even during his kills. he would bring his prey back to the castle, groom them, and then when they were perfect, he would ruin them. much like when a beautifully plated dish adds to its flavour.

the others were different — jeonghan preferred his prey to be scared, fear coursing through their veins tasted the best; joshua toyed with his food before he killed them, giving them hope they could escape before dragging them back; mingyu was impatient, devouring them too soon and regretting it after; and wonwoo was calm, until the bloodlust would hit him. his frenzied kills were a complete terror.

it’s midnight now as you stand infront of the door, frozen. you look down at the intricate door handle, running you fingers over the grooves to calm yourself down, and after taking a deep breath, you knock.

‘enter’ seungcheol’s voice makes your heart race. it’s been so long since you’ve heard it. you walk into the dimly lit room, the hue from the candles casting a warm glow over everything. as custom, you kneel in front of the fireplace, waiting with your head lowered. the room where you would meet was gorgeous albeit ostentatious. the ornate double doors opened to an opulently decorated room. to the right was a small longue area in front of a fireplace which was never lit; opposite it was a four-poster bed and adjacent to both was a writing desk, placed directly in front of the huge stained glass windows.

as you wait, you can feel seungcheol’s eyes on you, studying you intently from head to toe. you can hear his nails scrape the wooden desk, continuing to stare like he’s trying to find something wrong with you. but you look perfect. still, seungcheol feels a simmering rage within him.

he’d been furious ever since that day. how could you choose someone else? you were first and foremost, his, and for you to pick wonwoo was an insult he couldn’t allow. he’d thought after all this time he would feel differently, but he doesn’t. it was a mistake calling you here.

‘leave’ he dismisses you coldly but to his surprise, and annoyance, you don’t move. it’s foolish to defy him but you need to do something.

‘don't make me repeat myself’

‘master-’

‘get. out.’

‘master, please, i’m sorry’ you don’t know what else to say. you flinch at the sound of his chair being pushed back savagely. his steps are heavy and heated as he walks over, standing in front of you.

‘look at me’ you look up, meeting his eyes for the first time, feeling your cunt quiver.

‘you’re sorry? what exactly are you sorry for?’ he questions, finding it incredulous that you have the nerve to disobey him.

‘i’m s-sorry if i upset you’ seungcheol scoffs, circling behind you. he paces quietly, back and forth, as the seconds pass in complete silence, and then you feel a searing sting. hot liquid hits your skin, making you cry out in pain. ‘you think you, a human, have the power to upset me?’ his voice is dripping with disdain.

he holds the candle above you, letting the burning wax drip onto your supple skin, watching how it rolls down and hardens on contact.

‘master, t-that hurts’ you stutter. seungcheol didn’t get off on your pain, so why was he making you feel it? he suddenly snakes his hand around your throat, pulling you up ‘exactly. it hurts and you don’t have the power to do anything’

‘you don’t have any power’ he reminds you ‘you’re just a weak, pathetic human’ his grip tightens like a noose, fingers digging dangerously deep into your skin.

you gasp as he squeezes tight before releasing you. ‘so helpless’ he mutters, his heavy breath caressing the bare skin of your shoulder, and all of a sudden he lifts your dress up and bends you over. being this close to you after weeks apart, seungcheol can’t control himself. he unzips his pants, pulling out his throbbing cock, and enters you — your cunt that's already sopping wet for him.

it's embarrassing how easily he slips in, your arousal coating his cock instantly. he laughs ‘i haven't even touched you yet and you're dripping wet? pathetic’ despite his words, he loves it. he needs more.

‘stand up’ he orders, his hand back around your throat as he pulls you closer, your back arching off him. he pushes into you completely, your warm cunt gripping him tight and starts thrusting. seungcheol groans, his gaze suddenly fixated on your elongated neck — your skin is taut and tender — it’s perfect. you feel his fangs graze against your stretched neck before he bites, his sharp teeth puncturing your skin as two lines of blood trickle down your neck. you should be scared, you should. so why does it feel almost erotic?

seungcheol drinks from you, your blood seeping into the cracks of his hungry lips as his thrusts hit deeper, his cock throbbing inside you so rapidly. ‘fuck...i need more’ he breathes, teeth sinking in again. seungcheol has always been able control himself, never letting his bloodlust take over, but you taste so sweet, it takes all his will to pull away. he realises this is his privilege, only his, something no one else would be ever be allowed to do — drink from his prey for pleasure.

though he’s taken from you, it feels like he’s injected something far deeper into your veins. you feel bound to him. his presence is heightened — how good he feels inside you; stretching you open, filling you up. you can’t help but want more.

‘master, can i touch myself? please, you’re making me feel so good’ you beg.

he allows; your fingers on your cunt immediately, stimulating your clit.

‘y-yes’ you whine, needy little sounds spilling out with it ‘yes master…use me’ suddenly, he stops thrusting, keeping his hard cock inside you and asks,

‘who do you want to fuck the most hmmn? whose cock do you crave in your slave cunt?’ seungcheol growls, bringing back the very question that upset him, but this time he excepts the right answer.

‘y-yours master, i want you the most. i love getting fucked by my master’s cock’ he lets out a gruff moan at your words, pulling out and turning you around to face him.

there’s a flicker of uncontrolled lust in his eyes ‘what did you just say?’ you repeat your words to him but seungcheol’s stuck on just the two. my master — him belonging to you and you to him. he grabs you by the throat, squeezing lightly ‘what are you doing to me?’ he mutters, feeling painfully possessive of the idea. but then the memory of you spread open, pushing wonwoo’s cum inside you returns. you gasp as his grip tightens.

‘how did it feel, hmm? pushing wonwoo’s cum inside you? you didn’t look like you wanted to get fucked by me, you looked like a dirty fucking whore’ seungcheol’s eyes go dark. for the first time tonight you’re scared, desperate not to upset him further.

‘tell me’

‘i felt nothing master’ you lie ‘i imagined it was yours. i wanted your cum on my fingers…i only want your cum inside me’ seungcheol inhales sharply, high on your words. ‘take off your dress’ he commands as you pull it off quickly. he unbuttons his shirt, almost ripping it off and in a single breath grabs your waist and lifts you, your legs wrapping around his waist and arms draped around his neck. his cold skin is pressed to your warmth as he carries you across the room, pushing you up against the stained glass windows.

it’s much too intimate a position to be in with you but he doesn’t care; he wants you. he enters you slowly, filling you up with a deep sensual stroke. you whimper, feeling all of him inside you.

‘master..please fuck me’ and he does. seungcheol fucks you passionate, making sure every thrust touches your deepest parts, addicted to the soft mewls spilling out of you. he keeps his eyes locked on yours like he’s searching for something in them. you can see they’ve turned a deep crimson in the moonlight — the dreamy moonlight that’s hitting his pale, almost translucent skin so beautifully, his jet black hair and blood stained lips in striking contrast to it. you’re suddenly taken by his beauty, feeling overwhelmed. so you drop your gaze, unable to keep his.

‘no’ he commands ‘you will look at me while i fuck you’ he picks up the pace, thrusting harder.

‘you’re mine’ he breathes ‘you’re mine before anyone else’s. understood?’

he buries his face in your neck, his lips finding where he’d drank from earlier and starts sucking on that spot hungrily. your taste…he can’t stop craving it. as soon as he gets a little taste his thrusts turn animalistic, eyebrows pulled tight as he pounds into you, balls slapping against your cunt. you gasp, tilting your head back, giving him more access. ‘fuck’ his cock twitches inside you.

seeing you offer your body to him like this was intoxicating. ‘look at me’ he moans, his eyes back on yours. then for the very first time, he kisses you. his kisses are hard and messy, matching his thrusts. he pushes his tongue into your mouth, finding yours as your kisses deepen. you need him now and so you beg,

‘master, bury your seed inside me. p-please, i haven’t felt you in so long’ it’s sick honestly — your desperate words and the immediate effect they have on him. seungcheol’s pushed to the brink of orgasm, and for a split second, he feels himself losing all control. taking your life, draining you of your sweet nectar as he cums inside you would be euphoric beyond belief, but he just can’t bring himself to do it. instead, he says,

‘cum with me’ the words coming out of his mouth are unthinkable.

‘you’re going to cum with me’ it’s an order now, and you let yourself feel the pleasure that’s been building. his lips are back on yours, kissing you with untamed desire. ‘m-master, i’m going to cum’ you whine, clamping around his pulsating cock and feeling it take over you — it’s primal the way this pleasure feels. you press yourself against him and moan ‘master, make me yours’

‘f-fuck’ he curses, fucking you against the window so violently as he cums, shooting his seed inside you while you’re still consumed by your high. seungcheol groans and just keeps going, pushing all his cum deeper and deeper inside as if he’s trying to breed you.

‘thank you master..’ you breathe as his pace slackens, his final thrusts slow. there’s a stillness that sets in as his cock slips out of you, your legs unwrapping around him to find the floor. you’re suddenly aware of how eerily silent the castle is tonight. did anyone else hear? it feels too intimate a moment to share. or that's what you think. seungcheol steps away from you, a sudden coldness coming off him.

‘you may leave’ his words are firm.

the overwhelming high from the sex comes crashing down in an instant and those useless human emotions that wonwoo loves so much take over; you feel humiliated, you feel jilted, you feel used. and then you feel tears start to form, your vision blurring. you can't let him see you like this. you drop your gaze and start to walk away, your steps slow in hopes he’ll stop you. but why would he? only lovers stay the night, slaves are sent their way.

seungcheol watches you get dressed, suppressing the urge to pull you back to him. he can’t be attached to a human, that isn’t how it works. humans are disposable, meant to fuck and feast on. he can’t. you turn around and bow, catching his eye for a second and quickly look away. the door creaks open as he watches you leave. you feel like a mess as the door shuts softly, and behind it, so does he.

#not proofread 🫡#seungcheol x reader #scoups x reader #seungcheol smut #scoups smut #seungcheol au #scoups au #svt x vampires #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #vampire seventeen #seventeen au #svt x reader

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fanfics4all · 4 months ago

Text

Opposites Attract

Request: Yes / No First ask :3 could you pretty please with a cherry on top write a Spencer Reid x goth!reader!! I would love that so much, btw it can be sfw or nsfw which ever you choose, but I would love some smut @alexumlol

Don’t be shy, request things! <3 Have a nice day/night

Spencer Reid x Fem!Goth!Reader

Word count: 1957

Warnings: SMUT!!

Y/N: Your Name

PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK, I WORK HARD ON MY FICS AND IT’S NOT COOL TO STEAL SOMEONE ELSE’S WORK!

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*Spencer’s POV*

Y/N and I have been together for a year now, and in that time, I’d come to love everything about her. From her dramatic, all-black wardrobe to the way she could recite Edgar Allan Poe by heart, she was unlike anyone I’d ever met. But tonight was a big step… introducing her to my team, my family.

I was aware they might be surprised. Okay, very surprised. As we walked into the bar, hand in hand, conversations at the team’s table came to a halt. Morgan raised an eyebrow, JJ blinked in surprise, and Emily smirked as she took a sip of her drink. Garcia, ever the most dramatic, gasped and clutched her chest.

“Uh… Pretty Boy, I have so many questions.” Morgan said, eyes flicking between my sweater-vest-clad self and Y/N, who was dressed in a lace corset, platform boots, and enough silver jewelry to set off airport security. Y/N just smirked and slid into the seat beside me, draping a possessive hand over my knee.

“Ask away.” She said, voice smooth with amusement.

“How- where- how did this happen?” Garcia demanded. “You’re like… the cutest nerd in existence, and Y/N looks like she’d hex me if I said something dumb.”

I adjusted my scarf, a tiny smile forming. “Actually, we met at a Doctor Who convention.”

Silence.

“You’re joking.” Emily deadpanned.

Y/N grinned. “Nope. I was in a full Cyberman cosplay, and Spencer here was in a Fourth Doctor scarf, quoting obscure Gallifreyan history. It was adorable.”

Morgan burst out laughing. “So, you’re a secret nerd?”

“A proud one.” Y/N corrected. “I just happen to also like bats, eyeliner, and Victorian mourning fashion.”

JJ shook her head in disbelief but smiled. “You two are actually kind of perfect.”

I turned to Y/N, eyes soft with affection. “Told you they’d like you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She teased, stealing a sip of her drink. “Now, which of you and I beating at pub trivia tonight?”

Emily grinned. “Oh, you’re so on.”

As the night went on, the team got to know Y/N better, and, much to their surprise, they actually liked her. At first, the contrast between us was all they could focus on. Morgan kept giving me these looks like he was trying to figure out how I had managed to pull someone like Y/N. While Garcia kept dramatically sighing about how we were the ultimate opposites attract trope in real life. But as the conversation flowed, the teasing lessened, and they started seeing what I had known for a long time, Y/N was incredible. She bantered effortlessly with Morgan, giving back as good as she got.

“You may be a genius, but I know Reid here can’t win a fight. So tell me, Y/N, if something goes down, are you the muscle in this relationship?”

Y/N smirked, sipping her drink. “Absolutely. I may or may not have threatened a guy at a concert once when he shoved Spence.”

JJ nearly choked on her beer. “Wait, what?”

I sighed. “It was an unnecessary escalation.”

“He pushed you.” Y/N argued, crossing her arms. “And you just apologized.”

Morgan laughed. “Oh, that’s hilarious.”

Garcia, already a few drinks in herself, grinned at Y/N. “You are so chaotic, I love it.”

The night continued with stories and trivia battles, Y/N and I took on Emily and Morgan and won by a landslide. Y/N was particularly proud of getting a question right about 18th-century burial rites. And as the drinks flowed, so did Y/N’s affection.

Normally, she wasn’t shy about PDA, but she at least kept it at a respectable level in public. However, as she got tipsier, her touches became more frequent, her fingers tracing patterns on my arm, leaning into me more, and resting her head on my shoulder while laughing at Morgan’s jokes. Then she started pressing kisses to my cheek between conversations, sometimes just because she felt like it.

“You okay over there, Pretty Boy?” Morgan asked, smirking at me.

I cleared my throat, shifting slightly in my seat. “I’m fine.”

Y/N, completely unbothered, draped an arm around me and pressed a lingering kiss to my temple. “You’re so cute when you get flustered.” She murmured.

Garcia squealed. “This is adorable! You’re so affectionate!”

“I just really love my boyfriend.” Y/N said, nuzzling against my shoulder.

I exhaled, accepting my fate as Morgan and Emily tried, and failed, to hide their laughter. If it made her happy, I could handle a little embarrassment.

JJ leaned in, smirking. “So, is this a common occurrence?”

I gave a resigned nod. “It gets worse when she’s been drinking.”

Y/N gasped in mock offense. “Excuse me? I am always the perfect amount of affectionate!”

“You licked my face once.” I reminded her. Morgan nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

“Okay, that was one time.” Y/N huffed, but the way she was grinning told me she wasn’t actually sorry.

I sighed, but despite my mild discomfort, I couldn’t help but smile. She was happy, and that was all that mattered.

As the night wore on, Y/N decided to have one more drink, which I quickly realized was one drink too many. She giggled more freely, her fingers lazily tracing circles on my knee, her lips occasionally pressing featherlight kisses to my cheek, jaw, and once, my ear. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my composure, but the team- particularly Morgan and Garcia- was having far too much fun watching me squirm.

When she finished the drink, I gently took the glass from her and set it down.

“Okay, I think it’s time we get you home.”

Y/N pouted, her bottom lip jutting out in a way that I knew she thought she was going to convince me otherwise. “But I’m having fun, Spence. And they like me.”

Morgan chuckled. “We do like you. A lot.”

JJ nodded. “Yeah, you’re a great addition to the group. You definitely need to come around more.”

“I second that!” Garcia announced. “We need more goth energy in our lives!”

I sighed, knowing that my team had just given Y/N more ammunition to try and stay.

“See? They want me here.” She beamed, wrapping both arms around me in an exaggerated hug. “Let’s stay just a little longer.”

I rubbed small circles on her back, my voice gentle but firm. “We’ll see them another time, I promise.”

Y/N huffed, her grip tightening for a second before she relented. “Fiiiiine…” She leaned back and pointed at the team. “But you guys better invite me next time.”

Emily smirked. “Oh, don’t worry, you’re officially one of us now.”

“Welcome to the family, Y/N.” Morgan added with a wink.

With the team’s farewells and promises to meet again soon, I guided Y/N toward the exit. The moment we stepped outside into the crisp night air, he latched onto my arm, her body pressing close as she sighed dramatically.

“You’re so bossy, Doctor Reid.”

I arched my brow as I led her toward the car. “Am I?”

“Mhm.” She hummed, leaning in close. “And it’s really, really attractive.”

I inhaled sharply, suddenly hyperaware of how close she was. Y/N could be flirtatious sober, but when she’d been drinking, she was downright shameless. Once we got into the car, she turned toward me, her dark eyes heavy with something very suggestive.

“You know…” She purred, dragging her fingers along my arm.

“We don’t have to go straight home.”

I cleared my throat, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “I think we do.”

Y/N pouted again, but this time, her expression had a mischievous glint.

“Spencer.” She murmured, drawing my name out like a lure. Her hand trailed over my thigh, and I stiffened, shooting her a very pointed look.

“Y/N.” My voice came out more strained than I intended.

She giggled, clearly pleased with herself. “Fine, fine, straight home.” She leaned back against the seat, smirking. “For now.”

I exhaled, shaking my head as I started the car. This was going to be a very interesting ride home.

As I merged onto the highway, Y/N’s hand started to wander, her fingers tracing teasing patterns on my inner thigh. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my focus on the road ahead.

“Y/N.” I warned, my voice strained. “What are you doing?”

She giggled, the sound sending a shiver down my spine. “Oh, just admiring my boyfriend.” She purred, her hand inching higher.

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white. It was getting harder to concentrate with her touching me like this.

“Spencer…” She murmured, leaning in close to press a hot kiss to my neck.

“I want you.”

I groaned, my foot pressing down harder on the accelerator. “Y/N, we can’t. Not while I’m driving.”

She chuckled low in her throat, her hand cupping the growing bulge in my pants.

“You let me worry about that, baby.”

Before I could protest further, she had my zipper down and my cock out, stroking it slowly with her cool fingers. I gasped, my hips jerking up involuntarily.

“Fuck, Y/N.” I groaned, my eyes darting between the road and her dark gaze in the rearview mirror.

She smirked, licking her lips as she leaned down and took me into her hot mouth. I cried out, my head falling back against the headrest as she began to suck, her tongue swirling around the sensitive head of my cock.

“Jesus Christ.” I panted, one hand coming down to tangle in her hair.

“You’re going to make me crash.”

She pulled off just long enough to grin up at me wickedly. “Then I guess you better keep your eyes on the road, huh?”

With that, she took me deep into her throat, humming around my length. The vibrations sent shockwaves of pleasure through my body, and I had to fight to keep my eyes open and focused on the road ahead.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this.” I gasped, my hips starting to thrust shallowly into her mouth.

Y/N just moaned in response, taking me deeper, her throat constricting around my sensitive flesh. I could feel my orgasm building fast, the sight of her head bobbing in my lap combined with the sensation of her mouth too much to handle.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.” I warned, my fingers tightening in her hair.

She didn’t pull away, instead doubling her efforts, sucking harder and faster. With a loud groan, I came hard, spilling my release down her throat. She swallowed it all, licking me clean before sitting back with a satisfied smirk.

“Jesus, Y/N…” I panted, trying to catch my breath. “That was… incredible.”

She giggled, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I aim to please, Doctor Reid.”

I shook my head in awe of the woman beside me. She was insatiable, unpredictable, and utterly perfect. And she was all mine. As we pulled up to my apartment building, I turned to look at her, a soft smile on my face.

“You’re amazing, you know that?”

She reached over to cup my cheek, her eyes shining with love and affection.

“No, Spence. You’re amazing for putting up with me, for loving me even when I’m being a brat. You’re my rock.”

I captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “I love you too, Y/N. No matter what, I’ll always be here for you.”

Hand in hand, we walked inside, ready to face whatever the night might bring. With Y/N by my side, I knew life would always be an adventure.

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