You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope.

𖤐 Jen. 20. Virgo 𖤓 Virgo ☾ Cancer ↑. She/Her. INFP-T. Bookworm. Stoner. Ravenclaw. Daughter of Aprhodite. Veteran fanfic writer, honoroubly discharged from the Wattpad front lines.

𖤐 Fandoms; DC, Marauders, the Pitt. (more to come)

𖤐 Masterlist

𖤐 Requests: Closed.ᐟ

𖤐 General asks: Open.ᐟ

𖤐 This blog is used as a creative writing outlet. Canon is just a suggestion. Don't take me too seriously <3

Pairing: James Potter x fem!Best friend!reader

Warnings: idiots in love, reader eats bacon

AN: I LOVE YEARNING!!! word count? A humble 1k

James couldn't be sure when exactly he fell in love with you.

Whether it was in between cups of coffee at breakfast, or as he watched the sunlight catch your hair sprawled over ink filled parchment as you tutored him in the library.

All he could be sure of, all he knew, was that he did love you.

Every shy smile, every brush of your fingers over his, every cheer from the stands at his quidditch games.

Each moment, however fleeting, only increased his heart rate, only deepened his blush, only made the butterflies swarming his stomach pick up the pace.

Tufts of snow fall onto the scarf you'd wrapped over your hair to keep it dry, rosy red cheeks stretched into a wide smile as you and Sirius joke around, throwing half made snowballs at each. Remus and Peter are talking next to him as they make the walk down to Hogsmeade, and he knows he should contribute, wants to contribute, wants to joke around with them.

But how is he supposed to keep his train of thought when you look so gorgeous in this light? How is he supposed to focus when he's physically choking on his love for you?

A bell rings as your ragtag group stumbles into The Three Broomsticks. Sirius and Peter immediately rush off to claim their favored booth, Remus heading to the counter to place your usual order straight away. James wrestles the boys coats onto hooks, catching you struggle to unravel your scarf from the corner of his eye.

"Let me." he mumbles, fishing for the tail end of your scarf from where it's tucked against your neck. You giggle when his cold fingers brush against your skin and he swears the sound restarts his heart rhythm. He unravels the scarf and shakes the snow off, fingers brushing the knit fabric with reverence as he hangs it over his coat. Before your fingers can even reach for the zip, he's gently pulling your coat off your shoulders, hanging it next to his.

The booth is crowded, the five of you sandwiched together, jostling each other with ever laugh. Your leg presses against james' and it takes everything in him to continue talking and joking around. Half of him wants to spring up from the table the next time you need a round of Butterbeers, but the other half, the stronger half, is so happy to be this close to you it locks his legs in place.

You take a sip of his drink when Remus takes a while returning with your refill, and he stares at the glass mug for what feels like hours. The deep pink lipstick mark haunts his dreams for weeks. Some part of him, the part that yearns for you, tells him to place his lips where yours had been. But he doesn't. Doesn't dare disrupt that tiny little imprint you've left of yourself in his life. If he spends the entire night flicking his eyes back to it, if he shoves the empty glass in his bag while no one is watching, who can really blame him?

When he catches your fifth yawn he begins herding the group back to the castle, the late winter air making you all groan, picking up the pace just a bit to get back to the warmth of the common room. Halfway back, you begin to lag behind the others, covering your yawn with the adorable pink mittens Remus knitted for you in your third year.

"You alright love?"

He smiles when you drag your tired gaze up from the ground and to his eyes. You smile softly up at him, "I'm alright, just tired s'all."

He smirks, a soft, loving thing when it's on his lips, and quickly scoops you up in his arms, laughing when you giggle, squirming against him. When you insist you're not too tired, he only hoists you up higher in his arms, "Can't let you drag those feet all the way back, now can I?”

Later, when he's laying in his bed while everyone else sleeps, he'll reply that moment in his head a million and one times, blushing deeper every time he thinks of how your fingers brushed softly against the nape of his neck, how you would rest your forehead on his temple when he'd made you laugh especially hard, how your head fit into the crook of his shoulder like the both of you were cast from one mold.

As he replays every shy smile and timid glance, he's sure that what he feels for you couldn't be anything other than love. He's sure, in those dark, silent moments, that you are so much more than a friend to him.

When he shuffles into The Great Hall the next morning, rubbing sleep from his eyes, tie slung loose around his neck, his eyes instantly find yours amongst the swarms of students.

Your tie is bundled up on the table next to your goblet of water, waiting for James to tie the knot correctly. He'd helped you with it once in first year, and he'd helped you with it nearly every day since then.

He plops down next to you with a yawn, ruffling your hair in acknowledgement as he begins to pile food onto his plate. He places it down and looks at yours, smiling when he notices you'd taken nothing but a heap of bacon.

"That your breakfast of champions, love?"

Your eyes shoot to his, crinkling at the corners as your smile bashfully. "What's the purpose of these grand meals if I can't eat my body weight in bacon?"

He chuckles, "Regardless, please atleast take an apple or something. Need to get those vitamins in."

You roll your eyes playfully, but grab an apple anyway, biting into it.

Merlin.

He looks down at his plate with a ferocious blush, the image of your lips seared onto his corneas like a photopsia. He scrubs a hand over his face, realizing that being jealous of an apple can't be normal.

His hand immediately shoots out to claim a tea cup, the action of putting together your preferred blend helping to distract him from just how pathetic he's becoming. He stirs and adds sugar like he's making tea for the prime minister, completely missing your soft look of appreciation and love to his focus.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Warnings: vague mentions of Jason’s shitty ass upbringing. And the crowbar. Sorry. I kissed the brick.

AN: gun to my head, ask me the word count, the gun will go off. Also I love psycho analysing this man he’s just like me fr. We see each other.

Red is all Jason has ever known.

The red, maddening pain of hunger in his stomach every morning he woke up.

The red hot flush of embarrassment on his cheeks when ignorant kids would point out the fact that he never got more than a slice of bread for lunch.

The red haze of anger permeating him as the helplessness of his situation rested upon his shoulders.

The red hot burn of a crowbar beating down on his skin.

The red flash of fire as it took the last innocent breath from his lungs.

The red river of blood washing the streets as he cut his frustration and trauma out on lowlife criminals.

Every facet of his identity is entrenched in and warped by the colour red.

He’d expected love to burn red too. Expected it to lash out at him and make him regret touching it. Like a hot iron. Or a stove plate.

When he’d first met you it hadn’t been an instant moment of recognition. He hadn’t looked into your eyes and suddenly understood the mystery of love. He’d flinched away from you at any chance, cowering away from you as though you had a gun trained at his face. Your persistence had slowly worn him down, like a feral cat slowly allowing you to stroke its fur.

He wasn’t used to operating in your world. In a world of normality and relative peace, even in Gotham. He wasn’t used to being woken up by your lips brushing against his cheeks every morning. Wasn’t used to someone leaving him a warm cup of coffee to drink every morning before they left for work. Wasn’t used to reading a grocery list and guiding a full grocery cart as you zipped up and down the isles.

Bruce had done his best with what he’d had, but Bruce’s love had never felt quite like this.

Bruce’s love was tainted with the sound of shotgun shells ringing through the shooting range. Tinted by a haze of red coating his vision as he fought to prove himself worthy to be by his side. Bruce’s love taught him to take all of his pain and anger and resentment and funnel it into something that would make him forget it existed in the first place.

Your love taught him that pain and anger and resentment don’t have to bottled up and put aside for a later date that never came. Your love taught him that he didn’t have to work himself down to the bone for someone to be proud of him. Your love was coloured by the scarily bright blue clay face mask you forced him to use with you once a week. Your love was coated in the smell of brownies baking in the oven as you coerced him to waltz around your small kitchen with you. Your love felt like the feeling of your nails brushing over his scalp as you washed his hair.

Everything he’d ever know had been red.

But you? Your love?

It was pure gold. The feeling of joy bottled up and delivered right into his bloodstained hands. The feeling of a soft sunrise after a night of feeding his own nightmares. The feeling of the ocean waves washing over your skin after spending your entire life in the dessert.

Sometimes he still feared the burn. Sometimes he still felt like a helpless satellite, revolving around a burning sun. But each time he would run a finger along your jaw, or tug you back into his arms, and he’d remember that while you burn brighter than anything he’s ever know, you’re never going to hurt him. You’re never going to consume him and spit out the pathetic remains of a lovesick fool, because your love isn’t a game. It isn’t a display of power. It isn’t a game.

It isn’t red like he’s know before.

Your love is soft fingers wrapping gauze and bandages around his ribs, lips pressing soft kisses against every wound. Your love is the curve of your lips against his skin every time you laugh at his terrible jokes. Your love is the soft hum of your voice as you coax him back to sleep after yet another nightmare.

Your love is a reminder of what life is supposed to be about.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Fem!reader

Warnings: It’s Jason. He exudes angst even if he’s having the best day of his life.

AN: Don’t know the word count. Probably hovering at around 800. 1k if I stroke my ego a bit. Can you tell I couldn’t think of a title?

Jason still doesn’t understand why you’re in his apartment.

Why you’re wearing his clothes.

Why you’re sprawled across him, hands clutching at him as though letting go would mean relinquishing him forever.

Don’t get him wrong, the selfish bastard loves it. Loves your soft skin. Loves your low laugher. Loves you.

But, because of that love, he wants nothing more than to protect you, and in his mind, he is what you need protection from. And yet, here you are. The two of you bathed in warm candlight, another one of Gotham’s rolling blackouts leaving the lights and, by extension, the heating off. As the night wore on you’d slowly drifted onto him, only warming up once you’d basically grafted to his skin. Legs wrapped around his waist, arms around his stomach, head resting softly on his shoulder.

But Jason wasn’t going to complain.

Instead, he relished in the slow quiet, one hand cradling the back of your skull against his chest, the other firmly planted into the dip of your waist, slowly kneading at your flesh. Your soft snoring felt more like a lullaby than any he’d heard before, the feeling of your heart beating against his skin reminding him what it feels like to be alive.

Part of him, a small part now, rebels against this soft humanity. It screams at him to get out. To run away. To distance himself from you so that you don’t get hurt. So that he doesn’t get hurt. But that part has learned long ago that it couldn’t win out against his urge to be near you. Almost as though your souls were magnetically attracted to one another. There was nothing he could have done to stop the pull once it got started.

The sheer softness and innocence you exude still frightens him. Almost makes him feel like prey bring lulled into a false sense of security by a beautiful predator. It’s foreign to him; the idea of innocence, especially in Gotham. But you, you are physical, undeniable proof that it does exist. Proof that the most beautiful flowers could still grow between concrete cracks.

As the wind howls outside the slightly dirty windows, through the shadowed streets of Gotham, Jason finally begins to feel settled. As settled as a scarred man like him can get. His calloused fingers begin to run through your soft strands of hair, soothing him, soothing the wreckage of his soul. His eyes gaze down upon you, the light bouncing off the crown of your head like a halo.

He sets you down as softly as he can on the bed he shares with you every night, taking a selfish moment to absorb the image of you drowning in his shirt, sleeping peacefully with the knowledge that he would always be there to protect you.

He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve you. Doesn’t know how many good deeds he had to have done in a past life for a guardian angel like you to materialise out of the same shadowed streets that used to swallow him whole.

He doesn’t know what he did to deserve you, but what he does know, is that now that you’re his, you’re always going to be his. Now that he’s held you in his arms, he’s never letting you leave them.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Fem!reader

Warnings: None, just heart wrenching fluff. Clark being a lover boy as per usual.

A/N: Clark Kent i love you. If I ever get my hands on a genie i WILL make you real. Idk how many words this is, probably around 1.2k.

Rain pelts against the windows of Clark’s loft, keeping you half asleep as the warmth of his bed wards off the chill of the metropolis winter. It’s still late, or early, depending on which of you was asked. You’d fought sleep valiantly for hours, watching reruns of Desperate Housewives, cocooned in his fluffy white sheets, krypto sleeping on your feet. But, despite your best efforts, you’d fallen asleep sometime around two a.m., neglecting to remove your contacts or the makeup you’d worn to work that day. You had changed into one of his soft cotton shirts the second you’d gotten home, his lingering scent helping you stave off how badly you missed him until he’d finished patrolling through the city after work.

The front door clicks open just passed 3, the sound of rain and blissful quiet reaching Clark as he drops his briefcase by the door. Exhaustion had hit him before he’d even left the Daily Planet, the effort of suiting up and flying around for hours feeling more Herculean than it usually did. You’d been away on a excavation for three weeks, and the first two days you’d been back in metropolis had been spent locked in your office at the university, pouring over data and photographs until your eyes nearly bled and you fell asleep at your desk.

Clark didn’t exactly like it when you got so absorbed in your work that you forgot to eat or sleep properly, but he also understood just how devoted to and attached to your work you were. It always felt like a divine punishment, to know you were once again in the same city, but that he would have to wait even longer to feel you under his touch once again. Clark, however, never made you feel guilty for needing time to decompress and sort your findings before slipping back into every day life. He simply waited, checking up on you every single day.

Eventually, though, there was always a night he walked into the apartment and once again got a hit of your vanilla perfume and cocoa butter lotion after so long apart. Every time his knees would grow just a bit weaker, his heart beating just a bit faster. Almost like that feeling on Christmas morning, when you stumble down the stairs and see your presents waiting for you by the tree. Almost like that, but so, so much stronger.

He doesn’t bother getting something to eat or drink, desperate to trace his eyes over you and confirm your safety, confirm that you’ve come back to him. He walks into the bedroom and smiles softly at the sight of you. You’re wrapped in his shirt and his sheets, breathing softly as the light of the TV washes over you. Krypto barely stirs from his spot under the blankets by your feet, only his snout sticking out for air.

He beelines to your side and kneels beside you, placing kisses over your nose and cheeks, relishing the warmth you always seem to emit. As he runs his thumb over you lips he notices the mascara still on your lashes, his heart softening further when he realises you’d fallen asleep waiting for him.

As badly as he wants to let you keep on sleeping as peacefully as you are, he also doesn’t want you to be upset when you wake up and realise you hadn’t washed your face. Knowing he needed to shower anyway, he left you to sleep for a few more minutes, heading into the bathroom. In the interest of being as close to you as quickly as possible, he brushes his teeth and showers within seven minutes, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and towel drying his hair before he pads back to your side.

“Angel.” He runs his finger down the length of your nose and over your cheek bones, softly whispering your favourite pet names as he watches your eyes flutter, smiling when they slowly crack open.

Sleep begs to pull you back under as Clark comes into your view, backlit by the TV, hair freshly washed, dimples blinding you. So angelic and divine you’d think you were in heaven if you didn’t know better. Your first greeting is a sleepy mumble, under laced with a love that makes Clark’s chest constrict. Your hand immediately lifts and searches him out, your face softening again when you feel his skin under your fingertips.

“I’m sorry to wake you, but you need to wash your face baby.” As badly as you want to roll over and go back to sleep, you don’t fight when Clark scoops you up in his arms and slowly walks over to the bathroom. He sits you down on the counter, a towel folded beneath you so that the marble countertop doesn’t make you any colder.

Your head leans against the wall behind you as Clark rummages through your drawers, slowly piecing together a rudimentary routine he knows he can do for you. He’s memorised your entire skincare routine by now, but he doesn’t exactly want to keep you up for longer than necessary.

He soaks a cotton round with micellar water and grips your jaw softly with one of his hands, the other softly running the cotton over you skin. When he’s sure everything is off he throws the round away and gets a soft cotton washcloth, soaking it with warm water. He takes his time wiping your face off, selfishly cataloging all of your features as you slump into his hand. Once he’s moisturised your skin, he pulls out your contact lens case, softly tapping your jaw to wake you up further.

“Just gotta remove your lenses and we can go to bed angel.”

You don’t protest, clumsily removing both lenses and dramatically slumping into his chest the second he clicks the case closed. Clark laughs softly, running his hands over your back as he breaths you in. Once he has you situated in his arms, he retrieves your hairbrush and makes his way back to your bed. The sheets are shaken out and pulled back before he slowly places you on the mattress. His side dips a second later, and his hands on your shoulders turn you until your back is to him and he can gather all of your hair.

You’re steadily lulled back to sleep as Clark begins to run the brush through your hair, humming a soft tune as the bristles run over you scalp, soothing the ache of missing him until you forgot what it had felt like. His big hands fumble as he plaits your hair, tying it off an inch before the ends, remembering how you’d mentioned that tying it too low caused breakage. The pride that warms his chest when he sits back and gazes at your sleeping, pampered form compares to nothing he’s ever felt before. The pride of knowing that he is the one providing for you, warming you, feeding you, making you smile. It’s a feeling that overwhelms and calms him simultaneously.

He’d always loved being Superman. Always loved being a protector. Always loved being the one person everyone could count on showing up. Always loved being perceived as good. And when he’d met you, he’d met the one thing he had to protect. The one thing he had to show up for, no matter what. The one thing that made him want to stop moving and running in circles. The one person that actually made him feel human.

After much too long, Clark finally slips into the sheets and wraps his arms around you, pulling you right onto his chest, relishing the feel of your nose brushing against his neck, steady breath brushing against his skin. After much too long your hands finally find their way into his hair and onto his skin, your heartbeat slowing down to sync with his. Krypto slowly shifts over until he’s plastered against the side of Clark’s leg, and once again, all is right in the world.