Jackson

hiii I'm a MLM writer ^✓^ pc broken, ain't gotta be able to write until it's fixed😭🙏🏼 but requests are open.

[dukestags]

HIII I'm Jackson. I go by (he/him).

Do not be shy to send a request.

Now please here is the rules.

i do not make female reader fanfics (but people who are female are very welcome to read, just don't expect me to write character x female reader.)

i do not write: rape, abuse, pedophilia or necrophilia. (any requests will be denied and user will be reported)

i do write either very detailed or not at all, this is a warning to what to expect if so to read angst or smut made by me, if not comfortable with that click of or ask me to rewrite a softer version of it.

I only write male reader, ftm reader and gn reader.

Also if you wanna get tagged in posts, send it in the comments or repost the fiction you like where you say what type of posts you want to be tagged in.

MASTER LIST

DC (Bruce Wayne, (ben Affleck, Christian bale, maybe some other Batmans if you ask kindly) dick Grayson, Jason Todd, joker, Catwoman, wonder Woman, Harley Quinn, Clark Kent, roman Sionis, victor zsasz, two face, huntress, bane, scarecrow, flash, Aquaman and more

Call of duty.. literally anyone but Hassan and general Shepard.

Everyone in umbrella academy

Marvel

The good place

Hannibal Lecter (with Mads Mikkelsen)

Slashers.

Also you can always send in requests on anything I don't mind. It can be kid fics. Romantic fics, anything. Just as long as I know the characters then it's all cool. Also when people ask for chapters I always make part one and two at the same time.

[tangerinefawnfic]

лисичка (Little Fox)

Duncan Vizla x gn!reader - no bodily stuff, no outfits, only hair being said, no pronouns used to describe reader

To set the mood; You sat in an empty booth, you face towards the window watching the snowflakes fall and their designs melt against it. Some vintage jazz echoed quietly with a humming noise from behind the bar counter, which filled the half empty room, you were there, waiting on Duncan who was in the far back of the bar, doing some business with God knows who again, making whatever money he made, you dont question it, even tho you were slightly forced to come along this time, as for him, you staying back at his place, wasnt "safe" although you stay blind and with your back turned to who or what he ends up dealing with.

"Лисичка" he grumbled out to you "little fox" how memorable, the nickname he gave you, after he found you a few years a go, shriveled up in a ball in the freezing cold of northern Russia. "We're leaving, come now.." He said to you, as he was walking towards the front door of the bar, keeping an eye on you as you got off the chair from the empty booth, and jogged after him. Duncan, he walked briskly out, keeping in step with you, he was definently much bigger than you, his stride was long. Oh he grabbed your hand, you could feel his calloused and rough palm against your smooth and soft hand, as you were walking to the truck with him. The cold winter wind hitting them hard against their faces, your hair flying every way it could

As you look up at him, to look at his face, Duncan didn't look back down at you, his eyes trying to spot his truck, as he could hear your teeth chattering from the cold.

The roads were icy and slippery, the snow still comming down, but in harder flurries now.

You and Duncan arrived to his truck, him opening the passenger side door and ushered her in "Лисичка get in." it wasn't a question, or a request. As you got in, he then rounded the truck, from the back and getting into the driver's seat, he slammed the door, or else it wouldn't close old junk of a truck, he cranked up the heat in the car, in the seats too, it's cold in Russia.. especially in winter, you know that too well.. right? Лисичка? As you look out the window, the snowflakes landing and melting away on it, you hear Duncan grumble something about the guy he was talking with at the bar something about him being "useless" or something like that, you just shrug it off, knowing not to question him. The the silence getting cut by Duncan finaly speaking up. "You're being quiet, Лисичка." His rough edged voice, sounding like an almost hum to your ears, as your eyes snap back on him as soon as you heard him speak up. "I am? I guess i was.." you mumble to him, your gaze staying on him, not moving from his face. He shot yout a sideways glance, his expression still slightly unreadable yet softer then at the bar. He saw through your casual words, some underlying restlessness in your silence in the truck ride. Duncan, he had a knack for reading people - a honed skill that was both a blessing for his job, yet a curse.

"Cut the bullshit Лисичка. I know you damn well by now." He grumbled to you, his voice was blunt, cutting through the silence fully. As the truck turns into the garage, at a holt. "Get out, and into the house Лисичка." He tells you, as he keeps his eyes in you, his gaze not moving, before he himself, gets out the truck, slamming the door, and rounding it once more, following you to the stairs of the house. "I'm just tired, Duncan." you said softly, as you watched him unlock the front door, scurrying you inside, as if something would happen if he didn't. He let out a grumble, one deep from his chest, as he watched you walk inside, you, his own little Лисичка lying on the couch in the middle of the room, Duncan scurried after you, following you to the couch, as he sat down, moving your head onto his lap, as he softly played with your hair, his rough hands, gliding from the top of your head to down you neck, over your shoulder blades and on repeat, as your eyes fluttered shut. "Лисичка" he mumbles to you as you were slowly drifting off to sleep

[dukestags]

This is honestly so good and I recommend it.

[dukestags]

Jacket.

Logan Howlott x trans masc reader

summary: you steal his jacket from the very beginning, and use it non stop.. but suddenly you aint using it anymore... now he thinks you're breaking up with him.

Logan Howlett had given up on the jacket months ago.

It started as borrowing—just for a minute, you’d said. Then it became habit. Every time Logan turned around, his brown leather jacket was gone, draped over your shoulders like it had always belonged there. Too big, sleeves hanging past your hands, collar permanently smelling like campfire smoke and pine.

He tried complaining once.

“You know I own other clothes, including this one” you told him, already tugging the jacket on.

That was the day Logan bought himself a new one. Didn’t say a word about it—just hung it up and never reached for the old leather again. He let you keep it, let you win, because the way you smirked every time you wore it was worth more than the jacket ever was.

Summer came in heavy and slow.

One afternoon, Logan stepped out of the cabin and stopped short.

You were stretched out in the grass beside the car, radio playing something crackly and old. The sun was high, heat pressing down, and you were clearly unbothered by it—barefoot, relaxed, wearing only shorts and his jacket. Unzipped. Loose.

The leather looked worn-soft on you, familiar. Yours.

Your top surgery scars were visible, unhidden, catching the light without apology. You looked calm. Comfortable. Like the world had finally given you room to breathe.

Logan didn’t say anything at first.

He just stood there, leaning against the porch rail, suddenly feeling like he’d lost every argument he’d ever had about that jacket—and somehow won something better.

You glanced over, catching him staring.

“See something you like?” you teased.

Logan huffed, shaking his head, but there was no bite in it. “You’re gonna overheat in that thing.”

You grinned, settling back into the grass. “Then stop looking and let me enjoy it.”

He didn’t stop looking.

Not at the jacket. At you.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Winter is rolling into Canada. Snow is starting to lay itself on the ground outside and on top of the cabin you and Logan live in together.

The jacket came back folded.

That alone was enough to make Logan’s stomach drop.

He noticed it sitting on the chair by the door when he came in from chopping wood—his old brown leather jacket, neatly placed, sleeves tucked in like it was being laid to rest. It hadn’t been on that chair in months. It was never on that chair.

You were by the window, pulling on boots, moving around with that quiet focus you got when something was wrong.

Logan cleared his throat. “Uh… you forget something?”

You glanced over. “Nope.”

That was worse.

Logan stared at the jacket, then at you, then back at the jacket. His brain immediately filled in the worst possible explanations. Had he said something wrong? Forgotten something important? Was this about that dumb comment he made last week about the radio?

“You… don’t want it anymore?” he asked carefully.

You paused, confused. “What?”

“The jacket,” Logan said, nodding toward it like it might explode. “You gave it back.”

Your eyebrows knit together, then suddenly you snorted. “Oh. That.”

Logan didn’t relax. “That doesn’t sound good.”

You laughed, pulling a massive, thick winter coat from the hook by the door. It was padded, ugly, and clearly meant for serious cold. “Logan, it’s freezing. Your jacket is cute, but it does absolutely nothing for warmth.”

Logan blinked. “That’s it?”

“I love your jacket,” you said, shrugging into the winter coat. “But I can’t handle cold for shit. I was shivering like a cartoon character.”

“So you’re not—” Logan stopped himself, suddenly embarrassed. “You’re not mad.”

“No,” you said slowly, realizing. “Wait—did you think I was breaking up with you?”

Logan looked away. “…Maybe.”

You stared at him for a second, then laughed so hard you had to grab the doorframe. “Logan. I steal your clothes religiously. If I were mad, you’d never see that jacket again.”

That finally did it. Logan let out a breath, shaking his head. “Next time, maybe give a warning.”

You grinned, tugging the winter coat tighter. “Next time, buy a jacket that actually works.”

Logan watched you step outside, smiling to himself.

The leather jacket stayed on the chair.

He knew you’d be back for it.

[dukestags]

Welcome home.

Bruce Wayne x male reader, Batfam x male reader (platonic)

part 1 - part 2 - part 3

Christmas at Wayne Manor was… complicated.

There were decorations, technically. Alfred insisted—wreaths on the doors, lights strung with military precision along the banisters, a tree that reached almost to the second-floor railing. But no one ever quite knew what to do with the day itself.

Too many ghosts. Too many memories that hurt if you looked at them too closely.

So you did what you always did.

You planned quietly.

You wrapped gifts late at night, in the study, brown paper and twine instead of glossy bows. You labeled each one carefully, handwriting steady, deliberate. No extravagance. Just thought.

You left early Christmas morning.

A note on the kitchen counter. Apologies. Love. Promises to be back before the year turned over.

Bruce had kissed your forehead before you left, still half-asleep. “Tell them I said hi,” he murmured. “I will,” you smiled. “Don’t let Jason open everything before breakfast.” “No promises.”

They found the gifts after you were gone.

Bruce’s was first.

A small wooden box, smooth and warm to the touch. Inside— A wristwatch.

Not just any watch.

Hand-carved wood casing. Perfectly balanced. Fully functional. The internal mechanics precise, custom-fitted. The grain of the wood flowed like water, polished but not glossy. Strong. Quiet.

Bruce froze.

He’d mentioned it once. Months ago. A passing comment about how he’d searched for a craftsperson who could do it right and never found one.

Alfred watched him turn the watch over slowly.

“…This was made,” Bruce said, voice low, reverent. “Yes,” Alfred replied gently. “And I believe, sir, it was made for you.”

Bruce didn’t say anything else. He simply put it on. And didn’t take it off.

Dick’s came next.

A jacket—exactly the one he’d been eyeing for weeks but never bought. The cut was right. Flexible. Durable. Stylish without trying too hard.

He slipped it on immediately.

“Oh. Oh, this is dangerous,” he laughed, spinning once. “I look too cool.” Jason snorted. “You always think that.” “Yeah, but now I’m right.”

Jason’s box was heavier.

Old-school Doc Martens. Perfect size. Classic style.

He stared at them for a long moment, then cleared his throat roughly.

“…He remembered,” Jason muttered.

He put them on without ceremony. Laced them tight. Walked a lap around the room like he was testing solid ground.

“They fit,” he said simply.

That was enough.

Tim’s gift was practical. Thoughtful.

Noise-canceling headphones. Top-tier. Tuned exactly to his preferences.

Tim’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a new limb.

“Oh. Oh wow. These—these are good,” he said, already putting them on. Jason waved a hand in front of his face. No response. “…Yeah, he’s gone.”

Damian’s was wrapped last.

A book.

But not just any book.

A replica of his favorite text—bound in Arabic. The cover embossed. The pages thick, the script clean and precise.

Damian’s fingers hovered before he touched it.

“You—” he stopped himself. Swallowed. “He remembered.”

Alfred smiled knowingly. “Of course he did.”

Damian carried the book with both hands, like something sacred.

Alfred’s gifts were modest. Perfect.

Leather winter gloves—soft-lined, warm, practical. A scarf in deep, elegant tones that somehow suited him exactly.

He adjusted it once in the mirror.

“…Cheeky man,” Alfred murmured fondly. “He sees far too much.”

Cassandra’s was an envelope.

Her name written carefully on the front.

Inside, a note.

I have bought three movie tickets for Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 and a three-person booking room at the VR game zone so you and your friends can go and have some fun. I will pay for food, drinks, and snacks as well.

Cass read it twice.

Then three times.

Her mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough it made Dick’s chest ache.

She folded the note carefully. Slipped it into her pocket.

“Thank you,” she whispered—to the empty room.

The house was quiet without you.

Not empty.

Just… waiting.

You came back New Year’s morning.

Snow clung to your coat as you stepped inside, travel-worn and tired and smiling already.

You barely had time to shut the door.

Dick was first—arms around you, laughing. Jason followed, a solid clap on your back that lingered. Tim nearly ran into you, stopped short, then hugged you anyway. Cass wrapped her arms around your waist, firm and certain. Damian stood stiff for half a second—

Then stepped forward.

Brief. Controlled. Real.

Bruce came last.

He didn’t say anything. Just pulled you into his chest and held you there, forehead resting against yours.

“Welcome home,” he said quietly.

The manor felt warm.

Not because of the fire.

But because everyone was exactly where they were meant to be.

[dukestags]

HIIIII I love love love those two small stories you did on reader being the batkids step-dad I found them today and was giggling n kicking my feet while reading them ur an amazing writer. I Litterally have no request i mean i have ideas but I cannot phrase things well I just wanted to say how much I liked it and if u had any ideas maybe you could make a part 3 pretty pretty please with a chery on top. <3

HIIIII, don't worry. You can send me a message and not a request and we can talk there and this goes for others aswell if they don't really know what to send in the request in on messenge 😊 I am making a part three Christmas themed for y'all.

[dukestags]

Bloodline

Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz

Roman Sionis & Nephew reader (platonic)

Victor Zsasz & Male reader (platonic)

Bloodline chapters.

last chapter - part two - next chapter

summary: first day in the penthouse.

The spare room Victor dragged the teen into last night smelled like old velvet and stale perfume, but it was safer than the street, and the teen didn’t complain. He barely slept, though — worried he’d wake up to a knife or an eviction.

By morning, he found a note taped to the door.

DO NOT TOUCH ANYTHING. Underlined. Three times. Then, in a different pen: Zsasz will explain.

The teen wasn’t sure which was worse.

He found Roman in the kitchen downstairs, pacing in a silk robe like he was hosting a deranged morning talk show. The counter was stacked with food that absolutely hadn’t been there yesterday — fruit, bread, eggs, even cereal.

Roman noticed him and immediately scowled. “Oh. You’re awake.”

“Um… yeah.”

“Good. Ground rules.” Roman slapped a stack of papers on the table. “You don’t touch anything expensive, dangerous, or interesting.”

The teen blinked. “That’s… almost everything in this house.”

“Exactly.” Roman crossed his arms, satisfied with himself. “If you think something might be allowed? Assume it isn’t. If you’re not sure what the rule is, assume the rule is no.”

Victor padded into the room barefoot, looking way too pleased for someone who had clearly been awake for hours. He leaned against the doorway and grinned. “I get to enforce the rules.”

The teen stiffened.

Roman waved a hand. “Don’t threaten the kid before breakfast.”

“I wasn’t threatening him,” Victor said. “Yet.”

Roman shot him a warning look, then returned to rearranging the groceries he definitely didn’t buy for any specific reason.

The teen eyed the food. “Did you… get all that because—?”

Roman cut him off instantly. “No.”

“It wasn’t here yesterday.”

“It’s for me,” Roman said sharply. “And Victor. Not you. You’re just… nearby while we eat. Completely coincidental.”

Victor leaned closer to the boy and whispered, “He bought oatmeal. He doesn’t even like oatmeal.”

Roman paused mid-slam of a cabinet door. “I CAN HEAR YOU, ZSASZ.”

The teen fought the urge to smile. Victor winked at him, like he’d accomplished something illegal.

Roman shoved a bowl across the counter. “Fine. Eat something. Preferably something cheap. Don’t touch the imported figs.”

The boy nodded quickly and grabbed cereal — the generic kind, the only box that didn’t have gold lettering or Italian on it.

For a few blessed seconds, there was silence. Then Victor spoke.

“You know,” he said casually, taking a knife from a drawer and spinning it between his fingers, “if you break any of Roman’s rules, he’ll yell. A lot. Me? I skip right to consequences. Saves time.”

Roman rolled his eyes. “He’s exaggerating.”

“Not about the consequences,” Victor corrected.

The kid stopped chewing.

Roman huffed. “Victor, put that thing away. You’re scaring him.”

Victor tilted his head. “Am I not supposed to scare him?”

Roman opened his mouth, then closed it like that question hurt him on a spiritual level. Finally, he barked, “He’s under my roof. You don’t traumatize people under my roof unless I say so.”

Victor sheathed the knife without looking away from the kid. “Fine. Accidents only.”

The teen tightened his grip on his cereal bowl.

Roman snapped, “NO accidents.”

Victor shrugged one shoulder, expression maddeningly innocent. “We’ll see.”

It was in that moment — watching Victor grin, watching Roman pretend he wasn’t concerned about any of this — that the boy understood something important:

Roman Sionis was cruel in a loud, performative, theatrical way. Victor Zsasz was cruel because it was simply who he was.

And Roman — for all his rules and shouting — kept placing himself between the kid and Victor’s sharper instincts.

Not to protect him. Roman would never call it that. But the teen noticed anyway.

Roman caught him staring and snapped, “What?”

“N-nothing.”

“Good. Finish eating. Then Victor will give you a tour.”

Victor’s grin sharpened. “Yeah. The tour.”

Roman pointed a warning finger at him. “The PG-13 version. No maiming.”

“I make no promises.”

“You will if you want to keep your job.”

Victor sighed like Roman had just stolen Christmas.

The teen went back to his cereal, heart pounding — but with a strange, reluctant sense that the situation, for all its chaos and danger, might not be as hopeless as it felt.

Maybe.

At least for now, he knew the most important rule: Victor was the wolf. Roman was the cage.

And he’d better learn how to survive both.

[dukestags]

could u do simon riley taking his bf who dresses feminine out on a date and there's a confrontation?

Date night.

Simon Riley x (femboy) male reader

summary: hes protective...

Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed crowds, dates, or public attention. But for you? He’d brave all of it.

You’d dressed a little softer tonight — a flowing shirt, subtle makeup, earrings that caught the light when you moved. He noticed every detail the moment you walked out of the bedroom, even if he hid the smile under the curve of his mask.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, offering his hand. “Let’s go.”

The restaurant you picked was quiet, warm, and dimly lit. You slipped into the booth beside Simon instead of across, and he didn’t complain — just rested a firm hand on your thigh, thumb drawing an absent circle. Anyone looking your way would see nothing but a mountain of a man relaxed for the first time all week.

Everything was perfect… until it wasn’t.

On your way out, an unfamiliar voice muttered from near the bar:

“Didn’t know they let blokes in dressed like that.”

You stiffened. Simon didn’t. Not outwardly.

He turned slowly, angling himself between you and the man — not threatening, not making a scene, just there. A wall.

“Say that again,” Simon said quietly. No edge, no raise in volume — the kind of calm that made the air feel heavier.

The man shrank a little. “Just saying. Looks weird, is all.”

Simon took a single step forward, and somehow that was enough to make the guy back up.

“Nothing weird about him,” Simon said. “What is weird is you thinking your opinion matters to anyone.”

You tugged Simon’s sleeve gently — not out of fear, but to remind him the night was supposed to be yours, not the stranger’s. He breathed out, almost a sigh, and put an arm around your shoulders as he turned toward the door.

“You alright?” he asked once you stepped into the cool evening.

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”

He leaned down just enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.

“Next time anyone gives you trouble,” he said softly, “they deal with me first.”

And as he walked you to the car, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, it didn’t feel like a threat — it felt like a promise.

[dukestags]

Bloodline.

Also this story also starts early in the work line of roman sionis so him and victor aint together yet but it is a slow burn.

Chapter one: Roman never expected to see any Sionis relatives again after he murdered his parents. Guess he was wrong. His brother Richard died, leaving a fortune and a young teen boy carrying the same baby blue eyes that's been through the Sionis family for generations behind with nothing else, but a bit of hope that his uncle can help him.

Chapter two: first day I the penthouse.

Chapter three: coming soon.

[dukestags]

Bloodline.

Roman Sionis x Victor Zsasz

Roman Sionis & Nephew reader (platonic)

Victor Zsasz & Male reader (platonic)

next chapter - chapters

summary: Roman never expected to see any Sionis relatives again after he murdered his parents. Guess he was wrong. His brother Richard died, leaving a fortune and a young teen boy carrying the same baby blue eyes that's been through the Sionis family for generations behind with nothing else, but a bit of hope that his uncle can help him.

Roman never expected to see the Sionis name in a headline again. Not attached to him, anyway.

“Richard Sionis found dead—” He shut the notification before it could finish. He hadn’t seen his brother since the day their parents had thrown Roman out and pretended he’d stopped existing. Richard had gone along with it. Some part of Roman hoped he’d died miserable. Another part didn’t bother hoping at all.

So when the kid walked into the club—skinny, terrified, barely holding himself together—Roman’s first instinct was annoyance. The second was disbelief. The third was anger, sharp and stupid and old.

Victor noticed him first. “You lost, kid?” Zsasz asked, smiling the way he did when he hoped the answer would be yes.

The teen swallowed. “I’m looking for… Roman Sionis.”

Victor didn’t hide his amusement. “Oh. This’ll be good.”

Roman descended the stairs, irritation already curling in his voice. “If you’re selling something, the exit’s behind you.”

The kid flinched at his tone. “I’m… I’m your nephew.”

Silence. Even the club noise felt muted for a moment.

Roman stared, expression flat. “Try again.”

“My dad—Richard—he died.” The teen’s throat bobbed. “And my stepmom kicked me out. There’s, uh… laws. Gotham won’t let me live alone. They’ll put me in a foster home.”

Victor nudged Roman with his shoulder, whispering loud enough on purpose, “We could just kill him. Quickest way to solve a family problem.”

The kid went pale.

Roman didn’t look away from him. “Relax. If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it to my stairs.”

Victor sighed dramatically.

Roman paced once, hands behind his back, jaw tight. “So you came to me. Because… what? Blood is thicker? You think I’m the charitable type?” He laughed—sharp, humorless. “Your father helped throw me out. My parents wiped me from every family record. And now you wander in here like I’m supposed to take you home?”

“I don’t want sympathy,” the kid said quickly. “I don’t want money. I just… don’t want foster care. I don’t know where else to go.”

There was something in the kid’s eyes—fear, exhaustion, the kind of desperation Roman recognized from his own worst days. He hated that recognition.

Victor leaned against a column, watching Roman’s face carefully. “You’re thinking about it.”

“I’m thinking about how stupid this is,” Roman snapped.

“Mm. Same thing.”

Roman exhaled through his nose, slow, irritated, resigned in a way he’d deny if asked. “You’re not family,” he said to the kid, voice cold. “Let’s get that clear. Whatever blood we share is an accident.”

The kid nodded, bracing himself for rejection.

“But,” Roman continued, “I’m not dumping you into Gotham’s meat grinder if it means the Sionis name gets dragged through court files and pity articles.” He pointed toward Victor. “Zsasz will find you a room upstairs. Temporarily.”

Victor perked up. “And if he’s annoying?”

“Then,” Roman said, turning away, “I’ll reconsider your idea.”

Victor grinned.

The kid didn’t thank him. Roman was grateful for that. Sentiment would’ve made him throw the kid back onto the street.

As Victor escorted the teen away, Roman lingered at the balcony, fingers drumming on the railing. He didn’t want this. Didn’t want the reminder, the responsibility, the echo of a family he’d buried long ago.

But the kid had arrived anyway.

[dukestags]

Hi, I'd like to request one of the Huntress with a plus-size reader, please.

Human stress ball

Huntress (Helena Bertinelli ) x chubby reader

Helena storms into your apartment like she always does after a mission gone sideways—silent, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like a loaded crossbow. You barely have time to set down your mug before she’s already kicking off her boots, dropping her weapons on the couch, and marching straight toward you.

You open your mouth to ask what happened. You don’t get the chance.

Helena huffs out a sharp breath and practically falls onto you, pushing you back onto the bed with a heavy, warm whump. She lands chest-first on top of you, burying her face between your neck and shoulder like she’s trying to hide from the world.

“Bad night?” you mumble, though her weight on your stomach makes your voice come out a little squished.

She groans. “Don’t… talk. Just—” Her arms slide around your middle, squeezing. “Let me use you.”

You blink. “Use me?”

“Not like that,” she grumbles. “Like—this.”

Her fingers press into your belly, kneading absentmindedly, like it’s a stress toy she bought specifically to work out her rage. She squeezes, pokes, squishes, not rough enough to hurt but definitely firm. Each time she grabs a handful of your tummy her breathing gets slower, calmer.

Your cheeks burn. You’re ridiculously aware of her hands.

“You’re soft,” Helena mumbles into your neck, as if stating a tactical fact. “It helps.”

“Helena… you know you can just ask—”

“I don’t want to ask.” She squeezes your thigh this time, her hand sinking into the plush flesh. “I want this.”

Her fingers dig in a little. You jolt.

“Uh—what exactly does ‘this’ mean?”

“It means,” she says, shifting fully on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips as she melts her weight onto you, “you’re comforting. And warm. And squishy. And when I’m pissed off, laying on you makes it stop.”

Your heart does something embarrassing.

She keeps kneading your stomach like she’s sculpting rage out of her system, thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.

“I like your body,” she mutters, voice low, like she’s afraid you’ll tease her. “It… grounds me.”

You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her a little closer. She lets out a small, almost surprised sigh—then relaxes completely, head resting on your chest.

Her fingers curl around the soft skin at your side again.

“…Can I stay like this?” she asks, quieter now.

“Yeah. As long as you want.”

Helena hums, satisfied.

“That’s good. Because I’m not getting up.”

She doesn’t. Not for a long time. And the whole time, her restless hands roam—gently squeezing your belly, your hips, your thighs—using every inch of you to soothe the storm inside her… until she falls asleep draped over you like a very smug, very deadly weighted blanket.

[dukestags]

Its just business.

Bruce Wayne x ex-husband reader

summary: He doesn't let you take the ring off.

This is based on @miracleocean Divorced dads art. Please go and give credit to them to.^^

The gala lights blur into warm gold as you stand near the edge of the ballroom, fingers worrying the cool metal of your wedding ring. Or… your former wedding ring. Each turn of the band feels like pressing on a bruise—something tender, something that never quite healed.

Bruce hasn’t looked at you all evening.

Correction: Bruce hasn’t let himself look at you all evening.

But you’ve felt his eyes. Every time you drift too far from him. Every time someone else gets too close. Every time you twist the ring around your finger like you’re about to make a decision he doesn’t want you to make.

You don’t even know why you came tonight. Maybe you’re tired of pretending. Maybe you’re tired of pretending for him.

So finally—quietly—you slide the ring off.

It’s a tiny sound, barely the soft scrape of metal against skin, but somehow it echoes inside you.

You don’t get to breathe a full second before Bruce is at your side.

His hand closes around yours—gentle, but firm. It’s the only sign that he’s human beneath that mask of billionaire composure. He doesn’t cause a scene. He simply guides you away, past the clinking glasses and polite applause, through a side door and into the dim hallway behind the ballroom.

The second the door shuts, Bruce exhales shakily. Like he’s been holding his breath for months.

“Give it to me,” he murmurs.

You blink. “Bruce—”

He takes your hand again, holding your fingers so carefully it almost hurts. He presses the ring back against your palm and then, slower than he needs to, slides it onto your finger himself. His touch lingers as if he’s memorizing the feeling.

His eyes squeeze shut.

“I know we divorced,” he says, voice low, tight, cracking at the edges. “But this is for public sake. Keep acting like this… for a while.”

Your heart sinks.

So that’s all it is. Business. Appearance. Pretending.

Just like always.

His eyes open—blue and conflicted and full of something he refuses to name. His jaw tightens as if he’s forcing the next words through a locked door inside himself.

“I promise,” he whispers, thumb brushing your knuckle, “this is just business.”

But the way he says it betrays him. The way he looks at you betrays him. The way his hand refuses to let go of yours absolutely betrays him.

You stare at him, voice barely above a breath. “Then why do you look like you’re losing me all over again?”

Bruce still doesn’t answer.

He stands there in the half-shadowed hallway, the distant music from the gala muffled behind the door, his hand still wrapped around yours like it’s the last solid thing he has left. His eyes won’t meet yours, and that tells you everything he won’t say out loud.

You try to pull your hand back.

He doesn’t let go.

Not immediately. Not even after he realizes he’s holding on too tight.

“Bruce.” You whisper his name because it feels like the only thing that can cut through whatever armor he’s built tonight. “If this is just business, you don’t get to hold me like this.”

His breath shudders—barely audible, but it’s there. His thumb twitches against your skin, and for a moment you see the man you married, not the man who let you go.

“I know,” he says, voice cracking for real this time. “I know. I’m—” He stops himself, jaw tightening. “I’m asking you to trust me. A little longer.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Funny. I did trust you. That was the problem, wasn’t it?”

His shoulders tense, like the words hit him where you know he’s already raw.

“You think I wanted this?” he finally says, low and rough. “You think any of this was easy?”

“No,” you answer. “I think it was easier than staying.”

That lands. Hard. You see it in the way his gaze drops to the floor, like he can’t bear the weight of your eyes on him.

For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is thick—full of all the apologies neither of you ever said, all the arguments you never finished, all the love that never actually went away.

When he finally looks up, there’s something desperate behind his control.

“You weren’t supposed to take it off tonight.” His fingers brush the ring again, almost unconsciously. “Not yet.”

“Why?” you ask. “To make the shareholders feel better? To keep the Board from panicking? To avoid another headline?”

“No.” It’s immediate. Too immediate.

His breath hitches, like he regrets letting the truth slip out before he could stop it. His eyes dart away, searching for a way to walk it back, to hide behind business and logic and Gotham politics.

But there’s nothing left to hide behind out here.

“Bruce,” you say softly, “if this is about something else—just say it.”

He closes his eyes, and you see the exact moment the façade cracks. Just a hairline fracture, but it’s there. A tremor in his chest. A flicker of something painfully human in his expression.

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper.

“I didn’t want you to stop looking like mine.”

Your breath catches.

The words hang between you, fragile and heavy and real in a way Bruce never lets himself be.

He seems to realize what he’s said a second too late. He stiffens, straightening his back, trying to pull himself back into the perfect Wayne mask—but you’ve already seen through it.

You always have.

You take a step closer, close enough that he has to look at you. “Bruce… you divorced me.”

His eyes soften with something sadder than regret—something like longing, or guilt, or both.

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”

The confession leaves him like a wound opening.

You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe.

Bruce swallows hard, hands shaking just slightly as they hold yours. “Just—keep the ring on tonight,” he says, voice trembling. “If not for the public… then for me. Just a little longer. Let me—” He breaks off, unable to finish the sentence.

Let me pretend. Let me fix this. Let me have one more moment with you.

You hear all of it in the silence.

The gala music swells behind the door, but out here, in this little hallway, it’s just you and him and everything that didn’t die with the divorce papers.

Bruce looks at you like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Like he’s terrified of the answer.

[dukestags]

Bad night?

Jason Todd x male reader

summary: he's having a bad day

Jason didn’t mean to end up here. He’d planned to go straight home after patrol, maybe crack open a beer, maybe just sit in silence and stare at the city lights from the fire escape. But the night had gone to hell — a botched bust, a kid getting caught in crossfire, the same old voices in his head reminding him how badly he’d screwed up.

So instead of home, his boots found their way to your apartment.

He slipped in through the fire escape window the way he always did, silent and practiced. The moment his feet hit the carpet, the smell of you — soap, coffee, the faint spice of your cologne — hit him, grounding him. He exhaled shakily.

Piece by piece, he peeled off the Red Hood — helmet clunking softly against the floor, leather jacket dropping over the back of a chair, holsters unbuckled with trembling hands. All that armor, all that noise, it suddenly felt like too much. He dug into your drawer for one of your soft shirts — the faded one you wore to bed — and tugged it on. It hung loose on his frame, smelling like you.

He moved toward the bed like a man underwater, half-afraid you’d wake, half-hoping you would.

But the mattress dipped, and you stirred immediately, eyes blinking open, heavy with sleep but soft the moment they landed on him.

“Jay?” you murmured, voice low and rough. “Hey… what happened?”

Jason froze. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges.

You didn’t push. You just rolled onto your back, wordlessly reaching a hand toward him. “C’mere.”

That was all it took.

He crawled over you, settling on your chest like he’d done a hundred times before but somehow it felt different tonight — smaller, more fragile. Your arms came around him instantly, pulling him close until his heartbeat slowed against your ribs.

For a long time, neither of you said anything. You just ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension bleed out of him with every shaky breath.

“Bad night?” you asked quietly.

Jason huffed something that was almost a laugh, muffled against your shirt. “Yeah. Real bad.”

You pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Then you did the right thing coming here.”

He didn’t answer, just let out a long, tired sigh. His body went limp against you, the weight of him heavy but familiar.

And for the first time that night, Jason Todd finally let himself sleep — safe, warm, and held.

[dukestags]

Perfect smile.

Batfam x son reader (Platonic)

Summary: There's always a bad guy among good guys.

Warning: psychological horror, murder, cannibalism.

(WHY IS BRUCE WAYNE SO DAMN FINE IN GOTHAM KNIGHTS I MEAN COMMON THIS IS INSANE!!! WHY COULD'NT DC MAKE HIM LIKE THIS IN ALL OF THE DAMN ARKHAM KNIGHT GAMES!?!??! then there's dick doing flappy flappys )

Gotham loved the Waynes. Or, at least, it pretended to. And the Wayne family—dark knights by night and broken souls by day—pretended right back.

Among them, you were the golden one. The miracle. The youngest, the most well-adjusted, the one who smiled too easily and hugged a little too long. You’d grown up surrounded by shadows and violence, yet somehow radiated warmth.

“Y/N’s the normal one,” Dick would joke with a laugh that never quite reached his eyes. Jason would smirk and say, “Yeah, kid’s too damn nice for Gotham.” Even Damian, wary and suspicious, found himself tolerating your company. You could calm him in seconds—no small feat.

Alfred adored you, of course. “A proper gentleman,” he’d say, setting tea in front of you. “Master Bruce could learn a thing or two.” And Bruce… Bruce felt hope when he looked at you.

You were proof, to him, that not all who live in the dark have to become it.

But they never saw the red underneath your nails.

The family split off again—another night of chasing ghosts through Gotham’s underbelly. You took your patrol route alone, as usual. Bruce had protested, but you’d been persistent.

“Trust me,” you’d said, smiling. “I can handle myself, Dad.”

And you could. You handled yourself beautifully. You handled everything beautifully.

From the rooftops, you watched as Nightwing cornered a weapons dealer, Red Hood dismantled a cartel hideout, and Batman’s signal flared across the clouds. Your family—righteous, tireless, trying to fix a city that was already rotting from within.

They never realized you were the infection spreading through it.

The man you were following tonight had once sold girls to Black Mask. You’d “arrested” him three weeks ago. Bruce thought you’d handed him over to GCPD. In truth, you’d buried him under an abandoned church in Crime Alley.

You moved silently, a shadow among shadows, as your latest prey fled down the alley. You caught him by the throat and smiled—warm, gentle, almost apologetic.

“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “I’ll make it quick.”

When you were done, you cleaned the blade carefully, humming the tune that played in your earbuds: You look like an angel, walk like an angel... but I got wise.

Blood washed off easily under Gotham’s cold rain.

Back at the Cave, the family was reviewing the night’s patrol. “Another case of vigilante interference,” Tim muttered, frowning at his screens. “Someone’s tampering with evidence again.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been dealing with this for months. Whoever it is— they’re good. They know our systems.”

You stood behind him, hands clasped innocently behind your back. “That’s awful,” you said softly. “Who would do that?”

Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Someone who wants to make us look bad. Maybe a copycat, or one of Penguin’s tech freaks.”

Damian’s eyes flicked toward you, sharp and assessing. “Or someone closer.”

You smiled at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair before he could dodge. “You’ve been reading too many detective comics, little brother.”

Bruce shot you a half-smile, almost relieved by your presence. “He’s learning from the best.”

You laughed. “Then he’s doomed.”

But as you walked away, you caught your reflection in the Batcomputer’s screen— and for a heartbeat, you didn’t recognize the smile staring back.

It wasn’t the grin of a son who loved his family. It was the smirk of a wolf in Sunday clothes.

Alfred found you in the kitchen, sipping tea. “You’re up late again, Master Y/N,” he said gently. “Another long night?”

You nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah. Gotham never sleeps, right?”

He smiled fondly. “Neither, it seems, do the Waynes.”

You looked at him for a long moment. If Alfred ever knew the truth, it would break him.

So you smiled, perfectly, flawlessly, the way a good son should.

“Goodnight, Alfred.” “Goodnight, my boy.”

When he turned away, you murmured under your breath— “Sweet dreams.”

And you wondered if you’d mean it next time.

You never thought silence could taste this good.

The manor had been so loud — laughter, footsteps, the hum of the Batcomputer, the chatter of siblings. Now, your apartment was quiet. Empty. A single flickering lightbulb over the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of pipes in the walls.

Freedom.

Bruce had tried to talk you out of moving. “You’re too young,” he’d said, in that heavy tone of his. “Gotham’s dangerous alone.”

You’d smiled at him, same as always, that soft tilt of the mouth that disarmed everyone. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”

And you were. You were perfectly fine.

The funny thing about silence — it gives you room to hear the thoughts you didn’t know you had.

The hunger started small.

Not stomach hunger, but something deeper. An ache behind the ribs. A fascination, maybe. You’d seen so much blood, so many bodies. Gotham’s gutters ran red every night. You’d cleaned that mess a hundred times over for your family.

You started wondering why everyone was so afraid of it.

The first time was an accident.

The man had broken into your apartment — a junkie, desperate. You’d caught him mid-rummage, his hands trembling, eyes glassy.

“Please, man,” he’d begged. “I just—just need—”

You told him to leave. He didn’t. So you made him.

The sound of his neck snapping was clean, precise. You didn’t mean to. But when it was over, you didn’t feel guilt. Just… curiosity.

The human body is such a fascinating thing up close. So warm. So intricate.

You’d seen thousands of autopsy photos in the Batcave, but they never captured the scent. Metallic. Sweet. Real.

Your hands didn’t even shake.

You bought new knives. Stainless steel, surgical grade. You told the shopkeeper you were studying forensic pathology. You even smiled at her.

The human mind has strange thresholds. There’s the line you swear you’ll never cross — and then the moment you step over it, you realize there was never a line at all.

You started slow. Small.

A piece, here. Just to see. Just to know.

And you did know. It was tender. It was… intimate.

It made you feel powerful.

You wrote about it in your journal — the one Bruce had given you on your sixteenth birthday. The one embossed with your initials.

You titled the first entry:

“How to Become Human.”

The family called sometimes. You always answered, cheerful, normal.

“Yeah, work’s been great, Tim. Got a promotion.” “Love you too, Dick. Tell Babs I said hi.” “Of course, Alfred. I’ve been eating well.”

You laughed after that one.

They never visited. You always had an excuse ready — “too busy,” “the place is a mess,” “I’ll come by soon.”

You did visit Gotham’s alleys, though. You found your specimens there. The forgotten, the unclaimed.

You became their savior, in a way. You told yourself you were taking what the city wasted. You made it beautiful again.

You started preserving pieces. Perfect little collections. Catalogued by date, method, and mood.

Bruce would’ve admired the discipline.

You dreamt of the Cave again. The hum of the computers, the smell of oil and coffee, the sound of Damian’s sword slicing air.

You dreamt of Bruce turning toward you. His eyes, cold blue beneath the cowl.

“Son,” he said.

You smiled at him, and his face began to melt away, layer by layer, until all that was left was raw red and bone.

And still, he said it. “Son.”

You woke up smiling.

The police reports started stacking up again. People missing. No pattern, no motive. Just a slow bleed of disappearances in a six-block radius.

Batman was investigating.

You knew he’d find you eventually.

You wanted him to.

It happened on a Sunday.

You’d just finished dinner. The plate was still warm. You heard the steps on the fire escape before you saw him.

Bruce didn’t knock. He never did.

“Y/N.” “Dad.”

He looked around your apartment — clean, minimalist, meticulous. Too meticulous.

“I’ve been tracking someone,” he said. “Someone who’s been—” He stopped, eyes narrowing as they landed on the refrigerator.

You tilted your head. “Hungry?”

He moved before you finished speaking, pulling the door open. The smell hit first. Then the silence.

You watched him freeze. His eyes caught on the neat glass containers. Labelled. Dated. Arranged like trophies.

He didn’t move for a long time.

You stepped closer, your voice soft, almost gentle.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you whispered. “But… I’m glad it’s you.”

He turned toward you, rage and horror twisting across his face.

“Why?” he choked. “Why would you—”

You smiled. That same smile. Perfect. Warm. Familiar.

“Because,” you said, “you raised me to clean up Gotham’s messes.”

Bruce said nothing. He just stared.

And in that silence — in his trembling hands, in the way his breath shook — you felt something close to love.

For the first time, he saw you. The real you.

You took a step closer, voice barely a whisper.

“I’m not the hero you wanted, Dad.” You smiled wider, your eyes glinting under the dim light. “I’m the son Gotham deserved.”

In the end, you didn’t run when he raised the batarang. You didn’t fight.

You just smiled. Because every angel eventually falls—

—and sometimes, the devil’s face looks exactly like the one you love most.

[dukestags]

Can I request wonder woman x unassuming male intern at the daily planet who she gets a massive crush on after he carries her to safety during a battle in metropolis and even uses her shield to protect her from a stray bullet

The Man Who Carried Wonder Woman

Diana Prince x male reader

y/H = your hair color

summary: she was saved, now she's looking for her savior.

(I don't know much about Wonder Woman, ask again if you want It rewritten)

Metropolis burned with chaos. Smoke, glass, and steel filled the air as the latest menace — some alien warlord whose name wouldn’t matter for long — tore through downtown with brute, senseless fury.

And in the middle of it all, Diana Prince — Wonder Woman — stood her ground.

She deflected plasma blasts with her bracelets, eyes glowing with determination. Every swing of her sword was pure grace and precision. Every command barked to bystanders was filled with authority and calm. She was the storm and the eye within it — until the building came down.

The alien’s last desperate strike sent a shockwave through the plaza. The Daily Planet’s mirrored façade cracked and thundered down in a deadly avalanche of debris. Diana moved to leap away — too slow this time. A massive steel beam snapped free, heading straight for her.

But then — hands.

A pair of shaking, human hands shoved her out of the path and, impossibly, caught her.

The next thing she knew, she wasn’t standing. She was being carried — cradled, bridal-style, by a man who looked like he’d never lifted anything heavier than a stack of newspapers. His glasses were cracked, his breath hitched with fear, but his grip on her was firm. Terrified, yes — but steady.

He stumbled into the lobby’s wreckage, coughing through the smoke. “Are— are you okay?” he rasped, voice trembling.

Diana blinked, stunned. No one had ever asked her that in the middle of a battle before.

A stray bullet rang out, ricocheting toward them — and before she could react, he snatched up her shield from the rubble and lifted it, covering them both. The bullet sparked harmlessly off the golden metal. His arms trembled under the weight, but he didn’t flinch.

Diana’s lips parted in disbelief. He’d just shielded her.

The moment stretched — her heart hammering louder than the chaos outside. She could see the adrenaline in his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the sheer human fear — and yet, there was something else. Something quietly heroic.

By the time Superman arrived to end the fight, the intern was kneeling beside her, still holding the shield, still breathing hard.

“Y-you dropped this,” he said weakly, offering it back.

Diana took it slowly. “You… protected me.”

He gave a small, nervous laugh. “Seemed like the least I could do. You’ve saved, what, millions of people? I figured… you deserved a turn.”

Her lips curved — a rare, genuine smile that could have melted Olympus itself.

When the dust settled, and the heroes gathered, she found herself looking back again and again — searching for him among the crowd of reporters and emergency crews. He’d vanished, camera still hanging crookedly around his neck.

For the first time in centuries, Diana of Themyscira felt her pulse race for something other than battle.

And in the reflection of her shield, she saw not an Amazon warrior — but a woman who’d just been rescued.

The next morning, Metropolis woke to headlines about Wonder Woman saving the city again. But one woman at the Daily Planet wasn’t reading the paper — she was scanning faces.

Diana Prince, impeccably dressed in her usual tailored blazer and calm composure, stood in the newsroom doorway like a goddess in disguise — which, of course, she was.

Perry White barked orders, reporters rushed between desks, and Clark was already on the phone with Lois about another lead. The usual chaos. But Diana wasn’t listening. Her eyes were searching for one person.

The one who’d carried her through fire.

The one who’d used her own shield to protect her.

She’d thought about him all night — replayed every second. His heartbeat under her hands. The shock in his voice. That ridiculous, heroic moment that had somehow made her the one being saved.

“Ms. Prince?” Jimmy Olsen’s voice snapped her out of it. “You look like you’re searching for someone.”

Her lips curved faintly. “An intern,” she admitted. “He was at the scene yesterday. Glasses, Y/H, very brave — and very reckless.”

Jimmy grinned. “That narrows it down to about half the building.”

She smiled politely, but there was something unreadable in her gaze — that quiet, determined focus she usually reserved for battlefields.

When she finally spotted him, he was at the far end of the bullpen, balancing a stack of files, half-spilled coffee, and a nervous expression that practically shouted don’t notice me.

She started walking toward him. And every step made him freeze a little more.

When he finally looked up and realized Wonder Woman was headed straight for him, he nearly dropped everything. “Ms— Ms. Prince!” he stammered. “Hi! Uh, did I misfile something? Because I swear I checked the—”

“You carried me yesterday,” she said simply.

He blinked. “Oh. Um. Yeah. I— I didn’t really think about it at the time. Just… reflex, I guess.”

“Most people’s reflex is to run away,” she replied softly. “Not toward falling buildings.”

His ears turned red. “Well, I didn’t want to let you get hurt. You kind of… do a lot for the rest of us.”

For a long, quiet moment, Diana just looked at him. Not the way heroes look at civilians, but the way a woman looks at someone who’s just changed the way she sees the world.

She reached into her bag and pulled something out — her shield, gleaming in the office light. “You held this,” she said. “Few mortals have ever touched it. Even fewer did so to save me.”

He swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “I, uh… hope I didn’t scratch it.”

Diana laughed — a soft, genuine sound that made everyone nearby stop and stare. “You didn’t,” she said. “But you did leave an impression.”

He blinked again. “An impression?”

“Yes.” She took a step closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “On me.”

There was a beat of silence — the kind that hummed with possibility.

Then she extended her hand. “Join me for coffee? I’d like to thank my rescuer properly.”

He stared, completely flustered. “You— you mean, like, coffee coffee?”

Her smile deepened. “Unless you’d prefer a sparring match.”

He shook his head quickly. “Nope. Coffee’s perfect.”

As she led the way out of the newsroom, Clark raised an amused brow over his glasses. Lois smirked. Jimmy mouthed, is this happening?!

And somewhere in the middle of Metropolis, the goddess of truth walked beside a nervous intern — smiling wider than anyone had ever seen her.

Because for once, Diana Prince wasn’t saving the world. She was falling for it.

[dukestags]

you've hurt me immensely with price x sailor reader and i am here to request more, please 🙏

thinking either surprise happy ending where turns out reader got off the ship and was just found on some island alive or something.

or just like more of price telling the lads stories of the happy times or even flashbacks to those (if this one, maybe readers body was just found and confirmed kia and its at his funeral or something)

sorry if this just sounds dumb, i just woke up. ig either could have flashbacks huh... anyways erm thanks for the heart ache!

The kettle is still warm.

this is the good ending of Sleep well, love

John price x male reader

Rain pressed against the windows of the pub in soft, endless waves. The air was thick with heat and whiskey, the smell of old wood and damp wool settling into everything. In the back corner — their corner — Task Force 141 sat huddled together, nursing drinks and silence. It had been a long mission. A brutal one. The kind that left the soul heavier than the body.

Soap was halfway through a story, hands carving shapes in the air, laughter punctuating his words — until Price’s low chuckle cut through the noise. It wasn’t his usual laugh. Not the sharp, commanding sound of their Captain. It was softer, worn with years and memory.

“What’s funny, Cap?” Soap asked, half-grinning.

Price swirled the amber in his glass, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “Just reminds me of someone.”

Gaz leaned forward. “Someone?”

Price’s voice went quiet, thoughtful. “My husband.”

The table fell still. Even Ghost’s drink paused mid-air.

“You’re married?”

“Was,” Price said softly. “To the most stubborn, brilliant bastard I ever met. [Y/N]. Met him back at Hereford — logistics and comms. Smart as hell, mouth like a bloody minefield.”

Soap gave a faint smirk. “So what’d he say to you first time?”

Price’s lips twitched. “Told me to stop starin’ at him like I was tryin’ to solve an equation.”

That earned a few quiet chuckles. But when he spoke again, his voice turned fragile, like glass just before it cracks. “We got married in a garden near base. Small thing — no brass, no fanfare. Just us and the wind. He wore this navy-blue suit. Said it brought out my eyes. I told him he was daft. He told me I was in love.”

He took another slow drink, eyes distant. “We only had two weeks before I got sent out again. But those two weeks… I’d trade every medal I’ve ever earned for one more day of ‘em.”

No one spoke. The fire popped quietly in the grate.

Then, barely above the rain, Price whispered, “He’s gone.”

Gaz’s voice was gentle. “What happened?”

Price’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Four years ago. Routine Navy run — Indian Ocean. Forecast was clear. Storm hit outta nowhere. Hull split. No survivors.”

His jaw clenched. “Didn’t believe it. Called every contact I had, spent nights staring at maps like they’d tell me somethin’ different. But when they found the wreckage…”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn photo — two men smiling at each other like the world was brand new.

“That’s the last picture I’ve got,” he murmured. “Morning before he shipped out. He was fixing my bloody tie, said I still hadn’t learned.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of grief. Of understanding. Of everything men like them rarely said out loud.

Soap cleared his throat, his usual brightness dulled. “He sounds like a good man.”

“The best,” Price said. His voice caught, just once. “My anchor. My calm. My home.”

He raised his glass, eyes shining faintly in the light. “To him.”

They all followed — no questions, no pity. Just respect.

Hours later, the pub was nearly empty. Only the rain kept talking, steady and soft against the windowpanes. Price’s cap sat on the table, untouched. His whiskey was gone.

When Ghost finally stood, tossing bills onto the table, the others followed. “Come on, Cap,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you home.”

Price nodded, slipping the photo back into his pocket. At the door, he paused, looking out at the rain. “Sleep well, love,” he whispered, and stepped out into the night.

The Call

The car park glistened under the rain, streetlights turning puddles to gold. The team lingered by the truck, breath fogging in the cold air.

Price’s phone buzzed. Unknown number. He frowned and answered anyway. “Price.”

“John.” Kate Laswell’s voice — low, measured, but not like usual. There was something under it. Something trembling.

“Laswell?” He straightened instinctively. “What’s goin’ on?”

“Where are you right now?”

“Out,” he said, cautious. “With the team.”

A long pause. The sound of rain filled the gap between their words.

“Sit down, John.”

He froze. Soap glanced over, sensing the shift. Gaz’s brow furrowed.

“Kate…” His voice dropped. “You’re scarin’ me.”

When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t the clipped tone of command — it was quiet. Careful. Human.

“We found him.”

The world stopped. The rain, the lights, the night — all of it froze around that single sentence.

Price’s voice cracked. “...What?”

“Distress beacon triggered off a remote island chain, Indian Ocean. An old Navy frequency. We cross-checked it with the logs from your husband’s ship.”

His breath came sharp. “Kate, don’t—”

“John.” She cut him off gently. “There was one survivor.”

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His knees nearly gave out, and Soap grabbed his arm without hesitation.

Laswell’s words broke through the static. “He’s alive. Malnourished, dehydrated — but alive. He’s been stranded all this time. Said he never stopped trying to get the signal out.”

For a moment, all Price could do was breathe. The rain hit harder, or maybe it was just his heartbeat in his ears.

Then a laugh escaped him — a broken, disbelieving sound. “You’re certain?”

“One hundred percent,” Laswell said softly. “He’s being flown to Ramstein. He’s stable. He kept asking if you’d still be there.”

Price pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. His eyes burned. Soap and Gaz stood frozen, watching him with dawning realization.

Ghost’s voice, quiet beneath the rain: “Cap…?”

Price turned toward them — his face streaked with rain and tears indistinguishable from each other. “He’s alive,” he whispered. Then louder, almost a shout: “He’s alive!”

Soap let out a whoop that echoed through the empty street. Gaz grinned, eyes shining. Ghost just nodded once — a small, solemn smile hidden under the mask.

Price laughed again, breathless and wet with disbelief. He tilted his face up toward the sky, the rain washing over him.

“Tell him…” His voice trembled as he spoke into the phone. “Tell him I’m comin’ home.”

Laswell’s voice softened through the static. “He said you’d find your way back to him. Guess he was right.”

Price closed his eyes, whispering into the rain — “Keep the kettle warm, love.”

And for the first time in years, his heart felt light.

[dukestags]

Hello this is my first request but if you don’t reply it’s okay. But I was wondering how you think Thomas Hewitt would go about doing anal. I’m trying not to sound weird but all the other stuff I read never write about it so yeah

Can it be a fem reader please and thank you ❤️

I do in fact not write female reader, this is just because I find it extremely uncomfortable to do so as a trans man but I can write it as a FTM reader aka (female to male reader). Now you can find my rules on my pinned writing.

[dukestags]

Head scratches.

Thomas Hewitt x Reader

summary: he gets an ouch.

(idk why but this gif so fucking funny😭)

The kitchen smelled like spices and warmth — your favorite combination. You were standing side by side with Thomas, chopping vegetables for dinner. His large hands, gentle despite their scars, were carefully slicing through a thick potato. You smiled, glancing up at him.

“Careful, Tommy,” you murmured. “You don’t have to rush.”

He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, always so focused when he was helping you. But a second later, there was a sharp clang of the knife against the cutting board — followed by a hiss of pain.

“Tommy!” you gasped, dropping your spoon and rushing to his side.

He had nicked the side of his thumb. It wasn’t deep, but you could tell it stung. He tried to hide his hand behind his back, embarrassed, but you gently caught it and inspected the small cut.

“Oh, sweetheart,” you sighed softly. “You have to be more careful.”

You grabbed a clean cloth, wrapping it around his thumb as he looked down at you, big brown eyes full of apology. You smiled up at him. “It’s okay. No one’s mad. Just—no more knives for tonight, alright?”

He gave a small nod and, before you knew it, Thomas leaned down, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You could feel the tension melting off him, replaced by a quiet need for comfort.

You guided him to the couch, tugging his hand gently. “C’mere, big guy.”

The moment you sat down, Thomas all but collapsed on top of you. His massive frame enveloped you, his head resting heavily on your chest, half on your stomach. You let out a quiet “oof!” at the impact, your lungs struggling for space — but the sight of him nuzzling into you made it impossible not to smile.

“Tommy… you’re crushing me a little,” you whispered, giggling softly.

He froze for a second, lifting his head in concern — but you immediately brought a hand up to his cheek, reassuring him. “It’s okay, love. Stay. Just… maybe breathe with me, not on me, yeah?”

That earned a quiet rumble that might’ve been a laugh. He relaxed again, tucking his face into your chest.

You began running your fingers through his hair — slow, gentle strokes that made him melt against you even more. His breath slowed, his body loosening as your nails lightly scratched his scalp. You could feel the tension ebbing away from him with every touch.

“Good boy,” you murmured. “My big, soft, sweet man.”

You pressed little kisses all over his temple, his cheek, the bridge of his nose — anywhere you could reach. He made a low, content sound, eyes fluttering shut as you worked your fingers into his hair, massaging in small circles.

Even though it was a little hard to breathe under his weight, you didn’t mind. Not when he sighed like that. Not when his fingers curled lazily against your side, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

“See?” you whispered, smiling down at him. “All better now.”

Thomas hummed quietly — a sound that said more than words ever could — and pressed a shy kiss to your ribs through your shirt. Then he buried his face back into you, perfectly content, while you kept petting and kissing him until the only sounds in the house were your joined heartbeats and the soft crackle of the stove cooling in the kitchen.