em

20

[emwwrites]

⁺‧₊˚ ཐི⋆⚰︎⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧ directory

Heard you, saw you, felt you, love you, Need you, saw you, felt you, love you, Heard you, saw you, felt you, love you, Love you, love you, love you, love you.

she/her. 20. psych & crim student. Aussie Aboriginal.

DC, marvel & COD & Hannibal enthusiast

i take reqs!!!!!

[emwwrites]

John Price x reader

Trigger warninggg reader is being tortured <3 not very graphic. Wrote this half asleep. I’ve been trying to get back into writinggg I hope this isn’t absolute ass <33

The stained concrete shifts beneath your feet. The world is thrown off kilter as you’re shoved down. Hard. Onto your knees.

After at least a week (but who was keeping track anymore) of near total darkness the world is suddenly far too bright. The room is repugnant. Mould. Blood. Sweat. Dirt. The ringing in your ears is yet to dissipate.

There’s a disorientingly bright flash of light in front of your face and the punch comes near out of nowhere. A clean hit straight across the jaw, the shout of surprise leaves your lips as your head is thrust to the side. Through the ringing you can make out the voices of those around you— Makarov and company. Four other armed Russians. A challenge to take out on a good day, and next to impossible while disoriented, starved, beaten and bound.

He’s talking to you, but you only gather this as he grips your face between his cold hands, tilting your head up toward the blinding light. A camera.

There’s a pang of something that settles deep in your stomach. You know why he’s recording, and where the recordings going.

He’s still talking at you. Waiting. Expecting. There is no response to you and the slap of his palm across your cheek echoes through the room.

“Fuck you,” you croak, blinking out of your dissociative state. He clasps your cheeks between his fingers, shaking your head side to side.

“Say hello.” He repeats, and the words finally register, your gaze shifting down reflexively.

“Uh uh—“ he tuts, releasing your cheeks to clasp a handful of hair from the crown of your head, pulling it back. You cry out as your head is jerked back, face jerked up towards the camera. “Say hello.” He repeats. “Say hello to your beloved Captain.”

Your gaze fixes, albeit disorinetingly, on the camera lens, the sharp, bright light making your eyes flicker. Your head is ringing, but you know refusal and noncompliance isn’t going to go in your favour. “Hello, Captain.” You breathe out, voice a soft wheeze, tears threshing to pool in your eyes from the humiliation. Captured and tortured. Played with like a doll and now a leverage point.

“Хорошая девочка” (Good girl), Makarov replies, pleased. A beat of silence before he speaks again.

“Now tell him you love him.”

A wave of nausea wracks your body as you swallow thickly, head swimming.

“No.” You breathe out resolutely, jaw tight, tears welling in your eyes. You wouldn’t do this. Wouldn’t do this to John.

He releases your hair, and for a moment you think there will be reprieve. The hope is short lived as his palm comes back into contact with your cheek. He sneers something in Russian— something you miss and one of his men steps forwards, taking the camera from his grip.

He kicks you. Hard. Straight in the ribs before you have any moment to react. You gasp out loud, doubling over as he crouches. He pulls a knight from the sheath on his ankle, positioning himself behind you. He grabs a fist full of your hair again, pulling you up straight and your head back. The knife rests against your throat.

You’re panting, a single tear falling down the side of your face. “Say it.” The Russian sneers in your ear as the cameraman puts the camera in your face. “Fuck you—“ you rasp again, trying to writhe in his grasp.

“Do you think this is what your Captain wants?” The Russian sneers, “to know your blood is spilt because of him?”

“He has nothing to do with this,” you grit, cringing as the blade kisses your throat, beading droplets of blood against your skin.

“Моя любовь (my love)” he speaks, gaze glimmering sadistically. “This has everything to do with him.”

Makarov’s gaze shifts upwards, focusing on the camera before nodding. The camera is lowered, the focus on the guards feet.

You scream, crying out as the camera cuts.

<3

“John…” Laswell breathes out, swallowing as the footage plays again. He’s been watching it on repeat since he’d received it. An untraceable email. The only proof they’d still had that you were potentially alive. Filmed 24 hours ago.

“John. Punishing yourself isn’t going to get her back.”

“She should’ve bloody said it.”

“You know she couldn’t do that to you.”

[emwwrites]

Need more knight!johnprice please omg

HELLO IM GLAD YOU GET THE VISION

Grandmaster Price has been in a bad mood for upwards of a month now. While such a scene is not a rarity, his bouts of melancholy typically did not last this long. Or to this extent.

The Court is terse. Bandits have been spotted along the Southernmost border of your kingdom, crops are dying off as the months bleed into winter and offers of marriage have been gracing the Court for at least a month now. Except your Lords are scared to speak. The younger, lesser experienced Lords step forward. “I think we should station an order by the border,” he states, clearly pleased with himself to have been the first to suggest it.

But only because the other Lords knew better, especially at a time like this.

“Good thing we don’t act on what you think.” Grandmaster Price grits, jaw terse and gaze hot enough to melt iron and simultaneously cool it to frost. “Putting an order on the border for bandits is a waste of effort and resources, ‘specially with the dying crops.”

The other Lords exchange glances, mustering small nods of solidarity.

“Perhaps her majesty should consider accepting a proposal from one of the Southern kingdoms?” Another Lord piped up, albeit nervously.

The mention of accepting the proposal draws your lips together. A sharp line to hide the frown, your fingers fidgeting with the forged gold around your fingers, a nervous habit. Grandmaster John replies before you, a sharp scoff as he turns, angling his sharp, armour clad body towards the foolish Lord, strong arms crossed across his chest. “Bandits scout our Southern border and your first suggestion is to sell out our Queen?”

The young Lord flusters slightly, turning to face you wide-eyed, “no,” he replies, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Of- of course not, I simply meant to imply that offers have been made and if her majesty is looking then—“

“Looking?” John scoffs again, and from your throne you can see the vein across his temple bulging. There’s a pang of something in the pit of your chest at the sudden flare in your Grandmasters gaze.

John has always been protective of you. Five years your senior, he’d watched over you as you’d grown up, had taught you how to fight. He had been by your side at your coronation and had been there for you after the sudden assassination of your family that had thrust you to the throne.

Except, it was more than being protective, or so you would fantasise. John wasn’t like a brother, like a mentor or guide. You’d spent late nights together while he’d been off duty, had ridden on the back of his horse, (against the protocols of royalty), had wrapped your arms around him (furthermore against the protocols of royalty), had spent countless hours laughing together, sharing glasses of mead. The amount of times he’d put himself in harms way to save your life. The scars that tainted his body, all in the name of protective

Nonetheless, even if your heart skipped a beat whenever he was in close proximity. How his gaze would linger for a moment too long (or maybe that was just you).

“Her majesty isn’t looking for someone to take her hand in marriage.” John adds, voice thick with restraint as silence falls upon the Court room. “The Court of Lords should know better than anyone that her majesty hasn’t had a say in any of the proposals—“

One of the elder Lords pike up, a flash of defence crossing his face, “Grandmaster Price, if you are suggesting that we are coercing her majesty—“

“Did you need me to spell it out for you?”

You end the quibbling with a sharp sigh, a soft tsk as you raise to your feet. The Court falls quiet again as you wave your hand, a dismissive flick of your wrist. “Leave Grandmaster Price and I alone.” You order. The Court bows before slipping through the Court doors, leaving you alone with Price.

The male is terse. Body stiff beneath the armour. His arms are uncrossed from his chest, now planted stiffly by his sides.

You step down from the dais, your soft gaze on him. “John,” you breathe out softly. The males gaze falters at the sound of his name instead of his title. The stiffness dissipates from his shoulders and he lets out a soft breath, as if the tension of Grandmaster had left completely.

“What is going on with you?”

“Nothing, m’lady.” He replies gruffly, turning his body back to face you, his gaze softening again as you descend the dais, your shoes falling quietly against the tiles of the Court room. “Wrong answer.” You reply, arching a brow, displeased as you stop in front of him.

Barely even chest to chest, you gaze up at him. “You’ve been… Off.” You murmur, measuring your words. Trying to make it out as if you hadn’t noticed the very day his mood had turned sour. As if it hadn’t plagued your mind since. “It’s unsettling the Court.” I add after a beat of silence. A cool breath of detachment. As if it were merely professional concern.

His jaw clenches at the mention of the Court and he scoffs. He goes to turn away, to stride across the room, put the distance before you that is meant to be there, but you’re not letting him off that easily.

You reach up, grasping his bottom jaw in your hand, as if threatening him to turn away from you.

John falters at the touch, blinking as his body stiffens. You shouldn’t be touching him. Shouldn’t be this close. Shouldn’t be alone together.

“What’s going on with you?” You repeat again as the silence settles between the two of you. Thick. Charged with something you’re both too scared to voice out loud. But John is not a man of fear.

His hand rests on the handle of his sword as he moves, lowering himself down onto one knee. The metal clinks against the floor of the Court, your gaze locked on his, maintaining eye contact as he lowers before you in devotion. “The Court is forcing you into a marriage you don’t want.” He states after a beat of silence.

You tilt your head, hand shifting from his jaw, finger nails tracing up his cheek. You watch the flutter of his eyelashes, the subtle twitch of his nose as you trail across his temple, palm finally coming to rest against his cheek. “What makes you say I don’t want to be married?”

“Because you’re not a fool.”

A small huff of amusement, an arched manicured brow, “and you’re calling my Court fools?”

“Not the word I would use, is it?” He replies, the corner of his lip twitching upwards. His gaze flickers with something. Something akin to hope. Or maybe you’re just making it all up.

“You haven’t taken any initiative.” He adds after a beat, as if to prove his point. “You change the topic every time a proposal is mentioned, bet you couldn’t even name five of the suitors and their proposals.” You can’t help your small smile. How well your knight knew you.

“You know none of them will ever be worthy.” He adds when you don’t try to discredit him. “Know you’ll never be happy with any of them.”

“And why wouldn’t I be happy with any of the suitors?” You challenge softly after a beat of silence, heart pounding in your chest, your hand still pressed gently against his cheek. His gaze fixes on your own, oceanic blue and stormy waters. The tension between the two of you flickers. A candle about to burn down to the wick.

“Because you’re not a fool.”

#mutualpiningforbiddenloversHELLLLOO

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

[emwwrites]

141 and admin reader!!!!

There’s faulty equipment in the gym and of course the only time you’ve been free all day to get to it is during 141s training session.

Cue reader trying to take photos of faulty equipment and Johnny and Gaz are in the background showing off. They’re lifting stupidly heavy, grunting and groaning real loud, clearly making an effort to get you to glance their way. Johnny takes his shirt off first, mumbling loudly about how hot it is in here.

And your determination is strong, even if you are internally dying inside. Even more so when you accidentally stumble over a dumbbell. Reflexively you kick it and the thing doesn’t even budge. Even as you try shove it aside with a little more force.

Then of course, none other than Simon fucking Riley appears from the shadows, leaning down with a sorry love as he picks the dumbbell up with ease. The muscle of his bicep barely quivers and your jaw just about drops to the floor when you watch him place it back on the rack single-handedly and trade it for the next two weights up.

Price is next, squatting what looks like almost double your weight. He isnt straining, but his breathing is controlled, focused and the way his body moves, covered in a thin glisten of sweat is going to be stuck on repeat in your mind for weeks.

[emwwrites]

mmmh thinking about knights and John price and knights and John price and knights and John price and

Knight!John Price who lowers himself down onto one knee, kneeling before you and your throne. He’s older than you by a few years, but the years of training, of sacrifice and duty have aged him.

Your dress is a light blue and your hair is braided, flowers weaved between the strands. You are gorgeous for a woman who had lost just about everyone a few weeks ago.

You had never meant to take the throne, but the sudden assassinations of the King, Queen and Prince had left no one but you. Even then, the throne was never yours to take. It had simply been because Price had saved you in the last minute. Your knight in shining armour. Quite literally.

You stand before him, your small, soft, supple hands held out to him. They are small in his calloused grip.

The hall is quiet. It is your coronation, yet in this moment, it is John Price being sworn in as the Grand Master of your knights. It is only fitting. The rule of the kingdom had come under threat, and it had been him to single-handedly save it.

“By my honour and the grace of the heavens above.” He begins, lifting his gaze. His oceanic blue eyes meet your own gaze. “I pledge my sword, my life, and my unwavering loyalty to you, my liege.”

[tojisteddy]

BIG DAY FOR US GIRLS WHO LOVE OLD MEN, WAKE UP WAKE UP

[emwwrites]

mdni <3

Did I watch the new trailer only for my beloved Price? Yes. Yes I did. And OH BOY. So many ideas with this one guys.

Reader who’s basically Kyle’s match, Price who goes directly to your house after the shooting and tells you while reaching under your bed and grabbing the go bag you always have ready. There’s no denying him, not when he’s got that gaze about him. So you wind up on the run with your Captain.

Thinking the entire personality and mood shift. Maybe you’d been casually fucking. Every now and then after an op to blow off steam. He’s rough in the right ways. Soft, gentle occasionally. Always wipes you clean, kisses you all over and worships your body. And then on the run he’s just mean. Rough, selfish, leaves you high, dry, dirty. And you hate him for it, but knowing what and who he was means more than the terrible treatment.

Kyle and Simon constantly messages you.

Hey, where are you?

Everything’ right?

So you’ve just disappeared?

You shouldn’t have left with him.

At least let me know you’re alright?

They’re lookin’ for you both.

And you should get rid of the phone, but you can’t. Not when the thought of leaving him makes your heart ache. Not when he’s always been there for you. How could you leave him when it was his turn to need you?

Then cue the fight scene, John and Ghost squaring off and you’re stuck against Kyle who’s trying to talk you down. Who’s trying to appeal to your logic, but you’re too far gone and you know it. You know how it looks. Know that there’s no universe in which you get out of this situation unscathed.

You throw the first punch and Kyle’s on the defensive until he gets the upper hand and takes you down. Waking up in interrogation and they’re asking you to spill on Price but you won’t. Can’t.

Ghost who tells you John told him the truth. And your brows furrow. “What truth?”

That Price had kidnapped you, held you against your will. Had cut off your connection with the rest of the world. That he’d manipulated you. Used you. That you’d been completely innocent. He clears your name. Gets you tossed in therapy, whispers of Stockholm syndrome. But it keeps you out of prison.

So it’s no surprise really, in your little flat late one night making dinner and you hear a knock at your door. You already know who’s there.

[emwwrites]

JOHN PRICE AND ADMIN READER JOHN PRICE AND ADMIN READER JOHN PRICE AND ADMIN READER

Reader who is softly spoken, a little bit socially awkward and maybe a little shy but incredibly meticulous with that cute little “I’ll do it myself because you won’t do it right” type attitude.

Reader who is in the cafeteria telling a story to a small group (Price included) about (insert topic reader is really interested in), hands moving, eyes lit up and animated and Price is in awe. This quiet softly spoken woman is getting obscenely excited about (insert topic here), yet people aren’t paying attention. Not really.

He watched the quiet shift, the way your gaze flickers between each of the men, assessing engagement, and he watched the way you shift slightly, physically pulling back into yourself as your stream of awe flails into a soft decrescendo. Sees the way you start doubting yourself and decides to step forwards, a gentle hand touching your elbow, drawing your attention to HIM and only HIM. The way he leans in towards you, effectively severing you from the idiots.

“Go on, love.” He coaxes, that sweet, small smile, watching as you reanimate, a faint, sheepish hue spreading across your cheeks.

[im-not-a-pleeb]

When Calls The Deep

Lighthouse Keeper John x Mermaid Reader

A tortured lighthouse keeper is given a second chance at life after he finds a mermaid washed up on his beach. While he knows you aren't his to keep, he can't help but dream of a world where you don't have to return to the Ocean.

Tags (check parts for cw): Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Slowburn, Gothic Horror, Supernatural, Romance, Mermaid AU

40k Words

A03

John Price Masterlist

Chapter One - John's Exodus

Chapter Two - Soul Of The Damned (Editing...)

Chapter Three - Phantasmagoria (Writing...)

Chapter Four - Winds Blow East

Chapter Five - Till A Mermaid Drags You Under

Chapter Six - What Strange Creature

Chapter Seven - A Star To Sail Her By

Chapter Eight - Untitled

Chapter Nine - Untitled

Chapter Ten - Even As I Sleep

Chapter Eleven - Untitled

Chapter Twelve - Sailors Delight

Chapter Thirteen - When Calls The Deep

Chapter Fourteen - This Wretched World

Chapter Fifteen - Below Still Waters

Chapter Sixteen - O Captain, My Captain

Chapter Seventeen - Untitled

Chapter Eighteen - Beyond The Sea

Bonus Chaper - Kyle Garrick

Bonus Chapter - Simon Riley (Writing...)

Bonus Chapter - Kate Laswell

Bonus Chapter - Soap MacTavish

[batwngs]

everything is coming up roses ft. jason todd

Gotham in the spring was, oddly, much too bright. Outside of those stretches of greying rain and thunderous downpour, there were pockets of blinding light that ushered massive crowds into the day-lit streets of the city. There were more people laughing and talking and singing loudly in the presence of their companions, there were more cars honking as they sped through the streets, there were more bodies passing by one another as they maneuvered through the now crowded streets—more sound, more movement, more life.

And Jason, of course, hated it.

There was something about the spring that felt vile and rotten to him, despite the bursts of life that existed so prominently in the air as May approached. Where everyone basked in the warming sun of the season, in the joyous symphony of time spent in the company of others, in the rhythms of life beating incessantly in every corner of even a city as morbid and cruel as Gotham, Jason found himself yet again at the sidelines, some enemy unable to experience the winds of life getting lost in his hair.

He didn’t like to see the world alive like this; he didn’t know how, or if, he could belong to a spring that called for life instead of what was gravely his. It was almost as if his body knew that spring wasn’t for him, that his being alive in May was some faulted error that allowed him to slip through the cracks or some cruel form of punishment for whatever sins he carried at the forward curve of his shoulders. His body must have remembered the weight of springtime dirt, naming that his home rather than the life and breath that shaped the season above him, that populated the city before him. After all, the world came to life while he lay dead just days before the call of May; it only made sense that he would feel uneasy at the life spring awakened when his body was already accustomed to a silenced slumber. This had to be the case, for why else would he feel so strange, so out-of-place—or rather, out-of-time—on the warmed streets of Gotham? Maybe his body truly did remember that, just a few years back, all there was to presence was dirt.

In an attempt to distract himself before his mind spiraled too far into some shitty station that would only dampen the otherwise bright and warm day, he thought about you and why he was even outside when he would much rather be holed away in his apartment. It was you who wanted, begged, and pleaded with him into coming to this café all so that you could try some new desserts in his company. He didn’t care for whatever new flavor of confectionary sweets were being invented just steps away from where he sat on the street-lined patio, but when you had asked him to join you just a few nights ago, Gotham’s streetlamps the stars glimmering in your eyes, he found it impossible to say no, even if he feigned a string of no’s just to hear you plead for his time.

Despite how he slouched and slumped into the chair under the helpful shade of the café’s umbrella arch or how his sunglasses threatened to slip from the bridge of his nose as he watched the world exist loudly around him, it was undeniable that you had an impact on him. Your presence in his life felt so antithetical to what he imagined for himself, like a persistent coffee ring burning itself a home on his coffee table—you didn’t do anything other than be there and yet somehow, he couldn’t keep his attention away from you for long. With his insistence on working alone damned, over the long months you have come to lighten his darkened nights with your laughter and prodding into his affairs. After so long, it was expected for you to emerge from the shadowed alleys into his plans or for him to find you leaning casually against his bike while criticizing—playfully or otherwise, tone for some reason escaped him when it came to you—his methods and overly thought-through decisions. You, like a thorn he can’t help but press his thumb across, always managed to push his every button with just a few words, playing at the gaps between each syllable that fell away with his masked late-night drawl—and he let it happen each and every night.

As much as he hated to admit it—and would deny if ever questioned—he did enjoy your persistent presence in his routine of things. You had become his list of nevers reimagined: he never would have brought himself to this café if it weren’t for you; he never would have spent several nights after patrol watching movies you briefly mentioned in conversation, foregoing sleep just to do so, if it weren’t for you; he never would have allowed his heart to be swallowed in the overwhelm of softened brushstrokes that painted his scars blush if it weren’t for you,

He never would’ve chosen to sit outside the café either, only doing so as you much preferred the people-watching aspect that comes with outdoor seating, especially on temperate days like this where almost all of Gotham had managed to find their way outside. With you, it seemed as if his life became a series of inconveniences that no longer felt inconvenient. If anything, it felt more inconvenient for him to not have the image of you cloud his mind, to not consider you in his logic of thinking. Even now, he would suffer the brightness of a world ripe with spring’s life only for you.

Yet he didn’t know why he was so nervous now, his leg bouncing and his hands finding purchase tapping the somewhat wobbly outdoor table as he waited for you to arrive at the café. Whether it was the anxiety of anticipation melded against the brightened loudness of a season so wholly unfamiliar to him, Jason sat there forcing busy hands and busy minds to distract. You weren’t even here and still you stung him into a fidgeting mess so unlike himself. Maybe you were the tiding of spring that awakened something unfamiliar and warm within him, something he didn’t know was his to be consumed by.

People continued to pass by, laughing and smiling and barking their words into Gotham’s warming sky. He was lucky his sunglasses concealed his eye movements, as he tracked the crowded street corners searching for you amongst the life before him. Neighbors being walked along sharp corners by their dogs, hurried suits brushing past leisurely strolls, bike bells chiming through the bustling life—it was the kind of mess of life that you somehow loved dearly while he, cornered to the margins, envied. Despite his distaste at the world before him, he couldn’t help his gaze fixed on watching this lively cast stage itself. What started as an intentional scouting to find you hidden amongst the swaying and dancing crowd turned into this study of movement and color and light in the school of your teaching. He wanted to understand the world through your eyes, see the life before him for what it was instead of the strings of curses he felt were destined for his flesh and tongue—to see the world as you do and not the fragmented ache he can’t help but see in every corner, interaction, and breath drawn.

Suddenly, the world turned red—a violence of reddish florals and the sweetened powder of velveted earth crushing his senses, ripping him away from his study of the world crowding Gotham’s spring, his unfamiliar season. The gentle tapping of the crisp brown paper on his head, a delicate bouquet of roses crowning him in a wave of greetings held in your precious hand, alerted him back to his reality.

“Hey,” you smiled, your presence finally in his line of sight as you peered up from behind him before sliding into the empty seat next to him. You rested the bouquet of roses on the table, the collection of ribbon-tied roses rich in their vibrancy pointed right at Jason.

“What’s this?” he questioned, masking his joy at seeing you with the peeved air he was already carrying at the world’s parade of life surrounding him.

“Roses.”

“For?”

“For you,” you grinned as you nudged the bouquet closer to him on the table.

“No thanks,” he said indifferently. Despite the nonchalance he was projecting, a sudden biting worry clamored at his chest: should he have brought something for you? The thought of bringing you a gift completely evaded him, too preoccupied in having to leave his cooled apartment for the warmth of these brightened streets and seasonally flavored sweets he didn’t care for.

You scoffed in response, breaking Jason’s anxiety with your sharp tongue, “The fuck do you mean ‘no thanks?’”

“I don’t do roses.”

“You don’t do roses?” you echoed.

You looked as if you were trying to hold back from laughing at his statement, but Jason pressed forward: “Yup. Or flowers in general.”

You chuckled, a mischievous, teasing smile slowly etching your features, “Too much of a tough guy for flowers?”

He crossed his arms and huffed, almost pouting really. You had gotten him flowers: how else was he to act? It’s not every day that affection is thrown so openly in his direction, especially in the shape of something as soft as flowers, given unabashedly by your hands.

“Get over yourself and take the fucking flowers,” you said, chuckling as you, once again, scooted the bouquet closer to him and leaned back in your chair, mimicking his stance with your arms now crossed too.

Jason scoffed playfully, “Attitude.”

“Rich coming from you.”

“Couldn’t you have at least gotten a better flower?”

“I thought you didn’t want them,” you taunted, a soft goading carrying over your words.

“I don’t, but roses? They’re basic, I can’t help but feel insulted.”

“You’re insulted that I got you flowers?” you chuckled. Jason knew what you were doing: the quiet laugh as your words fell from your lips and were carried by the soft breeze, the inquisitive tone in your voice that pried for more from him, the slightest lean forward—you were revving up for the snap of your Venus flytrap, ready to catch him tangled in his own web of words.

“No, I’m insulted that you got me roses,” he countered. “Do I look like a rose kind of guy?”

“So, you like that I got you flowers.”

The jaws of your quick wit were coming down, almost choreographed in how easily you were able to maneuver him to the metaphorical corner he found himself backing into. He quickly retorted, “I didn’t say that.”

“Well, if you don’t like roses, what flowers do you like?”

“I don’t like flowers.”

“You seem to have a lot of opinions on flowers for someone who doesn’t like them.”

“I’m just saying that if you’re going to get flowers for someone, maybe consider getting ones that match their personality, or vibe, or whatever.”

“You don’t think you’re a rose?”

“I’m not a basic bitch if that’s what you’re implying,” he mused. If you were going to walk away from this conversation a victor, he at least will go down with the dramatics.

But, even in his attempt to remain stoic and serious at your sly game of words, he found himself cracking a brief smile. You always managed to grab a smile out of him, as if your words and incessant pandering chiseled him down to some abstract, unnamed feeling he couldn’t even conceive of let alone tame with a definition. Even after almost a year of working together late into the night, running case after case and cleaning up those forgotten corners of Gotham’s grief, you so easily bring forth a side of him that he thought wasn’t there anymore. Your presence, your smile—it left him to be devoured by metaphors.

You kept your eyes trained on him, watching him with an edge of softness that still left him vulnerable and seen, unsure of what to do with himself. He unfurled his crossed arms and reached for the protruding rose, its red extending further beyond the others like a hand grasping for his. He let his fingers gently catch one of its petals, feeling the velvet of its touch under his fingertips. Did you really think of him as a rose, as something this delicate and soft?

He didn’t really know how to think about this emerging question—either you thought of him as this soft plushness that laid between his index finger and thumb or you didn’t know him at all—at least not as well as he thought. He felt sick in this spring light. Was it possible that, after countless nights spent in each other’s company and comfort, you came away with a version of him that didn’t exist? Had you come into each night seeing him as something that wasn’t there, as so many others have and continue to do? Do you look at him and see a ghost there, too?

In reality, it was more likely that you didn’t think too deep into your floral arrangement, probably having passed a shop on the way to this café and saw the first bouquet of flowers within your reach. Yet, he couldn’t help the gnawing wonder of gifting him a flower so emblematic of his losses. You knew nothing of his endings, of course, but did you somehow look upon him and see these gaps of life laid out in his turned posture and stance? In looking at these passing roses, you had somehow noticed his out-of-placeness on the streets of Gotham like some specter or spectacle unable to fit in amongst the swelling of life that evaded him?

He knew you were watching him overthink and run his mind wild with these thorned thoughts, your eyes casually glossing over his hands still playing with the petal as you eyed through the café’s menu. You were casual and cool, and he a wreck right before you; you truly didn’t know the extent of what you do to him.

You gently closed the padded menu before running your fingers over the brown paper covering the bouquet, your soft voice beaming through the crowded streets, over the gentle crinkling of rose-kissed paper, like a quieted melody only for him: “I got you roses because you’re a complicated person, Jason. I never know what you’re really thinking, but I like to think I have some idea of what’s going on in that pretty head of yours. I felt like roses would be a classic option, nothing too much or too little, but still dramatic like you.

“And these were so beautiful and lively; roses, in general, bring a lot of joy to people, and I figured,” you paused, letting the air softly ease from your lungs and the words hesitate on the tip of your tip. You rubbed the waxy brown paper between your fingers, just as Jason continued to do so with the rose’s delicate petals, as if the material would offer some strength or softness needed to wield your next words: “I figured you deserved some joy too.”

Jason felt your gaze pointed at him as your words stretched out like a comforting hand, but he kept his eyes locked on the roses between his fingers; ironic, he thought, how he, the Red Hood, didn’t feel strong enough to look into your eyes at this vulnerable moment. He felt heat blooming up his neck at your words and at the very thought of you thinking about him, especially this deeply and kindly. For some reason, he didn’t think you would even think of him outside of your shared evening contexts, let alone think of him in such a way that a newfound life erupted in his core.

“And, well,” you continued, your voice like the velvet between his skin as a smile kindly graced your features. “Because I like you.”

His eyes widened, his hands leaving the velvet plush of the rose’s petals as he finally met your gaze, “You like me?”

You playfully rolled your eyes at Jason’s expression, his eyes gleaming with such sincerity as his question fell from his lips, as you laughed, “I thought we went over this.”

And you both had— several times, in fact. He remembered the night you told him your feelings, blood-stained hands and reddened bandages tossed to the side as you patched one another up after a grossly miscalculated series of events that quickly escaped your once easy night of patrol. You were so careful to explain your whys and hows and wants, your logics and reasonings as if presenting some detailed fact-finding theory on the complexities of something so personal as feelings. But, it was your eyes—glimmering and shining and starlike as you gazed at his bruised and scarred face gently—that spoke loud enough for him to believe it and think it all to be true.

A flicker of a shy smile tugged at the corners of his lips: “Still always a shock to hear you say it.”

You leaned closer, resting your chin in your hand, elbow planted onto the table, as you looked upon him with a smile bright on your face: “Guess I should say it more often. And get you more roses.”

“No roses.”

“Tell me another flower, then.”

He thought about it, his fingers returning to play with the petal’s softness. A blushing heat creeped from his neck onto his ears and, surely, his cheeks: “Roses are fine.”

—

note: didn’t proofread this at all but uhhhh happy belated jason’s death day

taglist: @luviery @cherryvvave @starr-jazz @arfemiz @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger + @bloomcissa @vcmpirus @patientofarkhamasylum @lechelovestoyap

if you would like to be tagged on future fics, please comment on my general taglist :)

[fancy-possum]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐁𝐨𝐲 𝐉𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐓𝐨𝐝𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬

Jason Todd was not a soft man.

To the world, he was the Red Hood - brutal, sarcastic, carrying the weight of death and resurrection like armor. He snapped at his brothers, glared at criminals, and kept everyone at arm’s length with sharp words and sharper knives.

But with you?

He was the biggest lover boy in Gotham.

He remembers everything.

You mentioned once, months ago, that you loved the way the first spring flowers smelled after rain. Now, every time it rained in early spring, Jason would disappear for an hour and come back with a small bouquet of fresh flowers - never store-bought, always ones he’d picked himself from quiet corners of the city where no one would see the big, scary Red Hood playing gardener.

Tonight was no different. He walked through the door of your shared apartment, rain still clinging to his leather jacket, and handed you a small bunch of pale purple flowers wrapped in brown paper.

“They smelled like you,” he said gruffly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thought you’d like them.”

You took them, heart swelling, and kissed his cheek. “You’re such a sap.”

He huffed, but his ears went pink. “Only for you. Don’t tell anyone.”

He takes care of you without being asked.

You came home from a long day at work exhausted, shoulders aching, feet sore. Jason was already there - apron on, sleeves rolled up, cooking your favourite meal. The apartment smelled like garlic and herbs and home.

“Sit,” he said, pointing at the couch. “Dinner’s almost done.”

You tried to protest. “I can help—”

“No.” He crossed the room in two strides, gently pushing you down onto the cushions. Then he knelt, unlaced your shoes, and massaged your feet with careful, strong hands. “You worked hard today. Let me take care of you.”

His touch was firm but gentle, thumbs pressing into the arches of your feet until the tension melted away. You sighed, leaning back, watching him with soft eyes.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you murmured.

“I want to.” He looked up at you, green eyes warm. “You take care of everyone else. Let me take care of you.”

Later, after dinner, he pulled you into his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. His hands stroked slow circles on your stomach under your shirt - warm, comforting, with just a hint of heat in the way his fingers occasionally dipped lower.

“You’re too good to me,” you whispered.

He kissed the side of your neck. “You deserve it. All of it.”

He’s protective in the quiet ways.

You were walking home from the library late one night when a group of guys started catcalling. Before you could even react, Jason was there - stepping out of the shadows like he’d been waiting, tall and broad and radiating danger.

The guys scattered.

He walked you the rest of the way home, hand on your lower back, silent but steady. When you got inside, he pulled you into a hug, arms wrapping around you like a shield.

“I hate when they look at you like that,” he muttered into your hair. “Like you’re not mine.”

You hugged him back, smiling against his chest. “I am yours.”

He kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then your lips - slow and deep, hands sliding to your waist, pulling you closer. The kiss grew warmer, his fingers pressing into your sides, but he never pushed. He just held you, grounding himself in the feel of you safe in his arms.

He leaves little notes.

You found them everywhere.

A sticky note on the coffee maker: “Made this for you. Don’t work too hard today. Love you.”

A scribbled message in your favourite book: “This part reminded me of you. You’re stronger than any character in here.”

A note taped to the bathroom mirror after a rough night: “You looked beautiful even when you cried. I’ve got you. Always.”

Each one was written in his messy, hurried handwriting, like he was embarrassed to be caught being romantic. You kept every single one in a small box under your bed.

One morning you woke up to find a note on his pillow next to yours:

“Gone to handle some shit. Be back before you miss me too much.

P.S. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.

— J”

You smiled, pressing the note to your chest, heart full.

He’s soft when the world isn’t watching.

Late at night, after patrols, Jason would crawl into bed behind you, still smelling like leather and gun oil. He’d wrap his arms around your waist, pulling your back against his chest, legs tangling with yours.

“Missed you,” he’d murmur against your neck, voice rough from the night’s work. His hand would slide under your shirt, resting warm and possessive on your stomach, thumb stroking lazy circles.

You’d turn in his arms, kissing him softly. He’d kiss you back - slow and deep, hands roaming your body with gentle reverence. He’d pull you closer, hips pressing against yours, the heat between you building but never rushing.

“I love you,” he’d whisper between kisses. “More than anything.”

You’d fall asleep like that - wrapped up in each other, his heartbeat steady under your ear, his arms a shield against the world.

One quiet evening, you were reading on the couch when Jason came home early. He didn’t say anything. Just kicked off his boots, crossed the room, and pulled you into his lap.

You laughed softly, setting your book aside. “Rough day?”

He buried his face in your neck, arms wrapping around you tightly. “Better now.”

His hands slid under your shirt again, stroking your skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. The touch was comforting, but there was heat in it too - a quiet promise of more when you were ready.

“You’re my favourite person,” he murmured. “My safe place. My home.”

You cupped his face, kissing him softly. “You’re mine too.”

He held you like that for hours - kissing you slow and deep, hands exploring with gentle affection, whispering how much he loved you between every touch.

Jason Todd was not a soft man.

But for you?

He was the biggest lover boy in the world.

And you wouldn’t have him any other way.

a/n : for the lovely @blueberrycandymuffin !! reqs open, and pls follow <3 || ac as usual : @/ciricearts

[emwwrites]

Street kids

A Drabble between Jason Todd and reader. Not sure where this originated from or where it was headed, but something that felt right <3

w.c. ~1,160

pairing: Youth Jason Todd x youth reader (platonic)

I don't think there are any applicable warnings :P

Once upon a time, they’d been street kids.

Rabid, feral, destitute and criminally inclined. But as long as they’d had each other? Never alone. But not in a cute childhood lovers who get through everything merely because they’re the main characters but rather in a I need you to survive and you need me, and that’s that.

Youth has a funny way of diggings its claws deep into your skin. Of tearing you apart and rebuilding you with the bloodied chunks of concrete you throw at passing cop cars. Youth reinvents all that you are meant to be, stains your ledger and shackles you to the lowest depths of hell simply because it can.

You’re ten and living together in some stingy apartment owned by some other addict who had just felt so felt inclined as to help the two street rats. Jasons vengeful. Bad tempered. Hurt, scared, even if he’d never admit it and you are simply grasping at anything you can get your fingers on. Grasping to him because there is no survival for one kid alone.

He doesn’t care about you, and you don’t care about him. You both know you can’t risk it. Knew that life had a certain way of tearing families apart at the seams. To lose each other was unimaginable. But to keep each other at arm’s length? To tell the other you hate them but never leave? It’s easier. But your actions are incongruent with the warning of your wild heart.

You fight for him. Fight beside him. Fight with him. Against him. You throw rocks, cuss out passing families, run from the cops together.

You take one knife for him, and he takes plenty more for you.

It is no surprise that you find solace in each other. Company to keep in the dead of night and through the beat of the day. Inseparable. Who else could understand a duo forged by blood, drugs and the stale midnight air?

So when Jason gets picked up by Bruce Wayne, the world suddenly seems so much crueller.

You’re left in the street, tucked under flea infested and stained blankets, your head pressed against a dingy pillow in an alleyway.

It’s your own fault, really. Jason pleas. Begs. Offers. A room for you beside his own, in his own, if that’s what it took. But you can’t accept. Not when living away from the street would strip you of your whole identity. Your experience, knowledge and ways of being. You tell him to fuck off. Tell him that you didn’t need to be saved by some asshole with cash.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t abandon you. Not outright, but eventually, he slips. Far enough away that he does a double take when he sees you in a distant alley one night. Uncertain and unable to discern the nuances of a faces he’d once been able to memorise like the back of his hand.

But then he disappears. Gone for weeks at a time, and it isn’t until a month has passed that you go knocking on Wayne Manor’s door in search of your friend. Only to find out that he’s died— has been dead for weeks. His funeral is long gone, his body already buried beneath the coarse ground.

You were alone before, but this was different.

Jason had still been here. Spiritually, metaphysically. He was a constant. Something you could depend on, even if the last time you’d both interacted had been a vicious fight. A fight fuelled by blood, tears, anger, jealousy and regret.

But now he was gone? The world turns into a big cliche— the rain falls harder. The planet grows warmer; crime grows out of control and people keep dying. You are bitter. Utterly alone. There is nothing to balm or coax the pain of a life gone too soon.

But adulthood has a funny way of diggings its claws deep into your skin. Of tearing you apart and rebuilding you from the tireless hours it’d taken working in a shitty little diner down the road to get your ass off the street. Adulthood reinvents all that you are, withers away the pains of time and dissipates the anger of a youth scorned, lonely and afraid; simply because it has to.

There is no place in the world for someone who has given up. No place in Gotham to pretend to be more than you are.

The loss of Jason Todd carved out a new path in your life. Devoted to preventing it from happening to other kids. Your path. His path. You don’t do it because it’s what Jason would’ve wanted you to do, rather you do it because it’s simply the way of the world. Having spent so long in the depths of hell, your sharp edges have been smoothed out by the years of torment. Softened by the falling rain and nights spent in restless regret. There is little anger or malice left, rather, something akin to hope seeds in the depths of your chest. Hope for the next generation, for something that meant more than yourself.

And maybe you can feel him watching from above. Can sense a strange sort of peace that settles in him at the sight of you. But of course, you are a realist and there was no such thing as an afterlife. How could a God exist when he had died too young?

So maybe it isn’t all that surprising when he’s in your living room when you get home from a double shift. When he says that he’s been watching for a while, unsure of whether reintroducing himself would do you any good. Had seen what good you’d done for yourself, the way you worked tirelessly to get your ass to university. How you had embraced the pains of youth and had blossomed while he had succumbed, had fallen even deeper into the pits of hell and had swum his way back up. Hes plauged by a lingering fear of leading you astray, that the mere sight of him would send you back down the path of crime. Maybe he ovestimates the importance of his presence on you, but how could he not when once you had depended on him for survival?

But this innate fear battles against the need to see you. Alive, well. Happy. Maybe it's his turn to feel jealous.

A self-centered hope that maybe if he sees you, his luck would change and suddenly his life would get better. That you'd take him in with open arms, and that things would be as simple as life was back then, without the cost of living on the street and having to be at each others throats to prove to themselves they weren't weak.

After all, it had once been you two against the world. A bond forged in the pains and struggles of the childhood of street kids.

It seemed only natural that you would both intersect again at some point.

[waynews]

꒰ Damian decided to pay Jason a visit & notice how his body got softer after getting a girlfriend! ꒱

Damian didn’t usually visit his brothers of his own free will. Most of the time, he only stopped by the apartment to grab a quick snack or pick up some accessory that might be useful to him.

But, surprisingly, on that day—on that perfect day—he had decided to be an inconvenience to Todd, simply because he had nothing better to do.

You were in the kitchen, finishing plating the dessert that would accompany one of your movie nights with Jason.

Used to your boyfriend’s entrances and exits through the window and balcony, you didn’t startle when you heard one of them being opened, continuing to hum absentmindedly.

It was only when you turned to wash your hands that you remembered a small detail—Jason was in the shower.

The humming slowly died in your throat.

You dried your hands calmly—much calmer than you actually felt—and turned your head toward the living room, just enough to peek through the doorway.

And there he was, sitting on the couch like he owned the place, legs crossed as he ate popcorn. He chewed slowly, eyes focused on the turned-off television, as if he were waiting for something to start.

He stopped the moment he noticed you.

You stopped the moment you noticed him.

For a long second, neither of you moved.

His green eyes narrowed slightly, calculating, suspicious. “…You are not Todd.”

You blinked once.

“No…” you answered slowly. “And you are definitely not Jay either.”

Jason appeared in the hallway, hair dripping, but already wearing sweatpants. “You started it without me? I told ya I wanted to watch the opening too—”

He stopped mid-sentence, falling silent, his mouth parting in shock—maybe at the scene? At your calmness with the intruder? Or at the intruder’s sheer audacity?

“Just what I needed,” Jason growled, voice sharp with irritation. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?”

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, chewing calmly. He simply shrugged—after all, how was he supposed to explain that he had only come to check if he was still alive? It had been a whole month since he last saw him. But he wasn’t worried!

“That’s mine—Damian, you should be at home. Your home.” Jason sighed, running a hand down his face. “Get off my couch. And stop eating my food.”

Damian ignored him completely. He leaned further back into the cushions, posture relaxed in a way that made Jason’s eye twitch. Then his gaze shifted slowly toward Jason.

“You look… fuller. Softer,” the younger one commented, his gaze drifting briefly toward you, who watched the argument in silence, before quickly returning to his brother.

Damian tilted his head to the side, as if evaluating a painting.

“Have you reduced your training frequency,” he continued, his voice strangely neutral, not teasing, just observational, “or simply increased your intake of nutritionally void food?”

“Did you just call me fat?”

“…No,” he replied, but then paused to think for a few seconds. “Did I? I merely commented on your body fat—“

Jason crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow.

“…Whatever,” he continued, tone quieter now, more thoughtful than before. “You no longer smell like cheap takeout grease and smoke. That is an improvement.”

“…That would be because he finally eats real food now,” you cut in, smiling, proud of your contribution to your boyfriend’s health.

Jason shot you a look over his shoulder, a little wounded that you had indirectly agreed with the little demon.

Damian reached out to grab more popcorn, but Jason slapped his hand away.

“Stop. Eating. My. Food. Okay. Great. Family bonding moment over.” Jason clapped his hands once, sharp and final. “You’ve seen me. Now out. Door. Window. Vent. I don’t care. Pick one.”

Damian’s attention snapped back to you, still ignoring his brother. He straightened slightly where he sat, gaze narrowing with renewed interest.

“You prepare the food?” he asked.

You nodded once. “Most of it.” You smiled. “Do you want to try the dessert?”

“…Dessert?” he repeated.

“I made chocolate cake,” you added casually. “With ganache.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed again. “…Homemade?” he asked.

“Yes.”

You disappeared into the kitchen before your boyfriend could protest.

Jason took a deep breath and dropped onto the couch, far too tired to argue any further. When the younger one opened his mouth to speak, he cut him off immediately.

“Not one more question,” Jason muttered. “Eat in silence.”

him ♡

[emwwrites]

Oh GOD I hope you don’t mind but I absolutely can not hold my passion in for your writing.

I absolutely ADORE interactions between Jason and Damian. I am HEAVY on the hc that Jason’s always been a father-esque figure to Damian while involved with the league. (I believe this was hinted at/mentioned at some point in the DCAU?)

Damian’s vested interest in having NOTHING to do with his brothers but indulging in the urge to annoy older brother Jason. Ugh.

I love the way you write Damian. He’s such a complex character that I feel too many people can’t quite master the nuance but you have hit the nail on the head!!!

Asking Jason if he’s reduced training or increased caloric intake, but not in a way to shame or degrade him like others might have written, but just a simple inquiry. Could be explained by a sense of concern that Jason’s *slipping* (which we all know you gotta be top of the game to take on crime in Gotham) or just general curiosity. EITHER WAY he noticed because he cares!!!! (And because he’s observant like that but shhh).

ALSO the staccato in Jason’s voice in telling Damian to get out? Love. Love it. I love when we can give words, sentences and languages the feel of a particular character.

Then Jason giving in. Heaven knows there’s no way he’d be able to get rid of Damian if the younger doesn’t want to leave, but the yield is so domestic. So quiet and quaint. Semblance of family. Recognition that Jason had grown up without his own parents and that while he’d been taken in by Bruce, they’d had their ups and downs. Seeing it in Damian and giving into the somewhat innate desire to give Damian the space he needs from the manor.

Your writing is so good girl!!! I love it!!! Thank you!!!!

[emwwrites]

Please be rude

John Price x female!oc

w.c. ~2000 words.

t.w. maybe a bit of angst with a happy ending. The overwhelming urge to sacrafice everything good that has ever happened in life. Not proofread. Bite me.

Was dying for content surrounded around the MAN begging and head over heels in love while the character/reader insert is the one with cold feet. SO, like any writer, I got busy. 🫣

“Talk t’ me.” He urges out, holding the office door open before she can slam it in his face. Again.

“We’ve done more than enough talking, Captain.” She breathes out, exasperated as she drops down into her desk chair. The infirmary is quiet. The calm before the storm, the lights flicker to life as she opens her laptop.

The captain sighs heavily, mulling his jaw over as he stands in the doorway. A metaphorical boundary. To cross or not?

To hell, he thinks as he takes one glance over his shoulder, no doubt ensuring they were alone before he steps into the room. The door clicks shut behind him as he crosses the room. Three easy strides to reach her desk.

He closes the lid of her laptop, and she finally raises her head to meet his gaze. “Are you serious?” She challenges, watching as he braces himself against her desk.

He looks akin to sin like this. Shirt stretched over his taut chest, those stormy blue eyes fixated on her, dark and clouded. Regretful, perhaps. “Talk t’ me.” He implored, pursing his lips together.

“As I said,” she grabs her computer, pulling it from under his hands. “We’ve done more than enough talking.”

“No, we haven’t.” He counters, prying the laptop from her grip and tossing it onto the desk beside her. The laptop clatters against the mahogany and she scoffs. “We’ve hardly spoken.”

“That’s funny— I distinctly remember briefing you this morning on the psych evals— “

“You know that’s not what I’m talking about.” He retorts sharply, perhaps a pang of irritation as he braces himself against her desk again.

Of course she knows. He’s talking about that night. Three weeks ago. The debrief following a particularly grating op— the way his lips had been on hers as soon as they’d been left alone in his office. The way she’s kissed back just as fervently. Only for her to suddenly ignore him at any available opportunity after.

He’d taken it in his stride initially— had brushed it off as her simply being busy. He’d bought her lunch; he’d watched as it’d moulded over in the small company fridge. Had watched her decline meeting invitations, to pass off all the team evaluation and checks to other medical staff.

He’d tried all week to corner her, but there was never an opportunity for them to be alone. Until now.

She doesn’t say anything, rather, she turns her head to the files on her desk. Picks up a pen from her own jar as she flips through the files.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He mutters, rounding the desk and pulling out her chair. “Stop— “ she grits out as he swivels her around and braces her against the chair, one hand pressed against each armrest. “John.” She grits out, anger flaring momentarily, only to be suddenly cooled by his next words.

“Vyarose. I’m sorry.”

She flusters; lips parting and brows furrowed together in synchronicity. Vyarose seems genuinely taken aback as the apology processes. “I’m sorry.” He repeats again, voice low. Gentle. Earnest.

“I overstepped your boundaries and now— “

She cuts him off, shaking her head. “Stop. John.”

“No.” He counters. “Let me fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, John— “ She counters tiredly.

“Like hell— “

“—I’m not— “ she counters, raising her voice to drown him out. “I’m not mad, okay?” The silence settles over them as she lowers her head to the side, gazing down at the tiled floors.

Stray baby hairs frame her face, highlighting the sharp structure of her face, the raven strands complimenting her olive toned skin. “I’m not mad— or upset, or angry, or uncomfortable.” She continues, seemingly unable to stop herself.

Her voice, usually so loud, self-sure and confident is instead hesitant. Uncertain. It’s a stark contrast to the woman he’s fallen in love with. “I just— “ she falters, finally raising her gaze to meet his own. “It just didn’t mean anything to me.”

She lies, he thinks. Can see that flicker in her gaze, the way she swallows and rolls her tongue over her lips. All her minute tells at once. “Bullshit.” He interjects.

“—and I didn’t want to hurt you.” She finishes as if not having heard him.

“Bullshit.” He repeats, shifting from one foot to another as he stands back up straight, raising to his 6’2 height. His hands clasp over his hips.

“It’s not bullshit, John.”

“You’ve never been able to lie to me, love.” He counters, tone taking a softer edge, almost pleading as his arms cross over his chest. Unable to stand still. Not when there’s so many different emotions flooding him. Stoically hidden under his hand-crafted poker face. “Why start now?”

“Because I don’t love you, John. Not like you love me.” The words hurt for a moment, but he sees the flicker in his gaze again, the way she’s started digging her nails into her palms.

It’s exasperating, standing in front of her. Near enough begging her to talk. He wasn’t sure how he’d imagined this little talk would go, but he certainly hadn’t placed his cards on this.

“You’re still lying, love.”

With that she stands, shoving her chair back as she does. She goes to shove past him and provides him the opportunity to grasp her upper arm. His grip tight enough to keep her still as she tries to cross him. “Don’t fucking— “ she snaps, pulling her arm back to pry it free. “Stop.” He demands, tone a little firmer as she tries to jerk.

“Fucking stop, John— “

He reaches down, grasping her other arm in his large hands, as if to shake her out of it. “Then talk to me.” He grits out, his own patience fraying as his stormy blue gaze lands on her own conflicted hazel gaze. “Why lie to me? Hm? What’s happening?”

She sighs heavily, and it’s only now that he notices the tears welling in her eyes.

“Stop.” She grits, another weak attempt to try shake his grip off as he shakes his head. “Not happenin’ love.” He replies, tone soft again, his patience seemingly renewed at the sight of her glossy eyes.

She grows still in his grip and swallows thickly, gaze tilting up towards the sky, as if to bar the tears from falling. The silence settles between them, punctuated by her sharp intakes of air. It stretches, warping, drawing them further out to sea and threatens to suffocate them.

“I’m scared.” She admits, finally. Her jaw is tight, and her bottom lip wobbles as she refuses to meet his gaze.

“I’m scared.” She repeats after a beat of silence.

He lets the silence linger for a moment, carefully teasing, drawing it out. Scared that if he prods too quickly, she’ll recoil. “Scared?” He prompts softly after a moment.

“Everyone I love dies.” She sucks in a sharp breath, her hand finally clasping around his forearm, as if to ground them, to stop him from leaving. “Everyone I love dies a horrible, horrific, death or they— they leave or they — “ her breathing increases, and he can feel her heartbeat in her desperately tightening grip.

He can’t help but pull her in against his chest. Strong, muscular arms wrap around her back, clasping her close. She folds into the touch, her cheek pressed against his chest, her fingers fisting the fabric off his tee. “S’alright,” he murmurs as the first sob wracks her body.

One hand settles firmly on the back of her head, his chin pressing atop her head. “S’alright, love. ‘M here.” She heaves against his chest for a moment, body trembling.

“Everyone I love dies— “ she repeats, voice low and raw and as vulnerable as he’s ever heard her. “Everyone and I thought— I tried — I tried so hard.” Another shaky intake of air. “Tried so hard to keepyou at arm’s length.” His hand gently carts through her hair.

“Because you— you — and this fucking job, you’re my commanding fucking officer, I’m a medic… And this fucking life. These stupid fucking missions and ops and terrorists and— “ she cuts herself off, instead opting for another sharp intake of air, unable to bring even the words into reality. And she doesn’t need to; John has no trouble reading between the lines. He lets her sob against his chest. Holds her as the sobs wrack her smaller frame.

“So, I thought…” She trails off after a beat of silence. She finally pulls her head back. Takes a step back from him as she wipes at her tears on the back of her hand. “Thought that if id ignored you or was rude for long enough, you’d give up.” Vy finally lifts her gaze to meet him. Her face has softened slightly, a slight tinge of red that circles her eyes, lips and nose. The tear-stained trails down her cheeks. Even like this, she looks gorgeous.

“That your professionalism would get the best of you— that you’d just leave it. That it’d occur to you how unprofessional this all is— how undeserving of all this I am — that you’d Leave me. Continue on as if things had never happened.”

He doesn’t say anything, rather, his hands shift, gently raising to cup her jaw. He holds her like she’s made of smooth glass, a sharp contrast to the jagged, calloused and torn skin that makes his hands. His thumb gently wipes at a stray tear before it could fall. “Firstly,” He begins. “Rules’ve never stopped me. You know that.” He’s quiet, a faint twinge of humour that eases a small, terse smile from your swollen lips. “Secondly. I’d never leave you.” He adds earnestly as he slowly leans in, his nose brushing hers.

“Not because I’m stubborn.” He tilts her head up ever so slightly, giving her the chance to pull back.

“Not because I always get what I want. But because you’re worth it. Worth it a thousand bloody times over, love.”

She doesn’t pull back and he closes the distance. His lips against her own supple lips, the certainty is shared through the gentle kiss before he pulls back again.

“Could never get over you. Could never forget you, get sick and tired of you.” His thumb grazes her cheek again and she closes her eyes, sucking in another sharp breath.

“I know I can’t promise nothing bad will ever happening.” He continues after a beat of silence. Watches as her gaze opens to meet his eyes again. “I won’t ever lie to you like that. Couldn’t.” He watches the way she swallows, the way her lip’s part to object.

“I love you, Vy.” The words are no louder than a whisper, a promise meant for them and them alone. “Always have. Nothin’ in this life could ever stop or change that.”

“I can’t, John.” She whispers back, shaking her head, trying to turn her head away.

“Don’t,” he murmurs gently, shaking his own head as he leans in, presses his forehead against her own.

“I can’t.” She repeats as his thumb caresses over her jaw. “You won’t.” He corrects.

“I can’t, John.”

“You won’t.”

“God, you’re so fucking aggravating.” She grits out, the tension thick in her tone. He can’t help but smile faintly. There’s that fire.

“Listen to me,” he breathes out, pulling his head back enough to gaze back into her tired, red rimmed eyes. “I love you, Vy. Always will.” His thumb swipes another stray tear, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I want you. Wanna take you out, worship you. Make you happy. Treat you how you deserve to be treated.” Her heart tightens at his words, her fists tightening around the fabric of his tee.

“But I’ll never coerce you into anything you don’t want.” He tilts his head softly, assessing, trying to gauge what she really wanted. “But I’m not giving up. Not because you’re scared.”

She doesn’t say anything, but he can see the hint of relief in the softening of her features, even if she’d never admit it. “Doesn’t have to be now. This week. Next week. Next year. Could make me wait six years and is still crawl through fire to be by your side.”

“Just don’t give up on me, yeah?”

“Okay.”

“Atta girl.”

-

I need someone to spray me with a spray bottle everytime I use an em dash.

How does th COD community feel about ocs? I'm terrified to write something that isn't x reader but feel bad about neglecting my children in favour of pleasing the masses. This is my resistance /lh

[emwwrites]

Decided to play a game of fuck around and find out with a loaf of sourdough and am currently trying to manage the most overstimulating, wet, fucky, ass “if this shit didn’t stick to every surface I would have thrown it across the room by now” dough to have ever cursed my existence.

[draconym]

do you think two pennies is still enough for the ferryman or has inflation driven up the fare

[draconym]

if he makes me use an app I am simply not crossing the river Styx.