#emwwrites!!

[emwwrites]

w.c. 666

Saw a reel and thought it was so funny AND I haven't written for Jay in a HOT minute.

Jason Todd x pregnant!fiance!reader

“JASON PETER TODD.”

Your voice rings through the manor hallway, stilling all the bustling bodies present in the kitchen. Everyone goes quiet, 14 pairs of eyes settle on the male in question. Jason Todd stands, half hovered over the kitchen sink, mouth full of an fancy bread and various cheeses.

The air stills. Its not dissimilar to the stillness of air before leaving the cave at night, the stillness of apprehension that hovers over seven bodies. Broken only by the slight paddle of your feet down the hallway.

Like the scent of blood in the air, suddenly Jason is left alone. Hot and heavy, the sudden pounding of his heart in his chest. Thick and fletting but adrenaline inducing like the thoughts that swim through his mind as he straightens. He takes the last opportunity to brush his hands and face of crumbs.

Meanwhile, Bruce and alfred disappear down the opposite corridor with babara in tow. Dick, Tim and Damian calmly stride out the back door. He hadn't seen Cass disappear, nor Helena.

There's something in the way they move that he'd find funny if the situation had been any different. Heads down, bodies lithe and nimble, eager to escape the oncoming storm. Funny in the sense that they'd stared death in the eyes (or maybe that was just him). They'd stood against mutants, superhumans, weapons, injury, uncertainty and loneliness and had cracked jokes.

But the call of a full name from a pregnant fiance?

Not even a word of good luck as he’s left to face you alone.

But then you appear on the kitchen, and instead of the world ending, the world simply pauses. Holds it's breath as his destiny is bestowed upon him. That destiny? A fond smile, cheeks dusted a light pink, that dangerous twinkle in your eye. There’s no trace of anger in your face, no pang of irritation he loved to wrestle from you on occasion, no malice, hatred or disgust. Just... Amusement?

The revelation does little to quell the cyclonic winds whirring in his mind. He braces himself physically. Back straightened, shoulders squared and gaze steady. A soldier starring into the eye of the storm.

It wasn’t your anniversary— he knew that. Wasn’t your birthday. He didn’t think there were any other plans scheduled aside from their baby shower this afternoon. They’d picked up the cake. Had he bought the right water? You’d been very particular about the taste of water since the pregnancy— why were you smiling?

And so faced with uncertainty and the impossibility of upsetting you even further, Jason Todd does what he does best. “Yes my gorgeous girl?” He replies, easing into his body as if he wasn't on trial for a crime he was sure he hadn't committed, but would confess to anyway. That sweet, innocent lull to his voice, as if reminding you why you love him will do something to lessen the blow he’s about to receive.

Except.

Then you giggle, skipping over (more like dawdling, he thinks, not that he would mention it, especially not in their current state of affairs) to press a kiss against his cheek. The kiss is saccharine sweet, and he can feel the cool remnants against his scarred cheek. The scent of strawberries linger over the smell of bloodied air.

“Nothin’” you hum lightly, watching the confusion flicker in his gaze.

“Just wanted to tell you I love you.”

He’s just about dumbstruck, a hand falling to the swell of your belly. He’s not relieved. Not yet. This could still be a trap.

“Gorgeous girl, you said my full name…?”

You giggle again, pressing another kiss against his cheek. Promising as it melts away the tension in his shoulders.

“Yeah. Thought it’d be funny. Tee hee.” Your arms wrap around him, forcing him to curve over the swell of your sweet stomach. "It's funny, watching them all scatter like ants." And then you’re skipping back down the hall as if nothing had happened.

[emwwrites]

Part 1, 2

HE hates you.

Hates you in the sense that you always just so happen to be what everyone needs, all the while neglecting your own needs.

He hates the way Soap turns to you when he feels lonely, that he hypes you up, takes you to dinner and flirts mercilessly, just to leave you high and dry when he finds his new fix. How you take it in your stride but are still noticeably upset (to him at least), how you promise that this was the last time, yet like clockwork every other week let him back into your bed with the childish hope that when you wake up things will be different. That Soap will finally see the value in you and will stop chasing every other woman.

Hates the way he knows Gaz and Price both go to you whenever they need to complain. You’re a Sargent, as good a soldier as any of them. But your emotional intelligence is off the charts, and you know the boys would never confide in anyone else they way they do for you. So you shoulder their problems, their complaints of bullshit bureaucracy, grievances with privates because it’s a new generation and nothing is ever as good as the generation previously.

Hates that when you’re fidgeting with the back of the remote while they all sit together in the rec room, no one seems to pay any mind. Pulling the battery slide off just to click it back into place over and over a cadence in time with the bouncing of your leg. Your jaw‘s set too tight (and then, he thinks in amazement, you always wonder why you get headaches), a frown spread across your lips and a distant gaze. Johnny’s busy watching the telly (some fishing show that had been the most bearable piece of media at this time), Gaz scrolling his phone and Price down the hall, undoubtedly working on reports.

He hates that your brows furrow when he reaches out, a firm hand clasping around your knee to stop your leg from bouncing. The confused look growing deeper as he plucks the remote from your grasp (Christ, he thinks, you weren’t even aware you were doing it) and replaces it instead with one of his dog tags. “What’s this?” You ask softly, watching as he sits back against the backrest of the sofa.

“Dog tag.”

Despite your confusion you snort. “Why?”

“You always fidget with yours.”

And where were your dog tags? Lost, probably.

He hates the way that you watch him for a moment, fingers already playing with the chain of the dog tag. Hates the way you seem so confused, as if asking how he’d known that.

He hates the way you give so much, how you let yourself run until you’re ground down to the bone making sure everyone else around you is okay. How you let it happen, how you encourage everyone else to walk all over you. Just to be surprised when one eighteenth of the favour is returned.

[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.

[emwwrites]

Foaming at the mouth for John Price.

That “try to resist arrest with my cop husband” trend except your husband is no cop. Your husband is the Captain John Price of Task Force 141.

“This is ridiculous, love.” He’d try to argue, bulging biceps crossed over his chest as if he didn’t find the idea of you trying to resist arrest endearing, maybe even arousing. He gives you that look. That look that says he doesn’t really want to do this, but how could he say no to you?

“It’s gonna be fun,” you argue, not paying any mind to his complaints. “You’ve got thirty seconds.” You state as you start the timer on your watch.

He’s on you within an instant.

Flipping you around like you weigh nothing, he thrusts you chest first into the yoga mat laid out in your shared living room. One arm over the back of your head to keep your face down, one knee pressed over both your legs to stop you from moving. He wedges one arm out from beneath you, locking it in the cuff with ease, followed by the other before. He reaches over you, ending the timer on your watch.

“Ten seconds. Flat.”

[emwwrites]

Part 2 of this.

No one asked for a part two but here it is because I feel like there's so much potential for these two <33

It starts small

Suddenly Johnny starts looking at you differently. There is more than plain carnal desire in his gaze, rather he smiles. Kindly. He offers to grab you a coffee in the morning, asks if you’ve watched any good movies recently. Gone are the fleeting, flirtatious touches, the relentless and bashful teasing. It’s like he’s suddenly aged ten years. Respectful now, understanding of the boundaries you’re FINALLY able to enforce now that he’s not all over you.

It’s strange, and part of you misses his attention, especially at night as your thumbs hover over his contact in your phone. Just for you to sigh heavily at yourself and toss the phone aside. Enough. You’d think. It’s time for me.

The next big change is Gaz.

He stops by your office, lunch for himself and you in hand. He pulls you away from your computer and onto the couch in the rec room. Tells you funny stories about the new recruits, asks about how your days have been going, your love life. He encourages you to vent. To complain. You never do, (at least, not at first), rather it’s easier to smile and shake your head dismissively. Everything’s fine you really between mouthfuls of Mexican from the place down the road.

Price is the first out of the trip to say anything. An apology when he catches you in the corridor one morning. He’d been distant, busy you’d figured. “Jus’ wanted to say sorry,” he’d said, eyes tired but not unkind. "Been treatin’ you like some kind o’ shrink. Not fair on you."

You’d assured him that it wasn’t a bother, that that was what you were there for. He’d shaken his head. "You’re a soldier, love. No’ a punchin’ bag for emotionally immature men."

His words had left you stunned for a moment.

“It’s so strange.” You murmur to Simon as you sit on the couch. There’s a weight lifted off your shoulders— who knew life could be so freeing without having to hold the emotional and physical baggage of three men? “Yeah?” He replies, that Manchester timbre so low as he eyes you. Your leg no longer bounces, although your hands still find something to fidget with. But your jaw is unclenched, your gaze sharp again. Lively. Alive. Small wins are wins. He thinks, a pang of contentment settling in his chest. He wasn’t a miracle worker, after all.

“Yeah.” You nod. “It’s almost as if all three frontal lobes matured at once.” If only it’d been that easy.

You don’t know about the meeting that Simon had organised without you two weeks ago. How he had tore into all of them, had told them in no simple words that they were all leeches suckin’ the life ou’ o’ the bird. How they always paid so little attention to you, refuted any common decency as they laid their problems, complaints and lust (he shot daggers at Johnny), without ever even thinking of the toll it’d take on you.

All because he HATED watching everyone use and abuse you, your light, your love and empathy.

All because he loved you.

Even if he’d never tell you.

Part three anyone? 🫣

[emwwrites]

Hey guys

I’ve been gone for a hot minute but I’m back and trying to get back into writing. May I interest a (small) Simon Riley imagine per chance?

354 words <3

Dad!ghost x f!mum!reader x little baby 🥹

SIMON Riley who wears the mask and creates the alter ego Ghost because he has a beautiful wife back home and a precious babe and can’t stand the thought of tainting pure, soft skin.

SIMON Riley who is packing for another op and can’t find his spare mask anywhere— he’s turned the drawers upside down, has checked under the bed and pulled the mattress off, has stripped the covers off said mattress and pillow.

He’s checked the washing machine, the dryer, has checked Riley’s crate just in case. Pulled the couch aside, checked the clothes line and even in the bathroom.

In short, it’s nowhere to be found.

He hears you murmuring softly to their months old babe and knocks on the nursery door softly before poking his head in.

He hadn't prepared himself, hadn’t even thought of the possibility. Watching his little girl laying on her stomach and babbling, the mask clutched in her little fist as she waves it around; brings it to her mouth. Her eyes light up as she spots him poking his head in the doorway, and he feels as though his heart could stop.

An object so tainted, the knowledge of who he becomes with it on, the atrocities committed by his hand in honor of the mask and his rank. Death, blood, decay and the sweet domesticity of family. The slight scent of lavender that wafts through the room. It’s a dissonance that just about knocks him off his feet—

“Oh, hi, honey.” You perk up, body plump in that long dress he knows you wear when you want to feel put together, hands folding the laundry and sorting it into piles. “Figured that she wouldn’t throw a tantrum if I let her help fold the laundry.” You hum, plucking the mask from her hand and replacing it with a sock, striding across the room to hand the mask to him so sweetly. A kiss to his cheek, a gentle hand against his bicep.

How his girls can treat both sides of him— the embodiment of his alter ego and Simon without fear, with love. With reverence?

[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]

SOMETHING about being Hannibal Lecter’s girl. Sweet, happy little housewife completely oblivious to the atrocities caused by her husbands hands. Who believes he could never do anything wrong. Who always miss Jack and Will’s gazes of sympathy because they assume she’s just another victim in this game and she is instead absolutely living her best life. Good dick. Good money. Good food. Good wine. Good books. Good clothes. I am HERE for it.