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toolewdarts · 10 hours ago

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One day someone will worship your writing like scripture op

florist!reader x butcher!tf141 🫣 reader whose job involves cultivating life and beauty in bouquets. tf141 whose job involves blood and dealing with dead meat. any and all thoughts of yours on this would eat 🙏

Hey!! First of all, thanks so much for the ask / request! But I have to apologize because I don't really write all of 141, mostly just Price. However, your prompt inspired whatever this has turned out to be, featuring butcher!Price - I hope you'll still enjoy it! ♥️

carve your name into my bones

【 AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist 】 ✦ John Price x OC ✦ Butcher John Price carves through flesh and bone - he never expected a florist’s touch to cut the deepest. ✦ 7.1k words ✦ tags/cw: butcher!john price, florist!oc, smut, piv sex, creampie, grinding, desperation, pov third person

The scent of blood clung to John Price.

No matter how many times he scrubbed his hands, how hot the water ran, how deep the soap burned into his skin – it lingered, woven into the calluses of his hands, caught beneath his fingernails, trapped underneath the fabric of his clothes. Butchery was a craft of precision: sharp knives, clean cuts, steady hands, careful separation of flesh from bone. The muscle knew what to do before the mind did, guided by instinct and experience. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t flinch. Meat was meat, whether on a battlefield or a butcher’s block. He had carved through flesh in war and in peace, through man and beast.

Everyone knew who he was. A butcher, ex-soldier, harbinger of death – taking lives in every profession he mastered. The whispers followed him, just like the apprehension in people’s eyes, how they subtly shifted away, giving him space and room to be the monster they imagined him to be.

His knives were lined in perfect order, their blades honed to a lethal sharpness. Everything in his life was structured, clean, compartmentalised, and contained.

It had to be. Order was the one thing he could always control.

His world was cold. The hum of refrigeration units droned on, the low temperatures numbing his skin as he moved through his shop, surrounded by carcasses hanging from metal hooks. Beef, pork, lamb – their pale forms swayed gently in the artificial breeze, their lifeless eyes staring out into the sterile space. The tile floor, perpetually slick with a film of water and blood, offered no warmth beneath his boots. The combined scent of raw meat and antiseptic clung to him, thick and cloying, an invisible shroud he carried everywhere. It was a smell that both repelled and comforted him, a constant reminder of who he was, what he did.

The first time he noticed the flower shop across the street wasn’t because of its pretty colors and beautiful decor. It was because it didn’t belong.

It was an anomaly, a splash of vibrant life in a landscape of grey and grit. A fragile thing, nestled between brick and mortar, standing out from the rough businesses around it. In the mornings, when he wiped the condensation from the glass of his shop, he would see it through the frost: a burst of color among the dull storefronts. Its door was always open, inviting people inside and carrying the scent of flowers and soil into the world.

He never gave flowers much thought before. Temporary things. Fading the moment they were plucked, doomed to wither and die. A waste, really.

And yet, he found his gaze drawn back to the shop across the street –

Back to her.

She moved among the blooms with practiced ease, brushing stems and leaves with her hands and tending to them with a care he did not understand.

Small hands, deft and quick, stained green where his were red.

He hadn’t meant to enter. It had been impulse, a brief lapse in routine that led him through the flower shop’s open door.

The warmth struck him first. It was thick and humid, pressing against his skin and clinging to the fabric of his clothes like something alive . The scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and the intoxicating sweetness of a thousand blossoms curled into his lungs and settled deep. It was rich, almost overwhelming – so different from the cold sterility of his own shop that he nearly stepped back.

This place was not meant for him. His boots felt too heavy against the wooden floor, his presence an intrusion among the delicate, living things arranged in careful disarray. He felt like an intruder – some beast from another world, unfit to stand among such fragile things.

She stood behind the counter, hands cradling a bundle of stems, her eyes meeting his without a flicker of surprise or apprehension. She didn't flinch. Didn't recoil from the dried blood under his nails. She simply looked at him. She did not avert her gaze like most did.

And for a moment, he could not breathe.

He left without a word.

But he returned. Again and again.

At first, he told himself it was curiosity – nothing more than that. He would stand in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her work. Her hands moved deftly and certain, arranging each petal and leaf with careful precision. He understood that kind of precision – the quiet, practiced ease of someone who knew their craft intimately. Sometimes, he left without speaking, just a nod in her direction as he walked out. Other times, he lingered, absorbing the peaceful atmosphere, allowing the unfamiliar warmth to settle in his chest.

And eventually, he started to understand why.

It wasn’t just curiosity. It wasn’t just the routine.

It was the way she made him feel normal.

Here, he wasn’t the butcher. Wasn’t the soldier. Wasn’t someone marked by the scent of blood and steel.

She didn’t stare too long, didn’t measure her words carefully, as if afraid of saying the wrong thing, and didn’t glance at his hands as if searching for something hidden beneath the scars.

She just let him be.

And that did something to him. Something that settled into his bones like an ache he couldn’t name.

It had been a long time since anyone had seen him as just a man.

No reputation. No past. No weight of expectation.

And that – that was what he didn’t know how to hold.

Gratitude had always been an exchange. A life saved. A debt owed. A service provided.

But this?

He wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling of being given something he hadn’t earned.

So, he bought her flowers. A way to repay the unspoken kindness, a way to balance the scales.

He had not really planned it, hadn’t even thought about it, until the coins left his palm, and she wrapped the bundle with practiced movements. The paper crinkled as he took them, and the weight was foreign in his hands – light, delicate, absurdly out of place against the roughness of his skin.

He should have left. Instead, he hesitated.

Then, he offered them back with a motion that felt clumsy and unfamiliar, as if his own body had acted before his mind could catch up.

And then, the thought hit him too late.

What the fuck was he doing? Who buys a florist flowers?

The realization weighed heavy on his chest. It was a stupid, too-late impulse that left him standing there, feeling absurd with something so light and fragile in his hands.

His fingers brushed hers as he pushed them toward her, and for a moment, she only blinked. The touch was light and fleeting, but he felt it – the warmth of her skin, the gentle pressure, the way the moment stretched just a little too long.

She looked at the flowers like they were something precious. Like they meant something. And then, slowly, she smiled. Soft at first. Small. But growing, stretching across her face, bright enough to make something in his chest tighten. Her fingers curled around the bouquet, carefully, as if she needed a moment to take it in.

It wasn’t until she glanced down, blinking quickly, that he noticed the slight shimmer at the corners of her eyes, the way she swallowed, as if pushing back something rising too quickly in her throat.

No one had ever bought her flowers.

Not because she didn’t deserve them, but because people assumed she already had enough. She spent her days giving beauty to others, arranging delicate things for their celebrations, their grief, their confessions of love.

But no one had ever given something back. No one had ever thought to give her something just for herself.

For a moment, she was the one caught off guard. The one with no words. The one who could only look at him, still clutching the bouquet, smiling at him as if trying to hold back something overwhelming.

He left before she could say anything, the urge to retreat to the cold familiarity of his world overwhelming. And yet, he returned.

Again. And again.

It became a ritual. Each time, he bought her flowers, each bouquet different, each purchase without a stated purpose. Each time, she accepted them, her fingers tracing the delicate edges of the petals. Each time, she attempted to offer him something in return. He always refused.

He always shook his head, stepped back, put space between them before it could mean something. He told himself he wasn’t worthy of her gifts, that he couldn’t accept something so pure, so full of life, into his world of death.

Because taking would mean crossing the distance.

To accept. To admit what was happening.

And he could not do that.

Yet, something had shifted.

It was small at first. Subtle. The kind of thing that might have gone unnoticed if he hadn’t been paying attention.

But he was . He was acutely aware of her, of every nuance of her expression, every subtle shift in her demeanor. He caught the way her fingers lingered on the petals after he handed them to her, the way her touch softened, like she was memorising them. He saw it in the way her eyes met his, in the lingering warmth of her smile, in the quiet understanding that passed between them without words.

She set them down more carefully than she should have, as though they meant something more than the thousands of flowers that had passed through her hands before.

And maybe – he had changed too.

At first, he told himself he still came for the flowers, for the ritual between them, for the excuse that let him step inside her world without admitting why.

But that was a lie. Because he found himself lingering longer. Because the warmth of her shop clung to him long after he left. Because the scent of earth and petals stayed on his clothes, sinking into the fabric, into his skin, a reminder that there was something beyond his shop's cold, metallic sterility. A reminder that there was life, and beauty, and warmth, even in a world that often felt cold and harsh. Because something in his world was soft for the first time in a long while.

He noticed the sunlight streaming through his shop window, the dust motes dancing in the air, and the ice crystals forming intricate patterns on the glass. He saw the small details, the subtle shifts in light and shadow, and the quiet beauty that had always been there but had gone unnoticed for so long.

And he did not know how to turn away from it. He didn’t know how to resist the pull he felt towards her.

It was not supposed to be like this. She was not supposed to linger in his mind long after he locked his doors. He was supposed to be immune to such things, hardened by war, by death, by the cold reality of his existence.

And yet, she did. She lingered in his thoughts, a persistent presence that softened the harsh edges of his world.

Then, one day, out of nowhere, she invited him to dinner. It stunned him.

For the first time since this unspoken ritual between them had begun, he was caught off guard, unprepared in a way that felt foreign to him.

This was not a simple sprig of rosemary pressed into his palm. Not a jar of jam left on the counter, waiting for him to accept. This was something else. Something more.

For a moment, he did not move. They had existed within carefully drawn lines, an unspoken agreement neither had dared to acknowledge.

He bought her flowers. She tried to return something in kind, but he always refused. It was simple: a balance held in silence, a dance they performed without ever speaking of it.

But this changed the rules. This was not a fleeting exchange, not something he could leave behind on the counter or shake his head at before walking away. This was an invitation. A quiet request that asked for more than a brief moment at her counter, more than the safe distance he had maintained between them.

He should have said no. It would have been easier. It would have left another line unbroken, another boundary intact, and another reason to believe he was still in control of whatever this had become.

But instead, he offered to cook.

The words left him before he could stop them, before he could consider what it meant to let her step into his world.

Before he could acknowledge the truth – that it wasn’t just about letting her in, it was about the fact that, deep down, he wanted to.

And then, she had nodded, not surprised. Not hesitant. As if she had always known he wouldn’t refuse her forever. As if she had seen beneath his carefully constructed walls, seen the flicker of warmth beneath the surface, and knew that eventually, he would break.

Her smile was small but unmistakable, a quiet warmth that settled across her face like the first touch of sunlight after a long winter. It wasn’t just happiness, it was certainty, calm and unshaken, as if she had been waiting for this moment all along.

And for the first time, he felt it. Not fear, not hesitation – warmth. A gentle, persistent thing pressing against the cold edges of him, finding the places that had long since gone numb and stirring them back to life.

It was unbearable.

Because it made him feel . Because it was soft where everything in him had learned to be hard. Because it seeped into the cracks he had long since sealed shut.

She stepped into his butcher shop that evening, just as he was finishing for the day. The air inside was sharp with the scent of iron and disinfectant, thick with the lingering chill of refrigeration. It was a smell that clung to everything, a constant reminder of the death that permeated this space.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed softly, casting stark shadows across the room, highlighting the deep red stains that would never fully wash out of the grout. Carcasses hung from steel hooks, their weight swaying faintly with each shift of air, their presence heavy, unignorable. The slow, rhythmic drip of blood against tile filled the silence, a sound he had long since stopped noticing.

The counters bore the remnants of his work: carved sections of flesh, bones stacked in careful order, knives laid out in their proper places, each honed to a lethal sharpness. The blade he had just set down was still slick, with a thin sheen of red clinging to the steel. The cutting board beneath his hands was scored deep with years of use.

A lifetime ago, he had seen war. The battlefield had been different, but the weight of bodies, the thick, metallic scent of blood, the raw understanding of what his hands could do – none of it had changed. The setting had changed, and the tools had changed, but the essence remained the same. He was still taking lives, still separating flesh from bone, still carrying the weight of death on his hands.

Most people, even those intending to buy from him, hesitated when they stepped into his domain. Their gazes flickered uneasily over the hanging carcasses, over the knives gleaming beneath the cold light, over him – standing there with an apron still damp with blood, sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms marred with faded scars that told stories no one asked about.

She did not.

She stepped inside as though it were any other place. As if she were merely crossing the threshold of her own shop, as if there weren’t animals suspended from steel hooks, and as if the blood on his apron was no different than the dirt that darkened her fingertips.

Her eyes flicked over everything; the carcasses, the knives, the deep stain of red against his skin. She took it in. Measured it and absorbed it. But never recoiled.

And he felt it. The way something in his chest tightened, something foreign, something unnameable. The way his body stilled, not out of discipline, not out of control, but out of something unfamiliar, disarming. The way he watched her watch him, waiting for the moment when she would falter, when she would shift her weight, when she would glance away – uncomfortable, realising, reconsidering. Waiting for her to see him as everyone else saw him. As a monster.

But that moment never came. She only looked at him.

And for the first time, it was he who felt like something delicate, something exposed, laid bare beneath a gaze that did not flinch. His breath came slow, measured, though he wasn’t sure why. He felt vulnerable, exposed, as if she could see straight through him, and he hated it. He hated losing this control over himself.

And then she reached for him. Her hands, small but certain, moved with determination as she untied the knot at his back. The apron was stiff with blood, the fabric thick and unyielding after hours of wear, but she did not hesitate. The strings slipped free. Its weight loosened, then fell away entirely.

Beneath, the scent of blood still clung to his skin, the sharp iron tang impossible to scrub away. It lived in the lines of his palms, in the creases of his knuckles, in the places beneath his nails where no amount of washing could reach. It had seeped into him, woven itself into the very grain of his existence.

But she did not care. She did not wrinkle her nose at the lingering scent, did not glance at his hands as if changing her mind. She simply looked at him. As if the blood didn't matter, as if it didn’t define him.

And then she touched him.

Her fingers ghosted over his forearms, light and careful, tracing the scars etched into his skin. Some were thin and clean, the careful work of a blade. Others were jagged and deep, healed poorly from wounds that had never been properly mendable.

Most people ignored them. Some women had admired them in the past, their fascination rooted in fantasy. They had mistaken his quiet for something dangerous, thrilling. They wanted the idea of him, not the reality.

Not the man who woke before dawn, who worked with his hands, who carried the weight of a thousand deaths, who smelled more often of meat than of cologne.

But she – she studied them. Not with pity. Not with hesitation. Not with the morbid curiosity of a stranger. Just acceptance. And he did not know what to do with that.

He should have sent her home. Should have put the apron back on, taken a step back, rebuilt the distance between them before it could be crossed.

But then she touched him again.

Not just his hands. Not just his arms. His face.

Her fingers curled into his beard, into the coarse hair flecked with the first hints of gray, tracing the sharp edge of his jaw with a touch that was neither hesitant nor demanding, only patient. Her touch was gentle, exploratory, as if she were learning the contours of his face, mapping the lines etched by time and hardship. Her thumb dragged across the corner of his mouth, lingering for a moment too long. The contact sent a shiver down his spine, a spark of something he hadn’t felt in years.

His breath shuddered. He closed his eyes, savoring the feeling of her touch, the warmth of her hand against his skin.

He had spent years mastering restraint, honing control so sharp it had become second nature – but this was not something he could discipline away. This was something primal, something visceral, something that bypassed his carefully constructed walls and went straight to the core of him.

And he broke.

It happened before he could stop it. Before he could think. Before he could list all the reasons why he shouldn’t.

His mouth crashed against hers – rough, desperate, uneven – the kiss of a man who had never let himself have this, who had spent too long resisting, too long convincing himself he did not need. It was a kiss that demanded a response, a kiss that begged for connection, a kiss that spoke of years of suppressed longing.

She gasped into him, the soft, breathless sound swallowed by the heat of his kiss, and it only spurred him on, sent something deep and aching spiraling through him.

His hands found her waist, fingers flexing, gripping too tightly, holding her like something slipping through his grasp, like something he had no right to touch but couldn’t bring himself to let go of.

And she didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch from the intensity of his kiss, from the desperation in his touch. Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer and deeper, and he let her. He let her guide him, let her take as much as she gave, and let himself sink into her warmth, into the softness of a world he had spent his life keeping at a distance.

He let himself fall. For the first time, he let himself want.

And that – that was the most dangerous thing of all. Because wanting meant needing, and needing meant vulnerability, and vulnerability was something he had spent a lifetime avoiding.

He tore himself away, breath ragged, chest rising and falling too fast, pulse pounding in his ears, the taste of her still lingering on his lips. His hands trembled at her waist, his grip loosening, but she didn’t step back. He looked at her, his eyes searching hers, looking for any sign of regret, any sign of hesitation.

She was still watching him. Still waiting. Still untouched by the violence of this place, by the death that clung to his skin, by the things he had done. She saw it all, the darkness, the violence, the death – and she wasn’t afraid.

She did not belong here. She never should have belonged here. This place, this world, was not meant for someone like her, someone so full of life, so full of light.

And yet, standing in the center of his shop, lips swollen from his kiss, breath uneven, she looked like she did.

Like she had always belonged.

Like she had always known he would bring her here, had always known he would break eventually, had always known that, in the end, it would never be her who walked away. She had seen the flicker of warmth beneath the surface, and she had known, with unwavering certainty, that eventually, he would let her in.

So he led her upstairs. Not because it was a decision. But because there had never been any other choice. Because something had shifted between them, something had broken, and there was no going back.

The old wooden steps creaked beneath their weight. His boots felt too heavy, each step measured, as if he were walking toward something he hadn’t fully decided on yet. And she followed without hesitation.

His flat was small and practical, a place made for solitude. There was no unnecessary warmth or indulgence in comfort. The furnishings were simple: a battered leather chair, a wooden table scarred from years of use, and shelves lined with books that had gone untouched for too long.

A space meant for one.

Not for visitors, not for softness, not for moments like this.

And yet, she was there.

His hands still ached from the way he had touched her downstairs, from the desperate grip that had left his knuckles white and trembling. His lips still burned from the kiss, from the way she had let him take it, from the way she had met him with equal fervor, equal want, equal need.

He kept telling himself that bringing her upstairs was about dinner, that it was something simple, a meal in exchange for whatever this was, a way to acknowledge what had been growing between them without letting it consume him completely. He told himself it was a gesture of gratitude, a way to repay her kindness, a way to maintain the illusion of control.

But now, standing in the dim light of his flat, watching her, he knew he had lied to himself.

There was no dinner.

There was no conversation waiting to be had.

Because she was still standing there, watching him like she always did.

Calm, certain, unafraid. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking, as if she knew exactly what he wanted.

And he couldn’t take it any longer. His restraint, already frayed, snapped.

Before he could think, before he could stop himself, he was moving. Two steps closed the space between them, his hands catching her, dragging her against him, his mouth crashing onto hers in a kiss that was nothing like the one before.

This was harder, heavier, desperate – less like a man giving in and more like a man coming undone. And she met him just as fiercely. Her body molded against his, her fingers slipping into his hair, nails scraping against his scalp, tugging him closer, deeper, until a groan tore from his throat, low and raw, swallowed between them.

His hands traced the curve of her spine, pressing, gripping, memorising the heat of her, the shape of her, the way she arched into him as though she needed him just as badly. He wanted to imprint her onto his skin, to memorize every curve, every angle, every plane of her being.

For so long, he had held himself back, retreating behind control, behind distance, behind silence. But there, with her pressed against him, with her hands on his skin, with no more space left between them – there was nothing left to run from.

And then her hands were on him. Her fingers found the hem of his shirt, slipping beneath the fabric, dragging it up over his stomach and chest, baring him inch by inch.

He let her.

Let her strip him bare, peeling away the layers of fabric, peeling away whatever was left of his resistance, until there was nothing between them.

Because when she looked at him, she did not see the things people whispered about him. She had heard the stories.

The butcher. The soldier. The man who had taken lives and never looked back.

They were wrong. Because the man standing before her now was not untouchable. Not cruel. Not something to be feared.

He was beautiful.

Not in a way that was easy. Not in the way of men untouched by hardship, but in the way of something raw, something worn, something real.

His belt came loose in her hands, the leather slipping free with a quiet rasp, and then her fingers moved lower, undoing his trousers with slow, deliberate movements, watching the way his body tensed beneath her touch, as if bracing himself, as if holding something back. But he let her. Let her work the buttons, let the fabric slide down his hips, let the last of his barriers fall away without a word.

And when she finally pulled his trousers down, when she saw him fully, she did not falter. She did not hesitate. She only looked. She took him in the way she had taken in the flowers in her shop – reverently, as if committing him to memory, as if she had been given something delicate and rare.

And he could do nothing but stand there and let her.

His cock was thick and heavy, already full, already aching for her, standing dark and flushed against the sharp lines of his stomach, against the rise and fall of his breath.

She traced over every ridge and vein with her gaze, let the moment stretch between them, not to tease, not to torment, but simply because she wanted to see him. Because she wanted to know him.

Finally, she reached for him. Her warm and soft fingers curled around him, a stark contrast against his solid weight. Her grip was firm but slow as she explored him with quiet, unhurried precision, learning his shape, the heat, and the way he reacted to even the slightest touch.

A sound escaped him, low and rough, unbidden, wrecked.

A sound no one had ever heard from him before.

Her thumb dragged over the sensitive ridge just beneath the head, a teasing, testing stroke, and he felt the way his body responded instantly, the way his stomach clenched, the way his fingers twitched uselessly at his sides, as if fighting the instinct to grab, to hold, to claim. He wanted to pull her closer, to bury himself inside her, to lose himself in the heat and the friction and the pure, animalistic pleasure of it all.

His control was slipping. And she wanted him to let it go.

She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his stomach, to the sharp lines of his hip bones, her mouth trailing lower, her breath ghosting over him, teasing, testing, waiting to see how he would break beneath her hands. She felt the roughness of him beneath her lips – coarse hair dusting over firm muscle, darkening down the center of his abdomen, leading her toward where he was already hard and waiting for her.

But then –

He stopped her.

His hands, so accustomed to certainty, to precision, shook . He hesitated, a flicker of doubt, a momentary resurgence of the control he had fought so hard to maintain.

He had handled bodies before. Countless of them. He knew the weight of flesh. The dense resistance of muscle, the slick glide of a blade through sinew, the way tendons strained just before they snapped. His hands were trained for separation, clean breaks, and cutting things down to what they were meant to be. But this – this was nothing like that.

His palm covered her breast, weighing it instinctively, the way he would assess a prime cut of meat, gauging its firmness, its yield beneath his touch. The familiar gesture, the automatic assessment, was a reflex, a habit ingrained deep within him.

But the comparison fractured the moment his thumb brushed over the peak, and she responded.

A soft breath. A quiet arch. A warmth that had never existed in the things he had touched for a long time. The warmth of her skin beneath his palm, the soft sigh that escaped her lips, shattered the comparison, reminding him that this was not meat, this was not death, this was life, warm and pulsing beneath his fingertips.

His other hand drifted lower, sliding between her thighs. And that was when his mind fractured.

His fingers met heat.

Slick, molten warmth.

A dampness that coated his skin instantly. Silk and fire.

Softness yielding beneath his touch. His breath caught in his throat. He traced the delicate, swollen flesh, parting her with slow, deliberate strokes, mapping the contrast of soft folds and the firm, pulsing center of her. He felt the way she quivered beneath his fingertips, the way her breath stuttered, the way her thighs trembled slightly as he explored her.

Wet. Hot. Slick. Alive.

It unmade him. Stripped away the layers of control, the carefully constructed walls, the defenses he had built around himself.

The weight of her body, the heat, the slow, quiet response of her body to his touch, the gasps that left her mouth, the way she was clenching around nothing, aching for more – it burned through him, scorching away instinct, training, and the careful detachment he had spent a lifetime perfecting.

It sent a violent shudder through him, his lungs burning, his pulse hammering in his ears. He was losing himself in the sensation, in the heat, in the pure, primal pleasure of it all.

And he nearly groaned aloud.

His mind stilled.

No calculations. No measurements. No cold, lifeless flesh beneath his hands.

Only warmth. Only heat, pulsing and alive, wrapped around him, pulling him into the moment, into something he could not sever, butcher, or separate from himself. He was connected to her, bound to her by a force he couldn’t understand, couldn’t control.

And suddenly, it was no longer enough.

Touching her, feeling her. It wasn’t enough.

He needed more.

He needed her.

He pulled her up, their bodies aligning. He couldn't wait, the need a physical ache. With a groan, he lifted her, carrying her the few steps to his bed before letting his weight settle over her. His cock slid against her, slick and waiting, coating himself in the heat of her, teasing at the place where she was softest, where she was open for him.

And still, he hesitated. Because he knew.

The moment he sank into her, he would never come back from it.

No turning away. No undoing this. This was not a fleeting encounter, not a momentary indulgence. This was a commitment, a surrender, a crossing of a line he could never uncross.

This was not like the meaningless encounters of his past – fleeting, forgettable, nothing more than friction and release. This was something else. Something dangerous. Something that threatened to unravel him, to expose the raw, vulnerable core of his being.

Something that would carve itself into his bones and never leave.

The first push stole the breath from his lungs. The sensation was overwhelming, a rush of heat and pressure and pure, unadulterated pleasure. Her body stretching, taking him inch by inch, slick, tight heat gripping him like she never wanted to let go.

He groaned low against her throat, his forehead pressing into her shoulder as he forced himself to stay still, to let her adjust, to savor the unbearable moment where he was inside her, a part of her; where there was no distance left between them.

She gasped – a soft, broken sound that sent something sharp and deep spiraling through him. Her body shifted, tightening around him, seeking him, needing him.

His arms curled beneath her, pulling her even closer, his muscles trembling, his breath dragging in heavy, uneven pulls. He couldn’t get enough of her, of the feel of her skin against his, of the scent of her hair, of the taste of her on his lips.

He started to move, slow at first – long, deep strokes, dragging himself out of her inch by inch before pressing back in, sinking into the impossible heat of her, shuddering at the way she clenched around him.

She was so wet, so tight, so perfect.

Her legs curled around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper, urging him on, and he gave her what she wanted, what they both needed.

His hips found a rhythm, slow but steady, every thrust pushing him deeper, every movement pulling him further from who he had been before this.

His hands roamed her body, gripping her thighs, her waist, fingers flexing over the soft curves of her as if trying to commit her to memory, to anchor himself to this, to her, to the only real thing he had ever let himself have.

Her moans filled his ears, soft, breathless, growing louder with every thrust. Her head tilted back, her hands clutched at his shoulders, his arms, the back of his neck, pulling him closer, dragging him deeper.

Every sound she made fed something primal inside him, something starving, wild, and desperate.

And then he couldn’t hold back anymore.

His movements turned rougher, his hips snapping forward with urgency, his grip tightening, his thrusts turning shallow, erratic, urgent.

The pleasure built, unbearable, overwhelming, his body wound tight, every muscle tensed as he fought to hold on, to drag it out just a little longer, to keep himself from falling completely.

But then her hands found his face, fingers tangling into his beard. She gripped him tightly, forcing him to look at her.

And he had no choice. His breath caught.

He lifted his gaze, blue eyes meeting hers, dark with pleasure, hazy with warmth.

And what he saw destroyed him.

Because she looked at him like he was something precious. Like he was something to be cherished, something to be held, something to be loved .

No fear. No hesitation. Just acceptance. Pure, unconditional acceptance.

And that – that was what finally shattered him.

A strangled groan ripped from his throat, raw and guttural, as pleasure seized him, his muscles locking tight, his hips jerking forward as he buried himself deep inside her, spilling himself into her in thick, pulsing waves. It tore through him – violent, primal, stripping away everything until there was nothing left but this.

He shuddered against her, hips grinding down hard, forcing himself deeper still, filling her with the hot rush of his release as if he could imprint himself into her bones, claim her in the only way he knew how.

His jaw clenched, breath ragged, the world narrowing until it was just her, just the way her body held him, clenched tight around him, pulling him in and holding him together even as he shattered apart.

And through it all, she was there beneath him – her arms tight around him, her thighs trembling, her breath uneven against his shoulder, grounding him, anchoring him, holding him steady through every violent aftershock.

He had come undone completely, unraveled by her heat, her softness; the fierce, unrelenting way she accepted everything he had to give, everything he was. And in that moment, he knew – she had broken him in ways that could never be mended.

But it wasn’t a breaking, not really. It was a shattering of the old, a dismantling of the walls he had built around himself, a making way for something new.

As his body stilled, as the aftershocks rippled through him, something wasn’t finished. His breath was still uneven, his body still heavy against hers, but beneath him, she trembled—her pleasure still just out of reach, still waiting for him. And that wasn’t right. That couldn’t be right. He needed to feel it, needed her to come undone just as violently.

Because this wasn’t just about pleasure, it wasn’t just a culmination of their quiet, unspoken ritual. If it had only been that, it would have been easier . He could have walked away, could have told himself it was nothing more than a moment, a need met, a fleeting indulgence. But it wasn’t. He knew it wasn’t. Because if it were, he wouldn’t need this—wouldn’t need the confirmation, the undeniable proof that she had fallen just as hard as he had. He needed to see her shatter, needed to witness her surrender, needed to know that this connection, this vulnerability, was mutual.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her thighs, spreading her open for him once more, his weight still pressing her into the mattress, keeping her exactly where he wanted her. His cock, still thick inside her, was softening, but he wasn’t done. Not until she had felt everything, until he had wrung every last ounce of pleasure from her body, until she broke the way he had.

His softening cock dragged over her clit, thick and warm, pressing against the swollen bundle of nerves with each slow, rolling thrust of his hips, smearing the evidence of his release over her, marking her as his in every way that mattered. She gasped sharply, her fingers tightening against his arms, nails biting into his skin as her body jolted beneath him.

He did it again. And again. And again.

He needed it. He needed to know that it wasn’t just something fleeting, that their ritual hadn’t just been a game. That it meant something, that it had always meant something, even before either of them had dared to acknowledge it.

His hips moved against her, slow but insistent. He drank in every tiny sound, every trembling breath, every helpless, stuttering moan. He felt her body twitch, felt the way her thighs trembled, felt the way she clung to him like she didn’t know whether she was trying to push him away or pull him closer.

But he didn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Not until she was gone for him. Her fingers curled into his hair, her nails raking against his scalp, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. And then – she broke .

Her body arched, her breath caught, her muscles locking up as pleasure overtook her, hard and fast and devastating . A strangled cry spilled from her lips, something raw, something perfect, something meant only for him. She clenched around nothing, her thighs tightening, her nails digging into his skin as she came for him, because of him, with him.

And fuck, he felt it.

Felt the way she trembled, the way her body surrendered, the way she lost herself completely beneath him. And that— that —was what he needed. That was what made it real. The proof of her, the confirmation of this, the undeniable, inescapable truth of what had just happened between them. It sent something shuddering through him, something deeper than pleasure, something weightier than relief.

A quiet, breathless exhale left him, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his arms curling tighter around her, keeping her against him.

His body was pressed to hers, and her skin was warm beneath his fingertips. It was flushed with heat, with the rawness of something inevitable from the moment she had stepped into his world.

She didn’t let go of him. Neither did he.

But something pulled his attention. His hand, still resting lightly over hers, his fingers brushing absentmindedly over the delicate curve of her wrist, felt the rough ridges of calluses.

His brows furrowed slightly, his thumb turning her palm over, tracing the hardened skin along the base of her fingers, down to the small, shallow cuts that had healed over time – some fresh, others nothing but faded ghosts of past wounds.

For a long moment, he simply looked. They had the marks of someone who worked and shaped the world with her own hands.

Hands that tended to delicate stems but did not break them, hands that wove bouquets together with precision.

Hands that nurtured life where his had only known death.

And yet, they were not so different.

His gaze flickered down to his own hands, his own scars, his own history written into flesh. His rough, calloused palms were marred with lines from blades, war, years spent carving into bone and sinew, and a lifetime spent wielding knives.

The irony of it struck him.

She worked with tools, just as he did. She bore the same marks. Carried the same evidence of labor and time.

She was not fragile. She had never been. She was not untouched by the harshness of the world, just as he was not untouched by its moments of beauty.

And somehow, they had met in the middle.

They were two halves of the same whole, night and day entwined, shadows and sunlight bleeding together at the edges. Their contrast was no longer a division but a balance.

A paradox – life and death, in their eternal dance, had fallen in love.

And as her fingers curled around his, as if grounding him there, he let himself believe it.

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httpvomitello · 2 days ago

Note

fred weasley x y/n

can you do jealousy enemies to lovers

Where they play spin the bottle and Fred got mad you almost kissed George so he kissed you for him and everyone smile and clapped

Hello hellooo, i hope you like it ~ ♡

The Spin of Fate .｡*･ﾟﾟ

Summary: When a game of Spin the Bottle at a Gryffindor party takes an unexpected turn, Fred realizes just how much he doesn’t want you kissing anyone else—especially not his own twin.

fred weasley x f!reader

The Gryffindor common room was buzzing with energy, the remnants of a victorious Quidditch match still lingering in the air. Laughter and chatter filled the space as students sprawled out on couches, a few empty bottles rolling across the floor.

You sat on the rug near the fireplace, arms crossed as you watched Fred Weasley animatedly recount one of his near-misses during the match. His grin was wide, his freckled face glowing from the heat of both the fire and the attention he was getting.

You rolled your eyes. Of course, he was the center of attention.

"Having fun glaring at Fred?" Angelina nudged you, smirking.

You huffed. "I am not glaring."

"You are," she confirmed.

"I just—he’s so—"

"Irritating?"

"Infuriating."

"Annoyingly charming?"

You made a face. "Not the words I’d use."

Angelina laughed. "You two bicker like an old married couple."

You scoffed. "We argue because he’s impossible."

"He likes you, you know," she said, raising an eyebrow.

You snorted. "Yeah, right. And I like him."

"Denial," she sing-songed.

Before you could retort, someone called out, "Spin the Bottle!"

There were cheers of approval, and just like that, the group was gathering in a circle, a mostly empty butterbeer bottle placed in the center.

"Come on," Angelina tugged you to sit beside her.

"Seriously?" you groaned.

"You afraid of a little kiss?" Fred smirked from across the circle, arms resting lazily on his knees.

Your glare could’ve set him on fire.

"Fine," you huffed, sitting down.

The game began, laughter ringing through the room as bottle after bottle was spun, leading to awkward pecks and dramatic swoons. It was all ridiculous, really.

And then, it was your turn.

You reached forward, grasped the bottle, and gave it a spin. It whirled in place before slowing… and landing on George.

A round of whoops and teasing cheers erupted around the circle.

You and George exchanged glances. There was no awkwardness—George was a friend, and this was just a game. You leaned forward slightly—

And suddenly, Fred was moving.

Before you could even process what was happening, his hand was on your chin, tilting your face towards him, and then—

His lips crashed onto yours.

The world tilted. Your brain stalled.

Fred Weasley was kissing you.

It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was firm, possessive, as if he was making a point. As if he was staking a claim.

Your heart was pounding.

And then, just as quickly, he pulled back, leaving you wide-eyed and breathless.

The room erupted into cheers and claps.

"Finally!" Lee Jordan hollered.

"Took you long enough!"

"About time!"

You barely heard them. Your mind was still spinning.

Fred smirked down at you, looking entirely too smug. "There. Fixed that for you."

Your mouth opened and closed. "You absolute git," you sputtered.

"Come on, you weren’t actually going to kiss George, were you?" He raised an eyebrow.

"That’s how the game works!"

Fred just grinned. "Had to save you from a bad decision."

You glared at him, your face burning. "You are unbelievable."

"And yet," he said, tilting his head, "you’re not slapping me."

You wanted to. Merlin, you wanted to.

Instead, you grabbed his collar, yanked him down, and kissed him again—just to wipe that smug look off his face.

It only made the cheering louder.

#reader #x reader #y/n #f!reader #fred weasley #weasley twins #george weasley #fred weasely x y/n #fred weasley x you #fred weasly x reader #fred weasley x reader #hogwarts #hogwarts legacy #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #x female reader #female reader #gryffindor

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mintyys-blog · 2 days ago

Text

DANGEROUS GAME— jason todd x black masks daughter! reader

WARNINGS: guns, kidnapping, smut.

The mansion was eerily quiet at this hour. The kind of quiet that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You had slipped out of your room, the silk of your nightgown whispering against the marble floors as you padded toward your father’s office. You hadn’t seen him all day, and you had a nagging feeling in your chest. Something was wrong.

You pushed open the heavy door, expecting to find him hunched over his desk, cigar smoke curling in the air. Instead, the room was dimly lit, the only source of light coming from the city skyline through the large windows. And sitting in your father’s chair, legs stretched out casually, was a man in a red helmet.

Your breath hitched.

He was tall—taller than you had expected when he rose from the chair, his broad frame casting an imposing shadow across the room. His movements were slow, calculated, like a predator toying with its prey.

You stepped back instinctively, your fingers curling against the cool wood of the doorframe. Every part of you screamed to run, to get out of here before this man did whatever he had planned. But then—

Click.

You froze.

The metallic weight of a gun was leveled at your face. Your stomach dropped.

“Not so fast, princess,” the modulated voice from the helmet was smooth, almost amused. But there was an edge to it—something dark and dangerous beneath the surface.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. The air between you was thick, suffocating.

“Where’s your father?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, like he was studying you.

You swallowed, forcing yourself to keep your voice steady. “I don’t know.”

There was a beat of silence, then a low hum from behind the mask. “That’s a shame.”

His grip on the gun didn’t waver, and you had no doubt that if you made one wrong move, he wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger. You weren’t stupid. You knew who this was. The Red Hood. The man who had been carving his way through Gotham’s underworld, leaving bodies in his wake. And now he was here. In your house.

“What do you want?” you asked, forcing yourself to hold his gaze, even if all you could see was your own frightened reflection in his helmet.

He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “What I want is to have a little chat with your father. But since he’s not here…” He trailed off, taking a slow step toward you. You instinctively pressed back against the door. “You’ll do for now.”

Your pulse hammered in your throat.

You were trapped. And you had no idea how this night was going to end.

Your fingers curled around the doorframe as you pressed yourself back against it, your breathing shallow. The Red Hood stood in front of you, his gun unwavering, his body language unreadable beneath the mask.

“You seem nervous,” he remarked, voice still smooth, still unreadable.

No shit.

You didn’t respond, too busy trying to keep your expression neutral. If there was one thing you had learned growing up as Black Mask’s daughter, it was that showing fear to men like him only made things worse.

But Red Hood wasn’t like the men your father worked with. No—he was something else entirely. He was a ghost story whispered in the corners of Gotham’s underworld, the man who put crime bosses in the ground and torched their empires without hesitation.

And now he had you cornered.

His head tilted slightly, like he was considering something. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he lowered the gun. Not all the way—but enough that you could breathe again.

“Good girl,” he muttered.

You stiffened at the words, at the way they rolled off his tongue like he was amused by your fear. It made your blood boil, even as the rational part of you screamed to stay quiet.

“Why are you here?” you asked, forcing your voice to stay steady.

He exhaled, the sound distorted slightly by the modulator in his helmet. “Like I said—I need a word with dear old dad. But since he’s conveniently absent, I guess I’ll have to settle for you.”

You swallowed. “If you think I know anything about his business, you’re wrong.”

He let out a low chuckle. “Oh, I don’t need intel, princess. I just need leverage.”

The word sent a chill down your spine. Leverage.

You had heard it plenty of times before—usually when your father was the one holding someone hostage to get what he wanted. But now? Now you were the pawn.

“You think he’ll come for me?” you scoffed, trying to mask the way your stomach twisted at the thought.

The Red Hood let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “I know he will. The question is, how much is he willing to lose to get you back?”

The air in the room felt suffocating. You weren’t stupid—you knew your father was ruthless, cruel, a man who would put a bullet in anyone if it meant keeping his empire intact. But you also knew this—he was possessive. Not loving. Not caring. But possessive. And if Red Hood thought he wouldn’t burn the city down to get you back, he was a fool.

You looked up at the masked man in front of you, your heart still hammering.

“You’re making a mistake,” you whispered.

Red Hood stepped closer, so close that you could see the way the city lights reflected off his helmet. He leaned down, just enough that you could feel the heat of his presence, even through the thick armor he wore.

“Maybe,” he said. “But I don’t think so.”

Then, before you could react, he grabbed your wrist, spinning you around so your back was against his chest. Your breath hitched as you felt the cold press of something metal against your ribs—another gun, hidden beneath his jacket.

“Now, princess,” he murmured, his voice low, almost teasing. “Let’s go for a little ride.”

Your feet barely kept up as Red Hood pulled you through the halls of the mansion, his grip on your wrist firm but not painful. Yet.

Your mind raced. You had to do something. Running wasn’t an option—not with the gun he had pressed to your ribs. And screaming? No one in this house would help you. The guards were either unconscious or dead, and the few that remained wouldn’t dare cross someone like him.

You swallowed hard, your body tense as you stumbled down the grand staircase. The once-opulent house, a symbol of your father’s power, felt more like a tomb now.

“Where are you taking me?” you demanded, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Somewhere cozy,” Red Hood replied dryly. “Not a fan of house calls, but you weren’t exactly part of the plan. Guess I’ll improvise.”

You clenched your teeth. “You’re improvising? Kidnapping me wasn’t the plan?”

“Not originally.” He yanked you toward the front door. “But things change.”

Panic surged in your chest. If you stepped outside with him, you knew there was no coming back. Not until your father decided whether or not you were worth saving.

Your thoughts spiraled. What if he didn’t come for you? What if he decided you were just another casualty in his war for control?

You couldn’t let yourself be taken.

Your eyes darted around the entryway, searching—then you saw it.

The decorative dagger.

It sat in a display case near the door, a gift from some crime lord who had long since met a violent end. Your father never paid it any mind, but right now? Right now, it was the closest thing to a weapon you had.

You had no time to think. Only act.

You let your knees buckle suddenly, going limp in Red Hood’s grip. He wasn’t expecting it, and for a split second, his hold on you loosened just enough—

You tore free, lunging for the dagger. The glass shattered as your fingers closed around the hilt, and you spun just in time to see him pivot toward you.

“Shit—”

You slashed out, aiming for his side. He dodged—fast. Faster than you anticipated. But you weren’t trying to kill him. Just slow him down.

“Fiesty,” he muttered, stepping back as you brandished the blade. “Didn’t think Black Mask’s kid had it in her.”

You tightened your grip. Your heart was hammering so hard you swore he could hear it.

“Let me go.”

He tilted his head slightly, considering. Then, with a sigh, he reached up—

And took off his helmet.

Your breath caught.

Dark hair, tousled and messy like he had run a hand through it too many times. A sharp jawline, marred by faint scars. And his eyes—icy blue, sharp as a knife, cutting through you like he could see every thought in your head.

Jason Todd.

Your father’s men whispered about him in hushed voices. They called him a ghost, a monster that refused to stay dead. But now, standing in front of you, he looked so painfully human it made your chest tighten.

“You’re not walking out of here,” you warned, trying to ignore the way your hands trembled.

Jason smirked. “You sure about that?”

Then he moved.

Faster than you could react, he closed the distance between you, grabbing your wrist in a bruising grip. The dagger clattered to the floor as he wrenched your arm behind your back, spinning you around so your back was against his chest again.

“Nice try, princess,” he murmured against your ear, voice laced with amusement. “But you’re coming with me.”

You struggled, but his hold was ironclad.

“You’re making a mistake,” you hissed.

Jason chuckled, and for the first time, you realized just how close he was.

“Probably,” he said. “But I really wanna see how pissed your old man gets.”

The cold night air bit at your skin as Jason pulled you toward a sleek black motorcycle parked just outside the mansion gates. Your mind was racing, your heart hammering against your ribs as you twisted in his grip, trying to break free. But it was useless—his hold was unrelenting.

“Keep fighting, and I might just have to throw you over my shoulder,” he warned, voice muffled slightly by the helmet.

You scowled. “I’d rather die.”

He chuckled, the sound low and amused. “Not on my to-do list tonight, princess. Now, get on.”

He swung a leg over the bike effortlessly, motioning for you to do the same. You hesitated, glancing back toward the house. Even if you screamed, no one was coming to help you. The only way out of this was forward.

Grinding your teeth, you climbed on behind him. His body was warm, even through the leather jacket, and you forced yourself to sit stiffly, refusing to hold onto him.

“Suit yourself,” he muttered. Then the engine roared to life, and the bike shot forward.

The city blurred around you as he wove through the streets at breakneck speed. Wind whipped against your face, making your eyes sting, and you cursed under your breath when you almost lost your balance.

Jason must have noticed, because he reached back, grabbing your wrist and yanking it forward until your arms were wrapped securely around his waist.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said, amused.

“You wish,” you shot back. But you didn’t let go.

It felt like forever before he finally pulled into an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Gotham, skidding to a stop inside the massive space. The engine cut off, leaving a ringing silence in your ears.

He climbed off first, stretching his arms before turning to you. “Home sweet home. Try not to get too comfortable.”

You glared at him as you swung a leg over and landed on unsteady feet. The moment your boots hit the ground, you bolted.

Jason sighed. “Really?”

You barely made it three steps before his arm wrapped around your waist, yanking you back against his chest. Your breath hitched as he leaned down, his voice low beside your ear.

“You keep running, I will tie you to a chair,” he murmured.

Your nails dug into his gloved hand. “Screw you.”

“Tempting,” he shot back, smirking as he spun you around to face him. “But we have business to take care of first.”

His grip loosened just enough for you to step back, and you took the opportunity to put as much space between you as possible.

“What do you want?” you demanded.

Jason leaned against the bike, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Already told you. Your old man’s been a pain in my ass for too long. I figured taking you would force his hand.”

You scoffed. “You think he’ll negotiate with you?”

Jason tilted his head, considering. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I do know one thing—” He pushed off the bike, stalking toward you until he was inches away.

“He will come for you,” he murmured. “And when he does, I’ll be ready.”

A chill ran down your spine, but you refused to let him see it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you said, voice quieter than before.

Jason smirked, his eyes glinting beneath the mask. “Good thing I like danger.”

Your body was tense, every muscle coiled like a spring as Jason turned away from you, casually inspecting his surroundings like he hadn’t just kidnapped you from your own home. You took the moment to look around as well—dim lighting, high ceilings, the scent of oil and metal lingering in the air. This wasn’t just some random hideout. It was his place.

Which meant you were completely screwed.

Jason dragged over a crate and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “You can relax, you know. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Oh, right. Because being dragged out of my house at gunpoint was so reassuring.”

Jason shrugged, unbothered. “Could’ve been worse.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“I could’ve let your father’s enemies get to you first.”

His words hit like a slap. Your stomach twisted, but you refused to let him see how much that got to you. Instead, you crossed your arms and shot him a glare. “So I’m supposed to thank you?”

Jason smirked beneath the helmet. “Not necessary, but it’d be nice.”

You rolled your eyes. “Go to hell.”

“Been there, sweetheart. Didn’t care for it.”

You clenched your teeth, trying to fight the wave of frustration clawing its way up your throat. He was enjoying this. The arrogance, the teasing—it was all a game to him.

But not to you.

“Let me go,” you said, voice quieter now, more measured. “You want my father? Fine. But keeping me isn’t going to change anything. He’s not the type to negotiate.”

Jason tilted his head slightly, considering. “Maybe. But he is the type to get angry. And when Black Mask gets angry, he gets careless. That’s what I’m counting on.”

You swallowed hard. You knew what he meant. You had seen firsthand what happened when your father lost control—rival crews wiped out overnight, bodies dumped in the Gotham River, entire buildings set ablaze just to send a message.

Jason was baiting him. And you were the hook.

“You have no idea what you’re doing,” you said, voice barely above a whisper.

Jason’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted. He stood, stepping closer until he was right in front of you, the heat of his body a stark contrast to the chill of the warehouse.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he murmured. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

You stared at him, breath shallow, heart pounding. He was close enough that you could see your own reflection in his helmet, close enough that for a moment, you forgot to be afraid.

Then he stepped back, turning toward a rusted-out metal door. “Get comfortable. We’ll be here for a while.”

And with that, he walked out, leaving you alone in the dim light, trapped in a game you never asked to play.

The silence in the warehouse felt oppressive, heavy against your chest. You watched Jason leave, his footsteps echoing against the cold concrete floor. The sound of the door creaking shut behind him left you with nothing but the weight of your thoughts and the bitter taste of defeat.

For a moment, you stood there, fighting the urge to pace. But where would you go? The warehouse was a maze of rusted metal and broken-down equipment. There was no way out unless you figured out how to make Jason underestimate you. And from what you’d seen so far, that was a tall order.

You exhaled, trying to steady yourself. Think.

You couldn’t let your guard down. You had to stay sharp. If you played it cool, maybe you could turn the tables. You didn’t have much to work with—nothing but the empty warehouse and your own wits. But if anyone could get themselves out of a tight spot, it was you.

The sound of footsteps grew louder, and you turned just in time to see Jason reenter the warehouse, his back still turned as he dragged a small crate behind him. He set it down with a thud and then glanced over his shoulder.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he said without even looking at you.

You didn’t respond, instead taking a few steps back, eyes scanning the space for something—anything—that could give you an advantage. Jason’s attention was entirely on the crate, and for the first time, you could see the faintest hint of vulnerability in his posture. As if something about this moment was just as uneasy for him as it was for you.

Then, before you could think better of it, you acted.

You moved quickly, silently, trying to close the distance between you and the only weapon in sight—the metal bar leaning against the corner. It was heavy, but it might just be enough to land a good blow if you could catch him off guard.

You didn’t get far before Jason spun around, his eyes narrowing behind the red helmet. “Not that stupid, are you?”

In a flash, he was on you, grabbing your arm and twisting it behind your back with a speed that stole your breath. Your body slammed into the cold floor, and the wind was knocked out of you.

Jason’s weight was on top of you, pinning you down as you struggled beneath him. His breath was shallow, his hands tight on your wrists, holding you in place as you fought to break free.

“You’re persistent,” he muttered, his voice laced with something dark and almost… impressed.

“Let me go,” you hissed through clenched teeth, trying to wriggle free.

Jason’s smirk grew, but there was no humor in it. “I thought we covered this. You’re not going anywhere.”

His grip on your wrists tightened, and you couldn’t help the spark of panic that shot through you. You needed to think. You needed to get out.

But then, something in his expression shifted. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your ear. “You know,” he murmured, voice suddenly low and dangerous, “you’re a lot more trouble than I expected.”

You froze. His words sent a shiver up your spine, the weight of the situation pressing on you. You weren’t just a pawn in his game anymore.

You could feel your body tense with each movement, trying to break free from his grip, but in the struggle, something happened you hadn’t planned for.

Your back was pressed against the cold concrete floor, but as you twisted, your body shifted in a way that brought you into accidental contact with his… crotch. The instant realization hit you, and a rush of heat flooded your face.

You froze.

Jason, ever the observant one, seemed to take notice immediately. His hand loosened slightly, but he didn’t let you go. Instead, he let out a low chuckle, the sound rough, mocking.

“Didn’t realize you were that eager,” he teased, his voice dripping with amusement. “Getting all cozy, huh? Guess I really do have that effect on people.”

The mocking tone sent a wave of humiliation through you. Your stomach churned, your fists clenching at your sides, but you refused to let him see how much his words stung.

“Shut up,” you snapped, glaring up at him.

But Jason only grinned wider. His eyes lingered on you, watching as you struggled to regain control of yourself. The way you shifted uncomfortably, the way your body responded despite your best efforts to ignore it—he was enjoying every moment of it.

Finally, with a long sigh, Jason let go of your wrists, stepping back and giving you the space to move.

“Fine,” he said, his tone now dripping with mockery. “You’ve got your pride, I get it. I’ll let you up.”

You scrambled to your feet, glaring at him as you stood, trying to ignore the heat still crawling up your neck. Every part of you wanted to snap at him, demand that he stop treating you like this. But there was a part of you, deep down, that knew any reaction from you would only encourage him.

Jason didn’t move as you stood slowly, his eyes locked on yours, studying you. His smirk didn’t fade, but there was something else behind his gaze now—a knowing, a challenge, like he was waiting for you to break.

“You okay?” he asked, the question far too casual for the situation.

You gritted your teeth. “Don’t touch me again.”

“Sure, princess,” he said, his voice laced with amusement as he crossed his arms. “But don’t get too comfortable.”

A few hours passed, but the tension in the air hadn’t dissipated. You had stayed as far from Jason as possible, keeping yourself busy by pacing the warehouse, trying to ignore the ever-present reminder that you were stuck here, with him.

The sound of your shoes scraping against the concrete echoed in the otherwise silent space. The only light came from a few overhead lamps, casting long shadows over the room. Every so often, you’d glance over at him, sitting casually on a crate with his helmet in his lap, looking like he had all the time in the world.

You were a prisoner, but he acted like you were just some inconvenience.

A low growl rumbled in your throat, frustration building. You couldn’t stand being ignored. You couldn’t stand feeling so… small.

Finally, unable to stand the silence anymore, you crossed the room to stand in front of him. He glanced up at you, but didn’t move, his gaze unreadable behind the helmet.

“What now?” you asked, a touch more biting than you intended. “You gonna sit there all night?”

Jason raised an eyebrow, a barely audible chuckle escaping him. “What? You want me to entertain you? How sweet.”

You bristled at the sarcasm in his tone, but you refused to let him get under your skin again.

“At least tell me why you’re doing this,” you demanded. “What’s your end game? You’re wasting your time.”

His smirk faltered, just slightly, as he leaned back against the crate. His posture relaxed, but the air around him still felt dangerous.

“End game?” he repeated, his voice low. “What, you think I’m just doing this for fun?”

You crossed your arms, lifting your chin defiantly. “I don’t know, seems like you’re having a blast.”

He didn’t answer right away, just looked at you like he was trying to figure you out. For a second, it felt like the room was closing in, his gaze too intense, like he could see every crack in your armor.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“I’m not here to play games, princess,” he said, his voice harder now. “I’m here to make a point. Your father’s been running Gotham for too long. He’s a monster, and he’s been ruining lives—including yours.”

The words stung more than you expected, and for a moment, you looked away, trying to compose yourself. You weren’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing you falter.

Jason continued, not waiting for you to respond. “You know as well as I do that your father doesn’t care about you—he just sees you as a tool, a way to keep control. I’m trying to take that control away from him.”

You opened your mouth to retort, but stopped. His words hit harder than you were prepared for. You had always known the truth, but hearing him say it so bluntly made it feel like a punch to the gut.

You shook your head, forcing the thoughts away. “You don’t get to lecture me about my father,” you snapped. “You don’t know anything about me.”

Jason’s expression softened just the slightest bit, but his eyes stayed sharp, calculating.

“Maybe not,” he said, standing up slowly. “But I know enough.”

The space between you two felt thick with unspoken tension, both of you aware of how close you were to crossing some invisible line. Neither of you moved for a long moment, just staring at each other, each of you holding your ground.

Finally, Jason broke the silence, his voice quiet but commanding.

“I didn’t want this to be easy,” he said, his tone serious now. “But if you think I’m leaving here without you, you’re wrong. I’ll do whatever it takes to break your father’s grip on this city, and if that means keeping you here until he finally comes crawling, then so be it.”

You could feel the weight of his words settling on your chest. You wanted to fight him, wanted to tell him how wrong he was, how much you hated him, hated the way he made you feel. But there was something about the way he spoke, something raw and almost… real, that made you pause.

You weren’t sure if it was fear or something else, but you couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that Jason wasn’t just some criminal. He was something more—something dangerous, and something you might not be able to fight for long.

“Then what?” you whispered, almost to yourself. “What happens when he does come for me?”

Jason didn’t answer immediately, but the look in his eyes said everything. “When he comes for you, you’ll see just how far I’m willing to go.”

You huffed, turning on your heel and walking away from Jason, trying to shake off the feeling of uncertainty that was creeping up on you. His words hung in the air, heavy and oppressive, but you weren’t about to let him see how much they affected you.

You made your way across the dim warehouse, your boots clicking against the cold concrete floor. There was nothing to focus on, nothing to help you drown out the weight of the situation. Your mind was running in circles, but you refused to let him have that control.

You spotted the old couch in the corner, its fabric torn and faded. The springs were poking through the cushions in some places, and the smell of mildew clung to the air around it. But it was something—some small semblance of normalcy in this hellhole.

You walked over, grimacing at the sight of it, but it was the only place to sit. With a reluctant sigh, you lowered yourself onto the couch, the old springs groaning beneath you as it creaked under your weight. It felt like it might collapse at any moment, but you didn’t care. You needed a moment to breathe.

Your eyes scanned the broken-down warehouse around you, trying to ignore the nauseating mix of anger and fear swirling in your gut. How had it come to this? How had Jason Todd—Red Hood—become the person you had to rely on, even for this brief sliver of safety?

You stared at the wall ahead, still hearing Jason’s footsteps behind you as he slowly crossed the room, his presence like a shadow lingering just out of your peripheral. You could feel his eyes on you, but you refused to acknowledge him.

“Comfortable?” he asked, his voice calm, almost mocking.

You shot him a glare without turning. “Yeah, this place is a real palace.”

Jason chuckled softly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t laughing at your comment. He was laughing at the situation, at the absurdity of it all.

“You should’ve seen it when I first found it,” he said, his tone oddly nostalgic. “Had to fight a few guys for this couch.”

You turned your head sharply, narrowing your eyes at him. “I don’t care about your couch wars, Todd.”

Jason stepped closer, leaning against a nearby pillar. “You should. It’s the best you’re going to get for now.”

You didn’t respond, instead letting your gaze drift over the room again. The air felt thick, suffocating. There was no escape. No way out.

Jason seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere. His eyes flickered to you, studying your profile.

“Look,” he said after a moment, his voice softer, almost like a concession. “I’m not the bad guy here, okay? I’m doing this for a reason.”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze for the first time since you sat down. His mask was still on, but there was something in his eyes—an intensity that almost seemed… human.

“Yeah?” you said quietly. “And what’s your reason, Todd?”

Jason took a step forward, his arms crossing in front of his chest. His tone was no longer mocking, just blunt and honest.

“You think your father cares about you? About anyone? He doesn’t. All he cares about is power. Control. And he’ll do whatever it takes to keep it. Even if it means using you as leverage.”

You flinched at his words, but you refused to let them break you. You knew what he said was true, but hearing it from his mouth felt like a punch in the gut.

“I’m not some pawn,” you snapped, voice shaking slightly. “You don’t get to use me for your war.”

Jason didn’t flinch. He stood there, watching you carefully, as though studying every word, every movement. “I’m not using you,” he said quietly. “I’m just taking away your father’s control. You’re part of this whether you like it or not.”

You wanted to scream at him. To throw something, anything, to make him understand. But instead, you sat there, your fists clenched tightly in your lap. The weight of your father’s manipulation, of everything Jason was saying, was too much.

For a moment, you let the silence settle between you two. It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t peaceful. But it was the reality of your situation.

You finally spoke, your voice hoarse. “You’ll never win. My father will come for me. He’ll tear you apart.”

Jason’s eyes darkened, but his expression remained unreadable. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I’ll make him pay first.”

And just like that, you were stuck in the middle of a war that had nothing to do with you—except that everything about it was personal.

The tension in the air felt suffocating. Jason stood there, arms crossed, his imposing figure framed by the dim lighting. You could feel his eyes on you, the weight of his gaze sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. You hated the way it made you feel—trapped, vulnerable, aware of him in a way you shouldn’t be.

The couch creaked beneath you as you shifted, trying to get comfortable. The worn fabric scratched against your skin, and you grimaced.

Jason smirked, watching you struggle. “Told you it wasn’t luxury.”

You rolled your eyes, tilting your head back against the couch. “Yeah, well, it suits you. Falling apart, just barely holding together—seems fitting.”

Jason let out a low chuckle, slow and deep. “Careful, princess. Keep talking like that, and I might start thinking you like pushing my buttons.”

Your heart stuttered. The way he said it—low, teasing, with that dangerous edge—it sent heat curling through your stomach. You refused to let him see how he affected you, but the smirk on his lips told you he already knew.

You scoffed, looking away. “Please. If I wanted to push your buttons, you’d know it.”

Jason took a step closer. You stiffened as his presence loomed over you, the heat from his body making the cold warehouse feel smaller, more intimate. He reached down, gripping the back of the couch on either side of you, effectively caging you in.

“Is that right?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, but it sent a bolt of electricity through you. “Then tell me, sweetheart—what exactly are you trying to do?”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened. He was too close. Close enough that you could see the way his lips curled slightly behind his helmet, close enough that if you moved even an inch, your bodies would brush.

You forced yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breath hitched. “Trying to ignore you,” you shot back, but your voice came out softer than you intended.

Jason tilted his head slightly, like he was amused by your struggle. His gloved fingers tapped against the couch near your shoulder, a slow, calculated movement that made your skin prickle with anticipation.

“You sure about that?” he murmured. “Because it looks to me like you’re enjoying this.”

Your face burned. “In your dreams, Todd.”

He chuckled again, but this time it was lower, rougher. “You’d be surprised.”

Your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to respond. The air between you was thick, charged with something dangerous, something you weren’t sure you could fight much longer.

Then, just as quickly as he had closed the distance, Jason pushed himself back, stepping away with that same damn smirk.

“Relax,” he said, voice still laced with amusement. “I’m not gonna do anything. Unless you want me to.”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to take the bait. Instead, you exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to lean back into the couch like he didn’t just set your entire body on edge.

“Fuck you,” you muttered.

Jason chuckled, turning away. “Ha, are you offering?”

You sat there, your fists clenched in your lap as you watched Jason walk away. Your body still hummed with the tension he left in his wake, the ghost of his presence lingering far too long. It pissed you off how easily he got under your skin—how easily he could flip the dynamic, leaving you breathless and frustrated while he walked away without a care.

You exhaled sharply, forcing yourself to focus on anything but the way his voice sent heat curling in your stomach.

Jason leaned against a nearby table, his helmet resting beside him. He was watching you again, but this time, he wasn’t smirking. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes tracing over you like he was trying to figure you out.

“You always this tense?” he asked, his voice cutting through the thick silence.

You shot him a glare. “You always this irritating?”

Jason huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You talk big, but I can tell.”

“Tell what?” you asked, your tone laced with annoyance.

He pushed off the table, taking his time walking back toward you. “That you don’t hate this as much as you want to.”

Your breath caught in your throat, but you quickly masked it with a scoff. “Excuse me?”

Jason didn’t stop until he was standing in front of you, looking down at where you sat on the couch. His gaze was steady, calculating, but there was something else there, something darker.

“You should be scared,” he said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. “You should be trying harder to get away, to fight me. But you’re not. You’re still sitting here.”

You swallowed hard. “Where the hell am I gonna go?”

Jason tilted his head slightly. “That’s not the point, and you know it.”

You hated that he was right. Hated that deep down, beneath all the frustration, beneath the anger, there was something else keeping you rooted in place.

His eyes flickered down, just briefly, before dragging back up to your face. The way he looked at you—like he was peeling away every layer, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you—it made your skin burn.

“You want to know the real reason I brought you here?” Jason murmured.

Your throat felt dry. “Enlighten me,” you challenged, but your voice had lost some of its sharpness.

Jason crouched slightly, bringing his face closer to yours. Not touching, but close—so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him, so close that if you moved even a little, your lips would brush against the cool surface of his helmet.

“I wanted to see if you’d break,” he said, his voice low, almost like a confession.

Your breath hitched.

Jason leaned in just a fraction more, his voice dropping into something deeper, something that sent a shiver through you. “But I think you like the way this feels. The way I get to you.”

Your pulse was pounding, your body betraying you with every little reaction. The worst part? He was right.

You forced yourself to scoff, masking the heat rising to your cheeks. “You think too highly of yourself, Todd.”

Jason smirked. “Do I?”

He didn’t move, didn’t back away, and neither did you. The air between you was electric, an invisible thread pulling you closer, daring you to cross a line you knew you shouldn’t.

Then, just as the tension became unbearable, Jason finally pulled back. His absence left a strange emptiness in its place, and you hated how much you missed the heat of him.

He chuckled, shaking his head as he stepped back. “You can keep pretending, sweetheart. But we both know this isn’t over.”

Your jaw clenched. “Go fuck yourself.”

Jason only grinned. “Wouldn’t be as fun, now would it?”

And with that, he turned away again, leaving you simmering with frustration, anger, and something far more dangerous. Something you weren’t ready to name.

The hours dragged on, the silence stretching between you like a game of chicken—who would break first? You sat on the couch, arms crossed, legs curled up to make as little contact with the filthy fabric as possible. Jason had settled back into his previous position, sitting on a crate with his helmet beside him, arms resting casually on his knees.

He hadn’t spoken in a while, but you could feel his presence. It was like he was waiting, watching, waiting for the moment you’d snap.

And you hated that it was working.

You shifted, pretending you weren’t painfully aware of him. The warehouse was cold, but your skin felt too hot. The phantom weight of his body near yours earlier still lingered, making your stomach coil with something uncomfortable—something you refused to name.

Jason finally spoke, his voice smooth, casual. “You planning on sulking all night?”

You huffed, shooting him a glare. “You planning on being an ass all night?”

Jason smirked, but there was something in his eyes—something knowing. “Depends. You planning on giving me a reason to stop?”

Your fingers twitched in your lap. “You’re so full of yourself.”

He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Nah, I just know how to read people. And right now?” He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. “You’re fighting yourself harder than you’re fighting me.”

Your breath hitched, but you masked it with a sharp glare. “Bullshit.”

Jason grinned like he had you exactly where he wanted you. “Oh yeah? Then why haven’t you tried to run?”

You opened your mouth, but the words died in your throat.

Because he was right.

You should be trying harder. You should be making escape plans, throwing things, screaming, something. Instead, you were just sitting here, waiting, stewing in the tension between you.

Jason must’ve seen the flicker of hesitation in your face, because his smirk widened.

“See?” he murmured, his voice lower now, more dangerous. “You like the game.”

Your pulse pounded. “I don’t.”

Jason stood, moving toward you with slow, deliberate steps. “Lying to yourself isn’t gonna make it true, sweetheart.”

Your body tensed as he got closer, stopping just in front of you. He didn’t touch you, didn’t even lean in this time. He just stood there, towering over you, radiating that cocky, infuriating confidence.

You hated that he was right.

You hated that he smelled like gunpowder and leather and something undeniably him.

You hated the way your thighs pressed together involuntarily, how your breath felt too shallow, how you swore he noticed.

Jason tilted his head slightly, like he was waiting.

Daring you.

“You’re so goddamn annoying,” you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Jason chuckled. “And yet, here you are. Still sitting pretty, still letting me get under your skin.”

You clenched your jaw. “Fuck you.”

His smirk deepened. “Thought you’d never ask.”

Heat surged through you, and you shot up from the couch, closing the distance between you in a heated burst of frustration. Jason didn’t move, didn’t flinch—he wanted this reaction, and you knew it.

Your hands pressed against his chest, shoving him—not enough to knock him back, but enough to show him you weren’t afraid.

Jason barely budged. Instead, his hands caught your wrists in a firm grip, holding you there. His fingers were warm even through the gloves, his hold strong but not painful.

Your breath was coming quicker now, and Jason noticed. His grip tightened just slightly, his thumbs brushing against the inside of your wrists in a way that sent a spark down your spine.

“You wanna keep pretending this is just about hating me?” he murmured.

You did. You really did.

But as you stood there, chest rising and falling too fast, trapped in the space between fury and something far more dangerous, you realized—

Maybe you did like the game. And Jason Todd was a very, very patient player.

The tension snapped like a live wire.

One second, you were glaring up at Jason, your body taut with frustration. The next, his grip on your wrists tightened, and suddenly, his mouth was on yours—hot, demanding, dangerous.

You barely had time to react before your instincts took over. Your hands twisted out of his grasp, sliding up to fist in the collar of his jacket, pulling him in harder, rougher. Jason growled against your lips, his fingers digging into your waist as he yanked you flush against him.

It was messy, fueled by frustration and something deeper, something neither of you wanted to name. Your teeth grazed his lower lip, and Jason responded by backing you up, walking you until your back hit the edge of the old couch. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, sliding up your sides, fingers pressing just hard enough to leave a mark.

Your breath hitched as he tugged you even closer, his lips parting just enough to let his tongue slide against yours, deepening the kiss. The heat between you was suffocating, the taste of gunpowder and adrenaline lingering on his tongue.

Jason pulled away just enough to murmur against your lips, his voice rough, teasing. “Knew you’d crack, sweetheart.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders, your pulse hammering. “Shut up.”

His smirk barely had time to form before you crashed your mouth against his again, shutting him up the only way you knew how.

Jason didn’t hesitate—if anything, your rough kiss only spurred him on. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your shirt. He was all heat and control, his body slotting against yours like he owned this moment.

You gasped as he suddenly spun you, pushing you down onto the couch. The springs groaned under the weight, but neither of you cared. Jason followed, settling between your legs, his body pressing down, solid and unrelenting.

He kissed you hard, teeth nipping at your lower lip before he pulled back just enough to let you breathe. His breath was heavy, warm against your lips. “Still pretending you don’t want this?” he murmured, his voice husky.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket, yanking him back down. “Shut up and kiss me, Todd.”

He smirked against your lips, but he obeyed, capturing your mouth in another bruising kiss. It was all fire—clashing teeth, teasing bites, hands wandering with too much familiarity for two people who were supposed to hate each other.

Jason’s hands slid up under your shirt, fingers trailing along your waist, exploring without hesitation. His touch left a trail of heat in its wake, making your breath hitch. You should stop. You should. But the way he moved, the way he owned every second of this moment—

You didn’t want to stop.

Jason broke the kiss first, his lips brushing against your jaw, trailing down to your neck. His breath was hot against your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. His teeth grazed your pulse point before he bit down just hard enough to make you gasp.

“Sensitive, huh?” His voice was pure arrogance, but you could feel the way his chest rose and fell—just as affected as you were.

Your nails dragged against his scalp as you tugged at his hair, forcing his head back just enough to meet his gaze. His pupils were blown wide, his lips swollen from the kiss. He looked hungry.

“You talk too much,” you muttered.

Jason smirked. “You like it.”

Before you could snap back, he kissed you again—deep, slow, like he was claiming you. You could feel the smirk on his lips as you melted into it, the battle of control slipping between you. “I hate you,” you protested.

"You're so damn infuriating," Jason growled, his voice low and menacing. "I don't know whether I want to kill you or fuck you."

"Maybe you can do both," you spat back, your heart racing with anticipation.

Jason's eyes flashed with anger, and he took a step closer to you. "You think you're clever, don't you?" he sneered. "You think you can push my buttons and get away with it."

"I'm not trying to be clever," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I'm just trying to survive you."

Jason's laughter was harsh and mocking. "You'll never survive me," he said, his eyes glinting with amusement. "I'll consume you, body and soul."

The impact was jarring, the cushions creaking beneath your weight. Jason followed, his body pinning yours to the worn fabric. His lips crashed down onto yours, the kiss brutal and punishing. You bit back, your teeth sinking into his lower lip, and he growled, the sound low and menacing.

"You're a bitch," he hissed, his mouth moving down your neck. "A filthy, rich bitch."

"You're a bastard," you shot back, your hands grasping his hair and pulling his head back. "A cruel, heartless bastard."

Jason's eyes flashed with excitement, and he laughed, the sound rough and husky. "That's what you like about me," he said, his mouth moving down your body. "You like the way I make you feel, like you're alive and on fire."

His hands were rough, his fingers digging into your skin as he grasped and pulled. You writhed beneath him, your hips arching up to meet his thrusts. The couch creaked and groaned, the wooden frame protesting the violence of your movements. Your nails raked down his back, moaning his name.

"Fuck me," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of your own ragged breathing.

"Oh, I'll fuck you," Jason said, his voice low and menacing. "I'll fuck you until you can't walk, until you can't think. I'll fuck you until you're mine, body and soul."

His thrusts were fierce, a clash of bodies and wills. Jason's hands were everywhere, his fingers probing and exploring. You felt like you were being torn apart, like your body was being ripped in two.

But it was a good kind of pain, a pain that made you feel alive. You arched up to meet Jason's thrusts, your hips moving in time with his. The couch creaked and groaned, the wooden frame protesting the violence of your movements. You felt your body heat up, your body approaching a orgasm.

As you came, Jason's mouth was on yours, his tongue probing and exploring. You felt like you were drowning, like you were being swept away by a tidal wave of pleasure.

And when it was all over, you lay there, your bodies entwined, the only sound the ragged rhythm of your breathing. Jason's eyes were closed, his face relaxed, and for a moment, you saw a glimmer of something else, something that looked almost like affection.

The room was still heavy with the remnants of what had just happened. The air between you crackled with leftover tension, a mix of heat and frustration that neither of you wanted to acknowledge just yet.

Jason was the first to move. He pulled back slightly, propping himself up on his elbows as he hovered over you. His breath was still uneven, lips red and swollen from everything you’d just done. His eyes, sharp and unreadable, locked onto yours like he was waiting for you to say something first.

You, on the other hand, were still catching up. Your pulse was still racing, your body still buzzing from the feel of his hands, his mouth, him.

And that realization pissed you off.

With a huff, you pushed at his chest. “Get off me, Todd.”

Jason smirked but didn’t argue. He sat back, rolling his shoulders like he was trying to shake off the moment as much as you were. You sat up, running a hand through your messy hair, refusing to look at him just yet.

“That was…” Jason trailed off, voice laced with amusement.

You shot him a glare. “Don’t.”

He chuckled. “What? Gonna pretend it didn’t happen?”

You clenched your jaw, ignoring the way his voice still sent a pulse of heat through you. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

Jason tilted his head, studying you. “And yet…” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping into that low, infuriatingly smug tone. “You didn’t stop me.”

Your fingers curled into fists. “You didn’t stop me either.”

That shut him up. For a beat, neither of you spoke. The silence was louder than anything else, filled with too many unspoken words.

Finally, Jason sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Look—”

“Don’t,” you cut in, standing up abruptly. Your legs still felt weak, but you didn’t let it show. “I don’t want a speech, Todd. Whatever the hell that was? It was a mistake. End of story.”

Jason exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

You shot him a warning look. “I mean it.”

“Sure you do.” He leaned back against the couch, watching you like he could see right through every wall you tried to put up. “Keep pretending all you want, but we both know this isn’t over.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest, but you refused to let him see how much his words affected you.

Without another word, you turned on your heel and walked away.

But even as you put distance between you, you could still feel him watching.

And worse? You knew he was right. Minutes pass, and she changed back into her clothes, curling into herself, she could still feel him. Feel the remaining pleasure he gave her.

The cold night air was thick with tension, and the dim glow of the streetlights barely illuminated the scene. Black Mask stood by his car, a bag of money clutched tightly in his hands, the weight of the transaction heavy between him and the man who had been waiting for this moment—Jason Todd.

Jason stood a few feet away, his posture rigid, eyes narrowed beneath the red mask. His jaw clenched, and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes, as though he were deciding whether to step forward or remain where he was.

But it wasn’t just the money. It was her.

You stood off to the side, feeling more like a pawn than ever. Your body was stiff, your eyes flicking back and forth between the two men, a sense of dread crawling up your spine. You had no desire to leave Jason, but your father was already reaching the point where the deal was about to close.

“Give it to me,” Black Mask growled, tossing the money bag toward his right-hand man, who stood next to the car, ready to collect the payment.

Jason didn’t move, but his hands clenched into fists. His gaze remained locked on you, and there was a moment—just a fleeting one—where you thought he might try to stop all of this. He didn’t want you to leave.

But then Black Mask’s henchman took a step forward, his gun suddenly aimed at Jason’s chest. Jason’s body stiffened, but he didn’t back down.

“Don’t try me, Red Hood,” the man hissed, his voice low, threatening. “This doesn’t end well for you.”

Jason’s hands twitched, but he didn’t move, even as the barrel of the gun pressed closer. He was making a decision—whether to take the chance and risk a fight, or to let you go and face whatever would come next.

Before Jason could act, the gunshot rang out. It was sharp and deafening, the sound of a life-or-death decision made in an instant. Jason’s body jerked back slightly, but the bullet had missed him, grazing just past his shoulder. He immediately crouched low, instinctively reaching for his gun, but Black Mask’s man had already moved behind you, pushing you into the car with a firm shove.

“No!” you cried out, struggling against his grip as you were forced into the backseat.

Jason didn’t make a move to chase, but his voice was hoarse, his eyes burning with rage beneath his mask. “Don’t fucking hurt her!”

But it was too late. Black Mask had already made up his mind. The driver slammed the door shut, and the engine roared to life, sending the car into motion.

The streets passed by in a blur as you sat, feeling every inch of your skin buzz with frustration. You stared out the window, trying to make sense of what had just happened, trying to find some way to stop it—but there was nothing. Nothing you could do.

Your father’s voice broke through the silence in the car, heavy with annoyance and irritation. “Do you know how long I had to look for you?” His voice was rough, like the weight of the past few hours was wearing on him. He pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it, taking a long drag before exhaling slowly. “Fucking Red Hood,” he muttered. “He has to be dealt with… for touching my fucking daughter.”

You shuddered, trying to keep your composure, but the words stung. The accusation. The fact that Jason wasn’t here to stop your father from going too far.

“Please, Dad, don’t hurt him,” you whispered, your voice trembling with the desperation to get through to him. “He didn’t mean any harm. Please. Just let it go.”

Black Mask’s eyes flicked over to you, his expression cold and unforgiving. “You’re not in charge here. I’m not gonna let some punk run around with what’s mine, especially after what he did.” He took another drag from his cigar, his voice sharp. “That little bastard is a threat. And I won’t let him keep getting under my skin, under our skin.”

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You knew he wouldn’t listen. Your father had always been like this—controlling, cold, unyielding. He wasn’t capable of seeing the situation the way you did.

The driver kept his eyes on the road, not daring to say a word. The air in the car grew thicker, your father’s presence all-encompassing.

You stared at the passing scenery, wishing you could go back—wishing you could stay with Jason, where you at least felt some semblance of freedom, even if it was fleeting.

“Please,” you tried again, your voice cracking with frustration. “Don’t—”

“Enough.” Black Mask’s tone was sharp, cutting through your plea. “You think this is easy for me?” He leaned forward in his seat, his expression dark. “He’s lucky I didn’t make it worse for him. But this—” He exhaled a cloud of smoke. “This ends tonight.”

The words hung in the air, a promise of chaos and retribution. Your stomach twisted with dread, and all you could do was watch the night pass you by, knowing that whatever came next, Jason wasn’t going to let this go easily.

The silence in the car was suffocating. You could feel the tension in your chest, the weight of what had just transpired hanging over you like a cloud. Every mile you passed felt heavier, the knot in your stomach tightening with each turn the car made toward your father’s lair.

Your father didn’t say another word for a long time. He was lost in thought, his cigar burning slowly in the ashtray, eyes fixed out the window as the city blurred by. You couldn’t help but glance at him, your hands gripping your knees as you fought the urge to speak again. To plead. To beg him to reconsider. But you knew it wouldn’t do any good.

Still, your heart thudded painfully against your ribcage as you leaned back, staring blankly ahead, letting the adrenaline from earlier fade into cold, sick dread.

But then, just as you thought the moment would drag on forever, your father’s voice broke the silence. It was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, flicking the cigar out of the window. His voice was colder now, like he was speaking to a business associate instead of his daughter. “This isn’t about you and that Red Hood piece of shit. This is about control.” He turned his head, his gaze piercing through the rearview mirror, locking eyes with you. “I don’t give a damn about what you want, not when you’re being reckless.”

His words cut through you, sharp and biting. The sting of them settled deep in your chest, and for a brief moment, you felt small again—like the little girl who had always been in her father’s shadow, never allowed to make her own choices.

“I thought I taught you better than this,” he muttered, his voice almost distant now. “You let some vigilante get too close, and now I have to clean up your mess.” His hands gripped the armrests of his seat, his knuckles turning white. “This Red Hood has crossed a line. And I’ll be damned if I let him get away with it.”

Your hands balled into fists in your lap. “Please, stop,” you said softly, almost pleading. “This isn’t the way—”

“Quiet!” Black Mask snapped, his eyes flashing with sudden fury. He turned in his seat, his face inches from yours, his voice low and dangerous. “You think I care about your feelings right now? I don’t.” His words hit like a slap to the face. “This is about control. This is about respect. That bastard will learn to stay the hell away from my family.”

Your throat tightened, but you refused to let him see your frustration. You wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. You had no choice but to sit there, your body rigid, your mind racing with the same thoughts: Where was Jason now? What was he planning to do?

The car hit a red light, and your father exhaled slowly, as if trying to calm the storm inside him. “You should’ve stayed out of it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You should’ve never let him in.” He stared at you for a long moment, his eyes hard, cold, unrelenting. “You think I don’t know what this is about? You think I can’t see how much you want him? But you’re my daughter, and I’m not going to let you screw everything up over some damn boy.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to lash out, to tell him how wrong he was. But you knew better. You couldn’t win against Black Mask, not when he was this far gone.

The car began to slow, taking the familiar turn toward his estate, the gates opening as you approached. It felt like you were being driven into a prison, the cold stone walls of your father’s mansion rising ahead.

“Now,” he said, voice hardening again, “this is how it’s going to be. You’ll stay here, where I can keep you safe. You won’t go running off with that Red Hood or anyone else. You belong to me, and that’s how it’s always going to be.”

A wave of nausea rolled through you. The words burned, even though you knew they weren’t meant to be a revelation. It was just your father’s way—always controlling, always putting himself first, always making sure you knew your place.

You stared at the mansion, a cold, empty fortress, and felt the weight of your reality settle over you. You were trapped. And there was nothing you could do to get out.

The car came to a stop in front of the steps leading to the grand entrance. Your father’s gaze softened, but it wasn’t a look of compassion. It was possessiveness. “This is for your own good,” he said.

You said nothing, the words stuck in your throat.

The driver opened the door, and you stepped out, feeling like a prisoner in your own life. Black Mask followed, his footsteps heavy behind you.

As you made your way up the stairs, you could still hear the echoes of Jason’s voice in your head. Don’t fucking hurt her. You wanted to believe he would come for you, but in that moment, you didn’t know if anyone could save you from the life your father had locked you into.

Inside, the lights were dim, shadows stretching across the hallway as your father motioned for you to follow him.

“Go to your room,” he ordered, his voice cold again. “And don’t come out until I say so.”

You nodded silently, moving toward the stairs, your heart heavy with the knowledge that you were on your own now.

But in the pit of your stomach, there was still that glimmer of hope—that maybe, just maybe, Jason wouldn’t let your father win.

#x reader #reader insert #x female reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x reader #jason todd #Jason Todd smut #jason todd x fem!reader #red hood x you #red hood x reader #red hood #red hood smut #smut #black mask #dc #dc comics #dcu #dc universe

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angelltheninth · 2 days ago

Text

Radio Silence

Pairing: Alastor x Fem!Reader

Tags: fluff, married life, working late, surprise, domestic fluff, work promotion, talking about having a kid, human!Alastor

Word count: 0.4k

Ko-Fi | Rules | Fandoms and Characters | Commissions

A/N: Tired today. Feeling like hugging Alastor to recharge my batteries.

You don't hear him come in but you hear the familiar hum, the rustling of clothes, humming getting closer and finally you feel the bed dip, the covers being lifted off you and the warmth of them replaced by Alastor's arms.

He pulls you close, "Did I wake you up darling?"

"Yeah." You turn in his arms, a sleep smile on your face, "But I don't mind. How was work?" You nestle close to his chest, his chin resting on the top of your head.

Alastor hums, "More fun than usual actually. I may or may not be getting my own show some time in the near future."

Suddenly you were no longer sleepy. You almost tackled him, making him groan as you straddled his hips, took your face in your hands and kissing him rapidly.

"Al! That's amazing! Were you gonna wait until tomorrow to tell me?"

"Well I simply didn't want to wake you up sweetheart." Alastor places his hands over yours, his smile splitting his face, "Since you've found out, perhaps tomorrow I can take you out to dinner to celebrate."

You lay your body over his, thinking briefly about the offer, "That sounds nice, but actually I'd like it if we stayed inside and made something together."

"Ah, I understand. Do you want to go shopping tomorrow then?" His hands fall on your back, massaging your muscles, lulling you to an almost sleep.

"Anything is good. But I was referring to... well... I was wondering what you thought about adding another little member to our family?" His hands stopped, his breathing stopped, only for a moment, followed by a deep exhale.

"Darling, are you saying that you're-"

"No, no! Not yet. Or at all if you don't want to. But I just thought it might be nice to think about it. We don't have to decide by tomorrow. God, I kind of sprung this on you huh?" You turn his face into his chest, hiding your blush despite it being dark in the room.

He chuckles, "Not at all. I'm willing to think about it." His hands start moving again, melting your worries away, "I would love to add a new member to our family." You couldn't hold back a gasp, almost a choked sob as you felt Alastor press a kiss to your forehead, "Sleep now, I've already taken some of your precious rest. We can talk more in the morning."

Just like that you felt light, happy beyond compare, almost floating, only held back by Alastor's arms around you as you sank back into that dreamy void.

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader #hazbin hotel imagine #alastor imagine #hazbin hotel fanfiction #alastor fanfiction #hazbin hotel fluff #alastor fluff #hazbin hotel x you #alastor x you #hazbin hotel x female reader #alastor x female reader #x female reader

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societyfolklore · 5 hours ago

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Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth.

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants.

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.

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honeyshiddendesire · 1 day ago

Text

Telling Them “I’ll be a disgusting whore for you.” Headcanons

Warnings: MDNI! Vaginal penetration! Public touching/sex! Free Use Kink! Oral sex (female&male receiving)! Rough sex! Spanking! Hair pulling! Dirty talk! Praise & degradation! Cervix fucking! Deep throat! PARTNER SHARING MENTIONED IN ZORO’s SPOT!!

Characters: Shanks, Zoro & Ace

*masterlist* *dividers*

@hellish-heart-ships reshared your original request on my new blog 🥰

Shanks

It’s rare for you to surprise this man but babbbyy~ you got him.

Walking over to him with a shy innocent look, you leaned down into his ear in the packed bar.

“Captain~ can’t we go to your private quarters so I can be your disgusting whore tonight?”

His face became as red as his hair and the look on his face was priceless!!

Quickly collecting himself he ran a hand threw his hair to get back that signature smirk, “Oh darlin’ with a request like that who could refuse?”

Shanks would waste no time throwing you over his shoulder, slapping your ass proudly as he passes his crew with a wink.

Shanks would definitely hold you to your word by the way so get ready!!

Your throat will definitely be sore when he fucks that slutty mouth of yours.

“Naughty little thing~ asking a man somethin’ like that in front of his crew?” Shanks gave a breathy chuckle shaking his head as he looked down at you choking on his cock. “Lucky they didn’t hear and get jealous.” Hips snapping into your mouth making you gag, spit dripping in globs onto your lap. “My sexy disgusting whore.”

He would fuck your throat hard definitely wanting to leave it sore. He wants to make sure you can’t catch him by surprise like that again.

“Gotta make sure this nasty mouth of yours stays shut.”

I forgot to add that he wouldn’t take you back to the Captain’s quarters instead opting for the alley behind the bar. Cause after he’s done fucking your throat it’ll be your 🐱 next.

“Acting all surprised babydoll. Don’t forget I am still a pirate.”

Bent over hands pressed against the cold wall as he drills that pussy from the back. Spanking you occasionally till you're red like his hair.

Singular hand pulling you back by your hair as his hips snap forward to finish off the last bits of your voice.

“Wanna make sure my disgusting whore stays quiet for a couple days. Hope you don’t mind.” Shanks is cocky as he makes you cum on his dick with a silent scream.

Do it again. Do it often. Cause now he’s in love lol 😂

He’s a free spirit so having some spark will be nice but if you’re shy and finally come out of your shell then he’ll love shoving you back in. Waiting for when you pop back out.

All in all…HE LOVES DIRTY TALK!!!

So good job cause you’re now queen of the Red Hair Crew lol 😂

Zoro

This. Man. Was. Shocked!

Zoro can’t recover as fast as Shanks though. RED AS A TOMATO!!

He will literally snatch your wrist up and drag you away.

Gasping as he shoved you into the wall, voice a whispering shout. “Dammit woman what the hell is wrong with you.” You giggle at his frowned red face shrugging your shoulders.

“What? All I did was ask if I can be your disgusting whore.”

He would fuck you right there after you repeat your words. Since you wanted to act innocent and forget that you literally said it while groping his cock.

So taking you up on the offer of being a disgusting whore he would fuck you in the hallway.

Legs over those big arms of his so you can’t run away.

“I don’t give a fuck who sees. You’re the one who asked to be my disgusting whore so I’ll treat you as such. Now take this fucking dick.” Bullying that thick cockhead into that spongy spot in your pussy till you were screaming. “Little whore taking her pounding like a good slut. Fuck- at least this whore got some good pussy though.”

If you were to be caught by someone, depending on who it was, he would offer them a taste too.

⚠️ PARTNER SHARING AHEAD ⚠️

Let’s say Luffy for instance would catch you- Zoro would offer up one of your holes for his dear Captain. 🤷‍♀️ just sayin lol

“What d’ya say Captain? Wanna release some energy on my little whore here?” He would give you a look to see if you were down, but of course you were. He’s your Captain too.

If it was Law!!!!-you’re getting roomed away and pounded by both men.

“I never would’ve taken you for such a whore Y/N-ya.” Law would groan as he fucks you in front, cock pounding into your pussy. Zoro in your backside making you scream from the new sensation.“Yeah best whore you’ll find.”

BUT SANJI CATCHING YALL!!! - Zoro will make him stay there and watch or leave.

“You either watch and cum in your pants or fucking leave.”

He’ll talk to you like a piece of meat after that.

Touching you groping you, expect to be his free use cutie from then on cause now he’s addicted

After training and fights, he’ll be more willing to come to you for his needs instead of holding off till you’re begging.

Your door opened to a sweaty Zoro, he must’ve been done with a workout. His body glistened as his chest rose and fell quickly. Slamming the door he stalked over to you watching as you stood from your desk chair with a raised brow. Zoro snarled as he pressed your head down to the wood. Body glued to your back, molding against you as he whispered hotly in your ear.

“Thought training would ease the frustrations but I guess my body’s just getting used to this pussy doin all the hard work.”

Expect to be called his disgusting whore frequently cause now the name seems so fitting for a Kat like you

“Disgusting whore choking on my cock like ima pay you or somethin’. Fuuuuuck- you ain’t getting shit from me except this cum. Swallow up baby.”

Ace

Oh great you broke him 🙄😂

This poor boy smh 🤦‍♀️ he’ll pop a boner so fast all leaky and red.

Swallowing hard as he leans in to ask you quietly if you’re sure

“B-babe what do you mean?” He asked in a nervous chuckle making you lean in to whisper how you wanted to do the nastiest of things to him. “I wanna get fucked like your disgusting whore.”

He would literally race you to the room giggling and laughing like a couple of goofballs

Whiny despite you saying you’d be the whore

Opened his eyes to some taboo and dirty things

Shows you trust him by saying stuff like that and it warms his heart so he cums fast the first time you say it but he recovers quick

“Dirty whore just for me -Fuckfuckfuck- I’m so lucky-shit you’re so perfect, baby.” Hands clawing your hips as you ride his thick cock with skilled circles. Leaving him whimpering as you say equally dirty things.

Loves how you can never get enough

It’s reassuring to him to see you always so worked up for him

“Look at this pussy leaking.” He’ll groan out as he watches your juices flow with each bounce.

Just like Zoro and Shanks, he would come to you a lot more freely with his desires now knowing that you’re so “down bad”

Queue being a free use slut suddenly cause that’s the role you play for them now 😮‍💨

They’re love for you has only grown in seeing you be vulnerable with such a request

But just because Ace will come to you more doesn’t make him any less red when asking you.

“Hey baby girl. Think it’s time to change the sheets, no? Maybe you should help.” Ace will say as an excuse. You find it cute that he wants you yet holds it in. So teasing him you step forward with a finger going up to his lips.

“Ace baby~ don’t be shy, didn’t I tell you I’ll be a disgusting whore for you. ”

Ace is a quick learner so whatever you want to try or do he’s more than willing

Need Ace to sub= he’s subbing

Need Ace to dom= best believe he’s fucking your cervix like it’s the one piece itself

You may have told them you’d be their disgusting whore but they would do anything you needed from them.

“Like that hot stuff? Don’t worry baby girl I’ll fuck you like the whore I know you are baby.”

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misshorneigh · 2 days ago

Text

i'm breakin’ dishes up in here (all night)

john price x fem!reader

summery - john didn’t make the best impression on you when you first met, so he had to make an extra effort to get on your good side.

cw/ enemies to lovers, misogynistic themes, talk about terrorist attacks + nazis, slight angst w/ comfort, sexual tension

only a fool, after all

Stupid Germans and their stupid problems. It was perhaps a bit of a cliché that they were often the ones who played the bad guys, but at the same time, it was undeniable that they were on the wrong side of history more than once. I guess it’s true that the past can be hard to let go of sometimes - maybe that wasn’t too bad.

These days, a few of them are still causing trouble. Almost seems as if some just like to conform to the cliché and well, if the boot fits. Still, did it have to be in London of all places? “The guy we’re after just has to be some German idiot, just our luck.” Kyle sighed while he leaned against the wall and tried to massage away a knot in his neck. He just couldn’t seem to sleep properly last night.

The team was in a bad mood.

There has been a huge uproar from sides of the British secret service and the police since there was a suspicion that a far-right organization might be planning a terrorist attack in the capital of England. Unfortunately, even after several days, no one was able to locate the possible perpetrators, which is why the SAS was finally deployed to search for clues. Though, even after several sleepless nights, they only found out one thing and it didn’t make any one of them happy.

The mastermind behind all this is some guy wanted by the German government, which is why they had to - or rather should have - handed over the mission to them. “Here they come,” Johnny pronounced slightly wearily as the black SUV pulled up, leaving the men standing upright at the awaited arrival.

Price watched the soldiers disembark with both hands on the front of his belt. He hadn’t been a big fan of the situation himself, though he still had to admit that it was better to work with a couple of Germans rather than hand them all the hard work on a silver platter. Besides, nobody liked to leave things half-finished, right? He was quite thankful that Laswell got them this deal.

“Be nice, boys.” he simply ordered, ignoring the discontent of his men when two figures started to walk in their direction. He gave the broadly built man next to you a polite smile as he extended his hand to him. “Nice meeting you, name’s John Price. I’m the captain of unit 141.” he introduced himself but the man in a foreign uniform didn’t give the impression of shaking his hand when he continued to just give him a blank stare with his arms folded behind his back.

Johnny’s eyebrows furrowed slightly in irritation while watching the scene in front of him, what kind of asshole was that? The Scot would be the first of the three to hurl some kind of insult at the guy’s head if he wouldn’t try to keep his mouth shut. Nobody treats their captain with such disrespect and certainly not some man from ugly potato country. Wait - there was no reason for holding back, why did he even keep his thoughts to himself? “What? Think yer too good for some good old manners, ya big -”

There was a tension in the air within seconds that would have surprised you if you hadn’t been working in a male-dominated profession for over a decade. You interrupted the sergeant. “I apologize, my lieutenant can seem a bit cold sometimes, he doesn’t mean it,” your voice cut through the wind after you patted the soldier on the back in a friendly manner.

It felt like your light slap hit the Task Force members in the guts with full force at the same time. John’s eyes then met your unwavering gaze for the first time and he couldn’t help but think that maybe this was just a little game from the man in the sky. It was almost cinematic how he was the one who fucked up in the first second, even though he had fully expected it from the other side. Of course, the captain of the other unit is a perfectly competent woman, why wouldn’t she be?

He almost wanted to let out a touché, but he felt too ashamed to say anything for a few seconds as he continued to hold his hand in the air, almost frozen. Meanwhile, you just made a casual movement with your arm, indicating that they should continue. “Go on, don’t let me get in the way of your conversation. I’ll just stand back here and let the men do the talking, right?” you laughed out as you symbolically took a step back, smearing the stupid mistake all over their faces like shit.

Your lieutenant held out his hand as instructed this time, like a dog that heard the word paws, and you were proud of his unwavering loyalty. However, this time it was Price who hesitated as his gaze continued to stay on you. “I’m the one who should do some apologizing -”

“I don’t think so. I think you should just shake my lieutenant’s hand so you can start discussing some important matters, hm? That is unless you are a big -” You stopped talking abruptly and turned to the sergeant, who had opened his mouth a while ago, but now held his lips in a straight line. “Sorry, you couldn’t finish your sentence earlier, what did you want to say?”

And Johnny practically feels the authority dripping from your composed speech so he did nothing but be subordinate. “Nothin’, ma’am,” he replied with a straight face.

You nodded with feigned confusion. “Too bad, I guess we’ll never know then.” you sighed as you met the captain’s guilty gaze. “Well, I’ll grab a bite to eat since I’m not really needed here,” you announced, not really expecting any of them to oppose you. Still, you waited a few seconds before saying your goodbyes. “I’d say it was a pleasure to meet you Captain Price, but that would be a lie.” you turned to your soldier. “Have fun you two.”

Finn just looked at you with a monotone look, already familiar with the antics of his superior. “We should sit down together to discuss the current situation, Captain.” he said, but his voice did nothing to keep you here.

“Then quit standing around and get to work! I’m sure you can figure it out!” you shouted after him as you moved further away from them without a care in the world.

She doesn’t even know where to go, Finn thought to himself with a heavy sigh when he found himself with the responsibility in front of him. “There was a few problems on the way here, but I doubt her reaction was affected much from that,” he told the man in front of him with a slight German accent and didn’t sugarcoat his words. “It may seem like she don’t like you, but she's a reliable person no matter what when it comes down to it," he added a little awkwardly before taking his leave to help his men with the luggage.

It may seem like she hates you, and that's because she does.

The words continued to echo in John’s head while his hand went through his beard, being slightly disappointed in himself. What a hell of a first impression, he didn’t blame you one bit - knew he wasn’t the greatest human being, but still liked to believe he was a good man and soldier.

However, right now he was neither. Probably just another asshold in your everyday life.

“All this time we thought the Germans were the Germans.” Kyle spoke up defeatedly once they were among themselves again and sighed, “But turns out we’re the Germans.”

Ghost, who had been quiet the whole time, just looked at his comrade quizzically. Whatever that means, he thought to himself, not in the mood for any riddles. His gaze turned to his captain who was looking through the air with a distant look. “Are we postponing the meeting?” he finally asked, unsure of what their next action would be.

John’s eyes looked at him from the side. “Well, haven’t had a chance to tell her about it, did I? Been too busy living in the 19th century apparently,” he spat, still thinking about your interaction. Of course, he’s the lieutenant, looks far too young to be anything else.

Meanwhile, Johnny’s mind drifted somewhere else as he thought back to the moment when he felt compelled to submit under your stern gaze. He had to hold back a grunt. “The way she got me callin’ her ma’am just awakened somethin’ in me,” he announced without anyone asking, earning a weird look from the guys, though they should be used to his odd statements by now.

Kyle shook his head. “She didn’t make you call her anything you filthy dog. Control yourself a little, for fuck’s sake.”

The Scot just laughed unaffected by the name he was being called. “Have tae be on our best behavior now if we want tae get on the pretty captain’s good side, aye?"

It was only natural that John’s mistake reflected poorly on his members and he couldn’t allow that for too long. He was always the one who took the blame - always the one who took the responsibility - for his team’s actions and for his own. “Let’s start by helping the newbies out around base then, yeah?” John suggested to the team so they could stay productive.

Price didn’t see you for the rest of that day and he didn’t try reaching out to you either. He wanted to give you a bit of space to get yourself and your people used to the new surroundings. Someone from administration apparently showed you your quarters - he knew because he asked.

The next day he send you a short message as soon as your number was forwarded to him to tell you about the meeting at noon. You replied with only a k and John sighed slightly when he saw the single letter on his screen, feeling somehow defeated.

“This all you got?” you asked after flicking through the familiar files on the table again, you already read through them on the plane over. There was no malicious tone behind your voice, it was just observation.

Price nodded. “Didn’t have much time for more, German government took over as soon as we had a name, and the mission was suspended until your arrival,” he said, hands clasped on the table in front of him. Next to him was the rest of his team, in front of them were you, your lieutenant, and what looked like a sergeant.

“Thomas Richter,” you repeated, humming as you looked at his picture in the top corner of his profile before throwing the files flat on the table. “How do you even know it’s him? No one heard of the guy ever since he fled the country four years ago.”

Some guy with a mask answered the question, if you remembered correctly he was the lieutenant of Task Force 141. He flipped through a few more pages until his fingers landed on a different photo. “We were able to locate this man, part of the organization and in possession of several illegal weapons. Spoke some after we pulled a few teeth,” he explained, handing you the paper.

“He’s British?” you posed the question and laughed when you got a nod in response. “They certainly seem to have recruited a few of your people, didn’t know being a Nazi was so popular around here.”

Your sergeant sighed at your choice of words after seeing your new colleagues raise their eyebrows in surprise. “Why don’t we try to watch our language, Captain?” she tried to convince you but you just shook her attempt away with your hand as if she was just an annoying fly in your ear.

“What? We’re all adults, I think we can call the issue by its name,” you said carelessly, looking at the captain in front of you with a grin. Somehow, it drew John’s attention even more to the prominent scar that went through those sweet lips of yours. He couldn’t seem to look away, especially when you talked. “I know you’ve been dying to say it. You can, I won't be offended, promise."

You kept trying to get a reaction out of John and it didn’t escape him how you seemed to have your fun while doing it. His index finger tapped in a steady rhythm on the table while he continued to stare you down and that was the only sound in the room for a short time. There was a tension between you two that made the rest sit a bit uneasy in their seats until he finally decided to speak up. “And why would a few Nazis plan to attack London out of all places?” he asked, interested in your opinion.

You shrugged your shoulders. “It’s too early to tell, a lot of it is probably just to gain attention. Maybe to set a statement - some kind of revenge act for Britain beating the Nazis in World War II, I don’t know.”

You couldn’t do more than speculate with the amount of information you had right now. You pointed to the woman next to you. “Well, Sara here has a good eye for detail and is good with tech. If the guy you detained had a phone with him I want it checked for IP addresses or whatever the fuck it is to track down locations for a possible hideout. If not look up if he has any type of social media account, guys like him are always in some weird chat rooms.” You emphasized and your sergeant nodded before your gaze turned back to the men in front of you.

“I hope I’m not asking for too much but it would be good if one of you sergeants could accompany her. I’m sure that your input would be very helpful,” you invited them before adding something quickly. “That’s of course if it’s alright with you, Captain Price.”

He shook his head as if he wanted to tell you that his permission wasn’t something that you needed to ask for. “Sounds fine to me,” he replied and pointed absentmindedly to his men when he agreed to your suggestion. “Take whichever one you want.”

That was something they could figure out themselves so you left the details and whatnot to the soldiers themselves. “Think you can spear some time for poor old me, Captain?” John’s deep voice stopped you before you could leave the meeting room. Hearing the familiar title come out of his own mouth felt a little strange but he didn’t dislike it.

You looked a little uncertain after hearing his question “Depends, I didn’t know where I could get a coffee this morning."

Price nodded with a smile as he led the way to wherever. “Hm. Think I can solve your little problem.”

It looked like John Price and his team had their very own area on base and you weren’t really used to seeing small units like theirs enjoy such luxury. Your eyes wandered around their break room, slightly perplexed, before sitting down on the couch and turning your gaze to the open kitchen. John had already informed you that they didn’t have a fancy coffee maker or anything, but you weren’t picky.

“Have a feeling you don’t want me apoligizing, but I will anyway,” John spoke up as soon as he joined you with two cups, milk and sugar were already on the table. “I’m sorry for the mix up yesterday, should’ve know better than that.”

You hummed being pleased by his sincerity and well, he seemed to make some kind of effort. You'd been in several situations where some people deliberately ignored your title to make it clear you weren’t welcome so you were not expecting something like this. Men can be so emotional sometimes. “All right,” you accepted without a lot of fuss before you sat back with the coffee in your hand. “I don’t really care, it takes a little more than that to hurt my feelings, sweetie. Though, I do appreciate it.”

Price laughed lightly and threw his arm on the back of the headrest, his eyes watched you with a hint of a certain something. “Hm. Glad to hear that. Though I would prefer if a pretty woman like you would at least care a bit about little me. But, we’ll get there.”

You raised an eyebrow slightly in surprise and rolled your eyes at his bold advances. “It hasn’t even been a day, keep it in your pants for fuck’s sake.” you teased him, but didn’t punch him in the face for his comment.

John wouldn’t care if you did. He couldn’t deny the attraction he felt for you when he looked at you like this. It was unfortunate that he had to be professional when approaching you, perhaps if you had met in a bar he would have been able to act on his feelings better. “C’mon, didn’t mean it like that. Just want to get along with my new colleague so she doesn’t leave me bleeding out in the field.”

You ignored what he said. “Didn’t think you’d take me so kindly. I would be pretty pissed if I had to share my case with someone from another country.”

He shrugged and took a sip of his tea. “Hm. Suppose I could tell you the same thing.”

Touché. “Suppose you could.”

#cod x reader #john price x reader #john price #cod john price #x female reader #john price x f!reader #task force 141 #call of duty x reader #cod fanfic #task force 141 x reader

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