(p2 Of John Price X Reader Who Basically Manifests Him Into Her Life)
(p2 of john price x reader who basically manifests him into her life)
It turns out that Captain John Price is, unfortunately, not a fever dream conjured by stress and blackberry pie. He is very real, very present, and very much making himself at home in your cottage.
The next morning, you wake to the unmistakable sound of your mother cooing like a particularly smitten dove. Your heart sinks as you stumble out of your room, still trying to rub sleep from your eyes.
There, at your kitchen table, sits John- completely at ease, like he’s been your husband for years. He’s drinking your favorite tea blend, bulky frame almost dwarfing the chair, and he’s listening attentively as your mother babbles on about your so-called “devotion.”
“Oh, she was absolutely heartbroken when she thought you wouldn’t come back,” your mother gushes, practically swooning, and your father nods his sagely alongside her tale. “You should have seen her, sitting by the window with her knitting, sighing over those letters. I’ve never seen a girl more in love. My poor daughter!”
John hums appreciatively, lips twitching into that insufferably smug smirk as he glances over at you beneath his equally insufferable beard and mutton chops. “Could tell from the letters,” he says, eyes practically sparkling. “All those sweet words. Such a lucky man I am.”
You grit your teeth, feeling the vein in your temple throb. “I was trying to avoid Thomas.” You mutter, but your mother (thankfully) doesn’t hear you over the sound of her own gleeful rambling.
“Oh, and when she baked those little honey cakes just because you said you liked them! I told her it was too much, but she wouldn’t hear of it.”
You freeze. You most definitely did not bake any little honey cakes. Your mother, bless her meddling heart, is getting so caught up in the fantasy she’s started making things up. You shoot her a glare, but John is already giving you that half-lidded, knowing look.
“Honey cakes, eh?” he rumbles, sounding far too interested. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on me, lovey.”
You snatch the teapot from his hands and pour yourself a cup, resisting the urge to pour it over his head instead. “Don’t get used to it.”
Your mother beams, entirely oblivious to your silent war. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. So happy to see you’re finally together!” She bustles out the door, humming cheerfully, and drags your sagely smiling father along with her.
The moment she’s gone, you whirl on John, a fierce glare on your face. “What are you doing?”
He leans back, stretching leisurely, his grin nothing short of wicked. “Having breakfast with my wife. Not how I pictured it, but it’ll do.”
You scoff. “I’m not your wife.”
Price shrugs. “Your letters say otherwise. And your mum’s convinced enough. Can’t exactly leave you now, can I? Wouldn’t be right.”
Your mouth opens, then snaps shut. It’s as if your own trap has snapped back at you, jaws clamped tight around your life. You cross your arms, glowering, and think of something else to say. “You’ve got a lot of nerve, barging in here like you own the place- drinking my favorite tea blend, too!”
He just looks at you, eyes twinkling. “Funny. That’s not what you wrote. Said you missed me. Said you’d make me the sweetest of teas. Said you just couldn’t wait for me to come home.”
“That was fiction, you horrible man!” You hiss, but he just chuckles, entirely unbothered.
Otjer than John, though, you also had another problem that was also caused by him; wedding preparations, the bane of your existence as you’ve come to realize.
Some people look forward to their wedding day- the flowers, the vows, the promise of a life shared. You, however, never pictured it like this, and never expected your “fiancé” to be a man who waltzed into your cottage like he owned it, dropped a stack of letters on the table, and declared himself your soon-to-be-husband. You certainly never imagined he’d take to it so naturally, like he was born to sit at your breakfast table and make himself comfortable with your family.
Your mother, thrilled to bits and practically floating on a cloud of matrimonial bliss, has begun planning the “official” ceremony. Blissfully ignoring your protests (and your thinly veiled threat to elope with the next traveling bard) because she assumes her sweet, beloved daughter is just nervous, she’s already halfway through arranging the entire affair. John, meanwhile, seems to find the whole ordeal oh so terribly amusing.
You find him at the kitchen table one afternoon, carving a piece of wood into something vaguely useful. He’s taken over the end seat- like he’s the head of the household now, of all things, and your father merely laughs sagely- and seems perfectly content to whittle away while you stew in frustration. His coat hangs on the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing the strong forearms that seem permanently smudged with wood dust and effort.
The door bursts open, and your mother flutters in like an overly enthusiastic magpie, clutching swatches of lace and muttering about floral arrangements as if the fate of the world depends on which flower goes where.
You can practically feel your sanity slipping through your fingers like the flour dust you use in your baking.
“Oh, I’ve spoken to Mrs. Beech about the flowers- she says lilacs would be perfect for the bouquet. Don’t you think so, John?”
Fuck you, Mrs. Bitch-
John doesn’t even look up, his knife still scraping curls of wood from his project. “Lilacs. Sounds nice.” He says with that slow, sure nod of his, like he’s contemplating the tactical advantages of the flower choice even though you just know he has no fucking idea what flowers lilacs are and just knows them by name, not shape.
You glare at him as if sheer force of will could make him combust. “You’re not helping.”
He finally lifts his gaze, an eyebrow raised, amusement curling along his lips, while your mother now frets and flutters around your father. “Don’t think your mum would take ‘no’ from either of us, love.”
You slump back in your chair, arms crossed tight against your chest, trying to will away the traitorous warmth blooming in your stomach. Curse him and his voice. “… I was hoping to at least have a say in my fake wedding.” You mutter in the end.
“Now, now,” he drawls, leaning closer, his voice dropping to that familiar rumble that makes your stomach do a little somersault- so much worse (better) than his usual voice. “A proper husband lets his wife plan the details. I’ll just stand there lookin’ pretty for you.”
Your jaw clenches. You open your mouth to retort, but your mother interrupts with another idea- apparently, she’s already been thinking about colors for John’s suit. “John, you’re so thoughtful! And I’ve been looking at suits- do you prefer navy or charcoal? I do think charcoal brings out the blue in your eyes.”
John glances at you, his lips twitching in a barely suppressed grin. “Whichever makes her happy, ma’am.”
You’re torn between strangling him lightly and strangling him harshly. The worst part is that he doesn’t even sound insincere; he just leans back, all relaxed confidence, like he was born for this domestic chaos just as much as he was built for fighting in ward. You try to glare again, but your resolve falters when he shoots you a quick, soft wink.
Your mother, oblivious to your internal crisis, claps her hands together, now planning the guest list. You sink lower in your chair, wondering if you’d survive being exiled to the woods. John, ever the menace, just gives you a look that promises he’d happily follow you even there and maybe build you a cottage so he can show off those arms of his.
A few days later, you’re back in the kitchen, trying to reclaim some semblance of peace by kneading dough with a vengeance. You don’t even know what you’re baking anymore- scones, maybe? Bread? At this point, it’s less about the final product and more about taking out your frustrations on something pliable and innocent that won’t screech for its life.
John wanders in like he owns the place (again), smelling like the outdoors and freshly chopped wood. He leans against the doorframe, arms folded across his chest, and watches you with an amused glint in his eyes.
“Another batch of sweets?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t know you were so dedicated. Those famous honey cakes of yours?”
You shoot him a glare. “They’re not for you.”
He raises a brow. “Oh? Someone else in line to be sweet on you?”
You huff, too tired to argue. “They’re for your men.” You snap, your hands practically mauling the dough now. Almost strangling it, to be honest.
A little smile spreads across his face, almost fond. “Didn’t know you were so sweet on them too, love.”
You huff, flour smudging your cheek as you try to actually shape the dough. “They’ve had to put up with your grumpy ass, haven’t they? Thought they deserved a treat… and mum said to, anyways- so don’t get ahead of yourself.”
Before you can blink, his hands slip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin settles on your shoulder, scruffy beard tickling your skin. “You keep spoilin’ them like that, they’ll think you fancy ’em.”
You squirm, but his grip tightens, his breath warm against your neck. “Can’t have that, can we?” His voice is a growl, low and deep. “Better make sure they know who you belong to.”
Forget somersaults, your stomach actually flips. “They know,” You mutter. “Doubt they’d go against their own Captain.”
He hums, nuzzling your temple. “Good. Only one man gets to come home to your bakin’.”
You manage an eyeroll despite your heart pounding like a trapped bird. “You’re ridiculous.”
His lips brush the shell of your ear. “You like me that way.”
When he finally releases you, it’s only to snatch a fresh scone off the tray, biting into it with that satisfied grin of his. “Perfect,” he murmurs around the mouthful, nodding his approval. “But I’ll make sure to tell the lads you made ’em for me.”
You narrow your eyes, unimpressed. “What are you, five?”
“Nah. Just a man who likes showin’ off what’s his.”
When he reaches to take another scone, you smack his hand away and he just laughs, the sound rumbling low and warm. He stays with you after that, bothering and pestering you like a stubborn pustule, until all of the scones have been baked and cooled.
And when he kisses your cheek before heading out the door, tipping his boonie hat with a teasing, “Be good, love.” You realize that maybe- just maybe- you should have strangled him when you had the chance.
As revenge for upsetting your stomach, of course.
More Posts from Pauxf013 and Others
ephemeral pt.2
Pairing: Batfam x Reader
Word Count: 3.7k words
A/N: I'm pretty sure I tagged everyone who asked, really sorry if I missed yours if I did
part 1
Six months ago, when you awoke in the hospital after an attack on Gotham by the Witch Boy, Klarion, the nurses informed you that you had given birth to a beautiful baby boy. The only problem was: you couldn’t remember ever being pregnant.
After multiple rigorous tests, you were told that you’d sustained amnesia from a head injury during the chaos. It sounded insane—you couldn’t even remember the baby’s father.
You carried your newborn through the hospital halls, lost and overwhelmed. You had no idea what was about to become of the two of you—you didn’t even know where you lived, and the building where you’d been found had been reduced to rubble.
On your way out, you had the misfortune of passing a specific corridor, clutching Thomas—you didn’t know why you picked that name, it just felt right—to your chest. You watched strangers cry over the loss of their children, their partners, their parents.
You soothed Thomas' soft whimpers into the wisps of hair on his head, covered by a cap one of the nurses had kindly lent you. You didn’t know who you were. You couldn’t remember anything. But Thomas was your son, and regardless of everything, you loved him. You were grateful for him.
At least… you didn’t have to know the pain of losing a child.
And yet—for some reason—you felt like you had lost a child...
That hollow ache in your chest returned as you stood frozen, watching the Bats fight on the rooftop across from you. Killer Moth and Firefly, wreaking havoc with their signature chaos and flames. You were stuck on the roof, having barely escaped with Thomas in your arms when the lobby of your building had caught fire, trapping you above the inferno.
You watched as Red Hood tried to subdue him, cowering at the edge of the rooftop, holding Thomas so tightly that he began to squirm in discomfort but you didn't yield your grip.
The flames were slowly crawling up the building and you were beginning to sweat, feeling tears well in your eyes and a punch to your stomach every time you watched Red Hood receive a punch from Killer Moth.
And then—everything happened—all at once.
Red Robin landed on the rooftop in a blur of red and black, his voice sharp yet calm as he called out to you, “I’m here to get you both out of this. Stay with me.”
But before you could even process his words, Killer Moth lunged—his grotesque figure diving straight for you and Thomas.
It happened in slow motion.
A sharp intake of breath. The weight of Thomas in your trembling arms. The sickening realization that you couldn’t move fast enough.
But then, a streak of leather and metal crashed into Killer Moth mid-air. Red Hood tackled him with brutal force, the two of them colliding before tumbling over the edge of the building.
A scream left your mouth before you had any idea what was going on—
"JASON!"
You wanted to scream and cry in Red Robin's grasp as he carried you off to another building, grappling away. You needed to see if Red Hood was okay—you didn’t know why, but you had to make sure he was unhurt. You couldn't lose him—not again.
If it wasn’t for the crying baby in your arms, you would’ve kicked and wailed.
You don't know what happened in the next couple minutes, it felt like you had been blown in every direction by the wind until you found yourself in the Batcave surrounded by the remaining bats.
Even though they were trying to be subtle, you could still hear their whispered discussions. You weren’t supposed to—after all, they were the Bats, trained in the art of silent communication—but somehow, you could pick up on their words with ease. It was almost like you had been trained for it yourself.
Batman was asking Red Robin how he could bring you here, and Red Robin responded without hesitation, How could I not?
You clutched your baby closer to your chest, seeking comfort in his warmth as an odd sense of familiarity settled over you. The Batcave, with its cold metal and dim lighting, should have felt foreign, but instead, it gnawed at the edges of your mind like a memory just out of reach.
Your eyes flickered around the cavernous space, noting little details that made your stomach twist with unease.
Someone had moved the giant coin. It was supposed to be behind the dinosaur.
Wait.
How did you know there was a coin there?
You looked around, your gaze bouncing between faces, between artifacts, between things that all felt like pieces of a puzzle—except you had no idea what the completed picture was supposed to be. You could only sense when two pieces fit together.
Then, Robin stepped forward.
“Ummi?”
Your brows furrowed. That word—Ummi—why did it feel like you had heard it so recently? Your mind waded through the fog, and behind the haze, a vision emerged. A small figure in green, no taller than the boy standing before you. Sharp eyes. Determined stance.
Where had you seen him before?
Your gaze drifted again, sweeping over the others.
Nightwing. Red Hood. Red Robin. Robin.
Four boys.
Four Robins.
Why did that feel so familiar?
Robin hesitated, his usual sharp confidence laced with something vulnerable.
“Ummi… do you recognize me?”
Your mouth opened—then closed.
Your lips trembled as your heart pounded against your ribs.
You wanted to say yes.
But the words wouldn’t come.
"Ummi! It's me!" He stepped forward again, grabbing your hand and this time it was Red Hood that stopped him, grabbing him by the shoulder.
"Robin, stop it, we shouldn't force mo—her."
"Damian." You whispered and the cave fell silent. All of the boys—your boys—turned to you with expressions of shock. Damian had frozen in his place, watching you with stinging eyes that had widened behind the domino.
"You were—" You gasped, "You were the boy at the park."
He took a step closer to you and it was like all your memories had began to flow back into your brain, like something had finally been unlocked after so long.
Damian reached for you but stopped himself short, almost like he was afraid that you would evaporate into thin air if he touched you.
"I knew it," You gasped, choking on tears, "I knew I had known you from somewhere. My soul knew my baby's precious face anywhere."
His expression that had been so full of longing that day, looking painfully at the person that he wanted but could not have.
You remembered not that long ago, he had been staring up at you with a very different expression...
"Ummi!" Damian ran up to you, a photo frame clutched in his arms. Before you had gotten pregnant, he would have collided with you like a rocket, giggling if you managed to catch and lift him in time or breaking into peals of laughter if he ended up knocking you off your feet.
Since your bump had become noticeable, he had been extremely gentle, refusing even to hug you too tightly. As he neared you, he slowed his sprint in the last few feet, his smile bright with excitement as he clutched his gift to his chest.
"I have a gift for the baby." He announced.
You smiled down at him, gently running your fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp. He leaned into your touch, standing on his tiptoes as you bent down to press a soft kiss to his forehead.
"Oh, really? May I see it?"
He handed you the picture frame, revealing a beautiful watercolor painting of a group of robins perched on a branch. At first glance, they looked nearly identical, but upon closer inspection, each one was unique. The largest of the four had a lone white feather on the top of its head. Another had soft yellow shading on its wings. A third, with a faint blue tint in its shadow, gazed at the others as if watching over them. And finally, the smallest robin, speckled with green, soared through the air, as if looking down on the remaining three.
Your fingers gently traced over each robin, and in them, you saw the faces of your sons superimposed. Turning to your youngest with a grin, you said, "It's beautiful, Dami."
His smile turned a little shy, "I was hoping you'd hang it in the nursery, so the baby always has his brothers looking over him."
Your eyes misted, and while Damian might have blamed it on the hormones, his thoughtful gesture was what truly moved you beyond words. You hugged and kissed him once again.
"Why don't we find the perfect place to hang it right now?" You suggested.
Hand in hand, he followed you to the nursery, his excitement matching your own.
It felt like you were underwater, body feeling weightless all of a sudden that you couldn't control your shaky legs and you tumbled to the ground.
Luckily, Jason was there to catch both you and Thomas, always there as a reliable shadow your you and your youngest to rely on. You looked up at him, realizing how painful it must have been for him to stand back and watch you walk away that day in the rain.
A memory trickled back to your head...
"I'm sorry I couldn't attend the baby shower, Ma." Jason apologized, sitting beside you on the couch. Your hands were neatly folded over your bump and you gave him a gentle smile, running your hands through the cute little white streak in his hair. Jason insisted he had them before the viral 'money pieces' began making waves on social media and that he was the 'OG'—whatever that meant.
"It's okay, baby. It was just for PR anyway. I know you wouldn't have had fun around all those fuddy-duddies."
Jason gave you a half-grimace, half-chuckle. Ever since you had found out you were pregnant, you had insisted on avoiding bad language, claiming that the baby could hear you—or at least pick up on the bad vibes. Alfred had taken to this with great pleasure, always the promoter of the idea that "swearing shows you have poor verbal skills."
"I'm just lucky I was able to play the pregnancy card and turn in early. Your poor father is still entertaining them."
"Oh, yeah I was wondering where he was; he's usually stuck to you like a barnacle unless he's on patrol."
You chuckled at this; he wasn't wrong. Ever since you found out you were expecting both father and sons have been following every single step of yours. You'd be heavily disturbed if you didn't know this was their way of showing you their love and devotion. In fact, the only reason Damian wasn't currently beside you was because it was past his bedtime.
"Anyway, I just came here to give you this." Jason placed his gift onto your lap and you glowed at the sight of the adorable baby blanket. It was grey and patterned with bats. You chuckled, looking it over and feeling the soft material, wondering if he had tried and failed to find one with his own logo on it.
"It's wonderful, Jace, thank you. We love it." You smiled, patting your belly. Jason returned your grin, pecking your forehead instead of reaching for a hug to prevent you from moving. He knew just how long it would've taken you to find a comfortable position.
"I monogrammed it too." He revealed, unfolding the blanket and showing you the corner of the blanket that had a neat 'T.W.' embroidered into it. Your fingers daintily traced over the letters. Currently, only family knew that you were having a yet another son and that you had already picked out his name. 'Thomas Wayne' after Bruce's father, of course.
"I did it myself." He admitted bashfully, scratching his hot cheeks and you simpered, holding it to your chest.
"I love it."
A fresh wave of tears came to your eyes as you realized the blanket was probably burned to ash along with your other belongings. Thomas began crying in your embrace but your hands were shaking too much for you to soothe him.
"I've got him, mom." Dick lulled, taking the baby from your arms. Usually, you wouldn't have handed over your baby to just anyone. But this was your son, your oldest.
He held him to his chest, rocking his baby brother in his arms, "Hi, Thomas. I'm Dick, your biggest brother. It's so great to finally meet you."
Dick released a shaky breath, pressing his nose to his chubby cheek. Thomas didn't fret or fuss, holding onto the pocket of Dick's shirt in a tight fist, staring up at his big brother with wide, curious eyes.
Your heart clenched at the sight of his muscles subtly flexing as he fought the instinct to hold Thomas too tightly. It saddened you that he was only meeting Thomas now, especially when you remembered just how excited he had been to meet his little brother...
Dick stared at you and Bruce apprehensively as you both gave him nervous grins.
“Dickie, we have something we want to tell you, and since you’re the oldest, we wanted to let you know first.”
Before you could get another word out, Dick was already interrupting.
“Oh my god, tell me you guys aren’t getting a divorce. I know I don’t live with either of you, but I couldn’t stand it.”
Your brows furrowed. What on earth gave him that impression?
“What? No, baby, we’re not getting a divorce.”
Dick let out a dramatic breath of relief, placing a hand over his chest—only for his expression to shift into horror a second later.
“Oh my god, please don’t tell me you’re inviting a third into your marriage. I know I don’t live with either of you, but I really couldn’t stand that either.”
“What on earth—no! Nothing of the sort is happening,” you said, exasperated.
Bruce sighed beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Richard.”
You pointed at Dick before he could launch into another wild theory. “Richard Grayson Wayne, let us finish what we have to say.”
Bruce finally spoke up, “You’re getting another younger sibling.”
Dick blinked. His mouth opened, then closed as his brain processed the words.
“You’re adopting another kid?!”
“Not quite,” You replied.
His eyes narrowed as he turned to Bruce, suspicion laced in his voice, “Someone else stole your DNA and made another bio kid?”
Bruce gave him a flat look, but before he could answer, you smirked, “I wouldn’t say stole it… more like he gave it to me.”
You watched as the gears turned in Dick’s mind. His sharp blue eyes drifted downward, finally noticing the way your hand rested on your stomach.
The realization hit him like a truck.
His expression morphed from confusion to absolute bewilderment, “Ew! You both have sex?!”
You and Bruce gaped at him.
“Richard!”
Bruce groaned, running a hand down his face, while you sputtered out a laugh.
Dick’s horrified expression held for only a second longer before it cracked, melting into a wide grin. He let out a laugh, shoulders shaking.
“I’m just messing with you guys.” His voice softened as he stepped forward, pulling you into a hug, “I’m so happy for you! Congratulations, Mom.”
You hugged him tightly, your fingers running soothingly through his hair as you kissed the top of his head.
“You’re such a great big brother already. I just know this baby is going to love you.”
You caught a glance of Timmy standing beside him, waiting patiently for his turn with the newest member of the family and you sobbed into your hand recalling the way he watched you through the rear view mirror of your car that day at the grocery store.
He was always left on the sidelines, just waiting.
"Why didn't you tell me then, my baby? Why didn't you bring us home?" You cried, pulling him into your arms and running your hands through his hair.
"We thought you'd be safer this way." Tim explained, "Klarion was going to stop at nothing to get to us. We didn't want to push you away, but when you woke up with no your memory of us, we thought—we thought—"
Your poor baby, always thinking of others, always thinking of what was best for you...
You should have known.
The one day your husband and sons were given a rare, mandatory day off—to relax, take care of themselves, and maybe catch up on much-needed sleep—you should have known Tim would go the other way.
With the Batcave under strict lock and key for the night unless there was an emergency, it was only a matter of time before he got restless. Which was precisely why he stormed into the theater room, tablet in hand, while you were curled up against Bruce’s chest.
“Okay, so I did my research, and I’ve optimized the most optimal hospital bag for when you go into labor.”
You lifted your head off Bruce’s chest in surprise, barely registering the way he paused the movie. If you were being honest, you weren’t really watching it anyway. You had been too focused on the steady rhythm of your husband’s heartbeat, the warmth of his arms around you, and the quiet intimacy of just existing together.
“Tim, honey,” You said gently, “we don’t need a hospital bag yet. I’m only four months along.”
“You can never be too prepared,” He countered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “Now, experts recommend having a detailed but brief birth plan so any emergency doctor can read it and get caught up quickly. We should probably discuss what we’re going to do.”
You shared a glance with Bruce, amusement flickering between you.
Then, turning back to your third son, you opened your arms invitingly, “Come here, Timmy. Let’s look at it together.”
Tim made no qualms about settling into your lap, angling the tablet toward you as he began scrolling through his meticulously compiled notes. You hummed softly, your fingers carding through his hair, rubbing gentle circles against his scalp.
At first, he kept talking, rattling off statistics, expert recommendations, and contingency plans—but soon, his words began to slow. His blinks stretched longer, and before you knew it, he had completely passed out, his breathing deep and even against you.
You huffed out a quiet laugh, looking at Bruce, whose lips curled into a knowing smirk.
“I hope the new baby is as easy as him,” You whispered.
Bruce pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice low and amused, “Not a chance.”
Tim swallowed painfully and you brought him back into the hug, patting his back gently as he inhaled deep breaths. Despite everything, you still wore the same perfume, even though your clothes and hair held onto the smell of smoke, underneath it all was the scent of his mother.
Damian joined you on your place on the floor, sliding to his knees in front of you to join in on the hug, the three of you enveloped by Jason's towering figure. You peppered kisses and apologies to their faces, wiping each of their tears dutifully but letting your own skate down your cheeks.
Finally, your gaze turned to the last man standing in the room.
Bruce.
Your breath hitched as you took a shaky step forward. Then another. And another.
You had missed him. You hadn’t even realized how much until this moment. Bruce, your boys—your family—had filled a hole inside you that you never knew was there. And now, standing before him, the father of your children, the love of your life, that emptiness was suddenly unbearable.
The second you reached him, your hand lifted to cup his face, desperate to feel his skin. Then, just as quickly, you smacked him.
Hard.
The sharp crack echoed through the room, snapping him out of his stupor.
“How could you?” You choked out, your voice thick with emotion, “How could you let our boys go without their mother? How could you let me have Thomas alone? How long were you planning to let this go on? You inconsiderate, horrible, stubborn oaf!”
Each word was punctuated by a fist against his chest—not truly meant to hurt him, just a desperate attempt to make him feel everything you had endured.
Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t defend himself. He only stared, his blue eyes wide, as if he was afraid that if he blinked, you would disappear.
You grabbed him by the collar and yanked him forward, crashing your lips against his. Tears streamed freely down your cheeks, making the kiss taste of salt and sweet.
“I missed you.” You sobbed against his mouth, “I missed you so much.”
A broken sound rumbled deep in his chest as he kissed you back, fiercely, desperately. His arms wrapped around you like he was afraid to let go, like if he held you tightly enough, he could make up for all the lost time. You squeezed your eyes shut, reveling in the feeling of being held after so long.
Then Thomas’s babbles grew louder, turning into a full-blown whine. His tiny arms flailed as he struggled against Dick, demanding attention.
You pulled away, breathless, as you turned to your baby, scooping him up into your arms. He fussed, wriggling, still unsatisfied with even your touch.
With a teary laugh, you turned back to Bruce, your smile wobbly but bright.
“Bruce,” You whispered, voice full of love, “Meet your son. Thomas Wayne.”
Bruce’s breath hitched, and for the first time since you stepped into the room, his mask cracked. His hands trembled slightly as he reached forward, brushing his fingertips across Thomas’s chubby cheek.
Thomas grinned up at him, giving him a gummy smile as he began kicking his feet in joy. You were barely able to keep your hold steady on him when Bruce held out his arms and you readily passed his son to him.
He looked down at the baby in his arms, every bit his father's son and Bruce felt the dam break.
His family was whole again.
***
Forever Taglist:
@simonsbluee
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DC Taglist:
@tchatso
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ephemeral pt.2 taglist:
@jsprien213
@fanfics4ever
@anonomous-chick
@thegirlwiththeyarn
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@sofiafantasies
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@jellystar-star
@randomnamedmira
Her Sacrifice
Summary: The assassins had no such luck finding Prince Aemond but what were they to do when they stumbled upon the beloved wife of King Aegon instead? Her belly swollen with his heir.
Warnings: Blood & Cheese/murder/gore & blood/cursing/threats/blades/pregnancy/kidnapping/funeral/incest (reader is helaena's older twin)
Word Count: 2236
"The other lords will be accompanying me for a drink in the Throne Room. Shall you join us, Wife?" Aegon asked, a slightly eager smile on his face, anticipating your agreement.
You sighed as you began to undo the braids in your hair, "The hour is late, Husband. I must rest."
Aegon pouted, "Just a cup! We've attended to our royal duties all day, have we not earned a bit of respite?"
"Respite is what I shall get with a good night's sleep. Not drinking until sunrise with you and your comrades," you teased. You stood from seat at your vanity, walking over and placing Aegon's hand on your growing bump, "Besides, do you not wish for our babe to be born healthy? So that they may grow into formidable dragon riders like their parents."
He smiled softly at your belly before kissing it sweetly, "You make a good point, my dear. Mayhaps I should stay in with you."
You shook your head, smiling down at him, "Do not let me stop your fun. You are right. The King deserves his respite. Besides there may not be many more nights where we get to enjoy ourselves," motioning to your bump.
"You are going to make a wonderful mother," Aegon stood from his seat, "I shall allow you to enjoy your last moments of rest then." He planted a soft kiss on your lips, "I love you, Y/N."
You stroked his hair, "I love you, Aegon."
Aegon kissed you once more before giving your belly a playful squeeze and disappearing from your chambers. You summoned one of your ladies to help you finish getting ready for bed. Thanking her as you got yourself comfortable between the silk sheets of you and Aegon's bed. Finally bidding her good night as she blew out most of the candles, leaving a few on for Aegon's drunken return.
You could not be sure of the hour when you heard your chamber doors creak open followed by the shuffling of feet. You did not even bother opening your eyes, assuming you'd feel the bed indent as Aegon stumbled towards it.
"Back so soon?" you teased, "I was only being half serious about the sunset-"
Suddenly, a large hand clamped over your mouth. Your eyes shot open as two men loomed over you. You screamed and panicked as the larger man used his other arm to keep you pinned to the bed.
"Quiet!" the smaller man pulled a blade out, pressing it to your throat, "Unless you want me to bleed you like a pig."
You nodded, terrified of what these men could do, "W-Who are you? What do you want?"
"Its not our wants you should be concerned with, Your Grace."
"Who sent you? What do y-you want from me?" your voice shook.
"A life is owed. It wasn't supposed to be you. A son for a son we were told," the smaller man shrugged, "But it seems Prince Aemond isn't in the castle tonight."
Of course, you thought. This was about Lucerys. Your younger brother had taken the boy's life and that was a deed that could not go unpunished. You knew how deeply your eldest sister loved all of her children. The loss of one would be devastating. Taking Aemond's life made sense. But taking yours? And the life of your unborn child? That was not in Rhaenyra's nature. This was plotted by someone far more sinister and dark.
"My uncle sent you, didn't he?" you spoke up. They both sent stares to the other, "Daemon Targaryen. He sent you to kill one of us."
The large man scoffed, "Aren't you a smart one?"
"Shame those smarts won't do you any good now, will they?" the smaller one mocked.
"Please," you tried to beg, "Do not do this. No good will-" The large hand came down on your mouth again.
"That's enough," he grunted before turning back to the smaller man, "I'll hold her down and you cut."
Your blood ran cold at his words. Not only were they going to kill you but they were going to tortuously cut out your unborn child. They both yanked you further down the bed until you were flat on your back. You tried to kick, scream, bite, thrash as much as you could but the man proved to have almost inhuman strength. The smaller man raised his blade, that same sadistic grin plastered on his face before he began to dig it into the lower part of your abdomen.
White hot pain seared through your body as he continued to slice into you. Your vision was blurred with tears and you could have sworn your throat was raw from your cries. Though the pain was so intense that you could not process the sounds that might have been leaving you. Warm blood pooled all around you, the once ivory sheets now a deep crimson. One last gasp left you as they pulled your child from your body.
Suddenly you had remembered your mother telling you about the pains of childbirth when you first married Aegon and all anyone could talk about was you producing his heirs. She had a rather negative approach that utterly terrified you. So, you decided to find comfort in Rhaenyra's advice instead.
"I will not withhold the truth from you, it truly is the most excruciating pain a woman must go through."
You groaned, "That is not what I had wished to hear, Sister."
"You did not let me finish. The process is hard, yes. And you will feel the urge to curse the Gods or even your husband and swear to never bear anymore children," you both laughed, "But the moment you hear those sweet cries and your babe is placed upon your chest, the pain is forgotten. And nothing has ever seemed so worth it. Then you will know, right then and there, that you would do it all over again if it meant you could finally find that purest form of love."
And yet, you would never discover that beautiful feeling your sister had painted so clearly. The room was almost eerily silent besides the dripping of blood onto the stone floor.
"What do you know?" the man panted as he held your lifeless infant, "A son. Congratulations, my Queen."
You could not speak as you felt your body numb itself. Tears falling with no cries as they stuffed your son's body into a sack. It was as if you could feel your heart shatter. The men finished their sinister act before fleeing through a secret passageway. You tried little to fight the heaviness in your eyes. Perhaps this was all a horrible dream and if you shut your eyes, you'd open them to find yourself in bed with Aegon's arms wrapped securely around your belly. The last thing you could muster was a small smile at the sentimental image as your vision faded out completely.
"Sister?" Helaena called out into your bed chamber, "I did not wish to wake you but Aegon is being so loud and I cannot sleep with him-" Her voice caught in her throat at the sight of your mangled body lying on the bed. Your figure lifeless and your eyes vacant as you stared at the canopy. She approached your body, a shaky hand reaching out to touch your face to be met with utter stillness. Helaena backed out of the room slowly, tears flowing down her cheeks before sprinting to find some sort of help. As if anyone could undo what had already been done.
"I-I don't know what happened. I came in and she...she was..." Helaena's voice cracked with sobs as various people filed into the royal bed chamber; the Kingsguard, the Dowager Queen, the Hand, and lastly, your husband.
They all stopped at the sight before them, their eyes welling with tears and their stomachs churning. The Dowager Queen let out a heavy sob as all their attention turned to the King. Aegon approached your body cautiously.
He fell to his knees, his hands cradling your bloodied face as he sobbed, "My wife, my dearest-"
Nobody dared say a word as Aegon mourned over you. His sobs heavy with grief as he called out your name over and over again. The Queen Mother clutching Helaena's arm as they cried with him. The Kingsguard hanging their heads low in shame at their failure to protect their Queen. Otto Hightower, known to be quick with his word, said nothing.
The council meeting that followed was one full of dread and grief. Most of the council mourned, the Hand schemed, and the King could do not but curse the Gods and swear revenge.
"Your Grace, perhaps we should speak of the funeral arrangements for the Queen-"
"No," Aegon was quick to stop the Hand, who raised a brow at his grandson's denial, "I will not have my wife's body dragged through the streets like a dog!"
"Not dragged, honored!" Otto corrected him before lowering his tone as he spoke to the King, "Y/N was my granddaughter and I loved her. She deserves the funeral of a Targaryen princess, a Targaryen queen. The small folk wish to mourn their Queen and the heir she carried. And they need to know who is responsible for this."
Aegon's face twisted in disbelief, "How could they not already know?! Who else would do this save the bitch queen of bastards?!"
"We must know for certain, Your Grace," Lord Jasper suggested, "If it was not your sister, this may prove to be an even bigger threat to the crown, to you, my King."
Aegon scoffed, "I do not care what threatens me. My wife is dead. And my child," he stifled a sob, "That cunt did this, I know it. Her and her kingdom of traitorous bastards will burn for it."
Before anyone could speak, the doors of the council chamber opened as Lord Larys entered. He bowed meekly as all eyes turned to him.
"My lords, Your Grace," he greeted the council.
All stood still, "State your purpose, Lord Larys," the Hand spoke.
"We have apprehended one of the assailants. A gold cloak, known for his brutal nature. The guards caught him fleeing the Gate of Gods. He carried the child's body in a sack."
The King hardly wasted any time, stomping over to the doors, "I shall kill him myself."
"We might retrieve further information about who is to blame for this tragedy after questioning," Ser Criston stopped Aegon from leaving as Otto spoke, "I trust in your skill set, Lord Larys."
The Strong Lord bowed before exiting the room. All eyes turned once again to the King and his Hand.
"We will hold the service for both the child and mother-"
"I said no," Aegon grunted, "My wife and child will not be put on display for the Realm."
"Your Grace, we might use this to our advantage in the war you wish to march into. Your people need to know the depravity that Rhaenyra is capable of. The great houses of Westeros will see that she is not fit to rule given her cruel nature. They will flock to your side and with them, their armies and bannermen."
Aegon continued to shake his head. He could not just let them see you or your child like that. They did not deserve it.
"Mother," he turned to the Dowager Queen for support.
Alicent approached Aegon's chair, "The Hand sets on a difficult path, my darling, but it might be the right one."
The King could not muster anymore fight, "Have the Silent Sisters prepare the Queen and child for their journey. Behind them will be Princess Helaena and the Queen Mother."
"No, I do not wish to be a spectacle," Alicent argued but her father would not hear it.
Your husband visited your body as the Silent Sisters began to prepare it. They had cleaned the mess and dressed you in one of your favorite dresses, the emerald color complimenting your skin and hair.
"Your Grace, it is ill-fated to look upon the face of death," Maester Orwyle warned.
"That is not the face of death, Maester. That is my wife," Aegon spoke, "Leave me with her."
Maester Orwyle and the Silent Sisters bowed before leaving the King with your body. He softly stroked the hair from your face as he broke into sobs once again.
"I am so sorry, my love," he cried, "I-I should have been there to protect you. And our son." Maester Orwyle had informed His Grace that the child you carried was a prince, a perfect heir, "You truly would have been the most wonderful mother. You were already a perfect wife and Queen. Motherhood would have come naturally."
Aegon recounted how well you did with Rhaenyra's last two babies, the ones she had with his uncle Daemon. As much as he did not care for his half-sister, he knew you did. Always quick to defend her, even against your own family. So, he was forced to ask himself, how could she do this to you? To your child?
"They will pay for what they have done," your husband muttered to you, "I will win this war. I will win it for our child. I will win it for you. With fire and blood. Your sacrifice will not be for naught, my Queen."
"I don't have a type." ... sure
delicate | king!sukuna x concubine!reader
betrayal
summary: fate let's king!sukuna down, once again. enjoy the king being the big, beefy brat he is. side stories based off of defiance. genre/warnings: established relationship, sukuna and reader already have a child together, labor, child birthing, fluff, papakuna
wc: 1k
masterlist
“Papa?”
“Hm?”
“Mama die?”
His jaw nearly drops from that absurd question. “No, Mama not die.” He had to hold himself back from scolding her, Sumire’s way too young to even understand the depth of her question. Where the fuck did she even learn that word?
Like the relaxed child she is, she shrugs and goes back to playing with her dolls, while the king goes back to internally panicking because you looked like you were about to die. He wasn’t there for Sumi’s birth and wanted nothing more than to be there for the birth of his son, but you ended up getting mad at him and kicked him out of the room.
Apparently he sighed in annoyance.
He didn’t.
He was just nervous for you and took a deep breath to relax himself– and that's when you started hurling profanities towards him. He forgives you of course, but he’ll never forget it.
The way you looked, that is. The sweat building up on your forehead, the strained yelling, you telling him this was all of his fault. But he gets it, you were in the process of birthing the prince, it couldn’t be easy.
He couldn’t believe it, after all these years, he was getting a boy again. Gone are the days of being outnumbered by you and Sumi, he loves her with all that he has, but she’s honestly really mean sometimes.
He was trying to get her attention the other day, offering her some snacks he brought back from his trip to one of the districts, and she sighed at the sound of his voice. Like full on snapping her head back to glare at him, rolling her eyes, and sighing as if she just got done working all day in a fucking rice field.
She gets it from you.
But a little boy will solve all his familial issues, because they can just ignore you two together.
He watches his daughter continue to play with her dolls and smiles at the thought of his son ripping their heads off one day. Just you wait, Sumi.
“My King?” Hayami steps into the room after knocking with a smile across her face. “The baby is here.”
Sukuna abruptly gets up and nearly runs out of the room, leaving his daughter in Hayami’s care. It’s fine, that’s basically her auntie at this point. Hayami just shakes her head at his sudden giddiness– everyone felt bad for him for once when you yelled at him, but then they remembered the way he threatened the doctor and midwife, which led to them quickly justifying it. Maybe the next child… but with the way this pregnancy and birth was just as difficult as the last, if not even more, they doubt you’d want another.
He stopped right at the door and braced himself, hoping you still weren’t mad at him. “Dovey?” He gently knocked. “Can I come in?”
“Yes my love.” You sweetly answered, it’s terrifying how quick your mood changes.
He enters the room and is met with your smile, tired but warm as always. You have little bags under your eyes but he thinks you look as beautiful as always– the love of his life, the mother of his children.
The doctor, midwife, and your ladies in waiting all want to sigh in awe at the sight, there's always nothing but pride and admiration in his eyes when he looks at you. He takes a step closer, ready to tell you how good of a job you did when his eyes drift down to the infant, stopping him in his tracks once again.
“Why is my boy swaddled in pink?” His voice slightly cracks. He doesn’t even sound mad, he sounds hurt.
“What do y– Kuna, who told you it was a boy?”
Him. “I felt it– the energy! It was different this time around, it’s supposed to be a boy.” He sounds so sure of himself as he explains.
“You told me you couldn’t tell just from the baby’s energy when I was pregnant with Sumire.” You remind him as your face twists in disbelief. Your partner’s in a state of denial right now.
“No fucking way.” He groans. “Are you sure?!”
“Yes I’m sure!” You argue back and everyone in the room tenses up. “Do you love her less because she’s a girl?!” You ask, the question seems to bring him back to reality.
“Of course not! What a ridiculous question.” He scoffs, still not over the fact that he’s wrong, but is starting to get impatient because he wanted to hold his child already. “Hand her over.”
You pause and glare at him for a moment, you know he won’t do anything to hurt her, you just couldn’t believe how delusional he was sometimes. “Fine– support her head.”
“I know, I know.” He smiles as you place his baby girl in his arms. She’s so tiny compared to him, her head’s no bigger than his palm but he still handles her with the utmost care. “No markings?”
“She does.” You smile back at him. “It’s on the back of her neck.”
“Wonderful.” He chuckles. “I can look later, she looks too comfy right now.” She yawns right when he says it and a part of him wants to turn to mush. He never got to have this with Sumire and all he can be is be grateful, despite how disappointed the missed time makes him.
“What should we name her?” You ask, running the back of your finger against her cheek.
“Can we do another name that starts with an S?”
“I guess we can.” You giggled, you figured you’d let him have this, given how he gaslit himself into thinking it’d be a boy the past 9 months. “I figure you already have something in mind, my king?”
“I do. How does Sayomi sound?” He suggests. “We can call her Yomi at home.”
“I like that.” You say as you rub his arm.
He leans down to give you a kiss, followed by a couple more sprinkled on your cheeks. “Good job, my love. She’s beautiful.”
a/n: justice for sumi's dolls
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Hey, hope you're having a wonderful day.
Could you maybe write a few fics for Geum Seong-Je from Weak Hero Class 2? Fluff and *soft only for her* trope.
Thank you so much and its okay if you don't wanna.
I totally get it, I'm a writer too.
Love,
Anon
You can't fix me
Geum Seong-je x fem!reader
Cause... I love villains without a sob story, just psycho
..................................................................................
The first day Y/N saw him, he was bleeding from the corner of his lip and sneering like a rabid dog.
Ganghak High School was far from a stable place, but this boy… this Geum Seong-je, he reeked of instability from miles away. Chaos lived within him. He was the type to destroy a room because someone had sneezed too loudly. Y/N was supposed to watch him.
It was one fight too many.
The hallways trembled, the windows exploded. He had his fist in the mouth of another kid already on the ground and he kept going, methodical, his eyebrows furrowed as if hitting helped him breathe. Three supervisors hadn't been able to do anything. So she had entered. Silent at first.
Then:
"Are you done with your circus act, or do I need to train you like a mutt?"
He hadn't even looked at her. Just a hoarse breath, another blow. She had approached. A hand on his shoulder. He had growled. She had reacted: a knee strike, then two. He had thrown a chair. She had teased him.
He had collapsed, his muscles contracted in a brutal spasm.
When he woke up in the principal's office, still groggy, she was waiting for him. Arms crossed, back straight.
"What are you, some genetic waste?"
She had looked at him with an almost chilling calm.
"Did you think you were a hero today? Do you believe that hitting harder erases your shitty life?"
Pause. A silence.
"You're pathetic. Even dogs know when to stop."
He had wanted to smile. But there was this crack in his chest, this short breath he couldn't expel. She wasn't yelling. She was cutting. And it was worse.
She had hit him again, another time, another week. Because he had strangled a student against the lockers. Because he had smashed a cell phone against a wall. Because he had looked at her, her, with that look full of defiance, filth, and darkness.
And yet.
He always came back to her. Sat on the bench near the supervisors' room, his back torn by blows, a poorly stuck bandage, his eyes fixed on her with a morbid intensity. He followed her in the hallways, provoked her in class, insulted her sometimes, coldly, softly, almost tenderly.
"Ms. Y/N."
He murmured her name like a reproach. Like a burn.
"Are you stalking me, or is it the other way around?"
She never answered. She took notes, wrote words in her notebook, read his old files. And sometimes… sometimes, when his back was turned, she looked at his scars. The angle of his jaw, clenched. The tremors in his fingers. The way he would break when he no longer knew how to breathe.
He wasn't crazy. Just fractured. And in his cracks, he had lodged her, her. He stared at her like a mystery he had to dissect, like a living enigma he hated not being able to silence.
He said nothing, but in his eyes, it was obvious:
Y/N lived in his head.
And he had decided that as long as she was there, he wouldn't let anyone else breathe.
---
He always came back.
Sometimes at dawn, eyes red-rimmed, a piece of chewing gum stuck under his tongue, fists bandaged. Other times at the last hour, dragging his feet, but his gaze sharp. He didn't miss any of her rounds. He waited for the click of her heels in the deserted hallways, the rustle of her files against her hip, that clinical way she had of ignoring him.
And it drove him crazy.
"Sleeping in your office now, ma'am?" He had sat on the table, head tilted.
"Don't you have a life? Or are you waiting for me to give you one?"
She hadn't looked up.
"Do you want me to take away your right to speak, or do you want your jaw to last until tomorrow?"
He had laughed. A real laugh, hoarse, short. No provocation, just… a release. As if, with her, the mask fell without him realizing it.
But he hated her for it. For that way of seeing through him. Of walking through his shattered pieces without ever getting cut.
So, he tested her.
He wrote stupid things on the walls: "Madam is a cold witch. She punishes without heart."
He sat in her chair when she wasn't there. Rummaged through her papers. Watched her from afar.
And when she entered a room, he spoke loudly, always too loudly, so she would hear his name amidst the laughter.
But never, never did he touch her.
There was a line. He didn't know why. Maybe because she had already put him on the ground. Maybe because she was the only one who had never backed down from him. No fear, no false respect. Just… contempt. Pure and precise.
And that obsessed him.
He had started dreaming about her. Not in a gentle way, no. Suffocating, sweaty dreams, where she held him down with her foot, where she slapped him silently while he laughed. He would wake up, heart pounding, unable to understand if he loved her, hated her, or both.
He bought drinks that he left on her desk without a word. She threw them away. He started again. Out of habit. Out of defiance. Out of need.
One day, she had called him into her office. He sat down, provocative.
"Another punishment, ma'am?"
"Do you think I enjoy seeing you all the time?"
She had stepped forward, thrown a file onto his lap. His file.
"Do you think I haven't read it? You're pathetic, Geum Seong-je. You cling to violence like a kid to his teddy bear. It's your only way to exist. But you don't impress me. You just waste my time."
She had said that without raising her voice. He had smiled. Slowly.
"It's crazy how much you like to talk about me. Haven't you noticed? It's always me in your mouth."
She had almost slapped him. But she hadn't. And he had known: that, that was the real trap.
That day, he had gone home. He hadn't slept. He had punched the walls. He had clenched his teeth until they bled. And he had sworn, not out loud, just to himself:
Y/N would look at him. Even if it meant burning everything he touched.
---
It was hot that day. A sticky, stifling heat that the school walls couldn't contain. The air reeked of teenage sweat, cheap deodorants, and something electric—a premonition, perhaps. As if something was about to break.
Geum Seong-je, however, seemed unusually calm. Too calm.
He loitered in the courtyard, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a half-empty water bottle. He had the kind of look that you couldn't hold: empty but sharp, like a polished abyss. That day, no one dared approach him. Even his own guys kept their distance. He had beaten up a kid that morning for asking him for a cigarette. Just that. One sentence too many, and he had seen red.
But when he saw Y/N, her straight back, her determined walk, the way she seemed to cut through the air around her, he straightened up. Something within him readjusted, like a broken compass suddenly finding north again.
She was coming out of a meeting with a student. She looked tired. No makeup. A few strands of hair stuck to her forehead. And above all, she seemed elsewhere.
He followed her, silently.
When she entered her office, she felt it. A sensation at the nape of her neck, almost animalistic. She turned around.
He was there. Leaning against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her, not mocking for once. Almost… attentive.
"You look dead."
He moved closer. Slowly.
"Didn't you sleep?"
She groaned, irritated, and threw her file onto the desk.
"What's it to you?"
He smiled. Not his usual smile. Not the one that preceded blows. Another one, rarer. Soft. And dangerous.
"I'm meddling in what belongs to me."
She raised her head, eyes dark, ready to strike him. But he was already there, very close, hands in his pockets, his chest almost touching hers. And he wasn't looking at her in defiance. He was looking at her as if he were listening. As if he could hear her heart beating.
"Step back."
"No."
A silence. Too long. Too charged. The slightest movement would have shattered everything.
Then she made the mistake. A human error, certainly. Fatigue. Loneliness. A slight crack in the mask.
She didn't hit him.
She didn't run away.
She sighed. Just that. A sigh. A release.
And he saw the flaw.
He sensed the weakness, the whisper of a possible attachment.
And it was worse than pity. Worse than hate.
He raised his hand. Slowly. Gently. And his fingers brushed her cheek. Not roughly. With an awkward, almost sacred tenderness.
"You should sleep, ma'am."
She let him. Just a few seconds. She could have broken his wrist. She didn't.
And that's when he knew. That she was no longer invulnerable. That she had opened, even just a centimeter, the door. And in that gap, he rushed in.
**
Since that day, everything changed.
He no longer just followed her. He waited for her. At the metro exit, sometimes. In front of the teachers' lounge. He left things on her desk: a lighter, an annotated book he had stolen from the library, a peach-flavored chewing gum she liked. He didn't always speak. But he watched. For a long time. Obsessively.
And she… she said nothing.
She should have. She knew it. Every step towards him chipped away at her a little more. She saw his gaze change—more fixed, more serious. He no longer called her just "ma'am." Sometimes, it was Y/N. Pronounced slowly. As if he were chewing each letter. As if it were an incantation.
She should have set boundaries. She should have re-established the distance. But she had found herself waiting for his gaze. Watching for his silhouette. And feeling something bitter when he wasn't there.
One day, she had hurt her hand—a stupid cut with a piece of cardboard. She hadn't noticed him watching her from afar. That evening, he had entered her office without knocking, a first-aid kit in his hand.
"You're incapable of taking care of yourself, huh."
He had taken her hand without waiting. She could have slapped him. She should have. But he was already gently cleaning the wound. Without brutality. His fingers were warm, calloused, but precise.
She said nothing. He wrapped the gauze around her palm. Then, he kept her hand in his for a few seconds too long.
"I can't get you out of my head."
She wanted to answer. He interrupted her.
"I don't want you to be like the others. You're not. And I'm not stupid, Y/N. You think I'm just a wild animal, but I see what you're trying to hide. You furrow your brow when you're worried. You're afraid of getting attached, and you always look at me like I'm a time bomb. Maybe I am one, yeah. But you activated me. And now, it's too late."
She stepped back, finally. But gently. He didn't try to hold her.
She closed her eyes. For a second. Just one. And he saw her breathe faster. He saw that what she was holding back wasn't anger. It was something else. Something more painful.
"You'd better leave."
"Not until you understand what you've unleashed."
He left the room. Slowly. He didn't need to kiss her. Not yet. Not right away. He had seen what he wanted to see: the mistake.
She had looked at him differently. She had trembled, even slightly.
And that crack, he would never let it close again.
---
The rain had fallen all night. It hammered against the windows of Y/N's car, punctuating the tension that tightened her throat. She hadn't stopped staring at the police station door, her eyes fixed in a blur, her jaw clenched. She knew these kinds of calls. Too well. Violent kids, repeat offenders, desperate cases left to drift in a soulless system. But tonight, it wasn't a "case," it wasn't a student.
It was him.
Geum Seong-je.
When she had walked through the doors, the smell of disinfectant mixed with stale coffee and dampness had hit her. A familiar smell. Too familiar. And the police officers had greeted her with a vague air, as if it were just another detail in their night.
"He can leave," one of them said.
"What do you mean?" she asked, frowning.
"Orders from above."
"Meaning?"
He shrugged, offering no further explanation.
"Release him to the supervisor. That's what we were told."
Y/N felt her temples throb. She wasn't stupid. "Orders from above" didn't exist without a reason. Even less so when it involved a teenager implicated in a violent fight with another school. There had been serious injuries. One of the boys had a fractured jaw. And Seong-je? He was going to walk out, as if nothing had happened.
It smelled like bullshit. Real bullshit.
And not a single answer. Nothing.
When she entered the small back room, she saw him. Sitting on a metal chair, slumped against the wall, legs spread apart, face turned to the floor. He looked… drained. Arms crossed over his chest, forehead pressed against the wall. Disarmed.
A dirty bandage covered his right foot, which he held half-raised, without even paying attention to it. Dried blood stained his temple. His knuckles were split open, scraped down to the bone.
But it wasn't the sight of his injuries that struck her. It was the absence of fire in his eyes. The absence of that fierce rage he wore like a second skin.
"Seong-je?"
He slowly raised his head. He blinked. Then a small, painful grimace stretched across his split lips.
"Ma'am..."
His voice was hoarse. Slowly, he straightened up, swayed, but remained standing.
But this time, there was nothing provocative about that "ma'am."
There was no more irony. No more game.
He had said it like an oath. Like a sacred whisper.
"Let's go home." She took his arm. He didn't protest. But she felt his whole body stiffen when she put an arm around his waist to help him walk.
**
She settled him in her home. Not out of weakness. Not out of pity. But because she knew. Instinctively.
He didn't want to go back. He had no one.
He hadn't said it. He hadn't even tried to make excuses. He had just let himself be guided, silent.
In her small living room, she sat him down on the sofa. She got what she needed: first-aid kit, compresses, hydrogen peroxide. He watched her, his dark gaze fixed on her every move as if he never wanted to lose sight of her again.
And when she laid her hands on him…
When she gently cleaned the blood from his temple, when she brushed her fingertips over his swollen cheek, when she bandaged his ribs without even raising her voice…
He broke.
Not in sobs. Not in screams. Inwardly. Silently. Devastated.
Because no one had ever touched him like that.
No one had ever cared for him without making him feel like a beast, a problem, a mistake. She, she placed her hands with an almost… frightening delicacy. As if he had value. As if he were fragile.
And the more she touched him, the more something inside him melted.
The more his obsession with her became visceral, devouring, uncontrollable.
He looked at her like one looks at a vision. Like a miracle in a world of filth.
Y/N, for her part, focused on her actions. But she felt it. She felt his eyes following her, scrutinizing her. As if he wanted to engrave her into his flesh.
She tried to remain upright. Hard. But it was too late.
In a corner of her mind, she admitted it: she hurt for him.
And she hated that crack within herself.
"You're going to have to stay off that foot for a few days. It's pierced."
"They stomped on me with a metal bar," he replied without emotion.
She froze. He said it as if he were talking about the rain. As if it were normal.
And this time, she couldn't help but look up at him. He was staring at her. Intense. Obsessed.
"Why are you like this with me?" he murmured.
She hesitated. Her hands trembled almost imperceptibly.
"Because you're still standing despite everything."
"You still think I'm just a kid, huh."
She didn't answer. He licked his lips, painfully. Then, he leaned in slightly. He was still sitting, she kneeling in front of him. And slowly, he placed his hand on her cheek.
"Y/N..."
She felt her throat tighten.
He wasn't trying to provoke her. Or seduce her. Not really.
He was just trying to maintain that contact. That link. That small, invisible thread that now connected them.
And in an almost unreal moment, she closed her eyes.
Just for a moment.
She felt his warm palm against her skin. Understood. Accepted.
But as she was about to straighten up, he spoke. His voice was deeper. Slower. Trembling.
"Even if you were to love me one day… you'd refuse. Because I'm still a minor. Because you have too many principles. Because you're strong. And me… I'm everything you've learned to run from."
She opened her eyes. Their gazes met.
Brutally.
And she understood. That this boy, this damn broken, unstable, twisted boy… had just realized that he was falling.
That he was falling for her.
And she… she wasn't sure she wanted to stop him anymore.
She placed her hand on his. Withdrew it almost immediately.
But it was too late.
He had felt it.
And in his eyes, in that uncontrollable flame, she read the promise of an obsession with no way out.
"I'm going to disappear for a while," he finally said.
She raised her head.
"Where?"
"You don't want to know."
She wanted to protest. He shook his head.
"Not now. But I'll be back."
He stood up with difficulty. She helped him. He rested his forehead against hers. Just for a second.
"You see… you left a crack, ma'am. And me? I'm going to make it open until you belong to me."
**
And she let him go.
Not because she wanted to.
But because she knew that when he returned, nothing would ever be the same.
---
I’ve kept a low profile.
No more fighting. No more staring. Nothing. Like a ghost in these damn hallways. Not because I’ve changed. No. I’m the same. I just understood. Baek Jin, that dog, that parasite… he used me. I was a tool. A pit bull he’d unleash when he needed to. Nothing else.
So I backed off. I waited. I watched.
And during that time, I thought about her.
Ms. Y/N.
Fucking hell. Just her name in my head and my nerves ignite.
I remember her fingers on my face that night. It was nothing. An almost professional gesture. Cold. Calculated. But damn it… I got hard as a rock that night. I clenched the sheets between my teeth. I touched myself like a dog in heat. And it was her. It’s always her. It’s always her hand I imagine between my legs.
I’m sick.
I know it. I don’t care.
I want her to touch me again. Not just my face. No. I want her hand everywhere. I want her mouth on my skin. Her nails in my back. Her breath in my ear. Her saliva. Her fucking scent—that mix between clean and fire. Between discipline and hell.
I want to see her crumble. See her lose that mask.
I want to be the one who makes her tremble. Not from fear. From need.
I want her to tell me I’m hers. Even if it’s not true. Even if she’s lying. Even if she hates me.
Because me… I love her.
Not that bullshit love they sing about in dramas.
Me, I love her to the bone.
I love her like you burn.
I dream of her. And in my dreams, she doesn’t scream. She moans.
She tells me no, at first. Always. Because it’s her. Because she’s proud. Fucking upright. But I see her body betray her words. I see her thighs part, slowly. I see her mouth slightly open. I see her breathing quicken.
And I grab her by the nape of the neck. I look at her. I say nothing. And she understands.
And I take her.
I devour her.
I want her to feel that I’m there. Inside her. Everywhere. That even after, when she washes herself, when she tries to forget, I’ll still be there. Under her fingernails. In her nightmares. In her scent.
I’m obsessed.
I could spend hours staring at her without speaking. Just watching her walk. Her swaying hips. Her dark gaze. That contempt she wears like perfume.
Even when she insulted me, I got hard.
Even when she threw me to the ground, tased me like a dog, I would have thanked her.
It was her.
She calmed me down. She hurt me. She looked at me like I was a monster. And damn it… I want her to continue.
I want her to tell me I’m fucked up. That I’m a lost cause.
But I want her to tell me that while moaning. Between two sighs.
I want her to scratch me. Make me bleed. Reject me while I take her. I want her hate, her fear, her confusion. I want her damn mind.
I want to crush her beneath me and whisper in her ear:
“You’re mine now, ma’am.”
And she won’t say anything. Because she’ll know it’s true.
Even if she denies it. Even if she runs.
I’ll always find her.
Because I’m not in love like other people.
I’m not a nice guy. I’m not made for happiness.
I’m made to destroy her softly.
To show her that she never really controlled her heart.
I stole it, little by little.
And one day, she’ll see it.
One day, she’ll feel that she can no longer breathe without thinking of me.
That day… I’ll be there. With my hands around her hips.
With my mouth against her throat.
And she won’t say anything.
Because it will be too late.
---
She’d been warned he was back, in a fearful whisper from a student with a tongue that wagged too freely.
He hadn’t returned to school. Of course not. Too obvious. Too risky. He was hanging around the construction site of the old shopping center, the one no one watched. Walls covered in graffiti, windows blown out, rats making their kingdom out of the debris.
That’s where she found him.
He hadn’t hidden. He was sitting on the cracked steps, one arm bloody beneath his torn sleeve. His eyes were vacant. An expression she’d never seen on him before.
And it drove her mad.
Mad with rage. With pain. With not knowing. With not understanding. With having believed him to be different, perhaps. A dangerous, unstable guy, but not this. Not a fucking rapist.
She approached. The sound of her footsteps echoed on the concrete.
He looked up, slowly.
And without warning, the first slap landed.
A sharp crack in the cold air. Seong-je’s head snapped violently to the side. He didn’t react. He blinked. That was all.
“Tell me it’s not true,” Y/N breathed. Her voice was low. Strangled.
Not a scream. A warning.
He looked at her, silent.
She slapped him a second time, harder, backhanded this time. He swayed slightly but remained seated. Still without a word.
“Tell me it’s not true, damn it!”
He inhaled. Closed his eyes.
“It’s not true,” he said.
But it was too late.
The third slap was brutal. Stinging. He placed a hand on his cheek this time. Not to protect himself. Just… to feel.
As if the pain was the only proof he was still there.
Y/N was trembling. Her whole body. Not with fear. With rage. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him up brutally.
“Then why did you hide?! Huh?! Why did you disappear?! What did you think?! That by leaving me in the dark, I’d… forget?! Defend you without knowing?!”
He kept his eyes locked on hers.
“Because I knew you’d do exactly that. Hit me. Judge me. Look at me like them.”
She gritted her teeth. And then, without thinking, the fourth slap came. And this time, she screamed.
“I protected you! I covered for you for months! And you leave me with a fucking accusation like that?! What do you want?! For me to abandon you?!”
He flinched.
He hadn’t said anything.
But his eyes had clouded over. A shadow had passed.
“I didn’t want you to see that. Me, like that.”
She shoved him violently; he fell back onto the steps, his hands scraped by the concrete.
He didn’t get up.
She remained standing, panting. Broken.
“They have photos, Seong-je. Blurry, yes, but usable. Your black hoodie. Your profile. Your scar on your temple.”
He murmured:
“I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else. I was…”
He hesitated.
“I was hiding out at an old acquaintance’s place. I didn’t call you. I… I was scared.”
“Scared of what?! Of me?!”
He finally looked up at her, and this time, she saw it.
She saw the distress. The real kind.
“Scared that you wouldn’t believe me. That you’d look at the evidence and hesitate. That you’d doubt. Even for a second.”
She didn’t answer. She approached slowly. Squatted down in front of him.
And she hit him one last time, not a slap this time, a punch to the chest, with a closed fist.
“Bastard,” she breathed.
But he looked at her as if she were the last beautiful thing he had left.
And maybe she was.
He coughed, a trace of blood on his lips.
“I’m not a good guy, ma’am. But I never touched that girl. I never wanted that. And I never wanted you to see me like this. Weak. Accused. Falsely accused.”
She closed her eyes. For a long time. Then, gently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. He shivered under her touch.
“Who?”
“Nabaek-jin. Or the guys behind him. They want to take me down. Shut me up. Make me disappear. And there’s no better way than this kind of accusation.”
She nodded.
And for a long moment, they said nothing.
His lips were split. His gaze was lost. He looked worn out. Damaged. Younger than ever. Just a kid. A kid who had been hit too much, dirtied too much.
She stood up.
“You’re coming with me. We’re going to prove you weren’t there that night. We’re going to flip the script. And if you’re lying…”
He nodded.
“I’m not lying.”
She didn’t answer him. She didn’t touch him again.
But as she left, she murmured:
“Don’t run from me again. Because if you do… I’ll hunt you down myself.”
He offered a broken smile.
And in his head, a single thought returned, insistent:
She’s still here. Even after all that. She’s here. She touches him. She hits him. She yells at him. But she’s here.
And that presence was worth all the pain.
Even the pain she inflicted.
---
He was there, leaning against the damp wall of the fire escape behind the school, his gaze fixed on the empty alleyway. He knew she was close. He could feel it. He didn’t need to see her to anticipate her steps – that cold, steady, almost military rhythm. Y/N never did anything halfway.
And she arrived, straight as a knife, her fists clenched in the pockets of her too-thin coat.
She shot him a dark look. He didn’t flinch.
“You have bruises.”
He smiled. An empty smile.
“I don’t fight, Ma’am. I fall.”
She hated that smile. Because it made her want to believe him. And she refused.
“Why do you insist on doing this alone?”
He looked at her for a long time. Too long. And in his eyes, there was that fever she dreaded. That uncontrollable thing, that unhealthy fire that simmered beneath his skin.
“Because it’s my mess. Not yours.”
“And if you get killed? If you fall?”
He approached. Slowly. One step after another. Until he was close enough to feel her breath on his face.
“Then I fall alone. But I refuse to let you dirty your hands for this. I refuse to let them see you, associate you with me, touch you from afar or up close.”
She raised her voice.
“You think I’m some fucking porcelain doll?! You think I—"
He cut her off sharply.
“Let me be a man for once, Y/N.”
She stopped.
He continued, lower. His voice hoarse. And full of that muffled crack he only showed her.
“You want to do everything, carry everything. You’re used to people relying on you. Me, I want… I want to be the one who isn’t saved. I want that at least once in my life, I can say: ‘I handled it. Me.’
He looked up at her. He was burning. Literally.
“You brought me to my knees with your gaze, Y/N. And I don’t want the rats in this city to know you exist. You’re mine. And I’m your dirt to hide.”
She tried to answer. But the words didn’t come. Not right away.
So he left. And this time, she didn’t stop him.
**
Three hours later, in a deserted bowling alley with a broken neon sign, Geum Seong-je retrieved what he had carefully hidden.
An old sports bag, stashed under a false ceiling in the utility room. Inside, papers, hard drives, photos. He had kept it all, just in case. Not because he was careful. Because deep down, he knew that one day, he would have to betray.
He wasn’t afraid of Na Baek-jin.
Not like before.
What he feared was no longer being worthy of Y/N’s gaze. She had slapped him as if she wanted him to become real again. And she had succeeded.
So that night, he walked to the hill where Yeon Si-eun and his two war dogs, baku, gotak and jun-tae. sometimes hung out.
They were there.
He handed the bag to Si-eun, without speaking.
Yeon Si-eun didn’t ask questions. He opened it. Scanned it. Understood. And looked up.
“Why?”
Seong-je ran a hand through his hair, his gaze elsewhere.
“You want to demolish their fucking syndicate? Here’s your bomb. Me, I have something else to protect.”
Si-eun nodded. He didn’t add anything. No need.
**
The next day, Seong-je returned to his hole. He didn’t plan on being a hero. He let others destroy. He just wanted to survive.
But in his head, Y/N.
Always Y/N.
Her voice, her slaps, her silences, her scent.
He thought of her as he went to bed. As he breathed. As he walked. As he washed his hands like a maniac so as not to contaminate what he might one day offer her.
He wanted her. Physically. Yes.
But it wasn’t just that.
He wanted her to see him and think: he’s changed.
He wanted her to offer him a hand one day. Not to save him. Just to touch him.
And every step he took in this fucking rotten world, he took for her.
Not for love. Not for forgiveness.
For the possibility.
The tiny, painful, terribly uncertain possibility… that one day, she would look at him without rage.
Without fear.
Just… with something a little soft.
And for that, he was ready to betray everything he had been.
Even himself.
---
CHAPTER 10 – STORIES ARE WRITTEN TOGETHER
Two months. That’s all it had taken for the dust to settle over the city. Two months of voluntary isolation. Of self-imposed exile.
Geum Seongje hadn’t returned right away. No. He had been a shadow, a figure hidden in the underbelly, where people like him hid, where wounds half-healed, and where time seemed to have forgotten to pass.
The war was over, but he still bore its scars. His name was no longer whispered in the dark alleys with disgust or fear. The syndicate had fallen. The accusations against him had crumbled with the collapse of that underworld. He was cleared, or almost.
But not yet rehabilitated. Not yet returned to who he had been.
The two months had passed. And here he stood before the school, in the middle of the school holidays, in the shade of a tree. He had grown, changed. He was now a man. Of age. And, more importantly, he was there for her.
A cold gaze settled on the entrance of the building. It wasn’t the first time he had returned here. But this time, he had a reason beyond mere rage to reappear in the life of the one who had marked him with fire.
Y/N.
She was there. In the shadow of the gate, talking to a group of students, like a guardian figure. When she turned her head, her eyes met his. A shiver pierced the warm summer air. She recognized him immediately, even after those two months.
She hadn’t changed. But he… He was something else entirely. Harder, more mature, more enigmatic. Far from the teenager she had had to watch, control, sometimes insult. He was no longer the one she had slapped. He was no longer the one she had tried to help, with her icy and closed heart. No, he was a man. A man she knew by heart… and who, yet, was no longer the same at all.
Seongje approached her, his gaze scrutinizing every movement. It wasn't just the desire to possess her. It was deeper. It was a visceral need. A need to connect, to give meaning back to his existence. An obsession, of course, but tinged with that nuance he had never thought possible.
“You know, I can’t call you ‘ma’am’ anymore. I’m no longer under your supervision,” he said with a wry smile, a smile that was both teasing and unhealthy. But his voice was softer, more confident. It was more than a provocation. It was… almost an attempt to get closer.
She stared at him. She was no longer as implacable, but her expression remained distant.
“You’ve changed,” she finally said. Not a question, just a statement.
He didn’t answer immediately, preferring to look her in the eyes. And in that gaze, she could almost feel what he was feeling. The buried pain, the shame, the rage, but also an insatiable need to be seen. To be accepted. To be chosen.
“I’m an adult now, aren’t I?” His voice was tinged with that childish arrogance he had always had, but this time, it wasn’t empty. There was something more in the way he addressed her. A plea for recognition.
She didn’t answer right away, her gaze lost in a mixture of confusion and curiosity. The situation was too unclear for her to embrace with a simple look.
He moved closer slowly, each step heavy with unspoken meanings. Everything he had lived through, everything he had endured… He had gone through it all to be there, in front of her. He was ready for anything. Even that dull ache that resonated in his gut with every movement he made.
“If I follow you… it’s not for school, you know.”
His words were simple, but they struck her heart like a hammer blow.
“You want to follow me away from all this?” she asked, surprised, but also slightly amused. She had remained calm, but he could feel the tension in her gestures.
“Maybe,” he said, a mischievous smile in his eyes. Then he added, lower, almost to himself, “I’ve always had this kind of connection with you. I want more than silences. More than furtive glances.”
She looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, her gaze softened. Perhaps because she understood now. Perhaps because she knew.
“I’m going to another school… I’m getting transferred,” she murmured. “You know, the distance…”
He leaned a little closer to her, and this time, it wasn’t an enraged look, or the look of a badly behaved child. No, it was a conscious look, the look of someone who knew what he wanted.
“Then I’ll call you ‘noona’ now,” he said in a warm, sensual breath. The word slipped from his lips, and he pronounced it in an almost intimate way, a way that made all the difference. Because he had never pronounced that word that way before, not to her, not ever.
She froze for a moment before relaxing slightly. An almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. But he could see it. She saw it too, that small crack in the wall she had built around herself. She felt an electric tension, a dull pulse, as palpable as the air between them.
Their gazes locked.
It wasn’t a kiss yet, no. But there was something even stronger. It was a silent promise, a profound change. He, the child who had tormented her, now ready to be the one who would follow her. She, the woman ready to accept him, but not without her own fears.
Seongje’s fingers slid onto Y/N’s skin, brushing her wrist. The touch was soft, almost fragile, as if he were afraid of breaking what had just been created. And Y/N, this time, didn’t pull away. On the contrary, she leaned in slightly, like an invitation.
“Noona…” he repeated, in a heavier tone, almost a whisper. And this time, it was the beginning of something real, something vulnerable. It was no longer an obsession.
It was hope.
And then, he did it. He crossed that boundary that, until then, had seemed like an insurmountable chasm. He kissed her. Not brutally, not violently. But gently, gently, as if each movement was a revelation, as if he were discovering himself through her. He had no expectations. Just this desire to feel her close, even closer, more real than ever.
She recoiled slightly, her eyes wide open, shocked by the gesture, but he didn’t move away. Not this time. He waited for a reaction. He didn’t want her words. He just wanted… her to see him. To really see him.
And for the first time since he had met her, Seongje felt at peace. Not because the battle was over, not because he had won anything. But because this time, he had taken his future into his own hands. And that future, he wanted to share with her. No matter how twisted, difficult, or uncertain it might be.
She placed her hand on his cheek, caressing it gently. He had never thought that simple gesture could have such an impact. That tenderness… he received it like a precious, fragile gift. And perhaps, deep down, he was beginning to believe that he could build something real with her. Perhaps, finally, he could exist beyond his mistakes.
She leaned slightly towards him.
“Seongje…”
She said nothing more. Words were unnecessary. But in her eyes, there was what he had always sought: a promise. A promise he had waited for. That he would now build with her.
He smiled, without a word.
Things weren’t perfect. They never would be.
But for the first time, there was an “us.” And that was all he had ever wanted.
Their hands trembled. The air between them was saturated with desire and tension, but also with that fragility that now bound them. No further words were needed. No grander gestures. They understood each other. And for the first time, Seongje felt that he wasn’t alone in being obsessed with the other.
Y/N was there, ready to accept who he had become. But the question remained: would they be able to repair what had been broken before? Or would it all consume them even more?
..................................................................................
Pov: you're reading fanfiction and suddenly y/n starts to call him daddy
won't lose you again
bakugo x reader
zombie au inspired by @ryoflix sukuna fic -> read here
His memory plagues your thoughts everyday, your younger years getting harder to hold onto as your mind focuses on your last moments with him.
You wish you had stopped him, told him it wasn't worth the risk or even go with him. But you know he wouldn't let you put yourself in danger for something as small as scavenging.
The big strong man he was, he told you he had it handled. He promised he would be back by sunset, you waited and waited but he never came back.
You gave him the benefit of the doubt, trying calming your frantic mind. Maybe he decided to explore further away from home, got stuck in a store with a horde outside, or better yet maybe he found others and they were brainstorming a way to get back to you.
But as days passed and your stockpile got smaller, you knew he wasn't coming back. Your mind refused to think of the worst, pushing back the idea and pretending he had just gone exploring.
As you equipped yourself in protective gear, you looked around the makeshift home you built with the man you've loved for years. Taking in the small table the two of you would share scraps over, and the small mattress in the corner decorated with what you could find in these trying times.
Your mind flashing with memories of the two of you, him holding you close as you listened to the noisy horde outside, how he'd whisper promises of a better future with you when the world got better.
He use to measure your ring finger every night, giving you a small smile as he uttered "I love you."
It's been so long since you heard those words. A nightly tradition gone in the blink of an eye.
You couldn't stay reminiscing about the man you love forever, you had to find food before you starved. So with a soft click of the door, you went out searching. Recalling all the tips and tricks he told you, making sure you were light on your feet as you walked and dodging the areas that were always crowded.
Going past your usual scavenging vicinities, you stumbled upon an empty looking jewelry store. From the looks of it, it's been deserted for a while. The plants overgrown and covering half of the building, the door broken off its hinges as if someone forced their way in.
You didnt hear anything as you carefully crept through the entrance, broken glass and jewels littered the floor as you went deeper inside.
Peering around, you couldn't help but feel like you weren't alone. You couldn't feel eyes on you, but you sensed another figures presence.
The sound of glass breaking under your feet made you flinch, you couldn't help but silently laugh as you thought of Katsuki yelling at you for such a small mistake. His years of teachings going down the drain.
A shuffling sound made you freeze in your steps, your back turned towards the source as you held your breath. The sound slowly getting closer at a staggering pace, your body silently shaking as you prayed it was a survivor. But the low groan had you spinning around, your hand moving to the knife strapped to your thigh, preparing to go into fight or flight.
You couldn't help but gasp as your sights filled with those ruby red eyes you've adored everyday.
He looked like the same boy you've loved since you were young, but also different at the same time.
His domineering and strong stance was now sluggish, his shoulders hunched and head slightly titled as he stared at you. His skin now a sickly pale with blueish purple veins lining his body.
But his eyes, his eyes weren't fogged like the undead usually were, his was the same bright red.
"Katsuki?" You whispered out, hoping to get a reaction out of him. Something that told you he was still in there.
With baited breaths you waited, watching him until he slowly up his hand. The groan leaving his lips sounding like your name.
Your eyes couldn't help but well up with tears, smiling as you walked closer finally reunited with your love.
But as you got closer, his groans turned aggressive as he used his hand to try and grab you. He froze mid swipe, his eyes slightly widening as he stilled his actions. You could tell he was fighting his undead instincts from trying to bite you.
With what little humanity he had left Katsuki held out his other hand, his palm slowly opening to reveal a sparkly engagement ring. The design similar to the one you always described to him in your late night promises.
You tried to bite your lip to silence your sobs, taking the ring from his palm, he watched as you slipped the ring onto your finger. Flexing your hand towards him as you would if this was a normal proposal.
You knew he wanted you to run, leave him here to rot so you could have a chance of survival.
But instead you came closer, closing the distance between the both of you. You could see in his eyes as he fought with him self, slowly losing his rationality the closer you got.
With a tearful smile you wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close and titling your head to expose your neck. A silent tear rolling down your cheek as you cradled his head, the pain shooting through your body as his sharp canines sink into your skin.
Bro imagine you decided to mess around with a ouija board just to see what would happen, not expecting anything at all, but as soon as you set it up the planchette starts moving like crazy. Not pointing to any letters that make sense, it's jumbled. As it turns out, there are several ghosts and they've all been waiting for a chance to talk to you
Reader unknowingly has a harem of monsters and ghosts who've been haunting them for years. They've been utterly oblivious to the paranormal stalking and equally uninterested in the occult.
Until they stumble upon an ouija board and decide to give it a try, out of pure amusement and nothing else. The outcome, of course, leaves them terrified and speechless. The planchette spins and turns and scratches ferociously against the board.
"Alright, gentlemen, we need some order in here," one of the ghoulish entities announces with bureaucratic monotony. "We won't get our message across if everyone uses it at once."
Consequently, a large queue forms before you as each unholy being takes its turn confessing its everlasting feelings.
"Listen," you say, impatiently, "it's the sixth time you're asking me to marry you. I've gotten the point by now."
The planchette moves.
It wasn't me. I waited for my turn.
"Your turn?" you stare at the empty space ahead. Darkness, and nothing else, yet your face slowly drains of color.
"How many of you are out there?"
-
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