i do not make female reader fanfics (but people who are female are very welcome to read, just don't expect me to write character x female reader.)
i do not write: rape, abuse, pedophilia or necrophilia. (any requests will be denied and user will be reported)
i do write either very detailed or not at all, this is a warning to what to expect if so to read angst or smut made by me, if not comfortable with that click of or ask me to rewrite a softer version of it.
I only write male reader, ftm reader and gn reader.
Also if you wanna get tagged in posts, send it in the comments or repost the fiction you like where you say what type of posts you want to be tagged in.
MASTER LIST
DC (Bruce Wayne, (ben Affleck, Christian bale, maybe some other Batmans if you ask kindly) dick Grayson, Jason Todd, joker, Catwoman, wonder Woman, Harley Quinn, Clark Kent, roman Sionis, victor zsasz, two face, huntress, bane, scarecrow, flash, Aquaman and more
Call of duty.. literally anyone but Hassan and general Shepard.
Everyone in umbrella academy
Marvel
The good place
Hannibal Lecter (with Mads Mikkelsen)
Slashers.
Also you can always send in requests on anything I don't mind. It can be kid fics. Romantic fics, anything. Just as long as I know the characters then it's all cool. Also when people ask for chapters I always make part one and two at the same time.
Will Hunting (Good Will Hunting), Dean Winchester (Supernatural), Sirius Black (Harry Potter but fanfic obv), Yoshiki Tsujinaka (The Summer Hikaru Died)
thank you for the tag @luckybug48! they're very different characters but...
neil perry (dps), mia thermopolis (the princess diaries), violet (the incredibles), charlie (tpobaw)!
(can you tell I'm an ambivert 😭)
no pressure tags (I totally get if you don't want to do it, dw!)---> @boochinapop, @sophiasangell, @madebyposeidon, @milkywayglow, @saeluneth, @fawnamber, @salvatore----girl, @livi-loo2, @fearlesslover1989, @sarae-intj, @sincereleedoll and anyone else who wants to join! again, totally no pressure 💞
trinity santos (the pitt), charlie kelmeckis (the perks of being a wallflower), syd adamu (the bear), Clementine kruczynski (eternal sunshine of the spotless mind)
Duncan Vizla x gn!reader - no bodily stuff, no outfits, only hair being said, no pronouns used to describe reader
To set the mood;
You sat in an empty booth, you face towards the window watching the snowflakes fall and their designs melt against it. Some vintage jazz echoed quietly with a humming noise from behind the bar counter, which filled the half empty room, you were there, waiting on Duncan who was in the far back of the bar, doing some business with God knows who again, making whatever money he made, you dont question it, even tho you were slightly forced to come along this time, as for him, you staying back at his place, wasnt "safe" although you stay blind and with your back turned to who or what he ends up dealing with.
"Лисичка" he grumbled out to you "little fox" how memorable, the nickname he gave you, after he found you a few years a go, shriveled up in a ball in the freezing cold of northern Russia.
"We're leaving, come now.." He said to you, as he was walking towards the front door of the bar, keeping an eye on you as you got off the chair from the empty booth, and jogged after him.
Duncan, he walked briskly out, keeping in step with you, he was definently much bigger than you, his stride was long.
Oh he grabbed your hand, you could feel his calloused and rough palm against your smooth and soft hand, as you were walking to the truck with him.
The cold winter wind hitting them hard against their faces, your hair flying every way it could
As you look up at him, to look at his face, Duncan didn't look back down at you, his eyes trying to spot his truck, as he could hear your teeth chattering from the cold.
The roads were icy and slippery, the snow still comming down, but in harder flurries now.
You and Duncan arrived to his truck, him opening the passenger side door and ushered her in "Лисичка get in." it wasn't a question, or a request.
As you got in, he then rounded the truck, from the back and getting into the driver's seat, he slammed the door, or else it wouldn't close old junk of a truck, he cranked up the heat in the car, in the seats too, it's cold in Russia.. especially in winter, you know that too well.. right? Лисичка?
As you look out the window, the snowflakes landing and melting away on it, you hear Duncan grumble something about the guy he was talking with at the bar something about him being "useless" or something like that, you just shrug it off, knowing not to question him.
The the silence getting cut by Duncan finaly speaking up.
"You're being quiet, Лисичка." His rough edged voice, sounding like an almost hum to your ears, as your eyes snap back on him as soon as you heard him speak up.
"I am? I guess i was.." you mumble to him, your gaze staying on him, not moving from his face.
He shot yout a sideways glance, his expression still slightly unreadable yet softer then at the bar. He saw through your casual words, some underlying restlessness in your silence in the truck ride.
Duncan, he had a knack for reading people - a honed skill that was both a blessing for his job, yet a curse.
"Cut the bullshit Лисичка. I know you damn well by now."
He grumbled to you, his voice was blunt, cutting through the silence fully.
As the truck turns into the garage, at a holt.
"Get out, and into the house Лисичка." He tells you, as he keeps his eyes in you, his gaze not moving, before he himself, gets out the truck, slamming the door, and rounding it once more, following you to the stairs of the house.
"I'm just tired, Duncan." you said softly, as you watched him unlock the front door, scurrying you inside, as if something would happen if he didn't.
He let out a grumble, one deep from his chest, as he watched you walk inside, you, his own little Лисичка lying on the couch in the middle of the room, Duncan scurried after you, following you to the couch, as he sat down, moving your head onto his lap, as he softly played with your hair, his rough hands, gliding from the top of your head to down you neck, over your shoulder blades and on repeat, as your eyes fluttered shut.
"Лисичка" he mumbles to you as you were slowly drifting off to sleep
summary: you steal his jacket from the very beginning, and use it non stop.. but suddenly you aint using it anymore... now he thinks you're breaking up with him.
Logan Howlett had given up on the jacket months ago.
It started as borrowing—just for a minute, you’d said. Then it became habit. Every time Logan turned around, his brown leather jacket was gone, draped over your shoulders like it had always belonged there. Too big, sleeves hanging past your hands, collar permanently smelling like campfire smoke and pine.
He tried complaining once.
“You know I own other clothes, including this one” you told him, already tugging the jacket on.
That was the day Logan bought himself a new one. Didn’t say a word about it—just hung it up and never reached for the old leather again. He let you keep it, let you win, because the way you smirked every time you wore it was worth more than the jacket ever was.
Summer came in heavy and slow.
One afternoon, Logan stepped out of the cabin and stopped short.
You were stretched out in the grass beside the car, radio playing something crackly and old. The sun was high, heat pressing down, and you were clearly unbothered by it—barefoot, relaxed, wearing only shorts and his jacket. Unzipped. Loose.
The leather looked worn-soft on you, familiar. Yours.
Your top surgery scars were visible, unhidden, catching the light without apology. You looked calm. Comfortable. Like the world had finally given you room to breathe.
Logan didn’t say anything at first.
He just stood there, leaning against the porch rail, suddenly feeling like he’d lost every argument he’d ever had about that jacket—and somehow won something better.
You glanced over, catching him staring.
“See something you like?” you teased.
Logan huffed, shaking his head, but there was no bite in it. “You’re gonna overheat in that thing.”
You grinned, settling back into the grass. “Then stop looking and let me enjoy it.”
Winter is rolling into Canada. Snow is starting to lay itself on the ground outside and on top of the cabin you and Logan live in together.
The jacket came back folded.
That alone was enough to make Logan’s stomach drop.
He noticed it sitting on the chair by the door when he came in from chopping wood—his old brown leather jacket, neatly placed, sleeves tucked in like it was being laid to rest. It hadn’t been on that chair in months. It was never on that chair.
You were by the window, pulling on boots, moving around with that quiet focus you got when something was wrong.
Logan cleared his throat. “Uh… you forget something?”
You glanced over. “Nope.”
That was worse.
Logan stared at the jacket, then at you, then back at the jacket. His brain immediately filled in the worst possible explanations. Had he said something wrong? Forgotten something important? Was this about that dumb comment he made last week about the radio?
“You… don’t want it anymore?” he asked carefully.
You paused, confused. “What?”
“The jacket,” Logan said, nodding toward it like it might explode. “You gave it back.”
Your eyebrows knit together, then suddenly you snorted. “Oh. That.”
Logan didn’t relax. “That doesn’t sound good.”
You laughed, pulling a massive, thick winter coat from the hook by the door. It was padded, ugly, and clearly meant for serious cold. “Logan, it’s freezing. Your jacket is cute, but it does absolutely nothing for warmth.”
Logan blinked. “That’s it?”
“I love your jacket,” you said, shrugging into the winter coat. “But I can’t handle cold for shit. I was shivering like a cartoon character.”
“No,” you said slowly, realizing. “Wait—did you think I was breaking up with you?”
Logan looked away. “…Maybe.”
You stared at him for a second, then laughed so hard you had to grab the doorframe. “Logan. I steal your clothes religiously. If I were mad, you’d never see that jacket again.”
That finally did it. Logan let out a breath, shaking his head. “Next time, maybe give a warning.”
You grinned, tugging the winter coat tighter. “Next time, buy a jacket that actually works.”
Logan watched you step outside, smiling to himself.
Bruce Wayne x male reader, Batfam x male reader (platonic)
part 1 - part 2 - part 3
Christmas at Wayne Manor was… complicated.
There were decorations, technically. Alfred insisted—wreaths on the doors, lights strung with military precision along the banisters, a tree that reached almost to the second-floor railing. But no one ever quite knew what to do with the day itself.
Too many ghosts. Too many memories that hurt if you looked at them too closely.
So you did what you always did.
You planned quietly.
You wrapped gifts late at night, in the study, brown paper and twine instead of glossy bows. You labeled each one carefully, handwriting steady, deliberate. No extravagance. Just thought.
You left early Christmas morning.
A note on the kitchen counter. Apologies. Love. Promises to be back before the year turned over.
Bruce had kissed your forehead before you left, still half-asleep.
“Tell them I said hi,” he murmured.
“I will,” you smiled. “Don’t let Jason open everything before breakfast.”
“No promises.”
They found the gifts after you were gone.
Bruce’s was first.
A small wooden box, smooth and warm to the touch. Inside—
A wristwatch.
Not just any watch.
Hand-carved wood casing. Perfectly balanced. Fully functional. The internal mechanics precise, custom-fitted. The grain of the wood flowed like water, polished but not glossy. Strong. Quiet.
Bruce froze.
He’d mentioned it once. Months ago. A passing comment about how he’d searched for a craftsperson who could do it right and never found one.
Alfred watched him turn the watch over slowly.
“…This was made,” Bruce said, voice low, reverent.
“Yes,” Alfred replied gently. “And I believe, sir, it was made for you.”
Bruce didn’t say anything else. He simply put it on. And didn’t take it off.
Dick’s came next.
A jacket—exactly the one he’d been eyeing for weeks but never bought. The cut was right. Flexible. Durable. Stylish without trying too hard.
He slipped it on immediately.
“Oh. Oh, this is dangerous,” he laughed, spinning once. “I look too cool.”
Jason snorted. “You always think that.”
“Yeah, but now I’m right.”
He stared at them for a long moment, then cleared his throat roughly.
“…He remembered,” Jason muttered.
He put them on without ceremony. Laced them tight. Walked a lap around the room like he was testing solid ground.
“They fit,” he said simply.
That was enough.
Tim’s gift was practical. Thoughtful.
Noise-canceling headphones. Top-tier. Tuned exactly to his preferences.
Tim’s eyes lit up like you’d handed him a new limb.
“Oh. Oh wow. These—these are good,” he said, already putting them on.
Jason waved a hand in front of his face. No response.
“…Yeah, he’s gone.”
Damian’s was wrapped last.
A book.
But not just any book.
A replica of his favorite text—bound in Arabic. The cover embossed. The pages thick, the script clean and precise.
Damian’s fingers hovered before he touched it.
“You—” he stopped himself. Swallowed. “He remembered.”
Alfred smiled knowingly.
“Of course he did.”
Damian carried the book with both hands, like something sacred.
Alfred’s gifts were modest. Perfect.
Leather winter gloves—soft-lined, warm, practical. A scarf in deep, elegant tones that somehow suited him exactly.
He adjusted it once in the mirror.
“…Cheeky man,” Alfred murmured fondly. “He sees far too much.”
Cassandra’s was an envelope.
Her name written carefully on the front.
Inside, a note.
I have bought three movie tickets for Five Nights at Freddy’s 2 and a three-person booking room at the VR game zone so you and your friends can go and have some fun. I will pay for food, drinks, and snacks as well.
Cass read it twice.
Then three times.
Her mouth curved—not quite a smile, but close enough it made Dick’s chest ache.
She folded the note carefully. Slipped it into her pocket.
“Thank you,” she whispered—to the empty room.
The house was quiet without you.
Not empty.
Just… waiting.
You came back New Year’s morning.
Snow clung to your coat as you stepped inside, travel-worn and tired and smiling already.
You barely had time to shut the door.
Dick was first—arms around you, laughing.
Jason followed, a solid clap on your back that lingered.
Tim nearly ran into you, stopped short, then hugged you anyway.
Cass wrapped her arms around your waist, firm and certain.
Damian stood stiff for half a second—
Then stepped forward.
Brief. Controlled. Real.
Bruce came last.
He didn’t say anything. Just pulled you into his chest and held you there, forehead resting against yours.
“Welcome home,” he said quietly.
The manor felt warm.
Not because of the fire.
But because everyone was exactly where they were meant to be.
HIIIII I love love love those two small stories you did on reader being the batkids step-dad I found them today and was giggling n kicking my feet while reading them ur an amazing writer. I Litterally have no request i mean i have ideas but I cannot phrase things well I just wanted to say how much I liked it and if u had any ideas maybe you could make a part 3 pretty pretty please with a chery on top. <3
HIIIII, don't worry. You can send me a message and not a request and we can talk there and this goes for others aswell if they don't really know what to send in the request in on messenge 😊 I am making a part three Christmas themed for y'all.
could u do simon riley taking his bf who dresses feminine out on a date and there's a confrontation?
Date night.
Simon Riley x (femboy) male reader
summary: hes protective...
Simon Riley wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed crowds, dates, or public attention. But for you? He’d brave all of it.
You’d dressed a little softer tonight — a flowing shirt, subtle makeup, earrings that caught the light when you moved. He noticed every detail the moment you walked out of the bedroom, even if he hid the smile under the curve of his mask.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, offering his hand. “Let’s go.”
The restaurant you picked was quiet, warm, and dimly lit. You slipped into the booth beside Simon instead of across, and he didn’t complain — just rested a firm hand on your thigh, thumb drawing an absent circle. Anyone looking your way would see nothing but a mountain of a man relaxed for the first time all week.
Everything was perfect… until it wasn’t.
On your way out, an unfamiliar voice muttered from near the bar:
“Didn’t know they let blokes in dressed like that.”
You stiffened. Simon didn’t. Not outwardly.
He turned slowly, angling himself between you and the man — not threatening, not making a scene, just there. A wall.
“Say that again,” Simon said quietly. No edge, no raise in volume — the kind of calm that made the air feel heavier.
The man shrank a little. “Just saying. Looks weird, is all.”
Simon took a single step forward, and somehow that was enough to make the guy back up.
“Nothing weird about him,” Simon said. “What is weird is you thinking your opinion matters to anyone.”
You tugged Simon’s sleeve gently — not out of fear, but to remind him the night was supposed to be yours, not the stranger’s. He breathed out, almost a sigh, and put an arm around your shoulders as he turned toward the door.
“You alright?” he asked once you stepped into the cool evening.
You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He leaned down just enough that you could feel his breath against your ear.
“Next time anyone gives you trouble,” he said softly, “they deal with me first.”
And as he walked you to the car, holding your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, it didn’t feel like a threat — it felt like a promise.
Hi, I'd like to request one of the Huntress with a plus-size reader, please.
Human stress ball
Huntress (Helena Bertinelli ) x chubby reader
Helena storms into your apartment like she always does after a mission gone sideways—silent, jaw tight, shoulders coiled like a loaded crossbow. You barely have time to set down your mug before she’s already kicking off her boots, dropping her weapons on the couch, and marching straight toward you.
You open your mouth to ask what happened.
You don’t get the chance.
Helena huffs out a sharp breath and practically falls onto you, pushing you back onto the bed with a heavy, warm whump. She lands chest-first on top of you, burying her face between your neck and shoulder like she’s trying to hide from the world.
“Bad night?” you mumble, though her weight on your stomach makes your voice come out a little squished.
She groans. “Don’t… talk. Just—”
Her arms slide around your middle, squeezing.
“Let me use you.”
You blink. “Use me?”
“Not like that,” she grumbles. “Like—this.”
Her fingers press into your belly, kneading absentmindedly, like it’s a stress toy she bought specifically to work out her rage. She squeezes, pokes, squishes, not rough enough to hurt but definitely firm. Each time she grabs a handful of your tummy her breathing gets slower, calmer.
Your cheeks burn.
You’re ridiculously aware of her hands.
“You’re soft,” Helena mumbles into your neck, as if stating a tactical fact. “It helps.”
“Helena… you know you can just ask—”
“I don’t want to ask.” She squeezes your thigh this time, her hand sinking into the plush flesh. “I want this.”
Her fingers dig in a little. You jolt.
“Uh—what exactly does ‘this’ mean?”
“It means,” she says, shifting fully on top of you, thighs bracketing your hips as she melts her weight onto you, “you’re comforting. And warm. And squishy. And when I’m pissed off, laying on you makes it stop.”
Your heart does something embarrassing.
She keeps kneading your stomach like she’s sculpting rage out of her system, thumb brushing slow circles against your hip.
“I like your body,” she mutters, voice low, like she’s afraid you’ll tease her. “It… grounds me.”
You wrap your arms around her waist, pulling her a little closer. She lets out a small, almost surprised sigh—then relaxes completely, head resting on your chest.
Her fingers curl around the soft skin at your side again.
“…Can I stay like this?” she asks, quieter now.
“Yeah. As long as you want.”
Helena hums, satisfied.
“That’s good. Because I’m not getting up.”
She doesn’t.
Not for a long time.
And the whole time, her restless hands roam—gently squeezing your belly, your hips, your thighs—using every inch of you to soothe the storm inside her… until she falls asleep draped over you like a very smug, very deadly weighted blanket.
This is based on @miracleocean Divorced dads art. Please go and give credit to them to.^^
The gala lights blur into warm gold as you stand near the edge of the ballroom, fingers worrying the cool metal of your wedding ring. Or… your former wedding ring. Each turn of the band feels like pressing on a bruise—something tender, something that never quite healed.
Bruce hasn’t looked at you all evening.
Correction:
Bruce hasn’t let himself look at you all evening.
But you’ve felt his eyes. Every time you drift too far from him. Every time someone else gets too close. Every time you twist the ring around your finger like you’re about to make a decision he doesn’t want you to make.
You don’t even know why you came tonight.
Maybe you’re tired of pretending.
Maybe you’re tired of pretending for him.
So finally—quietly—you slide the ring off.
It’s a tiny sound, barely the soft scrape of metal against skin, but somehow it echoes inside you.
You don’t get to breathe a full second before Bruce is at your side.
His hand closes around yours—gentle, but firm. It’s the only sign that he’s human beneath that mask of billionaire composure. He doesn’t cause a scene. He simply guides you away, past the clinking glasses and polite applause, through a side door and into the dim hallway behind the ballroom.
The second the door shuts, Bruce exhales shakily.
Like he’s been holding his breath for months.
“Give it to me,” he murmurs.
You blink. “Bruce—”
He takes your hand again, holding your fingers so carefully it almost hurts. He presses the ring back against your palm and then, slower than he needs to, slides it onto your finger himself. His touch lingers as if he’s memorizing the feeling.
His eyes squeeze shut.
“I know we divorced,” he says, voice low, tight, cracking at the edges. “But this is for public sake. Keep acting like this… for a while.”
Your heart sinks.
So that’s all it is.
Business.
Appearance.
Pretending.
Just like always.
His eyes open—blue and conflicted and full of something he refuses to name. His jaw tightens as if he’s forcing the next words through a locked door inside himself.
“I promise,” he whispers, thumb brushing your knuckle, “this is just business.”
But the way he says it betrays him.
The way he looks at you betrays him.
The way his hand refuses to let go of yours absolutely betrays him.
You stare at him, voice barely above a breath.
“Then why do you look like you’re losing me all over again?”
Bruce still doesn’t answer.
He stands there in the half-shadowed hallway, the distant music from the gala muffled behind the door, his hand still wrapped around yours like it’s the last solid thing he has left. His eyes won’t meet yours, and that tells you everything he won’t say out loud.
You try to pull your hand back.
He doesn’t let go.
Not immediately.
Not even after he realizes he’s holding on too tight.
“Bruce.” You whisper his name because it feels like the only thing that can cut through whatever armor he’s built tonight. “If this is just business, you don’t get to hold me like this.”
His breath shudders—barely audible, but it’s there. His thumb twitches against your skin, and for a moment you see the man you married, not the man who let you go.
“I know,” he says, voice cracking for real this time. “I know. I’m—”
He stops himself, jaw tightening. “I’m asking you to trust me. A little longer.”
You let out a humorless laugh. “Funny. I did trust you. That was the problem, wasn’t it?”
His shoulders tense, like the words hit him where you know he’s already raw.
“You think I wanted this?” he finally says, low and rough. “You think any of this was easy?”
“No,” you answer. “I think it was easier than staying.”
That lands. Hard. You see it in the way his gaze drops to the floor, like he can’t bear the weight of your eyes on him.
For a moment, neither of you speak. The silence is thick—full of all the apologies neither of you ever said, all the arguments you never finished, all the love that never actually went away.
When he finally looks up, there’s something desperate behind his control.
“You weren’t supposed to take it off tonight.” His fingers brush the ring again, almost unconsciously. “Not yet.”
“Why?” you ask. “To make the shareholders feel better? To keep the Board from panicking? To avoid another headline?”
“No.”
It’s immediate. Too immediate.
His breath hitches, like he regrets letting the truth slip out before he could stop it. His eyes dart away, searching for a way to walk it back, to hide behind business and logic and Gotham politics.
But there’s nothing left to hide behind out here.
“Bruce,” you say softly, “if this is about something else—just say it.”
He closes his eyes, and you see the exact moment the façade cracks. Just a hairline fracture, but it’s there. A tremor in his chest. A flicker of something painfully human in his expression.
His voice, when it comes, is barely more than a whisper.
“I didn’t want you to stop looking like mine.”
Your breath catches.
The words hang between you, fragile and heavy and real in a way Bruce never lets himself be.
He seems to realize what he’s said a second too late. He stiffens, straightening his back, trying to pull himself back into the perfect Wayne mask—but you’ve already seen through it.
You always have.
You take a step closer, close enough that he has to look at you. “Bruce… you divorced me.”
His eyes soften with something sadder than regret—something like longing, or guilt, or both.
“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’ve regretted it every day since.”
The confession leaves him like a wound opening.
You don’t move. You don’t speak. You don’t even breathe.
Bruce swallows hard, hands shaking just slightly as they hold yours. “Just—keep the ring on tonight,” he says, voice trembling. “If not for the public… then for me. Just a little longer. Let me—”
He breaks off, unable to finish the sentence.
Let me pretend.
Let me fix this.
Let me have one more moment with you.
You hear all of it in the silence.
The gala music swells behind the door, but out here, in this little hallway, it’s just you and him and everything that didn’t die with the divorce papers.
Bruce looks at you like he’s waiting for a verdict.
Jason didn’t mean to end up here.
He’d planned to go straight home after patrol, maybe crack open a beer, maybe just sit in silence and stare at the city lights from the fire escape. But the night had gone to hell — a botched bust, a kid getting caught in crossfire, the same old voices in his head reminding him how badly he’d screwed up.
So instead of home, his boots found their way to your apartment.
He slipped in through the fire escape window the way he always did, silent and practiced. The moment his feet hit the carpet, the smell of you — soap, coffee, the faint spice of your cologne — hit him, grounding him. He exhaled shakily.
Piece by piece, he peeled off the Red Hood — helmet clunking softly against the floor, leather jacket dropping over the back of a chair, holsters unbuckled with trembling hands. All that armor, all that noise, it suddenly felt like too much. He dug into your drawer for one of your soft shirts — the faded one you wore to bed — and tugged it on. It hung loose on his frame, smelling like you.
He moved toward the bed like a man underwater, half-afraid you’d wake, half-hoping you would.
But the mattress dipped, and you stirred immediately, eyes blinking open, heavy with sleep but soft the moment they landed on him.
“Jay?” you murmured, voice low and rough. “Hey… what happened?”
Jason froze. “Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered, voice cracking at the edges.
You didn’t push. You just rolled onto your back, wordlessly reaching a hand toward him. “C’mere.”
That was all it took.
He crawled over you, settling on your chest like he’d done a hundred times before but somehow it felt different tonight — smaller, more fragile. Your arms came around him instantly, pulling him close until his heartbeat slowed against your ribs.
For a long time, neither of you said anything. You just ran your fingers through his hair, feeling the tension bleed out of him with every shaky breath.
“Bad night?” you asked quietly.
Jason huffed something that was almost a laugh, muffled against your shirt. “Yeah. Real bad.”
You pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “Then you did the right thing coming here.”
He didn’t answer, just let out a long, tired sigh. His body went limp against you, the weight of him heavy but familiar.
And for the first time that night, Jason Todd finally let himself sleep — safe, warm, and held.
(WHY IS BRUCE WAYNE SO DAMN FINE IN GOTHAM KNIGHTS I MEAN COMMON THIS IS INSANE!!! WHY COULD'NT DC MAKE HIM LIKE THIS IN ALL OF THE DAMN ARKHAM KNIGHT GAMES!?!??! then there's dick doing flappy flappys )
Gotham loved the Waynes. Or, at least, it pretended to.
And the Wayne family—dark knights by night and broken souls by day—pretended right back.
Among them, you were the golden one. The miracle.
The youngest, the most well-adjusted, the one who smiled too easily and hugged a little too long. You’d grown up surrounded by shadows and violence, yet somehow radiated warmth.
“Y/N’s the normal one,” Dick would joke with a laugh that never quite reached his eyes.
Jason would smirk and say, “Yeah, kid’s too damn nice for Gotham.”
Even Damian, wary and suspicious, found himself tolerating your company. You could calm him in seconds—no small feat.
Alfred adored you, of course. “A proper gentleman,” he’d say, setting tea in front of you. “Master Bruce could learn a thing or two.”
And Bruce… Bruce felt hope when he looked at you.
You were proof, to him, that not all who live in the dark have to become it.
But they never saw the red underneath your nails.
The family split off again—another night of chasing ghosts through Gotham’s underbelly. You took your patrol route alone, as usual. Bruce had protested, but you’d been persistent.
“Trust me,” you’d said, smiling. “I can handle myself, Dad.”
And you could.
You handled yourself beautifully.
You handled everything beautifully.
From the rooftops, you watched as Nightwing cornered a weapons dealer, Red Hood dismantled a cartel hideout, and Batman’s signal flared across the clouds.
Your family—righteous, tireless, trying to fix a city that was already rotting from within.
They never realized you were the infection spreading through it.
The man you were following tonight had once sold girls to Black Mask. You’d “arrested” him three weeks ago. Bruce thought you’d handed him over to GCPD.
In truth, you’d buried him under an abandoned church in Crime Alley.
You moved silently, a shadow among shadows, as your latest prey fled down the alley. You caught him by the throat and smiled—warm, gentle, almost apologetic.
“Don’t worry,” you whispered. “I’ll make it quick.”
When you were done, you cleaned the blade carefully, humming the tune that played in your earbuds:
You look like an angel, walk like an angel... but I got wise.
Blood washed off easily under Gotham’s cold rain.
Back at the Cave, the family was reviewing the night’s patrol.
“Another case of vigilante interference,” Tim muttered, frowning at his screens. “Someone’s tampering with evidence again.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. “We’ve been dealing with this for months. Whoever it is— they’re good. They know our systems.”
You stood behind him, hands clasped innocently behind your back.
“That’s awful,” you said softly. “Who would do that?”
Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Someone who wants to make us look bad. Maybe a copycat, or one of Penguin’s tech freaks.”
You smiled at him, reaching over to ruffle his hair before he could dodge. “You’ve been reading too many detective comics, little brother.”
Bruce shot you a half-smile, almost relieved by your presence. “He’s learning from the best.”
You laughed. “Then he’s doomed.”
But as you walked away, you caught your reflection in the Batcomputer’s screen—
and for a heartbeat, you didn’t recognize the smile staring back.
It wasn’t the grin of a son who loved his family.
It was the smirk of a wolf in Sunday clothes.
Alfred found you in the kitchen, sipping tea.
“You’re up late again, Master Y/N,” he said gently. “Another long night?”
You nodded, voice quiet. “Yeah. Gotham never sleeps, right?”
He smiled fondly. “Neither, it seems, do the Waynes.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
If Alfred ever knew the truth, it would break him.
So you smiled, perfectly, flawlessly, the way a good son should.
“Goodnight, Alfred.”
“Goodnight, my boy.”
When he turned away, you murmured under your breath—
“Sweet dreams.”
And you wondered if you’d mean it next time.
You never thought silence could taste this good.
The manor had been so loud — laughter, footsteps, the hum of the Batcomputer, the chatter of siblings. Now, your apartment was quiet. Empty. A single flickering lightbulb over the sink, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint creak of pipes in the walls.
Freedom.
Bruce had tried to talk you out of moving. “You’re too young,” he’d said, in that heavy tone of his. “Gotham’s dangerous alone.”
You’d smiled at him, same as always, that soft tilt of the mouth that disarmed everyone. “Don’t worry, Dad. I’ll be fine.”
And you were.
You were perfectly fine.
The funny thing about silence — it gives you room to hear the thoughts you didn’t know you had.
The hunger started small.
Not stomach hunger, but something deeper.
An ache behind the ribs.
A fascination, maybe. You’d seen so much blood, so many bodies. Gotham’s gutters ran red every night. You’d cleaned that mess a hundred times over for your family.
You started wondering why everyone was so afraid of it.
The first time was an accident.
The man had broken into your apartment — a junkie, desperate. You’d caught him mid-rummage, his hands trembling, eyes glassy.
“Please, man,” he’d begged. “I just—just need—”
You told him to leave. He didn’t.
So you made him.
The sound of his neck snapping was clean, precise. You didn’t mean to. But when it was over, you didn’t feel guilt. Just… curiosity.
The human body is such a fascinating thing up close. So warm. So intricate.
You’d seen thousands of autopsy photos in the Batcave, but they never captured the scent. Metallic. Sweet. Real.
Your hands didn’t even shake.
You bought new knives. Stainless steel, surgical grade. You told the shopkeeper you were studying forensic pathology. You even smiled at her.
The human mind has strange thresholds. There’s the line you swear you’ll never cross — and then the moment you step over it, you realize there was never a line at all.
You started slow.
Small.
A piece, here. Just to see. Just to know.
And you did know.
It was tender.
It was… intimate.
It made you feel powerful.
You wrote about it in your journal — the one Bruce had given you on your sixteenth birthday. The one embossed with your initials.
You titled the first entry:
“How to Become Human.”
The family called sometimes. You always answered, cheerful, normal.
“Yeah, work’s been great, Tim. Got a promotion.”
“Love you too, Dick. Tell Babs I said hi.”
“Of course, Alfred. I’ve been eating well.”
You laughed after that one.
They never visited. You always had an excuse ready — “too busy,” “the place is a mess,” “I’ll come by soon.”
You did visit Gotham’s alleys, though. You found your specimens there. The forgotten, the unclaimed.
You became their savior, in a way. You told yourself you were taking what the city wasted. You made it beautiful again.
You started preserving pieces. Perfect little collections. Catalogued by date, method, and mood.
Bruce would’ve admired the discipline.
You dreamt of the Cave again. The hum of the computers, the smell of oil and coffee, the sound of Damian’s sword slicing air.
You dreamt of Bruce turning toward you. His eyes, cold blue beneath the cowl.
“Son,” he said.
You smiled at him, and his face began to melt away, layer by layer, until all that was left was raw red and bone.
And still, he said it.
“Son.”
You woke up smiling.
The police reports started stacking up again. People missing. No pattern, no motive. Just a slow bleed of disappearances in a six-block radius.
Batman was investigating.
You knew he’d find you eventually.
You wanted him to.
It happened on a Sunday.
You’d just finished dinner. The plate was still warm. You heard the steps on the fire escape before you saw him.
Bruce didn’t knock. He never did.
“Y/N.”
“Dad.”
He looked around your apartment — clean, minimalist, meticulous. Too meticulous.
“I’ve been tracking someone,” he said. “Someone who’s been—” He stopped, eyes narrowing as they landed on the refrigerator.
You tilted your head. “Hungry?”
He moved before you finished speaking, pulling the door open. The smell hit first. Then the silence.
You watched him freeze.
His eyes caught on the neat glass containers.
Labelled. Dated. Arranged like trophies.
He didn’t move for a long time.
You stepped closer, your voice soft, almost gentle.
“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you whispered. “But… I’m glad it’s you.”
He turned toward you, rage and horror twisting across his face.
“Why?” he choked. “Why would you—”
You smiled. That same smile. Perfect. Warm. Familiar.
“Because,” you said, “you raised me to clean up Gotham’s messes.”
Bruce said nothing.
He just stared.
And in that silence — in his trembling hands, in the way his breath shook — you felt something close to love.
For the first time, he saw you.
The real you.
You took a step closer, voice barely a whisper.
“I’m not the hero you wanted, Dad.”
You smiled wider, your eyes glinting under the dim light.
“I’m the son Gotham deserved.”
In the end, you didn’t run when he raised the batarang.
You didn’t fight.
You just smiled.
Because every angel eventually falls—
—and sometimes, the devil’s face looks exactly like the one you love most.
Can I request wonder woman x unassuming male intern at the daily planet who she gets a massive crush on after he carries her to safety during a battle in metropolis and even uses her shield to protect her from a stray bullet
The Man Who Carried Wonder Woman
Diana Prince x male reader
y/H = your hair color
summary: she was saved, now she's looking for her savior.
(I don't know much about Wonder Woman, ask again if you want It rewritten)
Metropolis burned with chaos. Smoke, glass, and steel filled the air as the latest menace — some alien warlord whose name wouldn’t matter for long — tore through downtown with brute, senseless fury.
And in the middle of it all, Diana Prince — Wonder Woman — stood her ground.
She deflected plasma blasts with her bracelets, eyes glowing with determination. Every swing of her sword was pure grace and precision. Every command barked to bystanders was filled with authority and calm. She was the storm and the eye within it — until the building came down.
The alien’s last desperate strike sent a shockwave through the plaza. The Daily Planet’s mirrored façade cracked and thundered down in a deadly avalanche of debris. Diana moved to leap away — too slow this time. A massive steel beam snapped free, heading straight for her.
But then — hands.
A pair of shaking, human hands shoved her out of the path and, impossibly, caught her.
The next thing she knew, she wasn’t standing. She was being carried — cradled, bridal-style, by a man who looked like he’d never lifted anything heavier than a stack of newspapers. His glasses were cracked, his breath hitched with fear, but his grip on her was firm. Terrified, yes — but steady.
He stumbled into the lobby’s wreckage, coughing through the smoke.
“Are— are you okay?” he rasped, voice trembling.
Diana blinked, stunned. No one had ever asked her that in the middle of a battle before.
A stray bullet rang out, ricocheting toward them — and before she could react, he snatched up her shield from the rubble and lifted it, covering them both. The bullet sparked harmlessly off the golden metal. His arms trembled under the weight, but he didn’t flinch.
Diana’s lips parted in disbelief.
He’d just shielded her.
The moment stretched — her heart hammering louder than the chaos outside.
She could see the adrenaline in his eyes, the sweat on his brow, the sheer human fear — and yet, there was something else. Something quietly heroic.
By the time Superman arrived to end the fight, the intern was kneeling beside her, still holding the shield, still breathing hard.
“Y-you dropped this,” he said weakly, offering it back.
Diana took it slowly. “You… protected me.”
He gave a small, nervous laugh. “Seemed like the least I could do. You’ve saved, what, millions of people? I figured… you deserved a turn.”
Her lips curved — a rare, genuine smile that could have melted Olympus itself.
When the dust settled, and the heroes gathered, she found herself looking back again and again — searching for him among the crowd of reporters and emergency crews. He’d vanished, camera still hanging crookedly around his neck.
For the first time in centuries, Diana of Themyscira felt her pulse race for something other than battle.
And in the reflection of her shield, she saw not an Amazon warrior — but a woman who’d just been rescued.
The next morning, Metropolis woke to headlines about Wonder Woman saving the city again.
But one woman at the Daily Planet wasn’t reading the paper — she was scanning faces.
Diana Prince, impeccably dressed in her usual tailored blazer and calm composure, stood in the newsroom doorway like a goddess in disguise — which, of course, she was.
Perry White barked orders, reporters rushed between desks, and Clark was already on the phone with Lois about another lead. The usual chaos. But Diana wasn’t listening. Her eyes were searching for one person.
The one who’d carried her through fire.
The one who’d used her own shield to protect her.
She’d thought about him all night — replayed every second. His heartbeat under her hands. The shock in his voice. That ridiculous, heroic moment that had somehow made her the one being saved.
“Ms. Prince?”
Jimmy Olsen’s voice snapped her out of it. “You look like you’re searching for someone.”
Her lips curved faintly. “An intern,” she admitted. “He was at the scene yesterday. Glasses, Y/H, very brave — and very reckless.”
Jimmy grinned. “That narrows it down to about half the building.”
She smiled politely, but there was something unreadable in her gaze — that quiet, determined focus she usually reserved for battlefields.
When she finally spotted him, he was at the far end of the bullpen, balancing a stack of files, half-spilled coffee, and a nervous expression that practically shouted don’t notice me.
She started walking toward him. And every step made him freeze a little more.
When he finally looked up and realized Wonder Woman was headed straight for him, he nearly dropped everything.
“Ms— Ms. Prince!” he stammered. “Hi! Uh, did I misfile something? Because I swear I checked the—”
“You carried me yesterday,” she said simply.
He blinked. “Oh. Um. Yeah. I— I didn’t really think about it at the time. Just… reflex, I guess.”
“Most people’s reflex is to run away,” she replied softly. “Not toward falling buildings.”
His ears turned red. “Well, I didn’t want to let you get hurt. You kind of… do a lot for the rest of us.”
For a long, quiet moment, Diana just looked at him. Not the way heroes look at civilians, but the way a woman looks at someone who’s just changed the way she sees the world.
She reached into her bag and pulled something out — her shield, gleaming in the office light.
“You held this,” she said. “Few mortals have ever touched it. Even fewer did so to save me.”
He swallowed hard, unsure what to say. “I, uh… hope I didn’t scratch it.”
Diana laughed — a soft, genuine sound that made everyone nearby stop and stare.
“You didn’t,” she said. “But you did leave an impression.”
He blinked again. “An impression?”
“Yes.” She took a step closer, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “On me.”
There was a beat of silence — the kind that hummed with possibility.
Then she extended her hand. “Join me for coffee? I’d like to thank my rescuer properly.”
He stared, completely flustered. “You— you mean, like, coffee coffee?”
Her smile deepened. “Unless you’d prefer a sparring match.”
He shook his head quickly. “Nope. Coffee’s perfect.”
As she led the way out of the newsroom, Clark raised an amused brow over his glasses. Lois smirked. Jimmy mouthed, is this happening?!
And somewhere in the middle of Metropolis, the goddess of truth walked beside a nervous intern — smiling wider than anyone had ever seen her.
Because for once, Diana Prince wasn’t saving the world.
She was falling for it.
you've hurt me immensely with price x sailor reader and i am here to request more, please 🙏
thinking either surprise happy ending where turns out reader got off the ship and was just found on some island alive or something.
or just like more of price telling the lads stories of the happy times or even flashbacks to those (if this one, maybe readers body was just found and confirmed kia and its at his funeral or something)
sorry if this just sounds dumb, i just woke up. ig either could have flashbacks huh... anyways erm thanks for the heart ache!
The kettle is still warm.
this is the good ending of Sleep well, love
John price x male reader
Rain pressed against the windows of the pub in soft, endless waves. The air was thick with heat and whiskey, the smell of old wood and damp wool settling into everything.
In the back corner — their corner — Task Force 141 sat huddled together, nursing drinks and silence. It had been a long mission. A brutal one. The kind that left the soul heavier than the body.
Soap was halfway through a story, hands carving shapes in the air, laughter punctuating his words — until Price’s low chuckle cut through the noise.
It wasn’t his usual laugh. Not the sharp, commanding sound of their Captain. It was softer, worn with years and memory.
“What’s funny, Cap?” Soap asked, half-grinning.
Price swirled the amber in his glass, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “Just reminds me of someone.”
Gaz leaned forward. “Someone?”
Price’s voice went quiet, thoughtful. “My husband.”
The table fell still. Even Ghost’s drink paused mid-air.
“You’re married?”
“Was,” Price said softly. “To the most stubborn, brilliant bastard I ever met. [Y/N]. Met him back at Hereford — logistics and comms. Smart as hell, mouth like a bloody minefield.”
Soap gave a faint smirk. “So what’d he say to you first time?”
Price’s lips twitched. “Told me to stop starin’ at him like I was tryin’ to solve an equation.”
That earned a few quiet chuckles. But when he spoke again, his voice turned fragile, like glass just before it cracks.
“We got married in a garden near base. Small thing — no brass, no fanfare. Just us and the wind. He wore this navy-blue suit. Said it brought out my eyes. I told him he was daft. He told me I was in love.”
He took another slow drink, eyes distant. “We only had two weeks before I got sent out again. But those two weeks… I’d trade every medal I’ve ever earned for one more day of ‘em.”
No one spoke. The fire popped quietly in the grate.
Then, barely above the rain, Price whispered, “He’s gone.”
Gaz’s voice was gentle. “What happened?”
Price’s thumb traced the rim of his glass. “Four years ago. Routine Navy run — Indian Ocean. Forecast was clear. Storm hit outta nowhere. Hull split. No survivors.”
His jaw clenched. “Didn’t believe it. Called every contact I had, spent nights staring at maps like they’d tell me somethin’ different. But when they found the wreckage…”
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a worn photo — two men smiling at each other like the world was brand new.
“That’s the last picture I’ve got,” he murmured. “Morning before he shipped out. He was fixing my bloody tie, said I still hadn’t learned.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full. Of grief. Of understanding. Of everything men like them rarely said out loud.
Soap cleared his throat, his usual brightness dulled. “He sounds like a good man.”
“The best,” Price said. His voice caught, just once. “My anchor. My calm. My home.”
He raised his glass, eyes shining faintly in the light. “To him.”
They all followed — no questions, no pity. Just respect.
Hours later, the pub was nearly empty. Only the rain kept talking, steady and soft against the windowpanes. Price’s cap sat on the table, untouched. His whiskey was gone.
When Ghost finally stood, tossing bills onto the table, the others followed. “Come on, Cap,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you home.”
Price nodded, slipping the photo back into his pocket. At the door, he paused, looking out at the rain.
“Sleep well, love,” he whispered, and stepped out into the night.
The Call
The car park glistened under the rain, streetlights turning puddles to gold. The team lingered by the truck, breath fogging in the cold air.
Price’s phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He frowned and answered anyway. “Price.”
“John.”
Kate Laswell’s voice — low, measured, but not like usual. There was something under it. Something trembling.
“Laswell?” He straightened instinctively. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Where are you right now?”
“Out,” he said, cautious. “With the team.”
A long pause. The sound of rain filled the gap between their words.
“Sit down, John.”
He froze. Soap glanced over, sensing the shift. Gaz’s brow furrowed.
“Kate…” His voice dropped. “You’re scarin’ me.”
When she spoke again, her voice wasn’t the clipped tone of command — it was quiet. Careful. Human.
“We found him.”
The world stopped. The rain, the lights, the night — all of it froze around that single sentence.
Price’s voice cracked. “...What?”
“Distress beacon triggered off a remote island chain, Indian Ocean. An old Navy frequency. We cross-checked it with the logs from your husband’s ship.”
His breath came sharp. “Kate, don’t—”
“John.” She cut him off gently. “There was one survivor.”
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. His knees nearly gave out, and Soap grabbed his arm without hesitation.
Laswell’s words broke through the static. “He’s alive. Malnourished, dehydrated — but alive. He’s been stranded all this time. Said he never stopped trying to get the signal out.”
For a moment, all Price could do was breathe. The rain hit harder, or maybe it was just his heartbeat in his ears.
Then a laugh escaped him — a broken, disbelieving sound. “You’re certain?”
“One hundred percent,” Laswell said softly. “He’s being flown to Ramstein. He’s stable. He kept asking if you’d still be there.”
Price pressed a shaking hand to his mouth. His eyes burned. Soap and Gaz stood frozen, watching him with dawning realization.
Ghost’s voice, quiet beneath the rain: “Cap…?”
Price turned toward them — his face streaked with rain and tears indistinguishable from each other.
“He’s alive,” he whispered. Then louder, almost a shout: “He’s alive!”
Soap let out a whoop that echoed through the empty street. Gaz grinned, eyes shining. Ghost just nodded once — a small, solemn smile hidden under the mask.
Price laughed again, breathless and wet with disbelief. He tilted his face up toward the sky, the rain washing over him.
“Tell him…” His voice trembled as he spoke into the phone. “Tell him I’m comin’ home.”
Laswell’s voice softened through the static. “He said you’d find your way back to him. Guess he was right.”
Price closed his eyes, whispering into the rain —
“Keep the kettle warm, love.”
And for the first time in years, his heart felt light.
Hello this is my first request but if you don’t reply it’s okay. But I was wondering how you think Thomas Hewitt would go about doing anal. I’m trying not to sound weird but all the other stuff I read never write about it so yeah
Can it be a fem reader please and thank you ❤️
I do in fact not write female reader, this is just because I find it extremely uncomfortable to do so as a trans man but I can write it as a FTM reader aka (female to male reader). Now you can find my rules on my pinned writing.
The kitchen smelled like spices and warmth — your favorite combination. You were standing side by side with Thomas, chopping vegetables for dinner. His large hands, gentle despite their scars, were carefully slicing through a thick potato. You smiled, glancing up at him.
“Careful, Tommy,” you murmured. “You don’t have to rush.”
He gave a small grunt of acknowledgment, always so focused when he was helping you. But a second later, there was a sharp clang of the knife against the cutting board — followed by a hiss of pain.
“Tommy!” you gasped, dropping your spoon and rushing to his side.
He had nicked the side of his thumb. It wasn’t deep, but you could tell it stung. He tried to hide his hand behind his back, embarrassed, but you gently caught it and inspected the small cut.
“Oh, sweetheart,” you sighed softly. “You have to be more careful.”
You grabbed a clean cloth, wrapping it around his thumb as he looked down at you, big brown eyes full of apology. You smiled up at him. “It’s okay. No one’s mad. Just—no more knives for tonight, alright?”
He gave a small nod and, before you knew it, Thomas leaned down, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You could feel the tension melting off him, replaced by a quiet need for comfort.
You guided him to the couch, tugging his hand gently. “C’mere, big guy.”
The moment you sat down, Thomas all but collapsed on top of you. His massive frame enveloped you, his head resting heavily on your chest, half on your stomach. You let out a quiet “oof!” at the impact, your lungs struggling for space — but the sight of him nuzzling into you made it impossible not to smile.
“Tommy… you’re crushing me a little,” you whispered, giggling softly.
He froze for a second, lifting his head in concern — but you immediately brought a hand up to his cheek, reassuring him. “It’s okay, love. Stay. Just… maybe breathe with me, not on me, yeah?”
That earned a quiet rumble that might’ve been a laugh. He relaxed again, tucking his face into your chest.
You began running your fingers through his hair — slow, gentle strokes that made him melt against you even more. His breath slowed, his body loosening as your nails lightly scratched his scalp. You could feel the tension ebbing away from him with every touch.
“Good boy,” you murmured. “My big, soft, sweet man.”
You pressed little kisses all over his temple, his cheek, the bridge of his nose — anywhere you could reach. He made a low, content sound, eyes fluttering shut as you worked your fingers into his hair, massaging in small circles.
Even though it was a little hard to breathe under his weight, you didn’t mind. Not when he sighed like that. Not when his fingers curled lazily against your side, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
“See?” you whispered, smiling down at him. “All better now.”
Thomas hummed quietly — a sound that said more than words ever could — and pressed a shy kiss to your ribs through your shirt. Then he buried his face back into you, perfectly content, while you kept petting and kissing him until the only sounds in the house were your joined heartbeats and the soft crackle of the stove cooling in the kitchen.
John price x male reader. (can be read as FTM aswell)
Good ending ( The kettle is still warm )
summary: he tells his mates about his one true love, a sailor.
warnings: Drinking, Fluff going into angst.
The night was heavy with rain outside, the windows of the pub fogged over from the heat within. The four of them had found a corner booth — their corner — a quiet space in the back where the noise of laughter and clinking glasses was just a dull hum.
They’d just come back from a mission that had run too long and cut too deep. Their bodies were tired, but the adrenaline had faded into something softer — the kind of exhaustion that only good whiskey could smooth out.
Price sat at the end of the table, cap tossed aside, sleeves rolled up. His knuckles were still scuffed, but there was a rare softness in his eyes tonight. Soap was mid-story, miming an explosion with his hands, when Price chuckled — a low, rough sound that carried years behind it.
“What’s funny, Cap?” Soap asked, grinning. “Don’t tell me you’re laughin’ at my story.”
Price shook his head, reaching for his glass. “Just reminds me of someone.”
Gaz leaned forward. “Someone?”
Price hesitated a moment, then sighed, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “My husband.”
That brought the table to silence.
Even Ghost looked up from his drink, voice low. “You’re married?”
“Was,” Price said, softly correcting. “But aye. To the most stubborn, brilliant man I’ve ever known — [Y/N]. Met him years ago. Back when I was stationed at Hereford.”
Soap raised a brow, eyes lighting up. “No kiddin’? What was he like?”
Price took a long drink, then leaned back, the whiskey warming his throat and loosening his tongue. “He was Army, logistics and comms. Had a head for numbers and a mouth that could talk his way out of anything. Proper smart — sharper than me, that’s for damn sure.”
He laughed quietly. “First time I met him, he was tellin’ off a lieutenant for double-booking transport routes. Never seen someone hold their ground like that. He caught me starin’, gave me that look — you know the one. Like he already knew I’d be trouble.”
Soap grinned. “So what’d you do?”
“Asked him out,” Price said, smirking. “Took him three weeks to say yes. Said he didn’t date officers. Told him I wasn’t askin’ as one. Told him I was askin’ as a bloke who thought his smile could knock the bloody air outta my lungs.”
Gaz chuckled softly. “That line actually worked?”
Price snorted. “Not even close. He laughed in my face. But… it got him to have a drink with me, and that’s where it started.”
He fell quiet for a moment, a small, wistful smile tugging at his lips as he stared into his glass. “He was always better at talkin’ than I was. We’d argue, we’d make up, and he’d always win. But it was… easy with him. Simple, even with the chaos.”
Soap leaned forward, grinning like a schoolboy. “You said husband — you two got married, then?”
Price’s eyes softened, the memory washing over his expression. “Aye. A small ceremony. Didn’t make a fuss of it — just us, a handful of friends. Didn’t even wear my uniform, just a decent suit. He wore this navy blue one — said it brought out my eyes. I told him he was daft.”
He chuckled, shaking his head. “We had it at this little garden near the base. I remember the wind — kept catchin’ his hair, kept laughin’ every time I tried to keep my tie straight. He looked beautiful. Couldn’t take my eyes off him. Still can’t, when I close my eyes.”
Gaz smiled gently. “Sounds like a good day, sir.”
“It was the best day,” Price said, voice low, almost reverent. “Didn’t have a band or a big crowd. Just the sound of the wind, the flowers, and him standin’ there — hand in mine. We promised we’d find our way back to each other, no matter where the job took us.”
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, the amber liquid catching the light. “We only had two weeks together before deployment pulled us apart again. But those two weeks… they were enough to last a lifetime.”
Soap leaned back, grinning. “You’re a bloody romantic, Cap. Never pegged you for the type.”
Price chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruin my reputation.”
The laughter around the table was easy, warm. Price poured himself another glass, though his voice had softened — something quieter threading through his words now.
“He used to say I belonged to the field,” Price said. “But he never complained. He’d just smile, kiss me, and tell me to come back in one piece. Said he’d keep the kettle warm.”
He fell silent again, eyes unfocused — lost somewhere between memory and whiskey.
Soap, noticing the shift, cleared his throat. “He sounds like a good man.”
“The best,” Price murmured, barely above a whisper. “My anchor. My calm. My home.”
He lifted his glass, toasting quietly to no one in particular. “To him.”
The team followed suit, raising their drinks — no questions, no words, just quiet respect.
Outside, the rain tapped gently against the glass.
Inside, Price smiled faintly — the kind of smile that came from love remembered, not forgotten.
Hours passed as they sat there at the pub.
The night had thinned.
Most of the pub had emptied, leaving only the faint hum of a jukebox in the corner and the occasional clink of glass behind the bar. The air smelled of whiskey, rain, and the ghosts of old stories.
Price was deep into his drink now, the edges of his words softened by the haze of alcohol. Soap had stopped trying to joke. Gaz was watching quietly, elbows on the table, while Ghost sat across from Price, mask pulled low, silent and still.
“Funny thing,” Price murmured, swirling the last of his whiskey, “how the worst parts of life don’t ever warn you first.”
Price looked up, eyes glassy but focused, a sad sort of smile ghosting his lips. “Told you earlier I haven’t seen my husband in years.” He paused, thumb tracing the rim of his glass. “Truth is… I never will again.”
The words landed heavy.
Gaz was the first to speak, voice careful. “What happened?”
Price let out a slow breath, eyes dropping back to the amber in his glass as though it could answer for him. “He was deployed four years ago — Navy assignment. Routine supply transport out in the Indian Ocean. Weather reports said it’d be clear. It wasn’t.”
He laughed once, a short, bitter sound. “Bloody understatement. Storm rolled in from nowhere. One of those monster tempests — the kind that tears the sea apart like paper.”
Soap’s smile faded completely.
“They said the waves were twenty feet high. Radio contact went dead halfway through the night. The ship tried to turn back toward the coast, but…” He swallowed hard. “Didn’t make it. Hull split clean through. Went under in less than an hour. Not a single man came home.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the music seemed to die in the background.
“I didn’t believe it,” Price said quietly. “Spent weeks combing through reports, phoning every contact I had, pulling strings I shouldn’t’ve touched. Thought maybe he was stranded somewhere. Maybe someone got it wrong. But when they found the wreckage…” He trailed off.
His hand went to his jacket, pulling out the small, creased photograph he’d shown earlier. He set it on the table. His thumb brushed over the smiling face of the man beside him.
“That’s the last picture I’ve got,” he murmured. “Taken the morning before he shipped out. He was teasing me about my tie — said I still couldn’t tie it right after all these years.”
Soap looked down at the photo, jaw tight. “Christ, Cap… I’m sorry.”
Price chuckled softly, though his eyes glistened. “Don’t be, Johnny. He loved the sea. Always said it felt like home to him. Guess it took him back there for good.”
He leaned back in his chair, eyes red but distant. “I dream about him sometimes. Always the same dream — I’m standing on a dock, and he’s there, waving. I go to meet him, and he’s gone before I reach him. Every damn time.”
No one spoke. The only sound was the soft patter of rain against the window.
Gaz finally broke the silence, voice barely above a whisper. “You still wear the ring.”
Price glanced down at his left hand. The silver band still clung to his finger, scratched and dulled by years of wear. He turned it slowly, like he was reminding himself it was still real.
“Never took it off,” he said. “Couldn’t. It’s all I’ve got left of him.”
Ghost leaned forward slightly, his tone unusually gentle. “He’d want you to keep livin’, John.”
Price looked at him, eyes tired but soft. “Aye. Maybe. But it’s easier said than done.”
He finished his drink and set the glass down, the sound dull against the wood. “Every mission, every night I come back alive — part of me feels guilty for it. Because he didn’t.”
Soap opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t come. There weren’t any good ones anyway.
Price rubbed a hand over his beard, sighing. “I keep tellin’ myself he’s still out there. Maybe sittin’ in some little seaside town, waitin’ for me with that damn kettle on the boil. Silly, innit?”
“No,” Gaz said quietly. “Not silly.”
For a long time, they just sat there. The fire in the hearth had burned down to embers, casting the room in a faint orange glow.
Finally, Ghost stood, tossing a few bills onto the table. “Come on,” he said, voice low. “Let’s get you home, Captain.”
Price stared at the photograph for a moment longer, then carefully folded it back into his pocket. He pushed himself to his feet, a little unsteady, and nodded.
“Right. Home.”
Soap grabbed his cap for him, setting it gently in his hands. “He’d be proud of you, sir.”
Price looked up at him — eyes tired, but glimmering with something softer. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Hope so.”
As they stepped out into the rain, Price paused for a moment at the door, looking up at the sky — grey, endless, shifting.
hii, could you write a kyle garrick x male reader domestic fluff ff? just them being cute, cuddling and kissing while watching a movie/cooking together or smth like that. please and thank you 🙏🏻♥️
Welcome home Kyle.
Kyle Garrick x Male reader. (can be read as ftm aswell)
summary: Kyle finally comes home after long weeks away from each other.
The door opens slowly — a low creak in the quiet house that makes your heart stutter. You freeze halfway through chopping herbs, the knife hovering in midair.
It’s been weeks. Too many. Messages were rare, rushed, often just enough to let you know he was alive. And now, finally, he’s here.
You wipe your hands on a towel and turn, already knowing what you’ll see.
Kyle stands in the doorway, haloed by the last light of dusk bleeding in behind him. His shoulders are slumped under the weight of his gear, his eyes shadowed by exhaustion — but when he spots you, they light up with that familiar spark that’s always undone you.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then, as if something inside you breaks free, you’re already there.
He opens his mouth — maybe to say your name, maybe just to breathe — but you don’t give him the chance. You’re reaching for the straps across his chest, fingers deftly unclipping the buckles, easing the heavy duffel off his shoulder.
“Easy,” he mutters softly, a ghost of a laugh in his voice. “I can—”
“Shh.” You cut him off with a small smile. “Let me.”
He falls quiet, watching you. You can feel the weight of his gaze — warm, grateful, a little fragile — as you peel off layers of equipment. Vest, holster, gloves, the ever-present headset that still hums faintly with static. You pile it neatly by the door like something sacred.
By the time you’re done, he looks lighter — not just in weight, but in the way he stands.
“There,” you say quietly. “Now you look like my Kyle again.”
He huffs out a laugh and leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead. “Didn’t realize I’d stopped.”
“Maybe just misplaced him for a bit,” you tease, brushing your thumb under his jaw. “I’ve got a fix for that, though.”
“Oh yeah?”
You nod toward the stairs. “Drew you a bath. Hot water, clean towel, even found the good soap — the one that doesn’t smell like barracks.”
He blinks, and something soft flickers across his face — the kind of look that makes your chest ache.
“You did all that?”
“’Course I did. You’ve been through hell. You deserve to come home to something nice.”
He exhales slowly, shoulders relaxing in a way they haven’t in months. “You really are too good for me, you know that?”
You grin. “I’ve been told.”
He chuckles, kisses you once more, and trudges upstairs, boots heavy against the wood. You listen to him go, the faint sound of water running, and finally let yourself breathe.
In the kitchen, the radio hums low — an old station playing a mix of classics. You stir the stew on the stove, tasting and adjusting. The smell of simmering broth and herbs fills the air, cozy and grounding. You set the table for two, light a candle just because it feels right.
You lose track of time until you hear his footsteps again — softer this time. When you glance over your shoulder, Kyle’s standing there in gray sweats and a loose t-shirt, hair damp. He looks human again. Warm. Alive.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you with a small smile tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think I’d ever miss this much. Just you… in this kitchen.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile too hard. “Flattery’s not getting you out of setting the table.”
He grins and moves to help without complaint. You fall into an easy rhythm — him fetching bowls, you stirring, the two of you bumping shoulders in that familiar way that says I missed you but I don’t have to say it.
As the stew finishes, you notice he’s gone quiet again. You glance up and catch him looking at you — not like he’s tired or thinking, but like he’s trying to memorize you.
“Something on your mind, Garrick?”
He blinks, caught, and then that sheepish smile returns. “Just… forgot how good it feels to be home.”
You reach out, brushing your fingers along his arm. “Then don’t forget again.”
He takes your hand and squeezes gently, then leans in to kiss the back of it — tender, reverent.
The song on the radio shifts — a slow, steady tune, soft enough that the world seems to shrink around it. You’re about to move back to the stove when you feel his hands on your waist.
“Hey,” he murmurs.
You look back at him, and before you can say a word, he pulls you gently against his chest. His arms loop around you, his head dips to rest against your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your neck, the way his chest rises and falls against your back.
You close your eyes. For a long while, there’s nothing but the faint hum of the song and the sound of him breathing.
Then, quietly, he says, “You’ve no idea how many times I thought about this.”
You rest your hands over his. “This?”
He nods. “The smell of dinner. The music. You. Everything that’s normal.”
You turn in his arms, meeting his eyes. “Then let’s make sure it’s waiting for you every time you come home.”
His smile is small but full of something unspoken — love, relief, gratitude. Maybe all three.
The song swells, slow and soft, and without thinking, you start to move. A small sway at first, your fingers resting at the back of his neck, his hands settling comfortably at your waist. You dance like it’s the easiest thing in the world, the kind of slow rhythm that only exists in kitchens and quiet nights.
The candle flickers. The stew simmers. The world outside keeps turning, but it doesn’t touch you here.
He hums along under his breath, voice low and rough but steady. When you glance up, his eyes are closed, his forehead resting gently against yours.
“I could stay like this forever,” he murmurs.
“You could try,” you whisper. “But dinner will burn.”
He laughs softly, that rich sound that feels like home. “Worth the risk.”
You stay there for another few songs anyway, moving lazily in the fading light until hunger finally wins. He dishes out the food, insisting on serving you first, and the two of you eat at the small table, knees brushing.
Between bites, he tells you stories — the parts of his mission he’s allowed to share, punctuated with small smiles and the occasional shake of his head. You listen, reaching across to touch his hand now and then, grounding him when his eyes go distant.
After dinner, you clean together. He hums another tune from the radio, off-key and content. You dry the dishes while he washes, bumping hips every few minutes just because you can.
Later, when the lights are low and the house is quiet again, you both end up on the couch. His head finds its place against your shoulder, one arm draped lazily across your stomach. The steady rhythm of his breathing tells you he’s already half asleep.
You brush your fingers through his hair and whisper, “Welcome home, Kyle.”
He hums something soft in reply — maybe a thank you, maybe just your name — before sleep finally claims him.
Outside, the wind moves through the trees, but inside, everything is still. Warm. Safe.
