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toothfa-1-ry · 1 year

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DON'T MAKE PROMISES YOU CAN'T KEEP - CHISHIYA

You always find yourself breaking the promises you made to Chishiya, you never meant to break the last promise though. I wonder if he felt the same

GENRE: fluff or angst it depends on how you look at it :)

PAIRING: Chishiya x gn reader (this is my first time writing a gn reader so pls correct me if there are mistakes)

WARNING: swearing, blood, injuries

A/N: a quick paced fic which probably made no sense lol but I still hope you enjoy. Is Chishiya ooc? Maybe? Will I delete this? Maybe? Anyways pls reblog and write something I would really appreciate it ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Ps remember to hydrate and eat ♡

You look up at the night sky, stars scattered everywhere.

It took a minute for you to realize where you were and what happened as you breathed heavily.

Oh right.

You were shot, you were bleeding, you were dying

"Fuck this game" you mutter as your right hand is clutching your side where the bullets were lodged in.

"fuck-" you cough out blood "fuck..fuck the king of spades" you squeezed your eyes shut trying to remember how it had exactly followed out.

Kuina got shot, Ann got shot, that Heiya girl was gone somewhere and Aguni was no where to be found.

You let out a soft groan still clutching your side tightly, trying to stop the bleeding as you try to remember how it had exactly followed out

You remember yourself seeing red after kuina fell on the floor, you remember cursing Arisu's plan even though it worked..sort of

You remember punching the king of spades and dragging a knife across his face, that wasn't enough to kill him though. That bastard had to put bullets in you. You remember clutching your stomach and stumbling away somewhere before falling down.

"The bomb must have killed him" you murmur softly looking to your left seeing ruins of buildings and smoke.

You look over at you desolated and ruined surrounding and then look at your red stai ed shirt "shit I'm gonna die in this hellhole"

You wanted to cry but you just couldn't. The tears won't come out. "Kuina..Ann" you mutter softly as you closed your eyes. Your forgetting someone, who are you forgettin-

"Chishiya" your eyes widened and you gasped softly "Chishiya-" you try standing up but for no use as you felt a sharp pain all through your body as you moved a inch "fuck" you cursed.

"I'll come back for you. I promise" you say as you held Chishiya's hand looking at the red, staining his white hoodie

"go play the game"

"I'll come back" you said you eyes turning glassy

"y/n" chishiya turned at you this time holding your arm firmly "I'll live, quit acting like I'm dying" he said it firmly even though his voice was slightly hoarse "go and play the game"

You nod as arisu urges you to come fast, the game registration was about to end

"I'm gonna be with you again..I'm gonna end this whole thing with you" you whisper again one last time before turning away and running leaving chishiya alone, bleeding.

"Chishiya-" you call out his name but at what cost? Your stomach seemed to bleed even more at the slightest of movement and everytime you cough blood seemed to pour out of your mouth.

You didnt even know where you were, you left Chishiya somewhere and promised him something that seemed impossible to do now given your circumstances.

"please Chishiya..I promised him, I have to go-" you plead out loud, as if some kind of supernatural force would bring you to him.

If you were really gonna die in this fucked up world, you want to be next to him. The crazy psychopath who saved your life even just a few hours ago when Niragi pointed the gun at you leaving him wounded instead, the cat eyed boy who you seemd to find comfort in the fucked up games you were playing.

Maybe it was at this point when you realize your feelings for him, or maybe you had realised it a long time ago and all you were doing now was accepting it.

Without knowing a single tear dropped rolled out of your eye, the stars looked brighter than ever but deep down you knew it was going to be the last thing you were gonna see. You were giving up, what if arisu and usagi win the last game? You were already dying that too alone-

"you were always kind of loud."

You snapped out of your thoughts, was that?

"didn't you say you were coming to get me? Jeez instead you got shot too huh- I got hit by a bullet for you just for you to get hit by 3 more?"

You moved slightly which seemed to be the wrong thing to do as you wince on pain

"look left, don't move your body. I thought you said you passed medical school"

Immediately your head turned left and there you saw, the same bored cat eyes and white hoodie that now had a huge red stain in the right chest area.

There he was limping, walking very slowly, dragging his feet as his right hand was firmly pressed in his chest trying to contain the blood flow.

"Chishiya- stop don't, don't move" you say as loud as you can looking at him as you layed down on the ground "your gonna bleed even more- just lie down there"

Chishiya walked a few more steps going against your protest before he let out a wince of pain as he collapsed to the ground only a few inches away from you.

"agh..I'm tired" he said as you turned his head to face you "you look tired too-"

He stopped midway though as he saw tears streaming down your face "y/n-"

"you idiot why were you walking around- your bleeding" you cry out "your shot so why were you walking, coming to me- you came-"

"you called."

"wha-"

"you also promised to end this thing with me. You really should know how to keep the promises you make y/n"

It surprised you, the way he says it so nonchalantly as if you both weren't bleeding to death right now, as if he didn't risk his entire life right now.

"Arisu and Usagi are playing the queen of hearts right now." Chishiya said "just hang in there y/n"

You heard his raspy voice trying to reassure you "I don't know if-"

"saying that will jinx things up, hang in there."

You both look at eachother. Him looking at your face which seemed to be stained by tears and blood both probably yours and you staring at his tired eyes which seemed more tired than usual.

"you had to get shot... does it hurt?" He asked you

"of course it hurts you idiot" you let out what seemed to be a laugh.

"ah sorry, I shouldn't have asked" he mused

You both stayed in silence for a while before you break it

"w-why did you take the bullet for me..the one Niragi shot, why did you come infront of me?"

Pause

"maybe it's because my ideals have changed"

"wha-?" You held your breath

"maybe it's because my priorities have changed, maybe because I wanted to experience having a bullet inside of me-" Chishiya looks at you "maybe because I had a chance to protect you. Or maybe because I just wanted to"

"do you really mean it?" You say so softly in disbelief

"I've always wanted to protect you until your last game" he looks at the red stain that stained your white shirt.

"I've always wanted to be with you till the end" you whispered

You stare at the way his usual bored eyes slightly widened before letting out a soft sigh

You both get engulfed in silence again, there was no need for words.

"do you think we'll go back to the real world, by the end of this?"

"we-" chishiya seemed to hesitate for a while, contemplation whether to say it or not. "We're gonna go back to the real world. I trust Arisu"

You smile to yourself without saying anything as your sight seemed to grow weaker by the second, as you heard Chishiya's voice grow softer by each word

"okay" you didnt know if you really believed what you said but you really wanted to

Chishiya seemed to have realised this as he sighed softly, he paused for a while again before saying "it was nice knowing you. I'd like to know you even after going to the real world."

your eyes widened by his words before giving a soft smile "I'd like that too"

"Congratulations on clearing all the games. All surviving players will now be given a choice."

You gasped softly as chishiya muttered a few inches next to you "they did it"

"please select if you will accept permanent residence in this land or if you will not accept. I repeat-"

You look at the night sky as fircrackers of different colours burst

"I think-" chishiya looks at you and stretched out his right hand "I will not take it" his raspy voice finishes.

"i think-" you breath out as your reach out your left hand only to find out there was still some distance between leading the both of you to interlace your pinkys together "I will also not take it"

"Let's hang on to life for a little longer y/n...don't break another promise. We're gonna meet each other in the real world too" Chishiya's raspy voice breathed out

You nod slowly "I promise."

...

Present day

"bring a stretcher over here! I hear a heartbeat!"

" hang on there for a little bit"

"they've been severely injured, especially in the stomach. There seems to be internal bleeding as well"

"it's a miracle that they're still alive"

"they're heartbeat stopped for one whole minute"

"they were walking a thin line between life and death"

You open your eyes.

God people were so noisy, especially the two males who were in the bed next to yours

"I heard your heartbeat also stopped for one whole minute.. do you think anything changed?"

"Im not sure, I guess I look a lot flashier now. What about you?"

"Since I almost died, I think I'll be able to live a more useful life now."

"so you were also a good for nothing jerk huh?"

"yeah"

Soon a nurse came to take away 'Niragi' you you realised was the name of one of the guy whose heartbeat also stopped, leaving only the white haired male and you in the room

You cleared you voice

"uh- ahem, not that I was eavesdropping but- did you say your heartbeat also stop for a minute?"

The white haired boy turned to look at you slightly surprised "yes. I'm guessing you too."

"hm" you him "what a coincidence.."

Your both left with a silence, you look at him s you contemplate whether to say something

"uh- by the way, my answer is probably yes."

"excuse me?"

"uh..well you were asking him if anything changed right?..I think so. I don't know what but" you touch your heart "I feel this sort of relief and happiness yet I also feel sad as if I made a promise to someone but I can't remember"

The white haired male looks at you with his cat eyes. You could almost swear that you know him.

"ah sorry you didn't ask me-" you quickly apologize for speaking out of your turn until you were interupted

"what a coincidence. I feel the same way. As if i made a promise but I can't remember it...that's a unique way to put it"

He says the words so nonchalantly as if the both of you hadn't just survived a meteor crash it surprised you, as if you had heated someone say something similar before

"I'm..y/n. Do I know you or?" You ask slowly trying to soak every small feature in his face, trying to remember from where you know him from.

"no.. although you look very familiar to me" he says "I'm Chishiya. It's nice to meet you"

He reaches out his hand and you reach out yours.

"it's nice to meet you too"

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jellyfishsthings · 1 year

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Ok, first of all, I would like to apologise for not posting something for almost a month, bit it was exam season so... and I know I let you my fans down *que laughing bcuz it's not true*. Secondly, I would like to say that this is a bit different, it's not smut but I think it is quite funny and represents my character a little bit... also mean!Remus cuz he rules... so enjoy ig!!!

Part 2 , Part 3

I woke up, gasping for air, sweat making my shirt cling to my body like a second skin. I must look downright crazy, with flushed cheeks, hair a wild mess, and rubbing my thighs together without a stop. My mind drifted back to the dream that caused the state of my reaction.

His hands were roaming my body like I was the only thing he had ever wanted. And finally gripping my hips and making them move backwards until they hit his, and he was balls deep inside of me. Again. And again. And again.

The dream itself wasn't the problem. Sure, a sex dream wasn't that bad, and she had several over the years, but what she moaned and who was supposedly giving her all that pleasure was. Remus.

How? How had this happened to her? Not him. Not the one boy she never got along with. Not the one person who drove her up against the wall. Not the one that-

No, it actually made perfect sense. He was the only one who made her feel something. Sure, said "something" was regularly negative feelings. Like irritation, deep-rooted hate. But it certainly was more than anyone has ever made her feel. She looked at her alarm clock. And… great, only fifteen more minutes before it was time to get ready for breakfast. How was she supposed to pull herself together after that? It was going to be a long day.

She dressed in her uniform, only leaving her blue-silver striped tie, loosely knotted around her neck, her top two buttons open, exposing her collarbones. Her trousers, replacing the usual skirt, hugged her waist and hips nicely. Thank God, if there is one, but she had single-handedly managed to convince the professors in the monthly Perfects meeting, that the female population of this school, formal and fancy vocabulary had definitely been a strong part of her remarks, should be allowed to wear trousers whenever they wanted and felt like it.

She walked towards the Ravenclaw table and quickly filled her plate with pancakes doused in chocolate because well… who doesn't love chocolate? Her eyes roamed the blurry Dining Hall. Man, she really should start using her wire-framed glasses, the ones that were an identical pair to his. They had bought them so as to match when they were still friends. Before he ruined everything.

There he was. The beautiful, arrogant blurry bastard. She would recognise his curly hair and mischievous dark green eyes paired with his scarred face glory. Damn him and his annoying good looks. And when the hell did her eyesight get that bad? Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, which was again his fault. She could proudly say, though, that she was still squinting and glaring at the world as she always did. And everything was right. Until…

"My God, you are so tight. And so perfectly marked up. Everyone should know who you belong to, don't you think?" He said as his hand travelled upwards, one of her thighs. Moving easily as all her previous orgasms slid down her legs. All courtesy of his mouth, of course. "I love seeing you like this. I never thought that fucking your brains out until you are senseless would be such an easy way to shut you up."

… she remembered that and choked on her treacherous hot chocolate.

"Well, well, the she-devil just choked on her hot chocolate? Is it because your body detests anything sweet? " his voice called out. That deep, still slightly raspy and sleepy voice that made his Welsh accent stand out more prominently. She hated that voice, she thought, yet her body betrayed her and shivered, as if it was somehow remembering all that fantastic, imaginary, things it supposedly whispered in her skin.

Oohs and aahs echoed in the room, accompanied by chuckles and whispers, praising his "sick burn."

"You know what, Lupin? I always thought you were a pretentious piece of shit, but I never thought you were so self-centered to actually call yourself indirectly sweet. Is it one of those days of the month where you need a little confidence boost?", I called back as I finished eating and stood up from my seat.

A fuming Remus was the last thing I saw as I exited the room. Now, every member of the school faculty was laughing because of my comeback.

Lost in thought I walked towards the Ravenclaw Tower, and then felt an arm grasping my wrist and pining me into the wall, despite driving my elbow into said attacker in his nose, stomach (were those abs? Who was she kidding of course her attacker would have abs) and well … dick. But they didn't react at all as if those blows, who should have winded the air out of someone. Except- right lycanthropy super strength bullshit.

"You think that was funny?" He said in a deathly quiet tone, as if he wanted to murder me on the spot… or fuck me against the wall? Okay, now she was just self projecting.

"I think it was hilarious."

"Sometime you are going to learn to respect me, foxy?"

"Sure, when Hell freezes over."

"You know, you remind me of those foxes and black cats. They consider themselves so smart and mean, yet they are unaware of the danger they will face because of it. "

"And you are the danger? Climb off your high horse Lupin." I whisper in his face. Our lips only mere centimeters apart.

words: 900 (should I continue this?)

#remus lupin #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin x reader #remus x reader #remus x you #remus lupin smut #mean!remus

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heyhellohihowareyou · 7 months

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Why “Ball Game Tournament Time” is underrated as hell

BASEBALL EPISODE! BASEBALL EPISODE! Any anime that has a baseball episode in it is bound to get Hailey hooked!

And this one is about her Sugi boy! She’s all for him getting more screentime!

Out of context picture

I’m pretty sure that this was the episode that started the “Jiriki Hongan Revolution” intro (Correct me if I’m wrong) and since it’s tied as my fav AC intro, this episode gets points for starting it!

Baseball fanatic Koro is best Koro!

Anyways, did I mention I love baseball episodes because I love baseball episodes

Found a cute side character with freckles. Appreciate her NOW!

Two very good boys right here!

Kimura gets to do something! We must savor this moment while we still can!

Awww a cute Mimura!

I live for a badass Sugi boy (Even though this one is in Shindo’s head 😅)

Also, start the count for how many times Shindo looks like he’s about the piss himself

Ain’t this such a great episode! 3-E is succeeding and showing the main campus kids what’s what! Boy I sure hope no one ruins-

Bitch. Can you please stay out of my feel good sports episodes and not traumatize people at all? You’re bringing down the vibes man 😕

Well the girlies are back at least! Kind of wish we got to see them play though.

Kayano: “It’s just that the other team had huge jiggly boobs! It made me so made that I couldn’t concentrate!” Kaede sweetie you are not beating the allegations 🩷💜💙

Nothing to say except I like Maehara’s bewildered face

GAKUHOU STOP FUCKING MANIPULATING TEENAGERS FOR FUCK SAKE

I hate the man but those eyes though

Irina: “Aha! I think I get it! So you hit a ball with a stick!” Never change Irina. Never change.

Oh my god EVERYONE SHUT UP RIGHT NOW AND LOOK AT MY BOY!!!

Did I mention that I adore Sugino. Well, I ADORE SUGINO!!!

I swear to god Gakuhou doesn’t have life WHY ARE YOU HERE!?

Also, anyone else felt bad for Shindy this episode? Sure he was sort of a cocky bastard for the first part but man is he put through hell here.

Karmster using his bitch powers to good use (Yes, Karmster is his new name now)

Also this should be a meme template

I saw the glowing red eyes and my first thought was “Baki?”

Nothing to say except that I find Isogai’s little sigh cute

Bewildered Shindy

Gakuhou: “Crack a skull if need be.” Why aren’t you in jail yet?

We love Karmster’s little bitch face

Karmster: “Swing like you’re trying to kill us.” My guy is in distress

Nagisa: “That’s got him pretty shaken up.” Pretty Shaken- MY GUY IS TRAUMATIZED!

Again, poor Shindy. Like seriously get this boy some help.

I’ve caught two bright smiles in one screenshot!

Sugino: “Didn’t mean for things to get so crazy.” Shindy needs to go to therapy

Juuuust Karmster

Hadn’t mention before but I love listening to Sugi’s dubbed voice. For someone who shares a voice actor with the loud mouth that is Katsuki Bakugo his voice is nice to listen to

Sugino: “It was about being proud of my new friends. I wanted to show them off.” Sugino I fucking love you.

Welp that’s it. That was a good ass episode that we as a fandom should talk about more! It’s season 1’s version of leader time to me. In fact it’s part of my top ten favorite episodes of the series (I really need to make a list) I don’t say it that much but Sugino as a character brings me so much serotonin so watching this episode was a joy for me! Combined with the fact that I love baseball this episode was an absolute delight.

I keep forgetting how bad I feel for Shindy boy here. Like, he was just slightly cocky and he ended up getting manipulated left and right. Seriously, I wouldn’t be surprised if he ended up having nightmares about the 3-E students sniping him in his sleep or something.

Anyways, like I said. This is a good episode and we should really discuss it more. We should discuss Sugino more. DISCUSS THE BOY! <—— Barely discusses the boy in question

#This fandom as a habit of adopting obscure characters #So has anyone taken Shindy yet?#If not then I volunteer!#assassination classroom #ansatsu kyoushitsu #assclass #tomohito sugino #gakuhou asano #kazutaka shindo #karma akabane #episode rundown #< That’s what I’ll start calling these things now

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zippidi-dooda · 20 days

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Chapter: 1

2 - A Little Trip

"Who. The hell. Do you think you are?" An elegant, dark haired figure demanded, slamming open the door to your room.

He wore a stark white suit with long, shiny, leather boots and gloves. Many badges and jewels were pinned to his chest. They glistened under the moonlight. A flowing black cape dragged behind him as he took each thundering steps towards you.

His head was no longer held high and proud as it normally was. He was tense and clenched his fist, his jaw set tight.

His attitude was a large contrast compared to just moments ago when he was busy dancing in the ballroom. When he was blissfully unaware of your previous late night endeavors. Of your plans for tonight.

How he found out now, you didn't know. But it made your heart beat faster as panic began to settle in.

The only way he could have found out was through your doctor, though you had pleaded repeatedly that he didn't say anything about it to anyone.

And your doctor had never said a word about anything going on with you (despite who it was) before now.

He was trustworthy.

This man must have done something horrible to make him pour it out.

Or sent someone to spy on you.

You were regretting not leaving sooner.

"I'm . . . I am simply Y/N, you know that, Rias."

Rias let out a short laugh. "Ah, another of those wisecracks I love so dearly about you, Y/N. You're always so fucking smart about everything, aren't you?"

He stopped once he was in front of you and pulled you towards him.

He held your waist up against him with one hand while he squished your cheeks with the other. His grip was tight, enough to keep you from pulling away. It hurt and just got worse the more you squirmed.

"I'll tell you who you really are, okay, honey." He pressed a kiss onto your lips that he forced into a pucker. "You."

Kiss

"Are."

Kiss

"My."

Kiss

"Wife."

Kiss

"You do remember that, right? Cause I could never forget the day we were wed. How gorgeous you looked in that white dress, the happy smile on your face when we said 'I do.' I remember being so thrilled when I found out it was you I'd have to be marrying when I was a boy, and then finally getting to do it, finally being able to declare you as my own, I can't even put how great that felt into words. God, I love you so much Y/N. You're perfect for me, as I am for you . . . But you don't believe that, do you?"

You swallowed thickly. "Rias . . . I need to get ready for my leave tomorrow."

Wham!

Your cheek was met with the back of the man's gloved hand. It stung.

"Tell me, honey. When were you planning to tell me you were with child."

You squeezed your eyes shut and opened your mouth a few times trying to feel if your jaw had been knocked out of place. It hadn't. Just hurt a damn lot.

"Seeing how this is your reaction, why would I tell you?"

Rias laughed again, but it was eerily quiet. "If the bastard was mine, I wouldn't have to react this way, would I?"

You spoke quietly. "Just kick me out right now, then. Before anything is obvious. Your family name would be ruined if word got out."

"Our family name, Y/N," he stroked your bruised cheek tenderly. "I'm not happy about this, but I think I can forgive you one day. It sucks that I love you so much. Let's just act like this is our child; no one but you, me, and your doctor has to know the truth."

You squinted your eyes at him. "You're willing to keep it as your own?"

Rias smiled sweetly. "Of course. They may not be mine but they are still a part of you. I'll treat that part nicely. But just to keep people from finding out, we'll need to do something about the donor. So tell me, sweetheart, who was it?"

"Mom," Your son's voice broke you from your thoughts.

"Huh?"

"I'm bored."

You watched him for a moment. He was laying on the floor in the hall, swinging his feet around randomly. A pout was set on his face.

"I am going to die of boredom. Really. You don't believe me but wait too long and I will. And you will be so sad about it and say 'why didn't I make him not bored when I had the chance?'"

You chuckled. "Oh really now. I didn't know you could do that. Let me watch you then and see how it happens."

"Mooom! No! You're supposed to make me not bored, not watch."

"Hmm. Why not go dig up some weeds then."

Lucas rolled onto his stomach and glared at you. "I don't want to do that. That's boringer. Can we go back home already?"

"I told you, sweetie, we can't go back there."

"But I don't wanna be here anymore. There's nothing to do. There's no people here. And Dad hasn't come back yet and it's been forever already."

You frowned. It had been four days since Malleus had showed up and Lucas hadn't stopped calling him 'Dad' since.

"Lucas, that man you saw was not your dad. And if you see him again stay away from him, you hear me?"

He blew a raspberry at you.

"Lucas. I am not joking with you."

". . . Ugh. Sor~ry."

You sighed. He had an attitude about it, but at least he apologized. You hoped he understood and actually listened.

You picked up the bag whose contents were now emptied in the cupboards. By now, you were almost completely out of food and needed to get more. You weren't too skilled at hunting and there wasn't much you could pick off the shrubs nearby, so you needed to take a trip to the Valley of Thorns.

You should have gone sooner, but you were honestly terrified of what would happen to you there. If you waited any longer though, you and Lucas wouldn't last long.

So you steeled yourself for the journey and stood up.

"Put on your shoes, let's go for a walk."

***

The mood was dour in the Valley.

The sky was dense with dark, thundering clouds, the people walking around on the cobbled streets shuffled along slowly and chattered quietly to each other, jumbled bushes of jagged thorns grew carelessly along the walls of the gothic style buildings, and tall, stone faced soldiers stood at every other corner.

No one seemed especially happy to be here.

Other than Lucas.

He was bouncing with excitement, pointing and smiling at each person who had a unique feature to them, like shimmering wings sprouting from their backs or large fangs that protruded from their mouths to name a few.

He kept trying to run up to all the interesting new people, all of which you figured were different types of fae, and you had to do your best to keep a firm grip on his hand.

If he wandered off and got lost here, you doubted the soldiers who found him would be kind. You couldn't let him get out of your sight.

"Lucas, shhh. You don't know these people, you have to be careful around them." You whispered leaning towards his ear.

"But Mom they all look so nice, they won't hurt me. Look, that one is smiling at me. Hi!"

Lucas waved happily towards the person he implied.

It was a tall, slender woman with scaly, pale skin, slitted, amber eyes, and long, light brown hair. She was indeed smiling at him. With a long forked tongue hanging from her mouth between two, pearly white fangs.

You tensed, not liking the look she was giving Lucas.

You nudged him in front of you. "Look I think that's a market up ahead. I'll get what we need and you can get one candy from there, okay? Just stay close to me."

"Okay!"

Not wanting to be here much longer than necessary, you moved quickly. Anything that looked unfamiliar you made sure not to grab but you actually found lots of food that you did know the names to.

The trip was going smoothly. Now you needed to to go to the front counter and hope you could pay with your money. If you couldn't, you could then try to barter the jewelry you wore hidden under your coat.

The . . . being . . . checking you out was short and stout and had large tusks protruding from their lips. They had black hair neatly tied back in a bun. Their bushy brows were curled down, over a pair of blue, feminine looking eyes, making them look angry.

You hoped you didn't make them snap at you.

"Excuse me uh . . . ." You couldn't tell if the person in front of you was a girl or a man so you didn't know how to address them. "Excuse me. Do you happen to accept this as payment?"

They snorted and snatched up the money you slid across the counter. They held it up to the light, squinting as they examined it.

After a second, they looked back and forth between you and the money.

"This is from Rourinville." They announced in a deep, guttural voice.

"Yes it is. Is there a problem with it?"

They took care of the change and began packing everything in your bag.

Thank goodness.

"You're a long way from home, girl. What are you doing all the way over here in Briar Valley?"

"'Briar Valley?' Isn't this the Valley of Thorns?"

They let out a squealing type of laugh. "That's just what everyone outside of here calls it. It's actual name is Briar Valley. It's not as horrible as everyone makes it out to be, so get those ideas out of your head. But one small slip up and you may find yourself in a dire situation."

"Yeah . . . Thanks."

"Will that be all?"

"Yes. Thank yo-"

"GET OUT OF THE STREET, SMALL CHILD!"

You whipped your head in the direction of the shout and your face paled when you saw what was going on.

Lucas had run off while you weren't paying attention and was now in the path of a large buggy bounding towards him. He was in a daze, just staring at it unmoving.

"LUCAS!"

Forgetting about your things, you sprinted as fast as you could towards him, hoping and praying with all your might that you'd get to him on time.

Before you could, a man jumped and tackled Lucas out of the way just in time as the buggy barreled past the spot your son once stood.

You slid onto your knees next to them and pulled Lucas into your arms. Your heart was pounding in your chest and your voice shook as you spoke.

"Lucas, oh God, are you okay? Are you hurt? Oh, my baby! Lucas you have to stop running off like that! If this man hadn't saved you, do you know what could have happened to you right now?"

"I-I'm okay, mom."

"Oh, Lucas you-"

"Are you this child's mother, Miss?" The man who saved Lucas shouted.

You looked up at him.

He wore the same black and green outfit with purple accents that you saw the soldiers on the streets wearing. He had hair that was short, slicked back, and pastel green, green/yellow eyes that looked down on you in what seemed like disapproval, and light skin.

You nodded. "Yes. I cannot thank you enough, sir. Please te-"

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself! If you had been by his side watching him, this wouldn't have happened! Do you know how often something like this happens? Never, because other people actually take care of their kin! If you can't even do the simple task of keeping your son safe then you shouldn't even be a-"

"Sebek, that's enough." A slow, calm voice interrupted. "She saw her kid in danger just now, she's must be shaken up."

This new person wore the same outfit as the 'Sebek' guy. He had medium length silver hair, unique light blue/purple eyes that were half lidded making him appear tired, and fair skin.

"Are you both okay?"

"Mhmm. Lucas?" You asked.

Your son was looking up at Sebek in stunned amazement, his mouth agape. "Uh huh. Thank you, sir . . . ."

Sebek 'humphed' and folded his arms across his chest. "You better stick to your mother from now on, kid! It does you no good to go giving her a heart attack! Both of you need to learn to pay attention to your surroundings, got it?"

"Yes, sir. Sorry. It won't happen again. Thank you, so much. Is there anything I can do for you as thanks for saving him?"

Both men held out their hands to you, helping each of you up.

"Just go home already, we're doing something for Waka-sama and you've put us behind schedule. Get out of here." Sebek turned on his heel and strode off.

The silver haired man sighed before walking after him. "Forgive him, he means well. Do be more careful next time."

You and Lucas stared at the duo as the walked away, until they were out of sight.

"The green one's so cool . . . ." Lucas began to smile and took hold of your hand.

". . . Yeah. C'mon, let's grab our stuff and head home."

"In Ruins" Masterlist

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst malleus #malleus x reader #malleus draconia #“In Ruins”#x reader

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alottiegoingon · 2 months

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hc! first date & movie nights with van

van palmer x fem!reader

summary: first date with van and my personal movie related headcanons!!

pls let me know if i made a mistake, it's my first time writing for a non binary character and i dont wanna mess it up <3

warnings: van is non binary!!, established relationship and marriage (you lucky bastard), slightly domestic life at the end, cursing, no crash but huh..., reader and van being two awkward idiots at first, spoilers of movies i guess?, all the girls are friends, fluff, english mistakes and not proofread

- of course that your first date with van consisted in going out for movies and you were both SO excited!!

- you knew that van had a tough relationship with their mom and instead of going to their house to pick them up, they showed up at your door wearing a blue windbreaker jacket over a striped shirt and brown cargo pants, holding a vhs with a collection of vhs with movies that reminded them of you <33

- safe to say that you were both sweating like crazy and giving each other awkward smiles or saying nonsense just to fill the silence

- sometimes you or van would say the stupid shit ever. while waiting in line for tickets, a bunch of teenage boys walked by you carring footballs and van said "boys always have balls with them, don't they?"

- "what?" you ask, pursing your lips to avoid laughing like crazy

- "nothing."

- van would always be willing to have the entire movie theater experience and i think they would be happy to buy some popcorn and a lot of sweets if you liked it. but ever since their teenage years to adulthood, in movies like a quiet place, they would buy absolutely no food to avoid noises and would give people the death stare because they were chewing too loud (so right)

- either way, van wanted everything to be special and didn’t want to sound like a movie freak. surprisingly, this once the movie didn’t matter. it wasn’t the main attraction. you were.

- you chose primal fear with richard gere, trying your best to impress them. besides it was a crime thriller movie thing and if you ever get scared, you could ‘innocently’ hold their hand for reassurance

- obviously, van guessed the plot halfway the movie but didn't want to ruin it for you. in the last 30 minutes of the movie, you look at them with an invested look, whispering "i bet that aaron is a liar, he acts too innocent!" while nervously shoving more popcorn into your mouth

- van already knew that. but seeing you so focused on something they loved so much and actually excited about it made their heart melt "what? no way!" they try to sound surprised and do their best to pretend that they don't believe your theory.

- (they were so proud!!)

- "i can't believe you didn't saw that coming! it was so obvious, van!" you tease them as soon as you left the room, non-stop talking about the movie

- "shut up." but they didn't mean it. they were happily listening to your words and smiling the entire time, not being able to look away from you :(

- you and van went out for a milkshake after the movies and were discussing that first scene of scream where casey's boyfriend is tied up on a chair by ghostface. "that poot guy didn't even stand a chance!" you excitedly say as you sip on your chocolate milkshake. "it must be an awful day to die."

- "maybe you should tie me up!" van mutters with a sly smirk, knowing too well that it would made you blush

- you gasp, jaw dropped and pinkish cheeks while you tried to cover their mouth by leaning yourself from across the table

- standing in the porch of your house, van had their hands on your waist and your palms touch their face while you share your first kiss. you were both really nervous but their lips were so soft that you immediately felt relaxed. you could even taste the strawberry.

- when van and the girls would watch movies together, van would always beg to be the one to pick and make sure that it was the perfect choice. of course that perfect meant something longer than 2 hours and with a lot of social commentary or something considered weird. in horror, thriller or serial killer movies like scream, van and misty would be detective partners together and would probably figure what was going on in ten minutes and ruin it for everyone else

- (deeply believe that van would love the lobster in 2015 and would be happy to explain to you all of their theories or techniques used in the movie and why is it so good even though you were suspicious that they only watched it because of rachel weisz. you wouldn’t understand much but were always happy to hear your spouse talk about things they loved)

- that doesn’t mean that they don’t like some cheesy romcoms or something silly like but i’m a cheerleader or the duff. they were SO obsessed with biac when it came out and couldn’t stop talking about it for MONTHS!!

- “shit, shauna! that girl looks exactly like you!” nat gasped when all the girls decided to watch the movie with van knowing how much they liked it and how good it was for lesbians at the time. shauna rolled her eyes while everyone was laughing and chattering about how she was hilary’s lost twin or something

- “come on, you gotta choose!”when they finally agreed to watch the entire twilight saga, that was your first question as soon as the screen of your tv turned black. they had to choose between jacob or edward and you wouldn’t take no for an answer

- “are you serious? those movies are ridiculous! they are so unrealistic and stereotyped.” van adds, slouched on the couch. "and that weird baby looks exactly like rosemary's baby!"

- you and van lived together after getting married, duh, and every friday was considered movie night. van would close the video store earlier and you would run to the couch with big buckets of popcorn and cozy blankets

- “i know…” you can't help but giggle at the thought of that weird thing they used for renesmee. you also knew that your partner was right. but still, you needed an answer. you had spent hours of your day watching all of that nonsense and what hurt would do if they chose a side?

- “ok, fine.” they groan, wanting to make you happy despite all of their hate for those movies. “edward.”

- “yeah!” you celebrate van's choice, grabbing a bunch of popcorn with your hands. “i hate jacob, he’s so manipulative!” you add

- “okay, okay. don’t get all excited.” van gives you a death stare but you know that they don’t mean it when their lips are begging to curl up in a smile when seeing you excited. t hey disliked the movies, sure, but even though the movies and books were terrible van would always be happy to be near you all the time even if it meant to watch those stupid things.

- "that plot twist in the last movie was good. i'll give you that." and you smile at their attempt to compliment the movie and make you happy

- “but i don’t care about edward. i just don’t like wolves.” van shruggs and you look at themwith furrowed eyebrows. “what? why?”

- “i just have a bad feeling about them!” and you laugh.

#yellowjackets x reader #yellowjackets #van palmer x reader #van palmer #liv hewson

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phyrestartr · 8 months

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Your Godly Path Leads Back To Him | Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

#NSFW, Male Reader, Western/Cowboys, Miguel O'hara is a sheriff, complicated emotions, reunion trope, mentions of abuse, mentions of drinking, mentions of past trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, religious themes, men working through their shit, sad old men being sad, one-shot(?)

Notes: Dude this is so long lol I'm EXHAUSTED after powering through this, but it had to be done!! Had this one in the drafts for a while after listening to Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain and SHEESH. I wanted to write about some cowboys okay that's all tysm

--Your Godly Path Leads Back To Him--

"I love ya, pretty boy," you murmured into the soft dip of his cheek, leaving behind the scorch of your lips: an invisible scar, one that'd ruin his perfect smile next time the sun rose.

Miguel's gaze traced lines into you to make you bleed. Across the expanse of bite-tainted shoulders, grazing the vital veins and tendons of your neck, up to the thoughtfully chiseled features God hand-picked for you, His favourite, the man he poured silvered moonlight onto, filling in your crystalline eyes that very moment Miguel finally caught them gazing his way after you dared to maim him.

The thin, scratchy blanket shifted, and let prickly hay nip at Miguel's bare skin when you held the side of his face with a warm, calloused hand. You burned away his nerves, eased away anything that could distract him from you, from that moment.

What was Miguel supposed to say?

"Hey," you whispered. Your fingers grazed against his forehead as you brushed dark locks away from blurred eyes and creased brows. "Come on now, don't make that face. My love such a bad thing?"

Miguel laughed, like the sun braving a rainy day. "Maybe, with a track record like yours." A deflection. A cheap, easy thing Miguel tried to fit behind. But you knew him too damn well.

"Pretty boy and a funny guy, huh?" You hummed and picked yourself off your side, slotting back into the spot you'd carved between Miguel's legs, flush up to his hips–the place you'd been all night. Goosebumps on tawny skin rose to meet your phantom touches. Not even the warmth of the summer night's breeze could help him.

"Glad not even your daddy could beat the life out of you." Your words licked across his neck before your lips seared those in, too.

"Well, I--I, uh…" Clay brown eyes fluttered shut when you touched him. "I really–" He tried again. Miguel's head dug back into the hay, gifting a speckle of splintering hay crackles to the ambience of mooning crickets. The littlest sighs, the gentlest of moans, so spent and eager, slipped from between his tired, wanting lips, bolstering the symphony of the night.

Your lips found his again. Your tongue tasted him, finding the familiar smoke of fine whiskey and the sweet icing of flaked pastries. One of your hands threaded into his hair and held the back of his neck, keeping him close, stopping him from seeing the swirling haze in your own eyes.

"It's alright, honey," you whispered against his cheek before you pushed into him, "you ain't gotta say it back." His hands flew to your back, clawing into your skin and pulling your body flush against his. Miguel's stuttered gasps found a home in the warmth of your shoulder, and you etched quiet moans over the mark you'd already left. Such a greedy, evil man you were.

And that’s why you couldn’t love him.

But you did, and you kept telling him while you held him, even though it made your heart ache, even though it made your heart break. Because it was so horribly, painfully, undeniably true–you loved him. You loved the bastard son of the sheriff. You loved the man who was to be wed to a beautiful woman with wide hips and the gift of giving him the family he always dreamed of for himself.

And you? You were trouble. A dog on the road, scrounging for scraps, looking for any woman or sorry soul to take you in for the night–and then you found yourself neither, and didn't know how to walk away from what you’d found.

But trouble was always gonna find you, whether it be your man’s father or his wife’s, the corrupt deputies and counties paid to find you, the do-gooder bounty hunters looking for their payday. You'd be damned if you let trouble find him: Miguel O'hara, a cocky prick, a ladies man, a man who gave you love and patience when you needed it most.

This was the last night you were gonna love him.

–

Ten hours later, you were gone.

–

Ten years later, you were back.

–

The market was busy. Customers and vendors alike bustled through cramped cobbled streets, but Miguel heard one voice clear as day like lightning striking through the darkest storm.

"You lookin' for your momma, sweetheart?"

Then, he heard his Gabi.

His boots thumped against the ground hard on his dash towards his little one. Folks in the crowd hurried out of his way or got pushed past until Miguel spied his baby girl talking to a fellow crouched down to her level. It was you, wearing that same damn hat, toting that same damn bag over your shoulder, wearing those same damn boots, all in the town where you'd met.

"Papá's gone," Gabi sniffed, clutching onto the fabric of her dress with trembling little hands. "I-I dunno where he went!"

"Hey, hey, you're okay, baby. We'll find him." You pat her head and smoothed some of the flyaways that escaped her braids. "We'll find that old sheriff and–"

"Well, you found him," Miguel cut in, sauntering in on the conversation with his thumbs hooked into the worn leather of his belt. He did his best to gaze at you with a stranger's stare, but he was already losing the game he decided to play.

Especially when your eyes flicked to him, looking less than surprised and more than happy to see him, if that crooked smile was anything to go off of.

Gabriella threw herself at Miguel and buried her little face into his shirt, staining the worn cotton with drops of tears. Miguel pat her head before kneeling down and holding her hands in his.

"You alright, mija?" He cooed, concern softening his voice and taking the fight out of him. Gabi nodded dramatically and Miguel wiped her eyes. "You can't run off like that, kid, you had me scared half to death."

"I-I know, ‘m sorry.” And she really did look it, but Miguel knew her wanderlusting, bored little self would get lost in the crowds again, thinking she’d always make it back to her daddy. It could never happen to me was a jinx thought too many times. Everything could happen to them. Anything. Just like you leaving.

Right. The sheriff’s eyes glanced up to find yours again, but he found an empty space instead. Gone. Again. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by that.

–

But when night fell, he had an inkling of where to find you.

Miguel found Lyla’s bar, that place where men drank ill of the divine’s blood, where you would drink yourself, the cannibal you were.

Upon first glance around the room, through the cheers of his title and welcoming smiles, he didn’t find you. But Lyla nodded at the backdoor, and Miguel had his answer.

He grabbed a drink on the way out, maybe to settle his nerves or to drown you with, he wasn’t sure. The song of a guitar called to him the second he cracked that back door open. Like a fisherman drawn to the siren’s voice, he followed it earnestly, the hand holding his bottle tightening while earthen brown eyes searched for you–

And there you were, sat on a log bench, thick cigar hanging from your lips, drink at your side, plucking away at tired strings for a crowd of ghosts around a dark phantom fire. Worshippers, no doubt. Specters of lovers passed, maybe.

Moonlight draped across your shoulders like the thick blankets of snow weighing on the surrounding cedars. They, too, listened to the hymn, bowing how they could to show their fealty to you. But you didn’t mind it, not acting how godly things were said to act, instead welcoming them as real brothers and sisters and others, all equal on the same ground. Miguel didn’t know how you could still not have a care in the world when the world cared so much for you.

Miguel’s boots crunched in the snow, and you turned your gaze to him. Now that he had the time to spare, he took in the lines and wear on your fine face, the age added under mischievous eyes and the new, silvered scars glowing against your complexion. Older, and handsomer. How was it possible? How was that fair?

Then that horrible smile appeared, the one he’d felt sear into his skin all those years ago. He felt it now, burning on his neck, on his lips, and somehow he knew you felt it, too. Under a moonlit night, in the old barn of his daddy’s estate, you’d taught him your gospel from sunset to sunrise, showed him how mercy felt, how a kind god’s hand could heal. Those lips whispered to him things prophets wish they knew, things they’d give everything to hear first before any other man–but no, it was just for Miguel.

You stood and walked to him, guitar in-hand, and Miguel lost all sense of mind.

–

He slammed you up against his front door once the damn thing closed and blocked out the cold, leaving you victim to his gnashing teeth and clawing hands. His knee found its place snug up against your crotch as he devoured your voice with a scorned kiss, filled with the clash of fangs and demanding bites. You moaned into him, too weak to deny him his wants, or to deny yourself.

"Your daughter–" you gasped once his mouth left yours. You muffled a moan into his shoulder as he ground his knee against your crotch harder. "Miguel–"

"She's with Peter for the night," he breathed into your neck inbetween hot, open-mouthed kisses left on your scarred skin. "Figured something'd be happenin' tonight."

"Hmm." You smiled into the leather of his jacket and left a soft kiss there before leaning back to spy his handsome face. "Glad we can pick up where we left off, Sheriff."

"Hardly." His hand found your neck, and you offered your throat, your blood, for communion. For union. "You've got some fucking gall showing up around here again, let me tell you. Gotta say I have questions about where you've been, why you left, why you're back now." The pressure around your throat tightened and you coughed just the slightest bit to prove your mortality. Miguel's eyes, deep and dark like wine, drank you in now that he had you where he wanted you.

"You think you got some answers for me, trouble?" The sheriff asked.

You grinned. Not even that damn cuff around your throat could scare you off, truth be told.

"I just might."

Miguel's lips followed the path of your whisper back to your sinful mouth once again, and he kissed you. You clung to him, a god yearning to taste the sweetness that humanity had cultivated, and let him take the reins–the human would know humanity best, after all.

His knee left the spot between your legs, but his hips closed the gap in its stead and ground hard against you. Sparks ignited from between your bodies, and you moaned. Miguel's soft, breathy sigh melted into your voice as his lips lingered against your very own. It felt too much like the past.

"Shh, Christ–don't you know how to shut up?" Miguel asked with the wickedest grin stretched across those fine features of his, like he wasn't the bastard at the root of your noise.

"Oh, you're really asking for an ass-kicking, shit head," you scoffed, but couldn't help the laugh that sank into his cheek. "Want me to make no noise, huh? Make you think you're doing a shit job getting me off?" Miguel's hand tightened around your length, then. Maybe he liked being a lil degraded.

"Câllate. I know I'm doing a good job." His face twisted into a pouty frown. "Now hurry up and touch me, too." Miguel's face couldn't get more red with the demand.

But you grinned and complied. Tucked away in the barn where all dark deeds were done, you pulled loose his belt and unzipped those old jeans before palming him up and showing him what it meant to worship.

Miguel moaned and leaned into your touch, pushing you deeper into the thick wooden support beam keeping everything standing. Your first hands worked each other to find Eden while the second hands wandered and touched, trying to find where they were supposed to land next on their quest into the great unknown. The bible had been so, so wrong, so now what was their guide?

Each other, the answer would be.

Oil-slicked fingers pistoned into your tight hole with frenzied purpose, stretching you open and wide for all Miguel had waiting on offer. Your fingernails caught into every hitch and grain of the wooden dining table beneath you, somewhere you'd find no purchase but decided you didn't deserve any; this was, after all, divine punishment, was it not?

Though it was unceremonious the way he yanked those fingers out and slammed his cock in, filling you to the brim in one fatal flourish, tearing a choked gasp from your smoke-addled throat. Your forehead dug into the wood as your hips jolted back to find more of him. Miguel's hands, broad and calloused, held fast to your hips and stroked the taught muscle there, the stretched skin over bone, with his thumbs. He smoothed your skin and soothed any aches you felt in the aftermath of man's brutality.

Just when you thought to snap at him to move, he rocked his hips against yours slowly, pulsing into you with shallow, merciful thrusts. But even just that was enough to snatch the air out of your lungs.

Miguel blanketed your body with his own, bending over you and breathing softly against the shell of your ear as his weight pinned you to the table. You had to admit the man was giving you whiplash with every flip of your punishment.

"Go a little harder, baby," you whispered sweetly, nearing on begging as you pushed your hips back against his.

Miguel's rhythm stuttered. His hands tightened around your waist, blunt nails digging into soft sides as the teeth by your ear snicked together with the hiss of a breath, of words unspoken.

"You want harder?" Miguel mumbled. He buried his face into your neck and inhaled deep, filling his lungs with that scent you brought with you when you escaped whatever holy shrine man had imprisoned you in.

"Fine." His chest left your back as he stood up straight. You felt the shift in the room before he slammed into you over and over again like you owed him this.

And you did. You'd left. You'd run away after showing your heart to him. You could've left without a word. You should've. But where else would you find someone to drag you down to Earth the way he did?

His hand slipped under your neck then and tightened fiercely as he used you, and your mind snapped back to the present, to how this communion threatened to rot into sacrifice. You didn't seek the unholy. You didn't want faith like this.

"Stop," you rasped. Your hands clawed at the noose around your neck when words didn't work. Turns out it scared you just a bit more than you thought."Miguel."

"I thought you wanted it hard," his voice growled into your ear, too distant from that charisma and snark you knew and fell for. He was cold. Angry. Not saying what he wanted to say.

"I–" but you coughed and saw the abyss for a second when you thought your neck might give, and instincts stepped in for you.

You managed to shove Miguel off, so hard in fact he crashed back into the counter where dishes sat drying in a rack. They clattered to the dismal tune of your dying heart while you caught your breath and tried to steady your legs underneath yourself as you stared hard at the man who'd never hurt you.

You'd had your fair share of flirty women and shameful men, whether it was a job to make a quick buck, a ploy to rob them in the night, or an attempt at finding something real.

The women were always kindly, confessing of the snakes in the garden out front and the woes they felt in the house in the times their husbands lurked. Always so intimate, always so willing to open their hearts and their bodies to you. You'd give them the same respect in kind, murmuring about a boy you still loved, hinting at the skeletons laid hidden in a hundred different pieces in your closet. Two wanting beings seeking a kind One's touch.

But the men made you less than human. Filled to the brim with callous denial and self-loathing, blaming you for what they'd done and what they'd do. You hated them for what they'd do to you. You hated them for proving man was beyond saving. You hated them because they were just like the one that came before you.

And maybe you hated them for reminding you what your mortal man could do to you, too.

But Miguel looked shell-shocked. A little too human, a little too unlike those others with the way his wide eyes scanned you over as his own chest heaved and his own two hands struggled with what to do. He almost took a step forward, but took it back.

Miguel's voice broke through, real soft and quiet. "(Name), I–"

"Don't," you snapped, hating the way your voice shook. You wondered if you'd ever yelled at your daddy this way.

"You don't get to–no, not you. You don’t get to do that to me. Anyone but you." Because he was your prophet. Someone you could hide with and share the darkest of the dark with in safety, away from the rest of the hated world. What would you be if you lost him, too?

You didn't know what you expected, maybe to be kicked out or yelled at again if history repeated itself, but Miguel braving those steps towards you and holding you close was nothing short of a needed surprise. You were both something of a mess, pants all awry and brows creased with sweat and emotion, but with the mess came comfort. And to you, comfort smelled like licorice, sun, and leather.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And your heart swelled; men didn't say that to you. No one ever said that to you.

Your arms, tentative and maybe a little afraid, found their way around his waist, and you pulled him in closer. Miguel's shoulders relaxed with every soothing sweep of your palm against his back, and you let his weight fall into you a little bit more. Because as much as he was your happy place, you were his, too.

Miguel laughed bitterly before he said, "I guess I'm more like my father than I wanna admit."

Wife beater.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "You know that ain't true." His eyes looked away from you then, and you caught his cheek with your hand to stop the rest of his head from following. "It's been a long time. There's…quite a bit left unsaid."

Miguel huffed something of a laugh as he leaned into your touch. "Huh, that was almost poetic. You been reading up since you were gone?"

"Might've stolen a few pretty books from some fanciful folks here 'n there." You smiled.

"Yeah? Guess it was worth it, if you're talking like that now."

"Wasn't worth leavin' you."

Earthen eyes found you again, looking wide and innocent like those fauns you saw on your travels. You liked that look on him, the look of a pretty boy being awed by a roadbound hooligan. You thought maybe you could get him to blush, too.

Your other hand found the empty side of his face and cupped it, mirroring the other, before you leaned in and closed your eyes. This time, cinders sparked against your lips when they met, proving that man, indeed, created flame without heavenly guidance. That burgeoning blaze bloomed and blossomed when you kissed Miguel O'hara to remind him of the words you spoke that night ten years ago:

I love ya, pretty boy. You ain't gotta say it back.

Because the fire in you had enough heat to keep two warm at night.

"I never should've left you," you murmured against his lips. "I thought–I figured it'd be for the best, but–" your voice died in your throat when Miguel's lips caught your chatty mouth and dove into another hot kiss. You sighed, happy to abandon that solemn train of thought in favour of slipping your arms around his neck and enjoying him like you were 21 all over again.

"I know," Miguel mumbled when he parted and let you breathe. "You wouldn't leave for nothin', selfless bastard." He smiled a little. "But I'm still cross with you."

Your hands moved to curl into his worn shirt as you nodded. "I know."

"And we're gonna sort everything out."

"Good."

"But right now," he started before catching your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up the slightest bit, "I think I'd like another shot at fucking you silly, mi amor."

Your stomach dipped into sticky, gooey desire. Mi amor. The words radiated through every nerve and cell of your design.

You nodded. "Go right ahead."

This time, Miguel swept you up into his arms and carried you up the stairs like a bride on her wedding day while you laughed and dotted him with kisses all over. He all but threw you onto the bed before you both tore each other's clothes away in a fit of love and lust, too eager to see one another at your most vulnerable.

Miguel's broad hands smoothed down your chest and thighs as he settled between them, and the look in his half-lidded eyes had your stomach coiling with impatience. But he took his time, dipping his fingers into the lines and creases of scars and muscle, pressing against each errant beauty mark he found hidden on your warm skin. But, thankfully, his impatience won out, and he rushed to pick up where you’d both left off.

You were glad to hold onto him this time as he filled you again. Your hands grabbed at his shoulders and clawed at his back as he kissed your neck and rolled against you slowly, gradually convincing your tight heat to relax and let him back in. And Miguel was quite the persuasive one, rocking his hips in a delicious tempo of short, shallow half-notes, whispering fluttering words of praise when he charted forgotten ground. A worthy worshiper, truly.

Your hips jolted when his pressed to yours. "Shit," you rasped into his shoulder when he bottomed out, but only after teasing your soft spot for a few agonizing minutes.

Miguel chuckled lightly. He licked a long stripe up your neck before biting into your flesh and earning himself a hearty moan. You bit him back, if only to be a brat; gods could do whatever they wanted.

"You feel good?" He asked, like he didn't already know the answer.

You nodded against him before you allowed him to pull you back to get a look at your brows twisted together, at the love-drunk blush smeared across your face, at the half-lidded heaviness of dilated eyes. He kissed you like that once, twice, and then his forehead pressed against yours when he showed you what he was really meant for.

Long forgotten were the seconds spent downstairs on the dining table. Now is all that remained: the heat rippling through your thighs, the fire in your core, lava in your veins that moved when he did, spreading an impossible bliss through every inch of your being.

"Honey," you gasped between the soft pants and choked moans. Your fingers threaded through his hair and held his neck as Miguel fucked the air out of your lungs and spoiled himself with your rare little noises.

Miguel smirked. "Oh? Already?" He lifted his forehead from yours to kiss and mark your neck the way you so selfishly did in the past. "Don't, ah, tell me you're losing your touch."

"Shut–shut up," you grumbled. "Still got an annoying fucking mouth for such a–oh."

Miguel's hips angled slightly differently in that second, brushing up against a spot that had you seeing stars and your body tightening up and demanding more. A shaky, loud moan slipped past Miguel's defenses, too, and he made damn sure to focus his attention on that spot.

"Fuck, you feel good, viejo," Miguel moaned over the creaking of the bed.

“Hah. You’re welcome,” you cooed, ego stretched and lazing, and then you gasped louder as Miguel cranked it up a notch and slammed against your sweet spot with more fervor than before. You bit his shoulder again in defiance.

Miguel laughed, breathless and shaky as his control slipped and he delved into your body with primal instinct. Your thighs tightened around his waist, eager to feel that grand finale you’d been craving since you laid your eyes on him.

“Miggs?”

“Mh?”

“Kiss me.”

And he obliged, igniting the trail of gunpowder from the tip of your tongue and letting it burn all the way to the dynamite bundled up tight in your stomach. You exploded, burning bright with too many colours as your back arched and your arms seized your lover tightly. Beautiful nonsense left your mouth and filled the air with the mess of bed creaks and Miguel’s voice rose and rose before stopping altogether as he spilled his warmth inside your molten centre.

He kissed you lazily. Little, shaky moans rattled against your teeth as Miguel rocked against you through the aftershocks and pulled every last drop of pleasure from himself. It made you smug; his wife, dead or alive, clearly didn’t fuck him the way you could.

It took some time to come down, but when you both did, he was settled up against you, his back against your chest as you leaned against the headrest and played with his hair. One of your hands was confiscated so the sheriff may look over the silvered scars and healing wounds–a few of the many trophies you’d earned on your travels.

“So?” Miguel murmured.

“Hm?”

“Why’d you leave?”

You took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. Too many thoughts plagued your mind, too many reasons, too many excuses all piling up on each other like bodies in a war. But you had to find that truth and show it to him. It’s what he expected. It’s what you actually owed him.

“Well, your old man wanted me dead.” Miguel tensed against you for a moment, and you were quick to calm him with the scratch of your nails against his scalp. He melted into you, and you smiled. “You know how Delgato loves to talk. Never shuts the fuck up, actually. Was a good thing this time, though, otherwise I’d be killed three times over.”

Miguel huffed a soft laugh. “Guess so. But why you?”

“Because I wanted you. I guess I had you, too, and that wasn’t the plan, right? You had to marry Dana.” You sighed softly and shook your head. “If she weren’t so wicked fine, I’d be more bent out of shape about it.”

You sensed Miguel roll his eyes. “Santa Muerte. Do you ever think with your head instead of your cock?”

“Seems like a waste of time,” you jabbed back with a cheeky grin. You leaned in and kissed his shoulder while he grumbled and mumbled to himself.

“So that’s it? You left because that low-life wanted you dead?”

“Hold on, hold on. Let me keep talkin’.” You adjusted your arms around him before you continued. “My daddy was a crook, a real good one, too. Momma wasn’t much better. Guess you could call her a murderer, but she was a smart one. She brought back the magic that was Aqua Tofana back in the 60s. Poisoned him. Killed him." Your fingers traced around errant freckles splashing across the nape of his neck as you thought back. "Tyler Stone found out about it."

Miguel cursed under his breath. He leaned more of his weight back into your chest. Your arms tightened around him, too.

"Came after that old woman who threw the blame on me, and then they came after me." A bitter smile drained your light. "Traveled all over the place, ran even more. 'N then…somehow ended up falling for the bastard son of the man I was running from." You sighed and nuzzled against Miguel's shoulder. "The cruel irony of it all, hey?"

"You don't have to run anymore," Miguel said, voice oozing with the power of a sheriff. He turned in your hold, and sat facing you with his strong hands holding your shoulder and your cheek. "You're done running."

You huffed a breath through your nose before you hung your head the slightest bit. "Says who?"

"Says me.” Both hands held your face now, bringing your attention back to Miguel’s divinely cut features as he tried to speak some sense into you. “The man you said you loved. The bastard son of the man you were runnin' from." His thumbs rubbed soothing paths along your cheekbones. “You know you’re done runnin’, too. Why else would you come back here?”

And maybe there was some truth to those words. Why did you come back here? Were you tired of the road? Tired of the gun fights, the robbing, the lying? Is that why you trekked your horse down these familiar roads without even realizing it until you saw that old church stretching above the rising sun? Or maybe you were following threads of your fate, wandering to the tune of your South-flying heart when your chest finally got too cold after ten years without light.

Yeah, maybe you were done running.

Your nose brushed his when you leaned into him. “You want me to stay, pretty boy?”

“I’ll make you stay. Sheriff’s promise. Besides,” Miguel murmured. His forehead pressed to yours and his eyes fell closed before the next whisper changed everything: “Te amo.”

Your eyes watered, so you let them fall closed, too. The barest of laughs broke through your quivering breaths. It was relief that flooded you, and those two little words were the ark that raised you up out of your misery and confusion of the world. You felt like you could breathe. Like you meant something for once. Like maybe the hymns and verses might have been based on truth.

“Well,” you started, leaning into the summer touch wiping away your autumn tears, “why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“I should’ve. I really should’ve.” Miguel laughed something warm and loud when you yanked him in for a hug and peppered him with salty kisses all over his face. “H-Hey, hey, you didn’t give me an answer!”

“Forgot the question, Sheriff,” you mumbled as you squeezed him. “Ask again?”

Miguel scoffed fondly before kissing your earlobe and murmuring into your ear. “You feel like kickin’ up your feet and giving up on running, trouble?”

You grinned to yourself and returned the kiss.

“I do.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #atsv imagine #atsv reader insert #male reader insert #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel x male reader #male!reader #atsv male!reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv x you #miguel x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n

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50cal-fullauto-astarion · 10 months

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↮ for the sake of having you near [one]

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ]

captain john price x f!veteran!reader (no use of 'y/n') 5.3k words

cw: descriptions of gun violence & gunshot injuries, reader is an amputee & the same age as price, foul language, mentions of terminal cancer, extremely divorced-but-still-in-love behavior from two people that consider one another soulmates(some of these aren't out-and-out cw's, but points that deserve noting) ↮ Twenty years you had known John, and for seventeen of them you were married. After a career-ruining injury in the field, you were forced out of the service, and the marriage did not survive your survival. But: when John goes on leave, he always finds his way home to you. (and a quick shout-out to @alittleposhtoad who's listened to me hoot and holler for days on end about price and the type of man he is, yelling back and forth like banshees circling something beloved lol. thank you posh!)

When John returns from deployment or mission, the world sharpens. Your senses focus. Your blood courses stronger, smoother through your veins. Without even seeing him, you are transmogrified–made stronger, prouder, incendiary–as if proximity to the reckoning that is legend-walking Captain Price makes you whole.

You roll your eyes. The grandiosity is a bit embarrassing, but he always brought that out in you. Always made you feel like a little girl making doe eyes at the crucified son of god during Christmas service. You’re switching laundry, it’s pissing down rain, and he’s surely parked the Jeep Cherokee he’s had since 2007 right in the center of the driveway, simply to be irritating.

There are keys in the door, and his voice calls out your name the moment he’s stepped through the threshold.

Your hands pause pulling the laundry basket onto your hip before you call back. Despite your chiding, you sensed him before he even made himself known.

The bitter divorcée says, That’s because you were married to him seventeen years.

The girl that still loves her dearest, oldest friend swats at that thought, a cat soaked in hackles-raising indignation. Shut up, shut up, even the rain falls straighter when he’s home.

“In the back, John.” You force projection into your voice, tranquility, and go to meet him in the foyer. “Shit, would you look at you,” you hum, trying not to stay too terribly amused at the drowned-rat look of your ex-husband. “Long walk from the car to the door?”

He’s a bit blue in the lip, and soaked to the bone under his skullcap and fleece-lined leather bomber. From ten paces, you can tell his fingers are numb plucking at the strings of his boots. But he gives you that raggedy, affable tramp grin of his from under the chops, and raises his brows. Always able to turn on the charm of a boy.

“Box tortoise in the road,” he chuckles, though it’s marrow-aching with exhaustion. “Had to jump out and help the poor bastard before he got washed out into the creek.”

“Jesus wept, so you were playing around on the bridge.” Admonishment doesn’t live in that statement, only comprehension. Of course, he’d stopped to save a damned tortoise. John loves underdogs.

You were one of them. You are one of them.

He looks up and catches your eye, and you’re plagued by the uncanny feeling he’d read your mind and heard that thought.

You’re too well-trained to show discomfort. Not in the face of him—the man once so inextricably interwoven with you that your hand on his chest was his hand, that his eyes closed as you fell asleep.

Your prosthetic leg drags a bit as you shift, and you are forced to remember why that no longer holds water.

“Get your arse in the bath, and I’ll throw something together for you to eat,” you tell him, easy as. If he looks away as your eyes brush across the bruises below his sockets, you do not mention it. It’s something that sits in the soul of him, a stone round the neck, and not so easily fixed with simple respite. “Good deal?”

He drops his elbows on his knees, huffing, shaking his smirking head. Just a small break, a fond one. “Yeah, Prem. Sounds like a good deal.” He looks up at you from the corner of his eye, crow’s feet less delicate in his skin than they had been last you’d seen him, looking like the life you’d missed out on.

You were once a woman called Premonition, and it was a moniker that carried and levied a heavy weight. Lieutenant Price was another name you had shed, six years ago, when there was not a dark, disgusting corner of the globe you wouldn’t follow your husband without hesitation.

You had found each other practically baby-faced, possibly stupid (who at that age does not fall under the phrase young, dumb, and full of cum), when youth allowed wild optimism to think the world could easily be saved once and for all. Reality was quick to beat that notion from both your hides, but never the goal. It absolutely wasn’t harmed by the fact that the two of you had found anchorage in one another—married after only three incredibly brief weeks.

God, your parents and his father had been so upset. Furious. In retrospect, it made sense. But, at the time, weathering the two years it took for them to warm to the sudden marriage was reinforcing—the two of you against the world now a mentality made law, and both were hungry for the conflict it brought. Then two years melted into five, ten, seventeen, and when the end came, your parents mourned.

John lumbers up the stairs–after passing the duffel bag to you when you stick your hand out expectantly–and his steps are heavy, but the stairs are solid. Together, you’d bought this former rectory as a foreclosure. The walls and ceiling were falling in, the wooden floors bloated and warped. Nature creeping in through the cracks. And then, together, you’d rebuilt it, when there was less demand and obligation tied to your combined time.

There was not a stick of timber from the subfloor to the exposed rafters that had not been put there by John’s hands. A carpenter by passion, he’d spent precious months tearing apart and replacing the skeleton of your home, giving it a chance to live another two hundred years. You’d learned to hang drywall, to mud the joints. To replace plumbing, and put down flooring and tile. Little by little, the nigh-on-dead house of worship had risen from its own ashes, and it had come to reflect its owners.

As the divorce finalized, John had intended to find himself a flat–in London, not Somerset–and the clawing-desperate love you still held for him demanded you speak out.

When you’re home between missions, just come back to the fucking house. You’re a grown man, you ought not be living in a grubby little bachelor’s flat. The indignity of it–absolutely not.

Once you’ve left his duffel in the laundry room, you move to the kitchen pantry. John Price is a man that is not difficult to please. Had you not intimately known the corners of his mind, the utter vastness of that untamed wilderness, you might even venture to call him a simple man. He is anything but, but his pleasures sometimes are.

It became ritual in those early years (when you were both poor as church mice and your salaries poured twin into the rectory) to come off deployments and welcome one another home with soup. Tomato soup, sharp cheddar melted into it, alongside toasties with swiss cheese crisped on the outer side of one slice of bread.

Greasy, heavy, hearty, and warm. Cheap, most importantly back in the early days, and reliable—you remember piling up on the full-sized mattress that sat directly on the floor of the would-be master suite, back in the day, dunking halves of your sandwiches in the same repurposed margarine tub of soup, laughing and talking and leaving behind foreign lands.

The first time he made it for you after the initial separation, you were able to hold it together long enough to eat and thank him and smile, but nearly immediately afterward, you locked yourself in your walk-in closet and cried on the floor for thirty scorching minutes.

In the present, he trots down the stairs in a henley and flannel pajamas, chest hair peeking from his collar. He looks fresh, but exhausted. “I was hoping that was what you were making,” he groans, entering the kitchen, coming around your side to look over your shoulder. “You put–?”

“Cheddar, hot sauce, worcestershire, and garlic in it?” you finish for him, looking at him from under your brow, moving to the next pan over the flipped the toasties. “Aye, John.”

He spreads his hands in mock surrender, a smile pulling at his mouth. He always asks, and you never forget. It’s the way it’s always been–minus his hand not being on your hip, and his lips not pressing into your shoulder.

Your stomach clenches, but you don’t let it show. He’d been very careful to stop doing that. It had been his second nature, to touch you whenever he could. It had once been yours, as well. It was hard for both of you to carve it out of your joint muscle memory. The procedure always felt botched, and every time your hands twitched toward one another, you knew it was not going to ever fully heal.

There are just some infections you learn to live around. The pair of you were more one person than you ever were two.

On opposite sides of the kitchen table–a beautiful piece John had crafted from the rectory’s old, stately doors–you ate in relative silence, the sound system murmuring along with old American country-western songs in the background, rain slapping against the windows bricks of your home. This is where work talk would’ve happened, once upon a time.

Now, silence festers in the grave of it. It’s hard to help yourself through it.

All it took was one bad call—a microsecond-long error in an AQ safehouse in Beirut—and the complete totality of your life evaporated before your eyes. A scared kid, a human-trafficked baby turned child soldier, with a shotgun in his arms, hiding behind a door.

It is still bizarre to you, the way your eyes widened, your hand reached for your radio. How your legs were knocked out from under you, and you were deafened. You looked toward the kid–he’d dropped the shotgun, but he still glared–and stupidly, you told him you were here to help, but you just couldn’t stand up. Like one of your knees was gone, because it was.

One of your sergeants shot the kid in the eye. His head slammed back into the wall before his chin met his chest. You were furious and confused and cold.

“How’re the boys?” you ask, blinking past the medevac, the lost weeks on life support after the difficult amputation, the first time you saw John, so starved of sleep his eyes had turned black.

John stops eating now, pushing his spoon around his soup, served now in separate bowls that look like plates that look like bowls. “Fine,” is all he can tell you. His shoulders go tight, and a flintiness briefly flashes in his eyes, before it melts into nonexistence.

The most you could get out of him anymore was to ask if his boys were okay. He’d give a gruff, reluctant yeah, and offer no more than that. You dread the day that question is met with silence.

“How’s Simon?” you push, suddenly sharp in the mouth, wanting to draw a drop of blood, to needle him until the pain sends fireworks through his pain receptors. Nothing can get to him like name-dropping his first lost boy.

Christ took on apostles the way John takes on war-makers.Even yourself, a Mary Magdalene now stricken from the record without remorse to sate the demands of the beast’s nature. Endless is his grace, his ability to build trust, and his dogmatic perseverance.

But, in his line of work, that begs the question: if the apostles were meant to serve Christ and spread his word, and a war-maker is willing to fight, kill, and die for Captain John Price, does that–in this hypothetical, mirror-flipped simile–mean that where Christ died to wipe the slate clean, John must live on long past his followers?

You’ve never liked the roads that question leads your mind down. The answers are unkind, but not unlikely.

He drops his spoon with a clatter against his bowl, giving you a hard look, a rictus smile sitting under subzero eyes. It’s a warning. It’s the Captain, teeth bared. The Lieutenant rises in you, the one person unafraid enough to grab his collar and heel him, and you lean forward, meeting his look.

Locked in a stalemate, neither of you budge. He had to stop talking shop after your discharge. It was the nature of the beast.

You knew it, he knew you knew it. The fucking world was at stake, and no matter how intimately you were acquainted with Captain Price’s history being the lover to shadows, secrecy, and sacrifice–no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears you poured into his neverending crusade–you were removed from the life. It was no longer yours to know. Big red classified stamps across his brain.

Duty before death, death before dishonor.

Your dinner ends in tense silence and skyrocketed blood pressure, your eyes strangers to one another. Alone and Forsaken by old Hank curls through your kitchen.

An act of contrition, John takes your dishes to the sink and washes them before stepping out on the covered patio to light a cigar. You check his laundry, and start the walk to lock up and turn the lights down.

Alone and forsaken by fate and by man. Oh Lord, if you hear me, please hold to my hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you snap under your breath, punching the sound system off, before blacking the kitchen lights. For a moment, you stand in darkness, your heart pounding, anger coursing through your veins. Then you go to your bed, leaving John a silhouette and an ember, watching a dark storm from across the garden.

The guest bedroom Price has not quite come to call his own, lacking the nerve and comfort to do so, was originally meant to be a child’s.

The rectory was full of empty rooms and outbuildings, and it turned into a game trying to figure out what to do with them. Those were good times–keeping you tangled up with him in bed, leaving love bites across your shoulders and breasts, throwing proposals back and forth. Some practical, some ridiculous.

Some kind of study–a cigar room (“If you think I’m going to smoke indoors after all the sheetrock work you did.”). Home gym–stripper pole gymnasium (“I can see you up there already, John, putting on shows for me.”).

It had come down to a simple matter of maths. “Three rooms,” you’d started, sucking and kissing hickeys into the skin above his collarbones, “three kids.”

“Three? Sounds like a lot.”

“Three’s a lucky number. Holy, even. Whole world is built around three’s.”

“Death’s come in three’s. Doesn’t sound all that lucky.”

“That’s only because sex and death sell, media doesn’t cover good things happening. They come in three’s, too.”

He’d bowed his head, sliding back into your sopping wet cunt, and found your mouth. “Three rooms, three kids. Alright. Glad we got that sorted,” he’d purred, basking in your knowing look and pleasured sounds.

You had a way of feeling the future before it happened, but somehow the wreckage of what was to come between the two of you had missed you completely. John thought it was some sort of glitch in the matrix. Maybe you weren’t supposed to lose your leg, get knocked out of the service and the only life either of you’d ever known.

Then again, maybe you were supposed to die in Beirut, and he’s lucky he has you at all, no matter the size of the bitter gulf between you.

He tosses and turns in what had ended up a guest bedroom, since there were no Price children running around, requiring housing. Insomnia eats at him with a particular frenzy, a measure sharper than it does normally. It didn’t do him any favors to imagine the little furniture he’d wanted to build for this room, or to turn around the imagining of you playing with a fat infant on a soft-colored rug in this room in his mind.

There was a plan, once. Beat endlessly and ferociously against a faceless onslaught of evil—let the people who walk among the light lie ignorant as your united work bloodied the unknown dark—until your bodies could no longer keep up, old and fat and slow.

At that point retirement was to go into effect, followed by a moneyed slide through Europe, and Asia, and wherever else caught your fancies. Then the purchase of a small place in the countryside—hell, maybe something little and manageable on the Isle of Wight—where, together, you’d warmly and laughingly succumb to alcoholism. See if cirrhosis, alcohol poisoning, or lung cancer got which one of you first.

But time kept advancing, never heeding those little, pastoral plans. You lost everything, assimilation to civilian life abrasive and painful. John was pulled into the dark, lived under and in it and through it. Made deals with plenty of different devils.

There was suffering and silence.

The marriage was a casualty. The kill was confirmed between your dour lawyers in a dull office, while he was out of country. And that was it. Seventeen years, close the tab.

He pushes himself out of bed, intent on moving, doing something. Maybe fetching a drink, maybe go out to your sculpting shed, see if the Glock 19 hidden under the desk is still in shape. It will be—but he wants something easy to fuss over.

An easy thing to fuss over is not what he gets when he sees blue light from under the crack of the master suite’s door. Telly’s on. He can clearly hear Anne Robinson presenting The Weakest Link, and his shoulders unlock. Didn’t know you still slapped that on when you couldn’t sleep. It used to be a game, prattling out the answers while the contestants flubbed about.

He heads downstairs to fetch two heavy-bottomed tumblers, glugging two fingers of scotch each–Glenmorangie. Decent sipping scotch, room temp, but a bit too sweet for his taste.

Upstairs, he raps on the door with two knuckles, and waits until you call on him. He’d always knocked, but nowadays, there are more upsetting states to find you in than indecent. “Hey,” he starts, gesturing with the glasses he holds in the fingers of one hand. “Saw light under your door, couldn’t sleep either. Fancy a nightcap?”

Christ, though, but aren’t you as stunning as the day he met you. Maybe even more. Age had allowed you to grow into your bone structure–put an elegance in your features, a wisdom in your eyes. Your beauty had only settled into you more deeply, or his foolish heart had only grown to embrace and envelope the vines his love for you had wound about his heart.

“Yeah, alright,” you mutter, voice crackly with exhaustion, beckoning him over with an ambivalent motion of the hand. He rounds to your side of the bed–the side you’d slept on from the very first night you’d snuck into his barracks room and shimmied under his blankets, a thief in the night with a wicked grin–and holds out a glass, never letting his eyes stray to your prosthetic and glove propped against the far side of your nightstand.

After a sip, you look up, brows raised in question, and he shrugs, “The Nectar d’Or called out to me.”

“I’m sure.” It’s skeptical, but a smile pulls at your mouth. It must’ve pleased you, because you roll onto your hip, and turn the blankets on his side of the king sized mattress. “Sleepover?”

“Mindreader,” he hums, obliging as casually as he can. He knows you will not touch in the night, and that a barricade of pillows will be erected betwixt your bodies like sandbags on the beach at Normandy, but to even hear your breathing as he closes his eyes is a gift.

“So I’ve been accused,” you laugh, a little warmer, eyes lidded comfortably, watching him sink down against the unbearably welcoming, cool mattress. Premonition. Future feeler. Hell of a woman. In a world numbering eight billion lives, he’d never come into contact with another such as you.

He settles back against the down pillows, grunting at his stiff back, but settles, training his eyes on the screen and the overdone BBC production. Anne poses the question, formatted on the bottom of the screen, “What war-time song by Vera Lynn included the words 'Don't know where, don't know when…?’”

“It’s obvious: ‘We’ll Meet Again,’” you sigh into your glass, the same moment John rolls his eyes and says, “‘We’ll Meet Again,’ even an idiot would know that.”

And if his eyes stray toward yours–and if your eyes catch his from the corner–neither of you remark upon it. Though you do remark upon the poor contestant answering, “‘We’ll Come Again!’” with all the audacious certainty of a homegrown fool.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” – “So proud, and what the fuck for?” your voices blend together.

September, 2005. Between John, you, and the rectory, there is no money. Not when the roof desperately needs replacing, not when there is a hole in the master ensuite’s floor that goes straight down into the dining room. John has a mind for making the most of money—your mom would call him a cook: a man that turns shit into food like miracles of fish and bread, versus a wizard, who is an idiot that turns food into shit before it even hits your lips.

His dad was a carpenter, as well, and framing was his trade. He made very little, but tried very hard for John. So he could live a happy life, become an upstanding man.

(He misses the old bastard. He’d thought the world of you. And, fuck. John’s throat cinches tight every time he thinks about you demanding Price the elder move into the rectory two years ago, after the cancer diagnosis. You’d taken care of him, seen him off quietly and comfortably. John wouldn’t’ve gotten to see him nearly as much as he did through the process, were it not for your perfunctory decision that his father not die in a care home.)

(Abso-fucking-lutely not. John, I want Terry here. Have you ever been in one of the homes? They all look like ghosts, just sitting in the halls, having fuck all done for them. I can have a room ready for him in a day.)

(I promise, honey, I know you’re trying. Let me help.)

(The pet name was a rare slip for you, but he was drunk and near to sobbing, broken with weakness and helpless mourning.)

At twenty-five, dead-broke, married four years, and almost two years past selection, he takes you shopping at Tesco. Meeting you at the back of the red Honda CRX your parents had handed down to you years ago, his big hand finds yours like music box notes—perfectly played and memorized for as long as the mechanism still turns. He starts dropping ingredients for your mental list.

“Angel hair pasta, olive oil—we have garlic at the house, right? Parmesan—“

He snaps his hand back the moment you snap yours, and you both blink.

It’s not September, 2005. It’s not a crisp afternoon, it’s right off a downpour. He’s not twenty-five, he’s forty-two, and so are you. The CRX is long gone to the scrap yard, in its place is the Cherokee, well loved, well maintained.

Swears to Christ that you must be made of Agent Orange, because his fingertips suffer a fire that doesn’t burn from brushing yours. Had it always felt that way to touch you? He’s unsure. There was always something–always fire–but. He thinks of liquor and tolerance levels; thresholds lower after periods of abstinence, causing the latent reunion to make the impact that much more profound.

You both stuff your hands in your pockets. You retake your composure quickly, glancing over your shoulder at the signage on the front of the building. “Ah, hell, then. I didn’t want to go to Waitrose, anyway,” you say with a smirk, shaking the eerie spirit-walk of arrival here by rut-worn memory, absolving John’s empty head. “What else did we need?”

“Crushed red pepper, but I think there’re three or four unopened ones in the pantry,” he snorts, sliding into his unflappable default by force.

Pasta aglio e olio. Dinner for povos wanting to feel fancy. A staple meal, in those early days, easy to return to. Comforting.

He doesn’t dare allow his hands out of his pockets until he is pushing a trolley, dutifully following you down the aisles. Incredible, how easy it is to fall into well-worn patterns. He wonders, usually when he least wants to, if the two of you are doing yourselves disservices by remaining so close to one another. If certain behaviors have only had a tourniquet put around them, but were never cut off completely the way they should’ve been.

Should one of you move on? You certainly could. At any time you wanted to, really. You’ve always been stunning, whip-smart, and ready-loaded with any number of retorts, quips, and sarcastic commentaries up your sleeve. There is not a single room you step into where you can’t strike up a conversation and leave with a new lifelong ally in your back pocket. The world is your oyster, you’d have your pick of pearls.

But, for him? There’s a bruise-soft spot in himself that knows you were his one-and-done. He will never have another love, great or small.

Beyond that, there lies no rest for the wicked, and John’s hands are tied with very wicked work.

Small bead of resentment that he hates and tries to kill wells up in him at that, following you through produce. He says, “Should get tea while we’re here, it’s low at the house,” but he fights against thinking of weight and loss. Fights against thinking of anger, mourning, instability.

“Ah, shit, ta,” you say, pointing his way in acknowledgement and thanks. If he can crush it—while he carries on chatting, watching you grab things, wanting to pull you in and kiss the pit of your elbow like he used to as you squint a what the fuck look at the price of plums—he will rend into harmless powder the thought that if you had just cleared the room, if you had not always breached first, then life would’ve been completely different.

He wouldn’t have lost his partner, his other half, the load bearing wall that kept the world and all of its horrendous, heavy sin from crushing down—he wouldn’t find himself so stupidly angry over things no one could control or explain, because you would still be there, the two of you pulling apart and gutting the time bombs threatening the world before they blew and gorged on innocent blood—he wouldn’t—

All at once, he snaps out of it, cold with guilt on the back of his neck like illness. But he says without missing a beat, “No, I don’t think anything will make progress come the next referendum. It’ll probably be more faffin’ about, watching the PM wank off on BBC.”

Your shoulders tense, nodding. He catches you looking at him from the corner of your eye, and he wonders, brief and tight, if you’d read his intrusive, untrue thoughts. If you did or did not, you say, “Honestly, that’s probably it. We’ll end up paying for more parties, meanwhile the NHS is having the piss taken.”

“That’s for fuckin’ certain,” he grunts in agreement. He’s scraped hollow, now that the nonsense has passed. Stone solid, no one on the outside would know. Feels like rot that those ideas would even dare crawl into the far sides of his mind. He doesn’t truly think them. He feels guilt, not bitterness. Sorrow, untouched by rage. All of it he keeps to himself.

There’s a bit of an unheated, bantering tiff on the quality of Tesco’s fresh pasta—whether or not it’s just pure shit or if it falls into the shadow of public health hazard—and things continue smoothly. John can’t help stealing glances at you, tucking them away like snapshots.

The dancer’s shape of your hips in movement as you effortlessly find your footing, eyes locked on your target. Your deliriously capable and steady hands, mid-reach. The moon-slivers of your teeth beneath your lips as you speak softly, just for him. You treat him like you’re the only two in the audience, and the world was a show made for whispered commentary between you two.

You always had. John relishes the fact that, even now, still, he is the only other soul in your opera box.

Unfortunately, there’ve been groundlings that attempt looks.

John isn’t enraptured in the label of canned haggis he’s stumbled across, discarded in the produce stand holding grapes, but he’s clicked-in and curious if it was just…brought in from the outside and abandoned? And, shit, these ingredients. Carboxymethylcellulose sounds like readymade cancer, even if it’s just a preservative. Tocopherols sound like doing whippets off a can of hairspray.

Sounds like something Johnny would try once, honestly, if only to see if he could light his belches on fire. Tactical. Something to think about.

“Thanks much, but I’m set, I do believe,” you say, sort of lightly, like you’re not paying attention on purpose, and it registers in John’s hindbrain. An old scratch, deep-set.

A different voice, young and plucky, “Well, if you change your mind, I know it can be kind of tricky. They’re a strange fruit, yeah?”

“Billie Holiday fan, then? Wouldn’t expect it from a kid your age.” Your tone is dubious. For good reason, ‘Strange Fruit’ is hardly the song one should choose to, what? Reference for feeling up produce? John rolls his eyes, turning the canned haggis over looking for an expiry date.

“Hah, maybe not, but I’m hardly a kid, swear it. My mum even lets me out past eleven,” the kid jokes, and there it is. The tone–flirtation, a leaning-in–puts John into an old gear, forcing the can back in the grapes, back straightening, turning on his hip to next turn on his heel, with a raised-brow expression worn on his face that is friendly and questioning, but the query posed is do you really want to be fucking hitting on my wife.

The moment he catches sight of you and your closed off body language, holding an avocado, as a skinny, little twenty-something boy in a grocer’s apron flirts with you, he’s washed over in cold. It ripples straight down his back, sourly bunching his skin. He has to push out a breath to get relief from it.

“Good for you. Hopefully that means you’re doin’ your own laundry and paying your bills, too, then?” you ask, a pointed and unsaid challenge to back down. Uninterested.

You’re not his wife. He can’t put on that friendly-not-friendly smile and come to stand next to you, watch the advances wither and die in the face of him as you keep a keen smirk under wraps.

You return to him though, sans avocados, and search his face. “Alright, John?” you ask, stepping close to his end of the trolley. Over your shoulder, the kid sees John, his eyes widening, and he snaps his eyes to the farthest wall, scurrying back into the produce stockroom.

“Found a can of haggis in the grapes,” he half-lies, “gave me the creeps.”

Your face scrunches, but he can tell you don’t buy it completely. “Fuckin’ disgustin’, did someone bring it in from outside? Do you think they just left it there?”

That, however, is enough to get him to snort. Figures. He doesn’t know if it was the twenty years together, or maybe something frillier–more leaning in to the idea of higher power that he doesn’t believe in or a thread of fate he’s spent his life fighting against–but John can’t be convinced that the two of you were anything but soulmates. Too closely woven-together in thought and action to be anything but split from the same original body you were both denied.

He shrugs. “Who the fuck knows. Can’t tell what the freaks out there are thinking, what their awful little plans are.”

You laugh, raising a brow with a smile pulling at your mouth, and he thinks with a measure of soft sorrow, yeah, soulmates, I reckon.

#john price #captain price #captain john price #captain price x reader #call of duty #call of duty mw2 #cod mw2 #mw2 #my work #im trying to format my posts so they look prettier like yeah bud put a lil more effort in #also reader is 40 im just saying that here straight up she is the same age as price #and they are still massively in love like beanie babies that are soaking wet bc they got left in the driveway during a rain storm

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silverynight · 2 years

Text

If someone asks, Katsuki will deny that he enjoys way too much looking at Izuku wearing his clothes. He realizes this for the first time one day when the boy complains about being cold and Katsuki is too weak not to do something about it so he immediately takes his hoodie off and hands it to him.

"But Kacchan, you hate being cold–"

"Shut up, nerd! This means nothing. I did it because I hate hearing you being a crybaby about everything..."

He feels relieved when Izuku accepts that explanation and puts the hoodie on immediately. Although it's really far from the truth.

To Katsuki's pleasant surprise, he doesn't take it off even though they're back in the dorms again; Izuku seems to have forgotten he's wearing something that's not his and keeps walking around the building until he reaches the common room, still wearing Katsuki's hoodie.

It's too big for him, but it makes him look even cuter (even though it seems impossible) Katsuki enjoys the view as he listens to Izuku's adorable mumble follow him close until they both end up on the couch.

There's something about Izuku wearing his clothes that mesmerizes Katsuki; the possessive part of him almost purrs with delight when Uraraka's brows quirk up with curiosity when she notices.

Katsuki can't help but smirk, he's absolutely smug about it; it's a way to tell everyone else that Izuku belongs to him even though they're not actually dating.

Although he wishes they were.

"Deku-kun, why are you–" fortunately, Uraraka stops as soon as she notices Katsuki's murderous glare over Izuku's shoulder.

He knows what would happen if someone reminded Izuku he's wearing Katsuki's hoodie, he'd blush adorably and apologize for not giving it back sooner and he'd take it off as quickly as possible.

Which is something Katsuki doesn't want to happen.

"Sorry, you were saying... Uraraka?"

"Nothing! I forgot!" She assures him, throwing a curious glance in Katsuki's direction. She's smart, she must suspect something already.

It's definitely a risk he's willing to take.

Suddenly, they're not the only ones in the common room; the others start noticing that Izuku is wearing something that's clearly not his.

Kirishima smiles knowingly at Katsuki to which he responds by narrowing his eyes at him. Which of course doesn't work at all to wipe the grin from his face.

It's really annoying.

"Are you cold, Midoriya?"

"Huh?"

Of course, Todoroki has to be the one to ruin everything.

"Shut up, half and half!" He can't help but blurt out and is a little bit surprised when the boy with mismatched hair ignores him completely.

"If you are, I can use my quirk to keep you warm, so you don't have to wear that ugly hoodie anymore..."

Ugly? That bastard...

"Oh, sorry, Kacchan! I forgot I was still wearing it!" As Katsuki thought, Izuku blushes and takes the hoodie off immediately before handing it back to him.

He tries not to look disappointed.

"Thank you!" Then he looks back at Todoroki with a huge smile and says: "Oh, don't worry! I'm not cold anymore!"

At least that bastard didn't get what he wanted after all. Katsuki puts the hoodie back on, smiling smugly as he realizes that it smells like Izuku now.

"You're welcome, nerd," he mumbles, trying to pretend it's not a big deal even though he's already planning how to make Izuku wear something of his again.

By the way Ashido is looking at him, she must have a couple of ideas already.

#bnha #mha #my hero academia #bkdk #bakugou katsuki #bakudeku #izuku midoriya

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universallychaoticpan · 1 year

Note

i am in love with your work whaa-

i have a request- if you're free and if you like the idea of course hahahaha- i have no idea if you're comfy with this type of thing, because i haven't seen many people (I've seen none) do this type of stories- because it's always the reader that gets hurt- like man I'm tired of always barely surviving a fanfic 😭😭

so my request is dazai x reader where dazai gets injured or it can be about his scars, anything angsty (again, if you're comfortable with it) it can have a fluffy ending (preferably) but I'll leave that to you!

i love your work and i hope you're doing well <3 sending a lot a lot of love to you❤️

If you're familiar with my work, you know I love turning tropes on their heads, so I am delighted to write this! Also thank you so much for your sweet words, it means a lot knowing people enjoy my work. I hope you enjoy! <33

Years ago, you and Dazai had learned that the lives you led kept you close to death at all times. It took a stubborn will to live that way; it took someone who refused to die, even after so much- it took someone who dared to defy death day after day and continue breathing.

You had so many scars between you to prove how much death craved you. In your skin, anyone could see just how desperately death yearned to claim you as its own. You knew every story in every scar, knew every memory they carried in your skin and in his. You were used to his scars, loved them even.

But god, how he scared you.

All you were aware of was the pounding heart in your chest, a bird desperate to escape the cage of your ribs, to fly away in a storm of blood. But you couldn't stop here; Dazai had already lost too much blood, the gash on his forehead dark and foreboding as you strained against your body to bring him home. You didn't want to think about how long he had been bleeding in the street before you had come, didn't want to think about how he would have been safe if he hadn't insisted on going out that night alone. And even when he was someplace safe, when he was in the familiar confines of your home, you were unable to relax. You brushed tears from your eyes, chastising yourself as you cleaned the blood away. You reminded yourself that tears would not help anyone now, least of all Dazai. But you couldn't bear to look at him; you couldn't stand to look at his face, too still and too soft, void of soul and life. You worked without thinking, watched your hands move of their own accord. You watched your fingers recall years of practice, years of stitches and sutures, and you begged him to be alright. You prayed that you would be enough to save him. You had to be enough

It took you an hour to finish- 60 agonizing minutes of watching for a hint of life, 60 minutes of being disappointed when there was nothing.

You missed him more than anything, then. You missed the man who could always take your mind far from your troubles, the boy who had once upon a time stitched your own wounds and given you your own story-laden scars. You missed the simple pleasure of his voice, the simplicity of groaning at his bad jokes. And with every passing moment, your fear grew; you feared you were too late.

So you held his comatose body close, the silence deafening as you felt your heart breaking. A life without your first love, without your dearest friend- to you it was a fate worse than death.

"You're too quiet. Usually I can't ever get you to shut up." Your voice was thick with tears, but anything was better than the silence. "I used to love the quiet and now you've gone and ruined that for me too, you asshole." You chuckled bitterly, swiping a hand across your nose. "What a dick move, getting me so attached to you, you maniac. You better wake up."

"I won't beg. I won't beg you, because you aren't worth it. But I swear I will never hate anyone more than you if you leave me here." You stared down at his still face, and you broke.

"You bastard," you sobbed. "If you die here I will never forgive you; I swear that much, Osamu Dazai." Burring your face in his neck, you tried to lose yourself in him as you cried gently.

"Please," you whispered. "Please don't leave me. You're all I have now.

Please, Osamu- I'm afraid."

Your head rested gently on his chest, searching for the sound of his beating heart, panicking in the split second you heard nothing in between the beats.

And then you felt his hand come to rest atop your head.

"You know, I really thought you'd be the one comforting me after I nearly died." A voice so weak in your ear had never broken and mended you so surely as his did then. Eyes had never seen right through you, hands had never held you like you were as precious as his did when he brought his arms around you.

And he was smiling, weakly, but he was there once again; like an ember, you saw him fighting to come back to you, to return once again and remind you:

Death would not steal him from you yet.

#dazai x reader #bsd x readfer #osamu dazai x reader #dazai osamu x reader #bungo stray dogs x reader #dazai x reader angst #bsd hurt comfort

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odue-sp · 1 year

Text

Katsuki Bakugou x Male Reader

Part two

tagged; @maddymints09

TW: alot. Abuse, Stockholm, pills, m/n break down. Forcing.

That smile on his face... He was mocking him, right? Anger grew by the second as he reached over and shoved him into the wall. No one heard but the smile only grew. "How sad," his hands caressed his face before gently rubbing his eye bags that was hidden with make up. "That lighting changed but it's still the same," Katsuki growled before raising his fists. "Shhh." He pressed his finger his his lips. His eyes gleamed with interest. "You want to ruin my wedding?"

That hurt. God, that hurts. His hands trembled as he lowered his hands, letting go. "Good boy," he ruffled his hair as the other couldn't help but cry. Kneeling down and clenching his wedding suit.

"How interesting." How cold it was.

A few months passed, the two newlyweds seemed happy. They eagerly showed off their rings and love for each other. The wife always seem to explain how they met them slowly went on a ramble about how she 'changed' M/n. How she 'fixed' him. It became uncomfortable as she caressed him like a trophy. Then it clicked for Katsuki who stared in disbelief.

She didn't fix him at all. He was just playing her. He saw the way she looked at her. The same way he used to look at him.

Interested. It looked like affection but by now he knew the difference. He couldn't help but laugh as she talked. Anger showed in her face. She clearly heard him. "What are you laughing about," M/n gently held her face, pulling her towards him as he gave her a gentle kiss. Shutting her rage. "Shhh. You don't want to ruin this day," his eyes widened watching. She became flustered as she shook her head, Izuku covered his face as his mother blushed at the bold affection. "Good girl." He whispered but Katsuki heard.

That feeling of being used came up again.

Again another month went by. She was pregnant...

M/n's eyes fixated on his reaction. Before a mocking smile appeared. He got the reaction he wanted. He walked out, he needed air, no one seemed to notice as M/n slipped away.

"Katsuki, something wrong?" His smile grew as he grabbed his hand as he tried to hurry to leave. It was quick. He punched the devil Infront of him. His eyes widened as he saw the blood drip down his face and his shirt... Again, and again. All of those emotions raged out. He felt something.

"Shhh," his eyes watered as he stopped. How he always stopped him. His hands reached over, ruffling his hair. Choked sobs ranged out. "Good boy," his eyes widened as he lifted his head. "You've always been such a good boy," he whispered as he brought Katsuki into a kiss. He shoved him away, of course, he was married! "What the fuck!?"

His face was barely injured, he didn't hit him? He looked at the floor besides him.

Maybe it was because he couldn't let go. How many years did he give to the man beneath him. His eyes shook. Trying to be angry, sad, or even pathetic. Hurt him, make him feel all those years of pain... He couldn't. "I need to go take my wife home now. I have a child on the way, ya know." He carefully removed Katsuki and went to leave.

He grabbed his wrist. "No." A raised eyebrow before a small laugh. "Come on, be a good boy and let go." It wasn't going to work anymore. It was too late to realize that.

"You're a bastard. You're a piece of shit," he whispered before his voice became louder. "You knew I liked you! I loved you yet you continue to do this! Is this fun?!" E/c eyes glared down at him, he was losing control, he knew this... Hands reached for him, before he could move he was quickly pinned down. "I hate you! I hate you so much!" He screamed in his face.

'Ah, this is a new one," his hands stuck as he struggled to touch his expression. His smile grew. "You're enjoying this? You're so broken you can even control your real self anymore," crack... Crack... Crack... "You're never going to be normal. I'm surprised Deku dealt with this." Shatter.

He was shoved off, he was strong for a quirkless. His hand reached for his throat. Choking him as he glared down at him. "Izuku loves me. He doesn't care how I am. Unlike you, you can't even love me truly. What makes you think I'd fall for someone pathetic as you?" His eyes grew dull. "And your wife? Does she know she can't fix you? You're that pathetic one thinking that's true!" The two threw insults all night until Izuku found them.

"Eh!? Kacchan! Aniki!" He rushed forward breaking them apart as they only glared at each other. "Enough!" He shouted glare at the two. "You two need to stop whatever this is! Aniki, you're married now! Kacchan, you should've stopped loving him long time ago!" He panted in anger. "Izuku," M/n reached for him but he was ignored. "Stop it. I've tolerated you enough." Shatter. "Wait... Wait, no." His hand grabbed onto his shirt. "You love me though? You're my precious brother." His voice shook as Izuku looked away.

"I can't bother trying to be a bridge between you two. I'm tired." He walked away.

There was tenseness between the two, despite trying his best to talk to Izuku, he was ignored. His wife seemed worried as she tried to get his attention. The only person that seem to calm him down was his mother who grew worried that he was spiraling back into his you get self. "Breathe," she cried seeing her son having a hard time adjusting to everything. His tears fell. "I'm not normal, mama. I'm so sorry, mama." His voice trembled as she hugged him trying to calm himself down.

"Baby, are you taking your meds?" She asked. No, his wife took them. She could fix him without them. She was trying, an effort was made but she couldn't help him. She was only making him worse. Katsuki stood at the bedroom door watching his wife shake in fear, his pills in her hands and he could see that they were full. "How long?" He spoke up making her jump. She stammered over her words before he snatched the pills away...

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" He shouted seeing the date of the pills. They were six years out of date. She tried to stop him but he stormed in. "Stop it! Hand those back! They never worked in the first place! I can fix him!" She shouted in tears as M/n saw the familiar bottle and flinched. "What the fuck did you do to my son?" His mother stared seeing how much M/n stared in fear at the bottle.

She cried trying to take the pills away. During the chaos, Katsuki shoved the pills in his mouth, keeping his nose and mouse close as he struggles to spit them out... Then he swallowed. He tried to vomit them out but was always stopped as his mother shouted at his wife. Izuku came in and Katsuki briefed him on what happened. His face twisted in terror. Six years... "Huff... Huff... Huff..." He dried heaved before crying. "What's wrong with me..." "Baby! I'll fix you! I promise," she shouted reached for him but she was blocked and locked out. She banged on the door crying.

It was a mess.

He was staying with his mother, who cried at the thought that her son was abused by someone she thought loved him. Her hands brushed his hair everytime he slept. She felt guilty. Izuku visited sometimes, whispering soft sorrys and silent sobs. The pills that were newly prescribed took alot out of M/n. His body was getting used to it but he always had a new dose; much higher.

"Are you sure?" Izuku asked his best friend who stared at the ground. His mother needed someone to watch M/n as she needed to go overseas for her husband. "He hurt you alot. Even before this all happened." Katsuki sighed. "I need some closure, I guess..." Izuku couldn't argue with that and nodded.

#male reader #male reader insert #x male reader #male y/n #pseudo's ff #seudo's ff #bakugou katsuki x male reader #bakugou katsuki #bakugo katuski #mha x male reader #mha x reader #mha bakugo katsuki #bnha x male reader #bnha katsuki

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