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honestsycrets · 4 months

Note

hi sy! first things first, you’re a fantastic writer. i am in LOVE with your western series! second, may i request an idea? it’s the 1920s, and miguel is one of the top mobsters in nueva york, while the reader is his mob wife. after an attempted hit from one of miguel’s rivals that nearly kills her and gabriella, the reader decides it’s time to her and little girl to skip town, but miguel will be damned if his family tries to leave him. cueeeee angst, drama, the whole shabang!

canary I: a threat | [miguel o'hara x reader x gabriel o'hara]

❛ pairing | miguel o'hara x reader, gabriel o'hara x reader

❛ type | double shot; 5k

❛ tags | non-monogamy, some angst, 1920s inspired piece, irish clan inspired piece, bootlegging and mention of hits, explicit, a depiction of killings, some jealousy, some trad-roles elements, f!reader, 1920s slang and Spanish not translated, time period birth control (cervical cap).

❛ sy’s notes | i have spent weeks staring at this piece. it's a bit longer than my usual works and for that reason i decided to split it up into two chapters. this piece takes on a little bit more of a generalized irish mob approach rather than italian. this chapter is more domestic than the subsequent one will be.

Miguel O’Hara hated it when his kills ran. No matter how many alleyways they ducked into, shoddily constructed fences they tumbled over, or crappy cars they tried to hitch a ride in, he always found them.

His fingers were blisteringly tight around his kill’s throat, sure to leave certain bruising if the man made it out alive. He wouldn’t. Not based on the blood that seeped over Miguel’s tanned hand. He gurgled underneath Miguel’s hand, the kill messier than he imagined. Any number of his hitmen could have carried out this contract but instead, his crisp white top was slathered in the contract kill of the week. He recalled the sudden memory of his hand on your slight waist, the kiss on the top of your head with the promise of his night. He snarled the memory away.

Should’ve just shot him, Miguel thought. Mierda.

With the fading of the man’s life, his choked grunts drifted into silence. Miguel allowed the man to slump over. Silence fractured, his world bursting with sound. The salt-laden wind whistled past his hair as ships sailed into the pier, carrying cargo, and his latest shipments. Bootlegged booze had its own benefits-- poor training and numbers among agents, for example. A crackle of an engine sped down the road was followed by the bright beams of an electric headlamp.

“¡Oye, Miguel!”

Of course. Under the bright moon that shone arrogantly in the dark sky, the figure came into focus. His polished suit was just a tad too big for his toned, but hardly muscular frame. Even in the darkness, he had the kind of smile that made people feel like they were the special ones. It matched the gentleness in his eyes behind that swoop of chestnut brown hair. If the feds published men of their color on army recruitment posters, he’d certainly make the cut. Handsome, but not too handsome. Strong, but not too strong.

“Gabe,” he breathed. “The lights.”

“Lights? The lights!” Gabriel looked back at his shiny black car. He bounced back toward the car, bellowing. “This a Spot boy? You did a number on him.”

“You sap. Could you be any louder?” Miguel threw aside. “Why are you here?”

“Thought you could use me tonight, big shot,” Gabriel said in that sugar-dipped tongue of his. It works less on Miguel than it had on you. It was oddly discomforting. As the days wore on, he loathed his brother’s silver tongue.

“I could use someone watching my girls.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, I was. They're sleeping." Gabriel booted the man, more than minced meat when Miguel was done with him. “You had some beef with him, huh?”

“No.” Miguel mumbled, looking at the man’s body rather than his own, something sharp hovering there. There was nothing he wanted less than to stand in the biting cold listening to his baby brother prattle on a moment longer. He wiped his blade on his once-was-crisp slacks and slid it back into its sheathe. “Let’s hit it.”

“Jake,” Gabriel said, an annoying rendition of an okay. Gabriel was full of shitty terms from his stint in the big house. Almost as many as he picked up at Miguel’s speakeasy.

“Say. Miguel?”

Gabriel’s voice was soft, almost strained. Miguel caught his eyes, knowing subconsciously what his brother would say. He sucked in a breath to calm himself from a reaction to thin, sharp words. They balanced on the point of a knife as Gabriel spoke them into existence.

“They're our girls.”

This setup wasn't going to last. One day, you'd probably settle with Gabe. Miguel jerked up to the sensation of your fingers ghosting his chest, twiddling around his inky black chest hair, gliding across scars. He senses the source of his disquiet, your small frame draped over his side, watching him with a foreign curiosity.

“Muñeca?” he murmured sleepfully, tucking a lock of your hair behind your ear. “What's it? Did Gabriel sleep in?”

He finds it hard to believe that his chirpy brother would do such a thing. Mornings were notoriously his favourite part of the day. Unlike Miguel, who shunned the light that streamed in from your thin curtains.

“Coppers took him in for questioning,” you murmured, leaning in to lay a small peckish kiss on his lips. That was quick. His eyes swept down to your lips, lingering there as you spoke. “Gabi said you’d come with me to iglesia.”

“Chingado. He passed the buck onto me.” Miguel groaned, dropping his head back onto the pillow, weighed down by such a stupid request. You thumbed the golden necklace he’d forgotten to take off, gliding one of your legs up his hirsute thighs. He finds himself hiking your leg higher up his thigh. “That’s what you woke me up for?”

“‘Course not,” you muttered. “I missed you last night. Where’d you go off to?”

“To finish intake.”

You didn’t believe that.

“Promise it didn’t have nothing to do with what Gabi got carted off for?” He holds you in a working gaze, something that tells you he isn’t about to answer something like that. You are his woman. Yet, some secrets aren’t ones that he’s willing to disclose. It could put you in a compromised position. Most men, namely the Italian boys, had enough sense not to drag a man’s family into problems between the mob and the clan but in this world, not everyone had sense.

“Miguelito, you’re scaring me.” Your breath quickened, palpable with your chest against his. His large hand encompassed the middle of your back, guiding small, consolatory circles.

“Some things you’re better off not knowing,” Miguel worked at an explanation. Some things like the amount of hits he was getting for Spot boys. The booze going missing from the speakeasy. Some of his girls licked off the street. Just-- some things. “Got it?”

“Long as it’s not another dame,” you mumbled, fisting his necklace around your fist, dragging him forward for emphasis. A smile tugged at his lips, somehow pleased with your response. “What? You been out the house more times than not.”

“I share you with my brother,” Miguel worked the back of his neck. “Better that I skip town than hear you moaning for him. Might hem him up one of these days.”

You laugh-- but Miguel doesn’t find a lick of it funny.

“You got me now,” your hands drifted up to Miguel’s massive shoulders. “How ‘bout this. You fill me all up for church, wear that spiffy dark blue suit. Then we take Lyla out to get her some cherry coke at the apothecary’s. Maybe I’ll even sing you a whole song today if you’re lucky.”

Church, again. Miguel rattled a groan. Of course, he couldn’t have one day off from frateurinizing with people who hated the fuck outta him. Church folk. He didn’t know why you insisted on going with people who openly called you loose.

“Can do without one of those things.”

“If you want me, you go to iglesia, Miguelito.”

West-Side Violence at All-Time High! Italian Enforcer found dead! The West clan’s Gabriel O’Hara facing added charges on suspicion of--

Tch. You interrupted the scowl on his face with a well-placed kiss to his cheekbone, sliding a piping hot mug of Joe before him. Wafts of steam warmed his cheeks. You set down his morning’s breakfast, a plate loaded with fats. No tamales today, but baked beans from a few well-established Irish wives in the area. You wiped your greasy fingers off on a dirtied apron. Miguel stabbed a hunk of sausage as you spoke.

“Gabi’d never do that. They’re trying to hem him up like that capo last month,” your voice quaked, strutting back toward the cabinets. “It’s too personal. He’d… fill ‘em up with lead sure, but a stabbing? It just don’t make sense.”

Sure didn't. Miguel dropped the paper to the side of the oak table, tracing lines of worry that grew into spiderwebs of panic across your forehead. You spoke so feverishly in defense of Gabriel, whose absence was palpable. He often talked about the latest hired singer, sneaking behind your waist for kisses on your nape when Miguel could barely drag himself out of bed in the morning after pulling all-nighters.

“I have someone on it.”

“I bet Papa did it.” His daughter-- or Gabriel’s-- they were never quite sure. He glanced to his foot where Lyla sat. A full seven-year-old, Lyla was a spitfire of a thing, her hair in a bouncy bob topped by a silky ribbon. She glanced up from the dreidel she was spinning around and around. His lips pulled into a minced smile. “What? He’s a liar.”

“Miguel.”

Couldn’t even eat in peace.

“Lyla,” Miguel gestured toward the door. “Go wake up Maeve. Go on kid, get.”

That kid had a smart mouth. He watches her roll her eyes, only budging when you supply her with a hunk of pan dulce. She takes a mean bite, eyes locked on Miguel as she hopped out, somehow less bothered than she was a few seconds ago. You closed the metal door behind your daughter, a hand balled up on the bend in your waist as you watched her skip down the stairs and out of view.

“Most girls don’t talk like that about their papas,” you mumbled. Your arms crossed one over the other for support. “Does she hate him that much?”

“Most girls don’t grow up in the life.”

“Mi culpa.”

With his breakfast all but spoiled, Miguel pushed the plate away. His hand was soft on your waist, nose burrowed into your hair, tracing the notes of jasmine and rose, vanilla and sandalwood. The scent was unmarred by the stench of speakeasy smoke so early in the morning. Your hand came over his, steadying yourself from the rushing thoughts by leaning into his touch.

“I need a girl at the speakeasy tonight.”

Unlike his brother, Miguel’s requests rarely offer a tone of choice. It rolls off his tongue dry and hits your ear like a spike. Nothing about your relationship with Miguel was easy-- it was marred by the rivalry among the brothers-- and as you suspected-- interloping from your grandfather.

“Y Lyla?”

“Maeve is her nanny.”

“How can I step in there without Gabi?”

“He’d want you to. And I want to see you out of this dumb apron.”

“It isn’t dumb,” you pursed your lips, somehow more convinced despite your reservations. Most days, you spend the day in the house-- isolated from any life you came to Nueva York for. Any half-formed excuse that was on your tongue flopped. He nearly has you. “It is right dumb, isn’t it?”

“Sure is. What happened to my canary?”

“She met a pair of terrible brothers who don’t care for pulling out.”

“Don’t blame me.”

He pushed himself against your back, twiddling your fingers against the pantyhose that clothed your thighs. A smile tugged on your lips as Miguel leaned over to kick the front door shut, dipping onto his knees. It wasn’t often that he allowed you to ruin his perfect face before work. Today is a special treat.

But… if you thought back, you really should have.

Took a long time to get any mail from the island. Almost impossible.

In your hands is a sloppily penned letter-- You should be married to one of those boys-- your grandfather. He isn’t stupid enough to think that you’re opening this for the first time tonight, here and now, right in front of him. If you’re ‘reading’ it, you must be wanting him to take a hint. Miguel bent down, placed a kiss on your temple, gliding his hands over your own to place the letter onto the vanity.

He used those very same hands that were meant for maiming against the clasp of a set of pearls around your neck with gentle precision. His fingers coursed along the curls at your nape as he clasped them together.

“How long before your set?”

“Half an hour… maybe.” You stood to face him, pursing ruby-red lips, whispering in his mother’s tongue. He never liked it when his mother barked at him in Spanish, but when it's off your tongue, he knows how sweet it could be. Your hand inched its way over his chest, tracing the fat knot against his throat.

“What’s the issue?”

“I don’t-- feel very perfect. You have all these shebas out there--” women who not only knew how to sing but weren’t terribly mottled by stretchmarks or burdened by the eviscerating effect of motherhood. They’re beautiful, free canaries when they sing in his speakeasy. As much as you loved singing-- you felt shy on that ruby-red stage lately, before a dozen ruby tables and the hopping band.

“They’re to bring in the sugar.”

“Uh-huh, bring in the sugar until they take you away.”

“I’m satisfied.” Miguel took a step up, communicating the way he knew how, by settling his large hand over your jaw. His strong hand glided to your chin, urging you to look him in the eye. “I’m not going anywhere. Tied me down with Lyla as it is.”

“Words are just words. Why buy the…”

“Cow if you can get the milk for free, sí, I know what your grandfather says.” He slips into your chair. “Què quieres?”

“I don’t know, Miguelito. A promise. A marriage. Algo.”

“You want me to wife you up? Don’t remember ever talking about this.” He gestured you to come closer. You stepped up, knocking between his legs. Miguel’s gaze falters, chasing the glint of your tassels as they come to a stop.

“What’s the issue?”

“Nothing. I thought you’d ask Gabe.”

“Gabe gets around.”

“You believe those rumors.” You slap his large hands groping up your thighs, climbing over his lap like it was your throne. His massive frame eclipses the chair, suppressing your comparatively smaller frame. “And don’t think I do?”

“Do you?”

“No,” he laughs. Or, not recently. It’s hard being a father-- harder when he has a whole ass business to keep on top of. Most women wanted those things: jewels, a new pair of silk knickers, and a home. “If that’s what you want, you got it.”

“Oh Miguelito,” he suckled your neck, drawing horrendous marks to the surface. Marks of his ownership in the absence of a ring. He hears the pleased hum of your voice, low and sweet, and knows that’s exactly what you wanted to hear.

“I haven’t put in my cap,” his fingers danced across the outside of your thighs, slipping past your stockings to your silken shorts. He slotted his fingers underneath the fabric, grazing his fingers through your neatly kept curls. Your breath came in deeper bursts as he melded his hand over your vulva, expecting you to grind back on him. You did, ever so eager for him.

“Don’t bother me with that,” he said in a low, husked voice. “You know how I feel about your birth control.”

It was your idea, primarily. Gabe was ever too content to simply be with you-- he didn’t need a large family like the rest of Miguel’s Irish clan. Four, six, sometimes more. Unlike Gabe, Miguel wanted the exact opposite. You shifted over his thigh, obeying his desire to have you ride him. Miguel urged your hips down, working his thumb over the precious button as you did. Miguel’s leg trembled up against your slit, bursts of warm friction warming your hungry body. With his slacks freshly cleaned, you worry about soaking them, soaked in lubricant as you were.

“Come here,” you surrendered a soft moan to him, leaning forward now, less to ride his thigh than the bulge in his slacks. He does not quite care for the idea of ruining himself inside the confines of his pants, but if you want to feel him, he has no reason to deny you. You’re wonderfully spoiled, juddering your hips over him like any whore walking the streets in exchange for a coin or two. What he’d give to have this to himself.

It donned on him-- he could have it to himself. This time, he’d be certain of who the child belonged to. He adored his Lyla, though his irritation with her quips was ever palpable, this-- right here, the ability to fill you and be certain filled him with fat hunger and possessive need to burst into his slacks.

“Stop-- Muñeca-- stop,” Miguel tipped his head back, gathering his focus by digging his hand into your hair, stopping you immediately. His harsh grip loosened, followed up by loosening the button of his slacks and shoving them below the curve of his ass. His cock slapped your silken shorts, beads of his desire dripping from his cockhead. “Take those off. I’m finishing inside.”

“Miguelito,” you slipped onto shaky feet, enough that Miguel could force the shorts underneath your dress to the floor. “We agreed that babies would be--”

“You asked to be my wife. Ain’t this what wives do?”

“I know bu-- not there, deja, let me,” you stopped. His cockhead clumsily poked here and there, until finally, your hand guided him properly. Your mouth fell into a hazy moan when Miguel’s cock shoved forward, breaching your cunt with a snap of his hips. You seated yourself back onto his fat cock, reminded of the absence of your cervical cap in your cunt.

For all your talk, you ached for him, dipping your intertwined hands down to your mound. The rhythm was as sloppy as whatever singer was on stage right now, her voice giving way into a distinct crack. Whatever-- if it bought him more time to properly seed you, he didn’t mind.

He buckled forward as you clenched down upon him, holding him prisoner deep in your body. Liquid soaked his slacks-- and Miguel huffed, puffs of hot air warming your back. That was going to be fun to walk out in. His wife’s cum soaking his crotch.

“Hold still. It’s almost showtime,” Miguel’s voice was thin, his hand splayed on your waist as he used you less like his woman and more like a toy for his pleasure. It didn’t take long for Miguel to find a proper rhythm, his muscles flexing against your back. You were preoccupied as it were with the pain of Miguel’s teeth sinking on your shoulder, spiking hot as his pleasure crested. Soon enough, you felt his warmth fill your core, your head lulling back against him only after his thrusts ebbed.

“Don’t clean up, go on stage leaking.” Miguel held out his hand for you to take, allowing you to pull your shorts back up your ass, nestling his leaking cum in the fabric. It helped ease the anxiety of having you on stage, somehow, to see you in such a state.

“When you knock me up, you’re telling Gabi. I... can't.” You told Miguel, smoothing your dress over your shorts. There was a nervous flush in your eyes-- shame, he placed the emotion. He scrubbed the smile from his face. He had at least a few weeks.

“Sure thing.”

There was a certain delight in seeing you dressed up in that little black dress, all bright red lips, and sultry song. Not that you didn’t look tasty in that stupid apron you wore not to dirty any one of the pretty dresses you wore to church-- like you weren’t a heathen for warming the bed of two O’Hara boys. The people knew it. The church knew it. Damn well, the town knew it.

“Pal, that’s her on stage,” went an Italian boy. An allied family through nothing but contract killing and coin, he was safe here for the time being. One little lapse in a contract could shake it all. “That’s their kitten.”

“She married?”

Miguel turned his gaze back to you for a long moment. Your warm, sweetly lidded words slipping off your tongue, making his mind sluggish and relaxed after a long day. He captured your eyes, minding how your hands fell to the tasseled ends of an already short skirt, daring to expose your skin obscured by pantyhose to the crowd. You knew the game, how far you could lift your skirt without your would-be husband jumping his cage.

“Don’t be goofy. Miguel’d get sore if Gabe tried. She has ‘em both around her finger. Has a kid by one of them. No one knows whose. I got my money on--”

Stupid kids.

“Kid, I’m gunning for another.” Miguel cut the boy off, eyes crinkling at the edges. Something in the way you moved on stage reminded him of Lyla’s pregnancy, perhaps the glitter in your eyes when you met him at his table, instead of backstage, holding his large hands in your own. Some sparkle in your eye, a ginger announcement in his ear. Half elation, half… something else. Something, not quite fear, swirled in the boy’s eyes. Miguel watched with a keen interest as the boy flushed.

“Right on, big shot.”

Miguel brought his cigarette to his lips, letting his eyes flutter closed and his mind wander to the past. He should have known you were hands-off from the moment Gabriel wouldn’t beat it with the idea of adding another girl to their speakeasy.

The best time to tell Miguel about his new girl in the speakeasy was when he was in a good mood: catching any bootleg thief put him in a good mood. Not that he was particularly partial to grey matter and blood spraying him like a fresh pinata, but… he was more partial to money in his pocket and a good reputation. His boys cared for much of the violence in the West of this shitty little town.

“You hired a new girl?” Miguel repeated, drawing a long hit of his cigarette with blood-smattered fingers.

“Spanish girl. Like us. We don’t have a Spanish girl in this joint.”

“Gabe. Most of our clients are Irish. They don’t speak Spanish.”

“You should see her Miggy. She’s got this angelic little face,” Gabe whacked his elder brother, his grin growing ear to ear. There it was, his baby brother got blinded by his dick again. “When she sings you-- well, you get all twisted up.”

“Angelic face,” Miguel mumbled under his breath, tapping excess off of his cigarette. For the price he paid his girls, she had better have the face of Mary herself. The last few Gabe had pulled were mistakes. Some drug-addicted. Others whose husbands always caused a mean stir. He drags his hand down his face, weighing the costs. “She another dumb--”

“She’s Daniel’s littlin’. You remember Daniel? Taught you how to use a kn--”

The sigh that sat in his chest dissipated like vapor, perfusing into his tissue. Miguel looked at the paper Gabriel set in his blood-tinged fingers. He rotated it, gave it a look with his tired eyes. Talk to Gabriel. That old man knew just what Miguel would have said: get your ass back on a boat and go home to whatever rinky-dink island you foolishly sailed off of for this shitty city.

“Lemme see her sing.”

He doesn’t pay attention when Gabriel introduces you onstage for the first time, focusing on the paper ledgers Peter arranged for a review. Unlike his Italian connections, he don’t mind mixing it up with the Jewish boys. They’re twice as smart on the books and twice less likely to be hauling in trouble. Bootleg booze was one thing— the opium, the heroin, the cocaine, and morphine another. It packed too much heat from the coppers.

He hadn’t meant to look up.

It didn’t occur to him that you could have a sickly sweet voice, tempered by the rich Spanish on your tongue, only rivaled by those beautiful looks. His abandoned ciggy threw smoke into the air. He slumped back into the chair with a heavy thud, unclenched his tense jaw, and listened to a siren’s song that felt both familiar and distant all the same.

You had the sort of eyes he swore he’d met before, despite knowing he’d never seen a face like yours around. He’d remember sinking his teeth in that delicate neck that sat under pearls that he supplied most of his singers for their performances. His eyes hungrily cantering down your tassel dress. Not one he provided, no, he knew most to all the pieces in the back. There was a simple beauty in the gown.

You were trouble. He caught your eyes with an intent expression and expected you to blush and look away. You smiled. He wasn’t sure if it was for him or Gabriel, who flicked a grade-A smile, and a twiddling wave of your little fingers. He wants to feel them scratching down his back.

“--anyone home? Miggy? Miguel. Don’t tell me you’re already stuck on her.” Gabriel teased, elbowing Miguel in the arm. “You are! Told you she could sing.”

“Pipe down.” He jammed his ciggy in the dish.

“Sorry.”

He watches you a moment more, the slide of your legs to the tune of the band. The way your laugh resonated through the speakeasy when a patron stumbled onto the stage for his take on some stiff-legged swing. Most women would push them off, look to him for help in the swing, but you ran with the twirl the drunk led you into. He hated to admit that Gabriel was right. Among all the girls in his speakeasy, you brought a lightness to the life of a drunkard he’d not seen in a while.

“Gabe,” he mumbled, standing up and whirling his suit jacket over his broad shoulders.

“Yeah?”

I told’ja so, Gabriel’s voice sounded in his head. He could already feel the stiff annoyance that would be Gabriel’s fist connecting with his shoulder. Why did Gabriel have to know him so well? Miguel spoke with an undercurrent of annoyance.

“Let’s keep her.”

“You don’t gotta tell me twice.”

A hail of loud pops ruptured his sweet, distant memories. He reaches out to snatch his gun from the table, settled between the fresh flowers he plucked for your show. For an instant, his world wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t sounded out by the deafening assuredness of a kill, but very real panic under the singled out by the shrill of your scream.

They're going to push up on us, Miguel told Gabe. He never did take anything outside the speakeasy seriously.

Except tonight, there was no Gabriel. Miguel clasped his hand around his gun, whirling for the source of the flame. The barrage of gunfire is put down as quickly as it began. With a host of Irishmen in the bar, he should be so unsurprised. One of the Italian kids slumped over on his table.

There’s blood-- a lot of blood. Hysterics bound all around, some soothed by their partners or friends. The other Italian boy just stares-- lips slightly apart-- jarred by whatever horror was before him. Miguel finds it hard to believe that he hasn’t seen worse. Others burning his ears like the morning sun in his eyeballs every day you forgot to pull the curtains closed.

“God damn it, Peter.” Standing there is the scrawny little devil of a bookmaker himself, smiling cheesily.

“Hope that’s a good god damn it.”

He shoved his way from the tables, numbing out the complaint of the Italian boy. You were long since gone, probably a good thing that you weren’t here, that’s for fucking sure. It’d been the first time since Gabe’s incarceration he managed to drag you out of there and now… you were somewhere, undoubtedly frightened. Maybe even hurt.

“Boy, wonder who this kid crossed. Say, about Gabe, I got good news--”

He seized a chair, flicking it past Peter, a sure hiss for him to shut the fuck up about his baby brother in the can. Peter put his hands up reflexively, tracing Miguel’s rising shoulders.

“She ran to the back.”

The slender hallway down to his office is cold, only illuminated by the occasional pull-pin light bulb swinging overhead. He came here most days that he wasn’t on shift, taking a hit, or caring for his boys. Keeping track of everything was the best way to stay ahead. And even still-- he missed something from one of Spot’s boys.

You didn’t bother to close the door, balled up in a corner of his small office. He has a glorified cot for a bed in a corner, a heavy desk that nearly killed Gabe trying to hike it down the stairs years ago, and a rack stuffed with any number of books.

“It’s me,” his voice filled the room. You peered up from behind your arms, wrapped around your knees. What a stupid oversight, he thought, whoever was in charge of the damn door let someone in that was… going to be a problem. He was good with Lucky’s crew. Now he was gonna have to pick up that wired phone and tell him some kid was dead.

Your heels scratched across the ground, scooting back to the cool wall. You weren’t hurt-- just, sort of shocked. Maybe being conned into church with you panned out somehow.

“Muñeca.”

“That ain’t… ever happened with Gabe before.”

Gabe. Dy by day that he heard his brother’s voice, it became more of an annoyance. It wasn’t fair to make the comparison-- Gabe caring for most things that went on in the speakeasy, Miguel caring for interpersonal deals and security. With Gabe away, he’d not… it didn’t matter.

“It won’t happen again.”

“If Lyla were here--” You’re a shark-- going after the one thing you knew would hurt. The little girl back at home who he went to great lengths to make sure was safe. She was… his, even if he felt was his brother’s, putting more salt into an ever widening sinkhole that was his irritation.

“She wasn’t.”

“But what if she was?”

“Cállate,” he barked.

“Fine, I’ll beat it. You can holed up all alone down here like you like to be, you-- you-- big lug.” You recoiled for an instant, before forcing yourself up, rubbing at heavily fallen tears in your pursuit of the door. Your cheeks were kissed by raw agitation, all pink and in any other situation, beautiful. Miguel swayed to catch your elbow.

“Discúlpame,” he murmured, a rare apology if you could even call it one to begin with. There was a long pause, and he wondered if you would be upset with him for the rest of the day. “Don’t go. Don’t leave me.”

He knew he made it damn hard not to.

That was the thing about Miguel. He made it hard to get close, but even harder to leave. No matter what he did, you wanted to stay there right by him-- because he was the complicated brother. The one who… well, hell, you wanted to be about. Gabe was good and easy, your Miguelito was…

“Dios mio, Miguelito. This hinky stuff ain’t happening again. Or-- Or I’ll leave you both. Take Lyla right back to the island I came from and marry a man who isn’t in wrong with the police.”

You should have known the day that you gave birth to his daughter that something like that wasn’t going to happen.

#miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x y/n #miguel o'hara x you #atsv imagines #atsv imagine #miguel o'hara/reader #miguel o'hara imagine #miguel ohara imagine #miguel o'hara smut #miguel ohara x reader

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cybergrindr · 3 months

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as i see posts going around on here complaining about bright LED headlights i think americans who aren't car dorks like me ought to know that a bunch of companies have designed adaptive high-beams that dim JUST what would shine into an oncoming driver's eyes when it detects traffic in the oncoming lane, but these types of lights are illegal in the united states because of the current regulations on headlamps :)

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consolecadet · 1 month

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Safe Foods

2024

Aluminum foil, stone clay, Hershey’s kisses wrappers and plumes, found objects, cardstock, spray paint, acrylic paint, glass microbead paint

inspired by David Seltzer, Sea Salt/Lemon Sage

With celiac disease, every meal is a risk. Gluten hides everywhere, from restaurant griddles to soy sauce and licorice. Since my diagnosis, I’ve identified “safe foods” I can always trust not to set off an intestine-destroying immune response: whole fruit, plain potato chips, most hot dogs, Hershey’s chocolate. When I’m stranded and hungry, I look for them. Drawing on the bright colors and abstract inedibility of David Seltzer’s Sea Salt/Lemon Sage, I made my safe foods easier to find by rendering them in an ANSI-inspired worksite safety palette. Use the headlamp for the full high-visibility experience.

Exciting news: This sculpture is on display at the ArtsWorcester gallery show Feast: Call and Response with the Fitchburg Art Museum through April 21, 2024.

Even more exciting news: the Fitchburg Art Museum selected it, along with nine other pieces from the show, to exhibit this summer!

#my art #finished art #high visibility #hiviz #orange #celiac tag #celiac #medical #chronic illness #hard hat #disability #disabled artist #queer artist #retroreflective #food #chronically ill artist #autoimmune disease

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mandos-mind-trick · 6 months

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Inside

Summary: A mission on a seemingly uninhabited planet goes wrong for Clone Force 99’s civilian member. The Bad Batch find themselves having to make a tough decision as they face an unthinkable situation.

Pairing: None, but hinted at Hunter x reader flirting

Warnings: Body horror, alien species, injuries, vomiting, surgery, very graphic medical stuff, needles.

A/N: Taking a break from the horny to deliver my second horror fic for Halloween. This one is inspired by the Alien series. One of my favorite horror series. Please do heed the warnings, this one is rather graphic.

MASTERLIST

You wake with a pained groan. You're face down on something hard and uneven. There's water dripping somewhere, the sound echoing around you. Your mouth feels dry and your tongue swollen as you attempt to swallow. Your throat aches, not unlike when you would get sick as a child.

You try to move, but pain erupts all across your body. You take a deep breath, your stomach aching in protest. You crack your eyes open, but you're in pitch black darkness.

You push past the aching in your body, reaching a hand down to your belt. You fumble until you find the pocket with your torch, pulling it out. You turn it on, shining it around you.

You're laying on a rocky surface in what looks like a cave. Memories come back to you as you lay there, your brain finally catching up.

Your squad had been sent to an uninhabited planet to search for an emergency beacon that had been set off. There were no records of any personnel in this area, but with war waging across the galaxy, it wasn't uncommon to get distress signals from the most unlikely places.

The planet was host to non-stop high winds and storms, and the beacon led you into a cavern in a hillside. You remember entering the cavern and searching, and you remember the ground giving way under your feet.

That was how you got here.

You slowly push yourself onto your side, gritting your teeth against the agony burning through your very bones and the deep cramping in your stomach. You shine your torch at the ceiling, but it's too high to see where you fell through, or how far you'd fallen.

You push the button on your comms, calling out for anyone, but you get no reply. Comms had been spotty on the planet's surface. Just your luck they won't work at all down here.

They know you're missing. Hunter had called out to you as you'd fallen. You're not sure how long you've been down here, how long you were unconscious. Could have been mere minutes. Could have been hours. You don't think they'd leave you down here for hours.

You try the comms again, getting nothing but a garbled static sound in return. It was something, but not nearly enough. You can't just lay here, but you're not sure what else to do.

You slowly work on turning yourself onto your back, your stomach spasming painfully with every small movement. You're definitely injured, no doubt about that. You just hope they can get to you before it gets worse. The ache in your throat has subsided, as well as the dryness in your mouth. You'd kill for some water, and the dripping off in the distance is doing nothing to help that.

You shine your torch at the ceiling as the sound of rocks falling reaches your ears. Fear spikes through you as it gets louder. You can't be sure you're alone in the cave. You don't feel like there's anything else inside, but then again, you'd have no way of knowing. There were obvious weak spots in the cavern above too, which could give way and bury you under rubble.

More debris falls into the cavern before lights appear a few feet away. Two figures drop from the ceiling, their headlamps lighting the cave. You breathe a sigh of relief, resting your head back against the ground as they approach you.

"You alright?" Hunter asks as he kneels down next to you.

You squint in the bright light of his headlamp. "All things considered, I think I'm alright."

"No life threatening injures that I can see." Tech says, scanning your body. "Where is your pain located?"

"My stomach." You say, wincing as you press against the tender area.

"How did you land when you fell?" Tech asks.

"On my stomach, I think. I woke up face down." You say.

Tech hums, injecting something into your neck. "Likely a blunt force wound. No signs of internal bleeding or damage."

The pain begins to ebb, the fog in your brain clearing as the stim shot kicks in.

"The whole cavern floor could be unstable." Tech says as the sound of more debris falling reaches your ears.

"Let's get out of here." Hunter says, looping your arm around his shoulders.

Tech takes the other side and they lift you to your feet. You curse, trying to fold in on yourself as your stomach screams in protest.

"Come on, let's get you back up to the surface." Hunter says, wrapping an arm around your waist. "Then we can get a better look."

You lean against him as they guide you to where they'd entered the cave. Hunter maneuvers you so you're chest to chest, securing both of you with a rope. You wrap your arms around his neck, leaning your head on your shoulder as he sinches you tighter together.

"You know if you wanted to get me in this position, you could have just asked." You murmur, and you can practically hear Hunter's eyes rolling.

"Bring us up." Hunter says, tugging on the rope.

He wraps one arm around you as you're lifted off the ground, holding you securely as he works his way back up into the cavern. It's a long way, further than you expected.

No wonder your body was aching so much.

You breathe a sigh of relief as you're lifted back into the cavern, Wrecker waiting to pull you up. He sets you gently on the ground, the pain starting to disappear as the stim shot continues to work.

"Let's get out of here." Hunter says, pulling himself up over the lip of the hole. "Before something else happens."

You lean against Hunter as the squad makes their way from the cavern and back into the perpetual storm. He guides you, keeping you steady as the wind whips around you.

You're ready to get off this planet. It's not the worst place you've visited, but you're certainly not going to consider coming back.

***

"There's bruising developing." Tech says, fingers pushing against the sore spot on your stomach. "Likely the cause of your discomfort."

He jabs a bacta needle into the center of the bruise, making you hiss.

"Ow." You grit out, but you can already feel the ache easing just a bit.

"You'll be fine in a few hours." Tech says, clinical as usual.

"Get some rest." Hunter says as you fix your blacks. "I don't doubt we'll be getting new orders soon."

You hum, rubbing your eyes. You do feel tired, more so than you usually do after a mission like this. It's more akin to how you feel after a fight. You don't argue any, pulling down one of the bunks before practically collapsing on it.

You don't get much rest, though. You feel strange, beyond the fact that you fell a few hundred feet into a cave. There's a strange pressure in your chest, like something is pushing up against your organs.

Tech had reassured you that nothing was injured, that everything looked normal internally. Your armor had done its job and protected you against any major damage that could have been caused, and it was a miracle you didn't hit your head very hard.

You drift off into an uneasy, restless sleep. Despite your exhaustion you don’t sleep well, the nagging feeling of something being wrong not easing any.

You’re not sure how long you float in and out of sleep. They let you rest, setting themselves up in various places around the ship to rest as well. Downtime is rare, so the squad always takes advantage of any time available to rest and recuperate. It always seems to take you longer to recover, likely something to do with their enhancements.

You rise after a while, tired of tossing and turning. Your stomach churns a bit as you move, the pressure still evident in your chest but you brush it off. Likely just some residual side effects from falling as far as you did. You make your way towards the cockpit, slipping past Hunter and Wrecker sleeping in the computer seats.

You pause as the pressure increases in your chest. Your stomach feels like it’s squirming and you barely make it to the fresher before you’re vomiting up what little you had eaten before the mission into the toilet. The squirming feeling continues until you're dry-heaving, nothing left to come up.

You fall back against the wall of the tiny fresher, taking in gasping breaths. Tears blur your vision as you try to control your stomach. You run cold water in the small sink, splashing some on your face.

Your stomach still feels like it's squirming as you step out of the fresher, still shaking a little. You don’t feel good, but you try to write it off as just being the exhaustion coupled with the events of the day, coupled with you hitting your head.

Hunter and Wrecker are awake, both of them staring at you. Tears continue to burn your eyes. You feel bad for likely waking them.

“You okay?” Wrecker asks, ever the sweetheart.

You nod, wiping the sweat from your brow. “Yeah. D-Don’t feel so good.” Your stomach still feels as if it's squirming, the pressure increasing in your chest.

Hunter says your name, his eyes focused as he stares at you. You turn to him, frowning in confusion. “Don’t move.”

You hold your breath, your heart starting to thump with fear as he kneels in front of you, one hand pressing against your stomach. Your insides squirm, but not in a good way as he presses lightly against your abdomen.

“There’s something inside you.” He says, pulling his hand back.

Your stomach drops, your body going numb with fear. “W-What.”

“I can hear it moving.” He says, standing back up. “Tech, do another scan.”

Tech holds his datapad in front of your stomach and you stay as still as possible, despite the fear making you want to drop. Something inside you? Was the squirming in your stomach not your own body’s doing? Or the pressure in your chest? Was something moving in there, causing you to feel this way?

“There.” Tech says, holding up his datapad.

It looks like a worm. A large, alien worm just under a foot long nestled right under your ribs.

“H-How?” You gasp out, unable to tear your eyes away from the image.

“It’s possible it entered your body while you were unconscious.” Tech says.

“But wouldn’t it have shown up on the scan?” Hunter asks.

“It’s possible it was too small to be picked up on the initial scans.” Tech explains. “Which would mean it’s growing quickly.”

“The bodies.” Echo says, having appeared as well as Crosshair, a tense silence settling in the hull.

“Wh-What bodies?” You ask, shaking in fear.

“Right when you fell, we found the beacon. There was nothing but bodies left. They’d been there for a while.” Hunter explains, his voice low and calm. “Their injuries...something had...forced its way through their chests. Like they tore right through from inside.”

You’re hyperventilating. Your fingers and toes are tingling. The interior of the Marauder is swimming. You’re on the floor, Hunter’s hand on your back as you sob.

“Get it out of me.” You gasp, clinging to his wrist. “You have to get it out of me.”

“Reroute us to the nearest medical facility.” Hunter says.

Echo heads to the cockpit, Tech still staring at the datapad. “We may not have that kind of time.” He says. “It’s impossible to guess the length of the gestational period. It could attempt to free itself any moment now.”

Hunter gives him a look as you sob harder, the squirming and pressure in your chest becoming more prominent now that you know something is inside you. Something is causing it to happen.

“We’re six hours away from the nearest medical center.” Crosshair says, coming back into the hull.

“She doesn’t have that kind of time.” Hunter says.

“Get it out of me.” You cry. “I don’t care what you do, just get it out!”

Hunter looks at Tech as he adjusts his goggles. “We could attempt to remove it before it reaches the end of its gestational cycle. That would cause the least amount of damage, though this is hardly a sterile environment for something so invasive.”

“If you don’t do something I’m going to cut it out myself.” You say, reaching for Hunter’s knife.

He pulls his arm away before you can grab it. “We have to try. She could die if we don’t do anything.”

***

The metal bunk is cold against your bare back. You’re in nothing but your breastband and pants, your shirt tucked into your mouth to give you something to bite down on. Tech is standing over you, situating the scanner at just the right spot. Hunter is hovering over your head, Wrecker sitting at your feet.

“We will have to be quick.” Tech says, looking over the tools on the crate next to him. “Try not to let her move too much.”

“Why can’t she be sedated?” Hunter asks, his breath fanning the top of your head.

“Forced sedation may cause the creature to prematurely attempt an escape. If it is feeding off her in any way, we don’t want to risk disrupting the environment in a way we are not prepared for.” Tech says, grabbing a scalpel.

The beeping of the monitor on your arm increases, your body tensing in preparation for what’s about to happen. Hunter wraps his arm across your chest, leaning in close to your ear. You wrap your hands around his arm, holding on as Tech presses the scalpel against your skin.

“Oh I can’t watch.” Wrecker says, turning his face away.

You let out a whimper, your body tensing as he slices through the skin. Your teeth sink into your shirt as your face contorts with pain. Your very nerves are on fire as he opens the wound, just enough to find the creature inside you.

Hunter presses his arm against your chest to hold you still as you attempt to jerk away from the pain, Wrecker holding onto your legs.

“You’re alright.” Hunter whispers in your ear. “It’s almost over.”

Your chest pushes against his arm as you sob, able to feel the alien worm inside you moving as Tech attempts to extract it. Your hands are gripping Hunter’s arm so tightly it has to hurt.

Your whole body jerks, a muffled scream tearing from your throat as sharp pain erupts inside you. You’re hyperventilating, the monitor on your arm beeping rapidly.

“Tech?” Hunter asks, the desperation noticeable in his voice.

“I have a hold of it, but it’s attempting to attach itself to her.” Tech says, reaching for a long needle.

Your eyes roll back, darkness filling your vision as Tech lifts the creature from your stomach, a high pitched cry sounding from it before you slip into unconsciousness.

***

It’s bright when you wake. For a moment you think you might have died, but the sound of beeping tells you otherwise.

You squint against the bright lights of the medical center, lifting a hand to try and shield the bright lights. Someone says your name, pulling you out of the fog. You turn your head, staring up at the blurry figure beside you.

“Hunter?” You rasp out, rubbing your eyes.

“Good to have you back, cyare.” He says.

“You’re very lucky.” Another voice says and you tilt your head to stare up at a doctor standing over you. “You’ve made a full recovery, thanks to the interventions of your squad.”

“I am pretty lucky.” You say, looking around the cot at the five members of your squad.

“One last round of tests,” The doctor says. “Then you’ll be free to go.”

You look back at Hunter as the doctor steps away. “Thank you.” You say.

His brow furrows a little. “For what?”

“We wouldn’t have even known if it wasn’t for your senses. And I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tech’s skills.” You say, turning to look at Tech.

“It was a very simple procedure.” He says, adjusting his goggles. “And the little I got to study the creature before it was confiscated rendered some fascinating discoveries. I am looking forward to reading the full report once the Republic has finished its own studies.”

You can’t help but smile at his enthusiasm despite everything. You slip your hand into Hunter’s as Tech continues to babble on about the creature, squeezing it gently.

Taglist:

@rosechi @bobaprint @star-trekker-0013 @wolffegirlsunite @jedi-hawkins @sinfulsalutations @freesia-writes @littlemissmanga @clio3kantarella @eris-k @thorsterstrudle @idontgetanysleep @clonemedickix @sleepingsun501 @dystopicjumpsuit @wings-and-beskar @sev-on-kamino @starrylothcat @523rdrebel @thrawnspetgoose @originalcollectionartistry @gwalchmai2970 @maddiedrmr @sunshinesdaydream @multi-fan-dom-madness @wizardofrozz @mythical-illustrator @lickylickylicky @sweetheartsnips @mssbridgerton @lune-de-miel-au-paradis @mooncommlink @deejadabbles @starqueensthings @hellhound5925 @commanderblood @crosshairlovebot @ghostperson69 @captain_rexs_cyare @jediknightjana @dalu-grantkylo

#star wars #star wars fic #the bad batch #the bad batch fic #horror #horror fic #hunter x reader #tbb hunter x reader #alien

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which-item-poll · 2 months

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#which item poll #polls #poll game #random polls #amazon

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apoemaday · 1 year

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Winter Solstice

by Tess Jolly

I will not write about Christmas lights garlanding the tree, how steadily red blends to sapphire emerald gold, how strong the little bulbs must be to throw their dancing hearts upon the café wall, how children try to catch them. I will not say there is tinsel draped about the branches like seaweed over pebbles, nor paint the cloths swaddling our skins apricot, indigo, violet, teal. I will not speak of glazed pastries on the counter, how they shine so much they could be varnished, there for the hell-of-it, for the sheer beauty of their glistening berries. I’ll turn away from buses heaving down the rush-hour road, ignore how in all this rain the headlamps could be tumbling garnets, polished amber, as if a picture-book box of pirate treasure had spilt its pearls and precious stones across a tarmacked page.

I will not describe how the sun becomes the sea, I will not delight in words to name its colours--cerise, crimson, indigo, scarlet, madder, rose. I will not try to find a way to show your smile across the table, how it slips like warm charcoal into the fabric of my heart. I will not suggest I light a candle as the year prepares to wane, that you hold a second wick to mine then another and another, that together we whisper a prayer for each growing flame. I will not talk about the light that is everywhere, how far you have to travel for the sky to be completely black (and even then there are stars, there is the moon’s borrowed brightness). I will not question why fire burns more fiercely before sputtering out, or how--when we know we’re dying-- we can be so fully alive. I will not say these things because this is a poem about darkness. I am writing about the darkness.

#poetry #tess jolly #winter solstice

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pastadoughie · 5 months

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If light is an issue, could you perhaps get one of those cheap led headlamp things? Would give you extra light but it's on a headband so both hands would be free. Iirc they're pretty cheap in walmart's sporting goods section, and probably on Amazon or other sites too. :)

the thing with my eyes is like, its not just that im bad at seeing, like ok im really really bad at seeing but like, i have glasses, the issue is mostly that my eyes r rlly bad at focusing

so like even if im close enough to see fine details it takes my eyes a while staring at it (and i need it to be pretty still something that my body has a rlly hard time doing) for my eyes to actually work and let me see it

the reason why i use my monitor 2 see things like my syringe is because its not only like, this bright white light but also i like phisically rest my hand and the syringe against the monitor to steady it, an dthen i can move closer and work on focusing on it

like im nearsighted and my glasses *do* fix that like when i wear them i can actually see things way farther, but it doesnt actually fix the whole focusing issue, even when im wearing them witch should like, give me good visioin, it still takes alot of focusing to see those fine details witch is something thats pretty straining

#my eyeballs suck real bad #i wish i didnt need to wear glasses i look terrible in them #and also because one lens is quite a bit stronger then another #everything looks like its slightly tilted to the 2 side ( ->)#witch like #u do get used to over time #but if i dont wear my glasses for a while and then go back to wearing them it fuckin freaks me out #cuz my brain keeps trying to walk and move in a way to account for the tilting but there is no tilt #it makes it rlly hard to not like #fall the fuck over #ask #asks #the beast speaks #anon #anonymous

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ninjigma · 1 year

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QuinFox Week Part 7/7 - First / Previous

Day 7: Back to Back + Fix It Track: 'All The Right Moves' - OneRepublic (Spotify / YouTube)

“When you asked me to help those troopers disappear I didn’t think it would lead us here Foxie.”

“Like you haven’t taken us to worse places on less information.”

“Hey, I just know how to show someone a good time.”

“Maybe if I was a parasite of some sort living in these drains,” Fox scoffed.

The two were bickering as they moved, using it to ease the tension. Fox had been stressed for weeks handling this alone, and it had come to a head when Quinlan finally broke and confronted Fox, reminding him that they had agreed to no more life-threatening risks without the other right alongside them. They were to stay side by side, back to back. Putting space between them only left them both more vulnerable.

And so today Fox had shown him, taken him to a run-down apartment attached to a much nicer music studio, and explained it all.

This led the duo to some new conclusions, as Vos’s information suddenly had a lot more pieces of the puzzle to snap together. Some realizations that they needed to act now, as soon as they could.

But for now, they bickered, because discussing how to take down a Sith lord running the entire government when you were a single clone commander and a Jedi not even well trusted by his own peers was a thought that needed a breath. Just some time floating around them in the storm drains they flitted through.

“You are a parasite, one I quite enjoy having around.”

Fox shook his head. “Only you could say something like that and think it is positive.”

“Oh?” Quinlan’s smirk was damned near audible. “Is that because I’m such a sweet romantic?”

“Quinlan Vos,” Fox slowed and turned, headlamp lighting up bright tattoos and twinkling eyes. How he could be so happy still, after everything they’d been through and all they still had to face, Fox didn’t know. But he was grateful for it. “You are an utter sappy romantic with a death wish, a brain cell for taste, and a drop of luck. Sweet is much too docile for how you love, and of everyone, I think I am very qualified to say as much.”

Quinlan’s smile grew wider. Even in the midst of everything, he always offered Fox a smile. And now, almost a year after offering a lot more than just that, he reached forward and took Fox’s hand as well.

“When it comes to me, I think you are definitely a leading expert.”

Fox had a retort, soft in its meaning but sure in its stressed humor, but it was cut short as keen ears picked up other footsteps. Because of course nothing would be simple. Even just walking through drain pipes was going to end as chaotically as they always did for them.

Hunched down and still holding hands, Fox peeked around the corner in the junction. And immediately groaned.

“Remember that gang you’ve been pissing off digging into the Black Sun?”

He could hear Quinlan swear quietly. Because of course that slip-up the other day had the lower Coruscant gangs on the alert for them. There had been no way to avoid it, having to take more risks as so much of Quinlan’s trails had gone dry recently, but it left a little too much information on them out in the light for the Jedi shadow’s liking.

“Fox, you know we’re going to have to-”

“We stay together as long as possible,” Fox cut him off. He wasn’t looking at Quinlan, but there was no immediate protest. It was a general agreeance anyhow, but Fox knew exactly where Quinlan was really going with all of this.

“We have to reach the surface as fast as possible, and you know it is smarter for me to head to the senate-”

“Quinlan, I know!”

More voices, coming from different points around them now. They were moving as quietly as possible, talking in rushed whispers; but Fox’s voice grew a bit colder, angry in how Quinlan reminded him of how there was nothing different he could do. They pulled up short in another junction, this one opening upward and giving them a faster route out. But Fox wasn’t going one step further without making sure Quinlan understood exactly what was happening.

“I know, I’m to find General Koon and you’re going to shadow your ass through the senate to make sure nothing else happens before he and anyone else he can convince can get there. But we stay together as long as possible because I also know you will get yourself in trouble somehow, and you should know that if you die while I’m not there I will drag your spirit back from your Force osik and then kill you myself. Because I am coming back with them, I don’t care what you say about the safety of the chips or anything, you promised.”

Fox had rounded on Quinlan and crowded the taller man against the wall, close enough to still see his pained expression with the filter on his helmet. The gang was circling, and they would most definitely be fighting before they got out of here, so Fox knew there wouldn’t be another time after this point. That they would fight together now, at least one more time before Quinlan went off to shadow a Sith Lord that still made Fox’s chest tighten and nerves ache. Because he knew this was right, but parts of him still felt it was so wrong.

Hands reached out, gently caught the bottom of his helmet and lifted it like it had many times before. His eyes didn’t have time to adjust before soft familiar lips pressed to his and Fox put all of his focus into committing that feeling to memory as he always did, just in case.

“As long as possible. I do promise, with all that I can control Fox,” Quinlan's voice was clearer, close and no longer filtered through the helmet he held just above Fox’s head. “You’ll find me, and I’ll be there. I promise.”

Another soft press, noses bumping lightly. Then it was back as they were, Quinlan replacing the helmet that was so uniquely Fox, and then drawing his saber and a blaster.

“Ready Commander?”

The footsteps were louder, a shout came from the direction behind them and the whole tunnel system seemed to come alive.

“More than you ever seem to be, General.”

Smoothly they moved, back to back as the shots began and they took off down another tunnel, Quinlan trusting Fox to know where to go and Fox trusting Quinlan to guard his back for as long as he could.

Because that was what they did now, two wild souls in search of a peace born of thrill and trust, finding each other by chance and staying together by choice. That if anyone asked Fox he wouldn’t have any better answer than this was his Jedi, his best friend, his trusted partner. That there was at least one person in this whole galaxy they could trust within the cage of their ribs, that they would risk the pain it could cause for the chance at the joy they had found.

Because that is what they did now.

Loved wildly, trusted blindly, and guarded softly, all for the hope of just one more night under the stars together.

#we did it!#It only took a hot minute to learn how to not blow up my computer #but we figured it all out in the end #and now here we are #celebrating these two fools with another piece of unchecked art and no beta writing #it is all a bit messy but we had fun #and what is this? Is it the promise AU?#the one with the clones with lightsabers pieces in it?#maybeeeeeee #promise au #foxquinweek2023 #quinlan vos #clone commander fox #quinfox #foxquin #quinlan x fox #fanart #my art #my writing

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sugolara · 3 months

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𝘽𝙚 𝙖𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙚

ft. K.B x S.T x I.M x fem! reader

previous || series m.list || next

Denki plopped himself on a display couch and let out a groan, his back muscles relaxing. He glanced towards the ceiling where 4x4 windows were at. Little light shone down inside the building. Thanks to the flashlight he held, he was able to watch his steps from the items that had been previously dropped, most likely from other survivors.

That couldn’t be said the same for Shoto as he immediately tripped on a chest that is supposed to contain toys for children. He scoffed at himself for falling and then let out a distasteful groan as he felt his hands get wet.

Eijiro heard him fall and went to check on him. He shined his flashlight down, the blood on Shoto’s hand shimmered. The red head then shone around, a bloodtrail had seemed to be headed for the exit, “Whosever blood this is must’ve had a serious injury.”

Shoto wiped the blood on his jeans and proceeded to get up, “With that much blood loss, they most likely died by now.”

Eijiro hummed. He then shined the light to the other male's face making him squint, “You got blood on your right check.”

He wiped his cheek, unknowingly a rotter creeping behind him. Eijiro thought it might be Denki or Katsuki, but when the sound of the growl echoed, he quickly shoved Shoto away and pulled out his gun.

Shoto fell back on the pool of blood, but when he saw Eijiro’s gun out, he quickly sprung into action, taking his knife out and stabbing the rotter before the other male blasted his gun. As the dead fell, he wiped his knife on his jeans, “You shouldn’t be using your gun indoors.”

“It was coming after us.” He lowered his weapon, “I didn’t want either of us to die.”

“Don’t you have a knife or something?” Shoto asked to which Eijiro shook his head. “No.”

Shoto was baffled. How did a gun, something that’s loud and can run out of bullets when used enough, manage to keep Eijiro alive? Especially Denki. A shot was all it took before all rotters within their reach came running after them. He was amazed that they hadn’t run into trouble long ago, “F/n should teach you how to use one.”

Eijiro hummed as they both approached Denki, “I guess using a silenced weapon would help in the future.”

“Yes!” Izuku whispered as he found a section of headlamps and flashlights. He readjusted the headlamp and turned to F/n and Katsuki as they took a rotter down.

The other two hissed as the light almost blinded them. Katsuki shielded his eyes, “Turn that shit off.”

F/n did the same, except lowering her head a little, “Does it need to be that bright.”

“Whoops.” Izuku let out a small chuckle and flicked a small lever on the side of the lamp. When the light was dim, he reached around to grab a few more for his fellow friends. The light was still bright, but not enough to blind them.

“You seem happy.” F/n said as she grabbed a headlamp and placed it on her head.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Izuku said, eying the building, “We got lucky to discover such a place. Who knows how much longer we’d last with only little supplies.”

Katsuki scoffed, the strap around his forehead clicked, ensuring the lamp was secured, “Look around, idiot. What makes you think this place is even safe? We’ve only managed to take down a few uglies. Besides them, there might be people around.”

F/n nodded, dismissing the way Izuku’s face slightly fell, “We’re out in the open. Sure we’ve got covered, but if there is someone else in here, they might have set traps, letting us know that this place is already taken.”

“Yeah, but, if there is someone, what do we do?” Izuku asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer as he stared at her.

“We take it.” She shrugged and then headed towards the others, “We did not come this far just to be sent home empty handed.”

Katsuki shortly followed after, his pace a little slower. He stared at the back of her head with his hands in his pockets. Despite all they’ve been through, Katsuki had to admit that the things she does could be a little cruel. She may be a little selfish, but he knows she only does it for the good of her companions. He understands, but that doesn’t make her less cold-hearted.

Then there's Izuku. He knows his childhood friend has good intentions, but sometimes, Katsuki wishes that he could just…stop. Clinging onto something that’ll never happen, irks him. It irritates Katsuki the way Izuku is. Yet, sometimes Izuku is hope for the blonde.

“The hell happened to you?” The blonde eyed Shoto’s bloody jeans.

“I fell.” He said, also looking down at his jeans, while Izuku passed the others their light source.

Denki let out a chuckle, still laying on the couch. He then looked at his friends, “What’s the plan? We take sections?”

F/n nodded and crossed her arms, “Yes, but once we make sure the building is secure. If we see a group of dead there might be a breach somewhere and we want to be cautious and since some aisles block our view we want to make sure we see eachother even if it's only our light.”

Denki sat up and reached to his side. He held a flagging tape, “We can also mark the aisle we come across so we know we’ve been there.”

“And if someone who isn't us interferes with it, then we know we’re not alone.” Izuku hummed, “Good thinking, Denki.”

“Surprise to hear that come out of your mouth.” Shoto said and grabbed the tape.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Denki glared at him.

“It means you’re stupid.” Katsuki responded.

Eijiro chuckled at their behavior, “Alright, I think Denki got it.”

F/n stared at them chattering. She had to agree that what the yellow-haired male offered, one that she didn’t think of, and what Izuku thought of was a good idea. But for them to not notice that if someone were indeed here, they were already listening in. Heck, they were most likely already staring at her group and possibly waiting for them to act first.

It was weird that no one had come across this place and those who did probably died. From the looks of it, this warehouse was in the middle of a populated town. Either someone had already discovered it and was inside, or someone marked this place and would come in when they needed supplies.

Still, F/n would have figured that somebody would set up traps to protect their haven. At least, that’s what she would do. But yet again, she’s come to realize that not everyone is like her. Take her group for example. The only one who’d come close is Katsuki, then Shoto.

She held her sigh and looked beside her where the darkness awaited her. Let’s see who would die first.

#katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #izuku x reader #katsuki x you #midoriya x y/n #shoto x you #shoto x y/n #todoroki shoto x reader #izuku midoriya x reader

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