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iceman-soup · 7 months ago

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masc!reader × divorced!price

Knowing John Price from outside of the military - fuckin hell, knowing him from a toddlers' group of all places. You had both joined at roughly the same time, and being the only dads there rather than mums, you quickly stuck by each other, becoming fast friends since the first session.

Turns out, he'd had a shitty divorce a few years ago, and, well - his sweet baby girl got caught up in all the middle of it. She was a tiny baby at the time, but the legal stuff regarding her in the divorce was messy and Price barely managed to see her at all; and then her mother had been arrested for something or other (he didn't like to talk about it) and he had gained full custody, and arrangements were made for her to stay with his family whilst he was on deployment.

Your story was entirely different. The kid was technically your sister's - but she had died shortly after childbirth, and with no partner and an awful relationship with your parents, the two of you had agreed beforehand that if anything happened, you would become the baby's legal carer. But you'd called the boy yours after only a few months, and that's all you ever introduced him as now. Your son.

The toddler group wasn't great for either you nor Price, to be honest. The kids loved the playtime, which was good - but the parent "teachings" that the leader held were mostly encouraging weird outdated shit that wasn't worth listening to, let alone enforcing. Not to mention the constant repetition of how a single parent is a "bad" parent, which you scoffed at every time. Good thing about it was how you and John could sit at one of your houses after and shit talk it over a coffee.

Was he hot? Sure. Yes. Absolutely. It was the very first thing you noticed about him. But more than that you were genuinely grateful to have a friend; another single dad to lean on, to finally start talking about your sister's death and all the guilt you felt with your son. Someone who would actually get it.

Price started to come around to yours almost every day, even when the toddlers' group was only once a week. He insisted it was nicer than his flat, and the kids had more space to play anyway. You never minded. He took you over to his parents' house, introducing you to them. They were quick to befriend you and your child, mentioning how you should visit John's daughter there when he's on deployment.

Deployment. Forgot about that.

You laugh and nod, thanking them before you leave. You take your son to a play park and sit on a bench, watching him and just thinking. It doesn't take long til you realise you're thinking less about your friend being all captain-y and more about his smile you've come to adore being wiped from his face. About him coming home and there being more scars on his hands and arms than before. 'Cause you fucking counted. Realising he might not come home at all.

You go to his flat the next day, awkward small talk as the kids go off to play. He can tell something's up. He asks if it was his parents. Fucking apologises as if he did something wrong. You sit him down on the sofa, and rest your head on his shoulder.

"Dunno what to do," you start, eyes flickering shut when he combs a comforting hand through your hair. "You're such a great man, John. Dunno what I'd do if you went."

He looks at you for a moment; you can feel his gaze. Tilts your chin up with a calloused finger and brushes his lips against yours. It takes a second or two to process what's happening - and then you're kissing him again, his jacket balled up in your fists as you hold him closer, suddenly realise this is what it was all along. The hot, slightly traumatised dad had tripped you up and you fell fuckin hard.

All too quickly and you're lowering him down against the sofa, and his hands are on your back, and your tongue is prodding impatiently at his lip. Then he opens his mouth and you almost seem to melt into it, a soft groan in his throat, and you're lying on top of him, and his legs are around your waist-

"I'm not complaining," you hum between kisses, "but how is making out gonna help?"

He breaks apart. Looks at you with a sort of dog-like curiosity, mulling over the question for a second. Then his hands snake up to rest in your hair, and he smiles his signature smile. "Don't know. Just thought I wanted to kiss you. Won't fix me goin' on deployment, but-" he glances away, a flush creeping up his neck, "thought... thought you might be somethin' to come back to, y'know?"

You chuckle quietly, pressing your lips to his blush. "You askin' me out, John?" He kisses you tenderly, shuffling to sit up a little, pulling you onto his lap facing him.

"If you'll take me."

And you don't even have to think about it. "'Course I will."

#dunno if this makes any sense at all ever #but i wanted to do a single dads thingy so #i miiiight write more about this but also i cba so we'll see i guess #john price #x male reader #x masc reader #cw divorce #cw death #cw family death #cod men x male reader #cod fluff #john price x reader #john price x male reader #john price x you #single dads au

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yuwuta · 1 month ago

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HOW DID YOU GET USED TO THE HAUNTING, THE WILLING, THE MISSING, THE WANTING — YUUTA OKKOTSU

content, warnings. more of the knight yuuta universe yippee. i got an ask about telling him he’d make a good prince and flustering him, and that struck something in me, though this interpretation of that ask is probably a bit darker/more serious than envisioned... i will publish the ask w the other version of this scenario too. unfortunately for everybody involved i was a theater kid and i did listen to cell block tango and the first half of hamilton before i had this idea </3 i’m sorry if you can tell

more notes. set in the same universe as this drabble, which are all set in the same universe as a full fic draft i have and would love to finish some day lol. anyway, say hello to the gojo of this au

You are not ready to be queen. As much as you resent your mother, your father, the elders in the cabinet, the system you were raised in—as much as you wish to be a ruler that creates change and peace in your court and kingdom, you know that you are not ready to hold that position.

It shows now more than ever, with your parents being escorted to a neighboring kingdom for a meeting, and you in charge of the harvest ball. There is china to be chosen, silverware to be polished, candlesticks to be blessed, gowns to be sewn, a menu to be curated, a ballroom to be prepared—and you are sorely behind on all of your duties.

A lackluster princess does not make for a promising queen. And distractions do not help you become anything of yourself.

“I do not have time to discuss the lilies Sir Gojo. I am aware they are drooping and that they are your favorite, but I do not control the weather,” you sigh, handing back a scroll to a maid before turning to your head knight.

“That sounded very queenly, my little lady! You’ve been practicing,” he towers above you, with a growing smile and little care for your position. He bends forward to press the tip of his gloved pointer finger to your nose, “I too mourn the lilies, but I am afraid I agree: we have much more pressing matters to discuss. Come along, shall we?”

You’ve learned to be wary of Sir Gojo’s words over the years. He often leads with a false timbre, or makes otherwise simple conversation into a riddle for his own amusement. Even as you’ve learned when to ignore his games, you’ve also grown appreciative of his light demeanor, and his insistence on speaking to you directly, rather than shielding you away.

You take his arm, looping yours through his, and allow him to lead you down the courtyard steps and into the grand garden. You put your trust in him, allowing your feet to follow the path he sets, and letting your mind wander. You wonder whether you should set the gold or bronze-trimmed plates for the ball, if the curtains should remain closed or open, if the embossed or embellished silverware would leave a better impression on your guests.

“Princess?” your knight calls for you. You focus your attention back to him, apologizing for your lapse in attention.

You expect a smile, perhaps another press to your nose and a light scolding, but Gojo’s expression is much more neutral. “Sir?”

“I said that Lord Hajime is dead. His court will send a representative to the harvest ball, but how would you like to proceed?”

“Dead?” your breath hitches momentarily, “Was he unwell?”

“I do not know. The letter gave no detail. I believe the court sent an apology for not being able to deliver a suitor as promised. The family wishes to keep this private until after the harvest.”

When you look up to him, you see no mischief in his expression. He’s serious, and you feel lightheaded, warm, and icy all at once. “I see,” you say, and pull away from Gojo’s arm, “Excuse me. I—I need a moment to myself.”

“You are sick? So suddenly?” Gojo asks, turning with your body so that his back is never to you.

“No—I… I… I need to be alone,” you confess, wrapping your arms around themselves, curling into your own body. Gojo stands firm, a short nod in understanding. He raises his hand to make a signal; an order for the knights on the periphery who can see but not hear.

You smile, small, grateful for him. “Please, arrange our finest favors, and ask Ieiri for her favorite elixir.”

Gojo’s smile reflects yours, albeit stained with more sympathy. “Of course.”

“And tell the maids that I shall postpone the table placements until tomorrow morning. Should you find yourself with time to spare, let me know if you prefer the bronze to gold trim.”

Gojo nods, taking a half-step to stand in front of you. In times like these, you feel like the little princess under his watch and care from when you were younger. His presence is frightening, overwhelming, and yet, more comforting and welcoming than your own parents.

Carefully, he leans down to whisper, “Yuuta and his fleet have not yet returned, he will not be in the knight’s chambers. I will send him to you when he arrives.” You blink in sudden awe, and Gojo smiles, reaches for your hand and raises it to his lips to press a chaste kiss, “Do not regret too long, princess.”

You hear him before you see him. It’s a bad habit for a knight, you think; you can always hear or feel where Yuuta is, even if you can’t see him. You think he ought to be more stealthy, more secretive, quieter; but then again, you don’t. He reserves plenty of stealth for his motives, stores plenty of secrets in his mind, keeps his words quiet or has a way of keeping other people’s quiet.

The throne room is cold. It’s your least favorite room in the castle, but tonight, you hope it inspires you.

You don’t sit on your throne, you don’t sit on your mother’s or your father’s; you don’t sit at all. You stand, at the top of the stairs, staring at the seats and the tapestry and the paintings of your forefathers that decorate the backdrop. Behind you, at the base of the stairs, Yuuta kneels. You don’t need to see him to know; you can feel it on your palms with your hands behind your back; you can see it in the eyes of your grandfather’s portrait, you can hear it in the way his knee hits the carpet.

“You may stand.”

“I shouldn’t, my lady,” Yuuta replies, “Not here.”

“You do many things you shouldn’t,” you sigh, steady, “Stand, Yuuta.”

You hear the metal of his armor rustle against itself. You can feel when he stands; it feels like he’s right behind you, even though you know he’s ten steps below you.

You inhale, slowly; exhale, slowly. Clench your hands behind your back, and then relax your shoulders the way you’ve seen your grandfather do. Then, you speak. “Lord Hajime is dead.”

You turn, slowly, and wait until your cape has finished its turn, has settled behind you again before you speak again; a tactic your grandmother was fond of. “Lord Hajime is dead,” you repeat, “He is dead, and I asked you not to kill him.”

Yuuta looks up to you. Neck craned, hands neatly behind his back, his helmet on the carpeted floor to his left. He does not look small.

You take a step downwards. “I said this is not how I wanted matters to be resolved.” Another step down, a pause, then repeat, “I said that I do not wish to resort to violence.” Another step down, a pause, “To resort to murder.” Another step down, hurried, “I stood under my balcony,” another step, “and I told you not to murder Lord Hajime. I told you not to kill him,” another step; a pause, hysterical, “And yet Lord Hajime is dead. He is dead because—”

“I did not kill him.”

You pause your descent, four steps above Yuuta. You are only half a head taller than him like this. At this distance you can see the gray of his irises, wide and speckled with brown, without a shred of remorse pooling within them. It makes you sneer.

“You expect me to believe that it is a coincidence that a fortnight after I catch you on your way to murder Lord Hajime, that he dies?” you question, rhetorical, “I am naive, but I am not a fool, Yuuta.”

“You are no fool, my princess, and Lord Hajime was no saint,” Yuuta shakes his head, “He was a tyrant. He took three wives prior and treated them all as whores. He alone was responsible for the destruction of the crops in the north. He had only himself to blame.” Yuuta pauses, and you see something melt behind steely eyes. “It was a murder, yes, but not a crime.”

Yuuta’s lips wobble slightly, but the rest of him remains upright. It always goes like this: first his head, then his heart, then his body following—in everything he does. You blink, slowly, and take another step down; eye-level with Yuuta at this height.

“You did not kill him,” you repeat, leveled with revelation, “You just gave the order.”

Yuuta’s eyelids fall slowly, then his head follows in a shallow nod. He keeps his neck bent, keeps his head hung in front of you. You sigh.

“Who was it this time,” you ask. He does not raise his head; you do not wait for him to speak, you dip your head so that your lips are level with his ears. “Megumi? Surely he would have hated the way Lord Hajime treated his livestock. Maybe Yuuji—he has been impatient to prove himself since recovering from his last injury. Or perhaps Toge, he would’ve done it swiftly in his sleep, without a sound.”

Yuuta keeps his gaze on the floor, keeps his words quiet. “Nobara.”

“Dame Nobara, who strives to replace you as my first blade?” you question, “What, as some kind of test of loyalty to you?”

Yuuta raises his head, eyes stern, brows drawn. “No, princess. To you.”

You freeze. Your anger flares, and then subsides to only weak embers as you understand Yuuta’s motives, and Sir Gojo’s final words to you. You’re careful when you reach forward to brush your knuckle against Yuuta’s cold cheek, only the kiss of a touch between your finger and his face; even, still, he shudders, and you watch him melt from head to toe; from his eyebrows to his eyes to his lips to his shoulders to his knees.

“You are disobedient, and indignant, and ruthless,” you list, voice soft, touch softer as you allow your fingers to graze the top of his ears, adoring the flush that follows, “And kind, and careful, and charming.”

You watch the color stain Yuuta’s cheeks and his ears, you revel in the pout on his lips, and the effort of his breathing. You only wish he were this easy to tame all the time.

Still, he precious to you, so you are careful when you raise your opposite hand to his face, taking advantage of the difference in your status and stature to tilt his head upwards, lean down and press your words against his cheek, “You would make for a lovely prince,” you tell him, “The people would love you. Our enemies would fear you. The soldiers would respect you.” The kisses between your sentences are featherweight, trailed from the high point of his cheekbone to the corner of his lips.

You can feel him quiver when you pull back, moving a palm back to his cheek to pinch his skin between your thumb and forefinger, “If only you knew how to listen.”

Yuuta winces, but he does not pull away. He parts his lips to steady his breath, and then to speak, strained, “Please, princess. Have mercy.”

And for the first time in a fortnight you smile, watching splotched skin stain your knight’s cheeks when you soften your hold on him. You pull Yuuta’s head up further, lean yours down for a careful kiss; short, chaste, the kind you know he hates the most.

“Oh, Yuuta,” you coo, grazing your thumb against his face, endeared by his wide eyes and quiet whimpers, “This is mercy.”

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