tags: John Price × Reader, fem!reader, supersticious!reader, getting together.
“You really believe all that?” he asks, voice a little rough, quiet.
You shrug, eyes tracing the steam curling off your tea. “I don’t believe,” you emphasize the word with a bitter chuckle. “I just don’t take chances.”
Price studies you like he’s reading something written in your irises. The intense eye contact almost makes you squirm in your seat. The faux leather seems to love sticking to your sweaty thighs.
Then he hums. It's low, you realize he's amused, but not in the way that makes you feel like a one clown show.
“Love, I’ve seen enough bad luck to know it’s just people doing what people do.”
You want to believe him. You want to believe the world doesn’t have rules that punish you for breaking them. But the thought of being wrong again, of calling something harmless and paying for it, makes your stomach twist. You push your cup towards him as you laugh to filll the silence. To pretend this conversation isn't putting you on the edge and threatening to push you off.
When the lights above you flicker, your hand twitches toward the table. A reflex. You don’t even realize you’ve knocked on wood until he catches the movement, his eyes trained on your knuckles.
“Force of habit?”
“Insurance,” you answer.
He exhales, shakes his head with that crooked smile that makes your stomach flutter “You’re a strange one.”
When the lights steady again, neither of you mention it.
★- Simon Riley x Angel! Reader; inspired by Poacher's Pride from Nicole Dollanganger
cw: depictions of guns, hunting, violence and mild gore.
You were only supposed to watch over him. But something went terribly, terribly wrong.
I. CROOKED BRANCHES AND CROOKED WINGS
The SUV’s wheels spun and slipped, carving deeper into the muck that passed for a road. Mud, rainwater, and whatever else the English countryside had brewed up after last night’s storm sprayed against the rims in wet slaps. The chassis groaned as the tires sank lower into the pit.
“Swear this damn thing’ll sink before we even get close,” Kyle muttered, letting his forehead drop to the curve of the wheel. The SUV shifted with a slow whine, dropping a few more centimeters.
Cap slightly slanted backwards, the sergeant breathed out a curse that vaporized in front of his lips. A suiting welcome from Manchester’s biting winter.
“Ah well, reckon Ghost insisted the deer were braw 'ere,” Johnny chimed in from the back. That glint was in his eyes, the one he saved for teasing Simon. He slung an arm over his shoulder without a care in the world. “Aye, L.T. Those deer better be the fuckin’ best.”
Simon tilted his head, dark eyes meeting Johnny’s with a long, silent look. Then a flat: “Piss off.”
But he didn’t shrug him off. Just shifted, denim pulling taut across solid thighs as he settled deeper into the leather seat.
“Careful, Soap,” Price said from the passenger seat, voice as steady as ever. “Y’know Simon knows what he’s doin—”
The car lurched again. The needle on the dash spiked as Kyle floored the pedal.
“We need the petrol, Gaz!” The Captain grunted, white-knuckle grip on the grab handle above the door.
Kyle scowled. “Let’s just push the damn thing.”
You giggled from your spot above them, perched on the strong branches of a nearby oak. Long feathers brushed your heels from behind you, as your eyes tracked your protégé move below. Eyelashes fluttering in wonder, you let your body shift forward, watching his thighs sink into your god’s earth once more.
Creatures like you weren’t meant to feel curiosity, or compassion. Creatures like you were only sent when the children of your god had suffered enough, when sorrow had made them blind to anything but the echo of their own grief. Then, and only then, were you allowed to guide them back to the path of light.
However, against what constituted your existence, you swung your calves as you willed the last tire to pop out of the dirt, not exactly a move done to guide, but to ease on his journey.
A sparkle lit your face as you watched the men cheer. Your man was clapped on the back by the shortest of the lot, before that same man climbed out of the sunken place. He offered a hand to your protégé, and just like that, they were heading back inside the wheeled thing.
You waited, invisible still, above them until they settled a curious-looking set of stands behind a bushy patch in the meadow. The men joked some more, and you let out a soft chirp of surprise when each of them pulled out a long device. Your god had once explained to you what those machines were, and how they had broken the sacred cycle of his world. Men were never supposed to be deadly, for the act of taking away lives was only his to choose.
You knew what they looked like. You knew what they were called. You knew the destruction that tailed behind them like famine did winter. And you knew they were most often used when men pointed at one another.
But these men—your protégé—weren’t aiming at each other. In fact, if you knew any less, you might have thought they’d come here to kill one another. But you had been watching your man for months now, and it seemed he would rather be shot at than raise a weapon against one of his… allies.
The first thunderous sound echoed through the branch beneath you, making the bark tremble and vibrate with its force. You watched as several birds scattered in a sudden flurry, wings slicing the air as they burst from the leaves that crowned the trees. They fled in a panic only creatures of instinct could understand.
However, with the deadly tilt of the barrel, aimed at one of your god’s most beloved creations, they fell. One after the other. Like flies that were cut off from oxygen. Like stars cast out from heaven. Like angels who lost their names.
They fell.
The men whistled and praised each other, a quiet rumble of chuckles and low compliments making your chest tighten.
Your protégé, however, did not laugh. He stared upward, at the last bird that hadn’t managed to get out of sight yet. A small one, a baby perhaps. You cooed softly, meaning to guide him out of trouble, for the youngest of creatures are meant to stay alive for more than days. But before your voice could reach him, it happened.
A burst of feathers stained the blue of the sky. The small creature vanished in an instant, a brown and gray and red blob where life had been. The laugh that followed this time was louder. It almost made you fall. Your eyes snapped back to the group.
And there he was.
Your man was lowering his gun.
The last shot had been his.
You shifted, bark digging into the backs of your thighs as your legs tensed. Below, the man with the cap stood to roll his shoulders. The others relaxed, stepping back, casual again. All except your protégé.
You tilted your head, a small furrow forming between your brows.
And then, slowly, he turned towards you.
Time stilled. Your god looked away. The divine veil that shielded you flickered.
cw: Depictions of death, car accidents, beliefs in bad luck, curses and typical canon violence
Salt in your pockets, side steps to avoid cracks and chafed knuckles. Then a set of military dog tags turn up caught in the laundromat drum. You return them, because you have to.
He’s older, steady, and far too calm for the world you live in.
Captain John Price doesn’t believe in curses.
You can’t afford not to.
