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rafeandonlyrafe · 10 months ago

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w for wheezie

words: 1.5k

warnings: very wheezie heavy i stan her, established relationship, physical violence!, descriptions of blood, rafe vs pogues, cameron family drama

“what do you think?” you hold up two letters, each silver with diamonds encrusted in them. “w for wheezie or l for louisa?”

“umm…” wheezie looks at the charms, tapping her chin, eyes flicking back and forth between the two.”

“i would say both, but…” you shrug, leaving the decision up to her.

“i think w because everyone calls me wheezie.” she decides.

“perfect.” you smile, looking at the chain lengths next. you love spending time with wheezie, especially when its shopping days like today where you take her to the mall or whatever store she wants.

usually rafe would accompany you, always hanging back to allow you to gossip, even if it was about him and your relationship. he’d only appear when you headed to the cash register, supplying his credit card to pay for whatever clothes or accessories you got.

“we should stop by sephora next.” you say as the cashier rings up your jewelry, various bracelets and necklaces, along with a chain and ring you bought for rafe (or really he bought for himself as you hand the cashier his card, but at least you picked it out).

“i need a new foundation for the summer.” wheezie says. it makes you pout for a moment, thinking about how grown up she is. you’ve been friends with rafe since middle school and used to play barbies with wheezie and take her to the american girl doll store, and now you’re taking her to buy makeup and try on dresses for homecoming.

“maybe a tinted moisturizer.” you remark, walking with bags in your hand to sephora.

“i would call this a successful haul.” you giggle as you load up your car, having to put bags in the backseat as well once the trunk is full. you turn on a playlist of yours and wheezies favorite songs, having different playlists ready for whoever you’re with.

it’s practical to buy so much at one time since you made the almost two hour drive to norfolk to visit the mall, and probably won’t be back for a long time. you prefer staying in the outer banks to shop, but it’s not always possible with the limited number of stores.

“do you think you have time next week to take me to get my haircut?” wheezie asks, already looking a bit like a mini you, and you have no doubt she’ll ask for a similar haircut.

“of course, wheezie girl!” you nod before letting out a squeal when one of your favorite songs come on, you both belting out the words as you make your way back towards tanneyhill, driving through marshy swamplands, little towns and finally crossing over the bridge.

you pull up the driveway, surprised how eerily quiet it seems to be. usually rafe would be running out the door to make sure you didn’t carry anything in.

“stay in the car for a sec wheezie girl…” you have a strange feeling building, and you always trust your gut. you look back to make sure she doesn’t follow you as you walk into the house to hear muffled grunting.

“rafe?” you call out, your cautious footsteps turning into a run as you make your way further into the house until you see rafe being held up by john b, jjs arm pushing forward to punch him in the gut.

“stop it!” you shout, running in to push jj away, but the second rafe is out of john bs tight hold, he turns to attack them, bravely taking on both in a flair of fists.

“stop it, rafe!” you shout, pulling at his arm. he only pauses when he feels your gentle touch, but john b doesn’t quit, reaching out to hit rafe again, right in the nose as he instantly starts to bleed.

“sarah!” you scream, finally noticing her in the corner of the room, sat with a glazed look in her eye with her knees pulled up to her chest. “stop your freaking attacking dog boyfriend!” you step between the boys, all three of them panting heavily, rafes nose dripping blood down the front of his shirt.

“we are fucking rescuing her!” jj says, puffing his chest up.

“what?” you turn to look at sarah, waiting for an explanation.

“rafe tried to lock me in the house.” she finally says, seeming to shake out of whatever daze she’s in as she stands up. “he tried to stop me from seeing john b.”

“im just trying to do whats best for you, sarah.” rafe says, his voice sounding hoarse from the fight. “he’s a bad guy.”

“no he’s not!” sarah shouts, no doubt going to start in on tirade when you hold your hand up.

“sarah, go with john b. just…” you let out a deep sigh. “get out of here. be back by dark though.” you shoo her away. no way she’s going to actually listen to you and be back by sundown, but at least it gives you time to figure out what’s going on and tend to rafe.

you turn to watch them leave, frown appearing on your face when you see wheezie standing there, looking like a scared little girl you once knew.

“wheeze-” you call to her, but she runs up her stairs into her room, slamming her door loudly. a problem for later, you decide as you turn to rafe.

“come on, baby, lets get you cleaned up.” you say softly, trying to lessen the anger so visible on his features. you lead rafe into the kitchen, wetting a rag with warm water as you gently drag it over his face, feeling tears well up in your eye when you see his busted lip.

“how was shopping? did you have fun?” rafe asks, making you glare at him.

“don’t you dare try to change the topic, rafe cameron. what happened?” you sigh.

“john b and those pogues are fucking criminals. there’s someone who has been robbing houses, and i don’t doubt it’s those fucking-” rafe lets out an angry grunt when you press the washcloth against his cheek, a bruise already forming. “im just trying to protect my family.”

“sarah isn’t a kid anymore, you gotta let her protect herself.” you say softly. “besides, wheezie seeing you all beat up and bloodied isn’t-”

“it was only because it was two against one.” rafe counters.

“baby.” you shake your head. “you’re missing the point. you have no proof that they’re doing anything. trust sarah, alright? i’ll talk to her later.”

“what would we do without you.” rafe smiles, cringing slightly when it stretches his lip, but it doesn't stop him from pressing his mouth against yours, wrapping his arms around your waist.

“you deserve the cameron last name more than sarah does.” rafe says, holding you tight against him, feeling your hands shaking slightly. “gonna marry you one day.”

“alright, buddy.” you giggle, making rafe roll his eyes as you pull away. he loves to talk about your future together despite still being so young. you can’t say you haven’t spent time imagining it yourself. “im gonna go talk to wheeze.”

“okay.” rafe gives you another kiss before watching you walk away.

you walk softly up the stairs, tapping your knuckles against wheezies door before opening it up.

“hey, everyone is okay.” you say softly, seeing her sitting on her bed, phone in hand, no doubt scrolling to distract from anything she’s feeling.

“i’m fine.” wheezie shakes her head. she may look fine, but you can see the look in her eyes. she’s just as shaken as you are, if not more.

“it’s okay to not be, though.” you sit down on the bed next to her. “you saw your brother getting beat up, you’re allowed to not be okay with seeing that.”

“its just…” wheezie sighs. “sarah has been so different lately since she started hanging out with john b. she even lied to me the other day.”

“im sorry, wheezie girl.” you wrap her in a tight hug. “your sister loves you. she’s just a teenager, going through a rebellious phase of life. she doesn’t realize that her actions have consequences and can hurt the people she loves.”

“will you talk to her?” wheezie asks. “you always know what to say.”

“of course.” you nod, pulling away from the hug, forcing a smile on your face. “but hey, let’s go get our shopping bags.”

“okay.” wheezie manages a smile.

you walk downstairs to see rafe has already brought everything in from the car, placing it all throughout the front entrance.

you smile as wheezie instantly goes for the sephora bags as you wrap your arms around rafe, pressing your head against his chest.

“its all gonna be alright.” you tell him.

“as long as you’re with me, you’re right.” rafe presses a kiss to the top of your head, his eyes bulging when he sees the dress wheezie pulls out.

“you are not wearing that-” he begins to argue, finger wagging just like his dad would.

“it’s not for me, its for y/n!” wheezie argues.

“oh.” rafe looks down at you, noting the blush spread across your cheeks. “well, you can wear that but only for me.”

“rafe!” you squeal while wheezie makes a grossed out face.

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mphoenix-7 · 27 days ago

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Bitter Allies [Soap x Reader]

Chapter 16: Annette (pt. 1)

Summary: Soap starts to open up to you about his past. Starting at the very beginning.

Word Count: 7,721

Warnings: Strong themes, death of a loved one, funerals, car crash victim, depression, coping with loss of a family member, stepparents, changing family themes, fighting, mourning of a loved one

A/N: I was gone way too long 😭 Anyway, I finally have an update for this story! This was a tough one to write, and I’m afraid it’s only gonna get worse. Grab your tissues! And enjoy 😊

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Bitter Allies • Part 16

Before he joined the military, before he got the name Soap, before he became the youngest candidate to pass SAS selection, before he joined Task Force 141, got his rank, and became a demolitions expert and sniper— he was simply John MacTavish. A young boy living in the Scotland countryside with his parents.

Back then, his life was ordinary, much like that of any other young lad. He'd spend hours outside, splashing through streams, playing in the woods, and running through fields with his friends until the sun dipped below the hills. He'd help his father with chores, handing him tools while he fixed a fence, or stand on a stool in the kitchen, watching his mother's deft hands knead dough for bread and steal cookies fresh off the baking sheet. He was a big brother to three little sisters—fighting with them as much as he adored them. His greatest worries back then were rainy afternoons or when his peas touched his mashed potatoes.

But those days slipped away, faster than he could grasp.

How naïve that little boy had been—how sheltered. Then again, why shouldn't he have been? Childhood should be like that: safe, carefree, uncomplicated. And for a time, it was. But those days ended. The world cracked open like glass. John would have given anything to go back—to when his sisters' eyes shone bright with laughter, to the warmth of his mother's embrace, to the days when his father was still a good man.

Before the crash.

Before Annette.

Before everything that came after.

***

John was up late, or at least what he believed to be late, reading an Amazing Spider-Man comic for what was probably the hundredth time. He'd gotten it for his birthday about a week ago. He'd just turned ten not but a few months ago, and he was allowed to stay up until 10:00 pm now. His sisters, all younger than him, still had to go to bed at 9:00 pm, so he was enjoying time to himself.

The house was quiet except for the faint ticking of the clock in the hallway and the soft rustle of pages as John flipped through his comic. His lamp cast a warm glow over his small room, illuminating the mess of action figures, schoolbooks, and stray socks scattered across the floor. Outside his window, the sky was an inky black, clouds swallowing the faint silver light of the moon.

John shifted on his stomach, propped up on his elbows as his eyes scanned the brightly colored panels. Spider-Man was mid-swing through New York, and John was completely absorbed in the comic despite having read it three or four times now. But then he heard it—the creak of the floorboards downstairs.

It normally wouldn't have catch his attention, but for some reason that night it did. He paused, his grin fading slightly as he glanced toward his closed bedroom door. His dad was still awake, clearly. That wasn't unusual, but the steady pacing, the heaviness of his father's steps, made John frown.

He set his comic aside, slipping off his bed and quietly padding across the floor. He cracked the door open just enough to peek out into the dim hallway. The light from downstairs glowed faintly, and he could just barely make out his father's voice.

John crept out of his room, moving carefully to avoid the floorboards he knew would squeak. He crouched low at the top of the stairs, gripping the banister as he peered down. His father was standing near the phone, one hand braced against the wall, the other gripping the receiver so tightly his knuckles were white.

"No, she left hours ago. She should've been home by now." His father's voice was low and tight, a sharp edge to it that made John's stomach twist. He never sounded like this.

A long pause followed, broken only by John's own quiet breathing.

"Yes, I've called the police already. They said nothing's come in yet. But something's wrong, I can feel it." His father's voice cracked slightly at the end, though he quickly cleared his throat.

John's chest felt tight, his fingers trembling slightly where they gripped the wood of the banister. His mother wasn't home yet. That had to be who his father was talking about. He hadn't even really noticed her absence until now, but now that he thought about it, it was odd she wasn't home yet.

His father began pacing again, his hand running through his graying hair as he listened to whoever was on the other end of the line. "No, I'll keep calling around. You just... you just let me know if you hear anything, alright?"

The receiver clattered into its cradle with a sharp clack, and his father let out a deep breath, bracing both hands on the edge of the counter. His shoulders slumped, and for a moment, he just stood there, staring down at the linoleum floor.

John's throat felt dry, his stomach knotting. He wanted to go down there, to ask his dad what was happening, to hear him say something—anything—that would make this gnawing unease go away. But he stayed frozen at the top of the stairs, his heart thudding painfully in his chest.

The silence stretched on until his father straightened again, rubbing a hand down his face before reaching for the phone once more. He started to press the buttons, dialing another number.

John slipped back into the shadows of the hallway, retreating to his room as quietly as he could. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his head resting against the wood.

His comic lay forgotten on the bed as he sat down on the floor, knees pulled up to his chest. The tick of the clock felt louder now, each second dragging on and on.

"She'll come home." He told himself. "Mum's fine. She'll walk through the door any minute now."

John stayed on the floor for what felt like hours, knees pulled tight to his chest and his chin resting on them. He listened for the sound of her car pulling up. Every creak of the house, every distant sound from outside made his head snap up, his ears straining for the sound of the front door opening.

But it never came.

At some point, he climbed back onto his bed and curled up under the covers, but he didn't turn off his lamp. He tried to read his comic some more, but he couldn't focus on it. Soon, the clock beside him read 10:15. Normally his mum or his father would have been upstairs at 10:00 sharp to tell him goodnight.

John's eyes were heavy, but he forced himself to stay awake, staring at the faint glow of the hallway light under his bedroom door. He heard his father's footsteps again, slower this time, slowly coming up the stairs and down the hall.

When the soft knock came at his door, John sat up, half expecting to see his mum there with his father. The door opened with a quiet creak, and he heard his father sigh as he stepped into the room.

"John?" His father said softly.

His father was standing just inside the doorway. He looked tired—more tired than John had ever seen him. His shoulders were slumped, and the lines on his face seemed deeper somehow.

"It's past your bedtime, son." His father said, his voice gentle but firm. "You need to get to bed."

John hesitated, clutching the edge of his blanket in his small fists. "Where's mum?"

The question hung in the air. His father paused, his lips pressing into a thin line before he spoke.

"Just running late getting home." His voice was steady, but John could hear the strain behind it, the way it wavered slightly at the edges. "But she'll be home soon, alright?"

He tried to smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.

John nodded slowly, though the answer didn't ease the knot in his chest. "Okay."

His father stepped forward, taking John's comic, closing it, and setting it up. He then flicked his lamp off, casting the room into darkness.

"Goodnight, John." He says softly, heading to the doorway.

"Goodnight." John called after him, waiting until his father had stepped out of the room and shut his door before lying down.

He stared up at the ceiling, the sound of his father's footsteps fading down the hallway. Not towards his room, but back downstairs. Occasionally, John could still hear his voice as he made more phone calls.

The next morning, light crept through the thin curtains of John's bedroom, casting faint golden streaks across the walls. He blinked awake slowly, his head heavy, eyes scratchy from a night of broken sleep. For a moment, he thought maybe everything was fine—that he'd wake up, go downstairs, and his mum would be in the kitchen making breakfast, humming to herself as she flipped pancakes.

John climbed out of bed, his bare feet cold against the wooden floor as he padded to his door and pulled it open. The hallway was quiet, his sisters' rooms still shut tight. They were probably still asleep.

John made his way down the stairs, stopping at the top to listen for the sound of pots clanking together or for his mum's soft voice talking to his father. It was completely silent though. He makes his way down, and when he got to the kitchen, he froze.

His father was sitting at the table, shoulders hunched over, his hands pressed tightly against his face. A mug of coffee sat in front of him, no steam coming off it and still full. His hair was disheveled, and the lines on his face looked deeper than they had the night before.

John lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. "Morning, Dad."

His father flinched slightly, lowering his hands and blinking as if he'd just realized John was there. His eyes were bloodshot, the skin under them purple with exhaustion. "Morning, son." He said quietly, his voice hoarse. "You're up early."

John ignores him and shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "Is Mum back yet?"

The silence that followed was unbearable. His father didn't answer right away, just stared down at the tabletop, his hands clenched into fists on either side of the empty mug.

Before he could reply, there was a sharp knock at the front door.

His father stood up quickly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor as he did. It made John wince slightly.

"Stay here, John." He said firmly, his voice low and uneven.

John nodded, his feet glued to the floor as he watched his father hurry out of the kitchen. However he didn't stay there long. Curiosity pulled at him, and before he could stop himself, John crept closer to the hallway, peeking around the corner.

Two police officers stood at the door—a man and a woman, both in crisp uniforms. The male officer had a hat tucked under his arm, while the female officer's hands were folded tightly in front of her.

His father stood in the doorway, shoulders tense, head slightly bowed.

"...found her car early this morning," the male officer was saying. His voice was soft. "It appears she lost control and went off the road. She hit a tree. We're... very sorry, Mr. MacTavish."

John's breath caught in his throat.

"No... No, that's not right." He could see his father's shoulders stiffen, his jaw tightening as he shook his head slowly. "You must've made a mistake."

The female officer frowns, her eyes holding a sorrow John would never forget. "We're sorry, Mr. Mactavish. It was her."

"Are you sure?" His father asked, voice softer, pleading. "Are you sure she's..."

There's a pause before the officer's answer. "Yes. The paramedics declared her deceased upon arrival. She'd been gone for hours. They believe she died on or shortly after impact."

His father's head dipped lower, one hand coming up to cover his mouth as if he were trying to physically stop the sob that threatened to escape. The female officer stepped forward slightly. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Family? Friends?"

His father shook his head once, sharp and quick. "No." He rasped, his voice cracking. "No thank you."

The officers exchanged a glance before the male officer nodded. "We'll... we'll leave you to process this. If you need anything at all, please don't hesitate to reach out."

His father barely nodded before slowly closing the door.

John couldn't move. He was trying so hard to process what he'd heard. It had to have been a mistake. His chest tight, his breaths coming quick and shallow. His father stood there in the entryway, his back to John, his head hung low.

For a moment, everything was completely silent and still.

Then, his father let out a sound—a low, guttural noise, like an animal in pain. His shoulders shook once, twice, before he pressed his hands to his face and stumbled back against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.

John's eyes filled with tears, frozen in place. His father—this strong, unshakable figure in his life—was crumbling right in front of him.

John couldn't stay silent anymore. A gasping cry left his throat and he took a hesitant step out into the hallway, his small voice breaking the silence. "Dad?"

His father turned slightly, his face pale, his eyes red and brimming with tears he was desperately trying to hold back. A few escaped though, running down his father's cheeks and into his beard.

"What... what were they talking about?" John's voice cracked as he spoke, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

"Johnny..." He rasped, his voice raw, fragile. "Your mum... she's... she's umm... there's been an accident. Your mum is... she's dead."

John's vision blurred as his father's words echoed in his head, louder and louder until they drowned out everything else. His chest tightened, his breath caught in his throat, and for a terrifying moment, it felt like he couldn't breathe.

When the air finally forced its way out, it came in a broken, heart-wrenching wail. Tears streamed down his face, hot and endless, his hands clutching his chest like he was trying to hold himself together. He wanted his mum—he wanted her so badly it hurt. He wanted to hear her voice just one more time, to feel her warm embrace, to feel the soft press of her lips on his forehead as she whispered how much she loved him.

But he would never have those things again. The weight of that realization hit him hard, leaving a hollow ache in his chest so raw and so deep it felt unbearable. He crumbled to the floor, sobbing so hard it shook his whole body.

John's father closed the space between them within two strides. He scooped his son up and held him tightly, his large hand cradling the back of his head. John collapsed into him, his face pressed against his father's chest as he trembled and sobbed.

John's world felt like it was shattering around him, each sharp piece cutting into his chest, making it harder to breathe. His mother—his warm, kind, loving mother—was gone.

And nothing would ever be the same again after that.

***

John doesn't remember much of the funeral. Only a few things. A church, a dark wooden casket with white lilies on top of it, and seeing his mum one last time.

He'd arrived at the church about an hour before the service started. He held his father's had as he approached the casket. It was closed at the time.

"Is she in there?" John asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

His father hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yes, son. She is."

John swallowed hard, his heart pounding. He stared at the casket, his chest tightening with every second that passed. "Can I see her?"

His father stiffened, his hand gripping John's shoulder a little tighter. "John, I don't think that—"

"Please." John cut him off, his voice trembling. "Please. I want to see her."

For a long moment, his father didn't respond, his face a mask of grief and hesitation. Then, with a heavy sigh, he gave a small nod. "Okay," he said quietly. "Just for a moment, yeah?" His father brushed his cheek softly and then carefully lifted the lid up.

John clenched his jaw as the lid was raised. His heart was pounding so hard. And when he saw her, his body felt numb.

There was his mum, lying inside. They'd tried to make her look peaceful, and for the most part, they had. Her eyes were shut, and she almost looked asleep. But the signs of the accident were still there. Faint cuts lined her pale cheeks and forehead, hidden as best as possible under makeup. A faint bruise marked her temple, dark against her pale skin, but blotted out with makeup.

John's chest heaved as he tried to keep the tears in. He gripped the edge of the casket, his fingers trembling.

His father knelt beside him, wrapping his arms around John and holding him close. "You've been so brave, John." His father murmured, his voice thick with emotion and slightly shaky. "I'm so proud of you and how you've been handling this. And I know your mum would have been too. She loved you so much."

John nods a little, knowing that if he tried to speak he would break down completely. He was still trying to hold himself together.

His father squeezes him tightly again. "It's ok to cry, son." He says softly. "Just let it out. I'm right here."

John squeezes his eyes shut, his body shaking. He presses his forehead against the edge of the casket, takes a shuddery breath, and then sobs.

***

The house had changed in the year since his mum passed.

The first month it seemed like there was always someone at their house. Dropping off food, cards, flowers, always asking how he was doing. He got sick of it. He just wanted to be alone.

Then people stopped showing up and it became suffocatingly quiet—so quiet John could hardly stand it. His father practically turned into a ghost, just drifting through the halls, eyes hollow and shoulders slumped. Meals were eaten in silence, rooms were left half-cleaned, and some days his father barely left the armchair by the fireplace.

Some days it seemed like his father had died in that car accident too. He spend all of his time just sitting and staring off into space. He'd only come around enough to cook occasionally for John and his sisters. And even then "cooking" was just reheating the frozen meals left by the local church. Once those ran out, it was frozen pizzas or takeout.

Then his father began to spend more and more time at the local bar. There were many days where he'd be gone from sun up until sun down and return home absolutely wasted. John got used to coming home and finding him passed out on the floor in the hallway. He learned to go in through the back door so his sisters didn't have to see it.

That went on for a few months. John hated his father drunk. But then one day, everything changed. His father suddenly stopped going to the bar, he started getting up in the mornings, his eyes got clearer and his smile returned. The distant, hollow man who had drifted through their lives was slowly replaced by someone familiar—someone John remembered. There was a warmth about him that hadn't been there in what felt like forever.

It was... nice. They started doing things together again—little things, like actually cooking, going to the market together, watching movies. It felt like a piece of the life they'd once had was coming back. John didn't even think to question the sudden change; he was too caught up in the joy of having his father back. For the first time in a long time, it felt like they might be okay.

School had just started up, putting John back into a somewhat normal routine. His sister, Rowan, was also starting school that year and joined him and Eilidh, his other sister, on their walk to school each morning. They were about four weeks in now, and John was starting to feel happy for the first time since the accident.

Walking home from school one afternoon, John was half listening as Eilidh and Rowan rambled on about something that happened in class. As they approached their house, John noticed a car pulled up next to his father's. He didn't think much of it at first, but as they stepped inside, he could hear a woman's laughter coming from the kitchen.

John's brows furrowed. Normally having visitors wouldn't have been a big deal, but it's been ages since they'd had anyone over. Even Eilidh and Rowan seemed off put by the foreign voice.

"Who's here?" Eilidh asks John softly, making John shrug a shoulder.

"Dunno." He mutters as he starts down the hallway to the kitchen.

As he got closer, he could start to make out his father talking and laughing. It was a kind of laugh that John hadn't heard in nearly a year.

He stops abruptly as he rounds the corner and looks into the kitchen causing Eilidh to bump into his back with a small "oof." There was his father, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in his hands and smiling at a woman who was seated next to him. Not in just any chair though. It was the chair where his mum had always sat.

She was perched gracefully, a steaming mug of tea cradled in her hands. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft, perfect waves over her shoulders, not a strand out of place. Her makeup was subtle but polished, enhancing sharp green eyes that flicked up to meet his the second she noticed him standing in the doorway.

She was smiling. Not a wide, toothy grin, but something small and pleasant, as if she were trying to seem gentle—approachable. She wore a pale cream blouse tucked into some dark skinny jeans, her nails painted a soft pink.

His father was smiling, too. Not the broken, distant man John had grown used to over the past year, but someone... lighter. It was almost like the dad he remembered before the accident, a version of him that had only just started to come a little bit ago. This woman seemed to enhance it though. It should've been a good thing, but it made John's stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Oh, here they are now!" His father exclaimed, making John look away from the woman and towards him. "Come in. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

John didn't move at first, but Eilidh obediently stepped around him and into the kitchen a little ways, Rowan following after her. Their eyes were curious as they looked between their father and the woman.

His father's smile grew softer as he gestured between them. "Annette, this is my son John, and these wee ones here are Eilidh and Rowan. Eilidh is my eldest daughter and Rowan is the middle of the girls."

Annette's eyes crinkled at the corners as she turned her attention on them. "Oh, you're just as lovely as your father said." She cooed, her voice syrupy sweet. "Eilidh is such a pretty name and I love your blonde curls, Rowan."

Eilidh said a soft thank you, and Rowan ducks her head slightly, taking a step towards John and tucking into his side. It makes his father chuckle.

"Rowan is a little shy." He explains, and John notices as his father places a hand on Annette's shoulder.

Annette just giggles slightly, looking back at his father and placing her hand over his. The exchange is quick, and Annette is turning her attention to John now, their eyes meeting. "And it's nice to meet you as well, John. I've heard a lot about you. Your father speaks so highly of you." She looks back to his father once more, giving him a bright smile.

John narrows his eyes slightly, quickly piecing together what their relationship was. He hoped he was wrong. "And you are? I haven't heard a thing about you." He shoots his father a look as he says it, making the couple look back at him.

John's father clears his throat. "This is Annette." He says, gesturing towards her. "We've been... spending some time together. She's a friend."

John's eyes darted between his father and the woman—Annette. Spending time together. He wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what his father meant.

"So you replaced mum that fast huh." He says bitterly. Annette's eyes widened and John's father's eyes narrowed.

"John Alexander!" His father barks, making both him and his sisters jump. "I am not replacing your mother."

The force behind his father's words hangs heavy in the kitchen, sharp enough to cut through the tension. John's shoulders are tight, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Could've fooled me." He mutters bitterly under his breath, but loud enough for both of them to hear it.

"John..." Annette speaks up softly, her voice sickeningly sweet. "I know this must be so hard for you, sweetheart. Losing your mum, trying to adjust to everything... but I'm not here to take her place."

"Don't!" John snaps, his voice sharp and trembling with restrained anger. "Don't you talk about her. You don't know her. You don't know us."

Annette flinches at his words, and Rowan starts to sniffle, but before John can even register either reaction, his father slams his fist onto the table. The loud, sudden bang makes Rowan clutch tightly at his sleeve, and she starts to cry.

"John!" His father's voice cracks through the air again, sharper this time. His face is flushed, and there's a glint of something unreadable in his eyes—anger and disappointment. "You will not speak to Annette like that! She has done nothing to deserve this attitude from you."

John scoffs, his eyes filling with tears, but he's blinking them back. "Whatever." He growls out, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. "But just because you're replacing mum doesn't mean I'm going to."

His father points towards the hallway, his voice low and firm. "Go upstairs! Now. Take your schoolwork and don't come down until I tell you. We will talk about this later."

John tugs his arm free of Rowan's grasp, making her cry harder, and he turns, quickly running up the stairs towards his room. His vision starts to blur, and he angrily wipes away any tears that fall.

Once in his room, he slammed his door shut and threw his bag down, his body shaking slightly. He never fought with his dad. At least not from what he could remember. And he was so mad at him for bringing this new person into their lives without even a heads up.

He goes to his bed, but he's not alone for too long. He can hear Rowan's sobs getting louder as she nears his door, and then his doorknob starts to jiggle as she opens it. She walks in, eyes red and cheeks already puffy.

"Go away, Rowan!" He snaps, being a little more harsh than he meant to be, but he wanted to be alone.

"But Johnny..." She sobs, hiccuping softly and taking shallow shuddery breaths. She gets closer, trying to climb up onto his bed with him.

John pushes her away though, his hand on her chest to keep her back. "Stop! Go away!" He yells again.

His father comes in next, his face still fuming. "Rowan, come on! Get out of your brother's room." He picks her up, which just makes her cry more as he carries her out and shuts his door. Her cries get softer, but he can still hear her through the walls.

Ten minutes crawled by. John sat on the edge of his bed still, staring at the floor, his jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. His hands balled into fists, resting against his knees as he tried to steady his breathing. He was still angry.

His door opened once more, and John half expected to see his dad, but instead it was Eilidh this time.

"Johnny?" She says softly, almost hesitantly.

He glares at her. "Get out." He growls. "I want to be alone! Stop coming in here!"

"Why are you so upset? Dad said they were just friends." She says innocently, making John sigh and turn to face her.

"They aren't 'just friends' you dobber! They're dating." Saying those words left a bitter taste in his mouth. "He's replacing mum is what he's doing."

Eilidh frowns at him, her brows pinching together as she crosses her arms. "Don't call me a dobber! You're being really mean!" Her lip starts to tremble.

John lets out a frustrated groan. "Well you're being annoying!" He throws back.

"Stop being such a moany git!" She shouts back, tears filling her eyes now as she turns and runs out of his room.

John's angry only lasted a few more seconds, quickly being replaced with guilt. Now he'd upset two of his sisters, and he really didn't like making them upset. He lets out a frustrated groan and sinks into his bed, more hot tears filling his eyes.

***

It was a few hours before Annette finally left. John could hear as his father walked her to the door and as they said their goodbyes. Right after that, his father's footsteps started up the stairs and were soon right outside his door. There was a soft knock, and then his father came in, making John pull his blanket up more around himself.

"John." His father said softly, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "We need to talk."

John didn't respond. He hoped his father would just think that he was sleeping or something and leave him alone.

His father sighed, rubbing a hand over his face before sitting down on the edge of the bed. John still didn't move.

"I know you're upset." His father started, his voice low and measured, the way he always spoke when he was trying to stay calm. "And I understand why. But you've got to believe me when I say... Annette isn't here to replace your mum."

John snapped at that, his face twisting with anger as he sat up. "Then why is she here?" He spat.

His father flinched, his shoulders stiffening at John's words. "John, listen to me—"

"No!" John shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "You don't get it! It hasn't even been a year! You're acting like mum never even mattered. Like we can just move on and be happy again!"

His father's mouth opened slightly, but no words came out. For a long moment, he just stared at John, his lips pressed into a thin line, his eyes glassy.

"That's not true." His father said finally, his voice trembling slightly. "Your mum... she mattered more to me than anything in this world. And when she—when she was taken from us, it felt like the world stopped turning."

John's throat tightened, and his father continued.

"For months, John, I could barely get out of bed. I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat—I couldn't breathe without feeling like I was drowning."

John looked away, his vision blurring with tears. "You didn't even ask us. You didn't even tell us. You just... brought her here. Like we'd just be ok with it."

His father's face fell, and he looked down at his hands, clasped tightly together. "You're right," he said softly. "I should've talked to you first. I should've explained it better. I didn't want to hurt you, John, I swear it.

But Annette... she helped me feel... normal again. She reminded me that there's still something left to hold onto. That maybe—just maybe—it's okay to let myself smile again. To be... happy."

John shook his head, hot tears spilling down his cheeks. "But I'm not happy. I just want mum back. I don't want anyone else."

John's father sighs heavily, his voice wavering just slightly. "I know. I wish more than anything that your mum was still here."

John sniffled, wiping his face roughly with the sleeve of his shirt. His father reached over to his desk and grabbed a tissue, offering it to him.

"I'm not asking you to like her. I'm not asking you to accept her right now. But I am asking you to give her a chance. For me."

John took the tissue and used it to blow his nose and wiped his eyes one more time. "And if I don't like her?" He questions, looking back over to his father.

He's silent for a moment before he answers. "She's not gonna be your new mum if you don't want that. Just think about what I've said, alright? We'll have dinner with her in a week or so. You can get to know her better then. Who knows? You might find you like her."

The answer didn't really sit well with John—it felt like avoiding the question entirely—but being so young, he didn't have the words to argue. He was tired. With a heavy sigh, his shoulders sagged, and he gave a reluctant nod.

His father offered a small, encouraging smile, squeezing his shoulder firmly. "That's my boy." He murmured before standing up and heading toward the door. He paused in the doorway, turning back to look at John.

"I love you, son. You and your sisters. I only want what's best for you."

John forced a faint smile. "I love you too." He replied, his voice soft. His father returned the smile before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

As soon as the latch clicked, the smile fell from John's face. He lay back on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His chest still felt heavy. He didn't want Annette in their lives, but he trusted his father. If he said she wasn't going to replace his mum, he had to believe him.

If he couldn't trust his father, who was he going to trust.

***

The MacTavish family began to see a lot more of Annette after that. It started with her coming over once a week—always with a warm smile, always with some little treat or compliment ready for the girls and him. Then it became twice a week. Then almost every dinner.

John tried to be on his best behavior around her. He still wasn't sold on having her around, but he was at least trying for his father. He smiled at Annette and said hi whenever she was around. Spoke to her when she spoke to him, but he wasn't one to start the conversation.

Eilidh was quickly warming up to her, and so was Rowan. Kirsten, only being three going on four at the time, didn't even really know what was going on, but she modeled her behavior after her siblings.

John wanted to tell his father that he still didn't want Annette in their lives, but how could he? The way his dad smiled at Annette—an easy, effortless smile he hadn't seen since before his mother died— how could he possibly ruin that? His father seemed to think Annette made their lives better, and for everyone but John, it looked to be true.

Then, only a few months later, his father sat them all down in the living room. John immediately knew something was off; his father couldn't stop fidgeting. Annette sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his knee, her smile soft and hesitant. They kept sharing looks, they kept grinning at each other.

"We have some news." His father said, glancing at Annette before clearing his throat. "Annette and I... we've decided to get married."

John's heart plummeted. His stomach felt like it was folding in on itself, and his hands balled into fists against his knees. He couldn't say anything. He couldn't even breathe. He just sat there silent and stone-faced.

His sisters gasped and started to cheer, their faces lighting up with excitement. They were already asking if they'd get to be in the wedding, if they got to be flower girls.

They looked so happy—his sisters beaming, his father smiling wider than he had in months. How could he ruin this for them?

"Johnny, what do you think?" Annette's voice cut into his thoughts, soft but expectant. She was looking at him now, her head tilted slightly, a carefully practiced smile on her lips. His father looked at him too, waiting for his answer.

Forcing a smile onto his face, John tried to push down the storm of emotions threatening to spill out. "That's... great news." He muttered, the words tasting bitter.

Maybe it wasn't going to be the worst this. At least everyone looked happy.

The weeks after that announcement were a blur. Plans were made, and it was decided that they'd have a small ceremony—just them, at a tiny church on the outskirts of town.

The day came far too quickly. John stood stiffly in a button-up shirt that felt too tight around his neck, his hands jammed into his pockets as he watched his father and Annette exchange vows at the altar. Eilidh, Rowan, and Kristen stood beside him, clutching tiny bouquets and wearing their Sunday Easter dresses.

When the minister reached the words "speak now or forever hold your peace", John's heart pounded in his chest. For one brief moment, he thought about saying something—about shouting out how much he didn't want his dad to marry her.

But he didn't. He stayed silent.

When it was over, when Annette became Annette MacTavish, John felt defeated.

Annette moved in a day later. She breezed through their entire home, "tidying up" the place to make room for her things. In reality, she was boxing up all his mum's things and shoving them into a closet under the stairs.

His mum's clothes were taken out of his dad's room to make room for hers. The kitchen cabinets and draws were rearranged to hold her glassware. Decorations were taken down and replaced with Annette's little trinkets. A shelf that held his mother's keepsakes was cleared to make room for Annette's books. Even the smell of their home was different. Her perfume polluted the halls.

The house felt different now. Like it wasn't theirs anymore—it was hers.

Only about a week after the wedding, John's father sat them all down again.

"Annette and I are going to go away for a little while." He said carefully. "Just a short trip, a honeymoon. You'll all be staying with Mrs. McKay while we're gone. It'll only be for a week, alright?"

John didn't answer. He just nodded stiffly.

The morning before they left, everyone was bustling around the house, packing bags and gathering the things they needed. John was in his room, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag when Annette appeared in the doorway.

"John?" She said sweetly, dropping a bunch of suitcases and bags on the floor in the hallway. "Would you take these downstairs for me?"

John didn't even look up from his packing. "No." He answers shortly. She was perfectly capable to taking her own bags down. And John wasn't even packed yet because he'd been helping his sisters pack.

There was a brief silence before Annette spoke again, her voice tight. "Excuse me?"

His father appeared a moment later, catching the tail end of the exchange. "What's going on?" He asks, looking between her and John.

Annette straightened up, putting on the smile she always wore. "I was just asking if John would help me carrying a few bags downstairs and he told me no."

"John." He said softly. "Help your stepmother out and-"

John never tensed up so quickly in his entire life. That was the thing that finally broke him after weeks of holding everything in. He turns around quickly, his eyes blazing with anger. "She's not my mother!" He spat.

The room went silent. Annette's expression flickered—something cold and sharp flashing in her eyes before she quickly smoothed it over with a small, hurt frown.

"You know. It's ok, Ewan." She says, her voice taking a slightly whiny pitch. "He's not ready to accept me yet, and... and it's ok. I'll take the bags down myself." She started to fan her eyes a little, like she was about to cry, but John didn't see any tears. With a shuddery breath, she picks up a single bag and walks quickly down the hall.

"Annette! Darling, he didn't mean anything by-" His father sighs heavily, and then turns his gaze back to John. "Dammit, John, you've made her upset."

"You said she wasn't going to be my mother." He reminds his father sharply, stuffing more of his clothes into the duffle bag.

"I didn't say she was your mother. I told you to help your step-mother. It's different." His father says, making John roll his eyes.

"I don't want to call her that either." He growls.

"That's enough! When we get back from our trip you better have that attitude of yours sorted out!" His father shouts, making John flinch just slightly.

John holds his tongue, and just continues packing in silence. When he doesn't say anything more, his father grumbles and starts to pick up the remaining suitcases to carry them down. John bites his cheek to keep from crying.

***

Two and a half weeks go by before his father and Annette come back. They were only suppose to be gone for one. John almost liked the time away from them though. So when his father's car comes rolling up Mrs. McKay's dirt driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust behind them, he's almost disappointed.

Still, when Eilidh shrieked, "Daddy's home!" and bolted out the front door, Rowan right on her heels, John couldn't stop himself from running after them.

His father had just stepped out of the car by the time the three MacTavish kids reached him. John clung to his father first, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck as Eilidh and Rowan squished in behind him.

His father's strong arms held them all, his voice warm and affectionate as he kissed each of their heads. "Ah, I missed my wee ones so much." He said, fluffing up John's hair.

Eilidh giggled. "We missed you too, daddy!" She said, her small hands clutching the front of his jacket.

John leans into his father, letting himself relax a bit. It was nice to see his dad again, even if part of him had started enjoying the quiet without Annette around.

"Don't forget about me!"

Speaking of Annette. She came running around the other side of the car, arms outstretched.

John felt his father shift him to one side, making room for Annette to wrap herself around the group. She squeezed them all tightly, her perfume strong and floral, making John's nose wrinkle.

"Oh, I missed you all so much!" She cooed. "I couldn't wait to get back just to see you guys!"

John rolls his eyes a little at that. Sure. She was so anxious to get back to them she ended up extending their trip by a whole week.

"Were you kids good for Mrs. McKay?" His father asks, standing back up straight as Mrs. McKay walked out holding Kristen, who was squealing and kicking happily.

"Oh they were a joy." Mrs. McKay says, handing over the youngest MacTavish to his father. "Absolute angels the entire time."

His dad beamed with pride as he takes Kristen and coos at her softly. "I'm glad to hear they were well behaved. Thank you again for being able to watch them." He wraps his arm around John again.

"Anytime, Ewan. They really are great kids. Malina would be so proud."

John perks up at that. That was his mum's name. His real mum. He glances up at his father to see his reaction, and he's pretty sure his father's eyes look a little misty at the mention of her.

"Well, you know, I'm convinced that's all her doing. She was an amazing woman."

"Kids, let's get everything loaded up, shall we?" Annette says suddenly with a bright smile.

John blinked, his gaze snapping from his dad to Annette. Mrs. McKay hesitated, just for a moment, glancing between Annette and John's father. Her warm expression faltered briefly, but she quickly smiled and nodded. "Yes, you kids should grab your things." She agreed, her tone a bit softer now. "I'll help you carry them out."

John shuffled toward the house with Eilidh, Rowan, and Mrs. McKay trailing behind. About halfway, he glances back, seeing Annette and his father talking. Annette's arms were crossed over her chest.

Once inside, they quickly gathered their bags. It didn't take too long as their stuff had been piled by the door earlier that morning. By the time they were back outside, Annette was back to beaming her bright smile, and his father was putting Kristen in a car seat.

The bags were thrown into the trunk, they all said one last thank you and goodbye to Mrs. McKay, and then everyone piled into the car, buckled up, and they were on their way home.

Annette immediately launched into a full telling of their honeymoon. She described the warm beaches, the fancy dinners, and the "cute little boutique" where she found the new necklace she was wearing.

She talked the entire trip home, not once stopping to ask about them. John just stared out the window, resting his head on the glass and trying to shut most of it out.

They were only fifteen minutes from home, but it was a long car trip.

@the-faceless-bride @venavanup @hotthankss @daemondoll @thepowers-kat-be @xheera

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kvetchinglyneurotic · 1 year ago

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i'm not an amputee so absolutely tell me to stay in my lane if applicable, but it seems to me that there's something really unique about the way that black sails handles silver's disability and the narrative role of his prosthetic. as in, it's one of the only shows i've seen (although i'm sure there are more out there) where 1) a character's mobility is more impaired when using a prosthetic, and 2) where using a prosthetic is explicitly portrayed as an effort to appear more able-bodied to others in a way that's harmful to the amputee character: silver insists on wearing the leg in front of the men to the point of giving himself an infection and limiting his mobility in a fight because he's worried about maintaining his authority. while he doesn't choose to stop wearing it, i think it's telling that he also doesn't try to have a replacement made after he loses it or otherwise seem bothered by being seen using his crutch after he establishes the myth of long john silver by crushing dufresne's skull with his metal leg for mocking him as "half a man," symbolically tying the myth to his disability

#black sails #black sails spoilers #john silver #i saw a post about how mobility aids often seem to be forced on people or withheld based on what would to make them appear most able-bodied #and didn't want to derail it with my pro-black sails propaganda bc that's like. an actual important real life issue #so i made this post instead #kvetch oc

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lichfucker · 1 year ago

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think about the scene in black sails where silver stomps dufresne to death with his prosthetic leg after dufresne makes some nasty ableist comments.

think about the scene in treasure island where silver agrees to have a civil conversation with captain smollett, smollett asks silver to sit down in the sand, silver says "okay but only if you help me up afterwards," then when the conversation is over silver asks for a hand up and smollett refuses and so does everyone else, and jim and the squire and dr livesey just stand there watching in silence as silver crawls across the sand until he reaches a place where he can hoist himself back up to standing, and even then silver's own crew member who had come with him watches silver stumble across the sand and doesn't bother to help him walk until after silver has fallen over "four or five [times]."

think about how in black sails the tavern goes quiet when dufresne starts to speak, and stays quiet throughout silver's retaliation. think about how that scene is a moment of power-- a turning point toward silver embracing the darkness.

think about how in treasure island the camp goes quiet when silver wriggles pathetically across the sand, and stays quiet throughout silver's retreat. think about how that scene is a moment of indignity and hatred and shame-- a turning point toward silver declaring all-out war against jim and the crew of the hispaniola.

think about "my name is john silver, and I've got a long fucking memory."

think about "laugh, by thunder, laugh! before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side. them that die'll be the lucky ones."

#bluh bluh #black sails #treasure island #john silver

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the-winter-spider · 1 month ago

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The Alchemy | Part 3

NFL!Bucky x Reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: Abuse, toxic relationships, angst

A/N: Oof this ones long but i wanted to set some shizzzzz up

Masterpost

----

It had been a surreal moment when the email came through—the offer to join the NFL team’s media crew. Your chest had been tight with excitement, your heart hammering as you reread the words, over and over, just to make sure they were real. It felt too good to be true, the kind of dream you almost didn’t let yourself have.

You were still staring at the screen when John walked into the room, his phone in hand and a smug grin already spreading across his face.

“Well?” he asked, his voice warm but expectant. “Did they call you yet? I told my buddy I’d have to pull some strings to get them to notice you, but it looks like they finally came through.”

His words hit you like a splash of ice water, the initial glow of excitement dimming as confusion crept in.

“You…what?” you asked softly, your smile faltering.

John leaned casually against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “Yeah, my friend from Penn State—you know, the one who knows the guy on their PR team? I mentioned your name to him a while back. Just put in a good word.” He smirked, like he’d just handed you the world on a silver platter.

“John,” you said slowly, trying to keep your tone steady. “I didn’t ask you to do that. I applied for this on my own.”

“And you think they just magically found your resume at the top of the pile?” he countered, the edge in his tone faint but unmistakable. “Come on, babe. You’re good, but the competition is insane. It doesn’t hurt to have someone looking out for you.”

Your stomach churned, his words pressing down on the excitement you’d been riding just moments ago. This was supposed to be your accomplishment, something you’d earned through hard work and determination. Now, you weren’t so sure if it was entirely yours.

“I didn’t need—”

“You’re welcome,” he interrupted, his voice teasing, though there was a sharpness in his eyes that made it clear he didn’t want to hear any protests.

“John,” you started again, your voice firmer this time, but he waved you off as he crossed the room.

“Relax, honey,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “It’s not a big deal. I just made a call. The rest? That was all you.”

You nodded hesitantly, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. “I…guess I should say thank you?”

“There you go,” he said with a grin, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

The glow of that moment never fully returned.

You sat at the kitchen table days later, scrolling through emails from the team’s PR office, trying to focus on the logistics of your first assignment. You were determined to prove you deserved the role, to make it your own. But no matter how hard you tried, John’s words lingered, casting a shadow over every small victory.

John walked in, a beer in hand, and plopped down in the chair across from you. “How’s the new star employee doing?” he teased, leaning back and kicking his feet up onto the chair beside him.

“Just going over schedules,” you replied, keeping your tone neutral.

He nodded, taking a sip of his beer before setting it down with a smirk. “You’re lucky, you know,” he said, his voice light but carrying an undertone you couldn’t quite place.

“Lucky?” you asked, glancing up from your laptop.

“Yeah,” he said, gesturing vaguely at your computer. “I mean, if I hadn’t made that call, who knows where you’d be right now? Probably still stuck doing boring university media.”

Your stomach twisted, the words cutting deeper than they should have. “I thought you said it was all me,” you said quietly, forcing your voice to stay calm.

“It was,” he said with a shrug. “Mostly. But let’s not pretend like having connections doesn’t help. That’s just how the world works, babe. You know that.”

Your jaw tightened as you bit the inside of your cheek. “I could’ve gotten this on my own.”

“Maybe,” he said, tilting his head and smirking wider. “But you didn’t have to, thanks to me.”

The casual arrogance in his tone made your chest ache. Before you could respond, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Anyway,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, “you better not forget who helped you get here. Wouldn’t want to lose the job, right?”

You froze, your breath catching. He laughed, the sound sharp and hollow, like he was trying to pass it off as a joke. But the glint in his eyes told you otherwise.

“John,” you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. “That’s not funny.”

He waved a hand, leaning back again. “Oh, come on babe. I’m kidding.” His smile returned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Relax, sweets. You know I’d never actually do that. You and me? We’re a team.”

The words were meant to soothe, but they wrapped around you like a vice, tightening with every syllable.

“I wouldn’t,” you said quietly, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “I wouldn’t do anything to mess this up.”

“Good,” he said, flashing you a grin that felt more like a warning. “Because we’ve worked hard to get you here, babe. And I’d hate for you to throw it all away.”

The conversation shifted after that, moving on to something mundane, but his words lingered long after he’d walked away.

You stared at your laptop, the emails blurring together as the knot in your chest grew tighter. He was good at this—at making you question yourself, at twisting things just enough to make you doubt whether your accomplishments were really your own.

And now, as you prepared to step into the biggest opportunity of your life, you couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t entirely yours. That John had claimed a piece of it, slipping his name onto something that should’ve been yours alone.

Something you’d never be able to take back.

----

The jet touched down smoothly, but your nerves only sharpened with each bump and roll as the plane taxied to a stop. The rumble of the engines seemed quieter compared to the relentless buzzing in your hoodie pocket. You knew it was him—John. His texts had been coming in rapid-fire, each one another twist of the tension already coiled in your chest. You hadn’t dared look at the screen since earlier, when Bucky had quietly commented on how distracted you seemed.

The memory of his gaze lingered, heavy and unrelenting, like he’d peeled back the years and seen the cracks you thought you’d hidden. You’d done so much to build walls around yourself after leaving him behind in high school, but the way he’d looked at you—soft, questioning, but sharp enough to cut—it made you feel exposed in ways you hadn’t prepared for.

When the captain announced you could disembark, you moved quickly, unbuckling your seatbelt and grabbing for the bag beneath your seat. The urge to get off the plane, to find some air that didn’t feel so stifling, burned bright. But before you could reach for the overhead compartment, Bucky was already there, pulling your bag down with a practiced ease that left you feeling both grateful and annoyed.

“You don’t have to—” you started, but he cut you off with a shake of his head.

“I’ve got it,” he said, his tone quiet but firm, leaving no room for argument.

You sighed, falling into step behind him as the team gathered near the exit. The energy around you was light, buzzing with camaraderie. Sam was cracking jokes about the upcoming game, and Steve laughed, shoving him playfully. Even the quieter guys seemed at ease, smiling and leaning into the banter.

You should’ve been comforted by the energy, but it only made you feel more out of place. Like you were carrying something too heavy, something that didn’t belong in the warm glow of their camaraderie.

As you reached the top of the stairs, Bucky lingered, waiting just ahead. His expression was unreadable, but the way he looked at you—like he was searching for something—made your heart stutter.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low enough that it wouldn’t carry to the others.

“I’m fine,” you replied, but the words came too quickly, too mechanically. They didn’t even convince you, let alone him.

He held your gaze for a beat longer than felt comfortable before nodding once. He didn’t push, and that restraint—his patience—only made the knot in your chest tighten further. He turned and started down the stairs, and you followed, your stomach churning with every step.

The tarmac was a flurry of movement. Luggage was being unloaded, staff were coordinating check-ins, and reporters snapped photos from behind a security line. You kept to the edges, clutching your camera bag tightly like it could anchor you.

In the lobby, the buzz of your phone returned, the vibration digging into your ribs like a taunt. You hesitated for a moment before pulling it out, your fingers shaking slightly as you unlocked the screen.

The texts filled the screen in a relentless barrage:

“Ignored me again? Guess I know where I stand.”

“Why are you even with me if you don’t care enough to answer?”

“Bet you’re too busy with all those NFL guys, huh? Think you’re too good for me now?”

"We're a team. Don't forget it, Id hate for you to lose what you just got."

Your breath hitched, the words blurring together as your chest tightened. The knot that had been forming since the plane ride twisted harder, stealing the air from your lungs. You started typing a response, but your hands shook so badly that the letters blurred into nonsense.

“You’re doing it again.”

The voice startled you, and your phone slipped from your hand, landing with a muted thud against your thigh. You looked up quickly, your wide eyes meeting Bucky’s. He was standing too close, his arms crossed over his chest, his brow furrowed in that way that made you feel like he was peering right through you.

“Doing what?” you asked, forcing your voice into something steadier than the trembling mess you felt inside.

“Looking like the world’s about to collapse on you,” he said, his words clipped but not unkind. His gaze searched yours, his blue eyes narrowing like they always did when he thought you were lying.

“It’s nothing,” you lied, the words brittle and hollow in your mouth. “Just work stuff, that's all.” You brushed him off. “The first couple weeks are always a bit rocky.” Offering a small smile.

He didn’t buy it. His jaw ticked, and his arms dropped to his sides as he took a step closer. For a moment, you thought he might press, that he might push through the space you’d so carefully constructed between you. But then Steve’s voice cut through the tension, calling Bucky from across the lobby.

Bucky turned, glancing over his shoulder at Steve before his gaze flickered back to you. His expression was a mixture of frustration and concern, his brow furrowed like he wanted to say more but couldn’t find the words. The weight of it all hung heavily between you.

“I would like to catch up with you later, after we get settled if that's okay?,” he said quietly, the hope in his tone as undeniable as the knot tightening in your chest. You nodded in agreement.

And then he was gone, his broad shoulders retreating as he walked toward Steve and the rest of the team, leaving you rooted in place. Your phone buzzed again in your pocket, a relentless reminder of everything you’d been trying—and failing—to hold together.

You felt like you were folding in on yourself, the layers of your life pressed so tightly together it was hard to breathe. Bucky had been your shoulder once. For years, he’d been your steady place, the one person who could make you feel like the chaos of the world wasn’t going to swallow you whole. He was your best friend, the only constant you’d had after your mom started working longer hours and your dad’s drinking got worse..

And then you moved.

And that friendship was left behind, he didn't try to contact you again—not with a phone call, not with a text. It was like he’d disappeared entirely, leaving a gaping hole where he’d once been. You’d told yourself you were fine, that you didn’t need him, but the truth was that losing Bucky felt like losing part of yourself.

You thought you’d found that missing piece in John. At first, he’d been your saving grace, swooping in during the darkest time of your life, when your mom passed and the ground beneath you crumbled. John had been the one to keep you steady, to tell you to get up when you didn’t think you could. He was the one who’d pushed you to apply for this job, who told you that you were better than you thought, stronger than you believed.

For a while, he was everything.

But the last few years had shifted something. There were good days, amazing days even—days where it felt like you could conquer the world with him by your side. And then there were the others. The ones that reminded you too much of your dad, the drinking, the biting words, the feeling of walking on eggshells around someone you weren’t sure you could trust anymore.

You knew you should leave. It wasn’t that simple, though, was it? Because without John, you wouldn’t have this job. And without this job, you weren’t sure what you’d have left. You weren’t sure there was anything else keeping you together. Maybe you’d tied yourself too tightly to him, just like you’d tied yourself too tightly to Bucky all those years ago.

When Bucky stopped being your friend, you’d lost a huge part of yourself. And when your mom died, another part had evaporated entirely. What was left—the only thing holding you together—was this job.

The one you got because of John.

If you lost him, what would be left of you then?

By the time you got to your room, your limbs felt heavy, like every step had drained you of what little energy you had left. The texts hadn’t stopped. The buzzing had morphed into phone calls now, the shrill vibration rattling against your pocket like a storm you couldn’t escape. You silenced the phone, tossed it onto the nightstand, and stared at it, half-expecting it to burst into flames.

You wanted to call someone. To vent. But who?

Your coworkers didn’t know you well enough. You’d only ever shown them your polished surface, the carefully constructed excuses that kept them from looking too closely.

And then there was Bucky.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your head in your hands as your mind drifted back to high school. To him. To the way he’d always been there, always trying to protect you, even when you didn’t want him to. Bucky had this way of seeing through you, of pulling truths out of you that you didn’t even realize you were hiding.

But this wasn’t high school anymore.

You weren’t sure how to let him in now—not when the walls you’d built were so much higher, so much thicker. The last time you let him in, he got in so deep it felt like he was a part of you. But when you moved, he let go. It was so easy for him to leave, to let the distance become more than physical.

What if it was easy for him again?

What if you let him back in, only for the season to end? What would happen when you got assigned to another team, when you left again? Would he let go, just like before?

The thought made your chest ache, a hollow, twisting pain you couldn’t quite name. You glanced at your phone, still silent on the nightstand, and felt the weight of your choices pressing down on you.

You wanted to talk to him. You wanted to hear him say it wasn’t easy for him, that he hadn’t meant to let go back then, that he wouldn’t let go now.

But the words caught in your throat.

So you sat there, alone, staring at the phone like it held all the answers you couldn’t bring yourself to find.

A knock on the door broke through your thoughts. You hesitated, your pulse quickening. Another knock followed, this one firmer.

“Y/N? It’s me.”

Bucky.

You let out a shaky breath, crossing the room to open the door. He stood there, still in his travel clothes, his jacket slung over one shoulder. His expression softened when he saw you, but his eyes still held that quiet intensity that always made you feel like he could see right through you.

“Can I come in?” he asked, his voice low.

You nodded, stepping aside to let him in.

He glanced around the room briefly before turning to face you, his hands in his pockets as if he was trying to shrink away like he wasn’t a 6 foot tall football player “I was just wondering if you wanted to go catch up now? Maybe get dinner?”

You stared at him for a moment, caught off guard by the question. Dinner? With Bucky? You weren’t sure if the nerves knotting in your stomach were from the idea of being alone with him or the lingering fear of what John would think if he found out.

“Dinner?” you echoed, trying to buy time as your mind raced.

Bucky nodded, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Yeah. Just the two of us. Is that okay?” His voice softened as if he was unsure of himself, something you weren’t used to hearing from him.

Your hesitation made him rush to fill the silence. “The other guys are going to this sports bar—uh, Corner Kick or something. But I thought maybe we could do something a little quieter.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze flickering to yours nervously. “I was thinking…Italian? I know it used to be your favorite. I should’ve asked first, but they have a private booth, and I figured we could just…you know…talk. Catch up.”

He rambled on, the words tumbling out in a way that reminded you of the Bucky you used to know—the one who could never quite stop his mouth from running when he was nervous. It made you smile despite yourself.

“Bucky,” you said gently, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. His eyes dropped to your hand before meeting yours again, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “I’ll always love Italian.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smile, and you couldn’t help but laugh softly. “It sounds perfect. I can’t believe you remembered.”

He opened his mouth to respond but seemed to think better of it. Instead, he stepped back and gestured toward the door. “Let’s go, then.”

When you reached the elevator, he pressed the button and then turned to you, his voice quiet but full of conviction. “I never forgot anything about you, Y/N. You were my best friend.”

The words hit you like a gut punch. Were. Past tense.

Your heart twisted at the way he said it, like he was mourning something that couldn’t be brought back. You forced a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. “You were mine, too,” you said softly.

The elevator dinged, and the moment passed as you stepped inside.

The streets blurred past in streaks of light as the taxi rolled through the city. You sat in the back seat beside Bucky, the silence between you thick with things left unsaid.

You fiddled with the hem of your dress, your thoughts drifting to John and the inevitable fallout if he found out about this. But this was Bucky. Bucky. The boy who used to sit with you on the roof for hours, who knew your favorite songs and your biggest fears.

It wasn’t just dinner. It was a chance to have him back in your life.

When Bucky opened the door for you at the restaurant, you stepped out into the cool evening air, your nerves momentarily eclipsed by the warm glow of the Italian bistro’s lights. The sign above the door read Giovanni’s, and the faint scent of garlic and fresh basil wafted out each time the door swung open.

Inside, the restaurant was cozy, with dim lighting and rustic wooden furniture. A hostess greeted you with a smile, and Bucky gave her his name before she led you to a secluded booth in the corner.

The booth was tucked away from the rest of the diners, dimly lit with flickering candlelight that made the intimate setting feel both comforting and a little suffocating. The hum of conversation and the clink of silverware in the background were distant enough to feel like white noise. Bucky slid into the seat across from you, his broad frame making the already small space seem even cozier, more personal.

He handed you a menu, but he didn’t seem to notice the words on it. His gaze lingered on you, his blue eyes soft yet searching, like he was trying to read the pieces of your life that had been scattered in his absence.

“So…” he started, his voice low and tentative. “You’re really okay with this?”

Your brow furrowed slightly as you glanced up at him, confused. “Dinner?”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the movement awkward but endearing. “I mean…me. Showing up in your life again after all this time. After everything.”

His words carried a weight that hung heavily between you, the years of silence suddenly sharper than ever.

You hesitated, the truth hovering just behind your lips. Part of you wanted to say no—that you weren’t okay with the storm of emotions he’d stirred up simply by being here. That seeing him again brought back feelings you’d buried so deep you thought they’d disappeared. But the larger part of you—the part that remembered him sitting with you on rooftops and holding your hand when the world felt like too much—knew the answer.

“It’s been a long time, Bucky,” you said softly, meeting his gaze. “But…I’m glad you’re here.” You took a shaky breath, willing yourself to be brave. “I would never not want to have you be a part of my life.”

For a moment, his expression was unreadable, but then his shoulders relaxed. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, softening the lines of his face. “Me too,” he murmured.

As the evening went on, the tension began to ease, the conversation flowing more naturally than you expected. It felt…normal. Familiar, even. Like no time had passed since you’d last sat across from him.

You talked about high school, trading stories about old teachers and classmates. He laughed when you mentioned how Mr. Danvers, the gym teacher, used to yell at him for being “too showy” during dodgeball. And you rolled your eyes when he brought up the time you tripped onstage during the spring play, your face flushing even though it had been years.

When the food arrived, his grin widened as he saw your plate. “Pasta al pomodoro?” he teased, leaning back in his seat. “You’re still ordering that?”

“Don’t even start,” you shot back, laughing as you twirled a forkful of pasta. “At least I don’t eat half of someone else’s garlic bread on top of my own.”

“Hey,” he said, holding up his hands in mock defense. “That was a courtesy tax.”

“Courtesy tax?”

“You were a slow eater! I was helping!”

You laughed harder than you had in weeks, maybe months. It felt good. It felt easy. But beneath the surface, there was a quiet undercurrent—something heavier neither of you had said aloud. About how things were left, things you were both beating around the bush about.

As the plates were cleared and the candle burned lower, the conversation shifted. Bucky leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. His tone softened as he asked, “So…how’s your mom?”

You felt your stomach twist, the warmth of the evening giving way to a dull ache. “She, uh…she passed away two years ago,” you said quietly, forcing a sad smile.

His face fell, and he coughed, nearly choking on the sip of wine he’d just taken. “Oh my god...I’m so sorry to hear that,” he said, his voice thick with genuine remorse. “I had no idea.”

“It’s okay, Buck,” you said, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “She had cancer. She fought so hard, but…it was a lot for her. When my father died the year before, it broke something in her. She loved him, even after everything. Getting me out of that house was her priority, but losing him…it was too much. She held on for a year, but after that…” You trailed off, the weight of the memories making your throat tighten.

Bucky looked speechless, his jaw tightening as he processed your words. “That must’ve been so hard for you,” he said softly. “I can’t imagine—God, doll, I—”

The word slipped out, unintentional and automatic, but it hit you like a bolt of lightning. Doll.

Your heart clenched, the familiarity of the nickname stirring something you weren’t ready to face. You blinked rapidly, forcing yourself to focus as he continued.

“It was,” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “I was in my last year at NYU, and I wanted to drop out so many times. But John…he picked up the pieces. He pushed me to keep going.” You hesitated, swallowing hard. “He’s the one who helped me get a job doing media for Penn State after graduation. And then he helped me get this one.”

“John?” Bucky repeated, his tone careful but curious.

“My, uh…boyfriend,” you said quickly, glancing away.

The word felt heavy in the air, and you didn’t miss the way Bucky’s expression shifted. His jaw tightened, but he quickly masked it with a small nod.

“Right,” he said after a moment, leaning back in his seat. “Well, he sounds…supportive.”

“He is,” you said, though your voice lacked the conviction you wanted it to have.

Bucky didn’t say anything, but the silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was thick, weighted with things he wasn’t saying. And as much as you wanted to believe you could leave the past where it was, you could feel it creeping back into the space between you.

The waiter returned, breaking the tension as he offered dessert menus. Bucky glanced at you, his expression softening again as he gestured toward the menus.

“Dessert? Or should I get you an extra order of garlic bread instead?”

You laughed, grateful for the reprieve, but the heaviness in your chest didn’t fade. Even as the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this dinner had opened a door you weren’t sure you were ready to walk through.

And when Bucky reached across the table again, his fingers brushing against yours as he asked if you wanted another drink, you realized the door wasn’t just open.

It was waiting for you to step inside.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x y/n #sebastian stan x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes angst #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes x reader angst #bucky barnes au #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #james barnes x you #bucky x steve #Spotify

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rhapsodynew · 3 months ago

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#memorial day

On November 29, 2001, the "silent Beatle" left this world. In memory of George Harrison, let's recall some interesting facts from his life.

George Harrison: A nostalgic and instructive interview.

Interview with Crawdaddy magazine

Question: “Were you nervous before the Beatles debuted in 1964 on the Ed Sullivan show?”

GEORGE: “Sullivan's show was funny because I didn't attend the rehearsal. I got sick during the flight during my first trip to the States. The band also played a lot of songs at rehearsals for sound engineers, they kept coming into the control room and checking the sound. And finally, when they found a balance between instruments and vocals, they noted it on the mixing console, and then everyone went to lunch. Then we came back to record the show on tape, and the cleaners had already been here and erased all the marks from the remote. In those days, the sound was somehow handled carelessly. Amplifiers, for example, were placed to the side of the stage so that it would not spoil the frame, you know.”

• After the Beatles' first visit to the USA, they became the most famous people on the planet - an inside look

“For the Beatles at that time, it was a great help: if someone ran out of press conferences, there was always someone else with a smart answer. There was always a reasonable balance, so no one could ever really pin us down.”

George Harrison is inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (2004)

“For the first time, the most depressing moment came for me during the ‘White Album’. The problem was with making a double album because it takes so long.”

The Beatles were inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame (1988)

Q: “Why did you make a double?”

GEORGE: “I think it was because there were so many songs, but it was a period that started a little bit negatively. It was a bit difficult, but we got through it and everything was fine. We finally finished working on the album, and everyone was happy because the tracks were not bad. There were just too many restrictions based on the fact that we had been together for so long. Everyone was kind of imprisoned. It was unpleasant.”

“The problem was that John and Paul had been writing songs together for so long that it was difficult - primarily because they had so many tunes and they automatically thought their songs should be a priority. As for me, I always had to wait for them to record ten of their own songs before they even listened to one of mine.”

“‘While My Guitar Gently Weeps’ we were recording one night and there was such a lack of enthusiasm. So I came home very disappointed because I knew the song was good. The next day, I brought Eric Clapton with me. He was really nervous. I told: ‘Just come and play in the session, then I can sing and play the acoustic guitar.’”

“Paul always helped when you first performed his ten songs, and then when he started performing one of my songs, he helped. It was stupid. In fact, it was very selfish. Sometimes Paul would make us perform these really sugary songs. I mean, God forbid, ‘Maxwell's Silver Hammer’ was so cloying. After a while we worked on it well, but when Paul came up with an idea or arrangement… But Paul is still really writing for a 14-year-old audience right now.”

“I remember coming from California and shooting this piece for a film about Ravi Shankar's life called ‘Raga’, and I had a sitar. And we stayed in New York and checked into a hotel, and Jimi Hendrix and Eric Clapton were both in the same hotel. And that was the last time I really played the sitar like that. We hung out so much at that time, and Eric gave me a fantastic Les Paul guitar that he plays at that concert.”

“I helped so much with all the arrangements. Although there were a lot of tracks where I played the bass. Paul played lead guitar in ‘Taxman’, and he played guitar - the best part - in ‘Drive My Car’.”

Q: “Did you play the bass?”

GEORGE: “No, I didn't play. What did Paul usually do if he wrote a song? He would learn all his parts, and then he would come into the studio and say, ‘Do this.’ He would never have given you the opportunity to take the initiative. But on ‘Drive My Car,’ I just played a line that's really kind of a lick off of ‘Respect’ - you know, the Otis Redding version - and I played that line on guitar, and Paul recorded it with me on bass.”

Q: “Which Beatles album are you still listening to?”

GEORGE: “I loved when we worked on ‘Rubber Soul’, ‘Revolver'. There was something good in each album, and they developed. There were albums that, from my point of view, were no good, like ‘Yellow Submarine’.”

“We put all the songs together in album form - now I'm talking about English albums, because in the States, as we later discovered, for every two albums we had, they (Capitol) made three... because we included fourteen tracks in the album, and we also had singles that were not included in albums at that time. And they put in singles, took out a bunch of tracks, changed the order, and then made new compilations, like ‘Yesterday And Today’ - just terrible compilations.”

Q: “Was it difficult with the rest of the band when you started getting into Indian music?”

GEORGE: “Not really. They weren't really that interested. When I first met Ravi (Shankar), he played a private concert right at my house, and he came with Alla Rakha, and John and Ringo came to listen. I remember Ringo didn't want to know anything about tabla because it just seemed so far away from him.”

Q: “The whole Beatles image has been cleaned up and smoothed, which is always credited to Brian Epstein.”

GEORGE:

“In the Hamburg days, we had to play for a long time and burn out to the fullest, jump around the stage, foam at the mouth and do anything.”

Q: “Have you received any feedback from John or Ringo or anyone else-congratulations?”

GEORGE:

“I remember John was very negative at the time, but I was away, and he came to my house, and my friend lived there, who was also John's friend. He saw the album cover and said, ‘He must be pretty damn bad to have released three records. And look at the front photo, he looks like an asthmatic Leon Russell.’ There was a lot of negativity. You know... Ringo played on almost the entire album. I don't care about that. To hell with all this-we've been through this before. I felt that no matter what happened, whether it was a failure or a success, I would act on my own, just to get some peace of mind.”

Q: ”They say he was...”

GEORGE:

“Well, you know, John has experienced more negative events than I have with the Maharishi. Now I see much more clearly what happened, and a lot of it was due to ignorance. Maharishi was great, and I admire him, as well as Prabhupada, for being able, despite all the ridicule, to just keep moving forward. And now more and more people - especially in the United States - are following the teachings. And in the 60s, they laughed at us and said it was stupid. All those people influenced me, and I tried to get the most out of them without getting a spiritual twist of the guts.”

George's favorite color was purple. The musician loved Formula 1 racing, egg sandwiches, watched the TV show "Monty Python's Flying Circus", and his favorite movie was "The Producers" (1968) by Mel Brooks.

For most of his career and life, George considered his birthday to be February 25th, 1943. Many books about The Beatles and Harrison indicate this date. However, shortly before his death, George said that, in fact, he was born on February 24. The family document shows that the musician was born on February 24 at 23-50

George officially joined The Quarrymen on February 6, 1958, when he was 14 years old. During a tour of Scotland in 1960, the musician briefly changed his name to "Carl Harrison" (in honor of his idol, Carl Perkins).

George became the author of a slang word that entered English dictionaries. In the movie "The Evening of a Hard Day" (1964), he used the word grotty to describe some items of clothing. Grotty (from the word grotesque — grotesque) became a popular slang word of the 1960s era. It is still used today, although much less often than before

Harrison was "the best actor from The Beatles." At least, according to Richard Lester, the director of the films "Hard Day's Evening" and "Help!". Richard called George the most capable actor of the Liverpool four. According to the director, in the "Evening of a Difficult Day" the guitarist was the highlight of every scene he participated in.

George was the first "Beatle" whose solo composition reached the highest position in the national charts — this achievement was achieved by My Sweet Lord in December 1970

A versatile musician, George played 26 different instruments. Any Beatles fan knows about his talents in playing guitar and sitar, but Harrison has also achieved considerable success in studying instruments such as conga, African drum, xylophone, violin, harmonica, marimba, metallophone, ukulele, sarangi.

Harrison once spent $4 million "to watch a movie." When the Monty Python comic group began to have problems financing their film The Life of Brian, George actually mortgaged his house to help the artists with money. He said he did it simply because he "wanted to see the movie." According to Monty Python contributor Eric Idle, this is still the largest amount anyone has paid for the opportunity to watch a movie.

As we all know, George died in 2001, the cause of death was a malignant brain tumor. His mother, Louise, died prematurely due to the same disease in 1970. George wrote the song Deep Blue in her honor. The musician's father, Harold Harrison, died of cancer in 1978, on the night of his death, George and his wife Olivia woke up and both saw the color blue. Afterwards, they testified that they had seen Harold's ghost smiling at them.

"We could save the world with our love."

"The world is a birthday cake. Take a piece, but don't be greedy.".....

#memorial day #Spotify #George Harrison #the beatles #Rock #pop #indian classical music #music #my music #music love #musica #history music #spotify #rock music #rock #rock photography #my spotify

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skauni · 8 months ago

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Arranged Marriage: John Price x Fem!Reader

Part #2—The Wedding

Part #1, Part #2, Part #3(final)

It’s been a few weeks since John started taking you places to get to know you. He started getting bolder with his ways of doing it, too. Inviting you to dinner, out to the movies where you could pick what you wanted to watch and he’d buy the tickets—wanna watch two movies? That’s fine with him, he has the time to spare for you. At some point you learned that he’s a liar when he says he doesn’t cry at the corny love scenes in the Rom Com movies. But you don’t hold it against him, you cry too.

Once John figured out you loved chocolate covered strawberries though, all hell broke loose. He tried to figure out how to melt the chocolate. He tried the microwave but somehow he burnt it. So he asked you to come to his house for a bit of a lesson on it. You ended up staying longer than you needed to with him after seeing all the unbaked instant batter goods he had. You showed him how to make muffins and cookies after showing him how to melt the chocolate. He watched you fiddle with the engagement ring, which still wasn’t on the proper finger. Not yet, at least. You left his house with a massive smile on your lips after helping him clean the mess up.

As the days went on, John started asking you for your opinions on things like flowers and theme colors. You guessed early on that it was for the wedding day. When you asked, John confirmed hesitantly that it was. Worried that you’d get upset. So he was surprised, to say the least, when you asked to see the venue. So he drove you to the city’s big plaza with the big water fountain in the middle, the one that he figured out that you really liked on his own. “It’s a simple enough wedding, nothing too extravagant. Didn’t wanna take any chances with the decorators, they kept saying they were sold out of certain decorations so I’d buy the most expensive one.” John grumbled. To which you snickered. “That sounds about right, did you buy anything from them anyways?” You’d ask. “…. The stupid center pieces.” John would huff. His sour attitude making you laugh, he smiled when you did.

You knew the wedding was close when he took you cake tasting before he took you to the store where you tried on wedding dresses. He knew instantly which one you liked, but you hadn’t chosen it in the end because it was ‘too expensive’. So he told you to wait in the car before he bought the wedding dress you liked and told the store genders to deliver it to his address. Then he took you shopping for the wedding rings. And he did the same thing there too, buying the pair of rings you liked but didn’t choose because you thought they were ‘too expensive’ as you waited in the car.

More and more time passed, and before you knew it, you were at the church, your best friend as your maid of honor, and your other two friends as your bridesmaids. One of the groomsmen delivered a white box with a tag on it. It was to you, from John. “Bit early for a wedding present isn’t it-?” You’d ask. But when you opened the box you gasped and pulled out the silky white dress you liked… the dress was made of soft, thin fabric meant to mimic silk. The top of it was a see through material with floral patterns woven into it that slowly faded to solid white down the long sleeves. At the bottom of the dress, silver thread was woven into vines where little silver thread flowers popped up from the fabric.

When your dress was on your maid of honor and bridesmaids all left to he stand up at the altar where they’d wait for you. You looked down at the engagement ring, then moved it to the proper finger. When it was time to walk down the isle, your father came to get you. You held his arm in one hand and held your bouquet in the other. When you got up to the altar your father went to sit down and you handed the bouquet to your maid of honor, then took John’s hands. He saw that you’d moved the engagement ring. He grinned softly and gently rubbed his thumbs over your hands.

When you both said your ‘I do’s the wedding party moved to the venue at the plaza. The tables were all set up, the decorations carefully put on lamp poles and trees and along the fountain. And you laughed softly when John grumbled about the center pieces saying they weren’t even worth the money he spent on them because they looked half-assed. You nudged him softly. “They look perfect, don’t worry so much about it.” You tried to comfort. He sighed softly. “Alright, alright. I won’t worry about it, much...” he replied, smiling as you chuckled at his words again.

To be continued…<3

@gibbsgirl7

#call of duty #cod #captain johnathan price #john price x reader #captain john price #captain price #call of duty john price #cod price #cod x reader #john price #johnathan price

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gloomwitchwrites · 1 year ago

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Captain John Price x Female Reader Dark Romance

Chapter Specific Warnings: graphic violence, canon-typical swearing, time jump

Word Count: 5.3k

A/N: Part Six of Dangerous Pursuit (for @glitterypirateduck)

Community Label Warning: This chapter involves violent content that some readers might find upsetting (see above warning). You can skip to the bolded time jump and still retain the plot.

Dimitri's capture causes deadly consequences. An uprooted life comes to a grinding halt when a familiar face makes an unexpected appearance.

Chapter Five // Chapter Seven

ao3 // taglist // main masterlist // dangerous pursuit masterlist

The text stares back at you like an angry, red wound.

Really? They want you to come in for a mandatory meeting on a weekday? At the last minute?

Sighing loudly, you send a reply to your boss at Thirst. You’ll be there, but because it’s outside of your contracted hours, you’ll be late. It’s frustrating because they know this, and yet they’re expecting it from you anyway. The whole reason you took the job at Thirst is because it never bleeds into your regular life. They are separate. Complete fractured. Untouching.

That is not the case at the moment. And it’s frustrating.

This “mandatory” meeting is supposed to start when you get off work from your day job. You won’t arrive at Thirst in time for the start of the meeting, but hopefully they’ll begin without you. That way, you can sneak in for the last bit and not have to stay long. The only silver-lining to this ridiculous request.

Checking the time, you frown.

Your boss sent out the message two hours ago which is not nearly enough notice. The wording of it is odd too. Beginning with an apology about the last second meeting, he then emphasizes the urgency of everyone attending. From your two years of working at Thirst you’ve never been asked to come to any staff meeting. If information needs to be distributed, it always occurs when you walk through the door for your shift.

On top of that, Steve, one of the two owners who sent the text out, is never urgent about anything. He is incredibly relaxed, sometimes almost too calm for your liking, and he rarely—if ever—contacts you outside working hours unless it’s to ask for you to come in a bit early for a scheduled shift.

“Whatever,” you mutter, locking your phone and stowing it in your purse. You’ll deal with it when you arrive. Right now, you need to fucking focus.

But the urgency and anxiousness of the text’s wording stays with you through the rest of your shift. Like an unsuspecting water-filled pothole, you’re waiting for the drop, for the squealing crunching bounce, and the eventual check engine light to come on.

Something isn’t right, but you have no idea what it might be.

It is plaguing, insisting feeling that pushes down on your shoulders and rests it’s chin on the top of your head like an acquaintance that is much too close for comfort.

After you left the VIP room, Dimitri didn’t call on you again, and you didn’t dare return to the room until you were sure it was empty. Price didn’t ask for you either. He did not reach out, or even attempt to contact you. One part of you brain tells you to not care while the other says that you should be irate. That if Price cared at all, even a little, he’d slip something your way.

Megan, Olivia, and Addie returned solemn and slightly distant. At first, you thought they might have been upset about Dimitri pushing you on Price, but the idea swiftly left your head when Megan winced as she sat.

You have no idea what happened in that room afterward. And you didn’t notice any physical marks or bruises on any of the three women. But their demeanors were melancholic, their gazes not focused on anything in particular, and they never spoke to you or anyone else who tried to make conversation with them.

Maybe that’s what the meeting is about? Maybe it has something to do with security and ways to protect the staff who are put in vulnerable and precarious situations? There are panic buttons in all of the VIP rooms for a reason. Sure, clients pay good money for privacy, but they are also expected to hold themselves to certain expectations and standards. Not physically harming members of staff is number one on that list. Steve, and his co-owner Tom, are very particular about this rule.

When the hour arrives and you leave, you’re a boiling mess, a creature skulking in the shadows, anxious that a predator is awaiting out in the open dark. The restlessness only intensifies when you arrive at Thirst. The employee parking lot is full. Everyone appears to be here but it’s also possible a few will be missing or running late like you.

Slipping out of your car, you rummage around in your purse for a piece of gum. Just as you find one and pop it into your mouth, you reach for the large metal keypad to punch in your unique employee code but freeze when you notice something wet dripping from it.

Frowning, you peer closer at the dark liquid.

Is Greg eating quarter pounders again? The man has a knack for getting ketchup all over his hands and accidentally spreading it to the oddest places around the building.

But ketchup is bright red and glossy. This is dark and deep like velvet, not nearly as thick as a sauce but not fluid like water. Whatever it is, it’s smeared on the door handle and pools between the buttons.

Your stomach drops to your toes.

You don’t like this. It’s…strange. Odd.

Instead of touching the keypad or handle, you open your purse and retrieve a little package of tissues. Taking several out, you use them as a shield between your skin and the contaminated keypad, punching your code in.

The door lock beeps. The red light turns green.

Using the same tissues, you push down on the handle and then outward, the door swinging in easily. You step into the main employee hallway. The floors, wall, and ceiling are completely concrete. To your immediate right is a door to office where the owners, management, and the CCTV room are. There are two doors for bathrooms, and an opening in the wall that leads to the changing room and employee lockers.

The weirdest thing is that the overhead light isn’t on, and it doesn’t turn on when you enter. The only light comes from the opening in the wall where the dancers do their makeup and fix their dresses.

Again, strange. You’re so used to the sharp, almost sterile overhead light in this tiny space that its absence is ominous.

“What the fuck,” you murmur.

Maybe the light is out and just needs replacing. Maybe the sensor is bad. There are a number of reasons why the light doesn’t come on. Why is it all bothering you so much? It’s probably nothing, and the primitive part of your brain is simply conjuring up the fear of the unknown.

You head down the short hall and step through the opening. Even here, the light is dim. To your right is a wide hall. The massive walk-in closet with employee uniforms, props, and costumes along with changing rooms is that way. Employee lockers line the entire length of the hall. It’s also the same hall that connects to the wine cellar, dry storage, and the beverage cooler. Shoved in that back area is also a tiny kitchen for those guests who order food.

In front of you are rows of vanities, mirrors, shelving with wigs, hats, and all sorts of miscellaneous items. This room is typically bright and welcoming. It always smells of perfume, cleaning solution, and whatever flowers have been delivered that day. But again, the only light comes from four vanities where the bulbs around the mirrors are on.

And it’s so…quiet. You expect to see a shadow lingering in a corner, or the dark outline of a phantom silhouette. Glancing down at the slightly crushed tissues in your hand, you notice the flecks of red. But you’re in the dark, and so you step up to one of the vanities, tipping the tissue into the light.

Crimson. Almost wine-like in color.

Not ketchup. Not food. Not—

Your head snaps up at the sound of a raised voice. Distantly, through the interior door that leads into Thirst’s main room, you hear it again. Whoever is speaking is muffled, and you are unable to make out what it is that is being said.

Dropping the tissues into the trash can, you pad softly across the concrete floor and to the door. You do not open it. Instead, you press your ear to it, listening. There is quiet for some seconds, and then the voice starts up again. You are still in the dark, still incapable of deciphering who the speaker is and what is coming out of their mouth.

But you also don’t want to go out there. Taking great care not to make any noise, you open the door just enough to peer through a small crack.

As your eyes take in the sight before, and relay those signals to your brain, your heartrate increasing, becoming a storm, thudding so loudly your ears vibrate.

Out on the main floor, standing before the seated employees of Thirst are armed men.

There are seven in total. Six of them are in all black tactical gear with balaclavas covering everything but their eyes. The guns they carry are large, easily high capacity. They are unmoving, a small wall standing in a formal line behind their leader.

It is not Dimitri. Nor is it Nikola. It is also not any of the other men you’ve seen with Dimitri whenever he’s been in the VIP room. And it’s not Price.

This is someone else, and like Dimitri, you sense the quiet violence within him. But this is sharper, a slice of venom that can boil you from the inside out. Dimitri is a demon with a forked tongue and sharp claws. This man is so much greater, so much more malevolent.

His presence is striking and you expect smoke to roll out from his nostrils or for him to grow horns. His face is marked with scars that crisscross over each other, and his dark hair is pulled up into a bun on the back of his head. The man easily has to be closing in on seven feet tall.

No. This is not Dimitri.

And it is not Price or his team.

With shaking fingers, you withdraw your phone from your pocket, skimming through your contacts. You pass Price’s name twice before you can control your fingers enough to tap on his name. The message you send to him is hasty, and likely gibberish, the phone screen itself more of a blur because—water drops onto the glass.

You bring one shaking hand up to your face and find your cheeks wet.

You choke back a sob as the text becomes a lone blurb on your screen.

Price said to contact him if anything happens. But will he answer? It’s been almost two weeks since that night when you and Price got the tension out of your systems. Two weeks. No contact. So why is it that you text him and not the police?

The answer is quite clear. What will they do anyway? They stay away from places like this. They look down on it. If anything, they’d likely wait outside the entire time and never actually come inside to rescue anyone.

You’re doing the right thing by contacting Price. You are.

Returning your phone to your pocket, your gaze falls on the men at the center of the room. The leader isn’t in nearly as much tactical gear as his friends. He wears a suit with a bulletproof vest over it, clearly not entirely concerned with his safety.

“I’ve been waiting long enough.” His Russian accent is thick like syrup. Dimitri’s is subdued, and now you question whether or not he was simply hiding it.

At the sound of his voice, several people flinch like they’ve received a physical blow.

“She’s on her way. I promise. You read the text, Damien.” That’s one of the owners, but you can’t see him. It sounds like Steve but you can’t be sure. Opening the door a bit more, you shift your head and located him near the front of the group.

She. She is on her way.

“I have three. I need all four.”

Damien grabs the owner by the back of the throat and lifts him into the air without breaking a sweat. There is a pause as Damien’s lip curls in disgust.

“Where is she!” roars Damien, tossing the man to the ground.

He is talking about you. You.

No one speaks. No one utters a word. Damien strides back and forth before the front row, his gaze deliberately landing on every person.

“My guns are gone. My men are dead. Another missing.” He comes to a stop, chest heaving with anger. “Money taken. No leads except this place.” His arms outstretch slightly and he glances around the large room.

Dimitri. He’s talking about Dimitri. All this time, Price kept mentioning that he was after a larger target, someone much higher on the scale. Is he talking about Damien? Or is there someone even higher than him that Price is after?

You distinctly remember Price and Dimitri talking about an exchange. That must be the missing guns and money. Damien’s men are dead and if Dimitri isn’t among them, then it has to be everyone else Dimitri has ever brought with him, possibly even more than that.

Price also mentioned that Dimitri and the people Price is after, are not simple petty criminals. Price is military which means these men and their actions have international consequences.

Damien’s arms fall to his sides. “And now you can’t tell me where the fourth whore is.” He points off to the side. “I have three.” You tip your head noticing Megan, Olivia, and Addie.

“She’s works elsewhere during the day. She’ll be here.”

Damien glances downward. His face is blank. Cold. One of the armed men behind Damien steps forward.

“No. No! Damien!”

“You’re annoying me, Steve,” says Damien, voice monotone.

The armed man drags Steve by his hair toward the dancefloor. Steve kicks out, legs flailing and useless. He reaches up to claw at the armed man’s hands, but his fingers cannot penetrate the gloves.

“If I am missing one,” says Damien calmly. Steve is dropped. He glances up. But the gun is already pointed at his face. And there is no pause between the rising of the arm and the pulling of the trigger. “Then the rest of you are at risk,” finishes Damien, shrugging his shoulders apathetically.

Several Thirst employees scream, and Damien immediately rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“Don’t do that,” he murmurs, shaking his head. Then, louder, “Don’t FUCKING SCREAM!” He strides forward and grabs someone by their hair, twisting sharply. He bends at the waist, getting down to their level. “I will rip out your vocal cords and fuck the hole I leave behind. Understand?”

Whoever he’s speaking to must respond because Damien lets go, standing tall again, pulling on his bullet-proof vest to adjust it. He breathes deep, and then exhales loudly as if this is his meditation.

Panic clogs your throat. Fuck it. You’re calling the police. Usually, you wouldn’t even fuck with them, but relying only on Price isn’t going to help you or anyone in that room. It certainly didn’t help Steve.

Your hands are shaking harder now, so much in fact that you can barely hold onto your phone. It keeps jumping around in your palms. The sweat isn’t helping either, and getting the lock screen to recognize your face and jump to the home screen is agony.

“Maybe we don’t need her,” shrugs Damien, glancing over at Megan, Olivia, and Addie. “We have the other three.”

Two of the stoic, tactical-clad men move, head in the women’s direction. You hear their pleas and soft cried of protest. Megan, Olivia, and Addie are dragged up front to where Damien stands. He towers over them.

You open the keypad, punching in the emergency number. But every time you hit the round, green circle with the phone in the middle, nothing happens.

“Please,” you whimper, smashing your finger down on it. “Please.”

Damien brushes one of Megan’s blonde locks behind her ear. “I need to know who you talked to. That’s all.”

Of the three, only Olivia stares the man down, fury in her face even as tears stain her cheeks. “None of us said anything to anyone,” she says through clenched teeth.

Using his gloved thumb, Damien gentle wipes away the tears on Megan’s face. “So beautiful,” he murmurs, but you don’t know if he’s giving her a compliment or simply speaking out loud.

Your finger comes down on the little green button again and this time it connects. Sighing with relief, you bring the shaking phone up to your ear only to be met with a busy signal.

“Fuck.”

Olivia’s gaze darts from Megan to Damien and back again. “Our job isn’t to care and it isn’t to listen.”

Damien drops his hand from Megan’s face. “To care? No. To listen?” He shakes a pointed finger in Olivia’s direction. “You always listen.” He taps the side of his head. “You have ears. Working, clearly, because Dimitri isn’t here. Neither are my guns.”

He moves like a viper, his hand grabbing the bottom of Olivia’s face to pull her in. “Which means someone talked.”

She tries to shake her head but his grip is iron-clad. “We didn’t. Not to anyone.”

“Are you speaking for yourself? Or for the three of you?” When Olivia doesn’t reply, his fingers squeeze and she gasps audibly. “Take accountability.”

“We didn’t say anything.”

“Then you’re not of any use to me.” The words are cold and dead. Using his grip on the bottom half of her face, Damien throws Olivia to the side. “Shoot her.”

“Oliva!” screeches Megan, trying to go to her.

The silence after the shot is deafening, and the resounding screams that come afterward are a wave, attempting to drown.

You begin to back away, the door softly closing. With phone still in hand, your try the emergency number again. Busy. Fucking busy.

Wasn’t there just something in the news about there not being enough phone operators for emergency calls? That the city was facing a massive hiring problem?

Before the door clicks, another shot rings out. This one makes you jump. Every muscle in your stomach and back tenses violently.

The flinch hurts, and you bend forward in pain.

A third shot cracks in the air. Something heavy slams into the door, shaking the frame.

You stumble backward, the phone starting to slip from your grip.

Another pop followed by silence followed by—tat tat. A raging ringing of rattling sound that goes on and on.

Endless. Endless. Endless.

You scream, dropping to the floor as pieces of the door blow inward, painting the air with pulverized wood.

Covering your face with your hands, you curl in on yourself, waiting for the silence. It comes, and you peek out from between your fingers at the door.

Dark red seeps in from underneath, creating little bloody rivers across the concrete, stretching and reaching like gnarled fingers or willowy tree branches.

You’re on your knees. Shaking. Searching. Head spinning.

Door. You need the door. The door to the outside. You need—

Another barrage starts up, and the door groans, bending inward from whatever weight is pushing on it from the other side.

Everything is going blurry. The tears that spill from your eyes blind you, distorting your vision as you try to lift yourself off the floor.

Where is your phone? Where is your fucking phone?

You drag yourself in a direction, seeking, seeking, finding only cold concrete. Desperation eases in, seizes your lungs, inflating and deflating the organ until you’re audibly gasping for air.

Finding purchase near one of the vanities, you pull yourself up to your feet, leaning all your weight on it. Fuck the phone. Leave. Leave. Run to your fucking car or across the street. Go anywhere.

Get help.

The rapidly repeating rattling ceases, and in its place is dead, stagnant silence.

Your feet are lead but they move, determined to ferry you to safety, to deliver you to the back door and out in open air. As you push off from the vanity, the worst possible thing happens. The backdoor opens. And with it comes voices. Not friendly ones.

The hall to your left is the only place for you to go.

Survival kicks in, adrenaline surging through your limbs as you hurl yourself down the hall. Loud footsteps close in, and you throw yourself into the first available hiding spot. It’s the massive storage room where all the uniforms, outfits, and changing stalls are. The stalls are too open, too vulnerable.

But there is plenty of storage in here for all the various clothes and odd knickknacks. Ducking behind a rack of clothes, you shimmy along the wall until you come to the standing shelves. There is just enough room for you to lay on your side between it and the wall.

Breathing is all you're capable of, all that you're able to focus on. Time is of no significance. Minutes or seconds pass, and perhaps they keep on going stretching into hours. You don’t count. You don’t blink. You simply exist as you attempt to calm your racing heart.

Distantly, you hear a loud groan followed by a massive thud. Maybe that’s the interior door finally falling off its hinges. And these two sounds are what snap you back to reality. You shift, and sharp pain shoots down your shoulder.

You blink, surprised, and then notice the red smeared across the wall where you touched it. There are more droplets on the ground out in the room, and a tiny trail that lead out into the hall.

There is silence again. Then a few quick shouts. A brief pop accompanied by another soon after. Quiet once again. The air conditioning kicks in, bringing with it a low hum. Your breathing seems overly loud, but you also know you’re tightly crammed into a small space.

Black boots appear, pausing right inside the doorway. You didn’t even hear their approach. Between their feet are bloody droplets. Your blood.

The boots shift, take two steps forward in the direction of your hiding spot. Cold creeps in. Becomes dark. The boots scrunch slightly as whoever it is bends down next to where your blood trail abruptly ends before disappearing behind the clothes racks.

A gloved hand hovers just above those final droplets but do not make contact. Whoever it is promptly stands, facing the racks of clothes that hide your smeared blood on the wall. They start moving the clothes, ripping them from hooks to fall to the floor.

Another pair of boots appears in the doorway. A brief few seconds pass before they head in the direction of the other pair. There is a muffled sound, and what might be a struggle. Your answer comes quick.

One of Damien’s men collapses onto his back, vacant eyes staring up at nothing, the handle of knife sticking out from his throat.

There is a collective silence before hands are on you, dragging you from your hiding spot. You screech like a terrified animal. Kicking out with feet, clawing whoever this is with nails, teeth snaping in preparation to sink into flesh.

“It's me.” The back of your hand connects with something hard. “Stop. It's me. It's me.”

You cease your thrashing, staring into eyes that you know so well.

“John,” you breathe.

Price has both hands on your upper arms. He’s in full tactical gear. While he appears calm of the surface, you can see the slight panic in his eyes as his gaze darts across your face and over your body.

“I've got you,” he murmurs, one hand releasing your arm to grasp the side of your face, cradling your cheek. “You're fine.”

Ignoring the pain in your shoulder that screams its frustration, you wrap your arms around Price’s neck as the tears come fast and heavy and hard.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “When he bagged Dimitri, I should have known—I’m sorry.”

You cling harder, fingers digging into the collar of his uniform. Price gentle squeezes your waist, his face slightly turned into your neck.

With a softness that soothes, Price slowly draws you away from him, but only enough so that he can look at your face. A gloved thumb runs along your cheekbone, drying some of the tears.

“You came,” you whisper.

“For you. I came for you.” Price smiles tenderly, but it falters as he tips is head like he’s listening to something. The middle of his brow creases as he reaches up to press what must be a communication device. “Dressing room,” he says.

He releases the button and grasps the side of your face, gaze sad and intense. Price’s frown deepens. “You’re injured.”

Before you can answer, Ghost appears in the doorway, saying nothing. Price twists to glance at the behemoth of a man.

“Petrova ran,” states Ghost blandly.

“Fuck,” mutters Price. “We have eyes on him?”

“No.”

“Likely going to ground to lick his wounds before facing Makarov.”

“He’ll want his money,” replies Ghost.

“And his weapons,” adds Price. He turns back to you and smiles sadly. “Is it ready, Simon?” he asks over his shoulder.

Frowning, you pull back, glancing first at Price and then at Ghost who—like his namesake—has moved closer to Price’s side without making a sound.

“I'll get her to Laswell,” answers Ghost.

“I'm sorry," Price says again, just as Ghost holsters his gun and Price steps back, leaving you empty and hollow. Ghost, with a single movement, sweeps you off your feet and into his arms.

Price follows the two of you out and into the main room you were in earlier. There are more tactical gear-clad people here, loitering around. Ghost turns into that small hallway where the backdoor stands propped open. Over his shoulder, you glimpse the downed interior door, the smears of red, and the pile of unmoving limbs.

"I'm sorry," Price repeats. "You know too much."

It’s a goodbye. A final farewell. Your lips form a soft o as you try to form a coherent response.

"Keep her safe, Simon. I'm counting on you."

Three Years Later

A rush of autumn air slips underneath your coat. The wind brings a shiver to your skin, and you wrap your coat tightly around your middle. The taxi behind you pulls back into traffic, and you are left alone on the curb.

So much has changed, and yet you feel no different.

Ghost brought you to a woman named Laswell. She was kind but direct, and explained that you’d need to be relocated elsewhere. Mostly for your personal safety, but also so that the government could keep an eye on you. You weren’t in trouble, that’s what Laswell said, but it still felt like it.

The only silver-lining in them uprooting your life is the care taken to make sure you could start over. Your mother’s unpaid medical bills disappeared. All the debt melted away. The master’s degree you pursued was discreetly changed so that you retained your education but the last name was different. They even went so far as to help you gain employment.

Laswell was thorough. And you appreciated the effort, knowing that Price likely had a hand in making sure you were taken care of.

But it’s been three years. Three long years and so much has changed.

You’re not working for the same place. You’re not in the same apartment. You’re not even in the same city anymore. Life went on, and you moved with it. Laswell has never reached out. Price certainly hasn’t.

Everything that happened, everything that occurred, is in the past. Haunting you still but so far removed at this point you rarely glance back at it. A small piece still lingers on a specific person, but that too is becoming a solitary, dull ache.

You push through the door in front of you, retreating from the cold. Inside, the restaurant is warm and inviting. All hardwood and gold trim. Lingering near the hostess stand, chatting on the phone, is your boyfriend, Alex.

He glances up and smiles, his perfect white teeth on display. “Have to go. Yes. Tomorrow at one.” He pulls the phone away from his ear and ends the call.

“Didn’t want to wait for me at the table?” you tease, sliding up next to him.

He bends forward for a chaste kiss. “Wanted to walk with you.”

Alex extends his hand, indicating ladies first. Smiling at him, you follow the hostess to the table. Alex is quick to pull out your chair and help you slide into place. He takes the chair across the table.

This restaurant is your usual spot. Typically, you and Alex come for dinner, but he’s working late, and he made himself available at lunch to see you.

“Would you like menus today, Mr. Obolensky?”

An older gentleman with a receding hairline approaches the table. Ivan has waited on you and Alex for every meal. The man has to sleep somewhere in the back.

“Only for food.”

Ivan nods. “Would you like your usual wine for lunch?”

Alex inclines his head and Ivan promptly disappears.

Your relationship with Alex started rocky. When he first introduced himself, giving you is full name, your nervous system fell into a trauma response.

Alexandr Obolensky, or as his close friends call him, Alexi.

Maybe that notorious afternoon was still too ingrained in your system, because you closed up like a clam, awkward and nearly unresponsive. But over time, as he kept popping up in your life, you began to warm to him, and quickly realized that his interest was more than friendly.

Now, you’re staring at his smiling face across the table, wondering how you got so lucky.

He rests his arm on the table, presenting his hand, palm upward. You take it, fingers intertwining. His thumb rubs slow strokes over your knuckles.

Alex’s phone buzzes on the table but he ignores it. It buzzes again. Still, Alex ignores it.

“Popular.”

He shrugs. “They can wait.”

It starts up again, and Alex frowns down at it.

“Answer it,” you sigh. He’s an incredibly busy individual working at his father’s PR firm. There have been numerous late nights and countless overseas traveling.

Alex shakes his head. “I’m at lunch. With you. That is more important.”

When his phone starts buzzing again, you laugh and Alex groans.

“Just answer it,” you laugh. “Must be important.”

“I want it noted that you are insisting,” he jokes, snatching the phone off the table. He slides his thumb across the screen and brings it up to his ear, answering with an irritated, “What?”

The annoyance on his face starts to slip, replaced with concern. “When?” A pause. “Fuck,” mutters Alex, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Yeah. I’ll handle it.” He ends the call and glances up from the screen.

“Go,” you murmur, nodding toward the restaurant’s front door. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” he replies. “I promised you lunch.”

You shrug. “It’s just lunch.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Go.”

Alex stands just Ivan reappears with the wine. “Apologies, Ivan. I have to leave.”

“Certainly Mr. Obolensky.”

He turns to you. “Order whatever you want.” He looks back at Ivan. “Put it all on my account.”

“Of course, Mr. Obolensky.”

“Madam.” Ivan presents the food menu, and then proceeds to open the bottle of wine. He fills your glass, and places the bottle next it. “Would you like a tour of the menu?”

“No. Thank you, Ivan. I just need a few minutes.”

He nods and disappears.

You and Alex have eaten here on so many occasions that you already know most of the dishes, but you like to look anyway, pretending that you’ll choose something different this time.

A shadow of a body moves into view above the menu. You don’t glance up, knowing that it’s likely Alex returning, probably forgetting something like his coat.

You glance up from the menu. “Forget some—”

Your words leave you like air escaping from a popped balloon.

It’s not Alex sitting across from you at the table.

“Hello, love. Been a while.”

It’s John.

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199 notes · View notes

virtualreader · 1 year ago

Text

silver blade

deanwinchesterxfem!reader

summary: reader heroically kills a shapeshifter to save Dean, but not without getting hurt in the process. When the blood covering the reader's hands, nearly triggers a panic attack, Dean is quick to comfort her.

word count: 2.4k

warnings: gore, not natural creatures (if u know, u know), anxiety, panic attack, blood, grotesque killing, wounds, emotional shock. could be read as romantic or platonic.

a/n: i live for hurt/comfort fics. also, i thrive on feedback, so don't think twice and send me some! constructive criticism is also welcomed!

"Dammit, Dean," you cursed under your breath as you tried calling Dean, only to be sent straight to voicemail once again. To say you were exasperated was an understatement. You couldn't shake off the feeling of unease that was starting to creep up on you. “Where the hell are you, guys?”

As little as a single missed call was enough to seed concern within you. One—they had probably walked into a crowded bar. Two—Dean had most likely found a chick worth flirting with. Nine in the span of two hours? Nine voicemail messages and no sign neither of the brothers were still alive? Now that was downright worrisome.

You slid the combination 11-02-83 into the lock, and it opened immediately with a subdued click. You had been with the Winchesters long enough to have figured out the access code to the weapons compartment. Nonetheless, you were still finding your feet in the supernatural world, not having ever seen any of the creatures you read about.

With one hand, you scrambled to lift the bottom of the trunk, gaining access to the secret compartment John had built in the '67 Impala Dean insisted on nicknaming baby.

If there was anything you had a grasp of, it was lore beyond doubt. Therefore, you sifted meticulously through the vast array of weapons until you finally laid your eyes on the one you had been seeking—a glistening silver knife, ornately engraved. Legend has it both silver bullets and silver-bladed weapons were lethal to shapeshifters, the very creature Sam and Dean were after.

As you became aware of your scarce fighting skills, you hesitated for a moment and second-guessed your brash decision to defy the blunt order to stay in the motel the Winchesters had given you. Instead of backing down and following said instructions, you headed towards the nearest sewer cleanout driven and determined, and trawled the cover aside with great effort.

With the silver knife in hand, you descended into the sewers, climbing down the rank, rusty ladder, diligently making it to the bottom. You jumped off onto the ground, which you found to be swamped with turbid water. Or at least that was what you hoped the muddy puddles soaking your feet up to the socks were.

The air was humid, and the sewer halls were silent except for the rhythmic dripping of leak drops splashing on the concrete. You took a deep, shaky breath, wondering how Sam and Dean managed to remain level-headed during hunts, especially given the unforeseen aftermath.

You were undoubtedly scared—terrified even. You bore in mind all the plausible deadly outcomes facing a creature as powerful as a shapeshifter entailed. Yet, not even that did withhold you from sacrificing your own safety for the sake of the two boys who had become your family over the past year.

You were willing to pay your weight in blood if it was their lives at stake. Without them by your side, life would only be reduced to a meaningless solitary existence. So you might as well devote yourself to wrestling them from the peril you sensed they were in.

You crept through the dark, dank sewers, your grip on the silver knife tightening with each step, refraining it from slipping from your moist trembling hands. You couldn't quite shake the feeling that something was watching you, lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce at any moment.

The stench was overwhelming, and you had to cover your nose with your free hand to avoid gagging. But you knew that giving up was not an option. You had come too far to turn back at this point.

You dropped your gaze to the concrete beneath your feet, scrutinizing the ground in search of any signs indicating Sam and Dean’s whereabouts.

One, two, three blood droplets stained the cement and left behind a vague trail. It was a somewhat chilling sight, and your thoughts immediately went to the possibility of the guys being wounded.

Barely a few feet before you laid a mucilaginous shred of skin. Next to it was a clump of dark hair, matted and tangled, still attached to its corresponding patch of torn skin. You shuddered at the realization that those gruesome remnants irrefutably belonged to the shapeshifter.

Faint grunts died out in the distance. It sounded human, and you recognized them as Dean’s. You tensed up, gripping the small bladed weapon steady in your hand.

With an adrenaline rush pumping through your veins, you crept towards the direction of the sound. The grunts grew louder, and you could now hear the pained sounds of Dean's voice as clear as day. Your heart leaped into your throat, and you picked up the pace, sprinting through the dark corridors.

You skidded to a stop as you came upon the scene. Eyes narrowed and brows raised, you did your utmost to wrap your head around the commotion you witnessed before you.

Sam laid sprawled on the floor, his mouth stuffed with a smudge rag. There was sweat and blood coating his face and clothes and his chest inflated and deflated frantically as he struggled against the plastic flange restraining his wrists.

Your attention then turned to Dean, who was pressed against the wall with his body tense with pain and fear. There was another loud thud, the broad creature gripping Dean's jacket collar tossed him onto the ground, the sound echoing throughout the sewer's hallways. Dean gasped in pain, and your heart sank even further at the sight of his helplessness.

“Y/n…get outta...here...” he spoke falteringly in a hushed tone when he registered your presence.

You followed his gaze, and your eyes locked with the shapeshifter's dusky ones. The creature’s features were practically indistinguishable under the dim light seeping through the storm drains, yet the illumination was sufficient for you to discern its current shape.

It was not human, you acknowledged that fact in its entirety. But it sure resembled a person, and not just any person. The shapeshifter, whose eyes were currently fixated on your unnerved shaky figure, had taken on Sam's form with such accuracy it left you utterly bewildered, propelling your mind into an insurmountable surge of confusion.

Its gaze was intense, almost otherworldly, and it seemed to be studying you with a cold detachment that sent shivers down your spine. The shapeshifter seemed to be waiting for your next move, but you froze, clueless as to how to act in the face of his defiant demeanor. And with each passing moment, the pressure mounted, threatening to engulf you in a tidal and paralyzing wave of haze and dread.

You felt compelled to pin your hopes on your self-reliance in order to beat the creature down. After mustering all your courage, you leaped to Dean’s defense. Without hesitation, you charged forward, brandishing the silver knife that you had retrieved from the Impala's weapons compartment.

The smug laugh of the shapeshifter only fueled your determination to protect the brothers at any cost. You saw red. With a swift motion, you plunged the blade into the shapeshifter's chest, slicing and carving it wide open out of fury, and it let out a bloodcurdling screech as it fell to the ground, lifeless.

What seemed blatant moments ago became now an incertitude, as you saw what appeared to be Sam's inanimate body on the concrete. Even if the real Sam drew breath a stone's throw away from you, growing ever more relieved as Dean aided in freeing him from the restraints, the thought of having killed the younger Winchester brother eclipsed your brain.

“I’d never peg you as the stabbing type,” joked Dean trying to alleviate the tension in the atmosphere as he helped Sam to get up, earning a sheepish 'thank you' from the younger brother. He then turned his attention to you. “Jeez, y/n, white paint has more color than your face.”

You took a step backward staring down to your hands, absolutely unable to hear what Dean was saying, let alone fathom it out. Blood was all you saw, blood drenching your hands from the very fingertips all the way up to your elbow.

When your only response to his jokes was silence, Dean began to realize that something was off. In a desperate attempt to get you to snap out of your distressed paralysis, he grabbed you by the shoulders and shook you slightly.

You looked at him, trying to discern his worried features through your foggy vision. You felt trapped inside your own mind, unable to break free from the suffocating weight of your thoughts.

"Everything's spinning, De," you muttered as you managed to loosen the knot that had formed in your throat. "Please, make it stop.”

"I promise you—your head is the only thing spinning right now," he said with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. "You did good, y/n/n. You saved my ass back there."

Your usually regular and calmed breathing pattern developed into a shallow, rapid one. You could feel your heart hammering at great speed in your chest, which caused the veins in your neck to throb and made you feel rather light-headed.

"Hey, hey, hey. I've got you. I've got you," Dean whispered, pulling you into a tight embrace not willing to let you fall when he saw you swaying, and losing balance. "Just listen to my heartbeat, okay?"

You hummed in response, utterly unable to voice your distress. You could hear and feel the wallop of his heart, forcefully rapid yet steady and calming, along with the resounding sounds of his voice inside his chest. You clung to him for dear life, feeling his strong arms around you as you kept a white-knuckled grip on his plain flannel.

"That's it. Just focus on that," he reassured you, rubbing his hand up and down your back, your breathing gradually returning to its even pattern. "You're safe now. It's over."

As soon as you were out of the sewer, Dean ushered you to the Impala opening the door for you to enter the back passenger seat. As much as he loved baby, getting her bloodstained was not a problem as long as he got you safe and comfy.

The ride lasted hardly ten minutes, although to your clouded senses it felt everlasting. You made a futile attempt to divert your attention from the dry blood coating your hands to the sparse traffic outside, before your mind was dragged into the abysmal hole of anguish that the earlier incident had dug into your psyche one more time.

Throughout the ride, Sam kept asking if you were okay every now and then, displaying a genuine concern for your well-being. He knew how traumatic the experience must have been for you and wanted to make sure you were coping. His kind words and comforting presence helped soothe your frazzled nerves, even if only slightly.

Truth was you were far from okay. You were grappling with a multitude of emotions that were threatening to consume you, and the weight of your thoughts felt suffocating.

Meanwhile, Dean would occasionally shoot glances your way through the rear-view mirror, silently checking on you to make sure you were holding up. Despite his tough exterior and being kind of rough around the edges, he was quick to show his caring and nurturing side when it came to you.

The car rolled down the highway, the engine humming softly as Dean expertly downshifted gears, slowly bringing the vehicle to a smooth stop in the motel's parking lot.

You stumbled out of the car, feeling dizzy and disoriented. Dean rushed to your side, supporting you with a hand on your back.

"Easy there, champ," he said, concern lacing his voice. "Let's get you cleaned up and patched up, yeah?"

You nodded weakly, grateful for his support. It was then that you noticed the large gash on your forearm, which must have been incurred during the prior wrestling. How could you have missed it before?

The keys clattered as Sam unlocked the door to your assigned room, pushing it open gently. The three of you entered the motel's bedroom, steps heavy as your energy was depleted.

While Sam tended to his own injuries, Dean took you to the bathroom, where he turned on the tap and began to gently wash away the blood that coated your hands and arms. The touch of his fingers was soothing, and you closed your eyes, letting out a sigh of relief as the water washed away the evidence of the shapeshifter's blood.

In spite of his sarcastic jokes, you knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Dean was mad. And he had every right to be.

You looked up at him, feeling guilty for disobeying orders and putting yourself in danger. The instructions were clear—stay safe and focus on research. They had let you take charge of the investigation duty reluctantly, let alone get fully involved in the hunting business. But you found it impossible to resist the urge, you couldn’t stay in the motel doing nothing knowing they could be in trouble.

Notwithstanding the potential fallout, Dean didn't scold you. Instead, he patiently led you to the toilet, he retrieved the newly restocked first aid kit and gently placed it on the countertop.

“I'm sorry,” you said in a whisper. "You weren't answering my calls. I got worried sick. I'm sorry."

Dean leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead.

"No need to be, sweetheart," he said softly, tossing his resentment for your disobedient behaviour to the back of his mind. "As much as I hate to admit this, you did what had to be done. You saved us back there."

He proceeded to tend to your wound, his touch light and careful as he cleaned and bandaged the gash on your forearm. You couldn't help but feel grateful for his presence, for his unwavering support and understanding.

As he finished up, he looked up at you with a small empathetic smile.

"You wanna crash in my room tonight?" he asked. "I promise to keep the nightmares away."

You nodded, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

The knowledge that he was there with you, ready to support you through thick and thin, was a comforting thought. With Dean by your side, you knew you could get through anything.

#dean winchester #dean winchest x reader fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #spn #dean supernatural #supernatural fandom #supernatural fanfiction #sam and dean #supernatural #supernatural imagine #sam winchester #the winchester brothers

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night-night-stories-before-bed · 4 months ago

Text

A horned protector

Warning ⚠️ ; Cursing, mention of past character death, abuse of alcohol, blood.

Pairing; none, reader is inside a male body

Summary; You don't enjoy it, and neither do the brothers, but the three of you are stuck together because of their father. John Winchester outsmarted you, binding you in a deal to watch and protect his sons. Well, only Dean. And tonight, you are doing just that.

Ps; I did not mean for this story to be this long. Hope y'all like a long read!

~~~~~~~~~~~

Being a demon wasn't always easy or fun. For example, you were stuck with two hunters who despised your existence and wanted nothing more than to kill you! So why stick around? Because their father had outsmarted you on a deal. You were still mad about it.

You had known and tormented John Winchester for years. You used to have fun stalking him during his hunts or just following him and messing around. You could remember that time you followed him on a vampire hunt, exaggerating everything; the sneaking around, the search for clues. You even put on a Sherlock Holmes costume!

Oh, how John hated you! He even once tried to run you over with the Impala. It was good memories. Well, until that night when John summoned you specifically on a crossroad. It was shocking and unexpected.

You could still remember the seriousness and solemnity in his eyes as he made his deal with you. That upon his death you would watch and protect his sons against Azazel. Well, mostly Dean. For some reason, John had put an emphasis on protecting his eldest boy. But there had been a trick; that he could still make a deal with another demon if its meant protecting and or saving his sons.

You hadn't believed it would happen. It was so precise!

And then it did.

John Winchester had died and the deal had to be followed.

It had been a few years and you had failed not once, but twice. Sam had been stabbed to death and Dean had made a deal, ending with his soul being dragged into hell. Yes. You had failed miserably and it was pitiful. You had given your all even when the boys had tried to kill you, you stayed around to watch over them, but it was as if an outside force had been against you.

It intrigued you, especially now that you had learned about the so-called ‘prophet’ the brothers had met and who was a writer. That Chuck had written about their life, even about you, which had been both a surprise and shock with how accurately he had been describing some events. It also made you wary. What other capacity did that man have? Could he hurt Dean and Sam?

Those thoughts were on your mind as you walked toward the brother’s motel room. The Impala was parked in front of it, guiding you in the right direction. The boys were hunting something, you didn't really pay attention to what, for the past week. They were lost in the middle of Texas on a full moon and you could tell it impacted them differently.

Sam, bless his heart, stayed happy and festive researching their monster restlessly. You hadn't seen him for the past two days but knew he was fine thanks to Dean.

Dean who was the one taking it the worse. While he kept smiling for his little brother you saw the emptiness behind his eyes, the way he clenched his jaws and how his nights were filled with nightmares. Dean didn't know you knew as you came only when they slept by fear of either getting shot or stabbed.

Well, except tonight.

You had gone out of your way to get the boys more supplies for their hunts after seeing they were getting low. Silver bullets and knives, salt and you even braved the Church to get some holy water, burning your hand on the process. But it was a small price to pay if it could help keep the Winchester brothers alive.

The bag hanging on your shoulder, you moved your free hand to unlock the door the the brothers’ room, calling for Dean.

- “Hey pieface, guess what I got for y'all!”

You barely finished your sentence when a shadow mover in front of your eyes. You barely had the time to duck, dropping the bag, before pain exploded in your face.

Hand clenched tightly around Dean’s wrist, your demonic eyes stared at the eldest brother with both amusement and pride. You chuckled as you forced Dean to remove the knife from your cheek. A few inches more and you would have dropped death.

- “My, my! Look at the mess you are making Dean.” You said, your demonic eyes turning to the blade as blood poured out of your opening cheek. You could feel the flesh hanging against your jaw, exposing your teeth. “Better clean it up before Sammy comes back.”

- “What the fuck are you doing here?” Dean asked, snatching his wrist out of your grip.

- “Bringing you some gift!”

You bowed down, grabbed the bag and shoved it in Dean’s arms. You watched him walk to the table and drop everything on it. You could smell the scent of alcohol clearly, almost as if you had the bottle right under your nose. You frowned, watching closely as Dean examined everything.

The eldest brother was clearly tipsy now that you watched more attentively. You clicked your tongue annoyed with how careless Dean was. You knew how he had a lot on both his shoulders and mind, but the bottle wasn't the answer. Yet, you said nothing, your eyes looking around to see the bottles of beer and other alcohol around the room.

With a wave of your hand, you moved them all together before proceeding to clean. You felt Dean’s gaze staring holes in your back and almost laughed, but didn't. You just remembered what day it was.

Today was the anniversary of John Winchester’s death.

You sighed softly as you put the last bottle in the trash back before turning your attention to Dean. He had dropped down on the bed, feet hanging from the mattress and his back turned to you. For a second you imagined him as a small pouting child, which he kinda was. You didn't want to know just how bad the situation would turn out when Sam would come back…

You left Dean pouting on the bed and went to take care of your face. Grabbing a needle and some thread you stitched your cheek back together before taking off your shirt and washing it in the sink. You didn't want to trigger Sam with the smell of your blood, knowing how hard the boy had worked to get ride of his addiction.

Clean, you walked out of the bathroom to get ride of your blood that had fallen on the ground. Still on the bed, Dean stared at you, eyes clouded by the alcohol. You clicked your tongue like a disappointed father before looking at him.

- “You are on a hunt, Dean. Why are you drinking like that?”

- “Fuck you. Get out of our room.”

You rolled your eyes and threw away the blood-soaked tissues before making a knot in the bag.

- “Yeah, I will. For five minutes. I’ll be right back.”

Carrying the trash bag, you went outside. The air was heavy and humid and there was no breeze. You saw no one else outside and yet still felt like you were being watched. Frowning, you hurried to throw away the trash. Looking around you, you couldn't see anything alive. Not in the trees or on the ground nor in the sky.

But the feeling was still there.

You weren't alone out there.

Grinding your teeth, you went back inside and locked the door. The sound had Dean sitting on the bed staring at you angrily.

- “What the fuck are you…” Dean tried to ask before you interrupted him.

- “Shut up. We are not alone and something was outside watching me.” You said, grabbing a shotgun and throwing it at him. “Get ready, I bet its about to get messy.”

That was enough to sober up Dean who grabbed the gun and got up, joining you in the middle of the room. Your eyes were glued to the window even if the curtains were closed. Next to you, Dean was calling Sam to tell him to come back as quickly as possible.

He didn't mention that you were there.

Outside you heard the gravel crunching as something walked around in front of the door and window. Immediately Dean raised his gun, ready to shoot if anything tried to enter. You waved your hand, turning off the lights, trying to make you two as discreet as possible. You could still see clearly, unlike Dean.

The sound of footsteps became quieter until then silence was all that was left. Dean’s breathing was the only thing you could hear and neither of you moved nor dropped your guard. It wasn't over, you knew it. Whatever was outside had watched you and saw where you went.

It knew you were in there.

You moved, ever so slightly, keeping Dean behind you. Whatever that thing was, you didn't want to take the risk for Dean to be hurt. Not only because of your deal with John but also because Dean had been drinking. His reflexes weren't going to be as fast as normally.

- “Oi fucker, what are you doing?” Dean asked, voice barely audible.

- “Honoring my deal with your father, pieface.” You replied with a chuckle.

The next seconds passed in a blur.

The sound of broken glass filled the room as a growl broke the silence of the night. A shadow jumped between the curtains ready to pounce on you and Dean. Without thinking you raised your hand and sent the thing flying against the wall. Dean didn't lose a second and immediately shot at it.

The monster moved before any bullet hit it.

Knowing what was to come, you turned your attention on Dean. With the same trick, you sent Dean flying out of the room by the broken window. The young man screamed and you smiled as the creature tackled you to the ground, fangs and claws digging in your flesh. You didn't scream, fingers finding the thing’s eyes and pushing them deep.

Warm blood pulsed and rolled down your hands and wrists as the creature howled in pain. You didn't let go and kept digging, feeling the eyes break under your fingers and nails scratching the bones.

You gasped and coughed as blood and brain matter splashed all over your faces. The sound of a gunshot echoed in the room and the corpse fell on top of you. Groaning, you pushed the carcass off top of you and sat, disgust painted all over your face. You turned your attention toward the window where Dean stood, shotgun still pointed on the dead creature.

- “We need to go, now. Cops won't be long to get here and I don't want to have to explain this mess. Grab everything, I’ll get the car ready.” Dean said before walking away.

Not questioning him, you did as told. Within a minute you had gathered all the brothers’ belongings and the things you had gotten for them. The next, you sat next to Dean as he drove you away to go get Sam. The silence was heavy and even you didn't dare say a word. There was something, like a fragile balance, between the two of you. So fragile that a single sound would brake it and make Dean snap.

Which happen even if you didn't said a word.

The eldest Winchester hit the break and before you could ask what he was doing, his fist collided with your already injured jaw. Then another fist followed and another. It took you a few seconds to realize that Dean was crying, his whole body shaking with each sob. You couldn't make out what he was saying, but guessed he was cursing you like always.

You didn't defend yourself, allowing Dean to just let it all out until you finally caught a few words. Your fault. Didn't do enough. Abandoned us.

He wasn't hitting you.

He was hitting what you represented.

No.

Who you represented.

His father who hadn't been present. His father who had been so hard and rough on him and who, in the end, had died before they could talk about everything. John had died leaving Dean without ny closure.

Dean hadn't been drinking because he was sad, but because he was angry.

After a few minutes, you gently grabbed Dean by the shoulders and he stopped. In your hands, you could feel his body shaking with every sob. If you could still feel emotions, the sight would have broken your heart. But you were a demon. You had lost your humanity a long time ago.

You both kept quiet. Dean by shame, you because you didn't know what to say. Dean drove away until you came across a familiar car; the one Sam had used to go to the library. You stopped again and Sam jumped in, abandoning his car. The door was barely closed that Dean was off again.

- “What the fuck happened to you?” Sam asked you, leaning between your and Dean’s seat.

- “Got a visit from your friend. I don't think he loved me much!” You said jokingly, waving your hands to show your wounds. “Sorry for the smell sweetheart.”

- “Anyway. What are you doing here?” Sam asked after a few seconds of silence.

- “I came to give y'all a bag of ammunition and other things y'all could use during your hunts. I saw how low you were on your inventory.”

Sam looked at you in surprise and suspicion. Of course, the youngest would wonder if you were doing it for another reason than to help. He looked at his brother, expecting Dean to deny what you said, but when his brother said nothing, Sam simply nodded and thanked you.

Slowly, they were learning to trust you. After all, you never lied to them, not even once. And in the future, you would be the only one to do so. Unknown to you three, there would be even more tragedy and danger to come, but you would be there, always.

You would be their horned protector until it killed you.

#supernatural #x male reader #male reader #x gn reader #gn reader #dean winchester #x reader #fanfic #reader #sam winchester #angst #demon

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kwinsispn3 · 6 months ago

Text

Charms

summary: through the years — the Winchester’s little sister’s good luck charm, ends up being a bit of a tradition.

Word Count: 4,214

Winchester boys x sister!reader

Warnings: blood, death, angst, sorry about the italics, idk what I'm doing??

The youngest Winchester, y/n, was welcomed into the family a little bit later than expected. Y/n was 3 when her mom died, and had no one else to go to but her father and two brothers. It was a few years after John had died too, when Dean got a call from one of John’s old phones in the glove compartment. And there she’s was on the other line.

It had been a few months after y/n had been living with the boys. It was tricky for everyone to adjust. Sam and Dean would do anything for her at the drop of a hat, but they all found it difficult to connect at first. Y/n was struggling to feel like a part of the family. She had lost the only adults she knew about in her short life, her trust had been taken away from everything it felt like. Sam and Dean had treated her nothing but kind since the day they found her, and deep down she knew they wouldn’t hurt her, but time would tell.

It was late at night, Dean couldn’t sleep. Going to reach for his headphones, they weren’t in the side table drawer where he normally puts them. He arose, flipping on the desk lamp across the room, starting to look for them quietly, when he came across a box. The box where he always kept special things he couldn’t lose. Photographs of him and Sammy as kids, their mother, different trinkets that held a memory. Dean flipped through a few photos, admiring them sadly under the light of his lamp. Looking down into the box he saw a glaring piece of silver at the bottom. Picking it up, he gazed at the charm bracelet that belonged to his mother. The charms shined in the light as they swayed side to side.

Sam approached the desk in the motel, about to speak as he sees him, but stops. “Hey, uhh. You busy?” He asked stepping closer.

“No, just couldn’t really sleep” Dean says as he packs the things back in the box.

“What’s this, is this mom’s?” Sam asked, sliding the bracelet over to his grasp.

“Yup.”

It was y/n’s 10th birthday and it had been a rough year. Another new school, y/n wasn’t staying with Bobby as much anymore since she was older and could stand the long car rides with Sam & Dean. Girls were starting to be mean at school, y/n felt alone most of the time, because she was left alone. In school, and back at the motels they stayed at. The boys felt for her, being so young, constantly exposed to the childhood they had. They didn’t expect that they would ever being doing what they were doing, but they wouldn’t give up on trying to give their little sister the life she needed.

The brothers made it home from finishing up a hunt just in time for y/n’s birthday. They had brought home her favorite food, and desserts. It wasn’t much, but they wanted to show her some appreciation for all of her patience. After finishing up dinner, Sam started to clean up the table. “Alright, looks like it is almost your bedtime.”

“Really? Even on my birthday?” Y/n playfully pouted.

“Your beauty sleep is more important!” Sam smiled back. “Especially being a weeknight. But we will pick up the festivities this weekend, because we’re leaving town!” Sam blurted out without thinking about how that sounded.

Dean looked at him and back at y/n, knowing her reaction wouldn’t be excited. Sam realized he had messed up by saying it so soon, they had meant to break it to her the next day, after her birthday.

“You mean, I have to leave this school, and go to another one?!” She sighed in disappointment.

“Well, yeah. But… we can go wherever you’d like to, on the way to—“

“No, you both said we’d be here for a while.”

“Y/n—“

“Just stop!" The room fell silent. "I know this is what you guys do, but I hate having to move again and again."

"Look, I know you do. It isn't fun for us either, but that's how we.."

"Get our job done, I know Sam." y/n finished his sentence, looking down at her hands.

"What's wrong, y/n/n?" Sam asked, studying her face.

"I just told you." her voice got more quiet. "You sure? You just... look like somethings on your mind." Sam stated. There was a long pause, y/n shuffled around and then looked up at her brothers. They both had that look on their face like they were waiting for her to let out whatever she was thinking.

"How do you guys always know!!?" She threw her arms down in frustration. Trying to stay mad but also wanting to break down from all of the inner turmoil. The boys both half smiled, Sam sat down in one of the kitchen chairs, motioning for y/n to sit down.

"It just gets scary sometimes..... not knowing when you're gonna come back. Boring too. I just don't want you to forget about me." y/n let out a deep breath.

"Sweetheart, you know we'd never forget about you. We look forward to coming back to you after every job." Sam reassured. Y/n let out a half smile, hearing the same line before. "I know."

It was times like these where Dean would always think of his mother. Even though y/n wasn't his mothers daughter, he knew if she were still around, she'd know exactly what to say in moments like these. The two boys were almost left with a loss of words until Dean thought of the perfect thing. He stood up and went outside to the car, rummaging through the trunk. He came back inside with a box in his hands. Going through it, he picked up Mary's bracelet and sat down next to y/n.

"This was... our mom's. I think she would have wanted you to have it." Dean hooked the charm bracelet around y/n's wrist. It felt a little odd to her, knowing Mary was not her real mom.

"Are you sure? I mean, she..." y/n tried not to come off sounding rude, but Dean knew what she was trying to say.

"I know, but trust me. We hung onto it for a reason. All of these charms mean something special, and as long as you have this with you... you will always be protected. And you will always, be apart of this family." Dean held her wrist, emphasizing it's importance. Y/n rotated her wrist, admiring all of the charms.

She smiled bigger, looking up at them. "Thank you."

Dean said nothing, instead bringing his sister in for a hug. Sam raised his eyebrows, blinking away his watery eyes from the moment he just witnessed. Running his hands over his face, he sat down, and embrace his siblings into one.

It was y/n's first official hunt. She had just turned 14, and had proven to her brothers that she could take care of herself... as long as she stayed right by their sides. Y/n had been studying, not just in school. Every chance she got, she was prying information from Sam or Dean about hunting. Practicing how to use different forms of defense, and being on the look out for anything. She now had finally gotten herself into the real deal.

The three of them walked through an abandoned farm property, looking for any hidden rooms, since the rest of the house was suspiciously clear. "We should go check the barn out back." Y/n whispered. "Okay, but for now, you stay here." Dean whispered back.

"Why? there's nothing here. We've looked everywhere and there is no nest." y/n stated.

"Well, that's what they want you to think, but it wasn't at the last house so it's gotta be here."

"Shhh!" Sam spat. Hearing a crash from somewhere in the house.

Everyone froze, being as still and quiet as they could, trying to listen for any noises. It was silent, until a floorboard creaked from behind Dean. He jumped around, but before he could strike, everyone was knocked unconscious. None of them got a chance to see what hit them as it was too dark.

Y/n woke up in a cold and dark room. The floor was cement, and the walls were stone, it was likely a basement room. Shortly after coming to, she heard the ceiling above her creak and the walls too. Footsteps thudded on the floor outside of the room she was in, and she heard the ceiling creak once more. Y/n panicked, and resumed her position on the floor where she woke up, pretending to still be knocked out.

The door flung open, she squinted her eyes the most she could while trying to look asleep. A dark figure walked over to her, she could see another figure behind him, holding the door open. She was suddenly lifted off the floor, her body limp and hanging in the grip of whoever was holding her.

"Nope, still out. Let's give it another hour." A deep voice spoke. They let go of y/n's body, letting it thud back to the floor. The two figures left. Y/n sat up slowly, feeling the ache from being thrown onto cement. 'A ladder?' She thought, seeing one against the wall outside the door. One set of footsteps walked away, another set sounded like they were climbing the ladder, as the wall creaked again.

Y/n listened closely to the creaks and heard the ceiling again, 'a trapdoor!' It had to be. It sounded like it was just above the door to the room she was in. After listening for a while, it grew quiet again. Y/n got up and tried opening the door, no luck. It was locked. Y/n knew she had to alert her brothers somehow, wherever they were. For all she knew, they could be in another locked room themselves.

Sam and Dean both woke up in the barn that was behind the house. Dean sat up abruptly in the hay, looking around for y/n once he spotted Sam. "Y/N!!"

"She's gotta be somewhere in that house. C'mon!" Sam hurried.

The two men walked through out the house again, pacing every room back and forth, looking for anything they could have missed. "Dude, I can't find any levers, or buttons... no hidden doors. Fuckin squat!" Dean was starting to get worried and pissed, not knowing how long they were out and how long y/n had been separated.

Sam, stepped on something uneven. Raising his foot, he looked at the dark floor and saw a bit of silver shining in the moonlight. He picked up the object, which happened to be y/n's charm bracelet.

Dean looked at Sam holding up the charms, stunned to say the least. "That ain't good, we need to find her, quick." Dean started, rushing past Sam, ready to look wherever he had to.

"Wait! Dean look...." Sam kneeled down, taking in the details of the floor they had completely missed. They had been walking all over it this whole time. "Dean, it's a trap door!"

They both kneeled down and found a flat switched embedded in one of the floorboards. Sam pressed the switch, a square in the floor creaked open, revealing a hidden basement. "Let's go."

Sam and Dean came across a long hallway, that went in two directions. Both sides of the walls had doors to other rooms. "She's gotta be down here." Sam whispered.

"That probably means the nest is also down here." Dean huffed with worry.

The two split up to start checking the rooms. Dean started with the door next to the ladder that led them down there. He busted it open to find y/n sitting on the floor. "Y/N! Thank god, are you okay?" Dean sighed in relief.

"I'm fine.... did you find my clue?" she asked hopefully.

"Your clue??"

"Yeah, I slid my charm bracelet through the floor."

"You did that? How... what..... I'd love to hear how you came up with that later, because I think you led us right to the vamp nest." Dean smiled proudly.

It had been 5 long days since y/n went missing. Of course, Sam and Dean hadn't stopped for anything until they found her. They had not slept, barely ate, there was no breaks, no stopping. They had grown tired after searching almost every lead they had.

The two sat at the table in their motel room in silence, too irritated and exhausted to say anything unless it was important. "I'll be back." Dean stood up, grabbing his jacket.

"Where ya going?" Sam asked.

"To look for y/n".

Sam sighed. Dean always blamed himself if Sam or y/n were in trouble. No matter the situation.

Dean pulled up to the school where the first kid went missing. Putting the car in park, he got out and walked around the campus, trying his best not to look suspicious. School was still in session despite the mysterious disappearances, which made it hard to investigate. Y/n was a big help in the case, being able to blend in as a student, until she went missing too. Sam and Dean had checked all the surrounding places that had a connection, yet, nothing.

Dean circled the courtyard, eyeing the buildings, trying to think of literally anything, when he remembered... The old building behind the school. The one that wasn't in use anymore, they were planning to knock it down soon. It made so much sense now, they were hiding in plain sight. He picked up his phone to dial Sam, letting him know to meet him over there as he picked up the pace on his way over to the building.

Dean scanned the area around him, making sure no one was looking before approaching the front steps. The front doors were boarded shut, he tried to make them give but had no luck. He circled the building to the back door when he noticed a shine catching his eye.

Y/n's charm bracelet sat in the dirt and gravel near the back door. He picked it up with care, and put it in his pocket. Dean was able to get in the building, it was full of mold and broken down old school supplies. He walked down endless hallways, looking through every door until he found y/n. Handcuffed to an old radiator on the ground. Rushing over, he shook her gently, trying to wake her up.

"Dean!" Sam called out from a distance. He stood up and poked his head around the hallway. "Hey! Did you find her?" Sam asked frantically.

"Yeah, I got her. Help me find some of the other kids." He said as he rushed back to y/n. Her head and arms had dried up blood all over them, and looked as if she was dragged through dirt.

"Y/n, c'mon sweetheart, wake up." she slowly nodded, with fluttering eyes, becoming more alert once she saw Dean.

"oh my god, Dean!" She spoke softly, reaching out for him but was stopped by the cuffs. "One sec, I got it." He assured.

Once she was free, she gently wrapped her arms around him. "You found me.... I was worried you wouldn't." Her eyes welled with tears.

Dean held her shoulders and reached into his pocket. "Baby, I will always find you." He said as he hooked her bracelet back onto her wrist. She sniffled a heartwarming smile back at him.

Sam and Dean stood in front of y/n, and also y/n. The 3 of them were hunting a shifter, and it had taken y/n's form. Now it was down to which y/n was the real y/n.

"Guys. c'mon it's me! Trust me." y/n whined.

"Stop! No, I'm me. I know it's hard to tell right now but it's really me!" y/n also whined.

"Here...." y/n slowly kneeled down and placed her gun on the ground. The other y/n still clutched her gun tightly. A determined look set in her eyes.

"I wouldn't hurt you guys. You know that." she stood up slowly without the weapon.

Sam and Dean gazed between the two versions of their sister. "I'm not sure you can keep that promise." Sam spat. Y/n lunged at Sam as he pulled the trigger. She fell to the ground, all 3 of them stood frozen for a second before seeing the body start to melt. They all let out a heavy breath.

"Thank you, for not shooting me." y/n snickered, lowering her gun. "How'd you know?"

Sam reached for her wrist. "Guess it wasn't able to replicate your good luck charm." He smiled at the charms on her bracelet.

It happened so fast. None of them saw the last one that hid behind the corner. A shot rang out, the bullet snuck past Sam who held his gun up. He fired his weapon, taking out the last guy. He let out a greedy breath, looking over at Dean who gave him the same relieved look.

"Nice one, brother." He patted his shoulder. "You too y/n." Dean and Sam looked behind them, only to jump when they saw y/n clutching her stomach hunched over.

"Y/n!? You okay? Lemme see...... umm, okay c'mon. We gotta go." Dean said frantically after seeing all the blood soaking through her shirt. He lifted her up, carrying her to the car and placing her in the backseat.

"Hang on, y/n." Dean kept calling out from the drivers seat, while Sam reached back, holding onto what ever grip she had on him.

"Sammy..... I can't...." Y/n sounded breathy. Holding her palm over her wound.

"Yes you can, just hold on a little longer for me, okay?" Sam hoped his words would help motivate his sister to find strength. They couldn't lose her, not like this.

Dean peeled into the emergency room lot, barely parking the car. The two men jumped out of the car, rushing to the backseat. When they opened the door, y/n was slumped over on her side, unresponsive.

"Y/n, c'mon wake up, look at me." Dean patted her face, holding her in his arms. Nothing.

As they carried her through the doors, it felt like a blank blur of people bombarding them, saying words. Dean froze as Sam called out for help, telling the nurses what happened. Then he felt people tugging y/n away from him. As they started to wheel her back, Dean grasped her hand.

"Sir, please let go, we need to get her medical attention."

Normally, he would've fought to stay with her, but he froze again. Letting go of her hand which then flopped to the side of her.

Sam and Dean waited an excruciatingly long 3 hours before someone came asking for them. A doctor came out and ushered them through the doors.

"Is she okay? What's the deal?" Dean asked impatiently. All the doctor said was 'come with me' so they assumed he was taking them to her. He remained quiet and led them down the hall, motioning them to step into a room. Once they both saw it was an office, they expected the worst.

"Please, have a seat."

"Doc, not trying to be rude, but I've been sitting for 3 hours. I'd rather not wait any longer. How's our sister?" Dean said straight to the point.

The doctor took a deep breath, folding his hands. "Y/n suffered some really bad hemorrhaging from the bullet wound. Once we removed the bullet, we couldn't stop the bleeding...... she stopped breathing a little while before that."

"I'm sorry, but she didn't make it."

Neither of the boys took it well, especially Dean. He refused to believe anything after that, he kept saying 'no' to everything the doctor said.

"Um... is there any way we could still see her? y'know, say our goodbyes." Sam hesitantly glanced at Dean.

"Yes, of course. Give us some time to prepare her. In the meantime, I would start discussing arrangements for-"

As soon as Dean heard that, he turned around and walked out.

Sam stayed and waited until he was able to see y/n. The nurse left to give him his privacy. As soon as he saw her, he broke. Slowly walking over to the bed with tears blurring his vision, he kneeled down and picked up her frail hand. He cringed at the fact that it was still warm, but that warmth was fading. Sam eyed her charm bracelet that was still on. He pinched the charms between his fingers, rotating it around.

"I'm sorry..... I'm sorry we couldn't...." Sam trailed off. Wiping away his tears, he looked at his sister for a while. Taking in her features, trying to permanently memorize what she looked like when she smiled, laughed, looked at her brothers with her big y/e/c eyes.

"I love you."

Dean had stormed out of the hospital. He felt like raging against all evil that had ever existed, so upset he could flip a car. He had always imagined he'd go like this, but not his little sister. Only 20 years old, and it was all taken away from her, from him, from them. Dean didn't know what to do or where to go, so much was going through his mind. He opened baby's driver door and sat inside, letting the silence consume the vehicle for a few moments before speaking up.

"Cas..... we could really use you right now."

.....

"Y/n is dead. And... she shouldn't be. I know it's a lot to ask, but this is y/n we're talking about."

.....

"Cas...?" Dean sat a while longer, waiting, waiting for Cas, or a sign. Anything.

"Please, Cas. I'll do whatever I have to, I'll sell my soul, I'll make a trade. I don't know, anything."

Still, nothing. No response. Nothing.

Sam walked outside to the car since Dean wasn't answering the phone. He saw him sitting in the car and slowly opened the passenger door, getting in next to him.

Neither of them said anything at first.

"Uh, she's in there, whenever you're ready." Sam tried to hide his sniffles. Dean stayed quiet.

"This isn't the end." He finally spoke up.

"What?"

"She's not dead for good."

"Dean, we can't make another deal like that, if that's what you're thinking. It just leads us into more problems."

"Sam, this is y/n! I don't give shit what I have to do."

Sam stopped there, he knew it wasn't a good time to reason with Dean. He needed to give it time.

"Here." Sam held out his hand. He placed the object in Dean's hand. Dean opened his palm, now holding y/n's charm bracelet.

"What are you doing?!" Dean raised his tone, agitated.

"What do you mean? I-"

"Why did you take this off of her!?" Dean growled.

Before Sam could say anything else, Dean opened the door and stormed back into the hospital. Sam followed, delaying himself a little bit to give Dean some space. He was hoping this would give him some time for closure.

Dean's anger led him into y/n's room a little fast. He slowed his vigorous pace when he saw her. He slowly approach the bedside and sat next to her, gently hooking the charms around her wrist once more. A tear escaped his waterline when he looked up at her, not receiving the smile she always gave him. He squeezed her hand in his, lowering his head with the gesture. Dean sat there for a while in thought, when her hand started to feel different. Almost as if it was less limp. He squeezed it some more subconsciously, but this time felt her hand clench underneath his. He shot up, looking at y/n confused.

"y/n?" Her chest rose up and fell heavily as her body took a breath. "Y/n!?"

Sam overheard and peeked in. "Dean, wha-."

"Get the doctor, now!" He flipped his head around. Sam nodded and ran out confused.

Y/n's chest was now rising and falling in a rhythm, Dean kept saying her name and sweet things. Then her eyes slowly opened.

"y/n!" Dean let out an overjoyed cry. "Oh! sweetheart...."

"help... owh." y/n managed to wheeze out, trying to catch her breath.

"Dean.." she caught a gaze of him. He smiled and fixed her stray hairs on her forehead. "It hurts t-t much." she breathed out, then doctors flooded into the room with Sam close behind.

"Y/n!!?" Sam breathed out as he caught sight of her.... alive.

The doctors started giving her oxygen, medicine and checked her vitals. Dean backed up to give them space to work. "Dean! no.." y/n mumbled.

"It's okay, I'm right here! I'm not going anywhere."

Sam pulled him aside. "Dean! What did you do?"

"Nothing! I swear! She... she was gone when I came in, and then..."

"Cas."

"So, Cas did this?"

Dean nodded, looking back at y/n.

All the commotion died down, y/n was stable. The doctors were confused as hell, but ruled it out as a medical miracle, and were pleased to inform Sam and Dean that she'd be alright.

"So, who do I thank?" y/n asked.

"Cas." Dean smiled.

"Glad to have you back, kid." Sam grinned.

"Me too.... gotta love my good luck charm!" she smiled, jingling her bracelet around.

#spn #sister winchester #sister!winchester #sister!reader #spn fan fic #spnfandom #winsister #dean winchester #supernatural #sam winchester

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