#this is even more cursed than usual. thanks for that john. thanks. | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

novemberheart · 9 months ago

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{overview} you and John take another step in you relationship, the startling truth about how you see your pack comes to light

{warnings} fem reader, a/b/o dynamics, cursing

Chapter 14 <- Chapter 15 -> Chapter 16

The situation had been hard for you to rationalize. On one hand you spent the whole night curled into a ball sobbing your eyes out. A few knocks echoed throughout your room, and you politely requested some alone time. They obliged you. On the other hand, you had a hard time taking what Simon said completely to heart. His actions had always shown he had your best interest at heart. You had upset him and he was hurt. His hurt made him say things that may not entirely be true- but what he was trying to convince himself of.

You prayed it was the second hand.

Regardless, you had taken the words hard.

You have been causing a lot of crises this past week. You were attacked, you caused Johns’ rut, and now Simon was pissed.

At this point, it would be a mercy to send you back to where you came from.

Not even a month in and you had turned into a problem. Omegas weren't supposed to be problems. Problems were eliminated.

You whined curling yourself deeper into your mattress. The alarm on your bedside table went off, making you flinch. You pulled yourself out of bed with heavy limbs. You were exhausted. You didn't sleep a wink, you had hardly eaten any food the day before and you were more emotionally drained than you had been in years. You didn't bother changing out of your sleep shorts but threw on a consoling knitted sweater.

You looked at your closet wondering if you should begin shoving all your clothes bag into your duffle.

You were usually alone at this time. Unless one of them had night training and was just getting home. You took a deep breath, hoping that was the case today. You pushed open your door, it getting caught on Simon’s boot. You gasped staring up at him with wide eyes.

Was he still angry?

Was he going to be the one to tell you that you were being sent back?

He cleared his throat, standing up straight so he wasn't leaning against the door frame. He was uncomfortable.

“Hey, pup,” he greeted softly. Any words you could think of got caught in your throat. As you stared at him a conclusion popped into your head, one that hadn't before. He was fine. His eyes were not rubbed raw, his voice not cracking from hours of crying. He had been much meaner to you and it seemed to have no toll on him. He didn't lose an ounce of sleep over it. He probably just rolled over in his bed and decided to apologize to you tomorrow.

It made you mad. Typical alpha behavior. Causing hurt feelings and omegas to spiral without a second thought. You weren't sure you wanted to be around someone so…..so uncaring.

“Simon,” you greeted gently, still keeping the door partly shut. Would he lash out at you again for not being warm to him?

He sighed, clearing his throat.

“I need to apologize to you about yesterday,” He started, his eyes staring down at you. His eyes held no emotion, even though they were big and round. He smelled sincere. There were no warnings going off in your head that this was a trick. “I’m sorry I said those things, even if you hadn't heard them it was not appropriate or even the type of person I want to be. Especially to you.”

That softened you a bit.

“Thank you for apologizing,” you were able to grasp words finally. “I'm sorry I didn't list you as my alpha,” it was your turn.

“Not that I have earned the title,” he added. You remained silent. He cleared his throat again. Did he expect you to disagree? “I would like to work towards it- you seeing me as your Alpha.”

“Of course Simon,” you said quickly. “You have been very good to me in the past, don't think I have forgotten or hadn't noticed.”

He seemed to appreciate the sentiment. He excused himself after, saying he had to get to training. You were fine leaving it there and you felt better about the situation. There was still something that had bothered you, though. Why hadn't you written his name down in the first place?

There was only one reason you could truly think of. He didn't feel like an alpha towards you. That's not to say you hadn't bonded with him over time but he didn't have the same effect on you as John had. All John had to do was look at you and he had your omega belly up and your head tilting back, practically begging him to mark you.

Everyone knew there were different types of alphas in the world. Domineering ones. Modern ones who treated their omegas as equals. Traditional ones who treated them like they were servants. Soft and gentle ones who acted like betas.

John was a provider. He didn't treat you as his equal. He treated you like you were of higher status than him. He was at your service. When you were with him touching a door handle was beneath you. Yet there was that domineering side to him. The part that needed to have control- him needed to have you chipped for example. Yet you knew that was less about ego and more about making sure you were safe.

The truth was, when you thought about your alpha, the first thing that popped into your head was John.

That was why you wrote his name down.

The rest of the day had been a breeze. You decided maybe you should stay home for a few days to hopefully minimize the trouble you could cause.

You had just changed into your pajamas when there was a knock on your door.

“Hi,” you grinned at John.

“I want to show you something. Put your shoes on,” he smiled, his eyes crinkling. You quickly grabbed your shoes and he held up a coat for you to get into. You slipped your arms in, feeling warm and fuzzy from the gesture. It was one of his, the smell of campfire making your brain lull into a state of comfort. He zipped it up for you, grabbing your hand in his and leading you out the door.

“Where are we going?” you questioned in the elevator.

“It's a surprise, pretty girl,” he asserted, holding back a smirk. You ran your fingers over his knuckles. They were rough and a bit swollen. Years of hard work embedded in them.

He led you down a path you had never gone before, weaving past the training grounds and over to where the offices were.

“Now this is our little secret,” he reminded. You two strayed away from the path, walking towards the treeline. “Need to get you proper shoes.” he huffed, looking down at your flats. You giggled, remembering when Simon had said the same thing to you. You two walked for a while, the sounds of war slowly growing more and more distant. “You cold?” he checked. You quickly shook your head. Despite that, he ran his hands up and down your arms to heat you up. “Just a little further,” he assured. “Here we are,” he stopped suddenly, causing you to furrow your brows at him.

You were in the middle of a forest. What was so special? He put a finger under your chin, slowly tilting your head up.

You gasped, your hands gripping onto his jacket in awe.

A sky full of stars. They took up the parts of the sky that weren't covered by the treetops.

“It's beautiful,” you whispered.

“The base only gets dark enough one day a month to see them,” he explained quietly. You wished you could see this every night. But then, you might not appreciate them. You stared up until you got a neck ache, slowly pulling yourself back to earth. His eyes remained focused on you.

He regrets it. Deeply. Not allowing you into the pack sooner. Granted you had brought with you some challenges- but you were well worth it. You were quickly growing to be an indispensable part of the pack and you weren't even marked yet.

So when you looked up at him it was only natural for him to lean down. You nearly went cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact. Your eyes fluttered closed and he sealed the distance. It was short and sweet.

A dream first kiss.

“This is beginning to feel personal,” you whined, causing them to chuckle.

“Not personal, peachy. Just the game,” Johnny smirked. He leaned over pressing a kiss against your temple. You growled at him playfully.

“Easy for you to say. You've plus-four-ed me twice in a row,” you exclaimed, waving your ridiculously large stack of Uno cards in his face. It was Kyle's idea and it started out with a few lighthearted games between the two of you and John. The addition of Simon and Johnny turned it into a full-on attack. After it was John's turn, he put down a reverse card sending the direction of the game back to you.

“Get him, honey.” He smirked at you, nodding his head towards Johnny. The only thing you had that could do any damage was a color changer- if you played it right. You leaned close to Johnny and he quickly reciprocated resting his forehead against yours.

“Interesting tactic,” Kyle chuckled, causing you to giggle.

“What’re we doing right now, Bonnie?” Johnny whispered, his pretty blue eyes lighting up in excitement (both kinds).

“I'm reading your mind,” you whispered back.

“Wanna read my mind in my room later?” he smirked, pressing his forehead against yours harder.

“I choose blue.” you smiled, waiting expectantly.

“Shite, only one I don't have.” he groaned, beginning to grab cards from the deck. You and Simon both celebrated. You for getting him back and Simon because now he was next in line to win.

Simon won, and you all moved into the next round. You crawled around the coffee table so you were sitting in between John and Kyle.

“I took a shower,” Johnny snorted as you moved away from him.

“I'm not being after you!” you explained, grabbing the cards that Simon dealt out. You couldn't stop a smile as you got two plus fours in your pile. You crawled back over to be in between John and Johnny.

“I changed my mind. Can we go this way?” you smirked, twirling your finger in a clockwise motion.

“I'm a bit frightened.” Johnny gulped.

“You've been giggly lately.” Kyle hummed, the feeling vibrating through your shoulder.

“That's because you keep tickling me,” you whined. As if on cue his lips skimmed over your shoulder and against your neck, causing you to erupt in laughter all over again. “Kyle,” you groaned playfully, pushing him away. “I'm not used to being touched so much,” you reminded. You had never been so physical with anyone before. Johnny and Kyle were always all over you, and John had been growing more and more affectionate. Even Simon had his claws in you when the two of you went out.

“Want me to stop?” he questioned, causing you to shiver.

“No,” you mumbled, burying yourself in his chest. He ended his attack and was content with having you rest on his chest. It was his “day off”- well as close to a day off as they get around here. You yawned, stretching out, your limbs popping back into place. He was tired, his eyes fluttering shut before he abruptly opened them again. “Sleep, Gazza,” you murmured, wrapping your arms around his middle.

“I have to get up soon,” he yawned, causing you to whine.

“Night training?” you mumbled. He nodded his head. The front door opened causing you to peek your head up from Kyle’s chest. In came Johnny, shirtless and dripping sweat. You gasped, eyes widening like saucers. “Kyle, your boyfriend is almost naked,” you whispered. Kyle leaned up with you, his cheek pressing against yours. You both stared at Johnny through the kitchen passthrough window, as he gulped down a large electrolyte drink.

“Wow,” you whispered in unison. Johnny's head snapped to where you two were lying and you both quickly shrunk back into the couch. You could feel your heart rate pick up as Johnny's footsteps got closer and closer and closer and……

A large, wet raspberry was blown against your cheek.

“Mac!” you shrieked, wiping his spit away. He chuckled, kissing the top of yours and Kyle's head before heading towards the bathroom. “Kyle, your boyfriend was flirting with me.” you poked.

“Can’t say I blame him, doll,” Kyle chuckled, getting the two of you comfortable on the couch again.

You could tell something was off the moment he walked in.

You already had a twisting gut feeling you knew what this was about.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he greeted. His large hand runs up and down your back. You leaned into him, your ear resting against the broad expansion of his chest.

“You're leaving aren't you?” you mumbled, your hand tangling itself in his shirt. John hummed in agreement, sitting in the stool next to you.

“Me and Johnny leave tomorrow. Then a few days later Simon and Kyle will have to head out too.”

“All of you?” you sputtered. You thought at the beginning they would take it slow. Not just leave you here by yourself. Especially after what happened last week.

“We should all wrap up fairly quickly, especially Simon and Kyle. Me and Johnny will be gone for at least two weeks, but when we come back we’ll get to go on leave. Think about where you want to go.”

It wasn't much consolation. You knew this was the agreement. You just wished you had more than a month to adjust. It had gone by so fast.

Hopefully, their being gone will go by just as fast.

Hello friends! Let me know how you feel about the way Simon and Omegas relationship is playing out so far. Or any other thoughts you have about the series. I love to hear what all of you think! See you in two days for chapter 16. 🧡

#novemberheart #captain john price #gaz x reader #ghost x reader #kyle gaz garrick #poly141 #price x reader #simon ghost riley #soap x reader #johnny soap mactavish #captain john price x reader #kyle gaz garrick x reader #johnny soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #cod a/b/o #a/b/o dynamics #as needed #cod x fem!reader #cod men

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islayhawkin · 10 months ago

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It's from her

Captain John price x fem!reader

Summary: The task force learns that john's beanie holds way more importance to him than it should

Warnings!: sad and vulnerable john, prob ooc, not edited

Leaving for a mission was always hard. He knew that you struggled immensly with it and while he never showed it, it took it's toll on him too.

To leave you behind. Knowing that you had a hard time because of him.

To have the mission ahead of him. The knowledge that he'd be away for weeks or even months on end. The contact to you was rare and it took a lot of effort for him to be able to have a phone call or receive a letter from you. He always worried. While he was the one fighting for his life, there was always a part of his mind that thought about how you were doing, if something happened, if you needed him...The constant uncertainty was driving him on edge sometimes.

And he missed you. Oh, how he missed you. He spent so many lonely nights in his tent or a safe house imagining you beside him while the snores of his comrades filled his ears.

John clung to the few things he had with him that were you. One of them being his hat.

It was one of the first things he got from you. You had knitted the beanie when you first moved in together. Every evening when you two had cuddled up on the couch, the TV playing, you had knitted. He had seen it develop and it was the most calming sound to him, whenever he heard your needles clicking softly against each other. Not until you finished the hat had he been aware that you made it for him.

"Here. I made this for you." You had smiled at him proudly as you handed over the dark-knitted beanie.

It was nothing special and with closer inspection, a few mistakes could be sighted but for john it meant the world. At first, he had struggled to even think of a response as he gripped the soft fabric in his rough hands.

"I know you always like to have something on your head and I thought that would keep you warm when you're in a cold area..." you had muttered out your explanation.

"thank you." He had replied quietly. The love and astonishment had been evident in his expression.

There were times when he thought back to that moment and wished he had said more. That he would've been able to express what it meant to him. But you knew without him saying so. It was clear in his actions.

It was endearing how he still took it on every mission after all these years.

The 141 started to notice it's importance to him when he couldn't find it at base. His usual calm demeanor was slightly irritable and underlined by the strong walk as he barged into the common room as if he were on a mission to save the queen.

"Does any of you shitheads have my hat?" His deep voice made the whole room go quiet.

Soap and ghost exchanged glances. "Got no reason to steal your hat captain." Ghost grumbled out.

John clenched and unclenched his fists multiple times. The muscle in his jaw tightened. "You'll have no problem then if I check your rooms lieutenant." There were some unspoken words between them as two pairs of hard eyes met each other.

"No problem." Ghost replied.

Price took a look around the room before giving them a nod and leaving for their private quarters.

"What's wrong with him?" Gaz leaned over the table to his comrades.

"No bloody idea. Probably got his period." Ghost grumbled.

Price rummaged through room after room methodically. The drawers and cabinets were thrown open and closed softly after close inspection. He muttered a few annoyed curses when he arrived at soap's room: the drawers were already opened but his clothes were probably more scattered over the floor room than in his closet. Room inspections were obviously in dire need of attention.

When he made it to Gaz's room the hat was the first thing his eyes spotted as he opened the door. There it was. slightly frizzy and worn at the edges but still looking soft the way it always did. Except that it didn't lay at its usual spot in his neatly organized closet.

"Can't keep their bloody hands to their own stuff." John grumbled.

The tension fell from his body as he picked the beanie up and took it back to his room. He laid it back to the dedicated spot with a scarf next to it. His eyes observed how it seemed to lay so innocently in front of him. A tired sigh escaped his lips before he pushed himself into an upright position and locked the door to his room for good measure.

In the next moment he dragged gaz out of his chair pressed him against the wall. Johns hand clasped the collar of gazs uniform. While gaz grunted from the impact of his captains weight against him, his face stayed nonchalant. If you knew him better you'd seen the small sliver of nervousness in his eyes.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing with my stuff?" Price gritted out.

"I didn't take anything from you sir." Gaz shot back almost angrily at the accusation.

"You think that's funny huh?" John sneered. It was unusual for the captain to throw angry words at his team. He was always the composed one; giving them a sense of confidence and security in the battlefield.

"No sir."

"Hmhm. I found something in your quarters. My goddamn hat on top of your closet."

Gaz frowned. "Captain I didn't- sir I don't know anything about that."

Price grunted in frustration before ghost stepped to them and slightly pulled the captain back. "Take it easy cap."

John let himself fall back before pointing a warning finger at the young sergeant. "Just keep your hands off of my things. Especially that hat. Got it?"

Gaz gave him a nod but he didn't back down from his position as innocent. The air was tense as everyone watched the ongoing confrontation.

Ghost gave his captain a look which held john back made him leave the room back to his own office (where he should've worked for the last hour). The lieutenant followed him out as if to escort him. "Why are ya followin' me simon?"

Ghost was about to protest about his name choice but decided there were more important matters at hand right now.

"I figured you'd want to tell me what's going on?" The deep voice came from behind the mask.

Price stopped in his tracks and crossed his arms while shifting his weight onto his toes. "What?"

While price was a tall and muscular man he had no chance against the build of ghost as he towered opposite of him.

"You're going wild over a damn hat for no reason." His tone sounded almost bored.

"It's not just a bloody hat!" John's jaw clicked.

Ghost scoffed. "Then what is this about?"

"With all due respect lieutenant, you wouldn't understand."

That was it. It was never brought up again until a few months later on a mission at the Russian border.

A small safe house offered them shelter before they took off for the next day.

The night was a troubled one. Everyone was anxious and tired, which was a dangerous mix of feelings in a group of men. But they were trained for this. Keeping one eye and ear open constantly; without pause. This was the requirement to survival.

John took the night shift after Ghost woke him up out of a rather unpleasant dream. Everything was quiet except for a few night animals chirping in the forest surrounding them. The sun already brought a bit of light through the windows.

He sat down against a pillar and rubbed his exhausted eyes with his calloused palms. A defeated sigh escaped his lips as he took the gun into his hand and let his head lull back against the wood.

The last few months had been rough. The 141 was on this mission since almost two months now and it felt like they didn't get any closer to their target. For john it meant two months without you. No call, no letter, nothing. For all he knew you could be laying in bed with another guy right now. He couldn't blame you. No, what was he thinking. That was a riddiculous thought. He grunted quietly as he rubbed a hand over his beard. John definately needed sleep.

His beard and hair had grown out over the time, which made him think of the way you'd sit him on the toilet lid and step between his legs to shave his beard for him. You never realised how that position made it quite impossible for him to relax under your intense stare. He smiled at the memory and simultaneously hope that he'd be able to be in that position soon again.

The nightmare had made him unpleasantly agitated and worried. John just hoped, prayed and begged Laswell to make sure that you were okay.

A few hours later the sun started to rise above the horizon, which brought john his clue to wake everyone up and get going for the day ahead. When everybody was checked and price paced slowly in front of the group to explain the plan his voice got stuck in his throat. He had been telling them that they would be making their way into the snowy area as your voice made it's way into his thoughts.

'to keep you warm in colder regions.' you had said with that sweet smile when you gave him his hat.

The hat.

He didn't have his beanie on. It got soaked through yesterday and he took it off to dry. But they had checked the whole safehouse already, ready for departure.

"My hat. Has anyone seen it?" he questioned the group of men standing before him. They looked stunned at his sudden change of topic.

When they didn't answer he started walking up the stairs. Frantically going through the rooms again. Soap went with a nod to the others after him. "Capt'n. We're ready for departure. None of us saw yer hat."

John shook his head. "Not without it." He searched the drawers in the room even though he knew it couldn't be there. His expression was stoic and unreadable but there were emotions behind those blue eyes.

They gave him a few minutes but when he didn't make a move to get on with it ghost shouted up the stairs. "Cap we have a schedule remember?" It sounded slightly irritated coming from behind the mask.

"I said I'm not going without it!" John thundered back.

He couldn't leave without it. It felt like leaving you behind. It was irrational and stupid and the hat was going to cost him his goddamn life someday but... he needed it. That feeling couldn't be explained with rationality or tactic. you would have described it as love. But john would rather name it desperation.

"It's just a bloody hat. We need to get going." Ghost came up beside him.

"It's not. It's from her." John pulled his lips in a thin line as he exhaled through his nose sharply. The room went quiet for a moment at his admission.

Ghosts expression stayed emotionless as he crossed his bulky arms over his chest.

"Yer bonnie wife?" soap asked for clarification.

John nodded sharply and but turned away quickly from the pair when soap raised a brow.

"Honestly dinna know yer were married to her until a few weeks back. I'm sure ye'll survive a week without the hat and see yer lass soon hm?"

Ghost grunted in frustration. "Seriously? That's been the reason for this bloody hat."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand. When you're married we can have this conversation." John shot back at his lieutenant. His voice thick with accent and a deep grumbling from the throat.

Soap got between them before Ghost had the chance to respond. "So we ready to go then? Captain?"

John pursed his lips and it pained him to go through with it but he shut off his emotions like he so often did and gave them a stern nod. He started to talk about their upcoming task again as he took the lead once more.

When he got home to you a week later he couldn't hold back a few tears in his eyes when you presented him a new, more colourful beanie, that you made when he was gone. And to his delight you ushered him into the bathroom to shave him first thing in the morning.

The task force never dared to touch his hat again.

#captain john price #john price #call of duty #john price cod #fanfic #x reader #female reader #fluff #cute #Husband! Price #hurt/comfort #tf 141 #cod headcanons #task force 141 #wife!reader #angst #light angst #one shot

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briefinquiries · 1 month ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 24

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 24

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: Luca Changretta makes his move, crossing a line by targeting the youngest Shelby. In a calculated ambush, the Shelby's are forced into a desperate fight, rattling the foundation of their trust and control.

Word count: 8.8k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language

A/N: I've been so awful at updating, SORRY and thank you all for being patient. maine might lowkey get a snow day tomorrow (rip, but also fingers crossed??), so if we do i might be able to write another chapter :)

It had been quiet for days.

The kind of stillness that felt like the whole city was holding its breath. Like something just out of sight was winding itself tighter with every tick of the clock.

The streets were too calm. Even the usual hum of conversation in the betting shops felt subdued, like people were speaking just low enough not to draw attention from whatever shadows lingered nearby. Doors stayed locked a little longer. Eyes lingered a little too long on unfamiliar faces.

Tommy said Luca must be dealing with something in New York. He’d heard rumors, whispers of unrest, tension between families, something about one of Luca’s allies gone missing. A temporary distraction. A wedge in the machine. Whatever the cause, the pressure that had been choking Birmingham like smoke seemed to ease—just slightly.

Polly had gone back to her own house for the first time in a week, insisting she needed real tea and a proper bath or she’d start cursing at people. Finn had started hovering near the older boys again, hopeful and quiet, desperate to be given something—anything—to do. Arthur spent most of the day in the betting shop, sorting the books with a half-smile and a cigarette hanging from his mouth. And John… John cracked a joke at breakfast. A real one. About Arthur’s new haircut, which had earned him a half-hearted shove and a round of laughter that didn’t feel forced for once.

Even Tommy had let himself sit for five whole minutes that morning with a cup of tea he didn’t drink.

Things were almost starting to feel normal again.

You found him standing by the front window after breakfast, one hand braced against the sill, the other holding a nearly finished cigarette. The smoke curled lazily in the still air, ignored. His eyes were fixed on the street outside, watching the same corner he always did, like he was waiting for something to move, for someone to step out of place. He didn’t blink much. Didn’t shift. Just stood there, tense and silent, like he was trying to piece together a threat he couldn’t quite see yet.

You hesitated before speaking. “Harry said he’s short a hand today. Thought I’d go help at the Garrison. Just a few hours.”

Tommy turned then, his eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

You raised an eyebrow, folding your arms. “It’s been days since anything’s happened, Tommy.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s when people get stupid.”

“I won’t be stupid,” you said calmly. “I’ll be behind the bar, not out wandering the streets. And you’re going to be there anyway, aren’t you? You said you, John, and Arthur were meeting with someone.”

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched, muscles shifting as he stared past you, thinking it through. You could tell he didn’t like the idea of you out in the open, even somewhere familiar. His arms stayed crossed, fingers tapping once against his sleeve, a small habit when he was biting something back.

Eventually, he let out a short breath through his nose and nodded once, sharp and reluctant. “Fine. But you stay inside. Don’t step out for anything. And if something feels wrong—even a little—you tell Harry and he’ll get me straight away. Got it?”

You stepped closer and reached out, resting your hand against the front of his shirt. The fabric was still warm from the morning sun, and you could feel the tension underneath it.

He caught your wrist gently. His eyes locked onto yours, steady and serious and searching yours.

“I mean it,” he said.

You nodded, swallowing. “I know.”

He held your gaze for a moment longer, then dropped his hand. “I’ll be down in the back room by three. Stay where I can find you.”

You headed out for the Garrison just before one. The walk through Small Heath was familiar—same cracked pavement, same rows of soot-streaked brick. You kept your coat buttoned to the collar and your gloves tucked deep in your pockets. The sky was gray, but it wasn’t raining, and the streets were quiet. For once, no one seemed to be staring too long, and no shadows felt like they were trailing behind you.

You kept your pace up, not quite rushing, but not strolling either. The past few weeks had made watching corners, checking over your shoulder, and listening for footsteps that didn’t belong a habit. Even when things seemed quiet, you didn’t let your guard down.

By the time you reached the Garrison, it was already filling up. A few regulars were parked at their usual tables, nursing pints and muttering over the paper. A couple of men from the factory had wandered in early, their work shirts still dusted with coal. The air inside was warm, the floor scuffed, the hum of voices steady but low.

Harry greeted you with a grateful nod as you stepped behind the bar.

“You’re a blessing,” he muttered, already elbow-deep in washing glasses. “Don’t know how the hell I was going to manage the afternoon rush.”

You smiled faintly. “I missed it here.”

You slipped into the rhythm easily—drying glasses, topping off pints, wiping down counters. The kind of work that let your mind drift while your hands kept moving. Tommy, John, and Arthur arrived not long after and disappeared into the side room with two men in sharp suits and quiet voices.

Tommy’s eyes found you first.

He gave a small nod as he passed, but he didn’t keep walking right away. He paused at the bar, rested one hand lightly against the edge, and leaned in just enough for his voice to be heard over the quiet hum of the pub.

“All quiet?”

You gave a faint smile, nodding. “So far.”

He studied you for a moment. Then, with the corner of his mouth twitching in something close to a smile, he reached out and gently touched the side of your waist, his fingers brushing the fabric of your dress like he needed to feel you there.

“Won’t be long,” he murmured.

You leaned into the touch, just slightly. “I’ll be here.”

Arthur made a sound behind him, half impatient grunt, half teasing, and John muttered something under his breath about lovebirds.

Tommy cast them both a look, but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he gave you one last glance before disappearing through the side room door with the others. It clicked shut behind them.

You could still hear their muffled conversation through the wall, low tones, nothing distinct. But it was enough to make the space feel protected, for just a little while. Everyone was exactly where they were supposed to be.

You stayed behind the bar, falling into the routine without needing to think much about it. Wiping down the counter. Drying glasses. Restacking the clean ones in neat rows. The usual sounds filled the space, glass hitting wood, stools creaking, quiet conversation in the background.

A few regulars were spread out at the tables, hunched over their pints. Most of them older men, talking low about football scores and council taxes. The radio behind the bar buzzed now and then, playing a scratchy jazz track that didn’t quite fit the room, but no one seemed to care enough to turn it off.

You finished drying a tumbler and placed it on the shelf with the rest, then bent down to grab the small ledger Harry used to track the afternoon’s orders. Nothing unusual. Just another slow, steady day.

You were drying off a short glass when the front door opened with a soft jingle.

You didn’t recognize the man who came in. He wasn’t dressed like a factory worker or one of the usual drinkers that passed through. His posture was straight, his steps steady, none of the tired slouch or fidgeting you were used to seeing in men coming off a shift. He looked put together. Plain coat, well-fitted. Clean shoes. No hat.

He didn’t glance around or take in the room. Just walked straight to the bar like he already knew where he was going and sat down at the far end, quiet and settled, like he had all the time in the world.

You blinked, the cloth stilling in your hand.

He didn’t meet your eye, or say a word. You watched him for a moment, cloth slack in your hand.

You cleared your throat lightly and stepped a little closer along the bar.

“Can I get you anything?”

Your voice came out steady, casual. But the man didn’t answer.

He didn’t even move.

You waited a beat, brows drawing together.

“Sir?”

Still nothing.

You adjusted your grip on the rag, not because the glass needed more cleaning, but because your hands needed something to do. You weren’t exactly nervous, but something about the way the man sat so still, not moving a muscle, made the air feel heavier. The space behind the bar suddenly felt narrower.

You glanced toward the back room. The door was still closed. You could hear the low murmur of Tommy’s voice through it, along with John and Arthur’s, nothing clear, just the muffled rhythm of conversation.

Everything’s fine, you told yourself.

Maybe he’s just tired. Or lost in thought. Or…

The phone rang, sharp and sudden.

You jumped a little, the sound cutting through the quiet and catching you off guard.

It rang again.

Then, without looking up, the man at the end of the bar finally spoke.

“You’re going to want to answer that.” His voice was low. Smooth. Devoid of urgency, but full of certainty.

You turned to look at him, unsettled by how calm he seemed. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

The phone rang again.

A slow, cold feeling crawled its way up the back of your neck. You reached for the receiver, hesitating just a second before lifting it to your ear.

“Hello?”

For a few long seconds, there was nothing but static on the other end. You almost thought it was a deadline, until you heard the heavy breathing. It was light and uneven. Not the breath of someone calm or collected. A little too fast. A little too shallow.

Then, “Hello?”

The voice was small, young, and strained. Your heart dropped. You knew that voice before your mind even caught up.

“Finn?”

A sharp, ragged inhale, he gasped your name. “They’ve got me—” he burst out. “They’ve got me—please—I didn’t know what to do—”

Your heart slammed into your ribs. “Where are you?” you asked, your voice already breaking. “Finn, where are you? Are you hurt?”

“I—I don’t know—” His words tangled over themselves, rushed and panicked. “I was just trying to help—I thought if I followed them, I could find out something—I heard John say they were going to meet someone and I—I thought maybe I could watch from across the street, just in case—”

Your stomach dropped.

“I didn’t tell anyone—I didn’t want to get in trouble—but they grabbed me. They pulled me into a car—I didn’t see their faces—I didn’t see anything—”

He was crying now, or close to it. You could hear the breath catching in his throat.

The words tumbled out, too fast, too choked. You could hear the terror in his voice, that wild edge right before someone starts to scream.

“They said I had to call,” he sobbed. “Said I had to—said if I didn’t—if I didn’t—God, I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I just wanted to help. I thought Tommy would be proud if I did something real. Please, I don’t want to die—”

Your knees nearly buckled. Your eyes flicked back to the far end of the bar. “It’s okay, Finn. You’re going to be okay. Just breathe— okay, love? Just breathe.”

The man at the bar had his hands folded neatly in front of him, unmoved from the moment he’d sat down. But now—his lips curled. Just slightly in an almost imperceptible smirk. Cold. Knowing. Cruel. Like he was enjoying the show.

Your blood ran ice-cold. But just as you opened your mouth, just as you realized what you were really in the middle of, the voice on the line changed. You heard a quiet shuffle, and then someone else took the phone.

“Put Tommy on the line,” the voice said. It was smooth and controlled.

You turned toward the end of the bar—but the stool was empty. Suddenly, the man was gone.

You nearly dropped the receiver. Your voice cracked as you shouted over your shoulder. “Harry!”

Footsteps from the back. Then Harry appeared in the hall, startled, wide-eyed.

“Get Tommy,” you said, breathless. “Now.”

Something in your face must’ve told him everything, because Harry didn’t ask a single question—he just turned and sprinted down the hall.

You held the phone to your chest, pressing it tight like you could somehow stop the sound of Finn’s voice still echoing in your ears. Your breath came in short bursts, your chest tight, the ringing in your ears louder than anything in the room.

You didn’t even notice how badly your hands were shaking until the side room door flew open.

Tommy was first through it, followed closely by Arthur and John. All three of them looked alert, ready for a fight.

Tommy spotted you and stopped in his tracks. His eyes scanned your face, then the receiver clenched in your hand. He didn’t ask again. Didn’t need to.

He was across the room in three long strides, jaw tight, shoulders squared.

“What is it?” he said, his voice low and clipped, already bracing for the worst.

You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your throat locked up. So you did the only thing you could, and you held the phone out to him.

Tommy took the phone from your shaking hand, his eyes never leaving your face. His fingers brushed yours—steady, deliberate—but the way he gripped the receiver was firm, controlled. Like he was already bracing for what he was about to hear.

He raised it to his ear. No greeting. No hesitation. Just silence.

You stood frozen, watching him.

His jaw tightened almost immediately, the muscles along his cheek shifting. His eyes narrowed, focused on some fixed point across the room, but you could tell he wasn’t seeing it. His whole body went still, shoulders squared, chest rigid, as if he were holding himself back from moving, from reacting.

The room had gone quiet, like everyone else was holding their breath.

“Hello?” he said, flat and even, like he wasn’t going to give whoever was on the other end the satisfaction of hearing anything else.

Another pause.

Then his eyes sharpened.

You couldn’t hear what was being said, but you saw the way his expression changed. First the slight flare of his nostrils. Then his lips pressed into a thin line. His grip on the receiver didn’t move, but something in his stance stiffened, like a pressure valve locking into place.

John and Arthur exchanged a glance, but neither interrupted.

Tommy finally spoke again, quiet and low. “I’ll give you one chance to return him alive.”

Another silence. His eyes flicked down, then away, calculating something even as he listened.

“If he’s hurt, there’s nowhere you can go that I won’t find you.” His tone didn’t rise. He didn’t curse or shout.

You stepped closer without meaning to, your hands still trembling at your sides.

Tommy nodded once, barely perceptible.

Then, calmly, “Tell him if he touches Finn, I’ll put every man with his name in the ground. One by one.”

He listened a moment longer, then lowered the receiver and ended the call with a sharp click.

You didn’t say anything.

No one did at first.

The silence in the Garrison was thick—crackling.

Then it all shattered.

“What the fuck was that?” John barked, already moving toward you. “How the fuck did they get to Finn? Where was he? Who the hell—”

Arthur’s voice cut over his. “Where were the guards? He wasn’t supposed to be alone—he wasn’t alone—”

“Did he say where he was?”

“Did they hurt him?”

“Jesus Christ—how—”

The questions came too fast to answer, their words piling on top of each other, louder with each second. You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think clearly. It was all noise—panic, blame, disbelief—and none of it told you what you really needed to know.

Your ears were ringing. Your chest was too tight. You were still standing there, but you didn’t feel your body. All you could focus on was the memory of Finn’s voice, thin and terrified, still echoing in your skull.

You didn’t even notice the tears until you felt the heat on your cheeks.

Tommy reached for you without a word.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, not tight, just firm enough to bring you back to yourself. The noise in the room didn’t stop, but it dropped away somehow. You looked up, and he was already watching you, his eyes sharp but steady, locked onto yours like he was trying to pull you out of the spiral.

“Go home,” he said quietly, just to you. “Straight home. Have Harry or someone walk you.”

You shook your head, throat tightening. “Tommy—no.”

“Yes,” he said calmly.

“I can’t—please, I need to stay—I need to know. I have to help,” you whispered, voice starting to crack. “You don’t understand—Tommy, there was a man—he was sitting right there. I looked at him. I let it happen—”

“Hey.”

His voice cut through the noise—firm, steady, right in front of you.

He stepped in, closing the space between you, and brought his hands to your face. His palms were warm, thumbs brushing just under your eyes as he held your gaze. Then he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours.

The closeness made everything else fall away, the noise, the panic, the sick weight in your chest.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but clear.

Your eyes lifted to meet his.

“Breathe.”

You tried.

His thumbs brushed the tears from your cheeks.

“I need you to listen to me,” he said, voice low and rough. “I can’t help Finn unless I know you’re somewhere safe. Do you understand?”

You nodded, just barely.

Because if you tried to speak, you'd fall apart again.

Tommy’s hands lingered on your face for a moment longer, thumbs warm against your skin.

Then, gently, he pulled back. “Go home,” he said again, quieter now, but firmer.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“I’m going to ring Polly. She’ll meet you there.” He was already reaching into his coat pocket, pulling out his cigarette case with one hand, the other still hovering close like he didn’t trust you to stay upright.

You swallowed hard, your voice rasping when you finally spoke.

“How do you know where to find him?”

Tommy paused, just for a second. It wasn’t doubt you saw—he never doubted himself. But something flickered behind his eyes. Something darker.

“I recognized the voice,” he said. “The man on the phone. He used to work for Sabini. Now he works for Luca.”

You blinked. “And?”

Tommy’s jaw shifted. “I’ve had someone watching him for weeks. In case Luca ever used him.” He looked you straight in the eye. “He just did.”

A cold wave rolled through your chest.

Tommy exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, then reached for your coat from behind the bar and helped you into it with a tenderness.

“Go,” he said again, softer now. “I’ll be back when it’s done.”

You hesitated—but he gave you one last look, the kind that left no room for argument.

So you nodded.

…

As soon as the front door of the Garrison shut behind you, Tommy struck a match and lit a cigarette. His hands were steady. They had to be. There was no room for anything else.

Arthur was already throwing questions into the air, his voice sharp and too loud. John was pacing in tight circles, one arm shoved halfway into his coat, like he was ready to bolt out the door and take on half of Birmingham by himself.

Tommy didn’t look at either of them right away.

He took a slow drag, let the smoke sit in his chest, then exhaled hard through his nose. His mind was already turning, every moving part laid out in front of him like a puzzle with missing pieces. He didn’t need noise. He needed facts. He needed direction.

And right now, the shouting was just slowing him down.

Tommy’s voice cut clean through the noise.

“Quiet.”

They listened.

Tommy exhaled smoke through his nose, eyes locked on nothing and everything all at once.

“Frankie Rossi,” he said.

Arthur frowned. “Who?”

“He used to work for Sabini,” Tommy said. “Now he’s Luca’s. I recognized his voice on the phone.”

John stepped forward. “How the fuck do you know that?”

“Because I’ve been watching him for three weeks,” Tommy said, turning toward them. “Johnny Dogs has had a man on him since Luca first landed in England.”

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and grabbed his coat. “They’re at a house on the edge of Small Heath. Old warehouse front, backs onto the canal. Used to move cargo through there before the war.”

Arthur was already grabbing his gun from behind the bar. “You think they’re keeping Finn there?”

“I don’t think,” Tommy said. “I know.”

The plan was already forming before Tommy even finished speaking.

He moved quickly, heading down to the cellar beneath the Garrison, where the air was cold and close and smelled faintly of dust and whiskey. He pulled back the shelf like he had a hundred times before and opened the lockbox behind it.

Two pistols. A sawed-off shotgun. Boxes of ammunition, neatly packed. The tools of survival. Of retaliation. Of this life.

He handed the shotgun to Arthur without a word. Arthur took it without flinching, like it was an extension of his own hand.

Tommy paused for half a second, his eyes scanning the rest of the weapons before settling on one of the pistols. He checked the chamber. Loaded it. Moved on.

But somewhere in the back of his mind, something tugged at him.

How many more times are we going to do this?

How many more enemies? How many more backroom raids, ambushes, retaliation plots? It had been years of this—years of protecting, losing, rebuilding, and starting the cycle all over again. Every time he thought it was done, another threat came crawling out of the dark.

And now it was Finn.

Finn—who should’ve been in school, not in the crosshairs of men like Luca Changretta.

And you, caught in the middle of it all, tied to him in ways he couldn’t undo.

He was so fucking tired of watching the people he loved pay the price for the life he built.

For a second, he let himself picture it. Something else, something quiet. A house far from Birmingham. No enemies. No weapons. Just you. Maybe even a family, if you wanted that. A place where no one had to look over their shoulder.

But the thought didn’t last long. Because this was his life. And right now, Finn needed him.

He tucked the pistol into his coat and shut the case.

“Johnny Dogs is already posted across the canal,” Tommy said. “He’s been watching comings and goings since last night. Finn’s still alive.”

“How do you know that?” Arthur asked.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “This isn’t about killing Finn. Not yet. It’s about leverage.”

Arthur scoffed. “Fucking bastards are using him like bait.”

Tommy nodded once. “That’s exactly what they’re doing. They want me to come to them. And I am, which means he’s alive.”

John strapped on his shoulder holster, jaw clenched. “And if he’s not?”

Tommy pulled his coat tighter, reaching into the inner pocket to check the pistol again.

“Then we kill every fucking man inside,” he said simply.

No more questions.

They slipped out through the Garrison’s back entrance, coats pulled tight against the wind. A dark blue car waited across the street, one of the newer ones, quiet and unmarked. Curly was already behind the wheel, engine running low.

He didn’t say a word when they climbed in. Just tipped his cap, eyes straight ahead, and hit the gas as soon as the doors shut.

The drive was quick, no one talking. No one needed to.

The warehouse came into view just off the canal road—weather-beaten and quiet. The windows were boarded, the metal siding streaked with rust. Piles of rotting crates sat near the loading dock, half-collapsed, as if no one had touched them in years.

It looked empty. Abandoned.

But Tommy leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing.

In one of the upper windows, tucked behind a broken slat of wood, he caught the faint glow of a cigarette ember. Brief. Flickering. Then gone.

“They’re watching,” he muttered.

Curly killed the engine a block away.

“Park up two streets over,” he told Curly. “Wait there. If you hear gunfire, bring the car ‘round. Fast.”

Curly gave a tight nod. “Right.”

The moment the car slowed, Tommy was out first, moving quickly across the street with Arthur and John close behind. They stuck to the edge of the buildings, boots scraping low over the cobblestone, ducking beneath windows and slipping into the alley that curved behind the warehouse.

Everything smelled like rust and wet wood.

They went the rest of the way on foot, cutting through the alley, boots silent over gravel and brick, hearts pounding in time with the threat.

Tommy stopped at the corner of the building and scanned the loading dock, eyes catching on a narrow side entrance, half-blocked by a stack of crates, but unlocked if you knew how to move right.

He turned to Arthur and John, voice low.

“Johnny Dogs says three inside. Two near the front, one pacing. Finn’s in a back room—tied up, probably watched.”

Arthur’s face was tight, his hands already flexing around the grip of the shotgun.

Tommy went on. “John, you take the rear. Go quiet. If they hear you, they’ll use him.”

John nodded, jaw set.

Tommy turned to Arthur. “You’re with me. Side door.”

He looked at them both—calm, controlled, but cold beneath it.

“We get in. We get Finn. If they point a gun, you shoot. No warning.”

They nodded.

Tommy turned back toward the warehouse before moving. The side door creaked open with a groan, the kind of sound that made every muscle tighten.

Tommy went in first, gun drawn low, Arthur right behind him. The air inside was cold and stale, the sharp tang of oil and old metal cutting through the dust. Their boots moved over concrete scattered with debris—empty crates, glass shards, scraps of rope.

It was too quiet. No shouting. No footsteps. Not even breathing.

Tommy swept the first room with the barrel of his gun. Empty.

They moved forward, careful, step by step, through a narrow corridor that led toward the back of the building. A door at the end hung slightly ajar. A faint light spilled through the crack—just enough to show movement.

Arthur raised the shotgun slightly, finger brushing the trigger.

Tommy glanced back and gave a single nod.

He pushed the door open.

Once they were inside, his eyes instantly landed on Finn. He was tied to a chair, wrists bound in front of him, mouth gagged. His eyes were wide and glassy with fear, blinking rapidly when he saw them. He made a sound—choked, desperate.

Tommy was already moving.

“Clear the room,” he snapped, voice tight.

Arthur swept the far side as Tommy crossed to Finn and dropped to one knee. He cut the ropes with a quick flick of his blade.

“You’re alright,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you.”

But the moment the ropes fell and Tommy pulled the gag free—

Gunfire erupted.

The warehouse windows shattered as bullets tore through the wall, ripping into the crates stacked nearby.

“Down!” Tommy yelled, grabbing Finn and shielding him with his own body.

Arthur fired blindly toward the upper floor, cursing, the shotgun blasts echoing through the rafters—but there was no clear target. Just shadows moving too fast, boots scrambling over steel beams above them.

“They’re up high!” Arthur shouted. “Can’t get a shot!”

“Cover us!” Tommy barked, his voice raw with urgency.

He crouched low, arm around Finn, trying to move—but more gunfire cracked through the air, forcing them back behind a stack of crates.

Then, another door slammed open across the room.

“This way!” John’s voice rang out. He burst through the far side of the warehouse, eyes wide, gun raised. “Come on—back entrance’s clear!”

Tommy didn’t hesitate.

He yanked Finn to his feet and threw an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close as they bolted toward John.

Gunfire followed them.

Tommy felt a sudden burn slice across his upper arm—sharp, hot, fast. A bullet had grazed him, tearing through his coat and skin. But he didn’t stop.

“Keep going!” he growled at Finn, forcing himself to keep pace, arm still tight around the boy.

Arthur laid down cover behind them, shotgun echoing through the rafters.

Tommy shoved Finn through the door first, John grabbing him and pulling him clear. Tommy followed a second later, nearly stumbling from the pain in his arm. Arthur barreled through right behind them, breathing hard, shotgun still in hand. He spun to slam the door shut, eyes scanning the alley behind them.

“Fucking trap,” he growled, jamming a rusted metal rod through the handles to seal it. “They wanted us boxed in.”

Tommy turned to Finn, ready to tell him to keep moving, but the look on John’s face stopped him cold.

“Tommy—” John’s voice was sharp, panicked.

Tommy’s eyes dropped.

Blood. Seeping fast through Finn’s shirt, soaking the boy’s side. His knees buckled as the adrenaline started to crash, and John barely caught him in time.

“I’m fine—” Finn mumbled, swaying, trying to stay upright.

“Christ,” Tommy snapped, stepping in and grabbing him before he could fall. He pressed a hand to the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. His own arm throbbed from where the bullet had grazed him, but it didn’t matter. Not right now.

“Help me get him out,” he barked. “Now.”

John adjusted Finn’s arm over his shoulder. Together, they half-dragged, half-carried him down the alley, boots pounding against wet pavement.

Arthur ran ahead. “Car’s waiting!”

Tommy’s jaw was clenched tight, blood smeared across his palm, the boy’s weight dragging heavily between them. Finn was still conscious, but barely—his head lolled, breath shallow, eyes fluttering open and closed.

“Stay with us, Finn,” Tommy muttered, more command than comfort.

“I’m—I’m okay,” Finn tried, but his voice was faint, the words slurred.

“‘Atta boy,” Tommy said. “Just hold on.”

They rounded the corner, and the car came into view, engine running, headlights cutting through the mist. Curly had the back door already open, face pale as he took one look at Finn and swore under his breath.

“Get in!” Arthur barked.

Tommy and John eased Finn into the backseat, careful but fast. Tommy climbed in beside him, pressing down hard on the wound with his sleeve as Finn groaned in pain. Blood was everywhere—on the seat, on Tommy’s hands, on Finn’s shirt already clinging to his skin.

Arthur slammed the door and jumped into the front. “Drive, Curly. Now.”

The car peeled off before the doors were even fully shut.

Tommy leaned over Finn, voice low and steady. “You’re alright. We’ve got you. Just keep your eyes open.”

Finn nodded weakly, but his eyelids were already drooping again.

Tommy looked up at John across from him. “How far to the house?”

“Ten minutes if Curly doesn’t slow down.”

Tommy pressed harder against the wound, ignoring the searing pain in his own arm.

Finn’s head lolled to the side, a low groan leaving his throat.

“Finn!” Tommy said loudly. He glanced down. “Stay with us, Finn.”

But Finn’s breathing was changing—getting faster, more uneven.

And then, he let out a sudden cry. “It hurts!” His voice was hoarse and high with panic.

He jerked beneath Tommy’s hands, trying to twist away. His legs kicked out, heel slamming into the floorboard.

“Don’t touch it! Don’t—don’t—”

“Jesus—” John lunged forward, grabbing Finn’s shoulders as he thrashed. “Finn, calm down! It’s alright!”

But it wasn’t.

The adrenaline that had kept him upright was burning out fast, and now the pain was rushing in, full force. Finn’s body bucked again, arms flailing, knocking into Tommy’s injured arm hard enough to make him grunt.

“Hold him,” Tommy snapped, jaw clenched.

Arthur turned from the front, alarmed. “Christ, what’s happening?!”

Tommy pinned Finn’s torso with one arm and pressed the other down over the wound, even as the boy screamed.

“Stop—! It hurts, Tommy—please!”

Every word was like a blade to the gut. But he didn’t let go.

“You want to live?” Tommy growled, even as his voice cracked at the edges. “Stay fucking still! You hear me?”

Finn sobbed, shaking, but the fight started to drain from him, muscles twitching under Tommy’s grip.

Tommy didn’t loosen his hold. Didn’t let himself soften. Not now. Because if he did, he’d lose the edge—and that could get Finn killed.

So he kept his head down, eyes locked on the blood, and waited for the next corner to bring them home.

The car screeched around the final corner, tires skidding on the wet cobblestone. The house came into view—dim porch light flickering, front steps slick with rain.

Tommy didn’t wait for the car to fully stop.

He threw the door open and climbed out, blood already cold on his hands and sleeves. His coat was soaked through—some of it Finn’s, some of it his own—but he barely felt it.

“John— Get his legs.”

John moved fast, grim-faced, lifting Finn as Tommy took him under the arms. The boy was limp now, head lolling back, face pale and streaked with sweat. His shirt was soaked in blood, clinging to his chest like it had been painted on.

“Easy,” Tommy muttered, more to himself than anyone else. “Don’t drop him.”

The front door flew open. Polly stepped out first, already rolling up her sleeves, but her usual composure was shaken. Her eyes locked on Finn, and for just a second, her breath caught. “Christ,” she muttered under her breath, already moving forward.

Then you appeared behind her, barefoot, hair still damp from the bath, one hand braced against the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing.

Your eyes landed on Finn.

Tommy saw the moment the terror hit you. You straightened, voice tight but clear. “Bring him inside. Set him on the kitchen table.”

Polly turned on her heel. “I’ll get towels. Scissors. Whiskey.”

“Boil some hot water,” you added. “And bring anything clean—we’re going to need pressure on that wound until I can see it properly.”

John pushed past you to open the door wider, and Tommy followed, Finn sagging between them. His body felt smaller than it had just minutes ago—light and fragile and far too quiet.

They laid Finn out on the kitchen table, his body slack, blood soaking through the towel Tommy had pressed to his side.

Polly was already moving—dropping a pile of clean rags, bottles, and scissors onto the counter with a loud clatter, hands working fast. You had your sleeves pushed up now, eyes scanning the boy’s body like a battlefield, checking for exit wounds, for signs of shock, for how much time you had.

Tommy stood back, silent, his hands still covered in blood.

He felt it cooling now, sticky between his fingers, seeping into his cuffs.

“Pulse is weak,” you said, mostly to yourself, voice sharp and clear despite the paleness in your face.

“Where is it?” Polly asked, already soaking a cloth in the boiled water.

“Lower left side,” you replied. “Looks like it might have nicked something.”

The chair scraped loudly as Polly pulled it closer, dropping to her knees beside the table to cut Finn’s shirt away. You took a fresh towel, pressed down hard on the wound, and Finn flinched—still barely conscious, but the pain was enough to pull a groan from his throat.

“I know, I know. Sorry, sweetheart,” you whispered, your hand steady even as your voice cracked.

Tommy leaned against the doorframe, watching. Too still. Too quiet. His hands were stained with Finn’s blood, dried now along the cracks in his skin, soaked into the sleeves of his coat. It clung to him like the weight of every bad choice he’d ever made.

He should’ve done more. Should’ve seen the setup for what it was. Should’ve anticipated the ambush. He’d known Luca was clever—calculated. And still, he’d walked right into it. Dragged John and Arthur in with him. Dragged Finn.

He was supposed to protect his family.

And he was failing. Again.

Your eyes lifted suddenly, catching his, just for a second.

It wasn’t anger in your face. Not even shock anymore. It was fear. The real kind. The kind that stayed in your bones long after the bleeding stopped. And somehow, that look hit harder than the bullet had. Because you were supposed to be safe, too.

And standing there, helpless, Tommy realized what scared him most wasn’t that he’d nearly lost Finn. It was knowing this wouldn’t be the last time. Not as long as he was in charge. Not as long as they lived in his world.

Suddenly, Polly brushed past Tommy, coming back in the room with an armful of bandages and bottles, her shoulder bumping his as she moved toward the table.

He flinched, barely, but it was enough.

You’d been focused on Finn, hands soaked and steady, but at that, your head snapped up. “Are you hit?”

Your eyes scanned him, zeroing in on the tear in his coat sleeve. Dark blood was seeping through the fabric around his upper arm. It wasn’t gushing, but it hadn’t stopped either.

“Tommy.”

He tried to brush it off. “It barely touched me.”

You didn’t move. “Take off the coat,” you said, voice sharper now. “Now.”

He hesitated, eyes flicking to Finn still unconscious on the table, attention now fixated on him.

“It’s just a graze,” he muttered, jaw tight. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” you snapped. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve bled before,” he said flatly. “Plenty of times. Focus on Finn.”

You stepped in front of him, towel and whiskey in hand. “That’s not the point.”

He met your eyes, and for a moment, there was something almost defensive there. “You think I can’t handle a scratch?”

“Christ, you’re not invincible!” you snapped, your voice rising louder than you intended.

He stared at you, caught off guard, the anger in your voice slicing clean through the fog of blood and pain and guilt.

He finally gave in with a muttered curse, pulling his coat off one arm with a wince. The shirt beneath was soaked through, the fabric torn where the bullet had grazed the muscle.

You grabbed a clean towel from the stack and moved around the table toward him.

“Sit,” you said firmly.

“I’ll stand.”

“You’ll sit,” you repeated, already reaching for the bottle of whiskey Polly had left on the counter. “Why do you have to make everything so damn difficult?”

He didn’t move. Just stared back at you, jaw set, like sitting down would somehow make it real—make him look weak, or worse, make him feel it.

You stared at him, chest tight, rage and worry caught somewhere between your ribs. His arm was bleeding. His shirt clung to the wound. He was in pain, but still too proud to stop moving, too locked into that damn Shelby armor to admit it.

“Fine. Fucking forget it, then. I’m done.” You let out a frustrated sigh, turning your back to him.You shoved the supplies into Polly’s hands, and stepped back. “Here, you do it.”

Polly didn’t ask questions. Just took the cloth and whiskey, already stepping in.

And you returned to Finn, where your help was actually wanted.

Tommy stayed standing for a beat longer, watching you from across the room.

Your back was to him now, hands moving with purpose as you leaned over Finn, murmuring something low and steady.

Polly moved around him without a word, inspecting the wound. But Tommy wasn’t paying attention anymore.

And he couldn’t even blame you.

He looked down at the towel in Polly’s hands, at the blood on his sleeve. He didn’t want you to see him like this—tired, bleeding, worn down. He didn’t want you to look at him and see someone breakable and vulnerable.

Because if you stopped seeing him as the one who kept everyone safe, then maybe that meant he really wasn’t. Maybe tonight had proven it.

Polly pressed a cloth to his arm, muttering something about stitches, but Tommy barely heard her.

His eyes were still on you. You were kneeling beside Finn, one hand steady on the boy’s shoulder, the other dabbing gently at the wound with a clean cloth. Your sleeves were rolled up, stained with blood. The set of your jaw was tight, your movements practiced—but your face told a different story.

There was pain there. Not the kind that showed up in screams or gasps, but the quieter kind. The kind that settled behind the eyes. That kind of sorrow that came from watching someone small and innocent hurt—again.

Your brow creased, and for a moment, you pressed your lips together like you were trying not to shake. Not to cry.

And you wouldn’t look at him.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

But he didn’t. He just watched you, silently, as Polly dabbed at the bullet graze on his arm. The sting barely registered.

Because all he could think about was how close you were—how your hands moved with care, how your face held everything you weren’t saying—and how far away you felt.

The tension in the kitchen was thick, broken only by the low crackle of the fire and the rustle of fabric as you worked.

Tommy didn’t look away from you, but it was Arthur who finally spoke.

“Is he—?” His voice was gruff, uncertain. “Is he gonna be alright?”

John hovered behind him, pale and restless, arms folded tight across his chest.

You didn’t look up. You were too focused, one hand applying pressure to Finn’s side, the other shifting his shirt back to expose the wound more fully.

“I don’t know yet,” you said, voice low but firm. “It’s still bleeding more than it should.”

Polly looked up from where she was finishing Tommy’s bandage.

“There’s no exit wound,” you said, shaking your head.

John swore under his breath.

Polly stood then, wiping her hands, her face pale but composed. “What do you need?”

“Boiling water, the sharpest needle you’ve got, and strong thread. And someone to hold him down if he wakes up.”

Arthur moved without being asked, already heading toward the stove. John didn’t move. He just stared at Finn like he was willing him to start breathing normally again.

You were already reaching for the cloth again, pressing it gently to Finn’s side to slow the bleeding while you worked.

Tommy watched from the chair, his arm bandaged, but his entire body rigid. He’d stopped feeling his own pain a while ago.

You cleaned around the wound as gently as you could, your hands moving with methodical focus. The cloth came away soaked again, darker now. The bleeding hadn’t slowed.

You’d stitched worse in the war. You’d stopped worse bleeds, clamped worse wounds—but not in a kitchen, not with a boy this young, not with this many eyes watching every move you made like it was life or death.

You pierced the skin with the needle once, then twice, working quickly, but every time you pressed, Finn’s breathing hitched again—high and sharp, like he couldn’t quite pull enough air in.

Then you saw it.

The rise and fall of his chest had gone uneven again. Too shallow. Too quiet.

Your hands paused.

“Something’s wrong,” you said quietly.

Polly stepped closer. “What is it?”

You looked up—face pale now, voice thin. “I think the lung’s collapsed.”

That silenced the room.

You glanced back down at Finn. His chest was barely moving now, breath shallow and sharp, each one sounding more strained than the last. His lips were starting to lose color. No matter how much pressure you applied or how steady your hands stayed, it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this here,” you said. “Not without a proper chest tube. Not without—everything. I can’t—” Your voice cracked. “I don’t think I can fix him.”

Your hands hovered over Finn’s chest like you didn’t know what to do with them anymore. The cloth was soaked through again. You pressed down, but your fingers were starting to shake.

“I don’t know how to help him,” you whispered, more to yourself than anyone else.

The silence that followed felt heavy, like the whole room had stopped breathing too.

Then Tommy stepped forward. “Then we take him to the hospital,” he said, voice low but solid.

You looked up at him, eyes wide, on the edge of unraveling.

Arthur was already grabbing his coat and heading towards Finn without waiting for permission. John moved toward the front door.

Polly gently touched your back. “Go with him.”

Still frozen in place, you nodded once.

Tommy helped Arthur shift Finn’s weight carefully, lifting him with practiced coordination—one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. Finn didn’t stir. His head lolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, lips parted, breaths faint and uneven.

Tommy’s sleeves were streaked with blood again, soaking into the fresh bandage on his own arm. He didn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

You looked over at him briefly as you grabbed the last of the cloths and followed him toward the door.

“I’m sorry,” you breathed, voice cracking.

Tommy didn’t stop walking. But he glanced down at Finn, then over at you—just once. There was a flicker of something in his eyes. Something that almost looked like it might become a reply.

But he didn’t say anything.

His jaw tightened, gaze shifting forward again as he adjusted his grip on Finn.

And then Polly’s voice came, quiet but firm behind you.

“You’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said.

You turned slightly, caught off guard by the weight in her voice. She was standing in the hallway now, hands stained with blood, shoulders squared.

“You’ve saved this family more times than I can count,” she said. “Tonight included.”

You stared at her, throat tightening again.

Polly didn’t flinch under your gaze. She meant every word—stood there like the house itself wouldn’t be standing without you. Like she knew what you’d done, and needed you to know it too.

But still… you nodded once. A small, uncertain gesture. Not quite believing it. Not tonight.

Then you turned.

Tommy was already at the door, Arthur just ahead of him, holding it open as the night air swept in cold and sharp.

You followed them out into the dark, the weight of Polly’s words still hanging in the hallway behind you.

John had the car waiting at the curb, engine running, headlights spilling light across the cobblestones. He jumped out the moment he saw you, flinging open the rear door as Tommy and Arthur carefully maneuvered Finn toward it.

They worked in sync—Arthur easing Finn into the backseat, Tommy supporting his head and shoulders, settling him gently across the bench. Finn was barely responsive now, his breathing shallow and rattling, one hand twitching weakly as they adjusted him.

“I’m going in the back with him,” Arthur said, climbing in beside Finn without waiting for an answer.

Tommy followed, slipping in next to Arthur, one arm braced behind Finn to keep him upright.

John looked over at you. “Come on then.”

You slid into the front passenger seat, pulling the door shut just as the tires rolled forward. No one spoke at first.

The city passed by in a blur, wet streets, shuttered shops, lamplight glinting off puddles. The quiet in the car felt heavy, like everyone was trying not to breathe too loudly.

In the back, Finn let out a low, pained sound. Arthur leaned in, murmuring something under his breath, and adjusted the blanket Polly had wrapped around him.

“That warehouse was a fucking setup,” John muttered after a while, hands tightening on the wheel. “They were watching us the whole time.”

Arthur gave a grunt in agreement.

“They knew we’d come,” John added, glancing in the rearview. “Knew we’d be too focused on Finn to see the rest of it.”

Tommy said nothing. You glanced over your shoulder briefly. He was staring at Finn—his expression unreadable, his jaw clenched so tight you could see the tension all the way through his shoulders.

His injured arm was pressed tight against his side, blood still soaking through the bandage beneath his coat. But he didn’t seem to feel it. Or he refused to.

The hospital came into view just ahead—pale brick and glowing windows, too quiet for what it was. John pulled the car up near the entrance, tires crunching over wet gravel, engine still humming.

Before the car had even fully stopped, Tommy spoke.

“Park the car,” he said to John, voice low but clear. “Wait fifteen minutes before coming inside. We don’t need all of us storming in. One Blinder’s enough to send the nurses running.”

John nodded, throwing it into park. “You sure?”

Tommy was already opening the back door. “Yeah. You too, Arthur. She’s coming with me.”

No one protested. Together, you lifted Finn out of the backseat. His head rolled slightly against Tommy’s shoulder, but he was still breathing, barely.

Tommy’s jaw tightened. “Let’s go.”

You nodded, falling into step beside him as the hospital doors slid open ahead of you, the lights inside too bright and sterile after the dark chaos of the last few hours.

The doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, and the second you were through, Tommy’s voice rang out, sharp and commanding.

“We need help!”

Heads turned. A nurse behind the front desk froze for half a second before jumping to her feet and calling for a stretcher.

Within moments, two more nurses and a young doctor came rushing down the corridor toward you.

“Gunshot wound,” you said quickly, breathless. “Male, twelve. Entrance wound low on the left side, we think the lung’s collapsed. He’s losing blood fast.”

“Is he breathing?” one of the nurses asked, already pulling on gloves.

“Yes,” you answered. “It’s shallow—one side more than the other. He’s been like this for at least twenty minutes.”

They didn’t hesitate. One nurse reached for Finn’s legs while another supported his back, and gently, they took him from Tommy’s arms.

Tommy didn’t let go right away.

The second they pulled Finn’s weight from him, it was like something dropped out of his chest. He straightened slowly, blood smeared up both arms, across the front of his coat. The warmth of it gone, leaving only the weight behind.

The nurses disappeared down the corridor with Finn on the stretcher, voices overlapping—orders, vitals, prep.

And then it was quiet again. You stood beside him, still staring down the hall where they’d taken Finn. The doors had already swung shut behind the stretcher, and the sound of rushing feet had faded.

Silence pressed in again. The kind of quiet that made everything feel worse.

You looked down at Tommy’s hands. Blood everywhere. Caked along his knuckles, soaked into the sleeves of his coat, smudged across the edge of his collar.

Still, without thinking, you reached for him.

Your fingers brushed his first, tentative—but he didn’t pull away. You threaded your fingers through his, gently, like you were afraid he’d vanish if you held too tight.

He looked down, eyes flicking to the contact, then up to your face.

His hand was warm, but stiff. Like even now, even after everything, he wasn’t sure he deserved this—your touch, your calm, your choice to stay.

For once, he didn’t speak. He didn’t argue. Instead, he just stood there, letting you hold his hand like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart.

And maybe it was.

In the silence of the hospital corridor, with fluorescent lights buzzing and footsteps echoing from down the hall, it was the only real thing left.

Just you.

And him.

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#tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x y/n #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x reader #peaky blinders fanfiction

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tinylilacbun · 6 months ago

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Hello!! I’m loving the babysitter JJ, I was wondering if you could do one where he gets into an accident and ends up in the hospital (nothing too serious) but the ask if he has anyone to call and he calls the toddlers parents and they go and pick him up with toddler!reader and she brings him a balloon and teddy bear.

Maybe he should have just minded his business when some kooks made snarky comments about him, maybe he shouldn't have started a fight with one of them that resulted in the group chasing after him and him jumping over every obstacle until he climbed over a fence and braced the ground wrong causing him to twist his ankle.

After he found he somewhere to hide and took deep breaths he winces the second he tried to put pressure on his foot, knowing it couldn't be just a simple sprain.

JJ would usually never go to a hospital, given the fact he had never the money for it and because he couldn't stand the scent of disinfectant, but ever since he works as your babysitter he had a bit more budget than he ever had in his life.

That's how he's now sitting on a hospital bed, his ankle already in a brace and morphine in his system to help with the pain as he's waiting for the nurse to bring him the discharge papers.

He's looking down at his phone, hesitating to do what the nurse suggested to him earlier, that he should call someone to pick him up since the way home would be taking too long for him to manage alone.

His thought of calling his father dismisses he the second it enters his mind, knowing he would just end up sitting here for another reason after doing so, the Twinkie is having some issues right now so not even John b can pick him up right now.

With a sigh he sends a text to your mother, making sure to say that it's not necessary if they're busy, instantly regretting his decision and about to delete it again until he notices that she already read the message.

He curses under his breath, running a hand through his hair. Since then he hasn't gotten a reply, sitting there for another half hour the door opens and he thinks it's the nurse with the papers but his eyes widen a tad when he sees your parents.

Your father is holding you securely on his hip, setting you down the moment you start to squirm in his hold, quickly running towards JJ to hug his waist, standing between his legs.

"Hey, there, princess..." He chuckles, patting your back before he looks up at your parents, seeing the clear concern on their faces.

"Are you okay? Did they give you proper care? Because if not I'll-" Your mother starts but JJ nods, reaching down to pick you up and sit you down next to him as you keep clinging onto him.

"I'm fine...I shouldn't have bothered you 'cause of this." He mumbles, glancing at the things you're holding. "Watcha got there, huh?"

"Oh! Dis for you jay! To makes you happy." You smile at him, holding the blue balloon and a small teddy bear out to him.

JJ doesn't know how he deserves all this, seeing you in the country club that one day was the best thing that ever happened to him and he will forever be grateful.

"Thanks, cupcake..." He says quietly, booping your nose with the paw of the teddy bear to hear you giggle. "He's just as adorable as you."

Soon the discharge papers were signed and JJ made his way outside with crutches, not really protesting when his father asked if he wanted to stay over, just for the night.

Your parents know that it's hard for JJ to let people help him, even more if they're kooks, but your parents seem to be the only exception. He would never admit that though.

You hold his hand the whole car ride back to your house, wanting to comfort him like he always does when you're hurt or sad, rambling about your day and he listens to every word you say, smiling at you the whole time.

Taglist

For everything:

@my-river-lilly @pauntedblacknails @fanfictioniseverything @buckymydarlingangel @hallecarey1 @daybreakwinter @loveshineslikethesky @vase-of-lilies @white-wolf1940 @simpingbutch @mischiefsemimanaged @alina02 @teddybearsgrr @doozywoozy @angelbabydoll28 @glxwingrxse @lilymurphy03 @veryvaughnny @lokigirlszendaya @youngstarfishdinosaur @little--baby--bear @minideathgoddess @rach2602 @gh0stgurl @flourishandblotts-inc @lovelyy-moonlight @yoruse

@mythixmagic @iris-xoxo-juhu @mylettterstoyou @sunf1ower16 @sweetstars-posts @rafecameronsloverrrrr @rafenroostersgirl

For JJ:

@chiaraanatra @chimindity @flora-eva

#little kook princess au #babysitter!jj maybank drabble #toddler!reader

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lxvvie · 2 years ago

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On today's episode of Simps-R-Us: A Guy and his... pet(s), or You, Your Faves, and your fur/feathered/fin-babies:

Capt. John Price - Standing ten toes down on this: Price would have two small, cute dogs, one named Sir Peabody and the other named Lady Marie. You two spoil them something fierce and they have a pile of little doggy hats that match their beloved papa's... much to his chagrin.

Gaz - Gaz said he'd surprise you and surprise you he did. He came home with a cockatoo. A damn cockatoo. Jokes on him, though, because your bird baby absolutely loves to prank the shit out of Gaz, too, by mimicking your voice when you're away and making him jump. Jokes on both of you now, because Soap has taught him how to curse and that's all he does now, Scottish accent and all. You have a picture saved of the bird (named Buttercup) on top of Gaz's head.

Alex Keller - Has the most gremlin Donskoy (named Brunswick) to ever gremlin, complete with the wide stormy eyes, which is funny because Keller can sometimes make a face that's very much gremlin-esque and the two greatly resemble each other. Can usually be found making biscuits on Alex's head.

Soap - Has a Labrador named Whiskey that he absolutely adores. Whiskey has also put you two in the most adorable of love triangles where you don't know whose affection you're playfully fighting for on any given day. Also has a tendency to take Soap's socks and he has to chase him throughout the house. Well, he and Whiskey are chasing each other throughout the house just about constantly.

Ghost - You guys talked about it but he surprised you one day by bringing home a Belgian Mal puppers who didn't make the unit. His name? Pup. Pup Riley. And Pup Riley is a ball of energy. Bloody hell. He always assumes he's going for a walk whenever you two make ready to leave. He also won't let Simon leave without him and so Simon usually has to create a diversion just to walk out the front door. It's also not uncommon for Pup to jump on his Papa whenever he gets home, too. Oh, did we also talk about the fact that Simon has to fight with Pup for his side of the bed whenever he's home or that Pup wakes him up early in the damn morning to take him out for his first walk of the day?

Roach - Found a stray kitten and brought her home. Her name's Oatmeal. Oatmeal is now the chonkiest, cutest loaf (you send Roach various pictures of her Loafiness). You two also bought her a set of those pet buttons just for shits and giggles and Oatmeal's really caught on to them. She uses "Dad", "Mad", and "Food" a lot even though she stays fed lmao.

Keegan - To everyone's surprise (and his own), has a husky named Balto who ignores the concept of personal space, loves to put his paw right in the middle of Keegan's face, and has pissed on Keegan's boots more than once because Balto felt slighted (you had to go to the groomer's, buddy, you rolled in mud). You and Keegan have also lost count of the number of times you've had to carry Balto into the house because he refuses to come inside, especially when it’s cold.

Alejandro - You two adopted a senior dog named Mojo who is the most peaceful little angel. Can usually be found lying near yours or Alejo's feet as you're working or something of that nature.

Rudy - You two have this huge ass tank full of fish that run the gamut of the rainbow and you remember all their names. The brooding one is named Alejandro and his namesake was not amused lmao.

König - You two have a small but floofy cat. She's black with a grey undercoat that he calls his "little Prinzessin" and she always looks like she's in a constant state of surprise. Whenever she blinks or closes her eyes, she becomes a floofy void. Her Highness prefers to be carried like a baby, thank you very much.

Phillip Graves - You two are the proud parents of a Bulldog named Bubba who thinks he has his humans trained (spoiler alert: he kinda does). Bubba Graves makes your day with the way he silently judges his parents, throws a tantrum when he doesn't get more food or pets, and usually has Philip sigh facetiously and go, "Now, son, why can't you behave for your old man, huh?"

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mistydeyes · 2 years ago

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a sick day visit

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

summary: You prided yourself on not getting sick. Even as a child, you bragged about your perfect attendance. However, the day has finally come and you’re in bed with a sore throat and swollen lymph nodes. Noting your absence, the 141 decides to pay you a visit.

pairing: 141 x pharmacist!Reader

if you want to read some other interactions with our lovely pharmacist -> pharmacist!reader tag

warnings: swearing, medical terminology/descriptions of illness

┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊ ⋆ ┊ . ┊ ┊┊

Healthcare professionals never get sick. They just don't. That's why when you woke up with a sore throat, swollen and painful lymph nodes, and a headache, you silently cursed everything in the universe. The last few days you were more tired than usual but nothing out of the ordinary. You were supposed to report to the pharmacy at 07:00 hours but you knew you weren't going to make it there. You groggily grabbed your phone and made a few phone calls. Eventually, after an hour, you were able to get one of your civilian pharmacist colleagues to fill in for you. "Thanks, Dr. Stewart, I already notified security and the techs that you'll be coming in today," you hoarsely croaked out and hung up the phone.

Once everything was in order, you put a plain shirt and pants on and bundled yourself in a blanket. You knew that you should go visit the doctor to find out what was wrong. You brushed your teeth to have a semblance of normalcy but to put it politely, you looked like hell. Before you left, you made sure to find a medical mask, just in case whatever you had was contagious. You slipped on some shoes and exited your quarters to the medical wing.

As you walked, you ignored the bewildered looks of the soldiers as they passed. Some gave you a quick, "Good morning, Captain," and you weakly gave them a wave. Eventually, you could see Captain Price emerge from an adjoining hallway and he locked eyes with you. "Captain L/N, heard you were missing from the pharmacy today," he said and you moved to the side of the hallway to allow others to walk. "Hi John, just feeling under the weather, should be back tomorrow," you said softly. You could see the pity in his eyes as you used your elbow to cough. "Just let me know if you need anything, I'll personally have the 141 deliver anything," he said kindly and allowed you to continue to the doctor.

Despite being a pharmacist, you hated going to the doctor. Something about the sterility of the environment made you uneasy. "Ah Captain, funny seeing you here," the doctor commented as she entered. You smiled, she was one of your better friends in this department and you relaxed upon seeing her. "Definitely don't want to under these circumstances," you replied and she motioned for you to take off your mask so she could begin examining you. As soon as you opened your mouth, you could tell she knew what was wrong with you.

"What is it?" you asked and she dialed a number on the medical wing's phone. "Oh love, I think you have mononucleosis. I'm going to run some blood work and have a test done but it's pretty certain," she spoke and you were surprised. "Isn't that only spread through direct contact or saliva?" you asked. It was a silly question as mononucleosis was also known as the kissing disease but you wanted extra confirmation. "It can be or it can be spread by sharing utensils or drinks," she said and you internally facepalmed. You silently regretted going out for drinks with your techs and trying everyone's drinks. "It usually takes about 1-2 months to show symptoms," she continued, "there is no treatment, only rest, liquids, and paracetamol."

After two hours of waiting for your results with the phlebotomist, your doctor's suspicions were confirmed. "Sorry Captain," the phlebotomist said and sent you back to your room with a bottle of paracetamol and some Liquid IV. As you changed into pajamas, you made sure to notify your staff of your diagnosis and promised you'd be back at work as soon as your fever broke. Having nothing else to do, you settled back into bed and grabbed a book for the long days of recovery ahead.

You were almost finished with your book when you heard a knock on your door. "Coming," you called and put an Army sweatshirt on before opening it. At the door were four men who you immediately recognized as the 141. You almost laughed when you saw them all wearing matching balaclavas with a skeleton painted on them. Better safe than sorry, I guess. "What are you guys doing here?" you asked as you held the door partially open. "Heard our favorite pharmacist was sick so we brought you some things," Gaz smiled at you and you noticed a small bag of goodies in Soap's hands. "What you got anyways?" Soap asked as he handed you the bag. "Don't laugh but I have mono," you said and everyone took a step back. "I promise I'm not contagious but no kissing and sharing drinks for me for a little while," you joked and you could see everyone take a deep breath. You invited them inside your room to continue the conversation.

As they walked into your room they admired the decor. Unlike some other officers, the base was your permanent housing arrangement. You decided to make it as much of a home as possible. This included bringing in carpets for the cold tile floors, a bookshelf filled with pharmacy textbooks and novels in various languages, and other little trinkets. You even had a few pictures of your favorite people including your proud parents. You sat on the bed and the men cozied themselves on the carpet and your small loveseat. You allowed everyone a moment to settle as you could see them eye your decor. Everyone seemed to find something that peaked their interest. Simon studied your posters of famous art pieces, Gaz tried to figure out the locations of the postcards from your uni pharmacy friends, and Soap was intensely looking at the colorful pillows that adorned your bed. "Quite a setup you have here," Price commented as he thumbed through your Russian copy of Wuthering Heights. "Might as well make this place a home," you smiled and pulled a blanket around yourself.

"Do you know how you got it?" Ghost spoke up suddenly. "Well it might have been my fault but it was probably when I took my techs to a pub off-base," you sheepishly answered. "It was stupid but we all thought it would be a great idea to share drinks," you continued. "I thought it was the kissing disease," Gaz commented as you finished your story. You laughed lightly before responding. "That's one of the easiest ways to get it but anything with saliva contact spreads it," you began, "Plus there's no significant other I would have to worry about, Sergeant" Suspiciously, they all smiled and you couldn't understand why they were so invested in your love life.

"Anyways how have you been?" you asked and Price was the first one to speak up. "Back again for a while but we still miss your patient care in the pharmacy," he replied and everyone nodded their heads in response. "Your friend doesn't know what they're doin," Soap pitched in, "he just gives us our prescriptions without even a hello." Your smile faltered slightly, you were upset to hear this is how he treated your patients. "I'll be back soon, I promise," you responded. After a lull of silence, you yawned as today's events had tired you out. "You should open the bag," Ghost mentioned and you suddenly remembered the gift they put together.

You grabbed the small brown bag that sat next to you and poured its contents out on your duvet. Inside, they had put some snacks from the vending machine, bags of tea, and a crudely drawn picture of what looked like the members of the 141. "Oh thank you all," you gasped and went to pick up the drawing. "Why this though?" you asked and saw four figures carrying a comically sized pill bottle to what looked like you with a mask and blanket. "What I thought it was funny," Soap said defensively and you smiled. "I'll be sure to frame this one," you said before setting it back down. Despite being cold-hearted soldiers, they did some nice things sometimes. Eventually after some more light conversation, they could tell you needed some rest and saw themselves out. "Thanks again for stopping by," you called as they exited. "Anytime," Price said before he closed your room's door.

As they walked down the hall, you could hear their conversation through the thin wall. "You see that picture of them from uni?" you heard Gaz ask. "Ye the one next to the bookshelf, right?" Soap responded. "Didn't know that wearing a bathing suit with a pharmacy coat was part of the uniform," you heard Gaz say and your eyes shot to the aforementioned photo. You stood there, two other friends from pharmacy school, on the beaches of Cornwall only wearing a bathing suit and your white coat. Next time you invite someone over, you'll be sure to hide that photo.

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kaleldobrev · 8 months ago

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The One Bed, Two People Problem (2) — The 15 Year Problem Series

Pairing: MOC!Dean Winchester x F. Reader

Feat. Character(s): Reader & Dean Winchester

Series Summary: Needing help on a poltergeist case, you ask fellow hunter Sam Winchester for help. Despite having a broken arm, Sam agrees to help you. But, just as he’s about to head out and meet you, Dean tells him that he’ll take his place and help instead.

Chapter Word Count: 1.8k

Chapter Warnings: Cursing (2x), Age Gap (15 years), Sexual tension, Slightly vulnerable Dean, Self-Loathing Dean & Implied sexual fantasies (very minor)

Authors Note: A prequel series to the Old Man Universe (OMU) on how Dean and reader met | Takes place a few days after Dean is cured from being a demon in 2016 (please read this post for reasonings why it’s 2016, not 2014) | If you liked this, don’t forget to like & reblog. I really appreciate it! Feedback is always welcome ♡

⋆ The 15 Year Problem Masterlist ⋆

⇠ Go Back & Read Chapter 1

"One room please," Dean said, as he plopped down his credit card onto the desk in front of the motel worker: a big grin on his face.

The worker looked at him tiredly and picked up the card. Looking at the name on the card, he looked at Dean, who maintained the same smile. "John Paul Jones?" He asked, his voice matching the tiredness in his eyes. "Like the dude from Led Zeppelin?"

"I get that a lot," Dean stated, trying to sound convincing, despite the motel worker probably not needing to be as he looked tired enough as it is. The worker nodded and started putting Dean's information into the computer; Dean swayed back and forth on his heels, looking around the motel lobby, not enjoying the awkward silence that was between the two. "It's a good thing I'm a Zepp fan," he added, a bit of humor in his voice, as he attempted to make awkward small talk with the man.

"Huh uh," the worker mumbled, not seeming interested in having any sort of conversation with Dean, as he was trying his best to concentrate on what he was doing, as the lack of sleep and pulling all-nighters the last couple of nights was starting to catch up to him in this moment.

Dean started to get slightly nervous, as the worker seemed to be taking a little bit more time than usual to be placing the information into the computer. "Is there a problem with the card?" Dean asked, after the motel worker started making a face that looked similar to confusion.

The worker shook his head. "Nah man. Just tired. It's my third night shift in a row and it's been a killer. Can barely keep my fucking eyes open. But I'm thankful to be doing anything at least. You're the first person I've seen in days, since the regulars haven't even come by." Dean decided not to ask about who or what the regulars were, but he would be lying if he wasn't the least bit curious.

"Surprising," Dean said. "Thought you'd get more on-going business being right on the highway like this. I mean, I've been to Tulsa a few times, and it's always pretty lively, even this time of night."

The man scoffed, almost chuckling at his words. "People don't like motels like they used to. They rather stay at the Holiday Inn down the street. Apparently, motels give people the creeps now," he said, rolling his eyes. "Too much shadiness I guess for people."

"I've stayed at more motels than I can count, and uh, they basically feel like home to me. They've never once given me the creeps," Dean told him, partially telling the truth, as he has stayed at plenty of motels over the years that have had questionable stains and clientele more times than he could count.

The worker nodded, handing Dean back his card. "Alright, we have one room available with a queen," he said.

Dean gave him a semi-puzzled look, unsure how true that really was, as the worker just said that he was the only person he's seen in a few days, and the parking lot was essentially empty besides his and who he assumed to be this man's car. "Nothing with two beds?" Dean asked. He didn't mind sharing a bed with you, but he wanted to get two to be safe, as he was afraid that he'd somehow hurt you in the middle night if he had one of his PTSD style nightmares he occasionally got, more often than he'd like to admit.

"Look, I have one room left. And that one room has one bed that you're either going to have to share with your guest, or one of you is sleeping on the floor," his voice had no hint of tiredness anymore.

"One bed it is," Dean said, his lips forming into a fake smile.

"And you're in room three," the worker smiled, handing Dean the room key.

After getting off the phone with your boyfriend, you hit your head repeatedly against the headrest, frustrated that you had let him get to you again. He was hours away, and yet, he had managed to re-anger you, which was something that you were close to getting rid of during your nice and peaceful drive here.

In addition to your re-anger, you were minutes away from meeting someone new, and there was a part of you that felt bad for Dean, because being angry and mean was the last thing you wanted as your first impression. "Okay, you got this," you whispered to yourself, taking a few breaths before exiting your truck.

Walking out of the motel lobby, Dean started thinking of ways in which he was going to break the cliche news to you, as a one bed for two strangers seemed like something that came straight out of a chick flick or romance novel. "So bad news, we have to share a bed because for some reason despite the motel parking lot being empty as fuck, there was only one room that had a single bed in it," he thought to himself, cocking his head, thinking how saying that to you might work. Then again, he didn't want you thinking that he got a room with a single bed on purpose because you were a chick, and hoping to get lucky. Then again, he certainly wasn't against it...Then again, Sam told him that you had a boyfriend and you were off-limits.

As he started walking toward the room to put his stuff inside and examine the room, he looked at the parking lot, and noticed another vehicle had pulled into the lot since he had come into the motel; and it was parked a few spaces away from Baby. It was a Generation Seven, F150, in a brownish beige color that looked to be in brand new condition.

And that's when he saw you, or at least he hoped it was you, pulling out a large duffel back from the truck bed, that seemed to be a little beat up.

He started walking toward you, making a mental note to introduce himself just far enough way, because he wasn't sure how quick to the draw you were.

You sighed, grabbing your duffel, and slung it over your shoulder, as you were mentally preparing yourself to meet someone new. But you were tired, angry, and a little bit hungry; and all you really wanted to do right now was take a scolding hot shower and hit the pillow face first, instead of making awkward small talk.

"Hey, you must be Y/N," you heard a male voice say from a few feet away from you. Closing your truck bed, you noticed a blonde-haired man, who appeared to be a little over six feet tall, wearing a flannel and denim jacket similar to you, walking in your direction. This must be Dean, you thought.

"And you must be Dean," you said, when he was just a few feet in front of you. As he stood there, he leaned his arm on your truck bed, and stared at you with a smile that could easily melt the iciness that was inside your heart; you hoped that you weren't blushing. You're here to do a job, and you have a boyfriend, you told yourself.

"Nice truck," he complimented, as he patted the side. "Gen seven?" He questioned, but his tone insinuated that he already knew the model; he just wanted to see if you knew. And of course you did, as this truck was one that you had practically re-built over the course of a single summer without barely any help.

You nodded, and smiled at him, practically grinning from ear to ear; your smile was breathtaking. "He sure is. I practically re-built him over the course of a single summer before I started hunting. You should have seen the shape he was in; the whole body was practically rust," you explained.

Dean listened to the way you spoke about your truck, and he admired it, as it was similar to the way he would speak about Baby. But the way you spoke about the truck was not the only thing he was admiring; he was admiring the way the denim jacket you were wearing was slightly falling off your shoulders because of how big it was, as if you had borrowed it from someone Sam's size. Even though it was still slightly dark out, and the harsh yellow lighting was doing nobody any favors, you still somehow looked absolutely gorgeous in this lighting. Your skin looked so smooth, except for a few scars that he noticed in several places. He couldn't help but wonder the stories behind them. You're here to do a job, he reminded himself.

"That's pretty impressive that you re-built him without any help. Not a lot of people can do that," he said, trying his best to pay you a compliment. "Especially since you taught yourself."

"Yeah. My dad knows some stuff about cars, but he's no expert or anything. My best friend was the one who..." your voice trailed off, and you slightly had a blank stare on your face, as if you were reminiscing about something.

"I've re-built Baby more times than I could possibly count," he said, pointing at her for a moment before turning back to you. Your blank stare finally fading.

"When Sam told me, I honestly didn't believe him. You must be really good with your hands," you said, with a slight hint of...was that...flirting? Were you flirting with me? Dean thought. No, there's no way.

He chuckled a little. "I'd like to think so." I'd do anything to put my hands all over you....he thought. "Oh, um, since I got here first," he began, attempting to change the subject before his brain started to create some fantasies. "I was able to get us a room. But, there's only one bed, so we either have to share, or one of us is going to have to sleep on the floor."

You felt your heart starting to race a bit faster now, and your throat was beginning to get a tad dry. Were you actually nervous about the possibility of sharing a bed with the eldest Winchester?

"I don't mind sharing a bed as long as you don't," you said. But as soon as you said those words, your brain was starting to create a moral dilemma. You have a boyfriend, this counts as cheating, you thought. No, it doesn't count as cheating, I don't plan on sleeping with him as much as I'd like to.

"I don't mind. But uh...just a heads up, I get um...nightmares," he said, sounding hesitant.

"It's okay, I get them too," you reassured. "Want to head inside then and see if we can get a few hours before we go to the station tomorrow?"

Dean nodded. "Sounds good to me," he smiled.

⤑ Move Forward & Read Chapter 3

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frostyharbor · 1 month ago

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F!READER/JOHN PRICE ■ EXPLICIT ■ IN-PROGRESS

SUMMARY:

You're a junior diplomat at the American Embassy in Bucharest. Even as tensions with Russia threaten to boil over, by the very nature of your job, you're more of the "ask questions first, shoot never" type. It's too bad military men don't really follow the same creed. tags: slow-burn, canon typical violence, minor character death

CHAPTER ONE

You have a feeling that nickname is going to stick, and decide Captain Price and his silly hat and ridiculously blue eyes can go to Hell. In which you collect a runaway VIP, things in the city begin to go south, and heightened security concerns at the embassy summon unconventional aid.

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MASTERPOST

READ ON AO3 or continue below.

A junior member of the American Embassy in Bucharest, you’re often saddled with the privilege of playing chauffeur to the various VIPs who fly into Mihail Air Base.

You don’t mind it, usually. But today’s visitor, Michael Black, is playing the part of dutiful politician, swinging by every corner of the base to personally greet every unit and squadron. Ever since arriving, you’ve constantly been one step behind him, but the soldiers are more than happy to point you in the right direction.

“He’s over with the 101st,” one Army lad laughs, smirking at your flushed face and irritated expression.

You grit out a thank you, hoping the malice behind the words is clearly implied. It either isn’t or you’re just not threatening enough, because the kid only laughs harder and walks away.

You have a vague understanding of where the 101st Division is located. As you drive up to the barracks and see the crowd that has formed outside of them, you eye the scene with no shortage of apprehension.

This is a corner of the installation you usually avoid if you can help it. It might be owned by the Screaming Eagles, but they often play host to the Delta boys, America’s elite. You don’t doubt their prowess in the field, but their manners outside of it leave something to be desired. They’re arrogant and cocksure and have an irritating habit of strutting around the base like they own it. They flaunt regulations, wearing what they like and growing out their hair and beards to ridiculous proportions.

Though you’ve never personally witnessed a confrontation because if it, you know that this is a headache for leadership. The young privates on base, striving to copy their heroes, take to following their example whenever they’re around, rolling up their sleeves and relaxing their grooming standards. They beg the D-boys to give them tips and advice, and when their actual supervisors try to correct them on it later, dig their heels in and stubbornly insist they learned it from the real professionals.

If it came down to it, you’re certain they’d follow the operators before they followed their own officers. The fracturing of the chain of command leads to tension that even you’re aware of, and you’re thankful that your trips to this side of the base are usually few and far between.

But there’s no tension here today. Bored and blessed – or cursed – with an abundance of energy, the operators had apparently convinced one of the pilots to fly them over the local forest to go hunting for wild boar. Their success was obvious – the grills have been fired up and the meat roasts on the rack, filling the air with smoke and the delicious aroma of wild pork.

You spot Michael standing about in the crowd, holding a paper plate and gesticulating wildly with his fork. His audience laughs at something he says, but you suspect it’s the type of laughter that's meant to be kiss-ass rather than genuine; you’ve heard your boss talking to this guy on the phone, and you know he’s not that funny.

He calls your name with delight when you appear at his elbow - he must have been given a picture and a name so he knew who to look for when he arrived. Not that he had been bothering to look. His cheeks are suspiciously flushed, and you wonder if there’s a bottle of alcohol being passed around. You don’t think that’s allowed, but these guys aren’t beholden to the same rules as everyone else.

“Isn’t this something?” he bellows directly into your face. It’s a good thing his plate is empty – it tips dangerously in his hand as he uses it to indicate the rolling crowd and smoking grills. His breath smells like meat and whiskey, and it takes everything in you to not recoil in disgust. “Did you see what they were cooking when you came in?”

Your irritation makes you short-tempered. “Yes, the massive dead pigs were a bit difficult to miss.”

Some of the gathered men titter. This laughter is meaner but more genuine than before. There's nothing egotistical men like more than seeing another man with an ego be put down.

But you’re not here to impress them. You touch Michael lightly on the arm to urge him towards the fringes of the gathering. “We should move on to the embassy as quickly as possible if we want to keep your schedule.” They needed to be back in Bucharest an hour ago – your supervisor has been blowing up your phone for the last ninety minutes and you’ve only just been able to hold him off over text.

But you’ve learned from experience that men like these don’t like to be told what to do outright. With your hand still resting on his arm, you look up at him from under your lashes. “Is there anything I can do to help you get ready to leave?”

He blinks his bloodshot green eyes down at you and blusters. “No need, no need! I’d hate to make a pretty lady like yourself go out of her way! We can head out now.”

Thank fuck. You flick your eyes skyward and say a quick prayer of gratitude for stupid drunk men as you make your way back through the crowd.

Within the throng of men is a small knot of soldiers. You’re passing by them on Michael's heels when you catch a burst of ribald chatter. The accents are distinctly un-American, and you tilt your head to listen. British and Scottish.

It’s a strange group, even considering the strange company. A young man with a mohawk catches your eye first. He’s the Scottish one, and you can tell from the gleam in his eye and the curl of his mouth that he’s trouble. Leaning on the wall beside him is a man dressed all in black with a balaclava pulled down over his head. A skull mask of all things hides his face, and you fight the urge to roll your eyes. It’s the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old boy might find cool.

Further beyond this odd couple stands a handsome man in a ballcap and another, older man with a full beard and mustache. A cigar that you can smell from where you stand is balanced between his fingers, and he raises it to his mouth as he leans in to speak with Ballcap in quieter tones.

Mohawk catches you staring and grins. “Whatcha think, bonnie?” There’s a crude necklace of boar’s teeth circling his throat and a fresh cut across the bridge of his nose. Skull-mask watches you with a cool stare. The smell of cigar smoke hangs like a cloud over their ragtag ensemble.

I think this whole gathering’s just one mammoth short of a cave painting, you want to say, but don’t. They all have a wild and cunningly primitive air about them, predators in a way the average soldier isn’t. Military men can be so doglike in their service, tamed and eager to please. These men, though…

They remind you of wolves.

So, you let your eyes run over them with an air of polite curiosity rather than disdain and force your lips to curl into a diplomatic smile. “Very impressive.”

Mr. Cigar, who has stalked closer, watches you knowingly. His hat casts a shadow over his face, even in the full sun of afternoon, but his eyes are very alive. His condescending expression puts your back up, and you fight the urge to sneer. “You’ve just arrived, love. Embassy isn’t going anywhere.” He puffs on his cigar and releases the smoke like a looming dragon. You keep your eyes on his, not giving him the satisfaction of looking down at his mouth. “Might as well eat something.”

The fact that he must have been watching – and listening? – makes your skin crawl. “I’m afraid we’re already late, sir.” A glance over your shoulder tells you that Michael has bumbled his way to the car. You don’t trust him not to tell your driver to leave without you. “I need to go.”

The man smiles. His eyes crinkle in a friendly sort of way, but you trust these operators as far as you can throw them. Friendly or not, he’s probably hiding a dozen weapons under his shirt, and he’d probably still be smiling if he carved your lungs out with one of them.

He touches the brim of his hat, says “safe travels, Ms. Diplomat”, and is turning away before you can answer. Someone says something – it must be Skull-mask, you don’t see anybody’s mouth move – and they laugh. Feeling distinctly like you’ve been made into the butt of a joke but helpless to do anything about it, you rage silently all the way back to the car.

“Make any friends?” Michael asks when you climb into the back seat and slam the door. He tips his chin to indicate the tight-knit little group, who hadn’t even bothered to watch you go.

“No,” you growl immediately, trying to jerk your seatbelt down and wanting to scream when the locking retractor engages and the strap locks in place. With deliberate patience, you slowly pull the belt back out and buckle up.

Michael snickers as the driver starts the car. “That’s too bad. SAS, you know. Best of the best.”

You feel a sudden surge of uncharacteristic loyalty for the American operators, deciding you loathe the British ones more. “Not better than the D-boys.”

“’Course not,” the man agrees, nodding stupidly before slumping against the car window, fast asleep.

When you had joined the Foreign Service, you hadn't exactly expected much. Getting to see the world while gaining work experience sounded like a dream, and getting to rub shoulders with budding politicians along the way couldn't hurt, either.

It had been foolish not to expect trouble.

Years ago, the Romanian government had agreed to overhaul Mihail Air Base into the largest NATO base in Europe. Even now, though the project hadn't reached completion, you knew over twenty thousand new troops and civilians had already descended on Constanta. It was boon for the local economy and gave NATO a powerful foothold in Eastern Europe, but the organization's increased mobilization so close to the Russian border had raised the hackles of enemy officials.

Romania had pushed on in spite of Russian threats, and now were beginning to feel the pressure.

The Russian terrorist groups springing up across the country wouldn't have much influence, but they were being backed by Romanian ultra-nationalists. The Romanian Nationalist Front had no love for Russia or its leaders but fiercely opposed foreign interference in their country. They eyed NATO's expansion on the Black Sea with nothing short of vicious resentment. As progress continued to be made on the base, their actions were becoming desperate - desperate enough, apparently, to reach across the aisle and shake hands with terror groups that attacked their own countrymen.

Thus far, the disturbance had been minimal and largely centralized in Constanta, over two hours away. The reports that cross your desk that speculate on local attitudes and threat levels include the protests as a footnote in the grand scheme of things, watering down the violence to a few incidences of arson and brick-throwing.

So when chaos erupts in the streets of Bucharest and the rumor reaches your ears that the British ambassador has been assassinated, nothing can stop you from bursting into your supervisor's office.

Jack Surace is a stern man and doesn't likely being interrupted at work as a rule, but this time he only holds up a hand to forestall your questions. "She was shot, but she's alive. They got her to Royal Hospital in time." You slouch down into one of the chairs on the other side of his desk, raising a trembling hand to your face. You had met the ambassador, Susan Finch, only once at an event when you had first arrived in Romania. An intimidating and stalwart woman, she had nonetheless struck you as a kind individual and had been patient with your curiosity.

"You've got more to worry about on the inside rather than out," she had told you, her eyes glittering wickedly. "Jack's all work and no play."

You hadn't been at the embassy long enough to feel comfortable in joining the good natured ribbing. "He's not that bad," you had managed to pipe up loyally. You boss had given you a long-suffering look and said, with faux-offense, "not that bad?". Taking the remark seriously and mortified over accidentally insulting your new boss, you had stumbled over apologies. The pair had let you carry on for a good minute before exchanging smirks and shooing you off to join the other new officers. Dismissed to the kid's table.

The thought her now lying in some cold hospital room with a gunshot wound sends a chill down your spine.

Someone follows you into the office. It speaks to how close you are that you can recognize Chrissy Nour from the tap of her heels and the smell of her perfume. Only two years older than you and outstripping you in seniority by a whole ten months, she had been the one to welcome you to the post and drag you out to the local bars to distract you from your homesickness. She comes up behind you now and rests a hand on your shoulder. You blindly reach behind you take it. Jack acknowledges her with a tired wave.

"Christ, Jack," she says. She must have walked in in time to hear his update. "It might have been one of us."

The it could have been you goes unspoken, but if Jack is shaken by it, he gives no indication. He takes off his wire-frame glasses to clean them on his shirt. Without them, his narrow face looks even skinnier, and the shadows under his eyes are more pronounced. When he replaces them on the bridge of his nose, his hand is remarkably steady. His staff jokingly calls him Surice for his unflappable personality and his ability to stare down other negotiators from across the table, but you're grateful to have him at the helm now.

You're almost afraid to ask, but it needs to be said. "What's going to happen now?"

"Nothing is certain yet, but it's likely the British embassy will close." He looks at something on his screen. It's an email - you can see the familiar formatting reflected in the lenses of his glasses. "What that means for us..." he trails off and shrugs. You think of one of the last times British diplomats were withdrawn from a country and Americans were left behind. Benghazi. You and Chrissy exchange nervous looks. Jack doesn't miss it.

He gives you both a considering look. "I'll have to stay for as long as the embassy is operational, but if the department bans travel to Romania, there won't be much for you to do." That much is true, at least - no travel means no American citizens abroad, and you can't picture many VIPs being interested in touring a country whose citizens are trying to kill them. "I can see about getting the staff reassigned if things get worse."

Chrissy voices her approval immediately, but you hesitate. You've worked in Bucharest for a year and a half now under Jack and couldn't have asked for a better supervisor for your first posting. You don't particularly want to get caught up in whatever is beginning to boil over in the capitol, but the idea of leaving him behind strikes you as betrayal. "I'll stay, if I can."

Jack's grim expression softens slightly. "They'll increase security in the city so this doesn't happen again. I won't say we don't have anything to worry about, but the outlook might not be as terrible as we're imagining. Worse things have happened and we've weathered the storm." A scowl turns his mouth down and deepens the lines on his forehead. "I asked Michael when he visited about more security for the compound, but he's been putting me off."

You shudder at the reminder of the man's visit several weeks prior. Thankfully some other poor junior had been pulled to escort him back to the base - getting him to Bucharest and having to deal with him lumbering around the offices for a week had been bad enough. You weren't surprised that he hadn't taken the request for stronger security seriously.

Silence falls over the office. Jack is staring somewhere over your shoulder, but you recognize it as the spaced-out look of someone who has fallen into a deep bout of introspection. As worrying as the situation is, you feel sad for him - it must be difficult to work towards maintaining ties between nations only to have to worry about getting a bullet in the back for your efforts. Only to have things fall apart anyways.

The door to his office is thrown open again with a bang, and the three of you nearly jump out of your skins. But it's only Chris Severino, come running up from the cafeteria on the first floor if his panting is anything to go by. "They're saying on the news an ambassador was killed-"

"Not dead," Jack corrects patiently.

You and Chrissy slip out of the office as he begins to tell the story over again.

Later, you're both watching the news in your living room. You have an apartment right next to the embassy, and seeing the walls of the compound outside your window is comforting even though, at the current moment, you'd feel safer inside them.

Before you had left for the evening, Jack had tasked you both with scanning the local news and online articles to gauge public opinion. You've got laptops balanced on your thighs and the coffee table is a haphazard mess of empty coffee cups, files, and stacks of printed reports. The centerpiece of the table has been removed to accommodate the collection of beer bottles that had turned into the preferred drink of choice as the night wore on. Every now and then, one or both of you takes a break to rub your eyes and stare at the subtitles on the television.

The RNF had earlier claimed responsibility for the assassination attempt. No update had come on the ambassador's status or the future of the British embassy, but you knew that if something developed, Jack would call. For now, you stare blankly at the news reel as the footage loops for the third or fourth time that evening, showing the panic in the streets from that afternoon. The assassin hadn't even been dressed in black, or some other ominous getup - he looked like an average guy. Someone you might talk to if you ran into him. For the fourth time that evening, you watch him sidle up to the Susan's right side, reaching swiftly under his shirt. The footage freezes there, stopping short of showing the actual shooting, but gooseflesh pimples your skin all the same.

It might have been one of us.

You take a sip of water for something to do.

"I don't want to stay," Chrissy says suddenly. You look at her, surprised. She's closed her laptop and is picking at her nails, looking down at her knees. "It feels like the right thing to do, you know? To stay. Not leave Jack and everyone else." She peeks over at you and you can see her eyes beginning to water. "But I don't want to die here." The streetlights outside the window cast long shadows in the living room. "I don't mean to be such a...you know. Such a coward."

"You're not a coward," you correct immediately. You reach for her shoulder and she lets you take it, quietly accepting the same comfort she had offered you early in Jack's office. "We didn't exactly ask for this. I mean, there's some danger inherent in going to a foreign country, I guess, but..." you gesture to the television screen. New footage is beginning to appear. An angry, masked mob has gathered in Old City. They get close to the crew, harassing the cameramen and the reporters. One of them has gotten ahold of a British flag, and the camera pans to where the Union Jack is being burned and stomped into the street. "I don't think anyone could have expected this when we took the FSOT."

She gives a weak laugh. "Definitely not. I wanted to go to Greece."

"Italy."

You both laugh at the audacity of your younger selves. Foreign Service Officers with more seniority might get their pick of postings, but the State Department wasn't always so accommodating with fresh blood.

As your laughter quickly fizzles out, Chrissy fixes you with a keen look. "You shouldn't stay, either."

You falter, wondering what to say. You've just said that she wasn't a coward for leaving, so you can't say you don't want to leave Jack. In all honesty, you're not sure whether you regret your offer to stay or if you still stand by it - watching the footage of the mob on the screen as well as the video of the completely harmless-looking man stepping up beside the ambassador with his hand under his shirt...your heart pounds just with the memory of it. Your hand tightens on your glass. It might have been one of us. It still could be. You don't like your chances against that crowd.

But you opt to wave off her concerns. "We're well-protected at the embassy. Besides, Jack's probably right. People are angry now, there's a lot of chaos, but they'll send the police out and increase security. Things'll return to normal."

"I don't know about that." Chrissy is watching the television, too. You can see that her face is creased with worry. "I think they'll get worse before they get better."

Chrissy's prediction turns out to be truer than Jack's.

Unrest rocks the streets of Bucharest. The Romanian Police have been turned out, but they've severely underestimated just how many of the population have fallen sway to nationalist propaganda. Sector 3 is slowly becoming a battleground, with every night ending in a standoff between protestors and the police. But the crowds are swelling every night, and the police are running out of options to disperse them.

The American embassy being located at the fringes of Sector 1 has saved it. Your compound is walled and likely too far away from Downtown Bucharest to present a convenient target. The other embassies close to the heart of the city haven't been so lucky, but the damage has thus far been limited to a few small fires and broken windows. Ambassador Finch has not only left the hospital, but the country as well - the British embassy has closed and all of its officers have been sent home. You wonder if you and the rest of the American staff are close behind.

Throughout the day, you peer out your window to look over the wall, anxious about what's on the other side of it.

Sgt. Collin Safin teases you for your paranoia. One of the Army boys assigned to guard the compound, he's only been here for about six months. He only smirks in that annoying way of his when you ask him if he's seen anything on your way in one morning.

"They're not going to come all the way out here." He insists, tapping you on the shoulder. You like him, but the action makes you want to strangle him. "Only a few of these guys are actually serious. The rest are just vultures lookin' to steal and cause trouble."

He's arrogant in the way that only a soldier in his early twenties can be, confident and easy-going. You'd absolutely loathe him if hadn't spontaneously flipped over his helmet one day to show you the picture he had taped inside. It's a newborn baby, wrinkled and wet and alien-looking in the way most freshly-born babies are, but Collin had looked at the picture like it was the most wonderful thing he had ever seen. "My daughter," he had explained, quite unnecessarily. He had had the sort of starstruck expression that only a new father could have. "She was born a couple of weeks ago, but I just got the photo yesterday."

He's still arrogant, but you had mentally shuffled him after that from "insufferably arrogant" to "tolerably annoying", and carved out a soft spot for yourself in his heart when you went out of your way to ask him about his wife and daughter.

You disagree with his cavalier attitude now, but let his words comfort you anyways. He's probably right.

Two days later, someone lobs an IED over the wall.

You don't hear the explosion, only the following alarm. Chrissy bursts into the office you share with a few other juniors and gestures to the window, where you can see smoke beginning to cloud beyond one of the neighboring buildings. You press your face to the glass, but can't see much.

"They've locked down the compound," Chrissy groans, sitting in the extra chair beside your desk. The other employees step up to crowd around the window when you return to your computer. You reach automatically for your desk phone and dial Jack's office number, but get a busy tone. By the time you're returning the phone to its cradle, your work cell lights up.

It's a text from Jack. 'On phone now. Stay where you are.'

Chrissy peers over your shoulder, chewing her lip. You fire back a response. 'Anyone hurt?'

'Don't know yet. will update when I know more.'

Between you and Chrissy, you shoot off a flurry of texts to your other contacts at the embassy. Most of their answers are the same as Jack's - 'no, I don't know what happened, we've just been told to sit tight' - but Chrissy strikes gold when her screen lights up with an incoming call from Savannah Miles, one of the consulars who works near the entrance of the compound.

Chrissy puts her on speaker phone and waves for quiet. You and Savannah aren't close, but you know her as a generally confident woman. She sounds timid now.

"Everyone's ok that I know of. We didn't really see it when it happened, but we heard the explosion when it went off."

"What was it?"

There's a break and the sound of muffled conversation, like she's put her hand over the speaker to talk to someone else. After a minute, she comes back. "The guys are saying it was an IED. They just threw it over the wall and it went off inside."

They. You and Chrissy exchange worried looks. One of the juniors now crowded around your desk leans in. "Is the wall still good?"

"Yeah, it left a pretty decent crater in the ground and some scotch marks, but I think the wall itself was still pretty solid. We can't see it anymore though, they moved us away from the windows..."

After a few more back and forths, Savannah hangs up.

News is slow to come. The other employees speculate in a corner, but you sit at your desk and bring up the local news online, scanning the headlines for any update of the attack. When that fails to yield results, you swap over to the major media stations. Most of them are reporting some disturbance at the embassy, with a few grainy photographs of the same smoke you had seen earlier, but their update is limited to a headline designed to shock - Attack at American Embassy! Terrorists Launch Assault at the Wall - and you already know that no one's been hurt, so you ignore the clickbait and turn off your monitor. Obviously, they don't know any more than you do.

Gradually, the chatter dies down. You hazard a glance at Chrissy, who's still sitting quietly at your desk with her arms folded around herself. She had already been afraid, had already wanted to leave...you hope that she still gets to have that option. You tap her foot with yours and she smiles at you briefly before looking down again, her brow furrowed.

A few juniors do what you had done, making half-hearted attempts to hunt down outside news articles to see what's going on. Either it hasn't been released yet or there's nothing more to report, because there's still no update. Every now and then, someone's phone pings with a text from a coworker that they read out to the rest of the room. 'We've been escorted back to our office' or 'Our boss told us no one was injured'. But it isn't until the sun has begun its descent that you get any type of official update. Footsteps echo in the hall outside your door, and you perk up like a watchdog.

Jack enters in a flurry, throwing the door open with none of his usual self control. Anyone that hadn't noticed him come in jumps at the bang, whirling with wide eyes. You realize that he's pissed, and sink down into your chair. A pissed Jack Surace is a Jack Surace who isn't particularly choosy about whose head he collects.

But it quickly becomes clear that his anger isn't directed at his staff. "Everything is fine, and they don't expect any further attack. At least not tonight." He jams his hands in his pockets and looks around the room. "I'm going to Mihail. Chris will be in charge while I'm out."

"You can't go out there," you protest before you give yourself permission to speak. Jack turns his fierce gaze on you, but you don't falter from it. You're thinking of Susan Finch.

Some of the others back you up, but Jack cuts across them all. "I have to go. I'm going to Mihail, and I'm not coming back until I've gotten us some actual fucking security."

"I'll go with-"

"No." His voice is so sharp and cold that your eyes water, and the kid who had started to offer sits back down like he's been slapped. "Stay here, look out for each other. Any trouble and you call Chris. Understand?"

When he's satisfied with the round of affirmatives, he turns on his heel and sweeps out of the room, taking all the air with him.

Chrissy puts her head in her hands and cries softly. You put an arm around her shoulders and hope that you haven't seen the last of the old man.

Either your hope is what keeps him alive or you had never needed to worry, because Jack returns to the embassy in more or less the same condition as he left it. When you see him again, his shoulders are tight and he wears on his face an expression most mothers and kindergarten teachers might recognize - the look of someone who has spent an entire week trying to deal with very immature children. But he's whole and unharmed, and that has to be good enough for the time being.

"I fucking hate military bigwigs," is all the elaboration he offers, and reaches into his bottom desk drawer to pull out an amber bottle that's saved strictly for emergencies.

You can't deny that his trip yields results. The day of the incident and in the days immediately following, the embassy had been swarmed with both the Romanian Police and private contractors alike, along with the usual minor military presence, but that's nothing to what starts to flood in after Jack returns. Humvees roll in at all hours of the day and aggressively patrol around the compound in a show of strength, daring the attackers to return. Though the embassy lies at the edge of the city, even the protests Downtown are cowed by the increasing show of force, and, for a few nights at least, there's an uneasy truce in Bucharest.

As more military force pours in, however, civilians begin to pour out. The staff of the embassy is being reduced by half, and the soldiers move in to the newly-empty office space to set up temporary headquarters and barracks.

On the day Chrissy leaves, she hugs you fiercely and begs you to reconsider. But you had seen your boss drag the military into the city by sheer force of will alone, and if you ever want to emulate that kind of authority someday, you know you aren't going to get it by running away. That, and you're moved by his dedication to his people, and feel loyal to him now more than ever. You hug her back and comfort her with a few rehearsed platitudes, and promise to keep her updated every night. She waves before she gets into the car that will take her to the airport, looking miserable, but she doesn't look back, either. Some people are made for conflict, and some aren't. You can't tell which kind you are yet, but you know which camp Chrissy lies in, and you're glad that she's getting out of here.

With the reduction in workforce, you begin to take on more responsibility. Jack is reluctant to take anyone deeper into the city unless he absolutely has to, but that means that while he and Chris are gone meeting with Romanian politicians, you help the more senior staff run what's left of the office. You still write the same reports, but you're no longer expected to submit them to another, more experienced staff member for review. There's just not the time nor the manpower for it. Handing things in directly to Jack adds another level of anxiety to your day that you don't really need, but you can't help but feel a spark of pride at his faith in your work.

You and the other juniors have also began the laborious process of scanning files into digital databases and shredding whatever's left behind. It was a task that needed to be done anyways that you've all been putting off because it's tediously irritating, but the threat of possibly being attacked again at any time adds to the level of urgency and you can procrastinate no longer. It isn't entirely bad - commiserating with the other employees while scanning and shredding helps to fill the lonely gap that had been left behind when Chrissy went home. There's some humor in it, too, and some of the guys make a game of who can flop the most theatrically whenever one of them gets another papercut. There's also a lottery going for who's going to find the oldest document. A shy and polite man named Chase is winning so far in that department, having unearthed a positively ancient file from the 1970s that had practically flaked to pieces in his hands.

You take turns bringing the bags of scrap paper to the maintenance building across the lawn to be incinerated. Your turn comes on a breezy day with clear blue skies and, for a moment, you can forget where you are and enjoy the fine weather. As you cross the lawn, returning to your building empty-handed, you spot Sgt. Safin strutting through the buildings with a gaggle of soldiers in his wake. His voice carries across the lawn - he's giving a tour of the compound and is clearly in his element, and you smile to yourself.

Someone calls your name, and you turn to see Jack strolling towards you, his hands in his pockets and his grey hair ruffled by the breeze. You meet him halfway and pivot to walk in the same direction, matching him step-for-step. You realize he's headed for the entrance of the embassy, and feel a stirring of curiosity.

"There's a few more guys coming in. Military," he elaborates, seeing your confusion. "Chris and I are gone pretty often these days, so I wanted to introduce them to my staff before you came across them unawares. You shouldn't have to deal with them much directly, but just in case..."

This strikes you as odd, and you say so. "We haven't really been introduced to any of the other troops who have come in, sir."

He nods carefully. "True, but these guys are...different. A little intense, from the sound of it." He seems to be searching for a way to explain. "They don't really follow the same rules as the regulars, and I want to make sure you're all prepared for that."

You've reached the main road that leads from the front gate. There's already a small fleet of vehicles parked just inside the walls. They're not military - they're blacked out SUVs and vans with tinted windows and no plates. Most of the men that must have been inside have already gotten out and are stretching their legs, shaking out hours of travel. They're dressed in a casual mix of civilian clothes and military gear that you think you recognize.

You stop short a few yards away from the foremost vehicle. "Oh god, not those Delta guys."

Jack smirks. He knows something of your disdain for operators, having overheard a few of your rants after a particularly colorful visit to Mihail. "You're right, it's not those Delta guys." He gives you a sidelong glance. "Be nice."

Before he can elaborate, the herd of them starts moving in your direction. There's maybe fifteen to twenty in all, and, for the most part, they ignore both of you in their usual arrogant manner. A few call out a greeting to Jack or pause to shake his hand before moving on but, aside from a dismissive glance, none of them pay you much attention at all. They just hike their gear up over their shoulders and disappear into the nearest building. You realize that many of them have British accents, and the feeling of impending doom intensifies.

Your attention shifts to the little group that brings up the rear, somehow knowing who it's going to be before you even lay eyes on them. Your intuition doesn't disappoint. There they are, walking four abreast - Mohawk, Skull-mask, Ballcap, and Mr. Cigar. Any hopes that they might not recognize you from your last VIP run to the air base are dashed when you see Mohawk nod in your direction and tap Ballcap on the shoulder. Mr. Cigar glances at you from under the brim of his hat and winks.

For fuck's sake.

"Good morning," Jack says as they approach, offering his hand. He's just one unarmed man standing across from four soldiers bristling with weapons, but he stands straight-backed and tall, giving nothing away. Mr. Cigar takes it first, and they size each other up in the manner of men who have each recognized power in the other - quickly, shrewdly, and hiding any judgment behind a cool expression. The other three offer handshakes and brief greetings as well while Jack introduces himself.

He waves you closer. "This is one of my staff members. One of the last ones left, anyways." He doesn't smile at his own wry humor and neither does anyone else. He introduces each of the men to you - apparently, he had been given a brief dossier of names before they had arrived. "They're not here to guard the embassy, specifically, but they'll be based here while they work in the city. This is Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley, and Sergeants Garrick and MacTavish."

Though you've already met, you let Jack make the introduction official. A part of you would like to be snide and dismissive, to fold your hands primly behind your back and scorn any overture of camaraderie. But you're still a diplomat, and you're painfully aware that you're not in a position to turn down allies in the present climate.

Plus, you've already been told to play nice.

So, you smile politely and take each hand as its offered to you. MacTavish is the Scot with the mohawk, and his smile is almost blinding as he shakes your hand with all the exuberance of a golden retriever puppy. Garrick takes his place, charming and friendly, clasping your hand with exaggerated grace as though to show MacTavish how it's done. Riley's greeting is clipped, his handshake brief and professional. He isn't looking at you - he's eyeing the Captain slyly, who returns the look with an air of warning before turning to you. He may have ditched the cigar from last time, but the stupid hat is still the same, and so is his confident little smile.

His hand is large and warm, engulfing yours with ease. You look up into his face and see his eyes are the same too, creased again in the same friendly way. "Hullo, Ms. Diplomat."

You have a feeling that nickname is going to stick, and decide Captain Price and his silly hat and ridiculously blue eyes can go to Hell.

"Hello, Captain Price."

#john price #captain price #price x reader #price x you #call of duty #warrior/diplomat

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polakina · 1 year ago

Text

on his knees for you

pairing: javier escuella x reader

rating: mature

outline: a robbery goes sideways, and your already rocky friendship with a fellow camp mate is put to the test as you evade the guards of Van Horn

warnings: cursing, so much bickering, canon-typical gore and violence, flirting, slightly suggestive (this is by far the tamest thing i've ever written)

requests are open! hope you enjoy, petals <3

a/n: i can't believe how many notifications i've gotten about my works over the past week. its fucking crazy. thank you so much, you're all absolute stars

masterlist

It was a simple job, really. Get in, steal the bonds, and get out.

But nothing ever went as simple as the original plan, did it? Not with the Van Der Linde gang. There was always a little bit of improvisation to be had. Which was exactly what you were doing right now.

Bullets firing past your ears, blood running down your leg, the target’s personal guards chasing you down the winding paths of Roanoke Ridge.

One day earlier.

The plan was set. Arthur, Bill and Lenny were to infiltrate the building and steal the bonds, while Micah and Charles handled the guards. You and Javier were on lookout, posted at the entrance gates.

You were all stationed just outside of Van Horn, your target being the mansion and its occupiers. Trelawny had brought intel of bonds on their way through Van Horn to Annesburg, stopping off at the mansion overnight. Roanoke wasn’t a place anyone wanted to be caught up in at night.

“It’s fucking freezing out here,” you muttered, leaning further against your horse, absorbing his body heat as much as you could. It had been hours of waiting around and checking on the mansion. No movement whatsoever since the sun began to set. Darkness was nearing and the coach was nowhere to be seen.

Javier stood beside you, rifle in hand, eyes fixated on the road to the right, where the coach should appear from. “Want my poncho?” He asked, glancing at you briefly.

You didn’t even cast him a look as you responded. “Wouldn’t want to ruin your style, Escuella. I think I’ll survive without it.” You sighed, and moved from your position, heading further down the road, hiding in the trees to watch from a different position, seeing the road winding down Roanoke Ridge to New Hanover.

The two of you had never gotten along. He didn’t like your attitude one bit. You were snarky, cold. Something you’d developed after years of running with Arthur and John. He’d try and make conversation, you’d brush it off. He’d invite you on a fishing or hunting trip, you’d decline and say you preferred to hunt alone. He couldn’t win. You never sat with the camp during his songs or meals, you were always perched somewhere else, keeping lookout. That’s what you did. That’s all you ever did.

So after a few months, he gave up. Not exactly understanding your harshness to him, he just accepted it instead. He returned your cold comments and your mean stares. Years passed and you bickered like enemies living beside one another.

You whistled out to the group as you spotted the coach. Your whistle blended with the birds, so it was undetected by the gourds watching the bonds.

Everything went smoothly, Arthur, Lenny and Bill making quick work of breaking into the bonds lock box, and you heard the guards grunting and groaning as they hit the floor from Micah and Bill’s attacks.

Through your scope, you spotted as the boys grabbed the bonds, throwing them into their satchels. Drifting your rifle along the side of the mansion, you sensed something wrong with Bill. He was arguing with Micah. More so than usual.

“What’s going on?” Javier whispered, lying beside you, hidden between the trees.

You shushed him, focusing on Bill. Their argument grew even more heated, and you caught a glimpse of lantern light behind them. You watched as they turned, cursing loudly before returning fire. Micah had scurried off during the brawl with the guards, seeking other treasures and getting himself caught in a scuff with guardsmen minding their own business.

“Shit, shit,” Javier cursed, throwing an arm over you and holding you down, protecting your head as bullets fired your way. “He can’t keep his head for one mission, puta madre!”

Arthur had ordered for, if the mission went south; which you had good money on it that it did, that you scatter. Split up and evade Van Horn at all costs, go the long way around New Hanover until it was safe to return back to camp so you were sure you weren’t followed.

They had the bonds, all they needed to do was escape without getting caught. But you wouldn’t have minded if Micah got murdered in the. Just when you thought he’d found your last nerve, he managed to hit another one.

“I think this is our cue to leave,” you said through gritted teeth, pushing yourself onto your feet and grabbing your gear. Javier was on your heels, close behind. You hiked deeper into Murfree Brood territory, constantly keeping an eye over your shoulders for lantern light.

“Our safest path is through Roanoke,” Javier said from behind you, following your path through the trees. “The guards won’t dare follow us through there this late at night.”

You halted suddenly, whipping around to face Javier. He was caught off guard, almost stumbling into you, a surprised expression on his face. “Are you crazy, Escuella? Murfree Brood hunt here at night. If it’s not the guards who get us, it’ll be them. And I’d rather take my chances with bullets rather than-”

A bullet shot through the wind, straight through your leg into the tree behind you. It caught your words in your throat and you almost crumbled to the ground under the pain firing down your leg. Javier didn’t even blink as he wrapped an arm around you, catching you before you fell. He pulled his gun from its holster at his hip, pointing it over your shoulder and firing it straight into the head of the guard who fired at you first.

It drew attention. Of course, it did. Javier pulled you away from the scene, down the winding path leading to New Hanover. His arm stayed firmly around your waist, and you tried to hold in your groans of pain as your feet collided with uneven terrain, worsening the sting of the wound.

You both heard voices, coming from the top of the hill of which you had just descended. Javier pulled you around a large oak tree, pushing your body against the bark which pulled a pained gasp from your lips. “Fucking hell, Javier. At least try to be gentler with-” His hand clamped over your mouth, his body pressed against yours as he looked past the tree trunk to the guards making their way past you, checking their surroundings as they went.

“You need to learn to shut up once in a while,” he whispered, looking back to you. His hat was tipped down his head, shielding his eyes. “I’m trying to save you and you’re still complaining.”

You looked up at him, your mouth still firmly covered, your hand wrapped around his wrist, instinct from when he shut you up. He smelled of whiskey and firewood, his scent filling your nostrils. His hand wrapped around your waist protectively, tightening as the footsteps grew closer.

Pulling his hand down, you noticed his skin never left yours. It rested around your neck. Softly, no pressure in his fingers, but the heat of his palm burned against your pulse, and he felt your heart rate jump. “Thought you would have wanted to get rid of me, Escuella,” you whispered, looking up at him.

But he just looked down at you, surprised. “What?”

“Get rid of me. Hand me off to some guards searching through half the woods for us.” Your gaze never wavered. “Would certainly save you the trouble of dealing with me back at camp.”

He just smirked, tilting his head up, his eyes turned down to look at you. “And why would I want to get rid of you? Perhaps I enjoy the trouble you cause me. Ever thought about that?” His eyebrows raised as you stood there, unable to form words. “So are you going to shut up and behave yourself while I get you out of here? Or are you going to keep talking until they figure out where we are?”

Javier waited for your response, but it never came. You just bowed your head, sealing your lips in a thin line. He took that as a sign that you’d ‘shut up and behave’.

The men eventually left, abandoning their search for you, leaving both you and Javier a window of opportunity to flee.

The sun poked out above the trees from the makeshift camp Javier had set up in New Hanover. You were shielded by the canopy of branches, the fire in front of you keeping you warm. But it wasn’t doing anything good for the bullet wound in your leg. You stretched out your leg, wincing at the pain shooting through your body.

“I told you not to try and fix it by yourself,” you heard Javier say as he emerged with an armful of firewood, dropping it by your bags. “Your hands will shake before you’ve finished stitching it.”

You glared up at him. “Would you suggest I just leave it? Cut my leg off?”

Javier rolled his eyes at you, kneeling in front of you, his knees on either side of your wounded leg. “I would suggest…that you should wait for me. I’ll stitch it for you.”

Pulling his knife from the holster at his ankle, he sliced the blade through the fabric of your pant leg like butter. All the way up to your hip. “Hey!” You called out. “They were new pants.”

“I’ll buy you a replacement. Now shut up.” He was always harsh with his words, but now, it was even more so. A slight pang of worry soaked his tone.

“You’re such an ass sometimes-ow!” His fingers pushed against the wound on your leg, blood pooling out to the floor. “The fuck was that for?”

He looked indifferent as he looked up at you. “Feeling for any shrapnel. You don’t have any, thankfully, or else this would have hurt a lot more than its about to.”

“I could have told you that,” you grimaced as he began cleaning the wound. Applying pressure to one end of the bullet hole only forced blood through the other side. You could see both the entry point and exit point of the wound, stretching across the left and right sides of your leg.

You were both silent as he cleaned your leg, but you gasped as he pulled out a needle. He saw a panicked flash across your face, seeing it appear as quickly as it fled. “Easy,” he soothed, patting your knee. “I’ll be quick. You won’t feel it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you whispered, your eyes only focused on the needle.

He sighed, leaning closer, tipping your chin up to meet his softened gaze. “Okay. You will feel it. But not much. A bee sting, that’s all it feels like. But it’ll be easier if you lie down.”

“Why?”

“Your muscles tense when you sit upright. You could at least be comfortable while I stitch you up.” He helped you into a more comfortable position. Javier still straddled your shin, one of his hands pressed against your thigh while his other stitched the hole closed. You laid there, his poncho acting as your pillow as you looked up at the trees.

You ignored the sting you felt each time the needle pierced your skin. Javier wasn’t wrong, it did feel like a bee sting. What’s more important, was that you could manage that sort of pain. “Thank you,” you said quietly, but you weren’t certain he heard you at first, until the needle stopped in your skin, his actions immoveable. Lifting your head and straining your neck, you met his eye. There was a small smile on his face, the corners of his moustache turned upwards with his laugh lines driven deep into his skin. You always did like his smile. That was the one thing that never changed about him.

“It’s the least I can do,” he smiled, turning his attention back to your stitches. “It’s sort of my fault you got shot in the first place.”

“Sort of? You mean ‘entirely’?” You laughed as he playfully slapped your other leg with the back of his hand.

“Quit laughing,” he chuckled with you. “Or I’ll end up stabbing you in the wrong place.”

He finished quickly, wiping away any trace of blood before gently bandaging your leg. His soft touch lingered for a little while, his thumb gently rubbing soothing patterns into your skin. Your breath stopped in your throat as his touch rose higher. Higher up your thigh. To where your thigh met your hip. He was so fixated on it, he didn’t realise what he was doing until he felt your pulse beating at an ungodly rate at the top of your inner thigh.

His eyes flicked up to yours, where you laid, patiently. You were curious what sorts of thoughts were running through his head right now. What sort of cogs were turning in that brain of his.

You pushed yourself up onto your elbows, your face closer to his than it had ever been before. “What?” You coaxed, too curious to keep quiet now.

“Nothing,” he moved to lean back, his hands drifting down your thighs, but they never left your body before you grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him in place.

“What did I say? Don’t lie to me, Javier.” Your voice never raised above a whisper. It didn’t need to. You were so close a whisper felt like a shout.

He didn’t respond. He couldn’t speak. The close proximity had rendered him faulty in speech. So instead he closed the gap. His lips touched yours, his body melting against your touch. You didn’t expect it. All those years of bickering. All those years of cruel comments and nasty looks. Nothing prepared you for this. But you welcomed it.

Javier leaned you back, your head meeting the poncho as you felt his body settle on top of yours. Breaking away for air, you saw a softened, kinder look in his eye when he looked at you. “Is this your apology for me getting shot?” You asked, smiling against his lips as he kissed you once more.

“Is it working?” His lips moved to your neck, hovering above your skin to a point where it tickled.

“Hmm…maybe.”

“Then perhaps I’ll try a different angle,” he smirked, unbuttoning your pants, encapturing your lips in a soft kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. He had a lot of making up to do.

#fluff #smut #fanfiction #fanfic #rdr2 #red dead redemption 2 #red dead redemption x reader #javier escuella smut #javier escuella rdr2 #javier escuella x reader #javier escuella #rdr2 smut #rdr2 fanfiction #rdr2 x reader #red dead redemption two #red dead fandom

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aleenuhs · 1 year ago

Note

heyyy can I request something where sadie and female r get into an argument, and sadie says something really hurtful that causes r to run away in tears. fluffy ending pls!

⋆Soft Spot

thank u xx

warnings: sadie is a bit toxic, she's rude to reader but then she makes up for it, fluff, crying, angst, slight cursing, reader referred to as "girl" and some other petnames, reader is sensitive, implied enemies to lovers

word count: 1.5k

Sadie wasn't one to know how to control her words and what they meant, so when she was angry, it was a different story. This time, you got the short end of the stick, and she was angry at you.

You, Sadie, John, and a few others had just gotten back from a botched bank mission and Sadie blamed you for the way it went, claiming that you screwed up your little act that John suggested you do as a distraction. You all had escaped just by a hair, the law was right on your guys's tails.

When you got back, she took you to your shared tent and sat you down, then paced around before she spoke, hand on her chin, face an angry red.

"You--" She spoke, her words cut short as she thought on how to word this. She was that angry to where she couldn't speak.

"I'm sorry Sadie, I didn't mean to mess up that bad..." You stammered, and she scoffed at your effort. Sometimes she could be so angry, so mean, but so lovable at the same time. She could love you, then be angry at you for days on end if you messed up.

But you got used to it as those lines blurred, you just walked on your tippy toes around her, in a worry that if you mess up, she'll leave.

"We asked one thing of ya', and you just had to screw that up too, huh?" She had a tone, one that indicated she could only progressively get worse from here on out. You sat there on the cot and watched her clench her fists and teeth, her breathing was rapid and her face flushed red. You looked down at your hands, then you could hear a sigh come out of her mouth. "Couldn't you have done better, no?" She asked, you hoped it was a rhetorical question because you were too afraid to respond.

"Answer me. Couldn't you have saved this from going to shit, girl?" She got closer to you, almost as if to speak down to you, like you were a child, like you meant nothing.

The truth was you tried, but it didn't work, and that's what really messed the job up. A man came up to you and started to get touchy feely with you when he heard your pleas for help outside the bank. You started to get scared, and ran inside, exposing what the others were doing.

"I... Yes, I could've." You blurted out, scared, holding yourself. Its like she was purposefully provoking you, to get a rise out of you.

Sadie clicked her tongue.

"Y'make me hurt," She murmured out and then cursed under her breath. "Go." She said louder this time, and you didn't budge.

"I'm sorry, I can make it up to you, please." You said almost silently but desperately, in order to make Sadie happy with you again, you sounded incredibly desperate, but it was all or nothing, and you couldn't loose her.

You realize that not even John was angry at you, and if he was, he wasn't this angry.

Maybe you were sensitive, as a little girl, that's what most people called you. Your father was a bit harder on you, and your mom didn't even try to discipline you. You were laughed at because of how easily you cried when being yelled at.

You had an incredibly easy-to-find soft spot, and every time it made you seem lesser than the person yelling at you.

It lead you to think that messing up was this horrible thing, all you could do was apologize and hope they wouldn't get angry at you. Hence this, you'd mentioned it to Sadie, and here she was.

When she realized you weren't moving, she got a bit more vocal. "Can't you hear me?" She said angrily, "I don't want you to act all fuckin' stupid and clueless like you usually are, go!" She yelled over your attempt to apologize, and you're sure that whoever was around heard it. How forceful it was, how it made your nose burn and tears enter your eyes, It wasn't a sob, they were silent tears. You angrily wiped them away, getting up and running off. You could feel someone staring at you as you ran out, and it was embarrassing.

You ran to the nearby river bank and sat down, hiding your face, sobbing loudly. Your tears dampening your pants as your legs came to your chest, the hot sun beating on your exposed neck, making you uncomfortable all around.

You loved Sadie so much, and you knew she loved you too, but it hurt to love her so much.

Meanwhile, Sadie sat on the cot, thinking about what she'd said to you. Thinking about it deeply. She remembered how scared you looked, and how you mentioned the treatment you were dealt when you were just a little girl.

You needed someone, and she felt like a jerk for not being that for you. For scolding you like like a bad dog. She could feel the anger washing off of her, being replaced with regret and hate for what she just did to you, how she yelled at you without a care in the world. What made her feel worse was how easily she could treat you like shit.

She got up and put on her brown hat and walked out in a search to find you and apologize to you.

After minutes of trying to find you, she sees you balled up, crying by the river bank. She stands over you, watching you for a moment before she kneels down and puts her hand on your shoulder, rubbing it ever so slightly.

"Darlin'," she speaks softly, a contrast from her usual voice.

You didn't dare look at her, not even move, you wiped away your tears, you can hear her start to speak but then retire. "I.. er, I'm sorry." She mumbled out, and you could tell she was trying, but not yet would you give it up to her.

"I jus' wanna hear ya.. please talk to me, honey." She sounded desperate, and at once, the tables were turned. She leans her head against your shoulder, slightly nudging you. "Can you just look at me, please?" She begged, a slight tremble in her words, but her accent still clearer than day.

You slowly rose your head from between your legs and looked up at her. It all hit her at once, she felt like the bad guy, like the shitty person. But you still didn't speak to her, instead you let her do the talking.

"Will you forgive me? I know I messed up real bad. I remember what you told me 'bout your parents- how they treated you."

"That man was getting weird with me and you still take it out on me, I don't know Sadie." You admitted, and she nodded seeing where her faults lie.

"Yeah. I know this ain't your fault, it never was." She put her hand behind your neck and brung you closer as you two sat on the grassy area, she stroked your hair, trying to soothe you, she could feel you shake a bit. Sadie never understood how hurtful her words could really be, until now. "m'too hard on you," she said softly, grabbing for your hand and taking it, rubbing your knuckles. "I need to learn to love you better."

You nod and look at her, your watery eyes clearing up, but it's not like you weren't still hurt by her words, that was a given. But the way she looked at you made your heart hurt, you knew she meant it. "Yeah," was all you could muster out.

"Come here," she said, her arms were open for you. "Please?" She watched as you look at her and hesitate for a moment before you hugged her. She pulled you into her lap and hugged you tightly. "I'm sorry." She repeated again.

"I know," you said, nodding.

"Can I kiss you?" She said, in an attempt to make you feel better.

You nod and the tears start to fall again, and you feel bad. She kisses your cheek and softly speaks, "don't cry." She reaches up and wipes away the tears that stained your cheeks, using her thumb to wipe them off your lips and she pulls you in so she can kiss you. You feel like a mess.

It made you feel slightly better, the way she was trying, and that was all it took. She hugged you like you were all she had, and really, you were. When you two first met, you couldn't stand her, and she couldn't stand you, but somehow it's what brought you two together. You don't exactly remember how she ended up loving you, but you knew she was the first to fall and since then, it's been a ride with her.

You do remember that you tripped her up one time after she took all your coffee beans, and another time you got her back by eating her food that was meant for her, and she got angry, but it made you happy to see her angry.

Now, you were in her arms and she was comforting you. Neither of you could ever imagine hating each other again, even when stuff like this happened.

#sadie adler #red dead redemption 2 #fluff #sadie adler x reader #sadie rdr2 #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #Sadie Adler x you #angst with a happy ending #angst

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twainxavier · 9 months ago

Note

JOHN CONSTANTINE MEETS DBD TELL ME ABOUT IT BESTIE

Hey bestie!

Okay, so basically it's just this funny little thing of John spotting the boys whilst they're on a case and tailing them confused why two ghosts from different decades are hanging out together doing magic stuff like he does. I haven't worked out how it's going to end yet but it's basically just like a funny "Well I guess these are my ghost kids now" vibe basically XD

Okay, as for a snippet, here's one of my favourite moments so far:

After a few more random loops, it would seem that the two ghosts found what they were looking for, as they sped up their pace and started practically running. It was getting far more difficult to tail them, certainly without getting noticed. Thankfully, John wasn't an amature. He went a different route to the two ghosts that would still end up in the same area they were headed to, and once again thanked his knowledge of London when the two ghosts appeared again. Clearly they'd found what they were looking for as they began frantically searching around the little alleyway. John watched from a safe distance down a connected alleyway, thankfully hidden by the shit lighting. The 80s ghost was pulling a bunch of random stuff out of a backpack that probably shouldn't have been able to fit that much crap in it. So the ghosts had a pocket universe, interesting. The smartly dressed ghost started skimming through a book the other ghost had handed to him, which John recognised as arcane of some variety. They were still searching around, tapping bricks and listening to walls, when suddenly the 80s ghost yells out to the other. “I've got it, mate!” He then pulled a brick out of the wall and reached into the cavity. John frowned and leaned a little closer, curious to get a better look at whatever it was the two of them had been looking for. He watched as the ghost pulled a small baby doll out of the wall, small enough to fit in the palm of a hand. It reeked of evil. Even at this distance John could sense it, so strong it almost made him back off. The well dressed ghost flinched a little but then held out his gloved palm to take the cursed thing. “Right, let us put a stop to this, Charles.” The moment the object was in his hand, the ghost began reciting a spell that John was pretty sure he recognised. In fact, on closer inspection, he was pretty sure he had a copy of that book the ghost was reading from. The creepy little doll burned up in the ghost's hand, and he dropped it to the floor, watching it burn. “Well there we go, mate. Another case closed.” The 80s ghost grinned as he spoke, and then went over to pat his friend on the shoulder. “Indeed,” the other ghost responded. “And one less creepy baby doll in the world.” The 80s ghost laughed at that, and they turned and left the way they arrived. John followed again, even more curious about what exactly these two ghosts were up to. They were doing good, no doubt about that, but it didn't make John any less curious. Usually he was very in the know about these sorts of things, he wasn't sure how these two managed to slip past his radar. He continued to follow, until eventually the pair turned down an alleyway and walked straight through a wall. “Bugger.”

Okay so maybe it's more than just a moment but I love this whole scene sooooo yeah XD Thank you for letting me talk about this fic! I really need to get back in the saddle and keep writing <3

#wip ask game #dead boy detectives #edwin payne #charles rowland #dbda #dead boy detective agency #john constantine

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brotherwtf · 10 months ago

Note

i’ve tried to forget about you, but it’s impossible.

oh no more angst!! (I asked for this) more post war stuff bcs it makes me so sad and tender 🥹

---

Gale had appeared on John's doorstep a little over a week ago, and there is obvious tension between them every time they speak to each other. No more was the easy banter and quick jokes, it was all strained smiles and politeness, something that John was not used to.

John, of course, had allowed Gale to stay in his home. He could never turn Gale away, not after everything they went through. It would be like kicking a wounded dog while it was down to turn Gale away at the door.

But the silence was almost worse than the constant noise of war. They woke at separate times, barely talked and would leave the house for hours at a time. John would spend his nights weeping in his room, craving the normalcy that had seemed to die in the war.

John awoke to a crash in the guest room and immediately jolted to his feet. He doesn't even think before he bolts into the room, spying Gale in the ground with his knees brought to his stomach. He rocks back and forth and shakes, muttering things to himself in that deep, husky voice that would usually drive John wild.

John is instantly at Gale's side, crouching in front of him and grabbing his hands.

"Buck, hey Buck, come on, come back, you're okay," John tries to soothe, but curses under his breath when Gale only digs his fingers further into his arm.

He wasn't cut out for this, there were others who were far better at soothing than John could ever be, but he was the only person here right now. He sits next to Gale and wraps an arm around him, trying to tuck Gale into the crook of his body. Gale still holds himself tight, but relaxes the slightest bit in John's arms.

"That's it, Buck, come back to me," John says, and tries not to think of how intimate the words are.

Gale's breaths slow down and he turns his face into John's shirt, gently gripping the material and making a pained sound. John rubs his thumb against Gale's shoulder.

"I thought I lost you," Gale mutters and Johns ears instantly perk up.

"Lost me? I'm right here, Buck," John says.

Gale shakes his head and curses under his breath.

"In my nightmares. You always end up in a ball of flames and I can't do anything, I'm just forced to watch, watch as you go down..." Gale mutters and his breath picks up again.

John shushes him, bringing a hand to Gale's hair and tucking him into the crook of his neck.

"I thought it would get better when I was back with Marge. But she didn't know, she didn't get it. She tried to help but she just couldn't," Gale says.

He sighs heavily before continuing.

"I tried to forget about you, forget about all of it. But it's impossible. I can't forget any of it. Much less you," Gale whispers.

John clenches his jaw and brings Gale's face into view. In the moonlight, his eyes shine brighter than ever.

"I'll help you then. We'll help each other. You and me, Gale, we're gonna get through this," John whispers.

There's a look on Gale's eyes that John can't quite place, but he ignores it and leans down to connect their lips. It's something sweet and chaste, and John has to hold back a sob. It's everything he's ever wanted.

John pulls away and tucks his face into Gale's hair. Gale still holds onto John like a lifeline, but reaches his head up to connect their cheeks together. It's damp from Gale's silent tears and John leans into it. Gale pulls away for a moment before kissing John again, resting their foreheads together after a brief moment.

"Hold me, John," Gale whispers.

John wraps his arms around Gale's shoulders and brings him closer into his body.

"Of course, Gale. I ain't going anywhere,"

this is definitely up there with one of the ones I almost bawled while writing. thank you so much for the ask anon!

#mota #clegan #buck x bucky #john egan #gale cleven #asks

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betsey-laurens-hamilton · 10 months ago

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attention ELAMS ONESHOT john survived au!

I can't believe I haven't posted this. it's one of my favorite one shots ever. its john and eliza, he gets to the hamilton household alive and well after everyone thinks he was dead bc he wouldn't send letters to alexander for a while. its giving he wasn't dead he was just depressed

anyway enjoy!! I love them so much! 🥹

⋆ ☼ ☽

“He looks happy.”

John looked over at the woman standing near the counter. He struggled a little to keep his eyes plainly open but did his best nonetheless.

“Alexander?”

“Yes. You two are a good fit.”

A little smile made its way to Eliza’s lips and she gently dipped some cotton into an alcohol-based solution.

“Well, I appreciate that.”

Laurens winced when Elizabeth placed the cotton on one of his open wounds, though maybe that was just because he had relaxed and completely forgot to prepare for the pain.

“Fuck.”

“It’s about the third time I hear you curse in the past hour, Mr. Laurens, you sound like a sailor.”

His blue eyes darted to her. Eliza was focused on his wound, however, she managed to sneak a touch of a fun tone to her voice. She was not very serious about what she’d said. He snickered after a few seconds staring at her, and shook his head.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hamilton.”

“Please call me Eliza. As appealing as the title is to me, I feel like we should be going past formalities by now.”

“Eliza. Sorry, Eliza.”

Both of them chuckled a little bit, looking and sounding a tad shyer than they usually did.

“I am merely messing with. How did you manage this wound, by the way? My husband has spoken several times of your endearing ease to get yourself in trouble. The war is already over, what could you be up to?”

“Well…” Laurens sighed. “I was simply serving my duty to the country. Fighting for the land. The british are yet to leave us alone fully.”

“Are those battles not more dangerous than the previous ones?”

“Sometimes.”

Eliza stared up at John from the wound for a few seconds. He shrugged.

“Well… Alexander has also spoken of his desire to see you again, written letters quite a few times, yet you never seem to acknowledge it.”

John frowned, eyes on her once again focused face. She was bold, that mistress of his companion. Perhaps why they fit so well.

“A man on duty can’t give everything up to pay a friend a visit any time he wishes, no matter how much he might wish otherwise.”

“No, but you have had plenty of free time despite your efforts to keep yourself busy, so I’ve heard.”

“I do get busy with things other than battles. I have personal matters, do I not?”

“Exactly what we are talking about, Mr. Laurens. I was just quite curious about the reason my husband’s best friend would rather not show up to his wedding day.”

John couldn’t help his cheeks from warming up at Mrs. Hamilton’s comment. Did she know he had also been invited by her husband to the aftermath of it? Was it something that they had thought of together or was she oblivious to the entire situation? John couldn’t even begin to wonder how a woman like her would react to such indecent ideas. There was, however, a curious spark about it, hidden away…

“John?”

“Uhh…”

Eliza wiped the soaked cotton over his wound one last time, ripping a wince out of him.

“I’m not angry at you, John. Alexander might be a little, but I’m not. I am quite curious, though, but I don’t want you to speak on subjects you may not be comfortable with or find displeasing.” Eliza collected the dirty cottons and stood up, scaring Laurens slightly. “Stay. Are you alright?”

He just looks at her, blue guilty eyes and a hard swallow followed by an apology and yes. A few seconds later, Eliza returned with bandages and a glass of water.

“Thank you.”

“It’s nothing. If you feel better, sit up a tad.”

And then he did as said, holding in a grunt of pain.

Eliza worked in silence for a few seconds. Sometimes, she’d glance up at him, but John was unaware, having closed his eyes. Just tight enough, Schuyler wrapped bandages around his arm, making sure to soothe any rough patches beforehand.

“You know, your hair resembles wheat.”

“Hm?” Laurens blinks his eyes open, slightly unaware of his surroundings. Eliza worked like an angel, so much better than any nurse ever did and, god, he was tired.

“The blonde in your hair. I knew it reminded me of something. It’s wheat in the morning sun.”

A breath got stuck in his throat. How was he supposed to hold on much longer?

John swallowed.

“Specifically morning sun?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Mr. Laurens!” Eliza abruptly looked up at him.

“John. Call me John.”

“Fine. John, how come you do not know the difference? You’re an artist as far as I know…” She sighed. “The morning sun is… well, definitely less yellow, leaning more into a whiter shade of sunlight. It hits the wheat and reflects a light beige, a beautiful one at that. It’s different.”

He stays in silence for a brief second, only to realize there’s a smile on his face.

“It’s…” Eliza sighed, cheeks flushing slightly but also quite a smiley expression. “It’s one of the most beautiful hours of the day. I wish Alexander would rise earlier more often, just to appreciate the daylight and the fresh air of mornings.”

“I would always try to convince him back in army days…”

“And would it work?”

“Definitely not,” He chuckled.

Eliza joined in with quiet giggles.

“I forced him out of bed sometimes for a walk. He despised it.” John added.

“He has the loveliest grumpy morning face.”

“He does…”

Both of them lean gently into their smiles, sighing in content one after the other. John, however, quickly noticed what he said and shot Eliza an indiscreet wide gaze, which the brunette met with a calm, yet aware one. A knowing, very discreet gaze.

Heavens, did she know?

Laurens rapidly cleared his throat, shaking his head. “Either way we never spent too much time out, General Washington always had plenty of work to do, much more pleasant for him.”

“Yes, the writing?” Eliza finished up the bandage, checking it around a few times.

“Yes.”

“Hide the pen and present him with a sweet activity once he comes asking for it. Just a tip… Well,” She grinned. “You’re all done, Mr. La.. John. You’re done, John. I suppose I should leave you to rest.”

“Thank you, Eliza. Truly.”

“It’s nothing, John. Good night, just shout if you need something.”

He chuckled, meeting her gaze a last time before she opened and closed the door behind herself.

“Good night, ‘Liza.”

#elams #hamliza #johnliza #i love them so much #<3 #eliza schuyler #elizabeth schuyler #hamilton #throuple #alexander hamilton #john laurens #john survived au #historical #historical appearances #lams #bisexual bitches

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milliesfishes · 10 months ago

Text

When The Tide Changes 𓇼 ⋆˚ 𓆉 𓆝 𓆡⋆𓇼

request by @stardustandseashells [fem reader] contains: storm, injury, prejudice pairing: merman billy the kid x fishergirl reader summary: you get caught in a storm and billy saves you author’s note: thank you anon for leaving this request!!! Pinterest Board Spotify Playlist

The sea itself is not dangerous, but everything in it is.

As a child, when storm tossed nights when the rain beat at the windows and you hid under your covers in fear, that was what your father had always told you.

"She only acts as she should," he would say soothingly, bringing you over to the window to watch the waves lap at the shore. "But with time you learn to love and trust her just as intended."

Looking back, you were unsure the sentiment was entirely correct, having seen typhoons and hurricanes that didn't have anything to do with what laid beneath the waters. But your father had long since passed, and you weren't about to correct the dead.

He hadn't left you much in terms of wealth, but he had passed the knowledge of his craft to you. Fishing was a man's world, but you navigated it well, your compass your father's voice in your head.

Because it was so male dominated, you had to work twice as hard, bring in double the bounty, in order to even slightly be taken seriously. But it made a decent living, enough for you to keep shelter and food in your belly.

Maybe it was dangerous for you, a woman all by her lonesome milking what she could from the ocean. There were whisperings of the creatures who could cause you danger; krakens that had tentacles lined with teeth, men with tails and a vengeance for human blood.

It wasn't like you had a choice, though. You weren't about to marry one of the sunburnt fishermen who occupied the pubs late at night. And nobody respectable would possibly entertain the thought of someone like you.

No, this was what you had. The long, lonely nights by the fire, smelling the salt air.

As you untied your boat one day, you heard a group of men talking near you on the dock, their faces tight with fear.

"He barely made it t' shore," one said in hushed tones. "Had scratches 'n marks all over 'im. Was scared half to death, talkin' 'bout a creature that almost killed 'im."

"'Nother fella on the north shore said somethin' just 'bout the same," a different man said, tipping his hat up to block the sun. "There's somethin' in the water, t' be sure. Somethin' after us."

Fishermen were a superstitious bunch, and so you paid no mind to their worries. It was more than likely the men they spoke of had a little too much sun and salt and fell offboard, maybe hitting a few rocks or patches of coral. When you'd first started, you'd been afraid of the supposed creatures within, but survival instincts had overpowered it.

It would be silly to think that the waters only contained fish and sharks. You knew there was more down there, and your father had told tales of it. His favorite was of people with tails like a fish, who lived in underwater kingdoms. He claimed to have seen them once or twice, bobbing their heads above the water.

The underlying warning in his story, however, was that they were ruthless, terrible beings who would hurt you as quick as the tide changes. So, you stayed wary.

Dark clouds on the horizon told you there would be a storm, but you ignored it. Rain and creatures aside, you needed a good day on the water. It was sure to be a lovely day for the net.

Nature, as always, had other plans.

The waves were like mountains, threatening to swallow anything in its wake. You pulled at the sails, trying to bat down the hatches, but the wind was furious, the rain beating steadily against you. You cursed your choice in clothing, your skirt tangling around your legs. Usually you wore men's clothes, but today of all days you'd let the comments of nosy townspeople get to you.

Frantically rocking, your little boat threatened to tip, knocking you from side to side. You squeezed your eyes shut, clinging to the mast and sending a prayer to the gods of the sea, reciting an old sailor's verse to the sky and begging for mercy.

Opening your eyes, the first thing you saw was a never ending wall of water hurtling toward you. Nails digging into the mast, skirt soaked and sticking to your legs, hair in your eyes, your heart threatened to fly out of your chest.

Is this how it feels to die?

Sun.

That was the first thing you were aware of. The warmth.

Sand.

Your fingers twitched, the grainy substance scrubbing against you.

There was a light straining against your eyes, and you squined as you opened them, blinded by the hot ball in the sky. Turning your head to the side, you tried to sit up.

"Careful," a voice said gently. "Don't be movin' so much."

"What happened?" Your voice was like sandpaper, your memory hazy.

"You were sailin' in a storm," the voice soothed, and you felt a hand settle on your arm comfortingly. "Real nasty one. Got tossed overboard. I pulled ya out."

"Thank you," you murmured, blinking and opening your eyes blearily.

There was a bare-chested man sitting beside you. He looked concerned, but his head was blocking the sun at your angle, and it gave him a halo. It didn't hurt that he was terribly handsome as well, rugged and chiseled in all the right places. You tilted your head, sure you must be imagining him. "Is this real?"

"If anyone's dreamin', it's me," he reached out and tucked some of your salt-tangled hair behind your ear. "Ain't often I get to rescue someone so pretty."

The compliment made you smile, and you sat up more, wanting a better vantage point. His chest was tanned, no doubt from long hours on the water. Your eyes trailed downward, to his stomach and catching on his...tail.

Eyes snapping back up to his, you opened your mouth, and he blurted out, "Don't scream!"

You froze, and the panicked look on his face caused a laugh to bubble up inside you, escaping your mouth and causing your head to sink back to its sandy pillow. Oh, maybe you should have been horrified. And if yesterday someone had told you you'd meet a man with a fish tail one sunup later, you probably would have expected yourself to be.

But looking at him now, seeing his worry and realizing he must've waited hours for you to wake up instead of leaving you stranded on the beach, you felt anything but.

"I'm sorry," you smiled, sitting back up with a little giggle. "You just looked terrified."

He looked at you in disbelief, then a smile broke across his face as well. "You're a strange lass, ain'tcha?"

"That's what everyone says," you shrugged, leaning back on your hands. "Maybe you're not so different from them after all."

The man seemed surprised by how casually you were talking to him, but he didn't comment on it. "Maybe not."

Tilting your head, you asked, "Gotta name?"

"Billy," he answered, sitting up with you.

You told him your name too, and then looked down, realizing your dress was in rags. "Knew I should've chosen something sturdier."

"Brave of ya to venture out into a storm," he remarked, the ends of his tail swaying lazily.

"Or stupid," you shrugged.

"Brave," he insisted. Billy reached over and moved some of your long hair over your shoulder, so it was covering a spot on your chest, conserving your modesty. Your heart fluttered.

Something shifted in your mind as you looked at him, your eyes curious. "Why did you save me, Billy?"

There was a beat of silence. The squawking of seagulls hovering over the shore could be heard, and the wind whistled lightly, sending a few of your dry baby hairs into your eyes.

"I've seen ya 'round before," he said quietly, looking out at the horizon. "Watched ya workin'."

A hint of a smile found your lips. "You live around here?"

"Close," he nodded, his tail bending where his knees would be if he had any. "I hang around."

Frowning slightly in thought, you tilted your head, studying him. Then it dawned on you. "You're the creature they speak of. The one who's been hurting-"

Billy cut you off with a firm shake of his head. "Never hurt anybody."

"But the fishermen-" you brought your knees to your chest, suddenly aware of how little was covering your body. "-they came back with injuries. They described a ruthless creature, it...it couldn't have been you. You just saved me."

"I'm the only one 'f my kind 'round these parts," Billy nodded, his arms resting on the bent part of his tail. "'nd I have come across a few men. They were tryin' to capture me. Fell overboard 'nd caught against the rocks when I swam away. It was bad, sure, but they made it to shore alright. Wouldn'ta let 'em die."

"Oh," you breathed, eyes brightening with new realization. Honestly, you should have known the afflicted men had practically done it to themselves. But he still hadn't answered your question. Moving a little closer to him, you set your hand on his, causing him to turn his head.

"What made me different?" you asked softly. "You didn't just leave me at shore or watch me float and make sure my heart was beating. Why?"

Billy had a quiet look in his eyes. "You're different from the others."

"How so?" You were intrigued by him, by the moral code he seemed to possess.

Cautiously, Billy lifted a hand, lightly tracing your cheek with a singular finger. You let him, leaning ever so slightly into it. "Most men I see out here try and dredge the ocean for its contents. They demand things from 'er, and get hurt when she defends herself." His fingers were now in the hair at the nape of your neck. "You treat the sea like a sister, demanding nothin' and takin' what she decides to give to ya. And so she gives you more."

The sentiment made your heart beat faster, and you found yourself saying, "I didn't ever think of it that way."

Billy looked at you intently. "Someone like that doesn't deserve to die."

On the sandy banks next to the one they called a monster, you felt as if you were coming to life for the very first time. Because now you knew nothing was what anyone said it was, not entirely.And suddenly, your father's sentiment seemed wrong.

Not everything in the ocean was dangerous.

Once you were steadier, Billy insisted on swimming you back to your little home on the coast, pulling you into the water and instructing you to wrap yourself around him.

He swam gently but swiftly, and you felt as though you were gliding through the water. It felt so safe here in his arms, and you couldn't help but lean against him.

When he arrived at the sandy banks in front of your house, you shifted against him, not ready to be parted from him so soon. But you were also tired, battered from the storm with a dress torn to shreds.

So, with a soft smile, you muttered, "Thank you Billy. For everything."

His expression was light, his eyes not seeming to be able to leave your face. Billy's smile was a little bit crooked, and that only made it more endearing. "It was my pleasure, darlin'."

The little nickname made your heart jump. Billy pulled you up onto the shore, sitting on the surf and making sure you were steady on your feet. He grinned. "You'll be alright?"

"I'm sure of it," you said, kneeling beside him. He did it again, smoothed your hair so softly that it made you smile wider. It was almost like he was fascinated by it, even though it was a tangled mess.

He removed his hand. "I hope to see ya 'gain. Maybe under better circumstances."

"Me too," you smiled in a quiet way.

Then, you leaned in and kissed his cheek shyly, getting up afterward and walking toward your home, sparing one glance back at him. He was still sitting on the shore, a dazed, lazy smile on his face.

As you made your way inside, you were already looking forward to the next time you'd see him. Maybe while you were out fishing, or even right back here.

All through the night you dreamt of him. Of the once-thought monster who'd saved your life.

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