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shotmrmiller · 3 months

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soulmate au part 1

john price x f!reader

wc: 1.2k

unedited, forgive my mistakes.

since you were born, your world has been grey. you never thought anything of it, until at school, they started teaching you colours. the only ones in the room that could see more than just different shades of grey, apart from the teacher, were identical twins.

weird.

you went home and asked your parents.

"we are born missing half of ourselves. we have a fated one, and when you meet them, your world will look the way it was meant to."

oh. but... "in class, there were twins that could see colour. what about them?"

they look surprised for a second until your dad softly explains. "in rare instances, the soulmate bond will be platonic. which makes sense in this case, because twins grow up with a connection regular people like us will never understand."

you nod and lower your gaze to look at your shoes. you wonder if the person meant for you is interested in junie b. jones books like you are.

in high school, you crush on this pretty girl— a cheerleader. her hair is long and beautiful, her face is small and round, and she's so kind. just your type.

but no colour stains your vision, so you burrow your emotions deep and mourn the loss of what could've been.

in college, one of your friends ask you if you've met your soulmate yet.

"no, not yet," you lament. what she says after freezes the blood in your veins.

"my mom knew someone whose soulmate was already dead before they had even been born," she comments while stabbing a grape tomato with her fork. "it was really tragic, because she'll never know what it's like to know a love that has no equal."

your heart is in your throat, and you find it hard to swallow the food in your mouth.

what if your soulmate is already dead? oh, god. you might just throw up. your friend doesn't seem to notice the change in your demeanor and continues to babble carelessly about how she knew someone that knew someone who's soulmate had turned out to be a murderer.

oh my fucking god.

you quickly run to the bathroom and throw up your lunch.

how cruel is the universe? to have no control over who is meant to be for you.

you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and lean against the stall of the bathroom. you should've known that this soulmate business was too good to be true.

cupping your hands, you rinse the taste of bile out of your mouth before walking back to your friend who stayed in her seat.

"jesus, you look terrible, you alright?" she asks.

running your fingers through your hair, you huff. "i've certainly been better. just got a bit nauseous, nothing serious. maybe it's a stomach bug."

"oooh, you better not be pregnant! what of your dreams of working in the medical field?"

you giggle at her response. "that'd be impossible unless i'm the virgin mary."

she gapes comically then leans in and whispers, "you're lying! don't tell me you haven't dated anyone just because they weren't your soulmate."

you shrug, and keep your eyes fixed on your half-eaten plate of food. "i don't really wanna talk about it, if that's alright with you. besides, you've got bigger things to worry about, like the upcoming exam for mr. richardson."

slapping a hand to her forehead, she exclaims, "oh, shit! i totally forgot! shit!"

you watch her inhale the rest of her salad and toss her trash before waving goodbye and sprinting toward the library.

with a sigh, you look down at your food. grey. lifeless. shaking your head, you pick up your plate and toss it in the bin.

you decide to focus solely on your studies. you have dreams of being a doctor and pining after someone you haven't even met yet would only serve as a distraction.

your white coat grazes your calves as you walk toward your new patient. standing outside the room, you pick up the clipboard.

Price, John. 34, Active Military.

he's the head of the task force! god, you've only heard stories of them from the other medics on base who have met them, so to finally come face to face with the man, the myth, the legend? you wipe your clammy hands on the fabric of your scrubs and clear your throat.

be professional, be professional. he's just another patient, it's no big deal.

rapping your knuckles on the door, you wait a second before twisting the knob with a shaky hand. you nervously keep your eyes on the clipboard as you walk in.

"good morning, captain price."

"mornin', doc," he rumbles.

oh, his deep voice just might be the end of you.

"you don't sound all that happy to be here, captain," you tease while flipping through his medical history papers.

he lets out a low chuckle, and you squeeze your thighs together at the sound. delicious.

"nothin' personal, doc. just don't like bein' here, you understand."

lightly laughing at his joke, you finally steel your nerves and look up at him.

only to have your vision bleed in something you don't understand. is that colour? is this what colour looks like?

the clipboard drops, clattering to the floor. john— being the courteous gentleman that he is— quickly kneels to grab it and lifts his head as he hands it to you.

he freezes in place, the clipboard slipping from his hands as he stares at you.

you thickly swallow, and dumbly question, "do you...has your....colour? can you see colour?"

unblinking, john's eyes are fixated on you as he remains silent.

your eyes dart around to take in his features. his brightly-coloured eyes are framed by lines that hint at his age, his strong jaw adorned by a mutton-chop beard. his nose is specked with a beauty mark.

"what colour are your eyes, captain?" you softly ask.

he closes his mouth and takes in a sharp breath. "i've been told they're blue."

"blue," you smile. the eyes of your soulmate are blue.

but then, your delighted smile melts off your face, in horror.

there's a shiny band on his finger. he's married.

john price, your soulmate, is fucking married.

your vision distorts with the tears that threaten to spill and bite your bottom lip to stop it from trembling. it feels like there are shards of glass in your lungs, cutting you open with each quivering breath you take. your pain is red-hot, searing under your skin, flowing through your veins like molten lead.

john knows exactly what you're looking at.

"love—" he starts but you cut him off swiftly.

"don't. you don't owe me anything, captain. uhm, but uh... maybe it's best that we switch your doctors, yeah? conflict of interest, and all that."

you all but run away, away from that room, from him.

how terribly unlucky.

you head towards your office, which is down the hall, and slam the door closed. only then, do you cry, and mourn what should've been.

#call of duty #cod mw2 #cod mwii #john price x f reader #john price x reader #john price #captain john price #captain john price x reader #captain price

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iaure · 11 months

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𝔩𝔬𝔯𝔡 ℑ 𝔴𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔶; 𝔱𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔦𝔰 𝔳𝔦𝔬𝔩𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢

𝖞𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖊𝖗𝖊 𝖒𝖎𝖌𝖚𝖊𝖑 𝖔❜𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖆 𝖝 𝖋𝖊𝖒!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗

𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 2: 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔦𝔫 𝔪𝔶 𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔰, 𝔶𝔬𝔲'𝔯𝔢 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔢 𝔱𝔬 𝔨𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 3: 𝔦 𝔠𝔬𝔲𝔫𝔱 𝔪𝔶 𝔟𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔥𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲𝔯 𝔫𝔢𝔠𝔨, 𝔴𝔥𝔦𝔩𝔢 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔩𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔭𝔞𝔯𝔱 4: 𝔰𝔞𝔡𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔰𝔴𝔢𝔢𝔱 𝔢𝔫𝔬𝔲𝔤𝔥 𝔱𝔬 𝔰𝔴𝔞𝔩𝔩𝔬𝔴 CW: self-awareness, stalking, obsession, delusion, ptsd, mention of a brother's death, thoughts of kidnapping. Written in the third person. Use of Y/N. Spoilers for Spider-Man: Across The Spiderverse.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ heaven have mercy on my simple soul. we might have another dearest series on our hands, but for miguel. god. jesus. i made this in one (1) day. it's two am.

wc: 1.7k

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗻❜𝘁 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗱𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝗺𝘀.

Miguel knew that feeling all too well. Gabriella faded away in his arms, a flash of technicolour and geometric shapes. An entire world, falling away and escaping from him, like grains of glass as fine as sand but still so colourful. That's what kept him moving. He never wanted someone to make the same mistake. But he was only a man. he couldn't be alone in the isolation of his own making forever. He built up those walls, praying he'd have the sense to never knock them down. But brick by brick, other people did. First was Jess. She was his friend, his sister in arms. Then Peter, then a thousand other faces and names and hearts and morals and everything that made Spider-Man, Spider-Man. They each took a brick, as though it was nothing. It was just by pure chance that she was the one to take that last brick. She was a new addition. Friendly, witty, quick on her feet. Just like everyone else. Another Spider in another place and another time. Another in a million, another clone, another warm body as fodder. But when Jess brought her to him, Miguel knew; she was one in a trillion.

She had stood next to Jess, firm, with a thousand yard stare like she'd been digging around Miguel's soul and yanking out her favourite bruises. Harrowing was a good word for it. Her estranged brother, a captain in the police, had died. She looked like she'd seen Hell. Fresh bruises, scarring, her suit torn in some places...and she stood tall.

"Spider-Woman, from Earth 7290. Also known as Y/N."

Jess spoke softly, a hand on Y/N's shoulder. Her breathing was steady but her eyes had glazed over, completely tapped out to the situation. Miguel felt his heart tug. He knew what it was like. Everyone did. Most Spiders were sad, upset, but she simply seemed...angry. Furious, even. Like if Miguel made a move towards her, she'd chew him up and spit him out. He'd seen people try to tame horses before, ones that would buck and kick and neigh until someone's leg was broken. It was like Jess was doing that. The one hand on Y/N's shoulder, keeping her in place.

"Miguel?" Jess spoke up, and he came out of his haze. "Are you listening?" "Yeah." He nodded, quietly clearing his throat. "Sure. Get her a watch." Jess shared a look with Y/N, one that he couldn't quite tell the reasoning behind, but the glance of her eyes was enough.

Spider-Woman of Earth 7290 took the last brick.

He'd see Y/N around, walking around the Spider Society and speaking with other Spiders. She seemed to hold that anger close to her heart, despite the other Spiders telling her that it'd get better over time. They'd healed, or got over it, or pushed it out of their mind. But not Y/N. She stayed mad. She stayed angry. Miguel understood that more than most. Mourning took time. So many had gotten over it after years. It wasn't fair to expect Y/N get it over it so fast. He didn't think so, anyway. After all, it was an anomaly that took her brother's life. A mistake. It had fallen off the proverbial map, but according to Jess, Y/N had 'handled it her own way'. Whatever that meant. Miguel didn't really care. All he worried about was her. Rather than just taking the brick off his walls, she smashed it in with a hammer and ran it over with a bulldozer. She had a wrecking ball to smash a single blue and red brick. And he hated it. Because what about Gabriella? What about his wife? Did their deaths mean nothing now? And how was this healthy? Granted, Miguel wasn't a healthy person. Not like that. But the sudden way his mind dedicated himself to her was absurd. Did it have to do with his DNA? With the spider mutation? Rapture? Mating season? There had to be an explanation. A cure.

But there was none.

Now, Miguel's mind was rotting away. He wished he could pry it open and take to it with tweezers, to prod out the parts that he hated. But his eyes lingered on you for a moment too long, and he knew he didn't stand much of a chance anymore. It was all Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. Even just the faint, passing scent of her was enough to drive him up a wall that very much shouldn't exist. Passing word of her wellbeing made him tune into conversations he was never part of. He began to develop a seventh sense: touch, hearing. sight, smell, taste, spidersense, and Y/Nsense.-the uncanny ability to know when she needed help. Trademarked, owned by Miguel O'Hara exclusively. Peter once teased him about how Miguel would suddenly jump up and scoot over to the cameras, checking in on Spider-Woman 7290.

The teasing didn't last long when given way to the severity of the situation.

Gradually, Miguel leaned into it. If he couldn't fight it, then join it. Revel in it. Let his eyes linger on her frame. Let his waking hours resort to thinking of her. Let him suffer. He deserved it. He began to follow Y/N around. What she didn't know wouldn't hurt her. And sometimes, Miguel would see enemies-a Vulture here, a Doc Ock there-and he'd help when she wasn't looking. Little favours here and there began cropping up. Getting her groceries. Taking care of her cat. Fiddling with the gas for the car of the one creep that kept following her around that was so sure she was Spider-Woman. Granted, the creep was right. But he didn't know that.

(He did. Love comes in many shapes and forms.)

Y/N never seemed to notice. She was off, battling her own demons and fighting the good fight in her own world. She was good and kind and still angry but she used that anger so well, and Miguel loved her for it. She burned with the anger of a thousand dying stars. She was everything. When Y/N would stop by the Spider Society, Miguel made sure to look good. Brush his hair, brush his fangs, make sure his eye bags weren't too obvious, or if they were, then they looked good. He was trying to get her to like him, after all. Check to make sure his suit didn't have any tears or holes. Because Y/N was gorgeous. She could drag herself in with her guts spilling out like roadkill and he'd still think she's the most beautiful thing to grace the multiverse.

The beauty of delusion, he supposed.

He was aware how delusional this was. He knew how absurd it was that he saw her and fell immediately. Was this what happened in fairy tales? Is this what Prince Charming felt when he saw Cinderella? The world completely spinning the moment there's even a hint of her? The complete dedication of his heart to this woman that barely acknowledged him...someone who would only glance his way if it was a requirement. Y/N was cordial to him, but little more. And it made his heart ache. She spoke to Jess more than she spoke to him. It felt wrong. It felt cruel, like a tease, trailing up and down his spine but never providing relief. One word to him was ten to Jess.

Miguel refuses to admit it, to accept that he was willing to stoop so low. But there was a brief moment where he thought about hurting Jess. Or getting her on some mission that would take forever. Breaking her bracelet when she least expected it so Y/N would have to come to him.

He'd never act on it. He was sure of that.

If there was one thing Miguel was proud of for himself, it was his restraint. He had the unparalleled ability to simply...hold off. Another day, he'd tell himself. Next time, he'd self-assure. Then another next time. Then another. Until heaven knows how many next times it's been, and he's aching for her to even look at him, but why won't she glance his way? Why was she so cold? He's done everything he could. Just look at him! For god's sake, just fucking look at him! That's all he wanted! Five minutes with your eyes on him, your undivided attention.

But no. Another day, he said. Next time.

But maybe he could simply...take Y/N away. Her world was inconsequential. It'd be easy to take care of any villains. He'd do it for her, single-handedly. She were everything. He could just keep her there, in his office, never allowed to leave. He could come back after a long mission to her loving arms, her warm embrace, flush to flush to flush to flush. He'd do unspeakable things just for her to trace the vague outline of his body with her eyes. If Y/N told him to kill, he'd do so without question anymore. Miguel barely had any control over himself.

The next time he saw her, it was while dealing with Miles. It was so much, all at once and never at all and undying and swarming his senses. It was so much that he didn't realise how much she'd been smiling at the two teenagers, how sweet her gaze got, the gentle touches and warm laughter and how Gwen and Miles looked up to her.

He didn't know Y/N had a soft spot for kids. And he found out most vividly when she was the first one to help Miles escape, blocking off what must've felt like half of the Spider Society with the same undying rage, now spent on protecting her new friend, the child she called such sweet things. That she saw as her own.

Miguel felt his heart shatter when he had to take her down. The way she fell into the floor, limp and dangling like she was nothing more than occupied space. His heart was wounded, wailing like a dying dog. She picked the newcomer, the anomaly, over him. Him, her one true love. Did it matter that she'd known it yet? No. It only mattered that she helped Miles escape.

Lord, he thought. I worry that love is violence.

#divagaciones (per)#yandere miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #yandere miguel o'hara x reader #i am a girlboss i am a war criminal i am a lunatic and i am clinically insane and the next virgin mary and i am never going to die

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artiststarme · 5 months

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Dead or Alive

After Spring Break, no one could find Eddie Munson dead or alive. His Uncle Wayne, the angry mob, even the police couldn’t locate him so everyone assumed he was dead. Some grieved his loss but most celebrated his apparent demise believing it to be what he deserved after killing Chrissy, Fred, Patrick, and Jason and hurting poor Max Mayfield.

Once the town recovered enough, Wayne bought a headstone for an empty grave and dutifully washed off the new graffiti that appeared each day. The kids of the Party mourned the loss of their idealistic Dungeon Master and disbanded Hellfire Club out of respect to him. And Robin and Steve disappeared to Steve’s empty house to grieve the loss of a friend (or so it seemed).

Because while everyone thought they were grieving and finding support in each other, they were actually caring for Eddie’s wounds and watching gay movies on Steve’s couch. They are junk food, cuddled in front of the TV, and appreciated being alive.

Steve couldn’t be around the party because he was supposed to be broken-hearted but it was the opposite. While he left the Upside Down the most recent time with more scars, both mental and physical, it also gave him everything he’d ever wanted. It took him away from the job he hated, gave him more time to spend with Robin, and it gave him a prospective boyfriend.

He felt bad keeping Eddie a secret away from the kids and his uncle but he had no other choice. Until he and Robin could brainstorm a logical explanation for his innocence and return from the dead, it’d be the three of them in hiding. Which to him, wasn’t a bad thing. Between the love of Robin and Eddie, his house felt less like a crypt and more like a home.

After a few weeks, they’d all gotten used to their solitary. Imagine their surprise when someone walks in on the three of them watching the Rocky Horror Picture Show right on the scene of Rocky showing off his fishnet clad calves. Imagine Officer Phil Callahan’s horror when his eyes landed on an injured homicidal maniac sitting half on his brother’s lap while drooling over Tim Curry. And imagine Steve’s mortification when his brother stood unmoving in the doorway of the living room with one hand on his hip and the other held over his open mouth in shock.

“WHAT IN THE FUCK IS EDWARD MUNSON DOING IN OUR PARENT’S LIVING ROOM?!” Phil shrieked, his face going red in barely concealed rage.

Steve, Eddie, and Robin all spoke at once.

“Is he? Oh my goodness, I didn’t notice. Steve, Eddie is in your house!”

“It’s just Eddie, you piece of shit.”

“Ok technically, I can explain.”

Phil just looked at them like all three of them were insane. “HE’S A KILLER!”

“No he’s not. He’s just a metalhead, Phil.”

“What is that supposed to do with anything, Steve?! I don’t care that he’s a metalhead, I care that he murdered at least three people in a week!”

Steve shot up from his seat so he was nearly eye-level with Phil. “Woah, he did not! I was with him the entire week and neither of us killed anyone.”

Phil just shook his head in confused exhaustion. “Is he dangerous?”

Steve looked him directly in the eye, “no! He didn’t do anything and he’s one of my best friends now.”

“Fine. I’m not dealing with this shit tonight. You,” he pointed at Eddie, “don’t kill anyone. And Steve, do not wake me up before ten AM unless someone is getting killed. Jesus Christ.”

He stomped up the stairs, grumbling under his breath the entire way. Meanwhile, Steve sat back down next to Eddie and gave him a small smile. “Well, that went better than expected.”

Eddie looked at him in disbelief, “did it Steve? Did it?”

(It, in fact, did not. The next morning, Steve had to tackle Phil away from the phone when he tried to call the chief and then had to hold him down while Robin rambled the entire story in an impressive four minutes. He only gave up once Steve threatened to disappear himself and Eddie (and Robin) forever without ever contacting Phil again.)

Should I make this into a longer fic? Let me know in the comments please!

#everyone else finds out that Eddie is still alive after Callahan helps to clear his name #him and Steve and Robin still move away but Phil acts as a protective big brother and goes with them #stranger things #steddie #fanfic #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #officer callahan is steve’s brother

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badingsm · 7 months

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If its possible could you do a Natasha Romanoff x Avenger Wife Reader where reader is pregnant and when the snap happens Natasha is among those who gets dusted/snapped and reader gives birth not a long after and when the team reverses the snap and Natasha returns reader introduces Natasha to their child

Warnings: Mentions of attempted suicide, cursing, depression, suggestive contents, angsty but still fluffy ending.

It's kind of unjustified, I know, but I'm in a rush because our midterms are coming soon :((

"Clint, where's Nat?"

Your heart thumped unsteadily, feeling some ache somewhere in your heart that you couldn't figure out just yet why it was there. But it's surely there.

You got your answer when the man sobbed as he fell onto his knees. "I'm sorry, Y/n.. I'm sorry."

"No, no, no." You shook your head from side to side, tears burning into the corners of your eyes while you refused to believe him with what you think he's implying. "Tell me where my wife is!"

"I'm so sorry," Clint said, wiping away his tears.

"No, Barton! Fuck you, this isn't funny anymore!" You glared at him. "Goddammit, what the fuck happened?"

"It's a soul for a soul," Clint whispered lowly. Flashbacks of the scene moments ago had torturously replayed into his mind, making him feel more miserable than he could even bear. "And she told me to tell you that she loves you and your baby so much—that she's doing this for the both of you, for everyone."

"Fuck everyone!" You screamed madly, tears now flowing endlessly from your bloodshot eyes. "This can't happen—she won't leave us just like that! Fucking hell!"

"I'm sorry, Y/n." Wanda teared up with you, rubbing your back while you looked towards Yelena, who had her knees bent on the ground, her face buried in her palms, while Kate drew circles in her back. "We're going to make this worth it. For Nat. We're here for you."

"No, no, no, don't say that," You scoffed. "We're going to bring back my wife by killing that purple grape motherfucker!"

It was a deadly fight. Everyone had some injuries, some severe, and some carrying on. Most were bloodied due to the war that had happened. It was exhausting, filled with rage and pain from all the suffering that all of you had to endure when your loved ones had been dusted and gone.

Everybody mourned the great Tony Stark's sacrifice. It was a gloomy moment, more so because you're about to give birth and you realized that your baby wouldn't have her mama by her side.

It was a painful journey; all the thorns repeatedly stabbed your heart endlessly every minute of every day, crying on the corner while you thought of the moments where you could have been with Natasha throughout your journey.

Before you even knew it, an oxygen mask was placed on your nose as you pushed with everything that you could until you heard the cries of your daughter. It made you cry because Natasha should've been here. She should be the one holding your hand as you painfully pushed instead of this stupid railing of your bed.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Romanoff." Your OB smiled at you, handing your cleaned-up child for a first-time skin-to-skin contact with your daughter.

And you sobbed when you caught sight of your daughter, immediately quieting when she found comfort in the warmth of your chest.

She was the spitting image of Natasha—small strands of red hair were growing in her head, while you also caught a glimpse of her forest green orbs. Her nose and her lips—all are Natasha.

Jesus.

You really miss her.

"Hi, my love." You kissed your daughter's temple, sniffling quietly. "I'll be here for you always, and Mama's going to be in your heart always."

"Shayne, I told you, don't bother me again!" You sighed over the phone, feeling the ache of not sleeping for 36 hours already due to your daughter crying endlessly. "I'm not interested!"

"You need someone to be with you," Shayne insisted. You met her in a bakery shop that she owned after one of your visits to Natasha's grave. You became good friends until she confessed her love for you, and it got out of hand. "You're smart enough to know that your daughter needs somebody else other than you."

"First of all, fuck you." You spat lowly over the phone, afraid to wake up your daughter again and make her grumpy for the next few days. "Second, how dare you! Third, shut your useless mouth before I do. Lastly, if you ever bother me again, I'll make sure your mouth will be put in its appropriate place. Bye."

You ended the call with nothing but fury in your heart. It actually felt nice to have a friend outside the compound, but then, as it turns out, it will be three times worse than you had imagined, making you wish that you never entered it in the first place.

You look over to the crib, where a two-month-old baby girl is sleeping peacefully, as if she hadn't just turned your whole world upside down. It's not that you're complaining; you love your daughter with everything that you have, but without Natasha's guidance, you don't know what to do. It came to the point where you suffered from severe depression. You tried drinking some paracetamol all at once but stopped when you heard the needy cries of your baby.

God, everything feels exhausting.

Then, before you even knew it, you were silently crying over the corner, holding your palm against your mouth so you wouldn't make a noise that might startle the sleeping child. It all felt heavy while you had nothing but a child to hold onto.

Knock knock!

You groaned, walking towards the door, knowing probably that Shayne decided to barge into your house yet again, which is already annoying, when suddenly, as you opened the door, you were faced to face with the person whom you missed so dearly.

You blink owlishly, pinching yourself quietly from behind as you look at her with squinted eyes, and finally, when you see her smile shyly at you with a small wave, you realize that she's real.

Finally, Natasha's back.

Natasha Romanoff is home.

You scoffed, lunging at her with a bear hug while she enveloped you with the same warmth that you longed for.

"I missed you, baby!" Natasha mumbled in between your teary kisses, about to press her soft lips again against yours when you pinched her side and repeatedly slapped her shoulder. "Babe! What?!"

"You bastard!" You cried, tears wrecking away through your eyes. "You left me alone! You left us—your daughter! Damn it! Do you always have to be the hero, huh? Why do you always have to sacrifice something? Can't you be selfish for once?"

"Baby, I'm so sorry," Natasha muttered like a mantra as she hugged you tightly until you got tired of your tortures on her body. "I'm so sorry, detka. I love you, and it won't happen again."

"Yeah, no, I'm still mad and furious-" You were cut off by the loud cries of the little child that you and Natasha had made together on one of your date nights as you both got lost in translation and fell in love with how your bodies seemed to understand each other passionately wordlessly. "Fuck."

"Is that...?" Natasha didn't have to finish her sentence when you both entered the messy house. The redhead didn't care about the slight lack of tidyness, as her eyes were trained immediately to the small frame on your arms. "Y/n.."

"Hi Mama!" You smiled, your heart leaping in joy when you finally realized that your daughter's able to finally meet her Mama and be with her Mama. Finally. "We missed you."

"Not as much as I do, love," Natasha kissed both of your foreheads, shakily reaching out to cradle your guy's baby when you insisted that she should hold her. "God, she's so beautiful."

"She looks like you." You grinned, hugging Natasha by the waist as the wailing child immediately fell silent at the warmth of her mother and the lulling of her low hum. Your hand went further until you reached the area below her glorious ass, pinching it as hard as you could, making the widow yelp due to the force of your own powers, "Baby, what was that for?!"

"Revenge." You smiled tightly. "Tell me how you're able to come back here soon, okay? Right now, I just want us to cherish this moment as a whole family, please?"

"Of course, my love," Natasha grinned, pursing her lips as she leaned in to kiss you. "I love you, baby."

You sighed, shaking your head. "Not enough."

"What?" Natasha was confused. "What do you mean?"

"You have to promise that you won't leave us again." You stared at her, the burning of the corners of your eyes indicating your tears even though you fought them back as much as you could. "Please, Nat, I can't bear to lose you again—we can't."

Natasha's heart ached at the pleading look that you gave her. It hurts her that she's the reason for your pain and misery, even though that wasn't entirely true to you. She smiled, finally making up her mind to do some lighter and more office work on the compound rather than have deadly missions from now on. Unless she needed to, after all, it's still her mission to help the people.

"I promise."

Bonus:

The night was finally peaceful this time. There weren't any nightmares that will haunt you at night, and there won't be any dreams that will make you wreck into sobs in the daylight because, at last, Natasha's here. With you.

"Good morning, baby." Natasha's husky voice greeted you in the morning. You could feel her slightly tightening her grip around your waist as both of your bodies from last night fell into each other like a perfect puzzle. "God, I missed you so much."

"That's what you get for being so selfless always." You sighed.

It's not that you're selfish; of course, you want to save those in need because that's the reason why you both are heroes, but sometimes you wish the guilt from Natasha's past would vanish away because she doesn't deserve it. It was none of her fault because she was controlled and powerless to fight that. It still haunts her every day, and you're empathetic for that.

"Tell me," You whispered lowly while she drew small circles around your skin, making you feel the warmth of her hands. "How is this possible? Are you Natasha from another universe?"

"No, baby, no.." She chuckled lowly, kissing your temple while she breathed out, a small smile creeping into the corners of her lips as she felt thankful for another chance to be with you and your daughter. "The team. They reversed the snap with the help of Tony's theories and equipment after they gave back the stones. It's a long procedure, but here I am now. What's important is that I'm finally here."

"But Tony.." You felt the tears sting your eyes.

"He's back too, baby." Natasha winked, and you scoffed in happiness, kissing her passionately as the day went by. It's still early, and you felt something poke against your ass, causing Natasha to groan lowly. "Now, now, let's make many baby Romanoffs for this house because the author is a hornbag and a whore for me, yeah?"

"Fuck yes!"

And maybe baby number two, indeed.

#natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x fem!reader #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff fluff #black widow #natasha romanoff x you #soft natasha romanoff #black widow x reader #marvel #natasha romanoff angst #natasha romanoff au

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topguncortez · 3 months

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Are You With Me? - Ch. 5

previous part | masterlist | next part

synopsis: Jake and Y/N take their kids to say goodbye to a friend, but it goes as well as one can expect. The Seresins also learn what the next course of action is for Ella's treatment.

word count: 4.1k

warnings: medical inaccuracies, childhood cancer, death, funerals, cursing, traumatic events, fighting, slut shaming, mentions of cheating.

Jake could remember the first funeral he ever went to. He was six, not much older than Ella is now, and it was for his grandfather. His mother had dressed him up in a small black suit with a burnt orange tie, a nod towards his grandfather’s beloved Texas longhorns. His mother was dressed in a black dress and had a simple strand of pearls around her neck, the same as two of his sisters. His father was dressed similarly to Jake; black suit, orange tie.

Jake could remember walking into the church, a place he had been to a thousand times over, but now it was covered in memorial flowers and people all dressed in black. Some of the ladies wore elegant hats with lace veils over their faces. The men all seemed to have cleaned their watches and dug out their alumni rings for the occasion. Jake’s father was stopped several times in the foyer by people giving him their condolences. Jake wasn’t sure why everyone was stopping in front of a long wooden box, the women walking away with tears in their eyes.

“Come on,” Jolene said to her children, “Let’s go say goodbye to grandpa.”

All Jake could do was nod as Jolene led them over to the wooden box at the front of the sanctuary. Jake froze about three feet from the box, his heart beating fast in his chest at the sight in front of him. He felt his hands grow clammy as Jolene turned around to look at her son, who looked like he had seen a ghost.

“Jake?” Jolene asked, “What’s wrong?”

“That’s not grandpa.” Jake shook his head, pointing towards the box, “That’s not him!”

Jolene gave Jake a said smile, crouching down in front of him, “It is grandpa, Jake. It’s grandpa’s earth body. His spirit is up in heaven with Jesus.”

“They messed him up,” Jake whispered, “That’s not him!”

“How about we take a look?” Jolene pleaded with her son. Jake reluctantly nodded as Jolene stood to her full height and took his hand. Slowly they walked together to stand in front of the casket.

Jake took one look in and turned his head. The body laying in the casket looked nothing like the man he remembered. His skin was pale, almost blue and waxy. His hair looked fake and as if they used way too much hairspray to get the combover to lay flat. It all just looked wrong to Jake. It was all just wrong.

“That’s not him,” Jake shook his head as he sat down in the front row with his mother and waited for the service to begin. The whole time Jake kept repeating in his head that the man in the box was not his grandfather.

Ever since that moment at six years old, Jake dreaded funerals. It was horrible, but Jake did all he could to avoid going to them. Y/N practically had to drag him to Tom Kazansky’s funeral, and even then, Jake took Alex to the nursery about half way through the service. It wasn’t that Jake was scared to bare his emotions and mourn the loss of a life. It was that he hated seeing the body lying all alone in the pinewood box. He hated knowing that their body was going to stay there for the rest of eternity until they rotted away into nothing. He hated knowing that the last glimpse of your loved one was going to be when the funeral director closed the lid.

“Dad,” Alex’s soft voice filled the room. Jake was sitting on the bed, trying to come up with an excuse to not go to this funeral, “Can you help me with my tie?”

“Sure,” Jake nodded, sliding off the bed and kneeling in front of Alex. Y/N had gotten them both matching forest green ties, “You look good.”

“Thank you,” Alex nodded, scrunching his nose up to push his glasses up farther. Jake couldn’t help but smile at the small movement. No one was quite sure when Alex started doing that, but it was cute, “I asked Mommy to help me but Ella is sick.”

Jake’s smile turned into a small frown, “I know. . . how are you feeling about this?”

It wasn’t very often that Jake got to stop and have a conversation with Alex about everything that has gone on. Sure the boy was only seven, but he still had some idea of what was going on with his sister. Y/N and Jake’s worst fear was Alex and Eli feeling ignored during all of this. They made sure at least once a week they were taking the boys out to do something fun whether that was the arcade or the park. Eli was still too little to understand anything but Alex wasn’t.

“I’m sad that Ella is sick,” Alex shrugged, “When will she be better?”

“I don’t know, bud,” Jake sighed, “But what about not having mommy and daddy both here?”

“Oh,” Alex looked down at the ground, “Well, I guess I’m kind of sad about it. I wish you could both be here, but someone has to stay with Ella.”

Jake smiled at his son. He was as selfless as his mother, always thinking of others instead of himself, “You’re a good kid, you know that,” Alex nodded his head. Jake placed a kiss on his forehead, before standing to his full height. The two of them walked down the stairs together, finding Y/N and Ella waiting for them. They both wore black dresses and pearl necklaces, only Ella had a black hat on her head to keep her warm.

“We gotta get going,” Y/N said, standing up from the couch. The two of them loaded the kids up in the car, but Jake hesitated once he shut the car door, “What is it?”

“Do we both need to go?” Jake looked over at Y/N, “I can stay and watch-”

“Eli is with Rooster, and yes,” Y/N nodded, “We both need to go. Miranda and Dominick became our friends and we need to support them. . . this could’ve been us.”

Jake clenched his jaw and nodded. Y/N climbed into the truck without another word, and Jake followed. When they arrived at the church, Jake helped Y/N out of the truck, trying to put on a show of solidarity in front of the other couples from the hospital. Rumors had flown since their spat in the hallway, and most of the parents were ‘Team Y/N’. Y/N didn’t bother saying anything to Jake as she opened the door for the kids and took each of their hands in hers, forcing Jake to walk behind them.

The vestibule of the church was exactly like Jake could remember the one his grandfather’s funeral was in. People dressed in black, flowers all over, pictures and videos of the deceased being played but no one paid any attention to. Y/N signed the guest book for all four of them, taking a bulletin before making her way into the sanctuary.

“Remember what we talked about?” Y/N turned towards her kids, “We’re going to walk past Sammy’s body and-“

“No!” Ella cried, “I don’t wanna see him!”

“Ella,” Y/N said quietly, “You don’t have to see Sammy, but we have to walk-”

“No!” Ella shook her head, Jake placed a hand on her shoulder, hoping to soothe her, “I don’t wanna!”

Y/N could feel all eyes being turned towards them and it made her skin heat up, “Baby, we have to walk by-“

“No!” Ella’s lip quivered as tears began to spill down her cheeks. Sobs racked her body as she hid her face in her hands, “I don’t wanna see him!”

Jake picked her up, setting her on his hip, “It’s okay. You don’t have to.”

“That’s not him!” Ella turned and hid her face into her father’s neck. Y/N felt out of options as Jake gave her a pleading look. She glanced around, noticing the stares and the looks they were gaining.

“Okay,” She sighed in defeat, “We’ll go.” Jake nodded his head, and turned on his heel, taking his sobbing child out of the church. Y/N looked over to where Miranda and Dominick stood, giving them an apologetic look before following her family. She sighed as she climbed into the truck, leaning back into her seat. She glanced at her children through the rearview mirror; Alex staring at the raindrops sliding down the window and Ella with tears running down her cheeks.

— — —

Six weeks.

It had been six weeks to the day since Y/N made the dumb mistake of falling into bed with her ex-husband. She had never been the one for casual hookups. Jake was her first everything and the most she ever let Miles do to her was go down on her. She had promised herself that she wasn’t going to be a woman who hooks up with her ex-husband out of convenience, but here she was, hooking up with her ex-husband out of convenience and currently watching him as he blatantly flirted with Becky, one of the mom’s in the therapy group.

The styrofoam cup in Y/N’s hand was hot as she stared daggers at the blonde man, who was turning on his charm as he talked to Becky. The smile. The chuckle. The head tilt. The gentle hand on her arm when he walked away. It all angered Y/N.

Hell, what didn’t anger Y/N these days.

“Hey,” Jake said as he sauntered up to you, grabbing one of the glazed donuts on the table.

‘Fuck you for eating that donut’ Y/N thought. She had always been amazed at Jake’s body and how he was able to eat nearly anything and everything he wanted. But now, it annoyed her. The stress from taking care of her sick child, her poorly timed eating schedule and not being able to go to the gym had their effects on Y/N and she had gained some weight. She hated looking at herself in the mirror and hated even more when Jake would sit and make sure she ate something substantial.

“Hello?” Jake swiped his hand in front of his wife, earning him a glare.

“Don’t wave your hand in my face,” She snapped.

“I’m sorry,” Jake apologized, “What’s going on? You seem out of it.”

Y/N pursed her lips, debating on saying something or biting her tongue, “Becky got a boob job last summer with her divorce settlement.” Jake’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked at her, “You like natural so I thought I’d give you a heads up.” She simply shrugged and walked away to find a chair in the center circle.

Another thing Y/N didn’t want to say out loud was how much therapy had actually been helping her. She hadn’t said anything more than the bare minimum; who she was, what her child was diagnosed with, what the prognosis is, and a weekly update on how her child is doing. It was nothing more and nothing less than that every meeting. But Y/N did enjoy the adult interaction for an hour twice a week. She didn’t realize how much she missed being around people her own age, even if she couldn’t remember half the names of the people in the group. Jake had attended every meeting with her, sitting next to her and silently supporting her when she gave her opening statement.

Jake sat down in his usual chair, in the middle of Y/N and Marjorie, the elderly lady who ran the therapy group. She reminded him of his grandmother, permed gray hair, bright pink lipstick on her lips, and she smelled like cherries and vanilla. She also had the slightest southern twang which Jake appreciated from time to time. Marjorie always had a large, leatherbound journal with her at every meeting which confused Jake. He never saw her take any notes, never saw her turn any pages. But the book was in her lap, open to some page at every meeting.

“Good morning my beautiful caretakers,” Marjorie said, gathering the attention of the group. Y/N fought hard to not roll her eyes at the usual greeting, “Let us start with our daily openings. Jacob, how about you start?”

“Oh, I’d love to, Marjorie,” Jake smiled at her and Y/N did, in fact, roll her eyes this time.

Therapy droned on for another hour, as Y/N pretty much blocked out everything that anyone was saying. It was all the same, week after week. But what wasn’t the same, was the two open chairs next to her. It pained her as she glanced over to where Miranda and Dominick had sat just a few weeks ago. No one knew that Sammy had gotten so sick and was circling the drain. Miranda had sat there and told the group that Sammy was still fighting hard, that he was still continuing his treatment with a smile on his face. No one knew that in a few short days, Sammy would pass away in front of his parents.

Y/N picked up her head and looked at the group of parents and guardians in front of her. She wondered how many of them were saying that their children were still strong and fighting when in reality, the grim reaper was knocking on their door. A sick feeling rose in her belly. The same sick feeling she had been feeling for the past week.

“I know he’s going to keep-“

Y/N stood up quickly, cutting off Becky, who glared at her, “I’m sorry.” She muttered, turning for the door of the meeting room. She tried her best not to break out into a run, but she moved as quick as she possibly could.

Jake’s eyebrows furrowed as he watched her retreating form scamper out of the room like a fire was lit under her ass. He turned his head back towards Becky, watching as the crocodile tears streamed down her face. Sure, Jake felt bad her son had cancer, but he’s also been in remission for six weeks now and yet, Becky still comes in to hit on the dads.

Yes, Jake is well aware that Becky flirts with him at any given chance. And yes, he knows that Y/N is jealous of that. Y/N has always been the type to wear her emotions on her face, and Jake can feel the daggers that she glares into his spine whenever he talks to Becky. He should tell her that there’s nothing to be jealous of, that she’s the only one he wants. But Jake is a guy. And sometimes those male like tendencies take over, especially when it comes to one Y/N Seresin. He never knew she could be so possessive and kinky until about six weeks ago. He swore that they’ve been having the best sex they’ve ever had.

Y/N had returned by the time the meeting had concluded. Her eyes and nose were red, as if she had been crying. Jake’s green eyes tracked her as she moved around the room, going straight for the coffee pot. All the alarm bells were going off in his head, and his body moved without second thought. She had barely set the coffee pot down when Jake grabbed her elbow, dragging her away.

“Hey! Let me go!” Y/N protested, pulling her arm free, “You heathen. I can walk on my own-“

“Are you pregnant?”

It took Y/N a moment, as the words that left Jake’s mouth registered in her mind, “No. I’m not pregnant, you twat,” Jake felt the tension in his body relax for a moment, “I know I have gained weight, but I don’t need you pointing that out.”

“Wait, no,” Jake shook his head, “I wasn’t pointing out that you gained weight, which, you look fantastic,” She scoffed, “It’s just that you’re drinking coffee and you never do unless you’re-” He gestured towards her stomach.

“I’m not pregnant,” Y/N stated again, shoving the cup in his hand, “I’m going to check on Ella.”

Y/N tried her best to keep her face neutral until she got into the elevator, her body nearly collapsing against the metal wall. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she reached into her pocket, pulling her phone out and looking at her calendar. The bright red circle around the date was almost mocking her as she breath caught in her throat.

“No way,” She shook her head, “No fucking way.”

— — —

“Take a deep breath. You’re okay,” The nurse spoke calmly as she ran her hand over Ella’s back, holding the oxygen mask to her face. It was the third time in the past week that Ella has had these attacks where she can’t breathe.

“I can’t- I can’t,” Ella gasped, her big green eyes frantically looking around the room.

Y/N quickly moved towards her, sitting on the edge of the bed, “You can. Take a deep breath, Ella.” Ella sucked in as deep of a breath as her little lungs could, which resulted in her coughing. Y/N closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears as her daughter coughed and gasped for air.

“Y/N,” the nurse said to her, “Why don’t you go get some air. I got this.”

Every fiber of her being was telling her to stay by Ella’s side, but she couldn’t watch for any longer. Ella looked up at her mom, giving her hand a light squeeze as if to tell her it was alright. The familiar burn of tears clogged her throat as she stood up from the bed.

“Thank you,” Her voice was barely a whisper as she quickly made her exit out of the room.

Y/N let out a sigh as she walked down the hallway, clenching and unclenching her shaky fists. The familiar grip of anxiety held her heart as stopped at the nurses’ station, placing her elbows on the counter and running her hands through her hair. Y/N couldn’t decide what was worse, watching her child get so violently ill that the blood vessels in her face broke or watching her gasp for precious air. She determined that both of them sucked.

“Y/N,” Miles' voice sounded out. She looked up at him, expecting to see that warm, comforting smile, but instead was met with a grim look, “Doctor Thomas and I need to talk to you. . . both of you.”

Jake had started to hate this office. He hated the bright posters on the wall and the stuffed animals on the couch behind him. As much as this office was trying to be a bright, cheerful place, it brought nothing but heartache and pain. The tension was thick as the two of them were trying to wrap their heads around what Doctor Thomas had just said. Jake’s eyes flitted over to Y/N who was staring at something on the desk in front of her. He so badly wanted to reach out and grab her hand.

“The transplant list?” Her voice sounded out, sounding weak and farther away than the seat next to him, “She. . . you’re putting her on the transplant list?”

Miles licked his lips before answering, “We think it’s the best course of action.”

“What about the lobectomy?”

“The cancer will just come back,” Doctor Thomas said, “The only guaranteed way that the cancer will go away and stay away is if we do this transplant.”

Y/N shook her head, trying to grasp what was really going on. She had called Jake almost as soon as Miles said he needed to talk to them both. Jake had left base like a bat out of hell, getting to the hospital in an amount of time that could only be done by speeding. They knew that one of the treatment options would have to be removing a portion of Ella’s lung. Y/N hated the idea of her child going under the knife to remove a portion of herself.

“How long?” Y/N looked up at Miles, “How long do you think she’ll have to wait?”

Both Miles and Doctor Thomas shifted in their seats.

“Pediatric lungs are hard to come by,” Doctor Thomas spoke softly, “Finding a match can be even harder. It could be six weeks, could be six months. We don’t-”

“Oh god,” Y/N closed her eyes, a sick feeling sinking her stomach, “We have to wait for another child to-”

“Donor,” Doctor Thomas said, “We have to wait for a donor.”

“A child,” Y/N snapped her eyes open and glared at the blonde woman in front of her, “We have to wait for another child to die to save our child.”

“Well, if you think about it that-”

“There is no other way to think about it!” Y/N’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the arms of the chair, “The only way our child can live is if another child dies!”

Doctor Thomas looked over towards Jake, “I think it’s best if we-”

“Don’t look at him,” Y/N sneered, “You are talking to me. There has to be another way. There has to be. . . Miles,” Y/N gave him a pleading look.

“I’m sorry,” Miles said sincerely, “We have discussed this at length, getting second opinions from our pulmonary specialists and transplant specialists, we think this is the best course of action.”

The office was quiet, as the words seemed to settle over Jake and Y/N. His heart was still pounding in his ears and he wasn’t one hundred percent certain he understood what Miles and Doctor Thomas were saying. He got that Ella was sicker than they thought, and the original plan was no longer going to work. But still, Jake couldn’t really wrap his head around what was going on.

“I know that this is hard to understand,” Doctor Thomas said, “And you’re having an emotional-”

“Fuck you,” Y/N spat. Jake snapped his head towards his wife, “Fuck you,” She leaned forward, her eyes burning into Doctor Thomas, “You have no idea what kind of response I am having to hearing my child is dying and the only way to save her is to let another child die. You have no idea ‘cause you aren’t a mother. No,” She chuckled, “You’re just a slut who goes after married men.”

“Y/N,” Jake finally spoke up.

Doctor Thomas stood up from her chair. If she was insulted by Y/N’s words, she did a great job at hiding them as she rolled her shoulders back, “I think that is all for today. Miles will keep you updated on Ella’s status on the transplant list. Jake, Y/N,” Doctor Thomas nodded to them both, before she left the room.

“I’ll let you guys have the room,” Miles said, following after Doctor Thomas.

Silence reigned over the two of them, as Jake shifted in his chair to face his wife, “I know you’re upset, but that was uncalled for. Calling her a slut?”

“She is,” Y/N huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jake groaned, running a hand down his face, “We were split up.”

“We weren’t divorced yet,” She glared at him, “I atleast had the respect to wait until the ink had dried on the papers to go out and find someone. You. . . you were already chasing tail the moment I kicked you out. Hell, before I kicked you out.”

“Okay,” Jake shook his head, “What is your fucking deal? Hm? This isn’t like you. I thought the group therapy was helping.”

Y/N sighed, “It is.” And that was true. The group therapy was helping her mood for the most part.

“Then what is going on?” Jake grabbed her hand, “I want to help you, but I can’t if you don’t tell me.”

His eyes were full of sincerity and longing as he searched hers for a sign of what could be going on. Y/N used to be such an open book, but now it was getting harder and harder to read her, unless the emotion was anger. He missed the days where she would talk to him about anything and everything. It could be about something that pissed her off or something that made her smile.

Tears welled up in her eyes, as Y/N looked away from her ex. She felt stupid. She felt so incredibly stupid that this happened to her. Of all the times they had tried and tried and failed, this happened when they didn’t even want it to.

Y/N sucked in a deep breath, “I’m late.”

“Late?” Jake asked, confused. All she did was look at him and he realized what she was talking about, “You’re late.” He sat back in his chair, still holding her hand, “You’re late.”

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blackwomanwriter · 9 months

Text

"Mine"

Read: Part I, Part II

It's been a minute, but I finally wrote something. And of course, I had to go back to this series because there is something about Thomas Shelby. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and let me know your favorite part. Happy Reading!

He entered quietly like he was on a mission. Although this one was unlike the ones he had performed during the war and after. No, this mission was different. Very different. Yet, Tommy performed it with the same intensity.

Eyes narrowed on the quiet interior, clocking each entry point and exit way, like a soldier, he assessed his environment. He hadn’t been in a house this small since his childhood. Even back then, the space had felt cluttered and cramped. Too noisy to think. Too busy to breathe. The stench of his father’s hangover in the air before it disappeared altogether.

He remembered talking Arthur out of trying to find their father. A man unworthy of carrying - no, sharing his surname. Tommy tensed his jaw, moving past the memory. Instead, he raised a brow at how devastatingly clean the entire place felt. Physically tidy, but clean in a way that made the house feel empty. Unlived. Unloved. Cold. The opposite of everything he thought of her. She was warm. Tender. Inviting.

Moving to the narrow staircase, he could hear the water running. The pipes pushing the water through the house. She was here. She was alive. She was avoiding him - again.

He hiked up the stairs, stepping one foot in front of the other. Like a soldier, he kept moving. He carried on with the task before him. His mind focused on the mission.

Opening the door quietly, Tommy leaned on the door frame - taking in the sight before him. Curved hips that were fuller since he had last seen her. A waist that tempted him to wrap his arms around her. It was now that he reached in his pocket for a cigarette.

“Jesus, Tommy,” she shrieked. The click of his lighter giving him away.

She rested a hand on her heart, shuddering as she closed her eyes.

Unbothered, he traced the stick along his bottom lip before lighting it.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” She pinched the bridge of her nose, as her breath steadied.

“You haven’t been taking my calls,” he stated. Gaze unchanged. Smoke filling the air.

“I’m in mourning,” she enunciated, grabbing a towel to cover herself. She didn’t bother hiding her frustrations as she shoved past him. She was angry. He liked her angry.

At first, when she didn’t answer his call, he had briefly worried that she was sad. Tearful over the sudden death of her husband, who the police found floating in the river after a night of drinking. His death ruled accidental according to the official report. A drunken man’s blunder. An unsurprising end of life. An expected death for a man who drank as much as her late husband did.

An easy lie to believe, but she knew the truth. The greatest mistake the dead man had made was marrying Thomas Shelby’s favorite whore. It was her mistake more than his. She knew what she was doing when she said yes. The risks she was taking by marrying while Tommy was off in America. Her moment of rebellion had cost a life.

Although, they had gotten past the letter. She hadn’t returned to him. She wanted to keep her promise. To stay married. To honor what was left of her vows. She wouldn’t work for him. She wouldn’t see him. The temptation of losing herself in him made her stay away. She had already ruined the sanctity of her marriage by sleeping with him in his office. She didn’t want to continue making a mockery of the words she vowed before God and man.

She was suddenly religious, which amused Tommy. He thought it was a game, but she clung on to every word spoken by the priest. At the funeral, she remembered his words at the wedding. How he had pressed upon her the importance of repentance. Before Thomas Shelby, she had been a good girl. Never told a lie. Prayed before bed. Devout daughter. Devoted sister. An upstanding and honorable member of her community. He had changed her. Corrupted her. Loved her. Destroyed her.

“It’s been weeks,” Tommy stated coolly.

She ignored him. Her hands focused on the cream she was applying to her skin. Smooth skin. Soft skin. Skin his lips remembered. The taste imprinted on his tongue. Tommy exhaled.

His patience was wearing thin. He loved her. She loved him. He figured out how to help her keep her promise and allow him to keep his. Her husband was dead, and she was free.

“I see you’re eating again,” he quipped, trying to stir a reaction out of her. She didn’t disappoint. He ducked as the bottle of cream nearly struck his head.

“I went from being a whore to being a widow.”

“Sounds like the beginning of a book.” Tommy shrugged then ducked again. This time, she threw a shoe.

“At least I can bargain my way into heaven as a whore,” she resolved, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Is that what your priest tells you?” He brought the cigarette back to his lips for another drag.

He knew. Of course, he knew. She wondered if he was having her followed again. How else would he know about her visits to the church. Her talks with the priest.

“My greatest sin is you,” she finished her thought.

Her words were meant to be cutting, but Tommy remained unbothered. His eyes stoic, jaw set as if he was watching a horse race. He brought his cigarette to his lip, letting it dangle as he neared her.

She stood up, ready to shove past him again, but he grabbed her forearm. Her eyes flared up at him as she tried to loosen his grip, but he remained firm.

“You want to talk about sins, ey?” He whispered against her ear. “You married a man who picked a pint over his life. A man who stowed you away in a house he couldn’t bear to live in himself, while he stayed three doors down with his brother’s wife.”

She frowned, hearing him confirm a suspicion she wouldn’t allow herself to believe. When he stopped coming home, she told herself that he was drunk at a pub or sleeping his hangover off at his mother’s house.

“A man who lost his wages betting on fights.”

So that’s where all their money had gone, she thought. Her face didn’t flinch as Tommy confirmed another truth. Her late husband was just another man who had let her down. All the words she threw at Tommy about him being a good man were lies. He was just better at hiding his wrongs.

Tommy softened his grip on her hand, as he relayed the sin that he couldn’t forgive. The sin that forced him to intervene without thinking of the consequences. “A man who was willing to sell his wife to settle his debts.”

Her eyes widened then glazed over. The shred of innocence he once found in those warm brown irises was quickly disappearing. He cursed at himself for the letter, but it wasn’t just the letter. It was the months he left her wondering if he could ever love again. It was the voice that told him to push her away. She married the man because of him.

Tommy released her hand. There was a part of him that wished he hadn’t been so honest. Her hardened eyes told him just as much. The look on her face was one he had seen before in the women who dared to love him. When his darkness eventually shadowed their light. When his world swallowed them whole.

She reached for the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Taking a long drag, she exhaled. The smoke covering Tommy’s face.

“My sin was marrying the wrong man,” she concluded.

His thumb brushed her skin, remembering when her lips pressed against his in hunger. His lip bleeding as their need took precedence. Her lip bruised from his appetite. Even when he had her, he needed more. Tracing her lip, he gently placed the cigarette between his fingers then lifted it to his mouth. The first puff was for the memory. The second was for his patience.

“No, my god doesn’t care about sins.”

“I didn’t think you believed in,” sighing, she looked up, “anything.”

Tommy closed his eyes. His patience wearing on him again. “You’re moving out of this house. You’re coming back to work, and you’re going to answer when I call.”

“Of course, Mr. Shelby,” she answered.

His jaw ticked at the use of his surname. The smoke from his cigarette creating a haze over his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Tell me what your god thinks about whores.”

“Everyone’s a whore,” he muttered, as he moved toward the door, already thinking of his next order of business. The kiss would have to wait.

“Is that what your wife thinks?”

Tommy stopped walking. Leaning his hand on the door frame, he closed his eyes. His nose flared. His annoyance growing with her disobedience. He seemed to attract women who were determined to do the opposite of what he asked.

“She confronted me. Told me to stay away,” she admitted, and in that second, he realized why she ignored him. She was no longer his secret. He made his affection too obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” he firmly stated, leaving no room for further questions. Yet, she continued.

“Does she follow any of the other girls or is it just me?” She asked.

He wasn’t ready to admit that there weren’t any other girls. That there hadn’t been other girls for a while. From the moment he declared his love, Tommy had made himself hers - only hers.

“You love me, but there are others,” she whispered. “I love you, but all I do is think of them. To be with you, I have to worry about them. I have to wait to be yours.”

“Is that what you’re doing then - waiting?” He asked, closing the distance between them.

Her hand dropped to her middle and Tommy’s eyes followed. He stared, then frowned before bringing his gaze back to her. “How far along?”

Her eyes softened. The grief coloring every muscle in her face. Tommy closed his eyes. She was in mourning. He understood her words clearly now. It was moments like this that made him miss Polly. She would have known.

Tommy muttered something in his Romanian tongue as he sat on the bed. He stamped his cigarette out in silent rage. There was never an end. Death seemed to find him at every turn. It hunted him. Craved him.

His hands went to her robe. Slowly, he pulled the fabric, revealing her body. A body that had prepared itself to carry his child. A body that had nourished him back to life. His fingers moved to her belly, tracing the skin there. The soft, smooth skin.

He looked up at her and saw the tears she wouldn’t shed. How long had she held them in, unable to weep. Unable to speak. Unable to fully mourn. Wrapping his arms around her middle, he pulled her in and kissed the place his hands had touched. He tried to do what she had done for him; he tried to make it okay for her to feel.

“I’m fine, Tommy. It’s better this way,” she said, her voice cold and void of any emotion.

“When?” He whispered, knowing it was his, and yet wondering how he’d missed so much in so little time.

“It doesn’t matter,” she stiffened. “It’s gone now, and I need to move on.”

She gave him a second to make peace with the reality she had lived with for weeks. Then, she moved from his touch, closing her robe as she distanced herself. Loving him was painful enough without the added grief of their lost child.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she folded her arms, avoiding his gaze.

Tommy raised a brow, staring at her before glancing around the room. It was as cold as the rest of the house - bare of any details or remnants of her. Standing up, Tommy found a new mission. He moved past her in search of anything that made the four walls more of a home.

His hands traced the metal bed frame. His fingers trailing the linen and cloth. He opened windows and tapped on wooden walls. He inspected the little furniture in the room, unsatisfied with the results.

“Tommy,” she started to say as he pushed open a wardrobe, finding it empty.

She was leaving. She planned to leave London. She planned to leave him. The thought stung in Tommy’s mind as he opened drawer after empty drawer. His anger taking center stage.

“Tommy,” her voice raised with concern.

He shoved the empty wardrobe back, watching as it crashed against the wall.

“Stop,” she yelled, as he shoved the wardrobe again and again. His grief coloring his anger. His anger coloring his grief. Her heart jumped as the wooden drawers finally cracked under the pressure. The splitting wood overshadowing her screams as the wardrobe completely fell apart.

“Tommy,” she cried, rushing to stop him from breaking the wood further. “Stop.”

“Please,” she whispered. Her plea full of a love she couldn’t deny him.

He exhaled. The sound of his heightened breath taking all the space in the room. His anger taking all the air. Tommy closed his eyes. The familiar whispers creeping in his head, telling him to put out the fire. To walk over to the other side. To let go of this life. To finally rest.

She swallowed, unsure of what to tell him, and yet, she persisted. “My sister found work outside of London. She thought it’d be good for me…”

Tommy shook his head, looking up at the ceiling.

“I wanted to tell you,” she stopped, lowering her head. There was nothing to say.

He scoffed. “Tell me.”

It felt like deja vu to hear him utter those words to her again. To hear the same command. The same request he’d asked from her when she told him about the wedding. Yet, this time, there was nothing left to say.

She stared at the back of his head. Her fingers yearning to brush his hair or wrap themselves around him. Her lips longing to kiss the nape of his neck.

Closing her eyes, she confessed. “There’s no life for me here.”

“You’re not leaving.” He pushed back, ignoring her words. “You’re mine.”

“When?” She sighed. “When am I yours, Tommy?”

He lifted his head, staring at the wall. His mind moving a mile a minute. She couldn’t leave him. His heart wouldn’t allow it. His body would protest. His hunger was contained to her. His thoughts all went back to her. How many minutes until he can think of her? How many meetings until he can dream of her? He suffered without her to be with her. Every hour he was away was an hour he promised to give to her.

He was a selfish man, who wanted what he wanted. A man who endured wars and monsters disguised as men. A cursed man. A broken man. A suffering man. A man who didn’t deserve her, and yet, he wanted her. He needed her. She was the cigarette on his lips. The pain tablets in his pocket. The shirt on his back. The razor blade on his cap. She couldn’t leave him.

“When your wife is gone? When you’re fucking other women?” Her voice continued in the background, but Tommy was half-listening. “When you’re bored? When the nightmares come? When the work is done? When am I yours?” She asked again, although there was no anger in her question.

“When you married him, you were mine. Every time you put on his fucking ring; you were mine.” His brows furrowed as he reached into his side pocket for a cigarette. “When you moved into this house, you were mine. When you had my fucking child inside of you, you were mine.” Tommy sniffed, turning to face her. “From the moment you entered my office, you belonged to me.”

She stiffened, as she traced her empty ring finger. His crassness didn’t bother her as much as his refusal to listen. He disregarded her words, only focusing on what he wanted. It was why she didn’t want to tell him about the baby. He would have stuck her in a big house that he would never visit. Given her everything except the thing she wanted, which was him. But now that nightmare wasn’t even a reality because she’d lost their child. She'd lost a piece of him.

“Is that all it takes…” she started to argue, but words were pointless. Their arguments were pointless. They had a love that was cursed from inception.

In this life, he was promised to another. In the next, he would be reunited with another. In life and death, she had no place in Thomas Shelby’s life. Her love for him didn’t save their unborn child. It reminded her that their love had no place to grow. It was wilted, and no amount of money or prayer could save them.

“You’re not leaving,” Tommy declared, cornering her until she had no choice but to look up at him. Her brown eyes sinking into him, full of a love he didn’t deserve.

“You made me a promise,” he whispered. His jaw tensing as he remembered that night in his office when he had made himself hers. When he had promised to live. To stop craving death. The gods had given him a second chance with her.

“Tommy,” she protested, but he continued.

“You gave me your word.” His lips brushed hers and her body shuddered. “You made promises to me. Promises I intend to collect.”

His hand slipped down to her robe, loosening the ties. His fingers marking a trail from her chest to her neck to her lips. “Promises you agreed to keep.”

She folded under his touch. Her head falling on his chest as she exhaled. Quick, short breaths that made Tommy pull her in closer.

“And what of your promises?” She grabbed his fingers before they could slip between her thighs.

“Hmmm,” he hummed, trying not to smirk. “Remind me again.”

Shaking her head, she moved from his hands. Her heart ached, but it would always ache whether she was with him or not. He was not wrong. It belonged to him. From the moment she entered his office, her heart had become his. Knowing he was promised to another, it still beat for him. It yearned for him. It acted without consequence.

Thou shall not commit adultery. A vow she’d broken within a month of knowing Thomas Shelby. But her heart didn’t care. It didn’t care about the commandments she broke. Her sins were plenty but her heart was full. Full of love for a man who couldn’t confess his love until she married another.

Turning away from him, she closed her robe. Her hand wanted to follow the trail he etched on her skin, but she didn’t. She could hear him lighting a cigarette. His eyes on her. His eyes undressing her. His eyes claiming her as his.

She wanted to run, but her heart wouldn’t let her. Instead, she willed herself to face him. Smoke in the air. His scent in every crevice of the cramped room. She inhaled and tried to tell him again. Her thoughts were on her lips, and yet, nothing.

Offering her his cigarette, Tommy stepped towards her. “Leaving London won’t cure you of me.”

She reached for the smoke. Grateful for the distraction. For the heat. For the vapors. For the way her lungs would expand and contract. For the cigarette they shared between them. His lips on her lips. Her lips on his.

“That priest of yours won’t help you either,” he added.

“What is the cure then?”

Tommy leaned into her. His hands on her waist, slowly moving her robe up past her knees then her thighs. “First, you have to stop running.”

“Running?” She asked, confused by his accusation.

“The wedding. The job. This house.” He counted. “And now these plans of leaving London.” His hands pushed the fabric of her robe from her skin, leaving her naked before him. “You mustn’t run.”

“And what if I do?” She questioned, not allowing her nudity to dissuade her.

Tommy brushed her cheek before taking the cigarette from her lips. “I’ll find you. Remind you of where you belong.”

“And where is it that I belong?” She asked. Her eyes gentle and pleading.

He brought her hand to his chest, placing it where his heart lay. “Here. Right here.”

She swallowed her nerves, terrified of letting her heart speak. “Second?” She went back to his list.

“Second.” He took a drag, exhaling the smoke before he continued, “You must know, I get scared,” he admitted, and she finally understood why he’d written her that letter. Thomas Shelby was scared of loving her. The first woman he loved died in his arms because of a bullet meant for him. Love was something to fear, and he was terrified.

“Now, it’s unpleasant and it’s unkind. But when I am…”

“I’ll remind you,” she finished, “of where you belong.”

Tommy cupped her face, placing a kiss on her head. “Good.”

She closed her eyes. Her heart too fragile for Thomas Shelby’s confession. He hadn’t proposed, yet they were already exchanging vows.

“Last.” He leaned his head on hers. “And the most important.”

“Yes,” she breathlessly whispered.

Tommy’s finger traced her bottom lip before he kissed her. His lips hungry to taste her. Selfish in his desire - his consumption of her. He groaned when he felt her kiss him back. Her own need just as desperate as his. She moaned when their lips parted, disappointed by her body’s need for air.

“I promise to have you pregnant by spring.”

Her eyes lit up as she laughed for the first time in months. She chuckled, not taking him seriously. “Tommy.”

“A boy,” he declared, wrapping his arms around her middle. “He’ll have your eyes and my charm.”

She giggled, playfully hitting his chest as he picked her up and placed her on the bed. Her smile widening as she gazed at him. She was returning to herself - returning to him. Weeks of grief slowly thawing from her heart.

Tommy stamped out his cigarette before joining her with a kiss. His body on top of hers. His hands on either side of her head. His mind fixated on the softness of her skin.

“I’ll be back at work in the morning,” she whispered in between kisses.

“You won’t be working anymore.”

She pulled away from his kiss, frowning at him. “What are you on about, Tommy?”

He sighed, already knowing he was about to start another fight. “I won’t have you working with a child of mine inside of you.”

“What?”

“You’ll be carrying my son,” Tommy repeated.

Closing her eyes, she realized he was serious. Of course, he was serious. She wondered how long he’d been planning to get her pregnant again.

“I don’t deserve you,” Tommy kissed her lips. “But, I promised to give you a life worthy of everything you are.” He reminded her. “I promised to let you in my head. I promised to do more than just wait to die. I promised to live.”

She wanted to be angry with him, but he remembered. Every word. Every promise. Everything they had discussed in his office.

“I promised to keep you safe.”

“To make us safe,” she corrected.

He kissed her again. “There are no other girls,” Tommy confessed, reminding her of his other promise. Tommy Shelby was hers.

Grabbing his collar, she pulled him into a long kiss. “No more running,” she vowed.

Tommy smiled. “No more.” He pressed his lips on hers before adding, “You’re mine.”

This time, she didn’t argue, simply letting him kiss her. “Now, where were we, Mrs. Shelby?” He asked, slipping his fingers between her thighs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was a long one. If you made it to the end, thank you for reading! Let me know your favorite part.

#blackwomanwriter #thomas shelby #cillian murphy #tommy shelby x black reader #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x you #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders #blackreader

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darklordofthesimp · 1 year

Text

Reconcile (John Price x Reader)

Anything Verse

Summary: When a Task Force 141 sniper is rushed into your surgery at the end of your shift, you know you're in for a rough night.

A/N: OOOH a Price fic?? In the Anything Verse?? Wish me luck. I'm so sorry if he's OOC I know nothing.

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort

Warnings: Description of Injury, Allusion to PTSD, Swearing.

The day you met Captain John Price was not a good day. It had been one of the worst shifts of your career, actually.

"Get them straight into surgery!"

You were no stranger to the horrors of war. Every twisted wound, every deformed face, every tragic passing of a young soldier reminded you of why you enlisted.

"Vitals are dropping!"

You remembered the trolley squeaking as you rushed a twisted, limp body to surgery. The shouts of your nurses all worked in tandem to inform you of the signs that this soldier was dying before you.

"Birdy!"

You recognised the callsign, horror prodding at your lungs. Forcing down your realization, you focused on the man screaming behind you. He was larger than life, bounding down the hallway after your team. He bellowed the callsign again, his voice desperate as it climbed over the chattering of your medics, begging for a response.

The body on the bed said nothing.

"They're critical!"

The body on the bed barely breathed.

As you disappeared into the surgical ward, your heart held captive by anxiety, you risked a glance over your shoulder.

The man's eyes were bloodshot, wild in a way that only love could cause. There was a soldier who held a firm hand to his chest, reminding him that 'Birdy' was going somewhere he couldn't follow.

His gaze followed the trolley until the doors closed on him.

John Price had been watching on with the eyes of a man that was already mourning.

____

Twelve hours.

Twelve hours spent trying to save a life because of miscommunication

The team had been swapped out on the sixth hour of surgery, your secondary group scrubbing in at around 0100 hours. You didn't take the break.

Your hands shook as you pushed the doors open, emerging from the surgical ward like you'd just crawled off the battlefield. Your knees were weak, barely holding your body up as you trekked down the hall.

Images of the crumpled sniper flashed across your vision like a stop motion film, reminding you that although you'd saved their life- this wasn't the end of their struggle. Your heart bled for them, bled for the person that they would have to become to survive this.

"How are they?" The words attacked you from the side, throwing you off balance as you flinched away. Trying to catch yourself, your arms flailed and a gasp ripped from your throat. You were dizzy, exhausted and low on all forms of fuel, you were definitely going to hit the deck like a sack of shit.

"Jesus-" A pair of rough hands shot out to grip your shoulders, pulling you upright and steadying you on your feet. You raked in a breath, tilting your head up to glare at the culprit.

It was the man from earlier.

"You fuckin' serious?" You tried to straighten up as you growled the words but there was no venom behind them. You didn't have the energy for that, and as you looked into the haunted eyes before you, you knew that he didn't have it either.

"Sorry." It was muttered as an afterthought, bloodshot eyes barely focused on your features, as though he was looking at you but not actually seeing. "Is Birdy okay?"

You sighed deeply, scrubbing at your eyes with the heel of your palms. If you rubbed hard enough maybe you could chase away the crippling exhaustion.

"Yeah," you rasped. "Someone really did a number on 'em though."

The man's face grew stormy at the words, his jaw clenching. You knew then that there had been no justice for the sniper, that their assaulter had escaped the clutches of the infamous 141.

"I want the report." The man stated simply, his tone carrying the familiar weight of authority.

You raised an eyebrow.

"Are you Birdy's chain-of-command?" You queried, crossing your arms over your chest.

"Captain John Price," he nodded.

John Price.

He was something of a legend within the unit, the forefront of Task Force 141- the leader. You would have been in awe had he not looked like a pathetic shell of the man he should have been.

Your eyes trailed his figure, stopping at his hands with a startled gasp.

"Whose blood is that?" You stepped forward, suddenly on alert. You dragged your gaze over his shocked features, analyzing for injury and wounding.

"Bit of mine," he rasped, eyes wide as he took in the state of his skin, "...mostly Birdy's."

You could have left him there. Your shift had been over 15 hours ago and you were planning on going home and stuffing your gob with whatever you could get your hands on.

The Captain wasn't your responsibility.

But the broken man before you was.

"Come with me," you murmured softly, taking a step towards the door. Price didn't move, that thousand yard stare drifting over the entrance to the surgical ward. His body might have been here but his mind was far away.

You'd seen it millions of times, yet every instance still rips on your heart.

Gently, you wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Cerulean eyes snapped to meet yours, wide and hard. He gripped your offending limb with his free hand and your heart hammered in your chest. The Captain was fresh from war, blood smeared across his jaw and dried under his nails, he was unpredictable.

Your hand trembled in his but you didn't loosen your grip.

John Price was a large man, broad shoulders and a presence that demanded your attention. He was a combatant, he'd been through hell and back and willingly made the journey thousands of times.

When you dealt with soldiers like this, there was always a security detail to protect you in case they snapped. It was common, it was understood- survival instincts and adrenaline doesn't just disappear overnight.

But you were alone.

And Price's grip tightened.

"John," you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady but failing. The words wobbled and your body tremored but your gaze remained consistent. Your eyes appealed and pleaded, fixated on the bright blue of his own. "John, let me help you."

His eyes flickered down to see where he held your hand.

Then he released a breath.

"I'm so sorry," Price murmured, broken and small.

You offered a genuine smile, breath settling as relief flooded your chest. "You're okay, John. Come with me."

You told yourself to say his name often, reminding him of who he was and where he was. It was your job to ground him, to patch him up- body and mind. His grip on your hand loosened but he didn't let go completely, his shaky inhale telling you that he was overwhelmed.

He wasn't used to being rattled.

Captain Price wasnt supposed to ever get rattled.

John followed you into your office, letting go of your hand to close the door behind him instinctively. Your heart skipped a beat at the sudden isolation, you weren't meant to be alone with a volatile patient. When he turned to face you, he raised a brow at your hesitance.

"Would you prefer I kept the door open, Doc?"

You swallowed thickly, controlling your breathing as best as you could.

"It's not a problem," you lied.

There was a soft snort, the first sign of humor you'd seen in him. John opened the door back up, resting it gently against the stopper as he offered you a meaningful glance.

"For my ease of mind," he joked dryly.

Your lips twitched upward and you ducked your head.

"Thanks," you whispered quickly before clearing your throat. "And they call me Saint. Not Doc."

"Saint," John trialed the word on his tongue. "Fitting."

You rolled your eyes light-heartedly before gesturing to the tap and basin at the back. "Clean up a little while I prep."

The Captain offered you a nod, sobering as he moved to the sink to scrub the blood off his hands. You prepared your equipment, pretending not to notice the way his body shook as scraped the blood off his skin.

He was there for longer than he needed to be but you didn't push. You wouldn't rush him, there was nothing more important than letting him watch the crimson stained water disappear down that drain. The way he stared at his hands, those unsoiled palms raised upright, it had you thinking that he could still see his sniper's blood tattooed across his fingers.

When John finally sat down, his face was drawn and solemn. You took in a sharp breath, taking the anti-bacterial wipe and approaching the Captain slowly until you were inches away.

His gaze lifted to watch you through his lashes, the scent of gunpowder, sweat and blood rolling off of him in waves. You were used to it, it was a smell that you'd gotten used to over the years.

"I'm going to wipe the blood from your face and sanitize your wounds," you stated clearly, breath trembling as his attention fell to your lips.

John said nothing for a long moment, leaving you inches from him, praying to God that he wasn't going to snap.

"Yeah," he finally rasped.

You set to work, ignoring the way his eyes followed you emptily. You wished there was emotion behind it, you wished you could say that he was leering, but the Captain was watching you work as one would watch a plain car go by: no thoughts, simply caught by the movement.

Thousands of conversation starters fought for use, they begged to be spoken out into the small space between you. All of them fell short, nothing could drown the silence of his grief.

"Will Birdy recover?"

You were startled by the question, fingers brushing against the heat of his skin as you flinched. His eyes were glued to yours. They waited hungrily for a response, watching carefully for any indiscretions that could give away a lie.

"Yes." You replied simply, moving to continue your work.

"Saint." The Captain's fingers reached upward to grip your wrist gently, lowering your hand from his face. You took in a sharp breath, eyes narrowing. "That's not what I was asking."

The look John gave you was intent and revealing, stripping the veil from your answer. You were bare for him to see, inches away with no room to hide from his gaze. His hand was hot against your skin, burning every square inch that he held.

You knew what Price was truly asking. You knew that you'd hadn't answered the question he was offering, hidden behind smoke and mirrors.

Will Birdy forgive me?

You sucked in a breath, bringing a hand to softly rest against his shoulder.

"Yes," you said again.

Only, this time, you lied.

#john price x reader #john price #peepaw price #price mw2 #john price mw2 #john price cod #cod x reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2

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