#Liverpool Heartbeat

[downthetubes]

Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital Launch New Comic

Liverpool Heartbeat’s Robin Baynes and Tim Quinn, and superhero friends, launched Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital this week. Picture courtesy of Tim Quinn and used with permission A fab day was had earlier this week, as Royal Manchester Children’s Hospital, in partnership with Liverpool Heartbeat, launched Zowie!, a brand new comic book designed to capture the imagination of all patients…

[the-californicationist]

Hello Cali ❤️. Por alguna razón no te había visto más en mi muro de tumblr y me preguntaba si no estabas aquí, por eso busqué tu perfil y me di cuenta que tumblr me estaba jugando una mala pasada.

How are you??? I'm so busy because I have a loooot of work, pero me tomaré el tiempo de leer todo lo que me perdí de ti ✨✨✨

YOU ARE THE BEST, OK? I LOVE YOU ❤️💍

Quisiera que escribieras un smut de John Price CEO/Mafia con un Reader inteligente y astuto, que queda cautivado cuando John comienza a seducirla, porfis ✨

Anything for you, my friend!! I love you so much <3 <3

Wonderland

John Price is a famous mob boss... but you don't know that. All you know is that you've got a crush on a mysterious, handsome man, and you're willing to go all the way to find out if his bite is as bad as his bark.

The parking garage was dark, and the concrete seemed to hold in the cold like a freezer. It felt like ice on his cheekbone, and not even the blood from his eye socket was enough to warm the skin. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, that odd whooshing sound, and in a distant memory he could recall the first time he had ever gotten a black eye. But, all that was gone now. He had ratted out the one man that no one had dared fuck with in the past five years: John Fucking Price.

Those fucking coppers had said they’d protect him. He even had his people outside his house every hour of every day. How could this happen? He had to admit, he wasn’t even scared, he was just pissed off. Fucking bastards. They’d get what was coming to them. Maybe he’d tell them so. Not like they'd give him any more chances.

“Fuck you, Price. I hope those pigs skin you alive,” he spit out the blood that had began to pool in his mouth, and hoped it hit those stupid boots John was always wearing.

John Price slid his shoe away from the red stain that had began to swell on the ground, keeping his kangaroo leather Berlutis from ruin. The fool beneath his feet had no idea what was about to happen to him, and John almost felt sorry about it, if only for a moment. He and Vinson had been friends once. Hell, he’d even stood up at his wedding. 

“Vince, what did I tell you about that bloody mouth of yours? Said it'd get you into trouble, didn't I? Wish there was something I could do for you now, cause you and me, we used to be mates. But, I can't afford friends like you. Not anymore," Price gave the rat a quick shove with his heel and watched as the stain smeared in a thin streak across the cement. He turned to his men,

"Well, lads, I've got a party to get to. You wouldn't mind cleaning things up here for me, would’ya?"

"No, boss," was their quiet reply.

"You'll be sorry, you goddamn pussy!" Vinson was screaming now, "I hope they hang you from the fuckin’-”

Bang! The loud gunshot echoed through the hollow space.

Vinson didn't say anything after that.

"Let's get outta here, Gaz."

"Right away, boss," Gaz opened the door to the limo and prepared to drive John back into the city. There was a big gala at the Genting Casino tonight, and Mr. John T. Price was never late.

He was never early either. In fact, he was perfection incarnate. When he was younger, that wasn't always the case, but after his father died, he had needed to change. No one was fit to rule Liverpool in his stead, and he was thankful that no one had been foolish enough to try. His father had made this town what it is. Liverpool was built by his family, and even though everyone thought the Price regime had grown tired of their reign on the old docks, they couldn't have been farther from the truth.

John had his cut from all of the major casinos, and he traded security in exchange. He owned two of them himself, along with four shopping malls, five bars, three neighborhoods, two apartment complexes, and a golf course - not to mention the property that wasn't in his name. He made sure to give his men plenty of reign over their own enterprises, even if most of them were strip clubs. But, he didn't care. As long as tribute came in every quarter, he never messed around in their business.

He thought Vinson was one he could trust. He'd even given him a car dealership just last month. 

"Don't run it into the ground, Vince," he had said.

But, no. What had the little bastard gone and done? Put a tracker on his car and dropped bugs in his office. After everything he'd done for him, that's how he was repaid? To tell the truth, John never liked violence. It was awkward. But, his father had given him fists and showed him how to use them, so there was really no going against it. Violence and fear were vital pieces of the only language that men like Vince could understand. Now, with another family coming to Liverpool, John had to be on his best behavior. Even if 'best' was a little more loosely defined.

As he lit the tip of his last cigar, he reminded Gaz to grab him another few sticks on the way home. Gaz would've never turned coat on him like Vince did. He'd give him the car lot.

"You want the dealership on Sefton street, Kyle?" He offered.

"Sure, boss. Thanks a lot," Gaz smiled, knowing exactly which business he was talking about, "You want me to pull around back?"

They had arrived at the main entrance. Throngs of people were craning around the limo, trying to see who was inside. John thought about it for a second, smushed his cigar tip into the ashtray, and adjusted his tie.

"Nah," he said, "We'll give them the show tonight."

"Sure thing, boss."

Gaz parked the car and leapt out of the cab. His hand was on the door before John could take another breath, and on either side of the door, some of Price’s own foot soldiers took up their posts as bodyguards. When he emerged from the muffled quiet of the limo, it shocked John for a moment to be in such a whirl of chaos.

"Mr. Price, can I get a photo?"

"Over here, please, Mr. Price," a cute reporter was frantic enough to step in front of his men. They picked her up and put her back in the crowd.

John made sure to smile and wave, shake hands with those he had seen before, but he knew it was safer inside. 

The manager greeted him warmly and, he noted, by first name,

"John! Good to see you again, mate. We've got just the table for you, tonight. Wait til you see the legs on these girls! It'll be a night to remember."

"I'm sure it will."

"Ah, sorry, but we don't allow weapons past the main floor," the manager's face fell. So did Kyle’s. 

Gaz cleared his throat,

"I'm sure you can make an exception for Mr. Price. We'll be very discreet."

It was more of a threat than a promise, and John smiled at his friend's heavy tone. Kyle was anything if not polite.

"Uh, yes, we can certainly make arrangements. Right this way, gentlemen," and now the manager was nothing if not nervous. Perfect.

The night continued as well as it could, but he had never really enjoyed gambling. Why make all this money if he was just going to throw it into the wind? But, he could mingle with the right people here. Except that these weren't his people. He had come as a favor to his long time friend, Alex Keller, but Alex was nowhere to be found. 

"Passed out on his missus’ tits, probably!" One of the strangers guffawed at the other end of the Blackjack table. 

"He’ll show, don't you worry," another replied.

Well, John didn't have all night to wait on a man to get to his own party. He needed a drink. When he rose to head to the bar, Gaz stopped him,

"I'll get it, boss. No need to bother yourself with it."

The table was silent. The strangers who had been so brassy before were now silent and transfixed on the pair of men at their table, one of whom was important enough to have his slightest whim catered to at a moment's notice.

"It's alright, Garrick. Play my hand, yeah? I'm headed out for a smoke."

"Yes, sir."

John retreated. The awkward stares and weird glances were too much for him to bear. Surely there was a patio around here, somewhere.

By the time he found one, he was disappointed to see it was occupied.

"Oh, beg your pardon. Thought I was alone out here," he said.

To his shock, it was a woman's voice that responded from the shadows. Your voice. 

"You're fine. You got a light? Fuckin’ matches are all wet..." You fumbled with the book, striking to no avail.

He smirked,

"I have the fire if you've got an extra smoke."

"Fair trade," you smiled back jokingly. 

You were dressed in a clean chef's coat, your hair was pulled up, and you might have been going without makeup, but it was almost too dark to tell. It certainly wasn't casino makeup, that was for sure. John watched as you tugged two cigarettes free from the box, put them to your soft lips, and covered his flame with your hand. Your fingernail paint was pink and chipped. You pulled in the fire of both cigarettes and offered one to him. He took it,

"Thanks."

You grunted in a minimal response.

"So, you're a chef?" He asked.

You raised an eyebrow at him, giving him the glare he deserved for such an obvious question.

He back pedaled, 

"I mean, you work here as a chef. I just thought, with the coat...I mean, where's your big bloody hat? You need the hat."

You laughed. It was wonderful to hear, and he liked the way your mouth moved when you started to speak,

"Yeah, I work here. Have for the past three years or so. Bill signed me on as head chef, and I've been slaving away for him ever since."

"Bill?"

"Oh, he's the culinary manager. Runs all the restaurants in the casino and the hotel. When the last guy disappeared into thin air, they had to scramble to find someone, I guess. What about you? Where's your fancy hat? Based on that Hermes tie, I'm gonna assume you're here with the party."

He mindlessly adjusted his tie, noticing its feel on his neck as she called it out,

"Well, I might be."

"Yeah? You some kind of big-shot?" You eyed him again, challenging him to answer with something more than a yes or a no. You had heard yes and no plenty of times.

"I might be," he wouldn't give in.

"If we keep going like this all night, you might end up being the Queen, for all I know."

You both laughed, but then, you sighed, 

"Oh well, Mr. Mystery. Keep your secrets then," you shrugged and turned away from him.

He couldn't have that.

"What's your name?" He asked.

"Sarah," you spun back around, "Rachel. Tiffany. Willamina. Might be anything."

You had the audacity to wink at him.

"Alright, you got me, love," he moved a little closer to you, "I'm John. John Price."

He extended his hand and waited for the bad news to sink in. No one who knew his name in this town would be dumb enough to be on a patio alone with him at night. He had dodged the media for a long time, but his trials always managed to get leaked. Twelve accounts of assault and battery, two separate accounts of theft, three murder charges - all acquitted of course. But, still, he was no stranger to ducking the law.

"John? Of all the names," you shook your head and smiled, taking his hand firmly, "Pleasure to meet you."

"You as well. You've never heard of me?"

"Oh, Jesus," you lamented, "Are you famous or something? Look, if I'm not in the kitchen, I'm at home asleep. Sorry. I don't even watch TV."

"No, nothing like that, I just - " He thought about it for a moment before you saw him decide to take a different trajectory, “Not famous.”

“Why is it that I feel a little bit like Alice tonight?” You took a long drag and let the smoke fall from your lips, “Like I’m following a white rabbit down a deep, dark hole.”

He chuckled, and you enjoyed seeing his eyes shine with his laughter,

“If you follow me down,” he sidled up to you, his face close enough to yours so you could smell the balsam in his aftershave, “I’ll show you just how deep the rabbit hole goes.”

A man’s voice cleared his throat behind you, and you both turned to look at who it was. 

“Garrick?” John asked, clearly annoyed. 

“Yes, sir. Johnny and Simon made it up. They said they know why Keller hasn’t shown.”

John didn’t answer. He simply turned back to look into your eyes, trying to divine some sort of future from them. He must’ve liked what he saw because the next thing you knew, you were being given a golden key card. Top floor. 

Not famous, my arse, you thought to yourself. 

“Why don’t you take the night off, love. Come see Wonderland, yeah? I’ll be right behind you.”

“My, my,” you said, palming the card from him, “No one ever tells you no.”

Another smile, a little colder than the first,

“No, they don’t.”

“Maybe I will,” you pulled the tiger’s tail.

“You won’t,” the tiger growled back.

As you watched him leave the small patio, his broad back stretching that expensive suit, his thick fingers flicking his half-smoked cigarette off the balcony’s edge, you were kicking yourself. You knew you were going up to his room, even though something inside of you really wanted to yank this guy’s chain. But, his dark, purring voice had made Wonderland sound so inviting… maybe just one little peek wouldn’t hurt?

You waited a whole five minutes before slinking off to the service elevator, cutting out for the night. No one was making dinner anyway; it was the bar that was slammed. You’d already cleaned and prepped your station, so no one would miss you. 

You ducked into the bathroom just before the top floor, getting off on the service side in an empty hallway, checking your face for stray flour or coffee stained teeth. You smelled like a pizza oven, but maybe you could sneak a shower before he showed up?.

What a slut, you heard the angel on your shoulder chastise you. 

So, what? The devil’s side replied, indignant. 

You peeled the chef’s coat off of your body. All you had underneath was a black tee. It was cropped a bit too high for work, but you wore it anyway. Your black work pants were covered in flour and dried food. You brushed them off as best you could. It would have to do. You shoved your coat into your bag and headed back to the hallway. 

Luckily, the main elevator was vacant, as was the hallway, so you wouldn’t run into any other guests on your way to Wonderland. 

The angel rolled his eyes. The devil glared at him. 

The elevator dinged, and you inserted the gold card, clicking the very topmost button to the penthouse. 

You’d been up here before. Sometimes, you picked up cleaning shifts on your off days for the extra cash, so you knew the layout. But, that had been in the cold, hygienic light of day. At night, this floor was a sparkling vision. When the elevator doors opened, huge clear windows reached all the way into the ceiling, framing Liverpool’s city center, looking more beautiful than it ever seemed from the ground. 

You took quiet, uncertain steps out of the lift, checking for any signs of life. There were none, so you made your way to the bathroom. Huge black marble monolith slabs were carved in a semicircle, a nautilus that curled around the four separate shower heads, all ready to pour their steaming water down your naked body. 

You stripped, stepping into the stream, letting yourself pretend that you lived in this sort of luxury for a moment. A soft lather of soap and a little shampoo later and you were clean. The single-use toothbrush and paste was in the hidden drawer that no guest would ever notice, so you stole an extra set, scrubbing yourself to a minty shine. 

A pair of black satin robes hung in the closet, so you stole one, tying it around your waist, fully aware that one stiff breeze and the loose-fitting garment would fly right off of you. The soft fabric lay against your skin in the most sensual way, barely touching you and yet making you feel touched. 

You explored the hotel room a bit, avoiding Mr. Price’s suitcase like it would bite you. The kitchen came stocked with ice buckets of champagne, so you helped yourself to one, pouring a glass and lounging by the window, wondering how long you’d have to wait for your date. 

Fortunately for you, only an hour had passed and you heard the elevator ding. Out from the dark lift came the man himself… bleeding from his lip.

“John! What happened?” You put down your wine and rushed over to him. 

He held you back, waving you off like it was nothing,

“Don’t worry, love. Just a bit of a scuffle, tha’s all.”

“But —”

“Seriously,” he grabbed you by your arms and looked you up and down, enjoying the wide opening of the robe as it revealed your body to him, “You should see the other bloke. Let me get cleaned up. Pour me one of those, would’ya?”

Before you could protest, he ducked into the bathroom, out of your reach. You were left standing there, worried and a little concerned for your own wellbeing. You didn’t actually know this man at all, and here you were, lamb to the slaughter, eager and bleating happily. 

While he was in the bath, you decided to do a little research. You searched up his name, and you were finding almost no hits, until you stumbled upon a mugshot.

There he was… the notorious mob boss, ruler of the English underground arms dealing circuit, enforcer and racketeering extraordinaire. And here you were, nearly naked in his room with not so much as a penknife within reach. This guy had been in the armed forces, special forces, black ops — the works. He retired and fell into the armed security world, making a name for himself by pushing out the competition by any means necessary. His father had maintained ties to the dark underground, and now John had taken over the family business, doing shady deals for the government and crime organizations alike. All of it was hearsay, of course, and none of the charges had ever landed a single hit… but you knew the truth. 

John Price was the most dangerous man in the world; Liverpool’s crime arena was just a quiet little hobby for a man like him. If he wanted to, he could make you disappear like a magician behind a mirror. Gone without a trace.

What would you do? Would you run? Where would you go? How would you explain your sudden exit? Food poisoning?

Before you could even begin to formulate a plan, John was out of the shower. He looked incredible. His hulking, heavy form was steaming from the hot water, and his hairy chest was uncovered. He’d slipped into a pair of running shorts and nothing else, so his brutal body was on display for you. He was covered in scars, and he was heavyset, but his largeness was from his strength. His core was bulky and strong, and when he moved, you could see the tight muscles rolling around beneath the skin like a snake ready to strike. 

He turned to you, but even though he wore a smile at first, the moment he made eye contact, his face fell. Somehow, he knew that you knew.

He sighed,

“What did you see?”

He rushed over to his suitcase but found it still locked, looking back to you quizzically. You didn’t move, you didn’t dare. John stepped over to you slowly, deliberately, almost as if he was ready for another fight. 

You turned your phone towards him and showed him his own mugshot.

“Thought you said you weren’t famous,” you whispered. Your voice sounded so small and far away, you almost felt like you hadn’t spoken the words. 

He smiled bitterly, tossing his towel on a nearby chair and sat beside you on the bed,

“Cat’s out of the bag, then?”

“Yeah,” you looked down at your phone, unable to look him in the eye. 

“Go on,” he waved his hand at you, motioning toward the door, “Get out.”

You didn’t move. You should have. Every fiber in your being was telling you to make a break for it. Now was your chance. And yet… you stayed. It was silent for a long while. You could feel his gaze raking over you, hot and heavy. His breaths rumbled in his chest. 

“Go!” He spat, “No one’s keeping you prisoner here, girl. That’s me, alright, and the newspapers don’t even know the bloody half of it. Just go.” 

You reacted to his volume, shirking back a bit, but you still didn’t stand. You looked at him then, searching for the kindness you thought you saw on the patio just hours before, checking to see if it was still there, if it was even real.

When you met his eyes, his fury was masking a very real pain. He was angry, sure, but the ache of being cast out was apparent, even though you were the one doing the leaving, and you just wanted that bit of brightness back again. 

John studied you, watching your every movement, trying to determine what you were thinking but coming up short. He stood right in front of you, his hips inches from your face, and he asked,

“What are you waitin’ on, love?”

A strong thumb lifted your chin, raising your jaw up to look at him again, and he used his enormous hand to grab your face, keeping you there under his will. 

“I know you’re afraid of me,” he commented softly, “I can feel it.”

“So?” You replied, trying to keep your tone steady. 

His voice was bitter and mocking, and as he leaned forward, you could smell his clean, warm skin, 

“You wanna play with the big bad wolf, hm? See if I bite?” 

He grabbed you a little too tightly, trying to scare you. It worked, but you tried not to show it. Instead, you decided to place both of your hands at his hips, your palms flat against his warm belly, feeling the dark hair that formed a faithful trail, guiding your eyes down to his waistband. 

It was his turn to be surprised. You felt his breathing catch as you moved your hands up along his ribcage, rubbing gentle circles into his skin, petting him like a skittish hound, expecting him to snap. 

Letting go of your face, he grabbed your wrist, and just as you thought he was going to stop you, he took your hand and placed it on his chest, stretching your arm all the way up from where you were sat, making you extend your spine as you reached up to him. Your fingers traced the fur that lay flat against his pectorals, and finally, you plucked at his nipples, not allowing there to be any question as to your intentions. 

The tip of his wide finger dipped into the silken collar of your robe, swirling around your neck and following it down to the swell of your breast. He didn’t find your peak, but he didn’t seem to care to. He was just exploring. 

Suddenly, John moved faster than you could even begin to understand what was happening. He had reached under you, lifting you, and then tossed you back down on the bed. You lay, sprawled, trying to catch your bearings, and then you were covered by his huge form, his wide body casting shadows over your vision, cloaking you in his own private darkness.

His mouth was on you like a hot flame, licking and burning and biting and sucking wherever he wanted to, eager to taste every inch of your skin, the imperfections of a wrinkle or a freckle seemed to go fully unnoticed as he devoured you, sucking you down like his last meal. 

You were overwhelmed by the pleasure he was stoking inside of you, and you let a small mewling sound escape from your lips that caught his attention. 

“Mm,” he climbed up your body so that you were face to face, “Enjoying your walk on the dark side, love? Think you’re tainted by me now? Or maybe that’s what you wanted, is it? Something naughty, just for a night?”

You didn’t understand his negativity, nor the self-deprecation, so you tried to protest, 

“No, I —”

“It’s alright. I’ll show you how to be a bad girl. I’ll teach you, love. C’mere.”

His voice was smoldering and sticky, clinging to your ears with some of that same bitterness from before. But, you didn’t have time to worry about that. He was standing by the bedside again, and he grabbed your arms, making your head and shoulders hang part way off of the mattress. You were left staring at his thick thighs and scarred knees, worried about what he was up to.

Then, all became clear. He had dropped his running shorts, and the fattest cock you’d ever seen hung down, shining with drool, ready to be fed into your mouth. 

Your eyes went wide, and although you reached your hand out to try and brace against his legs, it was no use. He supported your head from underneath and bent himself over until the tip of his swollen cockhead touched your lips, the gleaming precome sticking to you like gloss. 

Unwilling to be frightened by his aggression, you opened your mouth for him, laving your tongue across his turgid flesh, allowing him to press himself inside of you. 

His cock was slick on the head but dry on his shaft, so you did your best to wet him, licking and sucking as he pumped himself in and out, already nearing the back of your throat and not even halfway sheathed. 

When he nudged your soft palate, making you gag a bit, you made a noise. You tried steadying him with your hand, and he grunted, grabbing both of your arms by the wrist, holding them above your face, clutched to his hip. Then, he continued to fuck your face, ignoring your writhing gasps for breath. 

Your throat tightened around him, but you tried to stay calm. You’d never taken anyone this deep before, but you stilled yourself, ignoring the urge to panic, and you made a point to swallow, feeling your throat squeeze around his head. You could taste him as he painted the back of your throat, salty and sweet at the same time. 

That made him moan, and you felt like you’d won some sort of battle. If he was trying to frighten you, it was going to take more than just a little rough sex. 

“Mm, fuck… Maybe you are a naughty little girl, aye?”

You hummed, making sure you could feel the vibrations travel through his girth. 

He removed himself fully, taking a trail of your own drool with him, gasping from the pleasure of your mouth. 

“Fuck, I need to taste you,” he muttered darkly, crawling over you and settling himself between your legs. 

You tried to lift yourself back onto the bed, but he kept you hanging there, pinning you down with his strong arm, pressing into your belly with his hand to prevent you from sitting up. Finally, after feeling him kiss and nip at your thighs, teasing you mercilessly, you felt the warm, wet slip of his tongue as it fell between your lips, tasting your throbbing pussy for the first time. 

The robe was half-off, and only the tie around your waist was even providing any coverage, and you realized that as he began to eat you, he was yanking off your clothes as well, ripping through the knot of the robe to free you from the fabric. 

Now, his mouth moved deeper, and you felt him seal his lips to your pussy, messily drinking you in. As he fucked you with his tongue, his mouth and jaw were strong enough to rock your body up and down on the soft bed, making it seem as if he were actually using his smooth wet muscle as a writhing cock, thrusting it up into you and reaching deep into your hole.

The scruff of his beard was enough to make you want to come, much less the power that he ate you with. Every deep, curling lick sent sparks into your core, making your pussy drip with eager stickiness. It was hungry for that fat, uncut cock, forcing you to imagine how delightful it would be when he popped his giant head into your pink flesh. 

You were keening for him. Well, it wasn’t exactly for him, per se. The noises you were making were coming from your throat against your will. If you didn’t scream, you’d pass the hell out, you were sure of it. 

“Fuck, that’s it, love. Get loud for me. Ungh… you taste… mmfh… so damn sweet,” he was ruthless, speaking between long suckles from his mouth, commanding you from below. 

You wished you could see him, but all you could see from your hanging position was the giant window, looking out across the sparkling city. So, you called out to him, your voice thick with want, with need,

“John…”

That was all it took. He tugged your hips down until he was above you again, prowling over you like some sort of beast, all snarling unbridled lust and appetite. As soon as he was in position — and your body knew he was in position — everything stopped. He stopped. 

John looked down at you and became… different. The flirty bloke from the patio was back, and he smiled at you. You smiled back, out of breath and already drunk with hunger, but that was all he needed. He kissed you deeply, making you taste your own musk, and as his soft lips slid over yours, you felt the pressure of his huge cock at your hole, pressing through your folds to reach your hot, soaked center. 

You gasped through his kiss, both of you moaning in the same timbre as you felt his heavy dick fit into you for the first time, a sparkling desire swirling within you as every delicious inch of him buried itself in you. He began to thrust himself up into your aching slit, fucking you on half of his length, and then using your own sticky fluid to slip himself the rest of the way in. 

“Bloody hell, this fuckin’ pussy… fuck me,” he groaned, wrenching his eyes shut from the pleasure. 

“Holy shit,” you breathed.

“Yeah?” He asked, seeking your praise. 

“You’re fucking huge,” you didn’t mean to sound so concerned, but there was a part of you that was. 

He sat back on his heels, taking some of the pressure away, staring down at your body lecherously, savoring your tits and fondling them in his hands,

“Alright, love?”

“You feel so good,” you insisted, wrapping your hands around his arms as he enjoyed your body. 

“Tell me again,” he said, grunting again as he fucked his cock deeper inside of you, reaching a new end before dragging himself all the way back out just so he could start the journey again. He upped his tempo, pounding into you with his weight, the loud smack of his body against yours beating into you like a drum. 

“Tell. Me. Again,” he growled his warning, snarling down at you, pinching your nipple to punish you for your silence. 

You were gasping for breath. He was so deep now, you could feel the pressure of it in your belly. Between sharp intakes of air, you hissed, 

“You… feel.. so… fucking… good…”

“That’s my girl,” he bent over you again and that familiar pressure returned. His cock was too big, and yet you took it anyway. Your body was panic and pleasure all at the same time, and he had you pinned down for the ride of your life. 

You weren’t sure how many hours passed that night. He seemed to have the stamina of a much younger man, and every time you dozed off, you’d wake up again to fingers or tongue or cock playing inside of your folds, coaxing you to open yourself up to him. You were happy to oblige, but you were properly fuck drunk. If someone asked you for the alphabet, you weren’t positive you trusted your answer. But, when John Price asked you to open your mouth or your legs for him, you were the top scholar. 

A golden, creamy dawn was rising up over the docks as you stared out the window. John’s hand was rubbing your bare back in long, relaxing strokes, and he was leaving soft, lazy kisses down your spine. You knew you were a mess. Your hair was tangled; you’d thrown it up into a messy bun on the second runthrough, done with trying to pretend to be a pristine hot girl. Your body was covered in his marks. Bruises from his teeth and red welts from a delightful slap on the ass or two were painted across you like little tattoos to commemorate your coupling. 

“You alright, love?” He checked in on you. 

He’d been checking in all night. For all his ruthlessness, he never crossed a line, and he never forgot to make sure you were safe. Sometime in the wee hours, he’d even made you drink a bottle of water and eat some fruit to hydrate, teasing you with grapes like some sort of earthly Baccus. 

“Yeah,” you nodded, “Looks like it’s time for me to get out of your hair. Not sure I should be seen by the public in my current state.”

“You have work, or…” John looked confused. 

You thought about lying to him for a moment. It would hurt so much less for you to just break it off now in the soft dawn glow rather than a painful goodbye over cold breakfast. But, you didn’t.

“No, just… don’t wanna fool myself into thinking this was something that it wasn’t.”

Your truth hung there in the air for a moment, but before he could open his mouth to reply, you heard the elevator ding.

You turned to look at it, but he didn’t. Instead, he pulled you off the bed and forced you to the floor. It was so fast that you didn’t even realize what he’d done until your nose was in the carpet. Then, you heard a sharp, snapping pop of something hitting the bed.

You watched in horror as John’s hand reached under the mattress and pulled out a small pistol. He held it like a professional, calm and trained, and shot twice. Then, it was quiet again. 

He helped you to your feet, and he was telling you something, but your brain wasn’t registering his words. What had happened? Why were there bullet holes in the mattress? Who had he shot?

Then, you saw it. A man’s body was laying across the door of the elevator. Wanting to descend, the elevator’s alarm wailed, beeping and beeping. 

John grabbed your jaw and made you listen to him,

“We have to go. Now. Get your clothes on. Now. Now.”

“Okay…” You couldn’t move. It was so hard to even lift your arms. They felt like solid lead. You just wanted to sink back to the floor. Maybe if you could just…

“Hey! Now!”

He shoved your clothes into your hands and you started to put them on, doing your best not to look at the elevator. John was packing a black bag, half-dressed himself, and checking the windows over and over, looking for something in the streets below. 

“There’s no time, c’mon, love.”

You felt his hand cover yours as he led you to the elevator. You watched him ruthlessly kick the body away from the doors and push you inside. Once you were in, the doors closed and you rode in silence with him. You could only hear your heart in your ears. 

“...to my car. Stay close to me.”

“Okay…” It was all you could say. No other words even dared to come to mind.

“Hey,” he held your face in his as the floor numbers dropped to the teens, “You’re alright. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Okay.”

The doors opened, and you found it extremely weird that the lobby was empty. There were no workers, no guests, not even a custodian. It was just a big, silent cavern in what was usually a lively casino. 

He was leading you out to the parking garage, and just as you stepped into the concrete enclave, you heard the screech of tires round the corner. John stood in front of you and gripped the gun in his hand, but he didn’t move away. 

The car stopped in front of you, and you braced yourself, hiding behind your lover as much as you could. 

“Get in, boss! They’re right bloody behind us. Soap, shove over,” a man’s voice came from the car. He was in the driver’s seat, and he was wearing a ballcap with the Union Jack emblazoned on the top. In his passenger seat was a man in a black balaclava, and in the back was a bright-eyed man with a mohawk who you guessed had to be Soap.

“C’mon, love,” John shoved you inside just as a black SUV rounded the same corner, the engine roaring when it saw Price’s car. 

Gunshots rang out, and you knew some of them had hit the car. You worried for John, but he stood straight up, aiming carefully for the driver, and fired his gun. As if you were in some sort of action movie, the SUV careened off-course and slammed into several parked cars. Men began to pour from it, armed to the teeth. 

John jumped in beside you and made you kneel in the floorboards, holding his body over yours protectively. 

“How’d they find out? Gaz!” John yelled at the driver, shouting his name when he saw another SUV approaching from the side. 

Gaz swerved, narrowly missing being rammed, and sped off down the highway, trying to run from his pursuers. 

“No idea, mate, but they think it was us who tore up the warf. Banno’s man must’ve turned snitch. Only explanation.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” the masked man sighed, rolling down his window to fire shots at the SUV chasing you down. 

“Who’s the bonnie hen, boss?” Soap peered down at you before turning his attention back on the car chase. 

“Uh… she’s…” John tried to explain, but you realized that you never even told him your real name, “I dunno.”

“You dinnae ken?” Soap’s brows knitted together.

“Soap! Shut up and shoot, mate,” Gaz turned his attention back on the fight.

“Well,” the masked man grumbled loudly, “She’s stuck with us all the way to Hadrian’s Wall. Heading to Katie’s house. No place else is safe.”

“Aye, good call,” John agreed. 

Finally, after leaving the city, your pursuers turned back around and left you to your escape. John helped you back into the seat and checked you for injuries. 

“John… I’m…” Your voice shook with fear, and you felt all of that stress tumbling down into your chest, turning into shock and tears. 

“Shh, it’s alright, love. I’ve gotcha. I’m… I’m sorry. Should’ve known better.”

“Better?” You whispered as he held you to his chest.

“Aye. Thought I could be a normal man for a night. Hit on the hot bird at the bar, go to a fuckin’ party. But, nothing’s normal right now. I’ve put you in this mess, and I’m sorry.”

You didn’t have a reply, not one that made any sense, and as he held you, you watched the English countryside come into view. Rolling green hills still wet with their dew made everything that had just happened to you seem so far away, but you could smell the gunpowder on his hands as he pet your cheek, and you knew that nothing could be further from the truth.

[yeyinde]

BARKING DOG | Jealousy + Price x GN!Reader

Jealousy comes easy for Price, but it's rare he ever acts on it. Until, of course, he does.

》 WORD COUNT: 4,9k 》 WARNINGS: None (don't look at me, i'm just as surprised as you are). 》 TAGS: Fluff. Angst. Coarse language. 》 NOTES: I've gotten a few asks (read: two) about my take on Jealous!Price, so this is that. —Jealousy would be rare in an established relationship. He sees jealousy as distrust, and since trust itself is the foremost foundation he'd want before even pursuing a relationship, it would be extremely out of character for him to give into it. —That being said, before you get together? When feelings are not yet Actualised? Ooof. 

The heavy bass pulses through the unusually packed pub. The rhythm of it seems to reverberate through your body, harsh enough to rattle your bones like a second heartbeat in your marrow. 

You can feel the re-echo of it through the worn herringbone floorboards, bleached in some parts by the repeated spills of ethanol, and the scuff of countless soles dragging across the wood. It pulses beneath you, alive with the leaden stomps of the pub-goers matching the rhythm of the band on stage—the very thing that drew the dense crowd into the ramshackle pub off the corner of Pilgrim and Rice Street. 

It's nestled between Knowledge and Georgian Quarter, a place he'd said was quiet, but good. 

Quiet, you think as cheers erupt when the band trails off their latest rock version of a Sea Shanty from somewhere in Atlantic Canada. If only. 

It was clear when you arrived that Price hadn't anticipated the crowd. The placid look on his face crumbled into something sour, and surly, and you'd taken to jabbing your elbow into his side when he tried to turn around and flee. 

"Who cares," you yelled, shrugging. "We're already here." 

Who cares, indeed. You'd come to regret those words within a half hour of sitting in a booth in the farthest corner away from the makeshift stage you could find. The writhing mass of bodies heated the balmy room until the windows fogged over with a layer of thick condensation, and the air became humid, permeating the scent of people—sweat, the heavy admixing of perfume and cologne, rotten, waterlogged cigarettes and the lingering staleness of tobacco-saturated smoke, and rich ethanol from the abundance of alcohol sloshing against the raw floorboards. 

It clots in your lungs until you're dizzy with its potency. 

This was meant to be a way to unwind and relax. The mission had been a disaster—weeks of stress that you could only grieve about from your safe perch behind a desk—and you could tell when you met Price at the base in Hereford, the duffle bag, that was more his home than the flat he owned by the docks in Liverpool, slung loosely over his broad shoulder, that it was bad. 

Terrible, even. 

No lives were lost, but he carries the near-misses in the deep canyon between his brows and drapes each failure over his shoulder as if he was Atlas, cursed to carry it all. 

There was a moment when he seemed to stagger, knees folding in under the neverending pressure that loomed over him, and it hardened something inside of you. The filaments of your tender joints were fitted with concrete, and as you hurried to his side, fingers looping around the strap of the duffle bag to try and alleviate some of his stress, it slipped out. 

"Lemme buy you a drink."

Relax, you silently implored him. Let me help. 

(Let me in.)

The unvoiced words lingered in the tense atmosphere that always seemed to bloom like a dense thundercloud around the two of you. It's one that starts when his eyes lift, meeting yours. It feels like a spark—like a rubber band being pulled tighter and tighter until the middle burned hot from the crystallising polymer molecules. Heat, white hot, settled in the thick space between your bodies, in the uncrossable impasse of your matched stare. 

Sometimes, you almost convince yourself that he might shatter the opaque haze that clouds in the distance, that he might say something that will disperse the looming plume of separation. The uncrossable, crossed. 

You're not oblivious to how he looks at you—listing across your flesh with nothing short of raw want in the pelagic gaze that brands you from afar. It's an aching sense of want that is so palpable you can feel the weight of his greed on your skin like a physical touch, like the steady hand he keeps notched into the space of your back, leading you steadily through the pandemonium of the battleground that is downtown Liverpool, or a crowded bar filled with rowdy adults. 

An anchor. A guide. The solid ground beneath your feet amid the ever-changing plates that threaten to compromise your balance, sending you off the edge of a precipice. 

Almost unconsciously, you lean forward, as if trying to meet him in the middle, to carve a perfect equilibrium between the asymmetrical chasm that sits, oppressive and unchartable, between the two of you. 

It's then, always, when he seems to shake the reverie that overtakes him. 

But he always takes a step forward before he steps back. 

You consider that single moment of weakness more of a victory than anything else—pyrrhic as it might be, because when he notices he's now closer to you by his own design, carried by the slippage of his staunch control, the distance he pitches between you lasts longer than the winter months in the apex of a polar vortex. 

He clears his throat, but his voice is still thick when he speaks. A rasping noise sticks, reluctantly, to the side of his throat. 

"Right, mmm."

And then he'll say something that isn't quite goodbye but sounds like it all the same. 

In a world of defensive pessimists, you've always tried to be an offensive optimist. Pushing, pushing, pushing until the bricks wobble and the walls crumble. Until you can see through the gaps to the other side. 

But, in spite of it all, you get it. 

If he wanted to, he would have. Simple. You know this. Echo is sharply like a mantra whenever he takes that single step closer, and the air in your lungs catches fire as you wait for the second—the one that never comes. 

You push because you know you'll be good for him. It isn't the egotist in you refusing rejection, the optimist who refuses to yield, but before there was measured distance, purposeful silence, and accidental steps, there was friendship. 

You were his friend first. 

His confidant. The one he called after missions just to talk to someone who was firmly fixed on the ground of reality, but still tangled up in the world he spent most of his time in. You knew, then, that you'd be good for him. 

And then Al Mazrah. Banter over the airwaves. An explosion. Radio silence for three days. 

Everyone thought his group to be beyond saving—pieces scattered amongst the dunes, being picked at by the vultures and vermin; nothing to bring home, not even partially melted dog tags. 

It was something greater than fear in those excruciating hours of nothing but the static in the airwaves. Nothing. Nothing—

And then—

"Lost my last fuckin' cigar—"

You had a job to do first. A role. You radioed in and pretended as if your lungs were collapsing in on themselves as if your heart hadn't torn out of your chest, and led to Al Mazrah to rot beside him in the scorching sun. 

You managed (somehow, somehow) to forge some facsimile of normalcy into your voice even your fingers spasmed from being compressed into tight balls by your side, aching now as you tried to unfurl them. If your inflection gave anything away as you barked out coordinates to the rescue team, demanding a safe—and swift—extraction, it was only Price could ever pick it up.

Later, when the darkness around the edges of your splintering world started to recede, he called you. Nine hours on a jet to get to where you were. Two days in the scorching desert. And he still called. 

It was the moment of fiction when the hero reached out to the sidelined love interest, that picturesque moment in film when the music rose to a deafening crescendo, and words of curated adoration slipped from the lips of the leading man. When the audience cheered with a sense of relief—fucking finally. 

But it isn't fiction. 

"Need a goddamn bottle of scotch after this one, love. Fuckin' hell, what a shitshow—"

It's reality. And Price. 

It was in the aching nothingness when it clicked. 

You might have been good for him, but that was in another life—when he wasn't already entangled in a sordid affair with his work, when even a brush with death and all its glory wasn't enough to change his mind. When the shakiness in your voice couldn't sway him. 

And—

Sure. Okay. 

You forced another wan smile that he couldn't see and offered to buy him a whole distillery as long as he came home. 

"Might take you up on that." 

And so, it was with the crushing absolution of rejection, and the firm friends-only label you slapped across the gaping hole in your chest to stem the bleeding, that you invited Atlas, with his sagging shoulders and trembling knees, out for a drink. 

Eventually, of course, because he'd spent two days in the wilderness, in the unrepentant grip of the elements, and then another nine hours on a jet being fussed over by the medical team and getting only a blink of rest, and—

"Alrigh', but you're buying."

Eventually, of course, because he needed his rest. 

But you've yet to meet another man nearly as stubborn as he is, and it didn't surprise you as much as you thought it would when he simply nodded, let you take his duffle bag, and followed you to his parked car. He drove, too, despite the fatigue around his eyes because you told him how much you despised the idiots on the Motorway near Heathrow, and he listened, of course, and said nothing at all when he pushed into the driver's seat, offering nothing more than a glance that said well? What are you waitin' for?

You didn't mean right now but maybe the brush with death softened him to your presence. Maybe, just maybe, he needs your company now just as much as you need his.

(Maybe, maybe—everything with Price has always been filled with maybes—)

Exhaustion clots in the corner of his eyes, deepening when he saw how crowded the pub was, but he still followed. Still went along with nothing more than a soft grunt. 

So, here you are. Toasting to yourself about the quiet rejection he gave, and weaving through the throng of bodies, two glasses clenched in your sweat-slicked palms, as you try to get his promised drink back to him. 

It doesn't hurt as much as you thought it would. 

(And other lies you tell yourself—)

That might have more to do with the absence of anything living inside the rotting hole where your heart once beat. A gap, now, as that pesky little nuisance has fled the confines of its fleshy prison for the scorching heat in the desert to remain, forever, beside whatever it was that Price left behind when they found him. 

(—at least they're together—)

The amber in the glass sloshes when someone backs up, clipping your shoulder. Droplets spill over the rim, running down your fingers clutching the drink. It's cold despite the heat that permeates the crowded pub. A sharp contrast that makes you shiver. 

The nameless, faceless entity whirls around when you stop, stabilising the drinks in your hand, and you catch wide eyes in your periphery, a mouth moving but the words are swallowed by the vacuum of noise booming from the patrons, the speakers. 

"...shit," you vaguely make out. "I'm so—shit—I'm so sorry, did I spill your—ah, fuck, let me get you a napkin—" 

He's cute, you note. Boyishly handsome with his thick, dark curls and soft almond eyes. The warm glow of the strung lanterns overhead cast a halo of pale orange and muted yellows on his flushed skin, making him look like a bronze-dusted cherub in hazy, ethereal gold. 

Handsome, like the men on the covers of Vogue. 

His eyes are dark—bewitching—and when they crease with shame, and contrition, you find yourself conjuring the image of a guilty golden retriever, head bowed in consternation but tail still sweeping low. 

The comparison makes you huff. 

"I'm alright," you say, more for his benefit than your own. 

He turns at the sound—startling as if you, too, were a nameless, faceless stranger in the middle of everything— and you catch the sharpness in his features when he looks back at you. Beneath the boyish veneer are chiselled cheekbones, full lips, and a divot in his chin. Perfectly symmetrical in his beauty. His eyebrows are groomed, but thick. Black against raw topaz. 

(You've always loved uncut gems.)

"Hi," he murmurs, eyes darkening as he takes you in. "I, uh—sorry, I wasn't paying attention."

But he's paying attention now. There's a cut of appreciation, intrigue, in his eyes when they trail over the features of your face. Differentiating you as an individual person amid a sea of so many. 

"You, uh—" he blinks, and then his mouth peels open in a grin that's just as charming as his boyish features. It's soft, if a little windswept. "Hey."

It isn't the smoothest transition from nervous fretting to something that seems like it's meant to be suave, but it's endearing in an inelegant way. it feels unpolished. Authentic. Like the word slipped out of its own accord. 

Stunned. You stunned him.

"Hey," you echo, offering a small smile of your own. 

And it's a bad idea. One that dips in an almost tangible glimmer of hindsight, like some portent proclaiming an inevitable regret when your senses clear, and the ache in your stomach fades into a sore knot that you can ignore on a good day. 

But he's cute. Charming in his clumsy attempts to make sure you're okay. He isn't something that can fix the ache in your chest, but he's certainly a balm to it. A temporal crutch. One you think you can live with. 

"Are you from around here?" He has a soft voice—low, dulcet. Plummy, but not gratingly so. Refined, you think. There's a soft elegance to him, and in the way he moves, speaks. 

The balm spreads as his head tips to the side when you tell him where you're from, curls bouncing freely against his cheek. 

"Oh," he notes, his lips falling together to make a pretty, pink circle. Adorable. "That's far. Come to see the show? My mates and I came out to see them. They're kind of a big deal where we're from, and—"

Someone pushes through the gap behind him, pushing him forward. You reach out, but the glass in your hands stops you from doing much when he stumbles, losing his footing from the sudden shove, soles of his oxfords (of course, of course, he's wearing oxfords) catching on the spilled drink from earlier. 

Blearily, you have a moment to admire witnessing the sequence of events come full circle before his hands reach out, scrambling for purchase, and fit across your shoulders like he's searching for a climbing hold to catch himself from the fall. You tetter back from the brunt force of him stumbling into you, before catching yourself on the pillar cutting through the room. 

He's muttering apologies as he straightens himself out, but your eyes are drawn to the rivulets of scotch dripping down the back of your hand. Three fingers dwindling quickly down to one. 

"I'm—shit—I'm so sorry—!"

He looks cute frazzled like this. His coiffed curls tangle across his sweat-slicked forehead, dangling over his dark eyes. There's a flush growing across the bridge of his nose, colouring him in a distinct palette of rose, bronze, and gold.

You've always been partial to blues and browns, but this wedges inside of you—different, but not overly so. 

"What a jerk—" you lift your chin, glaring over the top of his tousled curls. 

"Yeah," he breathes, the word nearly eclipsed by the pounding in the background. 

His hands are still on you. When you turn back to him, you're almost a little surprised by how close he is. A short step, and suddenly you realise that it wouldn't take much for you to lean up, and kiss him. 

It's an odd, aching contrast to the one step forward, nine steps back with Price. 

You think about it. About kissing him. About going back to the booth in the back where Price is waiting, and demanding he rejects you already so you can pull yourself out of the limbo you've fallen into, run your fingers through this man's hair, and feel nothing at all except satisfaction. 

(Instead of guilt. The stifling sense of betrayal.)

You tilt forward as if trying to meet him somewhere in the middle. As if a kiss would break this skein web where you can still, somehow somehow, feel Price's presence around you like a nebulous cloud. A magnetic pull that keeps some facet of your attention on him, always. 

Still. Still.

The tether is short. You stop before you close the minuscule gap, and let your body fall back on your heels. 

"You know—" You start, but the words—one with no real objective outside of salvaging something from this mess—are swallowed by a call. 

He startles a little at the noise, craning his chin over his neck to see what is vying for his attention. You follow the breadcrumbs of his gaze, locking onto a man waving his hand over his head. 

"Ah," he says. He knows him. Obviously. He turns back to you, something sheepish flickering across his keen expression. Reluctance settles in the crease of his eyes. He huffs. "I, uh, guess I should get back to them."

You nod. "Sure. Enjoying the riveting show, right?"

"What can I say?" He grins, wide and bright. "I'm a sea shanty kinda guy, and they've been gearing up toward Stan Rogers all night." 

"Wouldn't want to miss that." 

"No," he shakes his head. "You really wouldn't. But, uh—"

You know what he's going to ask for before the words are out, and you give it to him. 

Your name. Your number. His hands fly to his pocket, hastily pulling out his phone, and tapping the numbers into his contact screen. 

"I do owe you a drink," he jokes, eyes skirting to the lonely swallow in a glass meant for another man. "So, uh, if you ever want to cash in on it tonight, um. Text me?"

It tapers off into a question, and the vulnerability, the softness of him, blooms something warm in your chest. He won't just be a balm, you think, but a bandage. 

Your smile is loose, even. It's the first one in weeks since the radio was cut and your world was thrown into a staticky silence. A communications blackout. 

"I could buy it for you now if you'd like…"

It's sweet. He's sweet. Different from the men you're surrounded by—ones with hard edges, and brittle trauma. 

"I think you should get back to your friends," you say instead. "But I'm sure I'll see you around."

You want to feel selfish, but you don't. There is nothing between you and Price but a tenuous thread he tries to pull as taut as he can, and the chiaroscuro that paints him and this man are like night and day; normalcy and—

Well. Price. 

He gives you a slow nod and then slips his phone back in his pocket. He doesn't even try to call the number you gave him, so trusting that everything you said was the truth. Your phone is back on the table where you left it, but you're sure it buzzed with his text. 

"I'll see you around." 

He waves you off with a two-fingered salute against his temple and turns back to his friends when the moment passes. Without soft brown pinning you against the pillar, and spilling comfort into the aether, the world around you snaps like a rubber band to your skin. 

Something shakes loose inside of you, and you turn on your heel, balancing unequal glasses of scotch in your hand. When you lift your head, seeking out the booth, you meet noctilucent eyes boring into yours. 

The tether wobbles. The noise fades into a whisper drifting through the pews in an empty church. 

Right. 

You forgot what it felt like to truly be pinned in place by blue. 

The noise floods in a strange, distorted echo the closer you get to the table. 

"New friend of yours?" He asks, expression clouded with impassivity honed before you even knew what the threads of apathy felt like beneath your fingers. 

His eyes drop to the glasses, curving along the knob of your wrist when you push the fuller glass toward him. Derision blooms, splicing through cerulean-tinged disinterest. 

You wonder how much he saw, and—with a bitter touch of trepidation—if he kept watching. 

It's answered when he scoffs. "Couldn't even buy you a new one, eh?"

"It's only a little off the top."

"A little, hmm?" Bruised knuckles, split and cracked at the crease of his bone, curl around the glass leaving a smear of tobacco stains behind. "Your phone rang earlier."

It sounds testy. Cross. It makes you bristle like a cornered cat.

"I know. He texted me his number so I can find him later."

"That so?"

Your nod is short. Clipped. 

Price leans back in his seat as you slide into the bench across from him. His gaze never wavers. It never does. You feel it like a warm hand against your throat, and the thought alone makes you swallow hard, and breathe harder. 

"If that's what you want—a clumsy fuck next in an alley with a man who doesn't know how to really please you, then by all means, love. Go for it." 

His words are scraped out of his throat by the fine edge of a scalpel; grizzled and raw, and drenched in the heavy ethanol of his scotch. 

He normally sounds like this after a mission, after he stood in the middle of a bloodsoaked battlefield, and bellowed out harsh commands until his vocal cords swelled up, and split apart at the seams. 

When he speaks, you scent the coagulated blood of the pulsing wound, ripped open by the scotch and irritated by the cigar clenched tight between his thumb and forefinger.

"But when you get tired of quick fumbles with an idiot who only cares about himself, I'll be waiting. Just don't keep me too long, love. Ain't gettin' any younger."

His words are meant to cut. To slice through flesh, and saw into bone.

"Neither am I—" Those icy eyes meet yours. You shiver. "You—I mean, honestly, Price; I've been putting out pretty clear signals since the beginning, and—"

"I know."

And—

Oh. 

"Great." You say. "Good." But it isn't. It hurts like a knife to the gut, serrated edge tearing through soft tissue. A blunt pressure against your sternum until it bruises, and then cracks. 

(You always knew he'd be brutal in his rejection.)

You're a distraction, is the underlying accusation to everything. Unneeded. Unwanted. 

But something splinters in his glacial gaze; a frisson that splits into a crevasse, a chasm. Darker than midnight, and endlessly wanting. Harsh winds billow from the moonlit depths, howling against the icy walls. 

"Good?" He echoes, tone gritty and unrefined. A jagged gem with sides sharp enough to cut. "Don't think you understand what you're startin', love." 

It's not anger that clots between his teeth, that colours the divots in his brow harshly turbid, but you feel the blistering heat leaking from his skin all the time. 

"And what am I starting, Price?" 

There's picking at wounds sealed over with a scab, and then there's reaching into the pyre with both hands just to cauterise a paper cut. 

This, you think, when he shifts in his seat, eyes narrowing at you, is that. The latter.

You smell burning flesh and feel the heat scorching your palms when he moves forward. There is nowhere for him to go, but he wouldn't be Price—indomitable Captain John Price who still threatens his superiors after almost dying in the desert because they want him to take a mandatory leave—if he didn't make room, didn't force his way through. 

He leans over the small, three-plank table that divides you, and roughly grounds your name out between nicotine-stained teeth. It's a warning, of course. A rotting barbed wire fence that says keep out, no trespassing. But beneath it, you hear a plea. 

Please don't come any closer. 

It occurs to you, then, when his eyes grow lidded and heavy, weary. When they clove with uncertainty, and a brittle vulnerability that seems out of place across the staunch, hardened veneer of a man who finds screaming through a fusillade easier than taking a step forward. 

You get it. It isn't mocking scorn or brutal, vindictive words. It isn't him mercilessly picking apart the soft, gentle exchange of a man you'd willingly given your number to. It's—

"Too much," he says, and the tether sways.

—basal. Naked jealousy. 

He seems to gaze inward for a moment after his confessional fades, and the sounds of pulsing bass, jaunty music, and rhythm thuds against the floorboards flood the space eked out with his voice. It's a brief flicker. And then the mask is pulled back on. 

One step forward. One done almost unconsciously. 

But it tugs on the line connecting you both, and so: 

You take that step instead. 

Meet him in the middle. Connected by one end of a short line. It drops loose against the table, tangling in the spilled drinks that have come before you. Top sticky, scoured raw with ethanol, but still attached. A tether, a red string of fate. You're locked, somehow, in his pull. An orbital eccentricity: forever circling a sun that threatens to burn you whole when your alignment gets too close. 

There's hesitancy in the angles of his face, casting shadows of uncertainty in the murk. Always pulling back. Always only one step in. 

You might have, too, if you didn't see the brief flicker of midnight blue dropping to your mouth. The flash of greed—dark want; covetous florentine—as he gazed at you. 

You know John. A man who gives, gives, gives, but seldom ever takes. Content, you think, with just this unignorable strand arching between the chasm of your hearts. 

(But you've always taken more than your hands can carry.)

So, you chisel a space in that glorious want, shape in until it fits you perfectly, and press your lips to kiss in a truculent kiss, braced for the recoil. 

But he doesn't. 

It feels natural when he rasps your name out between lax teeth. 

Feels, you find, even better when you slot your mouth against his, gently this time. Peppering a litany of devotion across bristly lips that feel more comfortable spitting vitriol than sweet nothings. 

"Been waiting a long time, John."

Against your lips, he groans. "Guess I better start makin' it up to you."

"Guess so."

His eyes flash, then, aposematic; burning bright in a pretty circle. The rich colour reminds you of a blue-ringed octopus.

Captivating, vibrant, electric.

His chin tilts toward the stage, hypnotic, iridescent blue pulling away from you to follow the list of his head. You know when his brows furrow, a deep canyon of displeasure and sullen irritation, that he's staring at the man who gave you his number. His lids fall, eyes narrowing into a tight slit.

Deadly, dangerous.

Tetrodotoxin taints pretty cerulean in a shade of inky black.

You reach out, eyes never straying from Price, and curl your fingers around the thick bulk of his tensed wrist.

"Wanna get out of here?"

He doesn't look away from the man. You don't look away from him.

"Yeah," he grumbles, but the gloss in his gaze reeks of victory. "Let's go."

"Thought you'd make me wait forever."

He hums, considering your words. The streets are lively despite the late hour, reeking of ozone and malt. A kaleidoscope of colours spills out from the cluster of shops, drenching the gunmetal cobblestone in a varicoloured smear. 

"Might'a," he agrees, tone light and cooler than the breeze. 

"I guess it's a good thing I got bumped into. Without your jealousy, this might've gone nowhere."

He stills suddenly, body tensing like a coiled cobra. 

"John—?"

You get a glimpse of prowess when his hand snakes out, snagging your shoulder, and before you can even pry apart your teeth, he moves you in three quick steps, pushing your back against the dewy wall. 

His hands are hot on your collar, your waist, and he holds you firm to the brick. But the heat of his palm is a mere ember compared to the blaze in his eyes—lavascapes in midnight blue. 

It leaks down, molten puddles, before it congeals around the soles of your feet, keeping against brick, and under the weight of his stare. 

His gaze sharpens when you settle in his hold. "And that guy?"

You smile in a facsimile of placating condescension as his hands tighten around you. "Which one?" 

He lifts his hand from your shoulder, dragging his bare knuckles over your dewy skin, letting himself feel the flutter of your pulse under burning flesh. They're rough, split and scared, and you want to take them into your mouth. To taste the ichor rushing through his veins. 

They're dragged up, away from your parting lips, and you nearly pout from the loss before his fingers brush over your nape, where they curl around your neck, holding you close as he growls out your name, breath ghosting over your lips. 

"None, love. Won't want any by the time I'm done with you."

"And when are you gonna be done with me?"

"Never," he murmurs, fingers tightening over your nape. "Kept thinkin' 'bout you the whole time I was in the desert. Dyin', and my only thought was fuckin' hell. I've been a goddamn idiot."

Price takes a step closer to you, and your blood burns. One forward, and—

He takes another. Another. 

He kisses you, then, like he's trying to devour you whole; trying to carve a place inside of you just for him. A space inside each other where nothing else can fit. 

A rogue planet, a stellar collision.

Every atom inside of you burns bright blue, and you find purchase on his broad shoulders—Atlas carrying the world, and you. 

[exhausted-think-bucket]

Paul's first glimpse of John as described in The Day John Met Paul by Jim O'Donnell

A small shred of grass away, both thumbs in the corners of his peg-legged pants pockets, another teenager is also having fun. Fifteen-year-old guitarist Paul McCartney listens for a rock and roll heartbeat; looks down Lennon’s throat for inflammation of the lyric. He finds the older teenager’s health to be solid as a rock. This may be a garden party, but McCartney can tell that the guitar player is not garden variety. In frisking Lennon’s technical knowledge, he follows the guitarist’s fingers and deciphers the fact that he’s playing banjo chords. In taking an inventory of Lennon’s singing background, he can tell that Lennon doesn’t know all the words to all the songs. The young man makes note of and accepts these limitations. But, laserlike, he transpierces the limitations—sees past the banjo chords and wrong words and comes up with other perceptions. To start with, Lennon’s creative extemporaneousness etches itself across McCartney’s mind. He likes how Lennon makes up words on the spot—suffuses the music with a teenage Liverpool touch. In addition, without even knowing all the words, the guy still captures the triumph of each song.

Secondly, the fifteen-year-old is taken by the concrete actuality of the band—the simple fact of its existence in the real world. Here’s a cluster of local blokes—around his own age—up on a stage playing not-half-bad rock and roll. And thirdly, McCartney realizes that, for the first time in his life, he’s looking at someone who cares about this crazy new music as much as he does. He knows that he and Lennon share a good friend—rock and roll. He can tell that they both listen to the same sounds and, more importantly, hear the same messages. And, most importantly, the music really matters to them. It has been one thing for McCartney to hear the music on the radio or on records or to see it in the movies or on stage, or even to see local bands that fool around with it. But he can tell that this guy isn’t fooling around. This music means something to Lennon—and he means business. McCartney holds a sharp eye on this fellow who is in his own age group, in his own city, and playing his own music. It is as if Lennon is incarnating the music for McCartney—rendering the sound waves into something as real as shore waves; taking the notes McCartney hears in each ear and bringing them together into sharp focus behind his eyes, lifting the music off the radio air-waves and putting it into Liverpool air. The deeper mysteries of rock and roll begin to crystallize behind McCartney’s long, dark brown eyelashes.

[jsprnt]

Healing Hearts PT.10 | Virgil van Dijk

Would a fresh start bring you more than just a new job?

WC: 3.694

Summary: Y/N L/N is a very skilled and praised physiotherapist. A certain event pushing her for a fresh start, as a physiotherapist for Liverpool FC. One question always being in the back of her mind: Will she be able to let go of her past and allow herself to experience new things?

"There is no way he's that stupid." She exclaims, pulling her knees up to her chest. Her eyes focused onto the TV in front of her while she pops some fruit into her mouth.

Virgil stares at her, hearing her comment. His face twisting in confusion. Their bodies close to each other, on the sofa. The city view sparkling behind her.

"Why? He's trying to save himself." He says, trying to argue.

"Because everyone knows if you split up you'll get murdered by the psycho killer!" She tuts, shaking her head.

He clicks his tongue, eyes back on the horror movie he had chosen.

So much for inviting him, and he chose a horror movie? She thinks, trying hold back a yelp as thecharacter on the screen gets caught.

"I swear- gross, why's he stabbing her fifty times. ENOUGH." She says, her hands coming op to cover her sight.

The screen switches back to another character, running in the woods, the sound of panting and crunchy leaves flooding their eardrums.

"Run, don't look back!" She shouts, sitting up and getting way to invested.

His eyes drift from the screen, landing on her frame. He realizes, even though he chose the movie, it doesn't seem to be that interesting as her commentary and facial expressions are.

"Oh he's safe?" She questions, leaning forward.

The screen suddenly flashes, and the killer immediately kills the character on the screen.

"Oh shit-" she shouts almost knocking over the marble table. Her body instinctively curling up, and burying her head in between the sofa cushion and Virgil’s broad chest.

He freezes, though a sudden smug feeling creeps up his chest. His plan had definitely worked out, even though she'd bluffed about not being scared earlier. His hand comes up to her back, comfortingly running his hands over it while reassuring her with soft whispers.

Her heartbeat picks up, whether it was because of the bloody scene on the TV or the actual situation she'd put herself in wasn't exactly clear to her. Even going as far as mindlessly grabbing onto his bicep and gripping it for dear life.

A grown woman, scared of some fake blood. You've done it again, y/n. She thinks, embarrassment creeping up her face. 

She pulls back a little, head down in shame. Not wanting to make eye contact.

He raises a brow, his hand traveling to her chin, gently raising her head to look up at him.

Her reluctant eyes meet his brown ones.

"You okay? I'll turn it off if you want me to." He says, a twinge of concern in his voice.

"No- It's fine, just got umh- startled." She mumbles, head whipping away from his hold, back to the TV.

A deep chuckle leaves his lips, her not-really-unbothered state leaving him to stare at her.

She shuffles awkwardly, not allowing herself to remove her eyes from the screen this time. Waiting for something else to happen to make a comment about, hoping he'll forget whatever it was that she unconsciously did.

"He's not killing her?" He asks, trying to return the mood into what it was before, glancing at her side profile.

"He likes her?!" She gasps, standing up from the sofa in shock.

"He killed everyone to be with her? Well, her friends literally betrayed her anyways." He says, eyes on her.

"Wait- that's kind of-" she mumbles, catching herself.

"You said what?" He asks, hearing her mumble.

"That's insane but it's kind of- romantic." She sits, back on the sofa, eyes following the characters on the screen. A sudden make out session breaking out.

"Oh-" she mutters, normally kissing scenes had her kicking her feet in giddiness. But now, with Virgil sitting next to her she froze. Her face turning hot.

"Romantic yeah?" He says, face turning towards her, noticing her demeanor change.

She whips her head around, their eyes locking.

She clears her throat, trying to ease the tension.

"Why? Are you looking for tips or something?" She teases, her expression changing.

"Don't kill me Mister!" She mocks, hands coming up in surrender.

"Hm you wish." He mumbles, face closer to hers now. She chuckles, noticing the movie credits roll in her peripheral vision.

She watches him, her eyes traveling down to his black shirt clad chest, where she'd just placed her head onto.

He smirks, noticing her wandering eyes. Taking in her looks, black satin pajama pants and a T-shirt on her figure.

She winces suddenly, her hands coming down her abdomen in reflex.

Oh my god, did I get my period?

She thinks, a panicked feeling taking over.

He stares at her in concern, his hand now on her arm.

"What's wrong y/n?" He asks, studying her face, looking for any more signs of distress.

"I'm fine, I'll be back. Hold on." She blurts, rushing into the bathroom.

She shuts the door abruptly, leaving him on the couch in confusion and growing worry.

She shuts the door and immediately checks.

Thanking her past self for remembering to pack products. She walks out shortly after, forgetting to put the unused products and painkillers away. Leaving them on the bathroom counter.

Not that she cared, they were both too grown to be embarrassed by it.

He watches her frame come back into his vision. Deciding to not ask about whatever just happened.

She stands in front of him, stretching her arms above her head. Her shirt lifting up unbeknownst to her, revealing a horizontal scar on her side.

"Do you want to watch another mov-"

"What is that?" He questions, his eyes focused on her exposed side.

"What are you-" she follows his gaze, seeing her wrinkled top, moving her hands down straighten it.

"The scar?" She asks, settling onto the sofa again. She leans her head on the cushions.

"It's just from surgery when I was baby." She answers nonchalantly, picking up the remote to click through the wide catalog of movies.

"Was it serious?" He asks carefully, not wanting to pry but being way too curious to let it go.

"I developed a cyst in my left kidney when I was in the womb and it caused it to malfunction." She replies, thoughts occupied by the dilemma of choosing a romance or an action movie.

"They decided to remove the kidney because, they didn't have enough research to prove it wouldn’t cause problems down the road."

He stares at her while the words fall off of her lips, starting to feel pity for the girl.

"So- are you sick?" He asks hesitantly, confused by her casual tone.

She finally turns her head to look him in his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Why? Are you worried about me?" She asks, her eyes practically smiling due to the grin on her face.

His expression turns serious, grabbing her arm and gently pulling her closer to him.

"y/n I'm being dead serious right now." He tells her, their proximity making her hold her breath for a moment.

"I'm fine, I'm fine." She says, her hand coming to pat his hand that's on his knee.

"I haven't felt a side effect at all. I'm healthy, as far as I'm concerned."

A relieved sigh leaves his lips, his eyes moving down to look at their hands on top of each other.

He doesn't utter a single word.

"Should we- watch this movie?" She suggests.

He looks up at her, realizing he'd been staring without word.

"Yeah, let me just go the the bathroom. You can choose the movie."

I watch y/n nod, and stand up. Feeling her eyes on me as walk into the bathroom.

I get up to the sink, washing my hands and fixing my appearance a little.

I look around for a towel, my wet hands hovering in front of me, but my eyes don't catch a towel, instead my eyes fixate on a opened period product and a pack of painkillers.

That's why she'd been carrying around snacks? Her cravings? Not to mention her mood had been changing, I mean she'd cried just a while ago over room service.

I decide to dry my hands off with paper towels instead, opening the door and walking back.

"You know, I wanted to get a tattoo on my scar."

She says, removing her attention from the TV.

Not that her full attention was on the movie, no. She regularly tried to sneak a glance at him. Folding up her legs, and leaning her side against the cushion.

"Yeah? Why didn't you?" He asks, hypnotized by the sheer beauty of her eyes.

"Well, I don't know. I guess I was scared of the pain? And I'm just really ticklish, so I would've probably punched the tattoo artist out of reflex."

He chuckles at her, watching her eyes sparkle at sound of his laugh.

"But you have a whole sleeve! It definitely hurt didn't it?" She points to his arm, adorned with black ink work. An intricate piece of his story, displayed on his arm. So detailed the beginning and end couldn't be seen at first glance.

He extends his tanned arm, showing it off to her.

"Not really, didn't hurt at all."

"You're lying!" She exclaims, biting back a laugh.

"I've seen you flinch when getting your blood drawn." She accuses, her face close to his.

"You must've seen wrong then." He replies denying.

"Can I?" She asks, pointing to his tattoo's.

He nods, watching her move closer to him.

She pulls his arm closer to her lap, resting it on her upper thigh. Starting to delicately trace the black lines with her index finger while analyzing them.

"They're pretty." She mumbles.

His breath catches in his throat at the feeling, brown eyes fluttering shut for a moment. His spine tingling due to the feeling.

"You okay?" She whispers, looking up.

"Hm?" he mumbles, trying to find the answer to her question. The pad of his thumb gently brushing against her leg.

"It feels good, when you touch me." He replies, his voice deeper and raspy.

She feels his touch, the heat in between them heightening when she hears his low voice.

Her eyes flicker from his arm to his face.

He smiles at her, soft exhale leaving his lips, a darkened look in his eyes.

"Is this romantic enough?"

He whispers, his eyes low and on her face.

The warmth of his words, sends a shiver down her spine. The heat creeping up her body and face.

"Try harder.”

His hand travels from her thigh to the small of her back, pulling her closer with his inked arm.  She raises her hands, instinctively brushing her fingers against his jaw, caressing her thumb against the stubble.

The fanning of his breath against her mouth sending her heart racing, and no doubt was his.

"Kiss me."

She whispers, a sultry tone in her longing words.

Her hand grips the back of his T-shirt, fingers digging into the fabric. The other traveling down to his muscular chest, resting against it.

Her lips part, her eyes fluttering shut.

He leans in, his plump lips meeting her soft ones.

Her breath hitches in the back of her throat, as his tongue brushes against her bottom lip. His hand travels to her waist, gripping it tenderly.

"I love you."

She grips onto his shirt tighter, a deep grunt leaving his lips as they deepen the kiss. Leaving no room for breathing.

His hand travels underneath her thigh, swiftly lifting her up and placing her on his lap. She groans softly against him as she straddles him. His hands squeezing the plumpness of her thigh.

"I love you too."

He pulls away, time stopping for a moment as they look at each other. Tired gasps leaving their bruised lips.

"Was that romantic enough?"

He whispers.

Her hands travel to his nape, a soft chuckle leaving her lips.

"Hm you can try again next time."

She teases, laughing a little harder at his expression. Her head falling in between the crook of his neck, causing his own chest to vibrate with her laughter.

"You're such a flirt." He says sarcastically, though he can't help but smile at the sound of her laughter.

Virgil runs his hand on her side softly, tracing his thumb over the white scar. The ridden up shirt allowing their skin to make contact.

She sighs at the feeling, her growing lower-back pain also getting alleviated. She sinks her head to his chest, face flush against it.

They sit in each other arms for a while, soft whispers spoken in between them.

“If that wasn’t romantic enough, can you be my girlfriend so I can try harder next time?”

“Thought you would never ask.” She says, laughing into his chest.

He glances at the time, clicking his tongue with realization with how much time had already passed.

"Are you sleepy?"

He asks, leaning down to leave a tender kiss on her forehead.

She doesn't respond, only nodding her head. Her fingers lightly smoothing over his skin.

"y/n? I have to leave."

He says abruptly, and she whines in protest.

"You have to?"

She knows he has to leave, because who wouldn't find it weird if the physiotherapist and team captain emerged from her room together the next morning?

He runs a comforting hand down her back, and she lifts her head. He wraps his arm around her back, getting off of the couch with her entangled in his arms.

Virgil brings her up to her bed, places her down gently. Remembering she was on her period, so he had to be extra careful.

"You'll go and wash up now yeah?"

"I will, don't worry."

She yawns, her hand comes up to run a hand over her face. 

He smiles down at her, leaning forward to leave a kiss on her cheek. Telling her he'll see her tomorrow, followed by the sound of the door closing.

We kissed, and- said "I love you" to each other.

Those are the only thoughts occupying my brain at this moment. We'd done all of that-

I throw myself back onto the bed, kicking my feet in excitement. Now- we’re a thing?

Shit. I didn't think I'd be jumping into a relationship- or at least, this fast.

I can't help but let my thoughts flow and wander, making me bite my lip.

I should- just get ready for bed. Right, so I'm not tired like when arriving to Linz. Either way, this will be a long night of just thinking.

My heart beats quicker at the thought of seeing

y/n's pretty face. Though, I'm left confused when I don't see her in the hotel restaurant for breakfast.

She came up very early yesterday. I glance around again, deciding to call her phone instead.

The ringing goes into voicemail and I twist my face into worry. I take a sharp breath, opting to swiftly go up to her room.

I get to her door, knock multiple times. Trying to not be too loud in case I'd attract attention.

"y/n? Open your door." I insist, grabbing my phone out of my pocket, but I freeze in my place when I hear a thud and a soft mumble of my name. I furrow my eyebrows, calling out to her again. I groan, getting increasingly concerned, knocking harder.

The door suddenly opens, a sliver allowing me to see y/n standing in front of it.

"Hey, what's wrong?"

I say, pushing the door open carefully, only for her to stumble towards me. I gasp, cradling her body in my arms towards the bed, shutting the door with the kick of my foot.

I watch her face scrunch up, a wince leaving her lips.

"I'm just cramping." She says, pain in her voice.

I look around the room for a moment, placing a hand on her cheek. Her suitcase looked ready and packed next to the door. She must've been ready to leave.

"Have you had any painkillers?" I ask her.

She shakes her head, her body curling up.

"There's some paracetamol in the bathroom."

I quickly walk in the bathroom, spotting the pack of paracetamol I’d also seen last night and grabbing it. Retrieving a bottle of water from the mini-fridge.

"Here, I'm going to need you to sit up for me. Can you do that for me?" I say, watching her nod as I support her back.

I realize her hands are shaking, and opt to place to painkiller in her mouth myself and hold up the water bottle for her to take a sip.

"Hold out for me yeah? You'll feel better in a bit.

I say, caressing her back repeatedly. My heart cracking at sight of her in pain.

"It hurts." She says, her voice cracking as tears collect in the sides of her eyes. I run my thumb along her cheeks, feeling useless but hoping my touch will offer some sort of comfort.

A half an hour must've past before she started to feel less pain. She sits up carefully, my hand supporting her back.

"I feel much better- we should leave."

I stop her from getting up.

"It's okay we have more time. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, sorry for worrying you." She mumbles, looking up to me with soft eyes.

"It's alright, as long as you're fine."

I plant a kiss on her cheeks, softly caressing the small of her back.

Our plane lands back in Liverpool. I look to my side glancing at a sleeping Virgil. He'd been worrying and asking about how I felt during the entirety of the flight. I had finally forced him to take a nap himself, knowing he probably didn't sleep much last night.

He went lengths to make sure I was alright. I had whispered multiple times I was okay. Though, it didn't stop him from being very attentive.

I urged him to not make our relationship obvious, that would be last thing I would want to happen.

Especially, since I didn't want it to become known to paparazzi and the public. They would obviously tear me apart, just by their opinions and headlines alone.

We immediately collect our luggage after landing. I drag my suitcase behind me as the staff and players walk back into their respective cars. I look around to see Virgil, spotting him right behind me.

"Are you going straight to your apartment?" He asks, looking at me with a smile.

"I am. You aren't going home?” I ask, raising my eyebrow at him.

"I will."

He leans down slightly, looking around before wrapping his arm around my back.

"You'll be fine alone?" He says, voice soft, still managing to have a deep-tone.

"You've got to chill. I'm not made of glass." I state, a smile tugging at my lips.

Virgil watches y/n's name pop up on his screen as he takes a left turn. He clicks 'accept' and returns his attention on to the road again.

"y/n?" He calls out to her, waiting for her to respond.

Though, he doesn't hear anything but the sound of haggard breathing.

Virgil glances at the screen, raising the volume of the audio.

"y/n? What is it?" Another beat of silence, then a soft whimper.

"Someone broke in. Everything is a mess." She whispers, a terrifying panic in her voice.

He whips his head down at the screen, his heart squeezing in horror, immediately making a turn, trying to get to her house instead of his.

"Where? Are you home?" He asks, nothing on his mind except trying to get to her faster.

"Yes- I think they’re still in the house. I'm hiding- in the closet." She whispers, and another surge of panic flows through his veins.

"Okay lock the door and stay there. Don't hang up. Hang on for me baby."

He doesn't process the words leaving his lips, frustration gnawing at him at every red light he crosses.

"y/n did you call the police?" He questions, biting the inside of his cheek.

"I did." She whispers, another whimper leaving her lips.

"I'm near, don't worry baby. Don't panic." He replies.

She replies a couple minutes later that the police had arrived, prompting her to hang up after she insisted to him that she would be safe.

Virgil finally gets to her apartment in ten minutes, instead of his normal twenty minutes. Parking quickly and asking her for the padlock code.

He gets up quickly, seeing her apartment door wide and open. He pants, fear and worry closing up his throat. The place is a mess, and he spots a disheveled looking y/n on the couch, a female officer trying to calm her down while others walk around to investigate.

He calls out to her, walking towards her.

"y/n." He breaths out, seeing her jump up from her seat. He engulfs her in a tight hug, his arms wrapping around her. He tries to calm himself down, knowing his panic wouldn't help her.

"You okay?" He asks, pulling back to watch her face. He cups her cheeks, looking for any signs of injury.

She nods, and he breathes out in relief, cuddling her face closer to him and planting a kiss on her lips.

His eyes shift to the officers behind her, realizing they probably recognized him by the look in their eyes. Though, that's not important to him as he starts to question them. Fear and worry turning into anger and protectiveness.

"Did you catch the motherfucker?" He asks, a sternness in his voice. Not bothering for any formalities.

He watches an officer clear their throat, walking up closer to give him a hand.

"I'm detective Baron. We haven't caught the suspect as we entered when they had left. Though, from the answers we got from your uh- girlfriend, we think it might have been targeted." She says, eyeing the couple.

Virgil looks down at y/n, his hands coming to hold onto her shoulders firmly.

"You're staying at my place until they figure out who it was, no arguing."

[yudgefudge]

I was tagged by @moooo0 (thank u sm for the tag btw!!!)

My look.

And I got...

the tragic hero you are the good guy who just cannot catch a break. your life just fucking sucks, frankly. one day, you have friends, family, hobbies you enjoy, maybe even a dog. and then, something happens that sets off this never-ending chain reaction of bullshit and it all gets swept away from you in a heartbeat. all your friends are dead now and you might be alive but god at what cost.

thats the link to the quiz!

thats the link to the creator!!!

tagging @the-phoenix-heart @liverpool-enjoyer @tam-is-blogging and @pablo-gavi !!!!

[georgefairbrother]

This is the third in our occasional series featuring luminaries of stage and screen with a strong personal or professional connection with Northeast England, inspired by @robbielewis. Previous profiles were of John Nightingale and Edward Wilson. This time, Jean Heywood.

She was born Jean Murray, in Blyth, Northumberland, to a coalmining family, in 1921. She worked initially as a librarian, married mechanical engineer Roland Heywood in 1945 (they remained married until his death in 1996), and became involved in amateur theatre, finally turning professional only after her children had grown up.

Following work in repertory theatre, she made her television debut in 1968, but her breakout role was as family matriarch Bella Seaton in 39 episodes of the Tyneside Depression-era drama, When the Boat Comes In (1976-77).

In 1978, she had a leading role in the acclaimed BBC Play for Today, Our Day Out, written by Willy Russell and directed by Pedr James, in which she played a dedicated teacher at a tough, inner city Liverpool Comprehensive school, determined that her struggling students, resigned to the fate of becoming 'factory fodder' according to The Guardian, should at least have a nice time on a coach excursion to Wales. Our Day Out became one of the BBC’s most successful European exports, leading to a memorable headline in The Liverpool Echo.

In a 2015 interview with television historian and author, Oliver Crocker, Jean Heywood talked about the similarities between Bella Seaton and Mrs Alton, her character in the final season of the original All Creatures Great and Small (1990);

"...It’s sort of the character of the women in my early life… I never had any money when I was young and had to make do and mend and manage…So I didn’t have to search how to play that kind of character. People loved my character in (When the Boat Comes In), a working class, good woman, quiet but very strong and I think Mrs Alton was a similar character…"

"…Rehearsing is like playing a ball game, you throw a ball off the idea of your character that you’ve formed in your head, you keep throwing it in the air and nobody has received it back, until you go into the rehearsal studio where you throw the idea from inside your head to the other person, it comes back differently from how you’d imagined, so the character develops and works much more excitingly than what you had in your head..."

With James Bolam as Jack Ford, in When the Boat Comes In

Her television career spanned over 40 years and included appearances in War and Peace, Emmerdale Farm, Coronation Street, Family Affairs, Kavanagh QC, Boys from the Blackstuff, The Bill, Our Friends in the North, Heartbeat, Casualty and on the big screen in Billy Elliot.

Her final screen credit was in 2010, and she passed away in 2019, aged 98.

Sources include The Guardian, IMDb, and All Memories Great and Small by Oliver Crocker (Published by Devonfire Books)

[nicolesainz]

Within The Limits (Ben Chilwell x Jenson Button x OC) Chapter 3

next chapter

Warnings: angst, fluff

Author’s note: it’s most likely gonna be more than 15 chapters but we’ll see. anyway, happy holidays and hope you guys enjoy!

"I suppose he hasn't taken the whole transfer thing too well, right?" Lissie asks, looking around before we discuss this topic.

"Not really. He hasn't told me anything straightforwardly but I can tell from his mannerisms. He kept googling all the players from Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal, Liverpool only to see who is more likely to hit on me." I sigh and look at my notes for today's race.

I am waiting for Lando to give me a call so I can go to the Mclaren garage and start the tour with Mason and Ben. Jenson is nowhere to be found, although once he sees me with those two, he won't be very pleased.

"He's almost 45, why is he so scared of committing to you officially? You guys have been seeing each other for two years. I don't think anyone will care who he's dating, unless he was Charles." Lissie points out the obvious, just like the conversation me and Jenson had yesterday.

If he is so afraid of losing me, why not officiate what we have and are? What is stopping him?

"I don't know Lissie. I have been trying subtly to ask him the same thing but he keeps on swerving the topic to something else. It's getting quite annoying." I look behind me, only to see from the corner of my eye Jenson talking with Nico. Once he realises I have been watching him, I face the other way and back to Lissie.

"Well, one way or another, one of those young footballers will try and get with you. I have heard some of them are really good people. Especially those two that you are waiting. No one has said anything negative about them." She playfully winks at me and a small grin is formed on my lips.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes inside my pocket and once I pull it out I read a message from Lando, telling me to stop by the garage. My heartbeat quickly picks up and I cant tell whether it's the nerves of making a good impression or even meeting Ben for the first time.

I wave Lissie goodbye for the timbering and head towards the garages, greeting all the mechanics and drivers that go past by me. This Grand Prix is always a joy to be at.

Once I finally made it to the Mclaren garage, I spot Lando behind Zak but I can't see either Mason or Ben. Before I even manage to squeeze myself past some of the guests, I feel a hand tapping on my shoulder lightly. I turn my head and come face to face with the two footballers.

"Oh my goodness, Mason, hello. How are you?" He pulls me into a quick hug before removing his sunglasses and gifting me the kindest smile on earth.

"Doing very well Chels, what about you? Thank you so much on agreeing for this tour. I know it's not your responsibility but I trust you when it comes to Formula One explaining." Ben's eyes widen once he realized Mason was the reason behind this guided tour.

"No problem at all. I love showing guests around the paddock and the track. I will even try to squeeze in a hot lap for you guys." The moment the words 'hot lap' escape my mouth, Ben blushes so intensely that his only excuse is nothing else but the temperature.

"Oh I am sorry, I didn't introduce the two of you. Chelsea, this is Ben, as you may know. Ben, this is Chelsea. Formula One and Premier League commentator." I flash my biggest and purest smile to Ben and I receive a soft but small smile, followed by a firm handshake.

"Lovely to finally meet you. I was wondering why I had never spotted you in any of the Chelsea games, given your name is the same as the team." Ben says funnily, trying to make a conversation.

I have to admit, he is very handsome. He is the opposite of Jenson but Ben is truly gorgeous. Mesmerising blue eyes, kind smile, breathtaking accent, gentle touch. I truly hope he is as good as Lissie said he is, otherwise it would be a pity.

"Actually, my father is a massive Chelsea fan, hence the name. And it's a pleasure to finally meet you. Haven't watched you much in action but from the bits and clips I have seen you, you are incredible!" That's a lie. I have watched him play. From his Leicester days.

I was always keen on football as much as Formula One. I even once tried to get into my school's women's football team but wasn't as good as I thought I would be, so I gave up on that dream easily. I follow Chelsea closely due to my dad, so when Ben's transfer was announced, he was over the moon. Making a great partnership with Reece James, I was replaying all their games and especially the ones I was missing due to commentating on others simultaneously.

"See Benji? She's a fan. No need to feel like you're being judged." Mason says comfortably but afterwards earning a hit on the ribs by Ben. He is more shy compared to Mason but that's just maybe because we don't know each other very well.

"I will become an even bigger now, given I am permanently being transferred to the Prem. Well, for the next two years at least." I say to both of them and Mason's grin gets bigger and bigger. Ben is surprised to hear this, certainly joyed by the statement.

"Really? How come? Will you be commentating on more games or?" Ben asks quietly trying not to pry.

"Sky sports told me that the views of the games were higher when a woman was commentating along and it made female viewers feel more inclusive, so they want to enhance that at the Premier League as well, not just Women's Super League."

We walk towards the exit of the pit lane and onwards to around the paddock. As I am pointing out what each building represent, we chitchat about multiple things. The boys are really interested into Formula One, so I am thankful to all the money I have spent on books about mechanics and history regarding the sport.

Ben looks fascinated by the amount of knowledge I have for this sport and keeps on asking more and more questions every time, which I am more than happy to answer. Mason on the other hand, remains quiet as he watched from the third point of view me and Ben's conversations.

And if I wasn't in a bad mood from the start of the day, Jenson spies on me by sending me dodgy texts and following us around the paddock but from afar.

'Guy with the hat is seriously close to you. His friend needs to get ahold of him'

'Why are you always smiling at what he says? What can be that funny?'

'Okay now his friend is taking pictures of the two of you. What is going on? What are you hiding from me?'

I ignore every single one of Jenson's texts. He sound and acts like a five year old. So what if I am having a nice time with the boys? I will be seeing more of them, I might as well get to know them a bit better.

"Everything okay, Chelsea?" Ben asks curiously, placing his hand on my shoulder softly. His touch is calming but at the same time electrifying. Soothing to whoever feels it.

"Of course. I am so sorry. I lost my train of focus. Where was I?" I shake my head and put on a fake smile, trying not to ruin everyone else's mood as well.

"You were telling us about the Brawn-Mercedes transformation. Also there's a guy coming our way in a very fast pace and he seems to be looking for you Chelsea." Mason says weirded out and when I look behind me, Jenson is coming towards us.

"Besides Lewis, Max and Fernando this weekend, you will have the honor of meeting another Formula One champion, Jenson Button. 2009 world drivers champion with none other than Brawn GP. Their first and last champion." I say as I welcome Jenson into the conversation before he gets to say anything that will expose the both of us.

"Hello boys, very nice to meet you, I am Jenson." Jenson shakes both Mason's and Ben's hands, looking more intensely at Ben although thank god he doesn't notice.

"Would you mind if I took Chelsea away from a moment. Won't be too long." Jenson asks kindly even though he doesn't wait for a reply from either of the three of us.

He grabs my hand and take us a few steps away from the two footballers but in a distance they can't hear us. He looks very pissed and jealous like I have never seen him before.

"Already ignoring me and you haven't even let yet huh?"

"Jenson, I don't have time for this, I am working. I need to show the guests around. I will be back soon."

"You really can't tell that this Ben guy is hitting on you? He's so focused on whatever you're saying that he's almost hanging from your lips."

"He is interested in what I am saying because he wants to learn more about the sport. He is a fan. Can you stop acting like a paranoid man?"

"I'm not. He clearly has the hots for you and I can't look at the two of you. I am sorry, but you're my girl and if he dares to make a move I will make sure he never plays football again."

"You said it yourself, I am your girl. You have nothing to worry about. Do you trust me? Hey, look at me." I say, holding his hand secretly, caressing it softly, wanting to calm him down.

"I do, I just-uh, I am sorry Chels. I don't know what has gotten into me. I know you are loyal. You are the sweetest woman on the planet. I trust you blindly. It's those boys I can't trust." Jenson's voice has gone softer and quieter thankfully.

"I will prove later to you how much you mean to me and how much I want you to trust me. For now be patient. The tour will be over and once it is I will come and find you, deal?" I give him a puppy eyes look and immediately a smile is formed on his lips.

"Okay. I will leave you to your peace. Let me know when you're coming baby. See you soon" He knows he can't kiss me in public eye so he just holds onto my hand one last time.

Oh dear, what am I getting myself into?

[callmewrinkles3]

Besties, you see the shower things from his road trip? (Moment if silence for us to wipe our droll). Does this road trip happen and is it a family one? Anyway, still losing my mind over this shower content. Why is he so gorgeous???

Dear Katie you came here looking for a happy answer and it won’t be the one I’ll be giving you lol. Also first thing first he is gorgeous and i want him for Christmas 🙇🏻‍♀️

Anyway about the trip, Em doesn’t go. She’s a city girl, she’s not into camping and all that. She did it twice with Dan - one because Charlie and Blake were going and once cause he convinced her - but that’s it. Em wouldn’t let him turn it into a family trip because it was a work thing, he needs time off with his mates. Besides, it was planned before they even knew she was pregnant. Dan wouldn’t drag his wife into such a long trip while being pregnant, knowing she wouldn’t be able to do half of the things and how she was gonna uncomfortable.

The problem is they have only ever spent one night apart since Em came back in 2022, when she went with Blake for a night to cheer on Scotty at the X Games. Other than that they’ve only had a couple of hours apart and they knew that after Austin they weren’t going to see each other for weeks. They called it practice for being apart for so kind but in reality it was a nightmare. Dan was worried all the time. He didn’t have great phone signal so when his phone finally beeped he was terrified what the messages would say. That something was wrong with her or Lulu. Plus not having her around felt weird and wrong.

It was even worse for Em tho. She has her little routines. She makes Dan his tea every single night, she gets to read her books while he watches sports or some ridiculous movie that’s too ridiculous and American for her to find it funny. Since they found out about the pregnancy Dan talks to Lulu every single night. Dan sleeps with her head on his chest because his heartbeat - and his snores because she’s too in love lol - are her white noise. She wakes up with Dan kisses and cuddles every morning. He’s the one who knows what to do when the nightmares hit. He knows how to calm her down when her heart starts racing too much.

She thought she was gonna be fine, she stayed with Grace and Joe and Blake was all the time with her while Charlie was working, then both of them will be her shadow. But this is a woman with C-PTSD after years of negligence from her parents. She’s been working on it for months with her therapist Mildred, her psychiatrist and Charlie, but its hard. Mix that with her abandonment issues, pregnancy hormones and the memories of the last time she was alone and pregnant? Its a bad mix. There was nightmares, admitting to her in laws about her mental health and what was going on, and an amount of tears that was terrifying.

It took a village of Aussies looking after her and making her understand she wasn’t alone. It took an emergency session with Mildred because the flashbacks of Liverpool were too bad, even if the situation was completely different. It took an incredible amount of love and cuddles. She didn’t let anyone call Dan to tell him tho, not even in the worst night. She smiled through every call, even yelled at him for swimming with sharks. Dan could feel in his guts something was wrong, but he knew if nobody called him then it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t until he was back home that Joe sat with him while Em napped and explained what happened. It really broke everyone’s hearts. It was really the reason why Charlie decides to move with her while the boys were going to be away for the last couple of races.

[downthetubes]

Free comic for patients of Royal Manchester Children's Hospital unveiled by Liverpool Heartbeat team

Charity Liverpool Heartbeat has revealed a new comic for young hospital patients that may yet prove a blueprint for a national rollout...

[waglifeornolife]

bestie stop you have nothing to apologize for, hugging you tightly rn 🥺🫂🩷

i’m honestly so heartbroken over it, it’s a hard one to explain to people who aren’t liverpool fans. i saw a quote earlier and it just shows how extreme the love that liverpool has for him and it was “Jurgen Klopp has put himself into Liverpools heartbeat” and i honestly couldn’t agree more 😭

i don’t post much about liverpool on here as majority people that follow me are mason fans, so their either Chelsea or United but today i just can’t help it. i’m going through all five stages of grief today 💔

[believemetheodore]

Where she stood, she stood tall

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

Rebecca's adventures in healing. Or 3 times they hugged, and one time they kissed. (title from the song Slow It Down by The Lumineers)

Warnings: Rupert, themes of healing from psychological abuse, let me know if there's anything else you want me to add

He hugs her outside the gala. 

She wonders if he can hear her heartbeat as he crushes her against his chest, it pounds in her ribcage, and her blood rushes in her ears. 

She remembers, as a child, pressing her ear to empty shells at the beach, the sound of the ocean surging within them. Somehow, learning that the sound was, in fact, nothing more than the amplified echo of her own pulse never made it any less magical or comforting. It was still a confirmation of life, a simple reminder of the blood in her veins or the breath in her lungs. 

For so long now, it’s felt like she’s been living in the shadows, sleepwalking through her own existence, a body without a soul. But without even trying, Ted seems to have been able to jumpstart her heart. The sudden hug he’s wrapped her up in reanimates her, the most gentle reminder of her personhood. 

The parts of herself that she’d stored away and pushed down to satisfy Rupert’s constant need for control and attention flash back through her like a shock down her spine, and there’s nothing she can do but breathe deeply in the hopes of slowing her tears. This was not part of her plan. 

She’s not sure what to say to him. This man who, without prompting, chooses to comfort her in the wake of her ex-husband’s cruelty instead of enjoying the open bar the gala offers up inside. His admission that he can see straight through Rupert’s false niceties and acknowledge the man’s backhanded compliments for the callous commentary it really is.  

The sudden fear that Ted Lasso might be able to see through her just as well has bile rising in her throat, afraid that this ridiculous American might not be the fool she took him for. She finds herself terrified, thinking that worse than seeing through her plans of sabotage and revenge, Ted may be the only person capable of dismantling the fugazi walls of rage and intimidation she’s built around the loneliness and insecurity she’s been working so hard to keep contained. 

As she dries her eyes and fixes her make-up in the mirror, the warmth of his embrace lingering, she vows that won't allow this single act of kindness to distract from her goal of destroying Rupert. No man will ever have that level of sway in her life or emotions again. 

She wraps an arm around him outside the karaoke bar in Liverpool. 

Electing to ignore the thrumming weight of guilt playing with her heartstrings, she crouches next to him as he continues to work on his breathing. One of his hands clasps hers as she assures him he will be alright. 

It had been instantaneous, her limbs moving without instruction, pushing her way through the crowd with the singular goal of finding Ted. A switch flipped inside her, the selfish desires that had begun to fade this weekend gone completely from her mind the moment the coach had rushed from the room. Her heart clenches, the need to comfort him trumping all else. 

How cruel can the world be? She thinks as she watches him pull himself apart at the seams. The same man who always has an anecdote or joke to tell and who brings her biscuits each morning because he’s kinder and far more selfless than anyone else she’s ever met. She fights a sudden bought of nausea as she wonders how much pain of his own Ted might be carrying around, tragically aware of how much of his warmth and goodwill is designed to keep those around him content. 

She doesn’t try to coddle him. His breaths becoming more even, less frantic. He appreciates her offer to walk back with him or take her car but declines all the same. He’s a grown man; she’s sure he’ll get back to the hotel safely, but the concern that’s been rushing through her doesn’t dissipate. 

It strikes her standing out in the cold that she hasn’t cared for anyone like this in years. A shameful vindication fills her with the confirmation that she is still capable of compassion, strength, and kindness; she does, in fact, have a protective streak. She is not the cold-hearted bitch Rupert so desperately painted her to be. 

Surely, this is what friendship and affection should be. Support, freely given through good times and bad. She’s forced to crack a smile thinking of Keely’s unwavering adoration, and the renewal of Sassy’s bold love. Ted’s benevolence is so welcomed, and she curses herself for trying to break it. She hadn’t given herself an opportunity when she’d been married to Rupert to weigh the impact of her isolation, only allowing herself to become further withdrawn of her own accord. It had been too painful, but it was easier than letting herself love and be loved only to have the rug swept out from under her when she returned to a silent home, devoid of comfort or care. It is difficult to miss what you don’t allow yourself to have. 

She hugs him in his office. 

Never has anyone forgiven her with such ease and without conditions to boot. Her life had become such a minefield of avoidance. Learning to tiptoe around arguments, shrinking herself down to prevent conflict. She’d been bracing for confrontation as she laid out the details of her scheming and betrayal, steeling herself to react with robotic logical responses, doing her best to shove down her emotions as she told him she would understand if he went to the press or quit. But Ted meets her with compassion. 

The air is forced from her lungs. Like jumping into an ice-cold lake, the confession of her manipulation and lies has left her chest aching, her body shaking as she tries to refocus on the situation at hand, begging herself to keep her head above the water. 

His forgiveness has her stunned. It terrifies her, waiting in silence for the hammer to fall, so certain there’s a twist or a stipulation coming. She resents the way her mouth questions his motivations, the way she asks for punishment. 

She waits for him to say he’s joking, to belittle her with a casually cruel comment about her naivety. Instead, he only wonders aloud if she’s actually going to shake his outstretched hand anytime today. 

It’s like she can breathe for the first time in months when she wraps herself around him, ignoring his offer of a handshake to hug him tightly instead, with complete abandon for her own propriety. It only takes him half a second before he hugs her back, and she can’t help but think how easy it is to stand there in his arms. 

Much like when they shared outside the gala, she’s caught off guard by the safety he provides. She remembers all the times she found herself begging for Rupert’s forgiveness for disagreements and perceived slights, subjected to days of silence and loneliness. Her penance for Rupert’s insecurities. 

And yet, while her ex-husband's influence haunts her, it feels so distant now, her conscious mind occupied by the firm but tender press of Ted’s fingertips on her shoulder blade and the smell of his aftershave. 

She can’t be entirely certain of who kissed who first. He had told her last year that she was starting to form a habit; two truth bombs in two years. Now in their third year together, they seem to have shared the effort of dropping the third.

She hadn’t expected him to say anything in return, which in hindsight, was a ridiculous miscalculation. When had Ted Lasso ever truly been at a loss for words? Like clockwork, she’d made her way downstairs to the empty locker room, shutting his office door behind her. At first, he looked like he was about to make a joke, probably about the fact that it was truth-bomb-time, but after taking a moment to look at her, her hands clasped together so tightly (she’s sure she still hasn’t regained feeling in them), he rounded his desk to stand in front of her. 

It was impossible to keep any of it in any longer, not with him looking at her so tenderly. How could she not allow herself to be completely vulnerable when he looked so happy just to have her in his company? Of all the things their friendship has endured, surely a bit more love wouldn’t hurt. 

The words tumbled from her, ineloquent, and disorganized, but honest. She hadn’t fully planned how she would convey the complexity of the feelings that have been rattling around her head and her heart for more than a year. Love, she understands now, has no real logic to it. Where she had assumed she’d feel her cheeks burn red with embarrassment, or breakdown in the face of rejection, she felt herself grow braver. His brow furrowed and his eyes soft, before his smile grew, beaming at her like she’d just hung all the stars in the sky. 

“So, that’s that, I suppose,” she had finished. “A monologue of Shakespearean quality. You ever considered the theatre, Boss?” Her utterance of his name stopped his joking, leaving him to say, 

“I love you too, Rebecca”. 

Forming a single thought is entirely out of the question, her focus taken up by Ted Lasso, and warmth of his hand at the small of her back, the gentle scratch of his stubble against the palm of her hand. 

How could she have seen this coming? Such a great, powerful love born from her original motivations of pain and humiliation. The universe works in mysterious ways, and she can’t help but feel that this might all be destiny. A series of events that have never truly been under her control, and for the first time in her life, she’s completely okay with leaving things in lady fate’s capable hands. 

Her attempts to hurt Rupert only filled her with more shame and hurt of her own. Learning to live without him, finding genuine joy, and letting herself heal is the best revenge. The people who matter to her have always seen through Rupert’s manipulations and disrespect-- and in time, the world will see him for who he truly is, but until then, the best thing she can do is be happy despite him. It’d felt like she’s been walking a tightrope for so long, shaky and hesitant, with the end never in sight. Now, she knows she’s not alone; she hasn’t been for a while. She’s got friends cheering her on, and a love she knows will catch her if she falls. There’s renewed confidence in every step she takes.

The kiss feels like she’s being kissed for the very first time. It’s not an obligation or a thrill she’s chasing. It’s love, and it sets every bit of her ablaze. Fireworks, flames, butterflies, and every book cliche don’t matter; she’s kissing Ted Lasso, and she feels like she’s been struck by fucking lightning.

[jsprnt]

Healing Hearts PT. 11 | Virgil van Dijk

Would a fresh start bring you more than just a new job?

C/W: violence

WC: 4.013

Summary: Y/N L/N is a very skilled and praised physiotherapist. A certain event pushing her for a fresh start, as a physiotherapist for Liverpool FC. One question always being in the back of her mind: Will she be able to let go of her past and allow herself to experience new things?

"Who the fuck are you?" She shouts, standing in her living room, holding her keys in between her knuckles defensively. The dark figure stops moving, letters, pictures and her important documents cluttered on the floor of her bedroom doorway. She holds her breath, her throat closing up from anxiety. For a moment she thinks she's being delusional, maybe her brain is playing tricks on her, too tired from the barely three-day trip.

The figure approaches her, dressed in all black, face covered with a black surgical mask and a beanie pulled down to the intruder's forehead. They aren't armed, but definitely way bigger in stature compared to her. She widens her eyes, her heartbeat picking up. Mentally calculating if she should run or hide. But the shock of encountering a stranger in her house, her safe space- usually away from all that's negative in world- motivates her to at least try to protect it.

"I said who the fuck are you? And why the hell are you in my house?!" She shouts, voice stern and confident. Not an actual reflection of her emotions. She extends her arms out, showing of that she was- armed with something at least. The intruder nears her- a little to fast for her, her brain being too occupied with racing thoughts and different emotions to comprehend what is actually happening.

She's pushed against the singular chair in her living room. Her back colliding with the edge of the backrests of the chair. She cries out in pain, trying to keep her knees from giving out and to retaliate. Without sparing another second she grabs onto the intruder, jamming the keys against their stomach. The person, now easier to possibly identify with a masculine figure stumbling back from pain. Profanities spilling from their covered mouth. The gruffness of the voice confirming the intruder as a male.

She stands up again, wincing from the pain in her back, knowing it would definitely bruise up the in next hours. Her eyes dart around her as the intruder is stepping towards her again. She gasps, grabbing onto the ceramic plant pot on her coffee table. Smashing it against the intruder's head, her precious plant flying across the room.

He groans out in pain again, gripping onto the back of his head, cursing her out and yelling at her.

She initially thinks of running out, but the way the intruder still tries to reach out to her makes her heart leap into her throat. Adrenaline now taking over her body, she makes a beeline into her closet, shutting the door with a loud slam and a click of a lock. She heaves and chokes on her breath. Pulling out her phone to dial the emergency number, her hands trembling and moving on autopilot.

My eyes shoot open, my vision blurry and disoriented as I sit up from the bed. Sweat covering my bruised back and forehead. I breathe out, my heart palpating with fear and panic as I blink rapidly, trying to gain my full vision. The only light visible being the light coming from the bedside lamp. Which I had trouble sleeping without.

My thoughts roam and race, making me want search for comfort. My pride holding me back. Virgil did not have to see me in this- state. I hadn't told him about the encounter only telling him I had fled to the closet, immediately after noticing the intruder. I did not want him to know how much the break-in had effected me throughout the week. Mentally or physically.

I glance at the side of my bed, tapping my phone to check the time, it read way past midnight.

I move my body, my legs falling to the side of the bed as I stumble out of the bedroom. The cold tiles helping me ground myself back to reality. My vision adjusts to the dark as I try to navigate my way into the kitchen.

Water, that would help me. I grab a glass with shaky hands, filling it in-patiently and chugging the entire glass within a few seconds. I exhale in relief, the water moistening my dry and heaving throat.

I accidentally slam the glass down the counter, unable to control my strength and cringing at the loud sound. I wipe away some sweat off my forehead with the sleeve of my shirt. Staggering towards the sofa, and throwing myself onto it as I close my eyes in ease.

The past few days after the break-in had been rough. Being plagued with night terrors and flashbacks definitely took a toll on my body. Having to keep everything secret from the club, except people like Klopp and a confidant with HR. It was a relief to learn that dating within the club wasn't forbidden by any rules- though some would definitely think negatively of it.

Virgil and me drove to his home and work individually in our own cars, just like how I had insisted. The team members figuring out wasn't our first priority right now.

That decision was fully encouraged by me remembering the time paparazzi had taken pictures of Theo and me. They had a field day with those pictures of us. The tabloids full of speculations about me. The girlfriend of the 'young, hot, billionaire-heir.' They had ripped into my private life without hesitation, everything about me plastered onto the news, until I decided to send out a cease-and-desist letter with the help of my attorney. Yeah, the attention was fun at first, it only got worse from there.

I tried to cover up and hide most of the impact the encounter had on me. Virgil did not have to be occupied with something that happened to me. It was my own personal problem, and he was already doing so much by even offering for me to stay at his place for the time being.

Living with Virgil was fine, definitely not something I would've imagined. It would sound ridiculous to say that we had only started dating a day before it happened. We were moving fast- way to fast for me to want to tell him everything.

To try to take it slow at least we retreated into our own bedrooms for the night, though it wasn't anything we strictly held onto like some childish rule.

As I sink further into the sofa, I can hear soft sounds of house-slippers make their way into the living room. Making my eyes open up, Virgil's tall figure coming into my view as he switches the dim lights on.

"y/n?" He mumbles, his voice deep and raspy. His black pajama pants hanging low on his waist, the top of his boxers peaking from the waistband. Truly making my heart skip a beat.

I sit up, head raising at him as he walks up closer.

"Why are you not in bed?" He says walking up to me, his arms wrapping around my shoulders as I lean my head into his shirtless side.

"Woke up thirsty." I lie, not entirely. I exhale at the comfort of his aura, but he pulls back, sitting next to me.

His arms extend to my waist, grabbing at it and pulling me towards his body. He looks at me, examining my face for a moment. A skeptical expression on his face as he runs his hands up and down my side. I close my eyes both in relief and worry.

If he touches my back-

Though, my silent plead is gone unnoticed as his hands snake down to my back. A muffled groan leaving my lips. I try to stop a sob from leaving my mouth, taking my bottom lip in between my teeth.

Shit-

He pulls back as if he had touched a flickering flame. His eyes widening in shock as he looks down at me.

"y/n? What's wrong?" He questions, his face clad with worry and confusion.

"I- just, my back- fuck." I curse, not being able to hold back the effect of the extreme dull pain anymore.

“Can I-“

“Yeah-“ I trail off.

I hear a soft gasp fall from his lips, as he moves behind me. Gently lifting up the back of my shirt, showcasing the huge bruise claiming the center of my back.

"What is- when did this happen?" He asks, his voice full of worry and a slight edge to it.

I hold back a whimper as his fingers ghost the bruised skin. I watch him move in front of me again. His hand coming up to hold my jaw, noticing my glossy eyes and wet lashes.

"Did this happen- did he do it?" He asks, a noticeable anger in his voice as he speaks through gritted teeth. I can only nod, as I watch his eyes burn with emotion.

"I'm sorry." I manage to say, apologizing for keeping it a secret.

"Do not apologize to me." He speaks, sternly. His arms once again wrapping around my shoulders, now with less pressure.

"I should be sorry for not noticing earlier." He whispers, voice softer now- a twinge of sadness in it.

I don't respond, letting cries I had held back leave my lips. My shoulders shaking in his hold as I let out choked sobs.

"You're okay now. He can't hurt you." He mumbles sweet nothings into my ears, tears running down my cheeks and connecting with his warm chest. "I'm here. It's alright."

My eyes turn red and raw from the salty tears I had been holding back to myself. A sharp pain forming in my temple. He pulls back a little, his hands making their way to my jaw. His face nearing mine as he kisses the dried up tear marks on my cheeks.

"I wish you told me at least. Am I not worthy of knowing what you're dealing with?" He says, his forehead connected to mine. I raise my hand, gripping onto his tatted arm in comfort.

"I just didn't want to bother you- I'll get over it. I always do."

"What do you mean 'bother me'? You're mine, and I deserve to know what's happening to you." He kisses the top of my head.

"Keeping it to yourself will just make it worse, my love. Tell me, what actually happened that you've kept to yourself?" He says, his deep voice as soft as possible as he pulls me into another embrace, making sure he doesn't touch my back.

I exhale, closing my eyes as I try to grip onto my last bit of courage. This entire situation had forced me to break all the walls I had built up, trying to keep my self and my brain in check.

The confession slips from my mouth within seconds, my voice cracking toward the end of my sentence as I watch his eyes change into one of fury. Telling him the intruder had slammed me against the chair in my living room. But his expression changes again when I tell him I tried to defend myself. That had been difficult with the size and frame of the intruder. I finish speaking, silence enveloping us as I watch him for his reaction.

"I'm so proud of you." He says into the silence. Leaning forward to plant kisses on my face.

"You did well."

He strokes my arm, going to hold onto my hands as he leads me back to my bedroom. Both of us getting into the soft bed.

"You want go back to sleep?" He questions as I turn my head towards him nodding, feeling his slightly calloused hand on my nape. The subtle touch washing a cozy feeling and sleepiness over me. My eyelids fluttering in exhaustion as I watch his soft expression.

"Sleep yeah? We'll speak tomorrow."

I watch y/n's eyes close, a sense of protectiveness washing over me. The idea of her suffering in pain, silently tugging on my heartstrings. How could I have not noticed? The weird sleeping position, her unusually moving away from my touch whenever I tried to snake my arm around her back. Not to mention the fact that she suddenly stopped wearing cropped tops. Initially I thought she was covering up her scar for some crazy reason, not this.

I had been laying awake at night thinking of how to help her through this period of time. No word from the police thus far, which had increased my frustration.

I had helped her move her clothes, shoes, even the small things that made her feel like she was home. Like her pink bedside table lamp, her skincare on the bathroom counter, the many perfume bottles on her dresser, or the multiple books she had on human anatomy, health and whatnot placed on the living room coffee table.

Finding random lip products around the house. Daily small reminders of her in my vision, even when she wasn't in the room with me.

I raise the blanket higher on her body. Her cold hands warming up by the touch of my warm ones. Making me chuckle as she started to snore softly through her slightly parted lips.

"No, mom I'm sleeping over at a friends house. Yeah, they said the leak would be fixed as quickly as possible." That was a lie. She mumbles, the phone propped up in between her ear and shoulder. A focused expression on her face as she tries to brush the browgel through her brows.

Her mom did not have to know anything. It only would cause her mother to panic and worry. Besides, she knew her mother would twist her words into ones she had never uttered. She would especially not take the fact that she'd start dating Virgil well. Her mind definitely still stuck and insisting her daughter would get back with her ex.

The call ends, the sound of the song she had chosen prior to being called blasting through the speaker.

"Tripping, falling with no safety net."

"Boy, it must be something that you said."

"Is it real this time or is it in my head?"

She sings along softly, the lyrics memorized by heart at this point. Coating her lashes with a thick layer of mascara, trying to achieve the illusion of having longest, thickest lashes.

The team had gotten a day off after the disastrous game against Tottenham. Leaving many of the players and staff with unresolved anger and feelings of unfairness in them. The call had been made early that morning. So both Virgil and y/n being free, they had decided to go out for brunch. Solidifying their first actual date.

She stands up, smoothing down the clothes she had put on. Collecting her handbag and walking out of the bathroom.

"Virg? I'm ready!" She yells, quickly spritzing her favorite perfume on her neck and wrists. Pressing her wrist together, not rubbing as she had learnt from Monet that it could dull out the fragrance.

"Finally! Almost fell back into sleep." Virgil complains, though a teasing smile on his face as he approaches her at the doorway of the house.

"Don't act like you were getting ready for the same amount of time too! It takes time to look this pretty yeah?" She says, pulling on the sneakers she had picked out for the outfit earlier.

Oh that was definitely true, he did look insanely handsome. And surely he did take his time as well.

He grabs onto her shoulders, checking her out. The powdery-musky smell of his cologne apparent. He plants a kiss on her lips, unaware of the slight pink tint on his lips left from her gloss.

"You look pretty both ways."

"Are you sure? What if we move to the other table?" She suggest, shifting in her seat. Her eyes roaming around the restaurant. Watching the windows carefully.

"Stop moving its fine. No one's going to see us. It's a weekday, everyone's working." He says, eyes barely skimming over the menu that was given to them by the sweet owner of the cozy restaurant he had chosen.

He'd been going there for years, his usual order written in the back of his mind already. He had a close relationship with the owner, calling her 'grandma' by how much they grown closer by his frequent visits.

y/n sighs, closing her eyes for a moment. Right, no one would be there, it was a workday. It was their first official date. Why wouldn't she enjoy it to the fullest?

"Don't know what to get." She says, looking over at him. "You choose?" She suggests, closing her menu. He nods at her, calling over the owner of the place.

"Grandma you know my usual right? Two of that please." He says, the sweet lady smiles up at him. Planting one of her hands on his shoulder.

"You've finally found yourself a lady?" She teases, her warm smile warming both their hearts.

Virgil gives her a smile looking flustered and glancing over at y/n.

"This is y/n. My girlfriend."

y/n looks up, her eyes slightly wide as she observes the two of them. An awkward smile on her face as she gives her a small wave.

"Hi, are you guys close?"

"Oh this young man has been coming here for years!" She exclaims chuckling.

"Really?"

"All the time! Sometimes he comes to help me out with the place. The delivery of flour every month is too much for my old body to handle."

A smile creeps up on y/n's face, delighted with the thought of Virgil helping out a sweet old grandma with her cozy restaurant.

"How nice of him." She says, nudging his leg underneath the table, a chuckle leaving his lips at her teasing.

"It's nothing really. Grandma, your pancakes and homemade orange juice really make it up for those heavy bags of flour." He says, looking at her sweetly.

"Alright! Let me go and make some of that delicious food you want to have!" She says, walking away.

"That was insanely delicious." I mumble, as we walk along the shops. Silently hoping no one would recognize Virgil.

I glance back at him, his eyes already on me. His hand reaching over to hold mine. I allow him to, but still on high alert as the streets start getting busier. He suddenly drags me into a huge store, full of all types of shoes from sporty sneakers to pretty heels.

"What? Are you getting some more sneakers? You know you have way too many already." I say, referring to his shoe closet. Who needs two hundred pairs of shoes?

He grins at me sheepishly, eyes on the rack of sneaker. I sigh, walking around the women's section. Eyeing some shoes of my own taste. Then getting distracted by the most gorgeous cherry red kitten heels. I internally squeal, these had to be the prettiest heels I had ever glanced at. I snap a picture of them, glancing back at Virgil and joining him on his sneaker hunt.

"Hey, found anything?" I ask, seeing him surrounded by- seven shoe boxes. I laugh at him, looking up at the store employee that looks like he'd seen a ghost. Definitely having recognized him.

"I'm just trying to figure out which size to get." He says. I nod, making him put the sneakers on and walk back and forth. "See that's the trick my mom taught me. Those look too small on you. Get these."

He finally ends up handing the shoes he wants to the employee. My eyes drift back to the heels, internally fighting with myself if I should purchase them or not.

"What is it? Found something you want?" He asks. I redirect my attention to him.

"Yeah, I'm just thinking."

"Show me which ones." He says. I grin at him, leading him to the heels.

"Aren't these beautiful?" I ask, grabbing the show model shoe and handing it to him.

"What's your size, try them on." He suggests. I eye him for a moment before asking the employee for my size.

As I'm handed the box, I put the heels on. Looking back up at Virgil for his opinion.

"Pretty? No?"

"Only because you're wearing them." He cheekily states, and I give him a glare. He didn't know how to be discreet about anything, did he?

"I'm sorry." He sheepish mouths, turning to the employee. "We'll get these too. Thank you."

I watch him pay for the shoes. Smiling to myself, because who doesn't like to be spoiled?

"Thank you." I say, planting a kiss on his cheek in appreciation after we had returned home.

Wrapping my arms around his neck as he sits on the sofa in front of me. He drapes his arms over the small of my back, kissing my arm.

Thankfully, the bruise had stopped hurting, slowly turning green then yellow, finally starting to fade over time.

"Of course, you deserve it love."

I chuckle softly, though interrupted by the sound of my phone ringing.

"Oh it's probably my friends." I mumble, grabbing my phone off of the sofa and sitting next to Virgil as he slings his arm around my shoulder. Cuddling up to my side.

Anonymous caller

I gasp in surprise, my body tenses in shock. It gets Virgil's attention. His face coming closer to my screen.

"Who is it?" He asks, a curious tone in his voice.

"Uh- it's.." I trail off, surely it wouldn't be him. Either way, if it was this would be my chance to curse him out to filth.

"Record this, now." I deadpan, seeing the gears in his head turn, and he moves to grab his own phone in a flash. Whether recording a call was illegal or not, this piece of shit had to be caught in the act somehow.

I press the green button immediately, tapping on speaker. Not uttering a single word. Looking up at Virgil with wide eyes.

"y/n?" Theo calls out, and I have to physically stop myself from throwing up at the sound of his voice.

"Hope my little visitor didn't make a big mess in your house." He says, followed by a deep chuckle coming out of the speaker.

I feel my heart thumping in my chest. Watching Virgil's expression morph into a furious one, the veins on his neck making an appearance.

I hold up my finger to my lips, telling him to not speak.

"I had to see if you had something on me. Wouldn't want you saying something about me later when I'm the CEO. Could have very bad outcomes for you." He tuts, making anger boil up in me. So he was looking for evidence of him being an asshole? A raging lunatic?

No way he was going to speak to me like that.

"Listen here you motherfucker. I don't know what got you so damn fired up. Seeing me live a better life without you must hurt your pesky little ego. Nobody would want to publicly associate with you after seeing that you're the most insufferable thing on the planet. Do not worry about that. Watch your fucking back because the second the authorities figure out who the fuck you hired to break in to my house. I'll do fucking anything to connect it to your salty, egoistic, ugly self."

With that I end the call. Tears of anger brimming my eyes. I groan out in frustration, trying to hold back the tears. I would've rather died than cry again.

Virgil's hand holds onto mine. Softly trying to sooth me as I throw out multiple curses. A minuscule relief flowing through my body at the fact that I at least berated him.

"What the hell is his problem? What did I do to deserve this?" I exclaim.

"Nothing, you didn't do anything." He mutters into my ears as he tries to calm me down. He throws out some inaudible curses of his own, returning to run his hands on my back.

"I won't allow him to hurt you anymore. I promise."

[laughing-hellblazer]

⛥TIMELINE⛧

trigger warnings: suicide, violence, csa, death, child abuse, dark themes

the 50's

1953: John is born in a complicated birth that kills his mother and twin brother. His father, Thomas, refuses him for the first two weeks of his life, which are spent sickly in the hospital. A single nurse is put in charge of his care, and holds him to her chest to listen to her heartbeat. Because of this, John survives his infantile illness. The duty of taking care of the baby John is left to his older sister, Cheryl, who is only 8 years old.

the 60's

1961: John's father is sent to prison for seven months for stealing women's underwear, during which time John and his sister, Cheryl, are sent to live with their Aunt Dolly and Uncle Harry in Northampton, UK. John is accosted by three teenage boys who deeply burn his chest with cigarettes for being a Scouser.

1967: John casts his first spell, locking his childhood innocence away in a toy house, which he later buries in a time capsule at his school. John is later expelled from school, and his father blames this on his obsession with the occult, turning far more abusive. John curses his father by binding his soul to that of a roadkill cat corpse, but later halts the spell by storing the cat in formaldehyde. This doesn't break the spell, and leaves Thomas Constantine frail, but just as abusive.

1968: John runs away from home and gets to just outside of London. He stays with a woman named Estella, who teaches him how to use tarot cards and divination magic. He is later caught by police at a satanic party and sent home to his furious father in Liverpool.

1969: John runs away to London again, this time successfully arriving in the city proper. On his way he rides along with a serial killer ex-priest who attempts to assault and mutilate him. He meets Chas Chandler, who is a prisoner of his mother, Queenie, and her familiar, Slag. John murders Slag the Monkey, thus killing Queenie and freeing Chas. Chas owes him a debt that John never stops cashing in.

the 70's

1974: John attempts suicide at age 21, overdosing on sleeping pills with alcohol. During attempt he has visions of a purgatorial demon named Araethos, who tries to lay claim to his soul while he's dying. He is found and rescued by roommate and childhood friend Gaz Lester, who stays with him at the hospital. Gaz calls Cheryl, who comes to London for a night to visit him, even though the two are estranged. The two talk for a while and rekindle their relationship, with Cheryl and Gaz both encouraging John to take better care of himself.

1977: John and his friends Richie, Beano, and Gaz form new wave punk band Mucous Membrane. Chas becomes a roadie for the band, traveling with them across the UK as a struggling opening act. In their travels John meets Brendan Finn, a music manager who quickly becomes a close friend. The two part on good terms before their gig at the Casanova Club in Newcastle.

1978: After sensing dark magic at the Casanova gig, John investigates to find a girl, Astra, being used as part of dark rituals at the hands of the club's owner, her father. With a group of band members, roadies, and fellow magic users, John forms the Newcastle Crew, a group with the mission to put an end to the dark magic being cast over the Casanova Club. As they discover, Astra has been possessed by a demon se summoned, Norfulthing. Their mission fails when John attempts to summon a demon, but fails to bind it, and Astra is killed. John has a mental breakdown and is sent to Ravenscar Secure Facility for two years.

1979: John is tortured by the guards and doctors at Ravenscar for his assumed crime of killing a child, and he accepts all the pain as punishment for failing Astra. He is subjected to conscious E.C.T. and physical abuse every day until his release in 1980.

the 80's

1980: John wanders the North Yorkshire countryside and is taken in by traveling Brendan Finn, who then takes him across the country in a soul searching journey. John develops feelings for Brendan, but doesn't express them. The two return to England, where John meets Brendan's girlfriend, Kit Ryan.

1982: John meets and courts Emma, an American artist, the two become a steady couple, with Emma knowing about and accepting John's magic. She becomes the first girl John ever introduced to his family.

1983: John and Brendan steal the Ace of Winchesters, a demon-slaying gun, from Voodoo priest Papa Midnite for collector Jerry O'Flynn. Jerry and Brendan get into a fight, and John has to separate them. John, Brendan, and Kit have one last drink together before John sets out for London again. Once in London, John befriends a man named Seth before finding out he's abusing his girlfriend, Annette, who John then offers a place to stay and sleeps with. Annette uses his occult book collection to make a deal with the Third of the Fallen to kill Seth, then ends her own life from horror.

1984: Beano contacts John, desperate to have his house rid of ghosts. Taking Chas with him, John investigates, and he finds the ghosts of a little girl and the man who murdered her. John let's the girl's ghost go free, and she ascends to heaven, but the murderer's soul begins to fall to hell, and he drags John with him. John is able to escape from hell through a deal that he's never shared the details of, and shows up just in time to be at his own funeral. A succubus and angel turn to John for help when expecting a baby. John is able to hide Ellie, the succubus, but not Tali the angel, or the baby being born. Tali is killed by fellow angels, and the angels then take the baby.

1985: Able to sense the balance of the planet changing, and something dark approaching, John gets in contact with the Elemental Swamp Thing and enlists his help to defeat the Brujera. Over the next two years, several members of the Newcastle Crew are killed by the encroaching Darkness, including Emma.

1987: Eventually, John gathers a group of magic users including Zatara and his daughter Zatanna to form a magic circle. In this circle, two will die, including Zatara protecting his daughter. After returning from the circle, John finds his old friend and bandmate, Gaz Lester, in need of help after releasing the demon Mnemoth in New York. Turning to Papa Midnite for help , John manages to contain Mnemoth, but not without paying the price of Gaz's life. John begins to see ghosts of the Newcastle Crew haunting him, as well as his old lover, Emma.

1988: John meets Zed. The Resurrection Crusade and the Damnation Army both rise up as new gangs in London, and John finds himself entangled with the gangs through his niece being kidnapped. After rescuing her from the Damnation army, Zed goes missing. After jumping out of a moving train and nearly dying, John is approached by Nergal in the hospital with a deal to end a prophecy which would mean slavery under Heaven. Nergal gives John some of his own blood to regenerate him to perfect health. John finds Zed, now part of the Resurrection Crusade, and has sex with her. John is then possessed by Swamp Thing in order to conceive a child with his wife, Abby, who then becomes the host of the Sprout. This neutralizes the prophecy, assuring neither Hell nor Heaven have claim to Earth just yet. After finding out that Nergal is the same demon who kille dAstra in 1978, John uses his connections with the disembodied technomancer, RIchie, to destroy Nergal at the gates of Heaven. Richie then takes the body of Nergal and becomes a demonic entity who is trapped in hell.

1989: At the request of the Aspect of Dream, Morpheus, John tracks down the Bag of Sand, running into his old girlfriend after she's become addicted to the dreamstuff in the sachet. Morpheus repays John by temporarily relieving him of nightmares for the return of his item. While on the run from the police after a spurious article about him is published, he meets Marj and her daughter Mercury, a pair of Travellers who he befriends and lives with for a time. Mercury, a psychic, is drawn to a secret facility that is later found to be one of the locations for a covert operation known as the Fear Machine. This turns out to be part of a masonic plot to bring forth the God of All Gods, Jallakuntilliokan. Turning to Zed, who has become a Pagan Sex Witch, Marj, John, and Mercury are able to summon forth the feminine counteraspect to Jallakuntilliokan, and all of reality is saved by their union. John is unable to remember most of this in hie waking life, but still has vivid nightmares about it in the Dreaming.

the 90's

1990: John has a run in with a serial killer known as the Family Man, unknowingly giving him the names and addresses of his next victims. When he becomes haunted by the ghosts of those the Family Man killed, he begins to track the man down. The Family Man, in retaliation, kills John’s father, Thomas. John hunts the Family Man down and shoots him with a gun Chas got for him t put an end to his killings. At his father’s funeral, John notices Gemma is seeing the ghost of Thomas Constantine, and realizes it’s tied to the curse he cast when he was 14. John and Gemma burn the cat corpse, releasing his father into the afterlife. Accompanied by the other members of the Trenchcoat Brigade, John introduces a young mage, Timothy Hunter, to the occult. Timothy finds the time capsule John buried as a child, and John urges him to rebury it and keep the innocence locked away. Timothy reluctantly agrees.

1991: John finds out, after a horrific night of literally coughing up a lung, that he has terminal lung cancer. While touring a cancer ward he meets and befriends a patient named Matt, who is also dying of terminal lung cancer. He visits Brendan Finn in hopes that the older warlock can cure his lung cancer, only to find out that Brendan, himself, is dying from liver failure. To protect Brendan’s soul from the First of the Fallen, John tricks him into drinking holy water and breaks a bottle of sacramental wine over his head. The First of the Fallen lays claim on his soul by insult, damning him to hell. In a bid to keep himself alive and out of hell, he tries to make deals through Ellie and through the Archangel Gabriel, both of which fall through. As a final attempt, after saying his goodbyes to his loved ones, John makes deals with the Second and Third of the fallen, deadlocking his soul between the three Lords of Hell. The First of the Fallen cures his lung cancer in the most excruciating way possible, then remakes his entire body from scratch, without once killing or allowing Constantine to go unconscious. John is then made ageless to prevent him from dying and setting off a war in hell. He also meets Kit Ryan for the first time in 8 years. Matt dies from his cancer right in front of John.

1992: The First of the Fallen attempts to use Ellie against John, but she instead turns to him for protection. John carves a sigil into her soul that severs and hides her from hell. Kit and John begin to go steady with the promise that John’s magic work will not enter their relationship. Gemma attempts magic and Cheryl tells John to deal with it. He finds the boy who introduced her to it and gives him a fright, while Kit talks to Gemma about the seriousness of casting magic. In the end, Gemma decides not to pursue the same profession as her uncle, and stays away from magic. The King of the Vampires offers John immortality, but John turns him down and insults him. John and Chas go to visit Chas' uncle, only to find him dead from a heart attack. At the funeral, they discover body snatchers stealing his body, and in tracking him down, find a private militia operation testing ammunition on corpses. John releases the souls of the bodies, who then kill the director of the project.

1993: After crossing a noble-tied Neo-Nazi group, John is kidnapped and Kit is attacked. John’s friend, Dez, is murdered in front of him. John, seeking protection from the Lords of Hell, causes Gabriel’s fall and claims his heart. Due to trouble having come to Kit from their relationship, she severs ties with John and leaves him for Belfast. John spirals, having felt love for the first time with Kit, and enters into a six-month depressive episode filled with alcoholism and homelessness. During this time, he meets a young man named Davy, who is a male prostitute and homeless as well. The King of the Vampires finds them asleep together for warmth, and kills Davy. John gives in, and is fed upon by the vampire, who rejects his demon blood. As the blood dissolves his jaw, John drags him into the sunlight, killing him.

1994: After New Years Day, John has a contact encounter with the ghost of a WWII fighter pilot which inspires John to get his life back together and move on. John goes to New York for a holiday, and is poisoned by Papa Midnite and forced onto a Witchwalk through a pocket of Hell while his body is vulnerable on Earth. He’s able to escape with the help of Midnite’s sister, and the threat of her revenge forces Midnite to jump off the Empire State Building.

1995: Chas seeks John’s help with his daughter, Geraldine, who has gone into a coma since giving birth to her daughter, Trish. John finds that her soul has been severed from her body and taken to Los Angeles. Chas joins John on a trip to LA, where they confront Beroul, her captor. Beroul is keeping Geraldine’s soul inside of his own body, and demands that John hunt down a list of demons that are interfering with his business. John uses the ancient god Mictlantecuhtli to eliminate the other demons, but Beroul and Mictlantecuhtli instead make a deal behind his back. John later makes another deal with Mictlantecuhtli, who can stitch souls back together with their bodies. Restoring Geraldine back with her body, John then plays chicken with Geraldine’s soul using an ancient spell. Mictlantecuhtli relinquishes Geraldine’s body and soul in response, and John and Chas safely see her back to London.

1996: John is tricked by Ellie into opening and reading from the Fuhajd’haersk, or in human tongues, The Book of Mirrors. John is then trapped inside the pages of the book, each of which contain a gateway to another reality. For the next eighteen years, John is trapped inside of the book and the infinite realms and realities contained within its pages. Cheryl, after John's assumed death, takes in John’s belongings, storing them in her attic. These items include the Book of Mirrors, which is packed away.

the 00's

2008: During his travels through realities, John ends up in a magical realm where witches and wizards are commonplace. Here he meets a witch named Elias Blackburn, who turns out to be quite the dashing rogue. The two begin a torrid relationship and work together on a heist of the Academy library. They plan to steal a book containing a spell that could release John from the Book of Mirrors, but instead John is abandoned by Elias and captured by the city guard. Imprisoned, he slips through realities again, leaving behind nothing but the amulet Elias gave him.

2014: While emptying her mother Cheryl’s attic, Gemma’s children Sally (7), Topaz (5), and Cher (3) get into some of John’s things, including the Book of Mirrors. Through trying to read the book, they are sucked into the stories along with John, disappearing from their grandmother’s living room. John finds them and guides them through the dangers of multiple realities, protecting them from several dangers ranging from a fantasy novel’s dragons to a horror novel’s killer. Eventually, Gemma opens the book to a page they’re all on, and reading aloud from the book opens the gateway John needs to escape with all three kids in tow. Gemma is shocked to see the uncle who went missing back in 1996, and relieved that her children are safe and sound thanks to him. They try to burn the book, but flame has no effect. They wrap the book up and seal it away behind some bricks of the foundation. John stays with Gemma for a short time while adjusting to the missing years of his life, but eventually he moves back to London in search of Chas, who is now dying of lung cancer due to second-hand exposure.

[houseofspells369]

Located in Liverpool's Albert Dock, House of Spells is more than a Liverpool store Liverpool—it's a gateway to beautiful worlds, a hidden gem filled with spellbinding surprises.

Step inside, and you're swept into a universe straight out of Harry Potter. Every shelf and display brings the wizarding world to life. Imagine holding a beautifully crafted wand so perfectly detailed that you can almost feel its magical power coursing through your fingers. From intricate potion bottles to dazzling artefacts, it's like stepping into your favourite storybook chapter.

Prepare to be amazed by the stunning wand collection that House of Spells offers. Each wand is a tribute to the artistry of magic, representing the epic battles and iconic moments of the Harry Potter saga. As you cradle these timeless objects, you'll feel the heartbeat of the wizarding world in your hands.

But House of Spells doesn't stop at the wizarding world. It's a collector's dreamland, boasting memorabilia from other legendary series like Game of Thrones and Stranger Things. Whether searching for a rare keepsake, an intricate puzzle, or a striking collectible, you'll discover unique treasures that transport you to the worlds you cherish.

The ambience at House of Spells is nothing short of magical. Glittering lights, perfect décor, and meticulously designed displays combine to create an experience that feels like the worlds of fantasy are coming alive right before you.

House of Spells is more than a shop—it's an invitation to dive into the magical and the mythical. Step through its doors, and let your imagination soar as the world of fantasy becomes a dazzling reality. Ready for a magical adventure? The door is open!

[sasan-00]

The Dawn of the Iron Road: Liverpool and Manchester Railway's Grand Opening

On September 15, 1830, a groundbreaking chapter in transportation history was written with the opening of the Liverpool and Manchester Railway (L&M). Imagine a world where the heartbeat of industry and the pulse of progress were united for the first time in a steam-powered symphony, connecting the textile powerhouse of Manchester to the bustling port of Liverpool, 35 miles away. This wasn’t just a railway; it was a leap into the future.

The L&M wasn't just any railway. While horse-drawn railways and early steam engines existed, this was the first locomotive-hauled line linking two major cities and offering scheduled passenger services. On that day, the entire nation watched in awe as the first trains set off, marking the dawn of an era where railways would become the lifeblood of industry and travel.

A Grand Event Turns Tragic

The opening ceremony was a spectacle of grandeur. Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, who was the Prime Minister at the time, rode one of the eight inaugural trains, joined by numerous dignitaries. The event was so momentous that huge crowds thronged the tracks in Liverpool, eagerly awaiting the departure of these historic trains.

However, as the trains journeyed from Liverpool, the excitement took a somber turn. About 13 miles out, one of the trains derailed, causing a collision with the train following it. Luckily, there were no injuries or significant damage. The journey continued, albeit with growing tension.

At Parkside railway station, a scheduled water stop became the scene of an unfortunate accident. Among the dignitaries who alighted was William Huskisson, a former cabinet minister and MP for Liverpool. Huskisson, having a complicated history with Wellington, attempted to reconcile with him but tragically fell onto the tracks in the path of the approaching locomotive, Rocket. Despite his efforts to escape, he was struck and suffered severe injuries, passing away later that night.

A Day of Triumph and Tumult

The accident cast a shadow over the day, and Wellington considered canceling the remainder of the journey. Yet, the excitement and anticipation in Manchester were too great. With a large crowd waiting, and growing increasingly restless, the decision was made to press on.

As the trains neared Manchester, the scene grew chaotic. The crowd, inflamed by the day’s events, surged onto the tracks, forcing the trains to push through slowly, using their momentum to clear the way. Upon arrival at Liverpool Road station in Manchester, the atmosphere was charged with hostility. Wellington and his party faced a barrage of vegetables and angry protests. The Duke, reluctant to disembark, ordered the trains to return to Liverpool.

Mechanical failures compounded the day's troubles. With most locomotives rendered unusable, only three of the seven trains were operational. These engines painstakingly pulled a single long train of 24 carriages back to Liverpool, arriving six and a half hours late and greeted by more rowdy crowds.

A Historic Legacy

The tragic death of William Huskisson and the dramatic events of the day turned the opening of the L&M into an international sensation. The world watched as the first long-distance steam railway opened, heralding a new age of mechanized transport. The L&M quickly proved its worth, sparking a wave of railway construction that would reshape Britain and beyond. Within ten years, 1,775 miles of railways spread across the country, and within twenty years, over 6,200 miles.

The Liverpool and Manchester Railway's opening isn't just a footnote in history; it’s the starting line of the mechanized era. As Peter Parker, former chairman of British Rail, put it, "The world is a branch line of the pioneering Liverpool–Manchester run."

Background

Founded on May 24, 1823, by Liverpool merchants Joseph Sandars and Henry Booth, the L&M aimed to link Manchester’s textile mills with Liverpool's deep water port. The railway faced numerous challenges and high costs, but its impact was profound. While horse-drawn railways and early steam engines existed, the L&M was the first to offer a regular passenger service between major cities and was an expensive and ambitious project.

In 1826, George Stephenson designed the 35-mile route, incorporating innovative features to optimize the line's efficiency. The Rainhill Trials of 1829, a public event to select the best locomotive, saw Stephenson’s Rocket emerge victorious, marking the beginning of its era.

Fanny Kemble, an actress and anti-slavery campaigner, vividly described the steam engine’s trial runs, likening the locomotive to a “fire horse” and marveling at its smooth, swift motion. The anticipation and enthusiasm for the railway were palpable, promising a transformative leap into a new era of transport.

So, let’s remember the Liverpool and Manchester Railway not just for its historical significance but for its role in reshaping how we connect and move. The story of its opening is a testament to human ingenuity, resilience, and the relentless drive to push boundaries.