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siddhigirls · 5 days ago

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biggest fan

J.B x fem!reader

warnings: unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it), breeding, praising i.e good girl. lmk if i forgot any.

there you were, in the crowded stadium, watching your favourite football team playing and in the lead of the first half. during the halftime break you went on your phone as your boyfriend talks about how shit the other team is playing, you don’t pay much attention to him because someone else has your attention.

there he was, in all of his glory, your biggest celebrity crush— although you are a celebrity yourself you can’t help but fangirl over him. you were pretty close to the field so you could see him clear, he takes off his shirt to show off his perfect physique and you can’t help but drool. fans scream for his name behind you but it was just completely muffled in your head because all you could think of is how good he could fuck you. bellingham was walking your way to talk to fans, you play it cool but internally you were screaming. he comes up to talk to all the fans and sign autographs, stuff like that until he met with your eyes. “wait- aren’t you y/n y/l/n?” he asks, ‘holy shit he knows me’ you said in your head, you were classy though, you shook his hand “yes i am, nice to meet you.” giving him a friendly smile, he smiled back with his perfect teeth, matching your body language.

body leaned towards you, hand resting on the gate, his grip firm, intertwined with yours. you let go as your boyfriend also introduces himself.

you were fairly humble regardless of your countless movie roles, you were the talk of celebrity news. you have no social media presence, raising intriguing thoughts with a lot of your fans, especially bellingham. he was no saint when it comes to you, he constantly thinks about ways to get you, he loved that you were deemed the media’s secret desire. your thoughts were crowded by how you could get bellingham alone so you could show how much of a big fan you were.

months after the game many things have changed, there were rumours that jude had a new girlfriend, you and your ex broke up, yet you were still talked about by many.

you were in london, as it was your favourite place in the entire world, you were at a pub, having a glass of wine to yourself until you got a text from your friend that lived in london. he was having a big party and he was inviting you, mentioning that many celebrities would come. usually you’d decline and just stay at home and listen to the rain hit the window of your little apartment in the middle of piccadilly circus; but you wanted a change of scenery. forcing yourself to pay your tab and go home and get ready for whatever the night has in for you.

you got out the cab to see your friends place in the middle of nowhere, huge house towering over you and music loud enough to hear a kilometre away, you walked in, chin up high. you were never a nervous person, you were always very secure in yourself and knew you were a prize. you let yourself in to see multiple A-list celebrities in dresses from brands that aren’t even known to you, all talking to each other. you locked eyes with your friend and he gave you a warm welcome, kissing your hand and telling you how gorgeous you look tonight. “y/n darling, i swear you get more beautiful and beautiful as the time passes by, the bar is right there, help yourself to absolutely anything, if you want time alone you know where the guest bedroom is”

you nodded in response as you look at the people mingling. your friend was a football journalist so you expected to see a lot of football players in the room. you made your way to the bar and asked for an old fashioned, you decided to go outside your comfort zone so you spoke to the person that was right next to you. you recognized that clean haircut anywhere.

“hi bellingham” he turned around to lock with your eyes, butterflies in your tummy once again. “you again, you know pablo?” you nodded in response, “fancy seeing your face again, where’s your boyfriend?” he asked. you raised your eyebrows and said “oh we broke up a few days after the game.” you turned your body fully to him as he mirrors your action.

“you don’t understand how long i’ve been thinking about this” jude breathlessly says in between kisses as he brings you in the guest bedroom of your friends house, the moonlight shining through the blowing curtains, cold air hitting your skin, hardening your nipples making them peak through your skin tight dress. your beautiful perfume intoxicating jude’s nostrils, often going down to your neck and kissing it. “fuck jude me neither.”

slamming you against the wall as he pushes your dress up, you spread your legs apart for him like you were reading his mind, he kneeled down, looking at your clothed pussy with your wetness seeping through. he couldn’t wait any longer, ripping off your lace panties and starts teasing his dick against your right wet pussy. he entered you feeling your pussy swallowing his dick immediately, like your pussy was made for his dick. you looked down to watch him quickly thrust into you, turning you on even more at the sight. you couldn’t help but not keep quiet, his hand making its way to your mouth and holding it tight. “i know baby it feels good but i need you to keep quiet, no need for interruption. need to take my time with you- fucking christ you feel amazing” he purrs in your ear.

it was so full of passion— like you were meant to have sex with him. your pussy was getting stretched out by his thick cock consistently thrusting into you, you clenched on to him not being able to old your cum in any longer. “fuck baby just like that. i wanna cum with you just a little longer baby please” he pleaded. he sounded so good saying please in his birmingham accent. his thrusts became sloppy and slow. “cum baby, you can do it. you’re such a good girl— fuck.” he reassures you after you cum on his dick making a ring, his tip kissing your cervix as you felt his warm seed filling you up”

he pulled out of you, sharing one last kiss with you before putting his suit back on and wiping off the sweat off his forehead. he helped you put your dress back on and fixed your hair a little. “can’t believe my celebrity crush is about to walk around in public with my cum leaking outside of her.”

#jude bellingham x reader #jude bellingham #jude bellingham smut #jude bellingham hot #soccer #football #football player x reader #football x reader #laliga #real madrid #real madrid player x reader #jude bellingham imagine

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betweenstorms · 3 months ago

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Part Seven of Where We Part (previous chapter) (next chapter) (masterlist) Childhood Friend!Simon x fem!Reader

The rest of November slipped by in a sombre hush, days folding into one another like pages of an old book left in the rain.

Except for that one day.

A gunfight rang out near Aimsley Street, slicing through the murmur of the city. It left London tense and shaken, paralyzed for days as subways shut down, and those who could, travelled by car, turning the streets into a grid of motionless headlights.

Fortunately, it wasn’t as lethal as the terror attack at Piccadilly in 2019, but still, the unease seeped in, threading through the city’s veins, casting shadows across familiar places. And just like that, November quickly disappeared, pulling its curtain of solitude and waiting, leaving the world stripped bare, exposed to the bites of winter’s approach.

December draped itself over London like a heavy, threadbare blanket, stifling and colourless, the kind of oppressive atmosphere that made everything feel lifeless. The cold settled in, not the crisp, biting chill of clear winter mornings, but a damp, penetrating coldness that seeped into your very bones and made you wonder if you’d ever feel warm again. The streets looked as though they’d been stripped bare, left open and exposed to the heavy, overcast skies above. Most days, a dull mist hung over the pavements, giving the buildings a washed-out, ghostly quality, like a city caught between sleep and waking.

The days bled into one another, each more bleak than the last, with early mornings arriving in murky shades of grey and fading too soon into evenings that swallowed the world whole in their darkness. People moved with that characteristic urgency that winter brings. You joined them begrudgingly, always tugging your coat closer, cursing yourself for always forgetting a scarf, or for the thin boots that always seemed to soak up icy puddles like a bloody sponge.

On especially cold nights, you could almost convince yourself that this was normal, that this was simply the way things were and had always been. But it was quite difficult to ignore the feeling that something was missing, that the hollow silence that lingered in the empty spaces between your days wasn’t just the eerie stillness of winter, but the absence of something, or rather, someone, you had grown painfully fond of.

Simon hadn’t been back since early November.

He had texted once or twice, short, clipped messages that somehow still made your heart flip, each one like a handful of pebbles tossed your way. “Busy these days,” and, later, “Might be back in a month. Can’t promise.” And with each message, you felt the quiet ache of hope and disappointment, an unsettling mixture that left you feeling more and more lonely with each passing week.

You’d taken to clutching your phone a little more often, your heart flickering with every buzz, only to sink again as other, mundane notifications filtered through.

It was a strange kind of torture, missing someone who was never truly yours to miss, whose life was a map marked with destinations and duties far beyond your reach. However, even knowing this, even acknowledging the distance he kept, you felt his absence like a stone lodged deep within you, heavy and unmoving.

You found yourself reaching for the phone countless times, fingers hovering over his name, wondering if a simple call or text would bridge the painful emptiness he’d left in his absence.

But something held you back, understanding that Simon would likely meet your words with a silence that would hurt more than any reply. He’d drawn his line between his work and his personal life, between the world that demanded his professionalism and the connection he somehow allowed to happen with you.

He’d made it clear, he wouldn’t let those worlds collide, wouldn’t risk them merging into something unpredictable, something neither of you could control. And you respected that boundary, even as it tore at you.

However, the days felt endless without him, each hour stretching into another shadowed ache that you couldn’t quiet, no matter how hard you tried. Your heart felt like an open wound, raw and unhealing, each sore beat a reminder of his absence, each moment a slow, silent bleed of longing. You wondered if he felt it too, the quiet fracture of separation that neither of you could mend, a wound that only his return could begin to close.

December pressed on, relentless in its gloom.

Your world shrank, folding in on itself as you huddled in your flat, wrapped in oversized jumpers, your hands perpetually curled around a mug of tea to chase away the chill that lingered in your bones.

You fell into a sort of rhythm, almost like a ritual, as if by carrying out these small and mundane acts, you could keep the loneliness at bay. Mornings were spent buried under blankets, moving only reluctantly to start your day, while evenings were spent wrapped up on the sofa, the dim glow of a lamp casting a pale light across the room as you read, watched, and waited.

Your birthday and Christmas arrived, as dull as the winter sky outside. There was little joy in the chill, in the frozen ground that spread across Wimbledon, turning every cobbled street and brick house into an icy, unyielding facade. But you did find some comfort in being back with your parents, tucked into the warmth of their home, where the smell of spices and evergreen filled the air. Your mother, delighted to have you home, fussed over meals, bustling in and out of the kitchen with a determined cheerfulness that belied the weariness around her eyes. Your father sat by, his once-broad frame softened with age, but his gaze was still as sharp as ever.

You gave them the plane tickets to Thailand over Christmas dinner.

Your mum’s face lit up, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that was rare to see in the last few years.

You knew how long she’d wanted to return, how she’d looked at old photos of their honeymoon with a wistful smile, memories of a warmth and beauty worlds away from London’s dull cold. She held the tickets with reverence, tracing the letters with her finger as though they were a magical doorway back to her youth, when her husband’s sickness was just like a bad dream. Your father, whose health, thank God, had held up well in recent months despite some close calls, smiled, a look of contentment softening his face.

“Thailand,” your mother murmured, eyes distant. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s been so long.” She gave your dad a nudge, eyes twinkling. “Been on about it for ages, haven’t I?”

He hummed and squeezed her hand. “You’ve been a right menace about it, that’s true.”

When you took them to the airport a week after Christmas, the terminal was filled with that strange, buzzing excitement that only comes with travel. People hugged each other, voices mixing with the static announcements overhead, foreign families pulling along suitcases, kids clutching stuffed animals and couples leading each other by each other’s hand.

You embraced your parents tightly, your mum’s hair smelling faintly of lavender and your father’s coat thick against you. You watched with a smile as they made their way through security, disappearing into the throng of travellers until they were out of sight.

And then, you were alone again.

New Year’s Eve crept up like a thief in the night, bringing with it a strange melancholy, like watching the embers of a once-bright fire slowly burn to ash. There was a hollowness in the air, a sensation that even the bright lights and the laughter of strangers couldn’t fill.

You’d been roped into joining your colleagues at a bar near the office. It seemed like a dreadful idea, but sitting alone in your flat, watching the hours crawl by, felt worse. You donned your best smile, the one that looked good enough in the mirror to fool even yourself, and you went, desperate for any mindless chatter that would at least keep your mind occupied.

But the bar was thick with heat and noise, the heavy bass of music thumping under the clatter of glass and the rise and fall of laughter. You found yourself swept into a circle of colleagues, all chattering about their plans for the new year, raising toasts, and making idle promises that would likely dissolve by February. They laughed easily, voices drifting over you in waves, and yet it all felt distant, like you were submerged in water, hearing only the echo of sound.

Then a young man from finance cornered you.

You only blinked at him, barely listening, caught in the comedic rhythm of his bouncing curls as he nodded along to his own words.

He launched into a passionate speech about the bloody sanctity of traditional gender roles. His words blurred together, his voice almost muted by the weight of your thoughts. Occasionally, you threw in a polite nod or a mumbled a barely audible “I see,” but your mind was far from this harrowing event. Then he leaned closer, mistaking your silence for interest, his voice picking up with enthusiasm as he rambled about his mother’s perfect domesticity.

He was going on about how his parents’ marriage thrived on ‘proper’ roles, his mum content at home, his father in the workplace, as if time hadn’t moved on.

Instead of focusing on the man in front of you, whose name you didn't even know, your mind drifted back to Simon, as it always did, caught in the same endless orbit around him.

It was a quiet tragedy, really—how he occupied every corner of your thoughts, each waking hour, and even seeped into your dreams.

Last night, you dreamt of him again. You were back in Manchester, in the schoolyard where your lives had first touched, sitting side by side, sharing a slice of cake with the casual intimacy of old friends. Yet, in the dream, you were adults, marked by the years that had carved distance and longing between you.

You couldn’t help but wonder where he might be.

What distant place held him at this very moment? Did he feel the same biting loneliness that haunted you, or did the distance barely register for him? Did he notice the empty spaces you left behind, the echo of your absence? Did he miss you in that quiet, aching way you missed him, as though without him, the world felt hollow, missing something essential?

The evening dragged on, your drink untouched on the table, its amber hue glinting in the dim light of the bar.

Suddenly, the noise around you became too much so you left without a word. The countdown spilled out of the bar, each passing number a drumbeat reminding you of how misplaced you felt. The voices grew louder, almost drowning out the thoughts you clung to so desperately, but there was no shaking Simon’s image from your mind. You excused yourself to the blur of faces, slipping out into the cold just as the crowd reached “Three… two…” and a cheer erupted inside, muffled by the heavy door that closed behind you.

The cold air bit at your cheeks, sharp and unforgiving, but there was a strange relief in it. The chill worked its way through your coat, wrapping around your limbs, but you barely felt it.

Your mind was still somewhere else—wandering across continents, or maybe just a few miles away, lingering wherever Simon might be, wherever he was spending this strange moment of resumption. You tried to imagine him in his world, far from the lights and laughter, caught in some clandestine mission, navigating the edges of danger.

It felt wrong to picture him anywhere else but beside you.

You walked down the street slowly, trembling hands shoved deep in your pockets, blurry eyes trained on the pavement.

A fine layer of frost glistened under the dim streetlights, turning the world silver. It felt surreal, almost like you were moving through a dream. The faint sound of fireworks echoed in the distance, colours bursting against the night sky, their light reflecting in fragmented patterns on the layer of ice below your feet.

You looked up absentmindedly, the fireworks dying behind your eyes, feeling more alone in that moment than you had in years.

Perhaps loving him in silence was no longer possible.

The feelings had slipped beyond your control, as if they had a life of their own—spilling over like water from a crack in glass, flooding every part of you, soaking into your bones. The walls you’d so carefully built around your bleeding heart felt like little more than tissue now, flimsy barriers against the torrent that pressed and surged within. There was no holding back, no silencing the quiet ache that had become a steady, insistent pulse beneath your skin, a longing that refused to remain hidden, that sought him out even in the hollow silence.

No, you needed to love Simon Riley openly—

—without shadows or restraint.

You needed to bring this love into the light, where it could finally catch its first breath, where it could be heard and be seen, where it could thrive unhidden, unafraid. You needed him—not in fragments or stolen moments, not as a quiet ache buried in your chest, but wholly, fiercely, as something alive and unshackled.

You had wasted so much time.

So many precious years that now felt like mere flickers in the dark, small glimpses of life that slipped through your grasp before you’d even had a chance to hold them, like a newborn. The weight of it settled heavily upon you, like the slow realisation of a loss so deep it seemed to stretch back through all the years you’d been alive.

You could feel it in the pit of your chest, that dull ache of regret, as you thought of all the things you had left unobserved, the fleeting moments you had let drift by without truly seeing them for what they were.

You should have taken the time to appreciate your mum’s rose bush in full bloom. You should have sat with her in the garden, asking her all kinds of questions about those roses and why she loved them, about her own dreams and what she longed for.

You should have lingered a little bit longer in conversation with Mrs. Riley when she waved at you from her porch after school. She had been there every day, asking after your mum or commenting on the weather, hoping for a second of connection. But you had always been too absorbed in your own world, too eager to rush home, and now, those lost conversations seemed like small, precious jewels you’d tossed aside without even realising their worth.

There was that joyful summer in Sicily, too, when you’d stood on the shore with friends, the Mediterranean sun turning the sea into shimmering glass. You’d laughed, feeling invincible, the salt breeze tangling your hair and the waves lapping at your feet. But you were always thinking ahead, already planning the next thrill, and you never truly let yourself savour the gentle kiss of the sea or the warmth of those friendships, believing, foolishly, that there would always be more summers like that one.

Now, those days felt like faded photographs, captured and stowed away, a version of you that felt impossibly distant, almost unreal.

And all those dreams you’d held so tightly in your youth—they felt almost absurd and foolish now. Those grand plans, the visions of who you’d become, had seemed so important once, so urgent. However, life had drifted by, filled with pathetic attempts, with moments you passed over for the promise of a future that never quite materialised. All the dreams you’d clung to now seemed like toys left in a forgotten corner, things that once shimmered brightly but now only reminded you of all you hadn’t achieved, all you hadn’t dared to reach for.

And Simon.

God, you should have kept in touch.

All those years stretched between you like an untraveled road, a distance marked by silence and missed chances. You’d shared so much as children and somehow, as life tugged you in different directions, you’d let him slip away, thinking perhaps that time would wait, that there would always be a someday to reconnect.

But that day never came.

How could you have let all those years pass without him in your life?

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

And so, your resolve sharpened as the final traces of colourful fireworks flickered in the sky, fading like smiles, leaving you alone on that empty street. Heart pounding, you reached into your bag, fingers trembling as they closed around your phone. The reality of what you were about to do seized you, filling you with a giddy sense of reckless abandon. You needed to tell him—to reach across this vast, impossible distance and let him know what he meant to you.

You couldn’t wait for another moment to slip by, couldn’t let another chance vanish into the empty air of this cold evening.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, heart hammering as you stared at his name, the contact you’d saved so long ago but had so rarely dared to use. It felt monumental, like all the words you’d swallowed down like bitter pills, all the years of quiet yearning and repressed emotions were resting in a single message.

Happy New Year, Si.

You paused, staring at those three words.

It felt too simple, too unremarkable, yet somehow too much at the same time. However, you weren’t done. No, you couldn’t just wish him a happy New Year and leave it at that, not with everything you felt pressing on your chest, a weight so heavy it felt as though it might crush you. The words were there, bubbling up, desperate to spill out. Your thumbs lingered on the keyboard, hesitating, heart thundering as you finally, almost timidly, typed:

I love you.

Three more words.

They settled perfectly beneath the first message, as if they had always belonged there, tucked away beneath the safety of the New Year’s greeting. Somehow, the two messages fit together, one nestled beneath the other like layers of meaning, entwined, as though love was just a natural extension of your wish to start another year with him.

And, in a way, it was.

Two minutes passed. Then another two. And another two. But those words flew into the void, a confession to the ether, carrying with them every unspoken feeling you’d harboured, every quiet longing and desperate hope you had clung to through those long, empty days. However, it was fitting because love was never too loud between you and Simon. It was quiet, patient, a silent constant that filled the spaces between words. And yet, in this moment, as you stared at the screen, it felt too small. Because God, how you wished he were here beside you.

You wished, with a quiet ache, that he was here, that you could say these words to him aloud, that he might look at you with that steady, unreadable gaze of his and hear them for what they were—an offering, small but true, from your heart to his.

You checked your phone obsessively, but there was no reply, only the empty screen reflecting your own hesitance back at you. Each second felt like an eternity, stretching on, thick and heavy with doubt. Had he seen it? Was he even awake? Or worse, had he simply chosen to ignore it, to leave your confession to languish in the unknown, unacknowledged?

You tucked your phone back into your pocket, hoping to put some distance between yourself and the gnawing anxiety blooming in your chest.

The street was easeful, your only company the faint sound of revellers in the distance, their laughter drifting away like smoke on the wind. And there you stood, small and solitary, your message carried away into the silence of the night. You’d given a piece of yourself away, a part you could never take back, and the ache of that realisation settled within you, but there was no regret. You couldn’t live in the shadow of regret anymore. You could feel your pitiful heart thud painfully, a rhythm of yearning, wondering if you’d gone too far, if you’d crossed a line that could never be mended.

For a moment, you let yourself imagine his reaction—his gaze lowering to his phone, those unreadable hazel eyes flickering with some emotion he’d keep hidden behind his stoic mask. Would he read it? Would he feel the weight of those words? Or would he look away, placing your soft confession with all the other things he couldn’t face? A thousand questions swirled within you, each one carrying the potential of hope or heartbreak, yet none held an answer.

New Year’s slipped by, leaving you alone in your small, silent flat.

The cheers, the drinks, the fireworks, your coworkers—they all felt like shards of a broken life happening elsewhere, a distant world removed from your solitude. You made some mint tea and curled up on your sofa, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders, letting the muted glow of a mindless romcom you’d seen a hundred times fill the room. Every now and then, your eyes flicked toward your phone, longing for a reply that never came. Even though the screen remained dark, indifferent, you held onto the hope that it might light up with his name, with a message that would close the distance, however briefly, between your heart and his.

But days turned into weeks.

London slipped back into its own rhythm, its pulse steady and unchanging, as if the new year had come and gone without so much as a murmur. You, too, fell into the cadence of it all, returning to the apologetic rituals that had once felt like anchors but now seemed more like weights, pulling you through the days with a muted inevitability. There was work, with its familiar faces and deadlines, the cold commute, where breath rose like ghosts in the air, and the small tasks you clung to—brewing your morning tea, buttoning your coat, watching the frost glisten on your windowsill. Each small motion, each quiet routine, tethered you to the present, even as part of you remained lost somewhere else.

The ache in your chest persisted, a constant, unyielding reminder of your confession hanging in the silence. You busied yourself with distractions, trying to smother the gnawing ache of unreciprocated love, but it lingered, like a wound you couldn’t heal, as early January passed in a blur of frozen mornings and grey afternoons.

Another week began, still with no sign of Simon.

It was strange, feeling his absence so acutely, even after so many years of silence. You found yourself slipping into daydreams, remembering those late nights in his flat, the smoke curling between you as he listened quietly to your ramblings, his presence steady and grounding. You missed the glint in his eyes when he teased you, the rare moments when his hard exterior softened, revealing the person beneath. You missed the comfort of his company, the sense of being truly seen and being heard, of sharing space with someone who, despite his walls, had let you glimpse parts of him no one else had.

But the silence stretched on, longer than you ever thought you could bear, each empty day settling like dust over your heart. Slowly, painfully, you began to accept the truth that lay beneath that silence—that this time, he might not return.

It was a dull ache, this acceptance, not a sharp, searing pain but a slow, sinking sorrow that settled into your bones, filling the spaces where hope had once lingered. It wasn’t defeat; it was a kind of surrender, yielding to a reality you had tried to keep at bay. You felt it weigh on you with a familiar heaviness, pressing down in a way that made everything seem just a little bit dimmer, a little more distant, as if the world itself had taken on his absence and softened to match the ache in your chest. You carried on, each day a quiet testament to the resilience of the heart, even as it broke under the strain of loss.

Then one evening, weeks after you’d given up on a reply, your phone vibrated.

The screen glowed softly, casting a dim, ethereal light over the shadows of your bedroom. It was a quiet, almost fragile glow, as though the device itself knew the weight of what it held, the significance of that single name illuminating the dark. You blinked, your eyes adjusting to the light, your mind reeling in disbelief. Oh, his name was there, clear and unmistakable, like something conjured from a dream, a figment you’d imagined in those long, empty hours.

And yet, it was real.

For a heartbeat, you couldn’t move, your hands hovering just above the screen, frozen by a mixture of hope and fear. It felt surreal, the kind of moment you’d only dared to imagine. But there it was, right in front of you. So you reached for the phone, fingers trembling, the screen warm under your touch, grounding you in this unexpected, almost magical reality. You felt it thrum in your ears, in your fingertips, in your whole body, as though every cell in your body was attuned to this moment, as if the world itself held its breath, waiting.

Took me far too long to catch on.

Fucking clueless sod I am.

Even with half a world between us, you were always there. Never met anyone like you, not once. Guess I was just being a fucking coward. Probably should’ve said all this sooner, but fuck it. I’ll be in London in a few days. Got hell more to say than I know what to do with.

Right. And sorry about all the swearing.

Just a little filler chapter before the big finale! hope everyone’s still excited, because I know I am!

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see-arcane · 1 year ago

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Picturing how the Weird Sisters are taking this turn of events now that we know there's a direct psychic feed to Drac-O-Vision once you're vampire'd. Specifically,

Weird Sisters: Who's that 1890's white-haired anime man? Oh! Oh shit! That's Bloodbag Boytoy!

Dracula: I see that.

Weird Sisters: Oh, that's a huge fucking knife

Dracula: I see that too.

Weird Sisters: Fuck him up, Bloodbag! Fuck him up, Bloodbag!

Dracula: First, thank you so much for the support. Second, keep dreaming, even by day I'm fast as hell--AGH FUCK

Weird Sisters: Ha! Mugged your ass!

Dracula: Can you all shut up long enough for me to monologue?

Weird Sisters: Don't think you have time for that.

Dracula: What do you--oh. Oh shit.

Weird Sisters, as Jonathan lizard fashions his way out the window with the kukri in his teeth: Oh shit! :D :D :D

Dracula, sweating: He wouldn't try anything in broad daylight. Not in front of witnesses.

Weird Sisters, as Jonathan prepares to come skin the Count in broad daylight, in front of God and Piccadilly Square: Yeah, you should definitely wait for him to politely not gut you. Just stay right there.

Dracula, running and locking the door behind him: Bah!

Weird Sisters: -laugh-wheezing in the castle-

I can only imagine how things are going now, as he huddles in his last little box of dirt, sailing back to hide in the Carpathians again. He is sincerely debating just going to the first restaurant on land and dying by garlic bread to avoid the welcome waiting for him at the castle.

#RIPieces asshole #enjoy the roast-a-thon #brides of dracula #dracula #jonathan harker #re: dracula #dracula daily

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piccadilly-bard · 1 year ago

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#Piccadilly Things

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dutiful-wildcraft · 1 year ago

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Pack 141 - Werewolf!Price Headcanons

Tags: monster au, sfw, werewolf!price, mentions of gore and body horror, loose a/b/o dynamics, possessiveness, scent marking, fluff, werewolf lore sprinkled with pack 141 interactions

-A born lycan. The shift was as natural as breathing. And he quickly showed the temperment of an alpha.

-Shifts to the outsider can appear gruesome. As the wolf quite literally emerges from within, human flesh falling away like a gristly chrysalis to reveal the beast beneath. Traditionally, this shed flesh would be devoured, though it isn't commonly practiced today. The flesh disintegrates quite quickly once shed.

-This being said Price can shift in degrees, often enhancing his own claws or teeth for defensive purposes rather than shift completely.

-No, the clothes do not magically pop back on once he's done. Shifting completely is inconvenient and typically a last resort. It's difficult to strip in the middle of a fire fight, let alone find his tac bag stark naked after it's all said and done.

-For born wolves, this shift is generally smooth and quick. For those bitten, it is this first shift that often leads to their death. Around 75% of those bitten do not have the bodily fortitude to withstand the change.

-as a born wolf, Price's enhanced senses are also perfectly integrated, and require no sensory aids for him to navigate his daily life unlike the majority of bitten wolves.

-born wolves have a tendency to remain in seclusion, within the safety and comfort of their pack. When a new alpha is born they typically either stay to take over leadership, or stake out a new territory to build their own pack.

-John was quickly ostracized when he showed little interest in either of those things. He seemed to be far more preoccupied with exploring both the world and his own strength. The military amongst the humans would do quite nicely.

-During his tours there would be fleeting encounters with other monsters, typically enemies. But a few comrades as well. Such as Nikolai, a bear shifter. The pair of lycans got along beautifully.

-Now, despite his former pack's opinions of him, John had never explicitly said he didn't want a pack, just not their version of a pack. No. John had a different idea in mind.

-Simon was the first. A strong and brutal human, who had shown an endearing gentleness in certain circumstances. Price had decided immediately that Simon would belong to him. He just needed some final paper work to build his pack task force. He had even settled on changing Simon himself, despite the risks. A bloody vampire had beaten him to it. Price was hardly angry that Simon's humanity was taken from him, just that Simon had to suffer in such a way to get there. At least Price had the pleasure of siring the newborn himself.

-Next had been Soap. A wiley thing with a blatant disregard for orders and big blue eyes that were far too pretty to be all human. Price couldn't decide if he should scruff or praise him for his cheek. But Soap had an excellent knack for mixing things that should absolutely not work, into something that would cave a warehouse in seconds. Along with a distinct aversion to touching certain metals with his bare hands. His peculiarities had earned him a nickname, and also given him away as a Fae. Price would have him too.

-Garrick followed not long after. Sharp and driven Gaz. Incredibly clever with a proud determination that blazed behind those warm brown eyes. Gaz's skills made his inner wolf purr in delight. Another lovely thing for him to keep. Price was taken with him immediately, and had never felt more at ease than with the sergeant he had stolen in Piccadilly.

-While he could tell from Kyle's scent that he was something Other. Price would only receive cryptic answers or riddles that only made the younger sergeant chuckle as Price failed to guess correctly. (Price would totally not make up excessively silly answers to see the sergeants pretty smile, oh no).

-It wouldn't be until they were stranded in an excessively hot desert that Gaz would reveal himself. Price had emerged from their tent to see Garrick, posted up like it was summer vacation, with a brilliant golden wing curled over his head to shade him from the sun. A long tufted tail flickering back and forth out of a small cut in his fatigues. Gaz had looked up from his book, golden slitted eyes peering over his aviators. Flashed him a toothy grin. “Wanna make another guess Cap?”

-Price has a vicious possessive streak, and he plays it incredibly carefully in the beginning of the task force. He watches his vocabulary when talking about the “team.” His pack. Perfect, strong and beautiful. All of them. Chosen carefully. He was careful not to spook them at first, worried his possessive language would put them off. But they are, for all intents and purposes, his.

-His possessiveness had manifested subtly at first. Scent marking them. Brushing shoulders or gentle touches as he passed them. He would even resort to smoking beside them if touching seemed out of the question. At least his smoke would soak into their clothes and hair.

-As they fell together it became less subtle. Price couldn't resist sinking his teeth into their flesh as they writhed beneath him. Suck bruises along whatever flesh he could get his mouth on. It was a pro and a con that his boys all healed so well. While his marks did not remain for long, it meant he could only mark them up sooner.

-He loves that their scents all intermingle, really. But he can be stubbornly adamant that his scent is the most notable. Often catching Soap or Gaz to tug into his office, kissing the breath out of them, only to curtly send them back out, freshly scented and a bit dazed. It's a fair compromise considering Simon often hogs the sergeants to himself.

-Simon often seeks him out of his own volition. Coming to his office to sit quietly, work on his own reports and bask in Price's scent of spilled ink and warm honey. Or sneaking to his room in the night. Slipping off the mask to bury his nose against his throat. No biting. Just breathing. His scent a balm to the younger vampires frayed nerves.

-Price takes an immense amount of pride in caring for his pack, and takes his job seriously in protecting and providing. Gets immensely distraught when one of his mates is hurting. Knowing no limits in showering them in comfort items and love.

#captain john price #werewolf!price #john price #monster au #pack 141 #poly 141 #poly task force 141 #john price x kyle gaz garrick #john price x john soap mactavish #john price x simon ghost riley #pricegaz #pricesoap #ghostprice #call of duty #captain price

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gaming-universe · 1 year ago

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How You Met || Call of Duty Preferences (1)

Authors Note: This is the first part of my Call of Duty preferences series. I had a lot of fun writing this one. So please enjoy!

Gifs by: @dustysalmon @codsona-moved @daniel-bruehl @une-femme-de-lettres @echo3one @wardencouslands @collinnmckinley @cssndra-cain

John Price

With the six months of recovery beginning to drive you insane, you felt a huge weight lift off your shoulders when Laswell called you in a few weeks early.

Her intel indicated that Al Qatala had planned an attack on Piccadilly Circus in London a few days from now, and she had no one else to call in on such short notice. When she had called, you thought that she might have wanted to meet for coffee, as the two of you usually did every week or so to escape the chaos of life. When she told you that she needed you for a mission, you jumped at the chance, anything to get you out of your stuffy house.

Informing her that you would be in London within twenty-four hours, you packed your bags and headed to the airport, where a plane was already waiting for you. Laswell had texted you all the information you needed for when you arrived in London. You would be met by the man she had put in charge of the entire operation, Captain John Price. You had heard of him in your many years of service, but you had never actually met him. But Laswell spoke highly of him, and you valued her trust in judgment.

As you stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac, your eyes landed on a black SUV parked alongside a maintenance road. Beside it stood a man: tall, arms folded across his chest, beanie on top of his head, with an impressive beard and mustache.

You recognized him from the file Laswell had sent you hours ago, and despite his seemingly warm clothing, Captain Price looked slightly cold in London's cool and overcast weather. He smiled kindly as you approached, stepping forward and extending his hand in greeting. "Lieutenant L/n, thank you for coming on such short notice..." Price spoke politely, taking your smaller hand in his larger calloused one and shaking it firmly.

You smiled up at him in return, goosebumps forming along your skin as a cool breeze blew by. You shivered, a small laugh leaving your lips as Price took your bags from your hands. "Not a problem, Captain..." you replied watching him intently as he placed your bags in the back of the car "Besides, I kind of owe Laswell for coffee last week".

Price chuckled, closing the car door and turning to face you fully. He grinned, "Let me guess, she paid for it?"

"She wouldn't let me, despite the many times I insisted. I think she still feels guilty about what happened in Mexico."

Price turned, kindly opening the passenger side door for you. "She told me about that..." he spoke lowly, looking you up and down carefully, examining your form with a slightly worried expression "...are you sure you're up for this?"

You scoffed, climbing inside the SUV with a small huff of effort. You eyed him cautiously, a stern expression that made Price freeze. "I have been cooped up in my own damn house for six months, attending mandated physical therapy for an injury that healed three months ago. I am fine. If you have any objections, you can speak to Laswell."

For a moment, your eyes met his, and you could see by his expression that he was thinking things over. Then, with a nod of his head, he closed your passenger door without hesitation.

Price took a moment to himself to release a long nervous sigh. As he walked to the driver's side, he couldn't stop thinking about how highly Laswell had spoken of you, and that you were the first person that came to her mind when he had asked for a trustworthy taskforce. He had read your file, and to say that he was impressed was an understatement. He was in awe.

You were exactly what he was looking for, and you were the exact person he needed in the fight against Al Qatala.

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

This really wasn't how you wanted your first meeting with Taskforce 141 to go.

Your morning hadn't started off well. Firstly, your alarm didn't go off, and you arrived late to Laswell's briefing. All eyes landed on you as you entered the room, heat flushing to your cheeks as you mumbled a quiet apology under your breath. As Laswell introduced you to the others, you smiled awkwardly in greeting, praying to god that after your late arrival, your day would only get better from here.

But of course, life likes to play cruel tricks. Hours after your first briefing, you dropped an entire stack of files in the hallway, the contents scattering everywhere all over the floor. After that, you got lost several times on your way to your office, cursing yourself every time you asked someone for directions. And to top it all off, the final straw in your terrible, horrible, very bad day, was spilling coffee all over yourself in the mess.

You had been hiding in the women's bathroom for the past few hours, trying desperately to scrub the coffee stain out of your blouse with some wet paper towels, but to no avail. Frustrated with yourself, and the overwhelming feeling of embarrassment sitting uncomfortably in your chest, your eyes welled with tears. As you threw the paper towel in your hands into the bin by your side, you released a long and heavy sigh. As you stared into the mirror, taking in your disheveled appearance, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Y/n? Are you in there?..." a low voice asked from the corridor, "...it's Kyle, I saw you walk in here about two hours ago, and I wanted to make sure that you were alright."

You released a small huff, your shoulders slumping as your emotions finally spilled over. You remembered Kyle from this morning, Gaz, as Price had called him. He had been so kind to you this morning after your awkward late entry and had offered you a seat next to him during the briefing. Wiping the tears from your eyes, you sniffled and cleared your throat, and replied quietly, "I'm fine. I just need a minute."

The door creaked open slightly, and you watched as Kyle's arm squeezed through the crack in the door, a blue sweater clutched in his hand. "I uh, I have a jumper here if you want it. I saw what happened in the mess and thought you might want something to cover up that coffee stain."

A small feeling of gratefulness welled inside your chest as you approached the door, taking the sweater from his hand with a small 'thank you'. As you pulled the sweater over your head and placed your arms through the arm holes you opened the door and stepped back out into the corridor. You met Kyle's eyes with a grateful smile, "You didn't have to do that" You spoke softly, biting your lip as you folded your arms across your chest. He shrugged, leaning against the wall casually "It's fine, you looked kind of distressed, so I wanted to make sure you weren't having some sort of panic attack".

You laughed, "I was getting there, but that's unrelated for now" You replied, before groaning and burying your head in your hands. "Today has been the worst day of my life. I look like a fucking mess, and I've embarrassed myself too many times today."

Kyle chuckled, "Everyone has bad days Y/n, trust me. Yours isn't the worst I've seen."

"Oh really?" You questioned.

"I watched Soap fall flat on his face during a training exercise last week. He just laid there while we laughed."

You couldn't stop the loud laughter that left your lips, your hands instantly flying to your mouth as Kyle smirked. "Oh no..." you exclaimed "...that must have been awful."

"It was for him..." Kyle shrugged "but it was fucking hilarious."

The two of you continued to exchange funny stories, until Ghost appeared at the other end of the corridor, calling for the two of you as a mission had been assigned to the 141 by Shepherd. Kyle gave you a small smile, before motioning with his head for you to follow. "I'll tell you what, after this mission, I'll buy you an actual coffee. I know a nice place off base."

You smiled brightly, nodding your head in agreement. "I'll hold you to that, Garrick."

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

He had been staring at you from across the room since you had arrived.

You had no idea what was wrong with him, or what his apparent problem with you was, but you chose to focus on Price's briefing instead. It was very off-putting, especially since this was your first mission with Taskforce 141. Laswell had recruited you at Price's request. Impressed with your skills and your file, she agreed with him that you would be a perfect addition to the team, and that you would also bring a little balance and reason when needed.

Noticing your slight discomfort, Johnny or Soap' MacTavish moved to stand beside you, sending a warning glare towards his friend cautiously.

"Does he normally glare at every new person that works with you guys?" You whispered, looking up at Johnny beside you with a questioning expression. He shrugged, "Not usually, it's putting me off as well, don't worry. I'll talk to him once this is over."

"Don't you think I should? If I've done something I want to know what exactly is pissing him off."

Johnny hummed lowly in response, turning his attention back to Price. "Only if you want to. If I had to guess, it might be because he doesn't know you. He hasn't worked with you before, so he's trying to size you up." You bit your lip anxiously, releasing an uneasy sigh as you folded your arms across your chest. "No, I know what being sized up feels like. This is something different."

He was examining you from head to toe, trying to determine whether or not you have what it takes to become part of the task force. So maybe Johnny was right, maybe Ghost was sizing you up in his own way. And you weren't going to let him intimidate you, even though it was kind of working.

The second you entered the room, Simon froze. It wasn't something that usually happened, he wasn't always lost for words. He had read your file, thanks to Laswell and Price, and he was impressed by your skills. Seeing you in person, however, there was just something about you that made him feel...strange. It was a good kind of strange, something that he hadn't felt in a long time.

Once Price had finished his briefing, you watched as Ghost pushed away from his position on the wall, and immediately stalked out of the room. You turned to look at Price, who was already looking at you with a confused expression.

You sighed, "It's me, isn't it? I'm the problem?"

Price shrugged. "I don't know, but he'll warm up to you. He just needs some time."

Your gaze fell to the table as you sat quietly in thought. You hoped that this would all work out, especially since you and Ghost would be working together for the foreseeable future.

John ‘Soap’ MacTavish

"Have you met either of them before?" Alejandro asked, the two of you jumping out of the truck and stepping onto the tarmac, watching as the large plane landed on the runway ahead.

You shrugged as you moved to stand in front of the truck, leaning against the bullbar. "I've worked with Ghost a few times. As for Sargeant MacTavish, this would be the first."

Alejandro chuckled, "I suppose you all work under Laswell, eh?"

"You suppose correctly, although it has been some time since I've worked with a familiar face" You replied, smirking teasingly as Alejandro turned to face you, an expression of mock hurt on his features. "Am I not good enough company!?" he shouted over the sound of the plane's engines, throwing his arms out in an exaggerated manner.

You laughed loudly in reply, "You know I love you!"

Alejandro smirked back at you, before turning back to face the now-lowered plane ramp. You watched from afar as two men descended the ramp, the skull mask clearly visible even from this distance. You watched as Alejandro and Ghost spoke with each other, while the younger, unfamiliar man watched them intently.

His gaze turned towards you and you smiled kindly in greeting.

John froze. He couldn't take his eyes off you. Simon had mentioned that they were going to work with an old colleague of his, but he didn't mention that you were absolutely gorgeous. Whatever Simon and Alejandro were talking about now fell on deaf ears as he watched you give him a small wave.

Wow, Simon has been holding out on me.

A sharp jab to the ribs from his left brought John out of his daze, turning his attention towards Simon who was already glaring at him. "She will eat you alive" He warned sternly, knowing John's exact train of thought.

"What are you saying exactly?" John challenged, eyeing the Lieutenant with a smirk.

A deep chuckle came from his right, John turning to see Alejandro shaking his head. "He means exactly that, my friend. She's fierce. I'm tempted to ask Laswell to permanently assign her to the Vaqueros."

"Good luck with that..." Simon snapped lightly "Price won't allow her to leave that easily-"

"Are you guys done deciding my life and career for me!?"

All three men turned their gaze to see you standing a few feet away, arms folded over your chest and a knowing smirk on your lips.

They all froze, eyes wide as you approached. Eyeing them individually, you motioned with your head towards the truck behind you. "We have something more important than my life to discuss. You know better than that, Simon". John watched on in shock as Simon's gaze lowered to the ground, mumbling a quick 'sorry' under his breath as he moved to walk past you, heading towards the truck without another word. Alejandro followed, keeping his gaze downward as he too walked back to the truck.

As you rolled your eyes, your attention turned to him, John's entire body tensing. "You must be Sargeant MacTavish..." You spoke politely, extending your hand in greeting, "I'm Y/n."

"So I've heard..." He replied, taking your hand in his "...but please, call me Johnny." The smile that formed on your face took his breath away, the mischievous glint in your eyes doing something to him that he couldn't quite understand.

"Well, Johnny. Just so you know, I make my own decisions around here. The sooner you learn that, we'll get along just fine."

As you turned and walked away, joining Simon and Alejandro back at the truck, John released a long breath and mumbled lowly. "Oh fuck, I'm in so much trouble."

Alex Keller

Throughout the entire briefing, Alex couldn't keep his eyes off you.

Farah had informed him that Captain Price was sending one of his best man, or rather, woman, to help their effort against Al Qatala in Al Mazrah. Farah had been excited about your arrival. You had been with Price when Farah was rescued, and ever since then, she has considered you to be a sister.

She trusts you with her life, and that was good enough for Alex.

He watched you speak with Farah about the next move for her forces, and how you expertly dealt with the situation when Farah protested about laying low.

"If we lay low now, we lose the advantage-"

"And if we attack, there's a chance that they will be waiting for us" you countered, looking between her and himself with a calm ease. With your gaze moving back to Farah, you continued "You attacked two huge targets before I got here. If you attack a third, there is a chance that they are already anticipating us."

"But we have them right where we want them-"

"That may be so, Farah, but you're not listening to me..." You began again, a clear look of exasperation on your features.

Alex could see that you were very tired, and despite obviously being at the end of your tether, you still managed to remain calm. He had to do something.

"She's right, Farah..." Alex interjected, eyeing her with a warning glare, "she came here to help us, so maybe we should listen to her."

The grateful look on your features caused a strange feeling to form in his chest, your tired eyes conveying a small 'thank you' as you turned back to face Farah. She released a long sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat. She met your gaze with a small nod.

"Alright, you have a point. Come find me if Price or Laswell call" She spoke lowly, leaving the room with her head lowered.

Your eyes moved to focus on Alex once more, sighing heavily as you closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose. "Thanks for stepping in there, you didn't have to."

Alex chuckled. "You did have a good point, and you were right. Another attack would have been too risky." He watched you nod in agreement, sighing once again as you rubbed your eyes, stifling a yawn.

Alex found a small grin forming on his lips as he moved to stand up from his seat. "Long flight?" he asked, moving around the table to stand beside you. You nodded again "From one warzone to another..." you chuckled, "I'm a bit exhausted, yes. But I'll manage-"

"No offense, Lieutenant, but you're not going to be much help if you're sleep-deprived" Alex spoke plainly, finding himself enjoying the sound of your loud laughter, as it echoed throughout the room. "Good point, I won't argue with a few hours of sleep" you answered, giving him a genuine though tired smile before leaving the room, and heading for your quarters.

Alex watched you leave and found himself muttering a low 'shit' under his breath, before exiting the room and walking down the opposite end of the hallway.

Alejandro Vargas

Yes, the cartel was becoming more versatile, but why Laswell was choosing to assign a DEA agent to his command was beyond him.

Laswell spoke very highly of you and promised that you would be perfect for the job. That didn't mean that he had to like you. He watched you from across the room as you spoke to Rudy. He was smiling down at you, and you were smiling up at him. You were getting along with all of his men, and it was pissing him off.

His men adored you, and Rudy adored you. And he...who was he kidding, you were fucking gorgeous.

There was no way that he would admit it out loud, he couldn't. He could see you looking at him from the corner of your eye, the glare on your expression causing his jaw to clench. You were doing something to him, and he hadn't spoken a single word to you yet.

You held Alejandro's gaze, watching as his jaw clenched, and noticing how his shoulders tensed. Since you stepped off that plane, you've felt like he hated your guts. It was an uncomfortable feeling, your stomach twisting uneasily as you refused to be the first one to look away.

"Please tell me that he isn't going to look at me like that the entire time I'm here" You muttered lowly, as Rudy followed your line of sight.

You saw movement in your peripherals, as Rudy moved closer to your side. "He won't. I'll make sure of it" he spoke lowly, his tone directed to his friend across the room. Feeling slightly relieved as Alejandro dropped his gaze to the floor, you sighed and turned to face the man beside you.

Rudy was already staring at you, a small grimace on his features as he huffed. "I'm sorry about him, he's usually more welcoming than this" he apologized, moving to stand in front of you and blocking your view of Alejandro. You shrugged your shoulders, pressing your lips together in a thin line, "I'm guessing I'm not what you guys were expecting?" You asked awkwardly, almost afraid to know the answer.

Rudy chuckled softly, meeting your nervous gaze with a kind smile. "He was expecting Laswell to send someone we knew, someone like Ghost or Soap. Hell, we didn't even know that Laswell had contacts in the DEA."

"She doesn't, I'm the only one..." You answered, grinning as Rudy's eyes widened in shock "...I used to work for her, but I got hurt on a mission and was honorably discharged. She helped me get a job with the DEA, and I owed her a favor."

Rudy nodded, an impressed look on his face. You could just see Alejandro over Rudy's shoulder, his glare softer this time, but still menacing nonetheless.

You felt your chest tighten, as you held his gaze once more, a feeling that made your heart skip a beat. Why? You had no idea. You weren't going to let this man get the better of you, no matter how dangerously attractive he was.

Rudolfo Para

Stepping off the plane, you took a deep breath in and sighed heavily. While the air in Mexico was humid, it was much better than the stuffy air on board the cargo plane.

Once down the ramp, and after you had stepped onto the tarmac, you were met by Alejandro. "Thank you for coming on such short notice..." He spoke kindly, leading you towards the awaiting truck only a few feet away, "if Hassan is moving as fast as Laswell claims, we're going to need all the help we can get."

"I'm happy to help. Besides, having me with you will help if he manages to cross the border" You replied, looking over at Alejandro with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. He chuckled lowly "Hopefully we will catch him before it comes to that."

As you approached the truck, you noticed a man standing beside the passenger door, arms folded over his chest as he watched the two of you approach. When his eyes met yours, you noticed that his entire demeanor changed. His eyes widened as he stood up straight, brushing invisible lint from his clothes as both you and Alejandro stopped in front of him.

"Y/n, I would like you to meet my best man, Rudolfo Para" Alejandro introduced, the two of you shaking hands.

Smiling innocently, you looked up at Rudolfo with a kind expression. "Nice to meet you, Rudolfo."

"Please, call me Rudy..." He spoke happily, a small nervous laugh escaping him as he pulled his hand away "...we appreciate you coming out here to help us."

"Not a problem, Rudy. I've been tracking Hassan for months, there's no way that I would miss this" You answered, your smile widening before you climbed inside the awaiting truck.

When the truck door closed, Rudy released a long, shaky breath. His eyes met Alejandro's, who was already smirking knowingly at him. His best friend knew him too well and could read him like an open book, the bright flushed redness to his cheeks aside.

"I know that look..." Alejandro teased, his smirk growing wider and more menacing "...though I can't blame you, she's gorgeous-"

"That's enough out of you" Rudy snapped, punching his friend's shoulder as Alejandro laughed darkly.

"Oh come on, don't deny it-"

"I'm not denying anything-"

"You were like a deer in headlights" Alejandro chuckled, mocking Rudy with an exaggerated wide-eyed expression.

With an embarrassed groan, Rudy clambered into the passenger side of the truck all the while trying to hide his bright red face from you. As Alejandro sat in the driver's seat, you cleared your throat awkwardly from the back seat.

"Hey boys, if you're going to talk about someone...make sure they don't speak the same language."

Rudy felt his heart stop.

Phillip Graves

You couldn't take your eyes off him.

In all your years of working with Laswell and being part of Taskforce 141, you had never heard of Shadow Company or Phillip Graves. The fact that they were brought in by General Shepherd made you suspicious enough, but the man did save your life via an airstrike on your mission to find Hassan, so maybe he wasn't all that bad. As a bonus, he was incredibly attractive.

You watched Graves interrogate Hassan before it was decided by Shepherd and Laswell that he had to be let go. Your jaw clenched as Shepherd gave the order, before Graves closed the laptop on the hood of the truck to your side. You heard him swear under his breath, his jaw clenching in annoyance as he turned to watch Ghost and Soap release Hassan.

"We were so fucking close" he growled, folding his arms over his chest and glaring at Hassan's retreating figure. You nodded, sighing heavily as you shrugged. "We'll get another chance..." You spoke plainly, turning your head toward him "I don't know when that will be, but I'm hoping we do."

Graves huffed a short laugh, his eyes meeting yours as he pressed his lips together in a line. "Oh we will, he's not getting off that easy" he spoke matter-of-factly, moving closer to you and staring down at you "Though I'm a bit pissed that we went through all that trouble for nothing."

"That is sometimes the job..." You laughed "Not everything goes to plan."

Graves nodded, giving you a kind smile. The two of you stood in silence for a moment, the only noise being that of the desert at night, and the voices of Ghost and Soap only a few feet away.

As heat crept onto your cheeks, you cleared your throat awkwardly. "I uh, I don't think we've actually met in person..." You spoke lightly, "I'm Y/n."

"Phillip Graves..." the man beside you replied, smirking down at you with a playful expression, "I'm glad that I can finally put a face to a name. Especially one I rescued."

It was your turn to laugh, "I appreciate it, really. Though I think an airstrike is pretty extravagant."

"Oh, I don't call in an airstrike for just anyone..." Phillip shrugged, "but I figured I should make a good first impression."

You blushed a bright red as you laughed, shaking your head at his bold and flirtatious tone. It made your stomach backflip and your heart skip a beat. Maybe it was his accent, or maybe it was the way he was practically undressing you with his eyes.

There was an immediate tension forming between the two of you, one that caused your breathing to stutter, and your legs to-

"Oi! You two, let's go!" Ghost called out to the two of you, forcing both you and Phillip out of your bubble of sexual tension. Clearing your throat, you avoided Phillips's eyes as you immediately turned on your heel, making a beeling for your two teammates.

Phillip watched you walk away and muttered under his breath. "Fuck, this is going to be difficult."

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winterdaphne2 · 6 months ago

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Gay Easter Eggs in BBC Sherlock

(I trust the above requires no explanation.)

Perhaps someone has done this before, but I wanted to put together a compilation of gay easter eggs in the show that I’ve seen other people point out and/or have thoughts on myself. So here it is!

When I say “easter eggs,” I’m thinking of small clues that the show creators included in the set designs, music choices, and other details of the show to reference that Sherlock and John are in love. I’m thinking of things you could miss at first, especially little clues that often require a bit of extra information or require observations across episodes to understand.

Of course, there’s also lots of subtext woven into the show, moments where interpreting the dialogue or visuals in a certain way tells us something about Sherlock, John, and/or the state of their feelings for one another. I’m not sure if I can clearly define “subtext” versus “easter eggs” and explain what distinguishes them, but at least to me, several of the things I’ve listed here seem a bit different from what people often refer to as subtext. Maybe subtext is about uncovering the layers to a piece of dialogue or an action that takes place in plain sight and seeing how that impacts our interpretation of the story, but easter eggs are about spotting smaller, hidden details. I’m not trained in literary or film studies, though, and I’m not trying to be doctrinaire about this at all! This list is just for fun, anyway. (The above image might not actually count as an easter egg, but I couldn’t resist including it here. Indulge me.)

The more I read about this show and the harder I look, the more I think that hardly anything is there on accident. All these easter eggs must have been included on purpose. The creators knew they were telling a love story all along.

I’ve linked to the posts where I initially saw people point these out or to other good sources, and for some of these I’ve added my own commentary/observations/interpretations. I’m sure there are many other easter eggs that I’ve missed! What have you spotted?

John’s PIN in TBB – When John tries to pay for his groceries at the beginning of the episode, we see that his PIN is 743. In ASIB, Irene’s code to unlock her phone is SHER, which would be 7437 on a phone keypad. So, John’s PIN is a clue that he is or will be in love with Sherlock. Source: @loudest-subtext-in-tv, here.

Shaftesbury Avenue, 20m from Piccadilly Circus in TBB – While investigating in Chinatown, Sherlock and John bump into each other at what used to be a cruising spot for gay men in London. Source: @the-signs-of-two, here.

Archer the American in ASIB – In the scene where the American CIA agents try to get Sherlock to open Irene’s safe, the head CIA agent pressures Sherlock by threatening to have one of his men shoot John. The agent says: “Mr. Archer, on the count of three, shoot Dr. Watson.” Ordering someone named “Archer” to shoot John could be a reference to Arthur Conan Doyle’s poem “The Blind Archer,” which is about Cupid and describes Cupid shooting two men who sound an awful lot like Sherlock and John. Source: couldntpossiblycomment, here.

“¿Dónde Estás, Yolanda?” in TEH – The song that plays during the scene with John and Sherlock’s disastrous reunion at the Landmark restaurant is a cover of the song “¿Dónde Estás, Yolanda?” performed by the band Pink Martini. The Spanish lyrics to this song are about searching for a long-lost lover, which is fitting for the scene where John sees Sherlock again for the first time since his fall. Notably, the creators didn’t use the first of the two versions of this song that Pink Martini has released. The band’s first version appears on their 1997 studio album Sympathique and features a man singing about a woman. Instead of using that version, the creators used the version from Pink Martini’s 2011 compilation album A Retrospective, in which China Forbes performs most of the vocals. So, the creators deliberately chose a remade version of the song in which a woman sings about a woman. They chose a gay song about searching for a long-lost lover for Sherlock and John’s reunion. abrae (@tea-and-liminality on tumblr) has a meta with more to say about the use of this song here.

John’s “oscillation on the pavement” in TEH – In TSOT, John observes a potential client standing outside 221B and trying to make up her mind as to whether to come in. Sherlock tells John “I’ve seen those symptoms before. Oscillation on the pavement always means there’s a love affair.” In the previous episode, John came to visit Sherlock at 221B but hesitated on the pavement outside, staring at the door and trying to decide whether to go in. Sherlock’s comment, “I’ve seen those symptoms before,” is a hint that we, the audience, have also seen those symptoms before—with John in the previous episode. Source: @bidoctor, here. (I saw someone else point out that last part about Sherlock’s hint to the audience, but I can’t find that post, sorry!)

Lilac dresses in TSOT – While planning John and Mary’s wedding, Sherlock chooses lilac-colored dresses for the bridesmaids. When John tells Sherlock that he likes the bridesmaids in purple, Sherlock pointedly corrects him by stating that the dresses are lilac. Apparently, “In Victorian times, giving a lilac meant that the giver is trying to remind the receiver of a first love.” So by dressing the bridesmaids in lilac, Sherlock is trying to remind John of his first love: himself, Sherlock. My heart breaks. Source: @asherlockstudy, here.

Putting the horns on Mary and Janine in TSOT and HLV – In TSOT, there’s a shot where Mary gives Sherlock and John a thumbs up before they head out on a case. The way Mary is standing, the horns on Sherlock’s cow skull thing on the wall behind her are placed right over her head. (I always thought this shot looked pretty weird, but now I see that it must have been intentional!) In the HLV scene with Janine at 221B, there’s a moment when Janine steps in front of John in the frame to kiss Sherlock, and her movement positions the horns right over her head. “Putting the horns” on someone means cheating on them. So in both cases, placing the horns right above Mary’s and Janine’s heads indicates to the audience that Sherlock and John are the real relationship in this show. Source: this post from multiple users on the @sherlockmeta blog.

The architecture of Sherlock’s mind palace in HLV – In the mind palace scene after Mary shoots Sherlock, the architecture of Sherlock’s mind palace is based on locations from ASIP. Sherlock literally built his mind palace out of places from his first case with John, illustrating that his relationship with John is what grounds him and that it means everything to him. abrae has some very helpful screencaps of this here (and I would recommend that whole meta, btw!)

The glasshouse scene in TAB – In TAB, the Victorian John tries to ask Sherlock about his sexuality and sexual history while they’re sitting in a glasshouse. In Victorian Britain, “glasshouse” was another term for a military prison. So John, a military veteran, asks Sherlock about his sexuality in a setting that represents where he would have been sent if he had acted upon his homosexual desires at a time when homosexuality was criminalized. Source: @haffieliesel, here.

What do we say about coincidences? The universe is rarely so lazy.

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cheshireliam · 29 days ago

Text

"Wrapped in Wicked Romance" Story Event: Chapter 2

This is a fan-made translation solely for entertainment purposes with no guaranteed perfection; expect mistakes, grammatical errors, and some creative liberties. All original content and media used belongs to Cybird. Please support the game by buying their stories and playing their games. Reblogs appreciated.

Read this before interacting

(Now… I wonder what I should talk to Ring about.)

(... Huh?)

While I was trying to think of a conversation starter, I realised that Ring was already way ahead of me.

Kate: Ring! Wait up!

Ring: !? Why are you so far behind…?

I hurriedly chased after him and he rushed back toward me.

We met halfway and started walking side by side again.

Kate: Perhaps my strides aren’t as long as yours. I’ll try to keep up.

Ring: No, I should’ve slowed down to match your pace. … My bad.

Ring: A-anyway, you can hold onto my arm.

Kate: Thank you.

Ring: Actually… I wanted to have you hold my arm back at the meeting point.

Kate: Was that during your sudden warm-up session just now?

Ring: Yeah. … I should've let you hold my arm earlier if I knew you were going to be left behind.

Ring: I’m not good at acting like a lover at all. Even if it's Dari’s orders…

Kate: Neither of us are acting the part right now, so don’t let it bother you.

Kate: Is there anything else you wanted to say but couldn't?

Ring: There is. It’s about… your outfit.

Ring: “I love your outfit today. It suits the little robin very well”.

Ring: “Where did you get that bracelet? I want to get a matching one”.

Kate: Huh…?

Ring: “The design around the collar is fun. It really looks like your kind of thing. Also—”...

Kate: Um… are those your own words?

I couldn't help but interrupt when Ring, who had been acting awkward the whole time, suddenly started complimenting me so smoothly that it felt unnatural.

Ring: … Y-you’re sharp. As expected from a member of Crown… you’re dangerous.

(It’s not that I’m sharp, it’s that Ring’s behaviour is so obviously unnatural…)

Ring: Actually… I had Nica teach me some words to compliment you, so that I can do a better job at pretending to be your lover.

Kate: So that’s what happened…! I’m happy you prepared yourself in advance, but…

Ring: “But”?

Kate: I’d much rather hear you use your own words, Ring.

Kate: Do you usually compliment your lover using words someone else said?

Ring: N-no, I don't… I-I think.

Ring: A-anyway, give me a moment while I think of the words to compliment you.

Kate: … You don't have to force yourself to compliment me if nothing comes to mine, okay?

Ring: No, I really do think your outfit looks nice, it's just… umm…

He took my comment about wanting to hear him use his own words seriously and struggled to respond.

I couldn't help but find it endearing that he was trying so hard…

(You can do it…!)

I silently cheered him on in my heart.

Ring: Your outfit today looks… frilly and soft… I-I think it’s c-cute.

Ring: It reminds me of a purple Hardenbergia flower… the subdued color is comforting to look at.

The words he finally managed to string together sounded hesitant and awkward, but they struck me deeper than any borrowed praises could ever.

Kate: I never would've thought of comparing the colour of my clothes to Hardenbergia flowers! It makes me so happy to hear that.

Ring: …! I-I see… that's good to know.

Kate: You must know a lot about flowers, don’t you?

Ring: Y-yeah… I probably know more about flowers than most other things.

Kate: There are some flower beds on the way to The Scala.

Kate: If you don't mind, could you tell me what flowers they are?

Ring: … If I can identify them.

…

And so, on our way to The Scala, Ring taught me about the flowers blooming along the road…

Thanks to that, his nervousness seemed to have eased significantly by the time we reached Piccadilly.

Ring: … It’s about time for the play to start. We made it just in time.

Kate: You’re right! The Scala is right up ahead. Let’s go.

(... He’s still a little awkward, but I feel that he’s conversing more naturally now as compared to this morning.)

Even Ring was wary of me and said some disturbing things earlier on…

He was an honest, upright person who was willing to listen to what I had to say.

That honestly was likely the reason why I could freely interact with him without feeling on edge myself.

(I’m looking forward to watching the play. I wonder what kind of reactions Ring will have.)

(... Huh?)

Ring: … Why did you suddenly stop? Is something wrong?

Kate: P-pardon me. There’s something I want to verify… you come too, Ring!

I grabbed Ring’s arm and led him toward an alley in the opposite direction of The Scala.

…

Ring: … What business do you have in an alley like this?

Kate: There’s been a rise in child abduction cases in the area lately, and I thought I saw someone resembling the suspect on the run…

Kate: Ah… it’s him!

I lowered my voice and pointed at a man lurking in the shadows of the alley.

Kate: There’s a chance I got the wrong person, so I’m going to act casual and try to get information out of him—

While I was explaining the situation to Ring, a young girl wandered into the alley, perhaps by accident.

At that moment, the man made a move.

(Ah…!)

He crept up behind the girl and covered her mouth with a piece of cloth he had in his hand. It seemed to have been laced with some sort of drug.

The girl fell unconscious, and the man skillfully stuffed her into a bag before attempting to flee the scene.

Kate: Ring, let’s go after him!

Ring: … No, we need to report this to Dari and have him make a decision first.

Kate: What…? B-but there's a kidnapping happening right in front of our faces! We must act now!

Ring: I was ordered to only ensure you return to the castle safely today. Any actions taken beyond that are prohibited.

Ring: Getting involved in strange situations would be going against Dari’s orders.

Ring: I understand that you want to help, but we should only act after reporting to Dari.

(How can he say such things when a serious crime is being committed right under our noses…?)

Just a couple of minutes ago, I concluded that Ring was an honest and upright person that would never tell a lie.

But it was precisely because of that, I instantly knew that his words right now weren’t lies.

In other words… Ring had no intention of stopping the crime from happening at all.

Ring Schwartz, the person I thought I was starting to understand, became a complete stranger to me once more.

Kate: … F-fine. Then I’ll go after that criminal MYSELF!

Ring: H-hey…!

#ikemen villains #ikemen series #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #ikevil translations #otome #ikevil story event #ring schwartz

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