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romirola · 24 days

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Headcanons for the Shaw Pack’s Travelling Styles at the Airport

David: David likes to be prepared, which leads him to overpack, just in case. Half the time, it pays off, though all the time it means his bags are way heavier than he wants them to be, not that he’d ever admit it. Although David considers himself a pretty patient guy, he dreads the idea of waiting in line for security, to board, to purchase a coffee/snack, to exit the plane… He has no direct airline experience, but honestly, he’s pretty sure he could streamline the whole process.

Angel: They are an expert packer and they know it. Not only do they manage to arrange everything they need into the most condensed way possible, but they also know how to pack light. Angel is always one to be ready with their boarding pass, ticket, and anything else they’d need, though what they most look forward to is exploring their destination (whether it be for leisure or business) and getting a firsthand feel of the entire experience. They often indulge in arriving at the airport with plenty of time so they can people-watch with a latte.

Asher: As a child, Asher often flew with his family to visit his grandparents, with one set in Belfast and the other in Galway. Because of that experience, he associates travel with adventure and fun, even if it’s due to work. Asher can make himself extremely comfortable in any airport, somehow intuiting the best place to find a seat, charge a phone, or search through a carryon for missing headphones. Asher can even nap in the most bustling of airports, but amazingly, he wakes up on time and never misses a flight.

Babe: Babe is a nervous flier (check out this oneshot if you want to see that in action), but they are an absolute master at logistical planning. Booking deals, loyalty accounts, membership discounts… You name it, Babe has it and knows how to use it. Once, they even managed to get paid by the airline to fly to their cousin’s wedding. Babe also likes to select their seats ahead of time to maximize comfort and space.

Milo: Milo is probably one of the luckiest travelers ever to set foot in an airport. Although he never asks for any sort of special treatment, he never fails to get it. Every staff member feels compelled to give Milo all the bonus miles, first-class upgrades, or expedited services they could possibly give him. The restricted lounges welcome Milo even though he's not a member. During the flight, the flight attendants give him extra snacks, blankets, and anything he could ever want. No one, not even Milo, can explain the phenomenon. He loves every minute of it.

Sweetheart: Sweetheart’s poor sense of direction means that they require lots of extra time when it comes to travelling. They need to factor in inevitably getting lost to any movement they might make. That could include getting to the airport, finding their gate, or refilling their water bottle at the fountain a few steps away. They can and will manage to get lost, no matter how diligently they study the airport maps before they go. Despite their inability to orient themselves, Sweetheart will insist that the best way to spend any length of time at the airport is to keep active, since they will have to sit on the plane, so they will most likely be found walking laps, back and forth, across a space where they can always have their gate in sight.

Darling: Darling honestly prefers to drive or, if possible, to take the train. Not because they are afraid of flying. Certainly they will fly if needed. But for Darling, there’s something inextricably exciting about watching the world go by like that. Darling also has quite an affinity for the cafe car, or, whenever they take a lengthier trip, the dining car. They can’t exactly say why, but it’s such a treat to partake, almost like a step back in time, and yet, a surreally modern amenity.

Sam: Sam has always seen the airport as one big scam where every decision is meant to squeeze out more money from travelers. Pay to check a bag, pay to buy food, pay for leg room, pay to breathe air, basically. It’s a total racket, and he loathes every iota of the whole experience. If only vampires could learn how to rift like d(a)emons… He does, however, find himself more willing to shell out some money for a few gaudy-but-fun magnet souvenirs lately. After all, Sam’s never had a pack (and yes, Vincent and Lovely are included) for whom to purchase travel gifts. He still thinks everything is overpriced, but he looks forward to giving out the gifts upon his return.

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sednonamoris · 1 year

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call off the dogs (and come home to me)

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: You've quietly yearned after Captain John Price for a long time now, and known him even longer. With each stolen glance and interrupted moment the tension between you grows, but everything comes to a head when a mission gone wrong forces you to confront feelings that have gone unspoken for the better part of a decade.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, strong language, alcohol mention, drunk hookup, a little bit of torture + murder, fingering, porn with plot (smut should read gender neutral but let me know if any changes will make it more inclusive!!), mild angst, mutual pining with a happy ending

Word count: 3,940

A/N: My first foray into smut inspired by the incredibly talented @yeyinde!! Expect more Hound/Price content in the future bc I’m obsessed lol

“Hound,�� a familiar voice startles you from the mountain of paperwork on your desk, “what are you still doing here?”

You raise a challenging brow at your captain. “Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?”

This exchange has become familiar in the months you’ve spent grounded. Anyone else would take a bullet to the knee as a chance to slow down - switch careers entirely if they were smart - but you’re stubborn. A dog with a bone. Two surgeries and months of rehab that still aren’t finished, frankly you’re lucky to be walking. Luckier still that they let you stay on with the 141; There was a minute there that Laswell threatened you with an honourable discharge. A timely intervention with the physical therapist got you out of it, the only stipulation being that you remain firmly planted behind a desk until the doctors clear you. Having spent the better part of a lifetime hands-on in the field, it’s been hard not to overextend to prove your worth off of it.

So after-hours paperwork it is. At least the company is good.

“Touché,” Price huffs a laugh through his whiskers. “Fancy a cuppa? Sounds like we’ll both be here a while yet.”

“Have I told you lately you’re my favourite? Two sugars and--”

“--a splash of cream,” he finishes for you. The twinkle in his eye warms you right through, and you smile after him a little bit like an idiot.

It’s been like this ever since the domestic terrorism scare your team was called in on in Belfast what feels like a lifetime ago. He was only a lieutenant then, and you a sergeant. You were assigned to civilian extraction, but took off when you saw one of the primary suspects make a dash for it through side streets. Price saw you go for him and followed, the two of you giving chase on foot for three blocks before you managed to dive-tackle him in a back alley. It was a major success to take him alive, but your captain at the time wanted blood for the abandoned civilians. Price stood up for you in front of the entire regiment.

Took after ‘im like a bloody hellhound! he’d said. That deserves a medal, not disciplinary action.

Just over ten years later you’re still called Hound, and he’s still the subject of your silly, unattainable daydreams. Captain John Price is a name that means something, but to you he will always be the sergeant with fire in his eyes who stood up for you when no one else would. When he asked if you were interested in joining the 141 at its inception you didn’t even hesitate. You’d follow him anywhere.

“One tea, two sugars, splash of cream,” Price announces when he returns from the kitchenette with two steaming mugs to distract you from your thoughts. Yours is placed ceremoniously on an ARW coaster you ‘borrowed’ from your last commanding officer. “Now I believe you owe me something…?”

You grin and pull out your secret stash. The false bottom of the drawer is probably meant for sensitive intel, but you’ve found it’s perfect for biscuits. Three are placed in his outstretched hand, and three next to your mug.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a man on the inside who sends me these,” you scold as he scoffs one down almost immediately.

“Yeah, tell your granddad I said ‘thanks’.”

“I can’t. He’d disown me if he knew I was feeding a Brit.”

That earns you a laugh - a true belly laugh - and you can’t help but feel entirely smug about it.

“Fuckin’ Paddies.”

“Ah, go fuck yourself.”

A companionable silence blankets the room after that, broken only by the sound of shuffled papers and laptop keys. Soft lamplight illuminates your reports so unlike the harsh fluorescents everywhere else on base. You’ve done your best to make the regulation desk homey; bright sticky notes and colored pens and a picture of you and the lads after a successful mission. Occasional hums and huffs and heavy sighs from your captain’s desk across the room breathe life into the space as well. You like to think your incoherent, foul-mouthed muttering does the same for him.

The clock reads 0100 hours when you look up again. The caffeine from the tea wore off over an hour ago and you can feel yourself starting to fade. A quick peek over at Price reveals much the same.

You open your mouth to ask if he’s ready to tuck in when he looks up and steals the breath from your lungs. His short hair is mussed where he’s been running his hands through it, that hint of premature grey turned silver at his temples in the low light. Tired eyes crinkle fondly behind the lenses of reading glasses you haven’t stopped teasing him over but can’t get enough of. It’s achingly domestic. A glimpse into a future you’ll never have - not with anyone, and certainly not with him.

“What are you thinking about over there?” he asks softly.

“Nothing,” you flash a tired and unconvincing smile. “I’m knackered. Shall I close up shop or will you, Cap?”

“I’ve got it, you get some shut-eye.”

Your eyes linger just a bit too long as you bid him goodnight, knowing very well you won’t sleep a wink.

This pub is definitely one of the shittier ones, but its location is convenient enough to pretend that the wallpaper isn’t peeling and the live band of part-time musicians and full-time retirees is any good. The handful of covers they play are indistinguishable from originals sprinkled in, all with that same, washed-out sound of empty bottles and stale dreams.

The group of hooligans crowded up at the bar sit in stark contrast of the otherwise dour patrons. Even Ghost, who’s taken the corner seat and keeps a lazy watch over the room, is loose enough to be making those terrible jokes of his. Soap and Gaz lean over one another with goofy grins and half-empty glasses before them. Price, true to form, has taken the end seat to nurse a ‘proper pint’ alongside a lit cigar the bartender can’t dispute after lighting up what looks like at least his tenth cigarette of the night behind the bar.

“If it isn’t the Bionic Hound!” Gaz calls when he spots you across the poorly-lit room, waving you over with a grin.

You shake your head, wondering why you agreed to come out tonight. But the second Gaz had started with the puppy-dog eyes there was no denying him. Drinks before leave are a 141 tradition, he’d insisted.

So here you are.

“You’re lucky it’s a metal knee and not laser eyes or you’d be in yesterday’s papers,” you wag a finger at him as you take your seat amongst them all.

Ghost snorts a laugh at the empty threat.

“Oh, come off it, Hound,” Soap says. “You love us too much.”

Price chuckles. “I wouldn’t count on that.”

You glare and wrinkle your nose at the comment, but he just smiles back at you with that damned twinkle in his eye. Prick. Then he wordlessly slides over your usual and you have to be grateful on top of it all. Double prick. One swift gulp and half of it is gone; you’re too sober for this.

The lads cackle over another awful joke - Soap’s, this time. Price holds his temples.

The drinks go down easy after that.

“Any exciting plans for your leave, Cap?” you ask. It’s almost closing time now. This place is never full, anyway, but there’s enough alcohol in your system that you almost buy into the pretense of hearing him better as you edge further and further into his space.

You’re not sure what you want him to say, exactly. Maybe if he reveals that there’s a cute little family or some stunning girlfriend waiting back home you’ll finally be able to move past the strangled feeling in your throat every time you look at him.

“Hardly,” he says around the cigar. The soft glow of it lights his face, makes him look like some sharp-eyed noir detective shrouded in smoke and mystery. “Might get a bit of fishing in, head into Liverpool and catch a game or two. What about you?”

You wave a dismissive hand. “I make a terrible civilian. After I visit my grandfather and annoy him half to death I’m not sure what I’ll do. Maybe finally get some use out of those Egyptian cotton sheets I spent a bleedin’ fortune on.”

“Are they nice?” he laughs, leans closer.

You hum an affirmative, dizzy at the little space between you. He smells like tobacco and wood, whiskey and gunpowder.

“Too nice.” You should stop talking now. “End up on the floor half the time, anyway.”

He doesn’t need to know that.

“Sleeping alone, then?”

His breath fans your face. Yours gets quicker, and you swear you’re more drunk off this shared air than any liquor you’ve had tonight.

“Sometimes.” You wet your lips. “Usually.”

Your lashes leave tender butterfly kisses on your cheekbones as you meet his blue-eyed stare that’s gone impossibly dark, dipping down to see where your lips have parted - breathless, waiting. Wanting. His hand reaches out--

“Last call!” the bartender’s shout snaps everything back to reality.

You jump away from one another as though you’ve been burned. It feels a lot like you have.

Price clears his throat, mutters something about getting back. His voice is rougher than usual. Raw. You look everywhere but him as he proceeds to round up the rest of the lads before you all stumble back to base.

Your head pounds the whole way back to Ireland the next morning, marching drums in your mind and sandpaper beneath your eyelids. The flight has never felt lonelier.

The man you bring home has blue eyes and brown hair. He’s not tall enough, certainly not broad enough, but he happened to be in the right place at the right time as you drank your sorrows away in some tiny pub up the road from your flat, and you happen to be desperate enough not to care.

At least that’s what you tell yourself as you back him against your bed.

When you kiss him it’s relentless and controlling. Mean. You suck a dark bruise on his neck and climb in his lap before he can think to return the favor.

“Fuck, sweetness,” he groans at the sweet feeling of friction between your bodies. The accent is wrong. So is the endearment.

You clamp a hand over his mouth. “Shut up and fuck me.”

It’s a quick and sloppy affair, chasing a half-drunk high like a pair of horny teenagers. When all is said and done, you stare up at the ceiling on too-soft sheets and tell him he can go. He leans over to catch your eye briefly, maybe checking to see if you’re serious. You are. There’s hurt written across his expression - a bit of shock, too - but all you can think about is how his eyes are the wrong shade of blue.

The second the doctors clear you for active duty you all but sprint to Price’s desk, demanding he get you back in the field as soon as possible. He smiles up at you in that sharp way that always makes your heart stutter and promises he’s got something small in the works - perfect to shake the rust off.

Of course he’d think of an unsanctioned, off-the-books capture of a Russian mobster as small. You’re the only two who make the trip; your Russian is miles better than anyone else’s, and more bodies will only attract attention.

It’s easy to forget how beautiful Moscow is. You don’t come here often, but the sprawling cityscape and romantic spires speak to your soul, set something singing inside you. You try to hold on to that feeling as you and Price make your way into the chipped paint and piss-stained sector of the city. These winding side streets and twisted back alleys are far more fitting for your line of work.

Your mark, one Mikhail Yanovich, is a low-level enforcer for a high-interest gang that has connections to Makarov. Allegedly. That’s why you’re planning this friendly little chat. Not so much catch-and-release as catch-and-stage-a-believable-accident; if he really is involved, you can’t afford for Makarov to know you’re onto him.

It feels strange to walk around in civvies with only a thin kevlar vest underneath to protect you. Thank goodness for the cold that makes layering less conspicuous. You look every inch the lost, frozen tourist. Price does too. You don’t think the miserable face he’s pulling beneath the beanie is acting, cheeks and nose flushed raw as they are.

“Bloody cold out,” he mutters.

“The fuck did you expect, tropical holidays?”

He glowers, and you shake your head to hide a smile.

Thankfully, kidnapping Yanovich is quick work; two bickering tourists hardly seem like the type who will stick you with a needle on your way to work and drag your unconscious body to a stashed van, driving through bad, then worse neighborhoods to reach a secure location to interrogate you.

He wakes tied to a chair in the basement of an abandoned parking garage you and Price have taken up a temporary residence in. The captain circles him like a vulture, taking in all the details a broad frame and blockish features have to offer. You sit perched on the edge of a shitty folding table set just in the shadows. Patient. Waiting. There’s a case of freshly sharpened knives beside you - the Hound’s fangs, as Ghost likes to call them. So often the glinting threat of harsh light on metal is all it takes to break a man.

“What can you tell us about Makarov?” Price opens.

“Go fuck yourself.”

The blow lands harsh on Yanovich’s cheekbone. Instantly a bruise begins to form, splotchy and plum on pale skin.

“I asked you a bloody question. I promise you’d rather answer me than Hound over there,” Price looms over him, growls in his ear. “Makarov. Tell me everything you know.”

There’s a stubborn set to his jaw when he says, “I know nothing.”

If he really knew nothing he either would have laughed in your face or led with open ignorance. The way he clings to resistance can only mean there’s something to resist telling. As to how much he knows? There’s another echoing crack as Price backhands him.

You’ll soon find out.

“Hound,” your name on your captain’s tongue is as much a command as an invitation.

You lean forward, step into the light. Twirl one of your knives expertly between scarred fingers. Watch it flash in the whites of his eyes.

“I’ll ask you again: Where is Makarov?” Price demands.

“I. Don’t. Know.”

You step between Yanovich’s legs, lean over him and gently trace your blade over his groin with a smile sharper than the knife. He lets out a harsh breath.

“I said I don’t know. Boss tells me nothing - I’m just a guard.”

The knife presses, insistent. Not quite hard enough to draw blood yet. A bead of sweat rolls down Yanovich’s forehead. He’s pressed himself as far back into the chair as his bonds will allow.

“Fine! He comes to club once a month. Speaks to the boss.”

“What about?”

“I don’t know-- I swear!” his accent is thick with unfamiliar syllables and fear.

“When’s he due next?”

“You just missed him. He always comes last day of month.”

“Location?”

“Changes every time,” he says, licks his lips. “I told you all I know - call off your fucking dog!”

You dig your knife in for good measure just to watch the hate and fear in his eyes before backing off at Price’s nod.

Turning to step away and table your knife, you don’t miss the way Yanovich mutters darkly after you, “My zdes strelaem vie brodyachikh sobak, suki. Esli ya uviju tebya snova, the mertview.”

Then a gunshot fires.

You pull your weapon out of its holster and whip around to cover Price, only to find the smoking gun in his hand and Yanovich’s head splattered on the wall behind him. Captain John Price stands over the body, eyes blazing, chest heaving, gun still aimed. Blood and brain matter speckles his face and clothes.

“What the fuck was that?” you demand. “He could have told us more! And what about the cover-up? Blowing his brains six ways to fucking Sunday isn’t exactly a bleedin’ accident!”

You expect some kind of remorse when he turns to face you, but there’s only a grim, deadly acceptance. “He said--"

“I heard what he said, I can speak bloody Russian!” you stalk towards him and jab a finger into his chest. “We were gonna kill the cunt anyway. You should have waited.”

Price snarls, lip curling to bare his teeth. “You didn’t see the way he looked at you.”

Suddenly you’re hyperaware of how close the two of you are standing. “How did he look at me?”

“He wanted to kill you the slowest way he knew how,” he says, like he’s confessing a sin, “and I’d shoot his fucking face a thousand times over to make sure he never looks at you again.”

And just like that anything you were going to say dies in your throat, comes out a pathetic whimper. He grabs a fistful of your shirt and hauls you the rest of the short distance to him.

“Tell me you wouldn’t do the same,” he demands. “Tell me to stop.”

His hand burns on your chest, an iron-hot brand of possession.

“John,” you breathe, because you don’t know what else to say. The look in his eyes is magnetic, drawing you in further still with pupils blown wide with want. “Don’t stop.”

He kisses you rough, teeth and tongue and a certain kind of desperation brought on by the still-warm corpse lying just a few feet away. When you break for air he wastes no time kissing down your neck, every inch of exposed skin branded by his lips and the rough scrape of his beard. Yanovich’s blood smears down the column of your throat.

“Fuck, John,” you say, “just like that.”

“Sound so fucking perfect when you say my name,” he growls and bites down on your pulse point, leaving you gasping.

It’s enough to distract you from his true purpose, large hands cupping beneath your ass and scooping you up into his arms. You hold on tight as three purposeful strides take you across the room to the table. One sweep of his arm has everything tumbling off it before he sets you down to stare up at him with wide eyes and a kiss-swollen mouth.

When he captures your lips again it’s searing, molten heat rushing through your veins. It pools in your stomach, that too-hot wanting, and it suddenly hits you how much you do want this. Him. Each kiss tastes like so many years of silent longing, of standing too close and staring too long and wanting too much. All suddenly real and within reach.

You let your hands snake up his shirt, explore the broad plane of his chest and the wiry hair that curls over it. Your fingers run over scars like braille that tell stories of violence and valor. Some of these stories you helped write. There, beneath his ribs, where you had to stitch him up in the field to keep his guts from spilling into the streets of Vienna. The lump where his collarbone never healed right after taking the brunt of a nasty blow meant for you. He shivers under your touch. Then his large, calloused hands cover yours and stop them in their tracks.

“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says, “because I don’t think I can wait any longer than I already have to feel you.” His voice is even lower and rougher than usual, accent thick with arousal. “Do you want that?”

You nod, afraid to speak and break the spell.

“Come on, soldier, use your words.”

“Yes, Captain. Please.”

His grip on your hips tightens and he lets out a growl. “That’s my perfect soldier.”

It’s all the warning you get before he tucks his fingers under the waistband of your trousers and underwear and tugs them down to your thighs, leaving you exposed before him.

“Fuck, just look at you,” he says under his breath, almost like you aren’t meant to hear.

You squirm under the scrutiny. A hot flush creeps up your neck as he stares, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. He looks at you like you’re some kind of revelation, like he’s been denied salvation all his life only to find it at the apex of your thighs.

One, two, then three fingers stretch you open for him quick and dirty. It’s too much too fast but you want it so bad, and the pleasure far outweighs any pain. When he finally unzips his trousers to free his already hard, leaking cock you think you drool a little bit. You knew he’d be big, the way he carries himself, but seeing it is something else. Your insides flutter at the thought of the tight fit. He lines up to your entrance with that same military precision you’ve always admired before pushing in slowly, slowly, slower still. When he bottoms out he does it with a deep groan, your fingernails raking down his back as you keen at the sensation. This small mercy, just a few moments to adjust with his forehead pressed to yours, is all you’re granted before he sets a brutal pace. The obscene slap of skin on skin echoes off cracked concrete. With each thrust he hits someplace deep inside you no one else has managed to find.

Heat coils in your belly, closer and closer to fever pitch with each expert snap of his hips.

“John,” you pant, “m’gonna… gonna cum. Feels so good.”

He says your name like a prayer. “Cum for me, then. Want to see you make a mess of yourself on my cock.”

Like a tidal wave breaking against a dam you cum fast and hard at his words with a broken sob. He fucks you through the high, brushing a tear from the corner of your eye with a rough thumb.

“There you are, so good for me,” he says. “Gonna cum all over your pretty little self, make you mine.”

“I’m yours, John,” you gasp, “all yours.”

His thrusts turn sloppy chasing his own high, and it doesn’t take long before he pulls out and makes good on his words, covering your stomach in spend as he grinds out your name. Bent over your body, he presses a chaste kiss to the juncture of your neck before pulling back to admire his handiwork. In the afterglow you lay spread out on the table with a sheen of sweat, smeared with his cum and another man’s blood. The way his eyes darken rubbing it into your skin, and the way you shiver at the sensation, you think that you both might like it a little too much.

“Laswell’s gonna kill us for this,” he murmurs.

You hum your agreement. “So where shall we hide the body?”

His eyes shine down on you with adoration and crinkle with wicked humor. “I’m sure we’ll think of something, but let’s be quick about it. The sooner we get home the better.”

“Yes,” you hear yourself agreeing, “home.”

For you, it will always be at his side.

#captain john price x reader #john price x reader #fran writes #this fic came over me like a possession i have nothing to say for myself #cod x reader #cod mwii x reader

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little-miss-dilf-lover · 9 months

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Bullet Train anniversary woop woop!!!

This movie is so incredible, I’m really glad people are still talking about it.

Could I request Tang x reader where they’re always going a million miles a minute competing on the job, so it looks like they’re at each others throats but as soon as everything calms down they’re nerding out about what the other pulled off

I’m aware this is a runon sentence from hell😔

Have a good day! :)

BULLET TRAIN 1 YEAR ANNIVERSARY FIC💺

can’t believe it’s been a year already!? I watched the day it came out and it was honestly one of the best films id seen in a while. will always love it and love writing for tan😌

hii! so the fic is slightly different to this ask, as I messaged the person who sent it, so im basing this off their response, hope that makes sense. basically this fic is slightly different to how it’s was requested in the ask above. I made reader GN, so everyone can read. thank you for requesting, hope you like it💌

love to hate

tangerine x reader

wc: 509

link to post

✧.┊MASTERLIST + TAGLIST

Relationships were something out of the realm for your occupation. They were something out of the question, something to avoid. They were a hindrance, used as bait against you, something your enemies could exploit and threaten. So for the safety of you, and everyone else, you chose not to pursue them.

That was until the agency assigned you to a pair of fruit-named Englishmen, which you had taken well to one of the twins, Tangerine. You kept your wits about you, so he was always kept at arm's length, much like how he treated you. It was something you did to protect yourselves and one another, a system put in place that made sense. That's why your dynamic worked so well.

So when you were on missions with Tangerine, you had a strict rule, 'pretend to hate each other.' It may seem harsh, may seem unnecessary, but it wasn't. It was something each of you did time and time again in order to keep one another safe.

...

Lemon was back home in England, so you and Tan were paired to retrieve intel from an infamous cartel in Belfast. You and Tangerine were no strangers to Ireland, you knew it like the back of your hand, but you didn't get cocky.

The job was relatively easy, something you've done a thousand times before, but that didn't stop you from breaking your rule. You kept it, as did Tan. You kept up your 'I hate you act,' and like always, it worked. It kept you both safe.

"Christ, wait up," Tan pants from behind, catching up with you. "Wait a bloody minute."

"Dude, we ain't got time. Chop chop." You look over your shoulder, hurrying him along.

"We lost them. You don't have to be so mean to me now," Tan playfully pouts, stopping in his tracks. "Fuck me." He sighs, pulling a box of cigarettes from his pocket as he rakes through his curly roots.

"What are you doing? We don't have time." You scold, dragging him by the arm.

"Wait, wait, wait," he says breathlessly, holding a cig between his lips as he lights it.

You cross your arms, staring at him with a displeased expression. "Really?"

He doesn't reply. He looks past you as he draws the stick, exhaling the smoke away from you. "Come on. What you waiting for?" he grins.

"Are— you. Are— what?" You stutter, far too stumped to think of anything comprehensive. "Are you serious?" you ask, following after his long strides.

"Yeah, hurry up," he smirks, flicking the ash on the ground. "You're taking forever. We gotta get to the pick-up point by four."

"You're such a dick, y'know that?" you snicker, lightly punching him in the arm.

He chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. "Yeah... I know,"

The action caught you off guard, so you twist to face him, your brows knit in confusion.

"Psh," he shushes you, predetermining your thoughts. He squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over the dried spots of blood on your skin. "We'll be fine."

— — — — — — — — — — ✿ — — — — — — — — — —

tan taglist: @tangerinesgf @kpopgirlbtssvt @like-a-fine-skylark @earth-elemental18 @ashlynhasmanyhyperfixations @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @thewinterv @navs-bhat @ilovetangerinewithallmyheart @theredvelvetbitch @randomawesomeperson102 @lov3lypeaches7 @princess-pebbles-things @astermath @dynamitehacke @boldlyimportantface @charmedkim @fruitlovertangerine @psiiconic @bubblezuku @sporadiccherryblossomfan @landryslove @daenerys-supremacy @dontknownameauthor

#bullet train 2022 #1 year anniversary #tangerine #tangerine bullet train #tangerine x reader #tangerine x you #tangerine fanfiction #tangerine imagine #tangerine blurb #tangerine fic #tangerine fluff

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weshallflyaway · 6 months

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To anyone who still believes that Israel is acting in self defense, or that their response is proportional or excusable, let me give you a hypothetical scenario.

As part of the Northern Ireland freedom struggle, a group of IRA fighters carry out a series of bombings in England - there is large scale loss of life and they also take hostages back with them to Northern Ireland.

In response, the English government begins to indiscriminately bomb the people of Northern Ireland. They bomb hospitals, schools, bakeries and residential buildings; they cut off the water and electricity supply; they stop any aid from entering. When civilians try to flee south to cross the border to safety into Ireland, they bomb the border crossing as well. They claim that this is all necessary to wipe out the IRA and that they are entitled to do so.

In a little more than a week, more than 7000 people are dead, among them many children. Belfast is in ruins, hospitals are unable to treat the injured, aid is still being blocked from entering and England shows no sign of stopping nor any concern for the rules of war or civilian casualties.

Nobody is arguing that either the IRA or Hamas was right in their actions. What they are arguing for, is that civilians should not be indiscriminately killed as a result.

Is your reaction different to the situation in Palestine? If it is, then why is that? Is it because Palestinians have been dehumanised in your eyes? Are their children less innocent or less worthy of life than those in any other nation? Is Israel not expected to abide by the same measures of humanity and international law that we would expect England to?

If you had a different reaction then it is time to examine your own conditioning and prejudices, and work out exactly why you hold different standards for different groups and nations.

#palestine #gaza #free palestine

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christophfanalways · 1 year

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NEW!!

Two-time Oscar-winning actor Christoph Waltz popped into a Belfast restaurant for dinner at the weekend.

The Austrian-German star, known for his work with Quentin Tarantino, visited The Chubby Cherub in Chichester Street.

The Italian eatery shared an image of its famous customer, perhaps best known for playing SS-Standartenführer Hans Landa in 2009 blockbuster Inglourious Basterds, on social media.

A Facebook post said: "Attention all foodies and movie buffs. We had a very special guest at our restaurant over the weekend.

"None other than the talented actor Christoph Waltz, known for his unforgettable performances in Spectre and Django Unchained, graced us with his presence.”

It's understood he is filming a new action-comedy called Old Guy in Belfast which will see him play an aging contract killer tasked with training a Gen-Z newcomer. However, he later learns their employers want to eliminate older assassins.

Waltz won an Academy Award, a Bafta and a Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actor for his performances in Inglourious Basterds and Django Unchained.

He also played 007's nemesis, Ernst Stavro Blofeld, in 2015’s Spectre, starring alongside Daniel Craig.

Staff at the city restaurant eatery managed to keep their cool.

“Our team was thrilled to serve him and we couldn't be more proud of the experience we provided,” The Chubby Cherub said.

"We hope he enjoyed his visit with us as much as we enjoyed having him.

“To all of our valued customers, we hope you feel just as excited as we do to have had such a prominent figure in our midst. Come dine with us and you never know who you might run into.”

It comes just days after a Co Antrim hotel welcomed Harry Potter star Helena Bonham Carter.

The actress, who played Bellatrix Lestrange and has had starring roles in Les Miserables and Fight Club, stopped off at the Salthouse Hotel in Ballycastle last week.

Ms Bonham Carter was filming in the area for romance movie Four Letters of Love, where she will appear alongside Pierce Brosnan, who was spotted shooting scenes on the north coast in February.

#christophwaltz #christoph waltz

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charliethomascoxuniverse · 11 months

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Cold comfort

By Steve Pratt 28th November 2013 (X)

CHARLIE COX is no stranger to period projects with movies The Merchant Of Venice with Al Pacino, Casanova alongside Heath Ledger, and Stardust opposite Claire Danes, as well as TV series Boardwalk Empire to his name.

The one-off 1970s espionage thriller Legacy might be another period piece, but he is at least moving forward through the decades. “It’s the most modern I have ever done,” he says.

Based on the novel by Alan Judd, the story is set in 1974 in the middle of the Cold War, when Cox’s character, Charles, joins MI6 as a trainee spy. “He has come from the Royal Engineers, which means he would have been posted in Belfast in the mid-1960s, and the back story we have mostly invented is that he was in the bomb disposal unit and probably lost his best friend,” says Cox.

“Because of that, he wanted to become more involved in what is referred to as ‘the front line of the war’, be it the Cold War or Northern Ireland, and saw the move to MI6 as being part of that.”

He is still training when asked to revive his former friendship with Viktor Koslov (Andrew Scott), a Russian diplomat he knew at university, with a view to “turning” him. But Viktor has his own agenda and reveals a shocking truth about Charles’ family that threatens to derail him personally and professionally.

“Andrew Scott happens to be one of my favourite actors of all time,” says Cox of the Olivier Award-winning star, who plays Moriarty in the Sherlock series.

“I had never met him, but we have the same agent, and I got his number and sent a text saying, ‘I really hope we get to work with each other’. Six months later, this came up.”

He knows another of his co-stars, Romola Garai, who plays fellow agent Anna, extremely well because he introduced her to his best friend, Sam Hoare, and the two now have a daughter together.

“Before I found out she was going to be doing it, I got a text from him saying, ‘Buddy, you’re going to be kissing my wife’.” Cox says.

In preparation, Cox watched “a few cool documentaries about the period” and understands the enduring fascination with the Cold War. “The fact that there wasn’t any actual fighting [in the West] is really intriguing,” he says.

“And I know in my life, impending doom is so much worse than something actually happening, because when it does, you can rationalise it in some way and take some action. “But when you are waiting for something that could happen, your mind goes into all the different scenarios, and living with that [creates] a sense of vulnerability.”

He has a small but pivotal role in a movie with the working title Dracula Untold under way. “Yes, more vampires, obviously we are not bored of them yet – or maybe we are,” he says. “I am only doing two scenes, but it is a bit different for me, very evil. He is described as the father of all vampires. Other than that, I am not sure what’s coming up.”

Maybe something contemporary? “Oh yeah,” says Cox. “I’d love to say ‘Mate’ in a movie.”

~*~

#well I found another old Charlie interview...just call me the Charlie Cox archivist lol 😊#UGH ''very evil'' and ''the father of all vampires''...*cries about never getting to see his scenes as Caligula* T_T #charlie cox #charles thoroughgood #legacy 2013 #romola garai #andrew scott #sam hoare #interview #article

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moonshinemagpie · 3 months

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in which I see Real Movies for the very first time

When I looked back on the movies I watched in 2023, I was a little sad to realize I had only watched a bunch of Scooby-Doo movies, Barbie (which was stupid), Jennifer Lawrence's comedy No Hard Feelings (which was also stupid), and Die Hard (which I hated).

Near the end of December I was trying to force myself through the Mario movie, because it was on Netflix and a bunch of people had told me to see it. And I was about 15 minutes in and found myself thinking, I wish I were dead. There's more than an hour left and I have lost my will to live.

And then I remembered: I did not have to watch the Mario movie.

I can't explain this. It was like waking up from a spell.

I stopped the movie. I thought, Movies are for normalizing exploitative, hypermasculine violence and selling toys. I will never watch another movie ever again.

Then I thought: Is it movies I don't like? Or is it corporate, militaristic americana bullshit?

I did not know the answer. I decided to try to find the answer by starting my New Years resolution: Stop Watching Bad Movies I Hate and Watch Good Ones Instead.

Here's what I've seen so far, in order:

14 movies. 4 languages. 4 new releases. 1 classic. 5 women directors. 1 rewatch. An unexpected number of anti-imperialist Irish movies.

Yeah, so. I like movies. A lot, maybe. This month I felt like I traveled to London, Belfast, Lima, Tehran, Kampala, Mexico City, Paris, and New Zealand, and it was awesome.

Mini reviews:

Tar: Literally the best movie I've ever seen. Psychological, surreal, intense. A++

Hunger: Says "fuck you" to traditional storytelling arcs and also to the British. A+

Skinamarink: It didn't scare me but I respect its decisions. C

Charade: At one point Audrey Hepburn dips her finger into Cary Grant's chin cleft and says, "How do you shave in there?" At a later point Cary Grant says to her, "Hasn't it occurred to you that I'm having a tough time keeping my hands off you?" These moments were A+, but: This was like a proto-action movie, complete with chase scenes and shootouts, and I was so bored despite Audrey Hepburn being in it. It made me wonder: What if I refuse to watch any more movies that use violence for entertainment for the rest of 2024? What if?? Who can stop me???

The Wind that Shakes the Barley: A young Cillian Murphy fights the English in 1920's Ireland. Lots of violence but none of it for entertainment. A+

Kneecap: The true story of 3 Irish-language rappers from Belfast. I forgot how fun it is to watch high people perform on stage. A hilarious, well-written, well-plotted middle finger. A++

Don't Worry Darling: This deserves more acclaim than it got and I blame misogyny. The Truman Show but more thoughtful. A+

Lord of the Rings: You don't need me to review LOTR.

Sujo: About the son of a Mexican cartel gunman trying to break a cycle of violence. Slow, well-shot. B

Sebastian: About a gay writer in London who uses sex work to inform his fiction. Overlong. I recommend the French film Eastern Boys instead. B-

Reinas: About a Peruvian family in the 1990's trying to emigrate to the US. Made me remember my own childhood and also made me desperately want to visit Lima. Bright, beautiful, touching, with a dope soundtrack. A+

No Bears: Meta, fourth-wall-breaking Iranian film about a director named Jafar Panahi who's in trouble with the authorities. Directed by Jafar Panahi, who was shortly after imprisoned. A+

Belfast: About 1960's Belfast. A little simplistic. Not as good as the other Irish history films I saw this month. B

Queen of Katwe: Based on the real-life Ugandan chess champion Phiona Mutesi, who recently said she unreservedly loves this film. It's better imo than The Queen's Gambit. Chess isn't about making it to the world championship. Chess is about what keeps you afloat when your house floods. Chess is about showing up even when it's hard. Chess is about fulfilling the dream of one day buying your mama a home. A rare "inspirational" Disney film that didn't feel fake. A+

Going forward:

I want to watch more world cinema! Guys! I'd only ever seen one other film in Spanish in my whole life. This was my first time seeing an Iranian film. This is mostly because I didn't watch many movies to start with, but, again, maybe I would have watched more if it had dawned on me that I don't have to see cars driving fast after other cars in the last 30 minutes of every single god damned film.

I don't want to watch any action films this year. I'm so exhausted. I'm so tired. Hollywood, I think I hate you.

I want to watch weird whacky Japanese New Wave films and films about the Spanish Civil War and films that remind me of parts of my own childhood I haven't thought about in 15 years.

I feel so alive!!!

#movies #films

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truthseeker-blogger · 14 days

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RMS TITANIC

With the dawn on Sunday, April 14th - 112 years ago - Titanic sees what will be her last sunrise. The day passes in tranquility for the passengers, some of whom attend religious services in all three classes. In the wireless room, however, operators Jack Phillips and Harold Bride are working through a backlog of messages held up while the apparatus was broken down earlier in the voyage. As they work to clear the pile of messages from passengers, they take in several new ice warnings. What happens to some of these warnings has been a matter of great interest ever since.

By 10pm, most passengers have gone to bed, are enjoyed some last drinks and cigars in the smoking room and the lounge, or are otherwise indoors. The weather has gotten bitterly cold throughout the day, making a turn on the promenade an unsavory proposition for even the heartiest of passengers.

High in the crow’s nest on the foremast, Frederick Fleet and Reginald Lee are just a bit more than 20 minutes from the salvation of a warm bunk and some time off duty after two hours peering into the dark, moonless, motionless night. Suddenly, Fleet sees something looming in the distance directly ahead of the Titanic. He pulled the cord on the bell three times as he lifted the telephone that connected him to the bridge. Sixth Officer James Moody calmly asked what Fleet had seen, to which he responded “Iceberg, dead ahead!” Moody thanked Fleet and reported the sighting to First Officer William Murdoch, who instantly issued a series of orders.

Murdoch, with only 37 seconds to take action, called for Quartermaster Robert Hichens to turn the wheel “hard-a-starboard,” which, due to the Titanic’s tiller system of steering meant she would effectively turn to port. He also had the engine telegraphs rung to “All stop,” not the “Full astern” that has been portrayed on film. Murdoch’s efforts were in vain, however, as Titanic, at least from the perspective of the lookouts on the mast and officers on the bridge, gently grazed along the berg with her starboard side. Below, however, the damage was much more dire.

While most of the passengers and some of the crew thought that the slight jar and the stopping of the engines in mid-ocean meant the ship had thrown a propeller blade or suffered limited damage that would equate to little more than a delay and a subsequent trip back to Belfast for repairs, the reality was grave indeed.

Titanic, designed to float in the worst situations that her builders could conceive, was hopelessly holed in five compartments. After an inspection of the damage, her stricken designer, Thomas Andrews, signed the ship’s death warrant. “I give her an hour and half, maybe two. Not much more.” She would slightly exceed his prediction, but Titanic was doomed.

The next crisis to confront Captain Smith, the first such dire crisis in his nearly 40 years at sea, would be what to do with his human cargo. As he surely knew, Titanic’s twenty lifeboats could hold barely half of the number of souls aboard.

With that in mind, Smith ordered the boats to be uncovered and swung out. He then tasked Phillips and Bride with sending a call for assistance to any ships nearby.

The race to save Titanic’s passengers and crew, a race which would come up sorely short early the next morning, was on.

Titanic had just over two hours to live.

Photo Credit: Simon Fisher Maritime

#rms titanic #1912 #facebook

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applesfallingfromblondehair · 9 months

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here for the discussion too 🙋‍♀️

ive been having this chat with a couple of friends the past days, where we've discussed the impact of 75s actions in malaysia considering the view that it seems like several queer malaysians share that it did more harm than good for them. ive had a difficult time like, grappling with that bc ultimately i think it was such a powerful act - BUT, to me it also genuienly genuinely read as sooo personal and not even necessarily that #activism was why it happened?

matty is a massive Feelings person so its not like its rare for him to Get Into those feelings but man he was soo angry, it very much seemed personal, and as if they'd been told something right before stepping on stage... to me the way ross kissed him also came off so much more like a comforting "i see you, you're not alone in this" type of kiss/like he did it to calm matty down from spiralling further and just.. comfort him? than it was about "lets piss people off!" even though that was there too, for sure... i dont know. i might be delusional, but thats just what the bidy language and everything was screaming to me??

AAAAAAH okay let me answer in order because you made two very separate points and they're both good and I'm obsessed.

1. Yes you're right, he was so fucking angry and in a way I hadn't seen him since... Don't let me say it please. (Belfast, it's Belfast.) There was so much rage in those words, and I know that part of it was him being protective of out queer members of the band + his personal conflict style, but... Idk, I see him. Very well. And that's not just allyship in my gay eyes.

2. 👁️👄👁️ A kiss to calm him down and tell him he's okay and that it's going to be okay? Honestly, yeah. The way Matty beckoned him but then Ross lead the entire thing like the boss he is. The way Ross grabbed and pulled him in and then kinda stilled them, and then the way they started swaying slowly like they were getting lost in it... Man. I've got chills thinking about it. It wasn't angry, that. It was comforting and tender and all kinds of intimate, some would argue way too intimate for a "protest".

#answered #matty healy #ross macdonald #matty and ross #the kuala lumpur kiss #lgbtq #gay rights #matty x ross #thoughts

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winterwrites23 · 2 years

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Has Ireland ever had a moment or situation involving North where he's like "oh no my baby is in trouble" instead of "oh no my younger brother is in trouble?"

Yes, several times. Ireland was ready to raise North as his own when he found him, but circumstances led him to the decision that it was better to raise him as his little brother instead. He actually made his brothers swore to never mention this to North no matter what, much to their disagreement (especially Scotland, who vehemently believed he was making a mistake and still hold it against Ireland to this day).

Even if Ireland claimed it would make things easier for everyone and being like ‘trust me, I know what I’m doing guys’, there were moments where he couldn’t stop himself from going all ‘dad mode activated’ on North.

Here are a few examples:

He would call Scotland whenever he had a bad feeling concerning North. Call it father intuition, but Ireland could tell whenever North was distressed, even if they don’t live together or tensions were dangerously high. Scotland, tired of being in the middle of a live-action soap opera, started to refer to him as the “estranged divorced dad”, much to Ireland’s annoyance.

When Ireland heard about the malevolent magical creature that tried to snatch baby North in England’s home, he all but brought an armada worth of wards and protection sigils. The brothers’ houses are already warded but Ireland took it to another level and turned England’s house into the equivalent of the high security Alcatraz prison. It took hours of convincing from Wales to tone it down a little bit to let the friendly faeries in (such as Flying Mint Bunny & co.)

It’s one of the main reasons Ireland gave North his necklace when he officially left the Commonwealth in 1949, an action that shocked the others since he never took it off since he was a child.

In modern times, with the arrival of cellphones, they prefer to text than call, or more precisely Ireland would call, but North would hang up but text him back a second later. So you could imagine the first time North intentionally called him. Ireland was ready to drive all the way up to Belfast when he got a call from North in the middle of a panic attack at dead a night.

During WW2, the UK bros thought it would be best to send North with an officer/babysitter to Belfast to keep him safe and away from the war. Ireland was against the idea (same with the other brothers) and suggested taking him in since he was staying neutral (and didn’t want some random person to watch over North) but the British government didn’t budge on their decision, mostly because they didn’t want to risk Ireland ‘brainwashing’ one of their nations.

When the Belfast Blitz happened, Ireland was part of the group of firemen that were sent at the request of assistance from the North. And although he did help in organizing and helping to dispatch the firemen, his main objective was to find North. Luckily, North lived in the outskirts of the city but being a Nation, and a young one at that, the Blitz affected him heavily. Ireland was horrified to find that not only North was on the brink of death, but the officer that was supposed to watch over him was indifferent on his well-being, claiming that ‘nations always bounce back, he’ll be fine.’

Ireland decided right there and then to take North to Dublin, to hell the political backlash that would inevitably happen. He just looked at the officer dead in the eyes and said: “He may be a nation, but above all else, he’s a child. Do not forget he’s a six years old child.”

So after several days of shouting, of accusation of kidnapping, of threat of invasion, and many more, the British government reluctantly accepted letting Ireland take care of North for the remainder of the war under the condition the officer would be present at all time. It was a compromise nobody was happy about but it was better than nothing.

It was in that time that North and Ireland grew closer and where Ireland had the most trouble keeping the ‘treat him like your little brother’ line in check. Even with a hovering, apathetic douchebag over his shoulder, Ireland made sure to give North a few years of relatively safety amidst the horrors of war.

So in summary, Ireland was more direct in his involvement when North was a baby/child. But as years passed, especially after WW2, he put a distance between them, a part to protect himself from the pain to let go (again) and to not let North get too close. Unbeknownst to him, that action hurt North more than he realized and caused a festering resentment from North for the next decades.

Now, in modern times, their relationship is much better and they’re on friendly terms. Sometimes Ireland would slip into his more paternal side because he always sees him as Seán first than Northern Ireland, but would quickly step back in fear to make North uncomfortable. But even if North would look at him weirdly or roll his eyes whenever it happens, a part of him doesn’t mind it and brings him back to nostalgic memories from those handfuls of years they lived together.

#hetalia #hws ireland #hws northern ireland #aph northern ireland #aph ireland #omg this got way longer than I expected xD #I got inspired for a moment #I'm not even sure if I answered the question lol #thanks for the ask!

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ltwilliammowett · 1 year

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Action off Belfast, by John Bentham-Dinsdale (1927 - 2006)

In February 1760, three ships under the command of the French privateer François Thurot landed a French force at the Irish town of Carrickfergus, about 11 miles from Belfast. After being repelled by Irish militiamen after a few days, the Blonde, the Terpsichore, and the Maréchal de Belle-Isle were confronted by a Royal Navy squadron consisting of the HMS Aeolus, the HMS Pallas, and the HMS Brilliant. In the middle of the Irish Sea, between the Isle of Man and the Northern Irish coast, the French privateers and British sailors fought throughout the morning of February 28, 1760. Thurot died in the battle, and the British captured all three ships. After transferring the French prisoners to Belfast, Thurot was buried with full honors in southern Scotland, while the Royal Navy later purchased both the Blonde and the Terpsichore.

#naval history #naval art #action off belfast #18th century #age of sail

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radicalposture · 1 year

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watching titanic bc i’ve never seen it and james cameron irritates me so here’s my thoughts so far

james cameron can certainly make films about things but not about people like. the opening sequence is genuinely beautiful like wow that is the real titanic and those are the real chandeliers and piano and it looks like the ghost of a ship and how can a machine made by the hand of man have a ghost? does a ship have a soul that lives on after death? i was so genuinely moved

the sequences of the ship in action are also genuinely moving like the shovelling of the coal and the boilers and the pistons and the propellers and the hundreds of people and hundreds of tons of machinery o the mighty works of the hands of man! the accomplishments of the human race and the attendant hubris and folly! like he truly made me see that and feel that so well done

but the whole story of jack and rose is so baddddd like it is entry level historical romance novel stuff. absolutely dire. ahistorical and stilted. juvenile analysis of class and gender. boring!

whyyyy have the old lady regaling these poor salvage guys with her erotic adventures leave them alone they don’t want to know!!!!

do NOT like the oirish stereotyping however classy or well intended like. all that research and he couldnt get his english actor to do a belfast accent because for all he knew all irishmen have the exact same accent. some daecent tunes in there all the same even if the composer is clearly trying to pass it off as his own work. i know rakish paddy when i hear it fella

also. and bear with me for a moment. “we’re americans we don’t have lice” as opposed to all the dirty irish peasants who do i suppose?

also her fiancé is sooooo cartoonishly evil it’s like stupid lol. and his diamond isn’t even that impressive

anyway this ship is about to sink lol i will check in later

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sednonamoris · 8 months

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vienna waits for you

Pairing: John Price x gn!reader

Summary: After a one-off meeting with a young Lieutenant Price, you assume you'll never meet again. A mission in Vienna proves you wrong.

Warnings: Canon-typical violence, description of knife wounds, lots of blood, strong language, excessive dog puns, pre-relationship, pre-slowburn

Word count: 3,027

A/N: A little prequel action for hellhound (cross-posted to AO3)!! Thank you thank you thank you to the people who love this series as much as I do - your enthusiasm and joy has written this series just as much as I have 🩷

—

Ever since Belfast they’ve called you Hound.

Ever since Price, really. Hellhound, he had said, but it got shortened quick enough. One less syllable to trip through as they tease you.

Dog’s dinner again, eh, Hound? in the mess hall.

Well sure, every dog has its day, when you make top marks in training.

Pretty as a speckled pup, you are, cooed mockingly on a rare night spent out of fatigues drinking with the lads just off base.

One of the newer recruits even tried whistling at you during a sparring match. He ended up in the med bay for that one, while you were reprimanded by Command yet again.

In the dog house, your squadmates titter as you march out of your captain’s office with nothing more than a slap on the wrist and anger itching beneath your skin.

The teasing is fine. You like it, even, making your fair share of awful puns just to get a laugh out of the boys. What you can’t shake is the feeling of discontent with your superior officers. You joined up with the Irish Armed Forces at eighteen to do something. When they sent you up the ranks to the ARW just a few years later it was supposed to matter more. Save the good guys when you could, take down the bad ones when you couldn’t. ACTION had been promised by every recruitment poster in big bold letters. And yet, it seems like every time you take some all they do is give out to you.

You’re not good for much more than taking orders and pulling triggers, you know, but still it feels like something’s missing. Like you could do more if they’d just let you.

—

Weeks later you get your chance: another team-up with the SAS. When it’s announced to the regiment you’re the first one geared up and ready to go.

For a silly, self-indulgent moment you let yourself wonder if Lieutenant Price will be there, too.

—

Between the SAS and ARW, a burgeoning terror cell has been tracked to Vienna. It’s being run by Wesley Martin, an English expat coming off a dishonourable discharge from MI6. Rather than fading quietly into obscurity, he’s taken the opportunity to sell out his country’s secrets and incite insurrection not just against them, but most of Europe as well. He staged an attack on Irish soil months ago, but the trail had gone cold - until now. England was the one to find him again, and Austria’s task force has offered its support, working out negotiations between the three nations as to who gets to make the arrest and on exactly what counts and which soil he will be tried. If the whispers up the chain of command are true, Ireland gets dibs on cuffing him.

But that’s all above your pay grade. You’d just like to nab the prick.

When your boots hit the tarmac you have a stretch and breathe deep. It was a cramped plane ride with your squadmates. Jacks had snored on your shoulder the whole way, and Murph wouldn’t shut up about his latest shag, who apparently gave him quite a memorable experience in a pub stall over leave. He’d spared no detail. Lieutenant Doyle, of course, was the one who kept egging him on; even a glare from Captain Guiney hadn’t been enough to stop him from asking what color her knickers were. He produced a rather spectacular lacy red thong from one of his pockets in answer.

Chatter cuts as you make your way over to where the SAS team stands in formation.

“Pint short as usual, Guinness,” Captain MacMillan’s thick brogue snarks. “You’re late.”

“They are early,” a less amused Austrian woman corrects. Anna Ebner, if it’s the same person who coordinated and shared all the intel reports.

“Only by Paddy standards, which is to say none at all.”

Ebner rolls her eyes.

“Je-sus,” Guiney says in greeting, “how’d I get stuck working with you cunts?” His wide grin and open arms counteract the words.

A series of warm handshakes are exchanged, but then it’s right to business.

Ebner informs the group that Austria has opted to sideline its men with the promise of support only if things go very, very wrong. They’ll be on comms for the whole operation. That leaves two mixed-company teams to infiltrate the safehouse apartment; one from the front and one from the back. Once the ground floor is secured, Alpha Team will head upstairs while Bravo covers the cellar and makes sure no one gets in or out of the building.

Team assignments are handed out with efficiency before everyone piles into the vans. Most of your squadron ends up with Alpha, headed by Guiney. You and Jacks are the only ARW soldiers on Bravo, which will be led by MacMillan and his lieutenant.

“Looks like we’re top dogs today, Hound,” Murph crows, elbowing you in the ribs before heading over to join the others with Alpha.

You grin and flip him off while Jacks tells the lot of them to go fuck themselves, and turn to find Lieutenant John Price looking right at you. Your eyes go wide and your spine snaps straight.

“Hound, is it?” Barely-there amusement curls at the edge of his mouth.

“It is, yeah.” There should probably be a sir attached to that, but you’re too caught up in the starstruck realization that he remembers you to care.

It’s a stroke of luck that he doesn’t seem to mind. Just hums at the back of his throat with a twinkle in his eye before nodding his head toward the van behind him. “With me.”

—

It’s tight quarters inside the vans, so many soldiers pressed knee to knee. Price is seated across from you. At your side, Jacks is shooting shit with the other Brits in your temporary squad. Already he’s insulted the Queen - your favourite pastime, usually - but you ignore him in favor of quietly observing Price, who in turn is quietly observing you.

He hasn’t changed much in the months since your last meeting.

His face is clean-shaven with an ever-present threat of stubble. The rest of his hair is tucked beneath a dark beanie that either hides a buzz cut or a seriously impressive cowlick - it’s hard to say which would suit him more. His broad frame fills his tactical suit, and the stars in your eyes make him seem that much broader. But it’s his eyes that strike you the most. Clear-cut, no-nonsense blue that sees straight to the heart of you.

What has he found there, you wonder?

In Price it feels like you’ve found the answer to a question that’s been difficult to put to words. He’s so sure. Sure of himself, of his team, of his mission. Every doubt you house is a certainty in him - it’s no wonder they’ve already named him a lieutenant while you can barely keep your rank as sergeant.

“They didn’t court marshal you, then,” he breaches the silence between you.

“Not for lack of trying.” Your smile is crooked and self-deprecating. “I’m fairly certain ‘loose cannon’ is at the top of my file in red ink.”

He huffs a laugh. “Better than ‘temper management issues’.”

“Oh, please,” you say. “Yours has got to be something like ‘hero’ or ‘patriot’. Maybe ‘golden boy’. I bet the recruitment campaigns can’t get enough of you.”

“They tried to get me to pose for a commercial,” he admits.

“Yeah?”

“Told them to sod off.”

You cackle. “Too right!”

The rest of the van ride is spent trading quips back and forth, bantering like you’ve known each other for ages and not just from a one-off meeting months ago. In the time that’s lapsed between then and now you’ve imagined working beside him plenty— more than you should have, being honest. It should be impossible for the man to live up to the myth you’ve manufactured in your mind.

Somehow he exceeds it.

Somehow you’re not surprised.

—

The muffled sound of Bravo team breaching the cellar door is the only thing that breaks the midnight silence of Vienna’s neighborhoods. Combat boots creak down wooden steps, guns at the ready and night vision gear engaged. Captain Macmillan leads the charge, sweeping the space with practiced authority.

“Clear,” he announces. His voice is too-loud and rough in the cramped space.

Though no targets are on this level, a wealth of information seems to be. There’s not an ounce of modern technology to be seen, but every inch of unfinished wall is covered in the paper trail three respective countries have been chasing in vain for months.

“Seems like your man is starting to lose the plot, eh?” Jacks says with his crooked smile, gesturing to documents pinned on corkboards and clipped across strings that hang from the low ceilings.

Your mouth snaps shut on your reply at MacMillan’s warning to keep quiet, but disagreement is plain across your features. Martin is paranoid, certainly, but you wouldn’t call him crazy. Though this organization system is beyond you, it makes sense in theory; Who better than a former MI6 operative can appreciate how insecure cyber storage is, even with encryptions in place?

Paper maps cover one of the walls wholly, marked up in unfamiliar code you’re sure some poor interns will have a field day with. Whatever his next moves are, they must be hidden there. Many of the hanging sheets read like weapons orders, others like mercenary pay stubs, all in a myriad of languages. Everything else is too much text to be anything but a manifesto. You snag one of the sheets for yourself and read a few cursory lines of down with the status quo and death to the Other - nothing that hasn’t been done before.

With a nod from his captain, Price starts barking orders. Everything must be taken down and packed away; this kind of evidence is every operation’s dream. You all set about the work as quietly as you can in case things still aren’t clear inside. MacMillan radios Guiney for a sitrep off to the side before he joins in.

In all of a second it isn’t necessary.

Shouting sounds from inside, then gunfire.

You hear the tinkling of broken glass and the impact of a body hitting the ground and the thunk, thunk of a flashbang falling down cellar stairs before it goes off. Harsh, blinding white overwhelms your senses and forces your eyes to close in a painful squeeze. There’s a ringing in your ears that feels like it’s coming from everywhere. Someone screams. You tear your night vision gear off in a blind panic and blink sightlessly at the chaos.

Fuck.

Fuck!

There’s a dark shape at the foot of the stairwell going up, and before you register what your body is doing you can feel yourself lurch after them. You’re not even sure if you have your gun.

You stagger outside to see Price giving chase to someone who can only be Wesley Martin - him or one of his close associates. Doesn’t matter now. You join in hot pursuit, the thick soles of your boots pounding across Vienna’s pavement. Your lungs burn and your vision is still blurred but you can’t afford to slow down. Price is still several metres ahead.

Without breaking stride he takes aim with his gun and nails Martin squarely in the back. The crack of the shot echoes sharp in the night and lays him flat out in the street. Price continues his sprint, only slowing a few steps out from the body.

Except it isn’t just a body; he’s still alive. You see him move - he must be wearing kevlar - but before you can shout a warning he whips his body around and takes Price out at the legs. Moonlight flashes off the wicked threat of his unsheathed knife. He shoves the blade up hard into Price’s ribs and slashes a wide arc through his belly. You swear it’s happening in slow motion, like those nightmares where you run and run and run but your legs won’t move.

“Get off him, you bastard!” you shout. Martin’s head turns to see you come barrelling at him. He smiles. The knife drips blood. Price gasps and stumbles backward where he’s shoved aside, fingers clutching desperately at the wound.

Your hands feel for the familiar weight of your gun only to find it gone. You must have lost it in the confusion. Martin could easily kill Price now - it’s what you would do, if the situation was reversed - but instead he takes your momentary distraction as a chance to take off again.

It’s his mistake.

You’re close enough and determined enough now that it takes only a few strides to overtake him, and while you don’t have your gun you sure as shit have a knife. The collision happens all at once and in fragments. Your body against his. Your knife in his neck. The scalding spray of blood as you pull it out. The sluice of flesh as you drive it back in. You’re not sure when you stop stabbing, but it’s long after he stops twitching.

His body is limp and strange beneath you. You roll off and stagger to your feet only to retch in the street beside it. Bile bites the back of your throat and you wipe at your mouth with a grimace. Your hands are shaking. Command is going to fucking kill you.

Sirens sound in the distance, now, but the only thing that breaks your thousand yard stare from the man you just killed is the sound of Price’s labored breathing a few metres away.

You blink and all of the sudden you’re knelt in front of him. It takes a moment for him to register that you’ve come back; his eyes stare unseeing, clouded with pain.

“You killed ‘im,” he slurs. “K-I-bloody-A.”

“That’s not important right now,” you snap. “Focus on staying alive. One breath at a time, yeah?” You move his hands from the wound to assess the situation and nearly retch again. Martin stabbed clean through the kevlar, and now his guts are threatening to spill into the street. “Did you radio anyone?”

He just blinks up at you, dumb with shock and bloodloss.

You curse.

With one hand you fish around for the meager med supplies you keep on you, and with the other you call in for help. The radio is sticky with blood. You’re not sure whose. Price has gone so pale. Blood leaks at the corner of his mouth. His teeth are stained red.

You’re only a block over from whatever remains of your squadron but it might as well be miles. They say they’re on the way, but there are so many wounded already. Looking at Price, you know it won’t be fast enough, anyway. You only have a disinfectant wipe, a needle, and surgical thread. Sutures have never been your strong suit, but if it’s not you and it’s not here and now then it’s lights out. You’ll just have to make do.

“No bloody dying,” you warn. “This is gonna hurt.”

You lay Price back carefully, carefully, and smear the alcohol wipe around the edge of the wound. It stings - it must - but he only sucks a sharp breath in without complain. Pinching the skin together, hands slick with blood that isn’t yours, you poise the needle over him.

“Ready?” You’re not sure if you’re asking him or yourself.

He stares up at you with the most lucidity he’s managed since being stabbed. Clear-cut. No-nonsense. So very blue. “Ready.”

—

Your stitch job is crooked and atrocious, but the hospital staff inform you later that it saves his life.

“Be a hell of a scar,” Price laughs from the sterile white of his hospital bed. The sound wheezes out of him. You can tell it hurts, but he seems in good spirits.

So good, in fact, that he’s managed once again to talk you out of a court marshal. He didn’t let up until he’d convinced Command that Wesley Martin had to be put down. That there was no salvaging the mission otherwise and that your actions saved not just his life, but the lives of many. Once those interns deciphered the rest of his plans they were quick to agree. Now you’re all done up in your service dress for an award ceremony later this afternoon. You wanted Price there, but the hospital staff wouldn’t release him from their clutches. A visit just before will have to suffice.

“Something to remember me by,” you say.

There’s something fond and familiar in his eyes that makes your throat hurt. “I would be hard-pressed to forget someone like you, Hound.”

“Running with the big dogs, now,” you grin. He rolls his eyes at the pun. “Next time I kill a target I’m not supposed to I bet they promote me.”

“I don’t doubt it. You do good work.”

“So do you, Lieutenant.”

There’s more you want to say, questions you want to ask him, but they all die in your throat the longer you look at him lying there. Even battered and beaten he’s still so sure. Certainty stinging in the creases of his eyes. Sunshine slatted past hospital window blinds. Dated rock music filtering grainy through the radio one of his lads must’ve brought in. Half-wilted flowers at his bedside. Sitting upright in an uncomfortable bed wrapped in starchy white sheets he is every inch the soldier you’ll never be.

“If you’re ever in England again…” he starts. Maybe you shouldn’t be surprised he’s offering, but you are. A delighted smile lights your face.

“I’m never in England if I can help it,” you say honestly. He laughs. “But give us a call if you hop the channel, yeah?”

“I will do,” he says.

It’s silly to think you’ll actually meet again. Truly, why would you? But it feels like he means it. Like you’re dogs of war, set on intersecting paths to hell.

Somehow, some way, the two of you are always going to find each other.

Somehow, some way, you don’t think you mind.

#john price x reader #captain john price x reader #cod x reader #cod mwii x reader #hellhound #fran writes

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