anonymous asked:

griezmann Imagine? :-)

jesus, sorry, this did not end the way i’d planned for this to end lol. hope you like it anyway 💩😂💕

You can’t move, can’t think, can barely even breathe when you see him standing there, his arm slung around a woman’s shoulders lazily, her body slightly leaned against his as he’s talking to one of Atlético’s managers.

He looks great in that suit. The thought strikes your mind as abruptly as lightning, and it’s just as blinding, just as debilitating. Heat crawls up your neck, all the way up to your cheeks, and you want to look away, need to, have to, but can’t. He’s always had that effect on you, always managed to keep you close, wanting more. How ironic. You want to laugh. Maybe you do. You’re not sure because you don’t feel anything but his presence, even if he’s a few feet away.

Antoine laughs — you don’t hear it, can only see it from where you’re standing, a glass of already lukewarm champagne in your trembling hand, but you know exactly what it sounds like. You’ve memorized him so well, too well, that you know which sounds accompany which miens. The woman next to him, his date, looks up at him, a surprised bark of laughter falling from her red lips.

Again, you remind yourself to try and tear your gaze away. Again, it doesn’t work. Ridiculous, you think, that you’re standing here on your own, at a lame party thrown to celebrate the most outstanding footballers of 2016, watching your ex and his new girlfriend. You can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s proposed to her already? If maybe she’s the one he can actually imagine spending a life with?

Huffing, you finally manage to look away. It’s ten in the evening now. Maybe you can just leave? Surely your boss wouldn’t be too pissed if you just said you couldn’t get any of the nominated footballers to give a short interview? Cristiano Ronaldo, for example, hadn’t even shown up so far.

Nah. That idea is crap and not an option. You need to keep your job, after all.

Thankfully, you catch sight of Gareth Bale pushing his way through the crowd, a polite smile on his face. With a deep breath, you walk over to him. It is an interview with questions he’d probably heard a million times this evening already, but he laughs and grins and says how grateful he is to have had all these great opportunities and moments, and god, he is nice. You see an engagement ring adorning his ring finger. Lucky woman. Your heart aches at the thought.

It’s not like marrying is your biggest goal in life, of course. You’re not obsessed with marriage. In fact, growing up, you hadn’t even wanted to marry at all — but then you’d met Antoine who has had every character trait you’d ever looked for in a man. He’s funny, spontaneous, sweet, caring, knows what he wants out of life. And apparently marrying you isn’t one of these things. It had hurt when he told you that he didn’t want to get married; especially since you’d later learned from one of his friends, Sebastian, that he’d sometimes talked about how and where he wanted to marry.

Sighing, you take a sip of champagne. It warms your chest a little already, so you decide to not drink a second glass after this. It wouldn’t look that professional if you stumbled around at this event, your press card a dead giveaway. Then again, it’s not super professional to just stand around and watch your ex boyfriend all the time. (Thank God you had managed to get a few footballers to do an interview already.)

“A glass of champagne, ma'am?” A waiter holding a silver tray with what looks like twenty flutes on it asks. He offers a beaming smile when you look at him. He’s quite attractive, very young still. Maybe he’s an aspiring pro footballer working here to see what it’s like off the pitch?

“Oh no, thank you. I’m good,” you answer, wiggling your half-full glass in your hand gently.

His smile grows wider. “Ah, hadn’t seen that. Sorry. Can I ask you something?”

A little confused, you nod.

“You’re Griezmann’s ex, aren’t you?”

You nod again, pressing your lips together. Then, you smile. You’re a professional. Even if this evening is a nightmare.

“What’s he like? Like, I’m sorry if that’s uncomfortable to you, but I admire how far he’s come with all those obstacles in his way.”

You’re his ex but still your heart melts at this boy’s words. He’s so right, you’ve always felt the same way, always been so proud, still are. And it hurts even more now, oddly, because he’s nominated for the best player of 2016 and you’re not here with him to celebrate. No, you’re here to interview him and even that you feel like you won’t be able to do.

Finally you understand why people shouldn’t fall in love with clients, co-workers, et cetera. It’s horrible.

“He’s great. He knows what he wants and he’s worked very hard, still does, of course. He always wants more but he hasn’t forgotten where he’s from. He’s an amazing idol to have,” you say, a lump in your throat. Jesus Christ. So much for being professional. But the boy looks happy, grinning excitedly. “Hey, I’m sure you can go over and talk to him. He’s really nice and he loves talking to people. You’re a footballer, too?”

“Yeah, I’m in Atlético’s youth team. Are you sure?”

“Oh, congrats. That’s awesome,” you say, “and yes, sure. He’ll appreciate it.”

He beams even wider now. You like him. “Okay, I will. Thank you!”

With that, he walks over to Antoine, his movements a little stiff with nervousness. He’s left the tray on the bar table next to you. Rolling your eyes, you grab one of the flutes. One more won’t do you harm.

You watch as the boy starts talking to Antoine, who has turned around to face him fully, a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his blue eyes.

But then your heart drops, your cheeks burn and there are a million thoughts rushing through your brain all at once because suddenly, the boy lifts his arm to point right at you. Right at where you’re standing, staring at Antoine.

So that’s what you get for being nice. Great. At least now you finally manage to turn away and avert your gaze from Antoine. Instead, you focus on your phone, acting as if you’d gotten an important text message that you need to reply to immediately. You feel how fake that looks. Thankfully there is, in fact, a text sent by your boss popping up on your iPhone’s screen, asking how it’s going. Awful, you should reply if you were honest. Fine, you text back instead.

“So I’m an amazing idol to have, huh?”

You jump at the sound of Antoine’s deep voice, quickly looking up from your phone to see him standing in front of you, his hands buried in his dress pants’ pockets. He looks even better now that he’s closer and you can really, actually look at him.

You shrug. “He’s an aspiring pro footballer, you’re nominated to be the best this year. So, yes, you are. Congratulations, by the way.”

Antoine smiles. “Thank you. You’re here on business?”

Raising your eyebrows, you study him. He knows you are, of course — your press card is hardly invisible. There’s no other reason you’d be here anyway; it’s not like you’re anyone’s date anymore. Jeez, that’s bitter.

“Why else would I be here?”

“Why are you so snippy?” Antoine gives back. “If you’re here on business, shouldn’t you be nice? Representing your office and all that?”

You lean closer because what you’re saying next is meant for only Antoine to hear. Representing your office and all that. Asshole. “Fuck you.”

Antoine laughs. He seriously, actually laughs. You’re so taken aback that you can’t say anything in response, merely glare as you watch him snicker.

Fury licks its way up your spine. You bite the inside of your cheek as you straighten again, then take another sip of champagne. Now you regret holding yourself back with the alcohol.

“What?” you snap. You do, however, follow that up with a smile. Be a professional, you repeat in your head like a mantra. If it works, you’re not sure.

Antoine shrugs, his laughter dying slowly. “Nothing. It’s just— Doesn’t your boss want you to interview the nominees?”

“Yes. So?”

“I’m a nominee.” He grins. Nice to see he’s having a good time. You roll your eyes.

“Okay,” you say, producing your recorder, “How do you feel about this award?”

“Oh, come on. You can do better than this.”

You flash your eyes at him. Why does he look so relaxed while you’re fuming? It’s annoying. “Is this how you’d talk to any reporter?”

Antoine rolls his azure eyes. They’re the prettiest eyes you’ve ever seen, but right now they do nothing but inflict anger inside of you. “Of course not.”

“Good. Because this,” you motion between the two of you, “is business.”

“You’re not business to me.”

Digging your teeth into your bottom lip, you glare at him. “Yes, I am. I’m a reporter. And you wanted me to interview you, so don’t be an asshole.”

“You’re my ex girlfriend, Y/N. I can’t pretend you’re just a reporter. But yeah, you’re right. Sorry. Ask me a question.”

“I have already.”

“Ask me a question I haven’t heard a million times tonight.”

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t study journalism for fun, Antoine. I know how to do an interview.”

Antoine shrugs but finally answers your question. “I’m very grateful to be here. I was lucky meeting all the right people in my career so far and I wouldn’t be where I am without my family, friends and fans. Thank you.”

“That’s a lame answer.”

“It was a lame question.”

Another deep breath. You decide it’s better to put the glass of champagne away before its contents end up on Antoine’s expensive designer suit. The last thing you want to do is make a scene. Be professional.

“Do you think you deserve to win this award?”

“I am nominated. So, yes. But so do Gareth Bale and Cristiano Ronaldo. And many others who weren’t nominated.”

“Very considerate. Did you bring a date tonight?”

Immediately, Antoine grins, leaning against the bar tables next to him.

“I thought we were talking business?”  

“I thought we were more than business.”

He smiles wider but doesn’t answer. It pisses you off. He does.

“Did you?” he asks after a moment.

“No. I’m here on business. Thought we’d established that.”

“Well, technically, so am I.”

“I know you enjoy those evenings. This is hardly work for you,” you say.

“It’s work before the event. Getting prepared, dressed, trying to be there on time.”

You catch the little jab at you and you don’t miss the way his eyes sparkle with mischief when the words fall from his mouth; you’d always taken too long getting ready, and it had annoyed him. Either that, or you’d gotten out of your clothes to have sex before driving off. Antoine had always been into you, especially when you were wearing dresses. Low-cut ones in particular. You feel hot all over just thinking about the way his burning eyes had felt flickering over you, taking in every inch of your body.

“I wasn’t the one to get hard within a minute. And finish first.”

“That happened once.” He is right but he does look insulted, crossing his arms over his chest, his face all hard lines. You smile at him.

“You were in time today, weren’t you?”

Antoine nods.

“So, is she missing something?” you ask, gesturing in his date’s direction discreetly. Antoine keeps his eyes on you, cold and hot at the same time. He’s always been confusing like that. Somehow, you liked that about him because even though you knew he loved you, it kept things exciting.

“Is your boss going to listen to this?” he shoots back, pointing at the recorder. “Not sure you’re supposed to ask about someone’s sex life.”

“Oh, sorry. I hear you’re referring to it as ‘sex life’ instead of ‘love life’, which is the probably more established phrase. Anything to comment on that?”

“I take it you’re still pissed about the marriage situation?”

You force yourself to keep your eyes focused on him. You know you’ve had that one coming, having had provoked him. “No. I’m over it.”

Antoine nods. “You know Sebastian was in love with you?”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you shake your head. “Bullshit. He’s one of your closest friends. Of course he was not.”

“Yes, he was.” He leans forward. “For a while, actually. That’s why he told you those things about me not wanting to marry you.”

“Bullshit,” you repeat, voice quivering. Being professional, as usual.

“Maybe you should’ve given me a chance to explain before breaking up and running away.”

“Bullshit.” Your voice is more a whisper now than anything else. Absent-mindedly, you click the recorder’s red button, stopping the audio recording.


“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you just ran away and wouldn’t answer any of my texts, calls, or the doorbell.”

He’s right. You stare at him.

“And I was pissed because you just believed him. I didn’t understand why since I think I made it pretty clear I was in love with you. So why would you think I wouldn’t want to marry you one day?”

You can’t answer. You don’t know what, even if you could. So you just continue to stare, as if you were paralyzed by his words, by the intensity of his gaze, by his proximity.

And suddenly, there’s that woman by his side, her fingers curling around his wrist. “Hi, sorry to interrupt,” she says, her voice silvery, her smile sweet, “but it’s time to go take our seats, Antoine.”
He glances at her, nods, looks back at you.

“Thank you for the interview,” is the last thing he says before he leaves, hand in hand, with her.

Awful, you should have texted your boss.

anonymous asked:

fem!doctor x rose "your cat really likes me and wow you're hot"

“And who might you be?”

It seemed like a pretty stupid question to ask the little ginger cat who was sitting outside Jane’s door when she stepped out into the hall. The cat looked up at her and mewed happily before winding around her ankles.


That, Jane assumed, was the cat’s name, and the cat’s owner calling for her. She looked up to see a…gorgeous blonde hurrying down the hall. “There you are, silly kitty,” she half cooed as she knelt down to scoop the cat. She focused on Jane, smiling. “Sorry, I hope she isn’t bothering you.”

“Oh, no, not at all!” Jane said quickly, shaking herself out of her “oh pretty girl” stupor. The cat – Clea – squirmed in her owner’s arms, meowing unhappily, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“She doesn’t seem to get that this is home now. I’m Rose, by the way, I just moved in.”

“Oh, well welcome to the building!” Yeah that didn’t sound at all inane. Brilliant. “I’m Jane.”

“Nice to meet you.” The woman – Rose – beamed, and Clea meowed again. “Well, it’s your own fault for running out of the apartment, silly.”

It became something of a habit for Jane to find Clea sitting outside her door after that. At least three times a week, no matter how hard Rose tried, the sneaky cat always managed to slip out. It got to a point where Jane just started bringing her inside and even kept some food on hand until Rose came to retrieve her.

“I think my cat’s trying to tell me she wants to live with you,” Rose said after nearly a month of this.

“I’d probably kill her,” Jane said as she handed the cat to Rose. “Accidentally, of course. I barely remember to feed myself sometimes.”

“Oh she wouldn’t let you forget.” Rose laughed, cradling Clea as she turned to head back to her place.

“Do you wanna go out?” Jane blurted out before she’d really stopped to think about it. Rose turned, looking back at Jane, who struggled not to look humiliated, sure a no was coming…

“Sure,” Rose said after barely a second, and Jane could hardly believe it.


“Well, my cat is a good judge of character. She likes you, so you must not be too bad.”

Rose beamed, and Jane laughed.

Sleepover Saturday! Talk To Me?

annedey  asked:

Hey, first of all I love your Hellsing fanfics (all of them yes) especially how you portray the characters. So I wanted to ask you since you haven't touched this subject at all (yet) in your work, do you have any headcanons for Integra's mother?

Thank you very much for the ask, and I’m so happy to hear that you enjoy my stories! You’re right, I don’t talk about Integra’s mother that much and I’ve mentioned her only in Pushing Daisies:

“She envisioned a faceless, dark-skinned woman, arm in arm with her father.”

So I’ll build on from there. First, I haven’t watched the original Hellsing anime series, but I’m aware that they hinted that Integra’s mother was an Indian woman and I’ve always liked that idea. I don’t know if Arthur would have met her in India or if she would have been a British citizen of Indian descent, but anyway she would have been very beautiful and intelligent, seeing as Arthur the playboy actually settled down with her and they produced the magnificence that is Integra. I say “settled down” as in, yes, they did marry, because if Integra was illegitimate then I am pretty sure Richard, the coarse bastard that he is, would have made some slur against that when he was hunting down Integra.

I think she would have been unaware of the true nature of Hellsing. I mean, Arthur did a damn good job keeping Alucard a secret from his own brother for twenty years so hiding supernatural creatures from her for less would have been cake. She would have known it was a paramilitary organization but it would have been inactive during that time so I’m sure it would have mattered less to her.

And if she was aware…there’s a plot bunny I’ve been vaguely considering in which Integra’s mother learns the gruesome truth of the organization and runs away with baby Integra so that Integra grows up never knowing Hellsing, and Alucard ends up being forced to serve Richard. In that scenario I envision Integra’s mother as a determined person who is willing to risk her marriage for her daughter’s happiness. Conclusively, my headcanons for Integra’s mother are merely bare ingredients at this point, since I have no use for her in my current works, but it’s a possibility that I may write her as a full-fledged character someday.