#but I need to send one to Denmark first

[holdonjiji]

All three!

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

Choke On The Sun

PAIRING: John Price x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: You'd known John ever since the Academy, and even after losing touch, the love you had for one another was never gone. Like a snake, it had stayed hidden in unseen places. But it was always there.

WORDCOUNT: 13.8k

WARNINGS: Blood, intense gore, torture, detailed descriptions of torture i.e. electrocution, loss of a finger, gunshot wounds, knife wounds, discussion of torture, canon-typical violence, death, near-death experiences, guns, weapons, abductions, betrayals, intended for mature audiences, happy ending, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You remember a story you’d been told when you were a rookie—fresh off the cut and eager-eyed with far fewer scars. A more of a glass-half-full type of outlook on life, unknowing of what you’d experience during your years with the SAS: what choices you would have to make.

It went something like this. 

There was a herd of deer that had jumped over the side of a bridge. On either end of that bridge, there were two trucks with their high beams on—not moving but sitting there; the deer got pressured. Spooked. One by one they just…hopped over and died on the rocks below—no noise above the breaking of bone and the clatter of antlers shattering to pieces. 

You have to wonder if it was the fault of the first one who had jumped over for leading the rest to a quick end, or the drivers of the cars just trying to get where they needed to go; ignorant of the way they’d been ogling to see the panic in wide, black eyes. Either way, a whole herd of ten met their fate and left their bodies to feed the larvae and the birds. 

The story had been told over drinks at a pub, at the time you’d taken an interest in it with no more than a slow comment of ‘poor things’ before you’d brought your glass to your lips. You don't know why you’re thinking about it now. 

The timing could have been more opportune.

You send a bullet into the man’s kneecap, hearing the bone disintegrate and the flesh open like a flower. His scream follows, loud and hoarse—sobbing trapped behind a bitten tongue that drips blood down his chin. 

Hand snapping up, you grasp the lower half of his face with a grunt, head shoving itself forward until you lock onto fluttering eyes and get consumed by a whining sob.

“I asked you a question,” you lick your lips, tasting sweat as it slithers down your skin. Your voice is slow and even, grip tight. With a shove, you push back the man’s face, wrist limp with the Basilisk as you wipe at your nose with it, unblinking, when you get to your full height. 

The room wasn’t anything different from a million other black sites you’d been to. A single chair where your mark sits tied up, a desk that had been pushed to the wall, and a single door placed into the cracking foundations of a concrete wall. No windows. No vents. 

Hotter than hell, too, and that place was something you were acutely in tune with. 

“Anthony,” you say, waving your free hand as the scent of blood gets stronger, pools of it already on the hard floor. “I’m gonna call you Tony, alright?” 

Tony yells, wrenching his arms against the zip-ties and screaming until his voice is hoarse. 

“Damn you! I told you I don’t know anything!” He sobs. “My leg—I can’t feel my leg, oh, God it hurts.”

You frown, glancing at the door. 

“Stop lying to me,” you look back, eyes unblinking in the low light. “You still have one left—tell me where your buyer is and I let you keep the ability to walk upright with a cane.” 

“I don’t know his name—!”

“I don’t need a name, Tony,” you growl, irritated. “I need a location.”

“Copenhagen!” He wails, body spasming and hair dancing atop his head. “The warehouse is in Copenhagen, please, that’s all I know!”

You blink. 

“Denmark?” You mutter, brows furrowing. 

“Fuck!” Tony screams long, his skull tilting forward as he releases his guts to the floor through quick gasps. Backing up a step to stay out of the spray, you watch him silently; thinking. The flood of the man’s crimson fluids ripples. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” 

“Denmark,” grumbling to yourself once more, you shake your head and sigh aggressively. “Of course.” 

Without another glance, you turn and exit the room, pushing your Basilisk into its holster as the gear on your chest clinks lightly like the sound of rain hitting a metal roof. The door closes behind you, voice calling to one of the guards as he looks up quickly. His face is pale. Tony’s wails still echo out; water filling a bucket. 

“Get a medic,” is what you settle with—slipping past on a fleet foot and new intel to pass on to Laswell. She’ll be intrigued, no doubt. 

One step closer, your mind hisses to you. Just a little bit longer.

It’s too late to gain a conscious now.

Emmett Kinsman had been dodging you for years—dodging the Task Force—but with one of his suppliers giving away a location you’d been unable to pin, there was hope for a swift resolution to this mess. 

The radio on your chest sizzles to life.

“Hart, sit-rep. How’s it lookin’ on the black site.” Kate’s American accent leaks into the earpiece attached to you, the cord looping the back of your neck and inserted into the shell; a device of black metal and plastic. 

“I have a location for Kinsman. Copenhagen,” you ease out, moving a finger to the earpiece and pressing. Glancing at the rows and rows of doors in this endless hallway of dark smoke and obsidian mirrors—you’re eager to get your boots to the ground. Your other hand snatches at the rag swinging from your belt, taking it out and rubbing at your face with it until the stain of oil and flecks of blood smear like frosting on a cake. “Where are the boys? I need to be wheels-up to meet them ASAP.”

“Coming to you.”  

“They’re here?” Your face twists as the words settle in, confused. “Why? Thought they were tracking another lead in Romania.” 

Kate’s voice is smooth in your ear, moving like water as you turn a corner, stuffing your rag back into your belt. 

“Are you surprised?” The woman jokes in a monotone; you’d only taken it as such because you knew her dry state of humor. “Really, Hart, you know he can’t stop until you’re back at his side. I was going to tell you sooner, but you were…occupied.” 

Your feet pause for a moment at the beginning of her sentence, instinctual heat moving the length of your neck until you clench your jaw and continue onward at a slightly slower pace—eyes narrowed on the floor ahead of you. 

“It isn’t like that, Kate,” you mutter. A low hum echoes the line and you fight a scowl as a group of soldiers walk past. Itching at your forearm, you shake your head. “John just likes having everyone together on missions like these. If it had been different, I’m sure he would have told me to fly back to them regardless of the intel. We’re tight on time.” 

“I’ve known you both for more years than I can remember,” Laswell sighs. “Don’t try that with me, Captain.” You frown, clicking your tongue. “They’ll be arriving on the tarmac—get ready for a quick exit. We need Kinsman by month’s end.” 

“Copy,” you utter, removing your hand from the earpiece and glaring ahead of you. A still-air silence envelopes the hallway, the only sound of your boots to the concrete and the reverberation that booms after. 

It was so quiet here. 

John Price—Captain Price—and yourself had a… complicated history. You’d joined up together; gotten through SAS selection neck-and-neck until time and its grubby fingers had forced your lives in different directions. Like two vines of reaching ivy, it had only been three years ago that you’d seen the other again, though you’d heard stories as you’re sure he had about you. 

Hart: not the kind that beats but the kind that bleats, you had to explain to most—you weren’t unknown to the darker side of the job and the people that specialized in it. Your file was stretched with so much black ink that when you’d gotten the call on your phone, an unknown number, you’d recognized the gruff voice behind it and the first question you’d asked was how the hell he’d gotten clearance to track you down. 

“No hello, then, Hart?”

“Not one for pleasantries, John. Explain. Quickly.”

“Business as always.” He’s wasted no time, voice going to a low grumble over the line that day. “Laswell took in a favor. You’ve been busy, Love…Room for one more joint-Op?”

It hadn’t panned out to only ‘one more joint-Op’. 

After the mission was over, it had been raining on base. The sky had shed tears from clouds deeper than the gray shades of your gear, splattering packed dirt and concrete. Above your head, the thin overhang off of the armory door had spared you some of it, but when the wind had shifted your clothes absorbed specks of water like spots on a fawn. Your eyes had been looking out—expression open. 

When the man exited the building and came up beside you, you both didn’t speak for a long time. You had been aware of his form, devoid of vest and gear, while yours was still layered with it to the utmost degree. You’d expected to leave that night—a good old-fashioned Irish Goodbye with a C-17 already waiting for you to board. To carry you off to another hellish deed done with ravaging cruelty for the sake of people who would never even know you existed.

The storm had stopped you…or, maybe something else had.

“Good to see you again, Hart,” John had stated, still not looking over at you as his arms had crossed, feet situating themselves. “Been too long.”

You had stayed silent—watching. The drain across the street was flooded. Sticks and leaves stuck at the drain as a whirlpool formed; only dangerous to bugs and the bits of garbage blown in by the wind. 

Only after the wind shifts again did you speak.

“And what has John Price been up to in that time?” Your eyes had slid to stare, piercing in the low illumination of the armory’s outside light. 

A huff of a chuckle, the one you’d remembered in the days of selection—coated in mud from crawling through man-made trenches and a sharp smirk of a snap when the barbed wire had grazed his back. 

There were too many stories here. Too many. So many it became impossible to wonder what could have been and what couldn’t—all that existed were the little moments of fondness.

The two of you were nothing else but souls long past redemption; stuck on that knife’s edge and waiting for the hand to shake and send you through it. 

You are made of memories. 

“That’s a story told over bourbon,” John’s lips had flickered, and you’d blinked slowly, head tilting. “Not anything worth reliving, yeah?” 

“Everything is relivable, Captain. You just need to find a reason as to why.” 

The man had nodded his head your way, conceding with his blank eyes ahead to the rain. A rumble of distant thunder had flown out, making your ears twitch. You couldn’t stop watching him now that you had the chance—the brunette strands; the fatigues, and that accent. The muscle you don’t remember him having in that specific place all those years ago. The wrinkles on his forehead from age and stress are shown in yours as a mirror. 

Tall; formidable. 

There was a tension in the air that you chose not to dwell on—the same that had been brewing for as long as you’d known him. 

“I want you to join up with me,” the sudden comment had made your body tense, eyes snapping away. In your pockets, your fingers twitch with surprise. 

“Join?”

“Thought I’d catch you before you disappeared again, yeah?” A sheen of slight embarrassment is over your skin. John chuckles again. “Extend a formal offer—Laswell was the one who suggested it.”

“Well,” you’d huffed, licking your lips. “Now I’m surely not accepting.” 

“Let me fuckin’ finish, Love,” John’s lips were pulled in a slight smirk—beard shifting. A pause as the wind whips again, shaking the trees before he grunts. “One-Four-One. My Task Force. Been thinking I’d need someone like you, but I knew you’d never agree to it.”

“Oh?” Your brow raises. 

“Not bloody stupid.” He sighs. “Thought I’d ask anyway. Give you a proper goodbye if you weren’t so keen on handing it out.”

“I don’t like goodbyes,” you mutter, hearing John’s feet shift—his boots scraping. 

“I know.” It’s low and even—not a prod or a dig. An observation. 

A hand is moved out to you, hovering. 

There isn’t any need for words when you glance down at it, and then up at him; staring into those blue eyes that so perfectly illustrate the hues of a roaring river, hidden away in the confines of a verdant forest.

A slow smile pulls at your lips, and you see the corner of the man’s eyes soften.

“Knew I’d get one out of you again,” he mutters as you slip your hand into his, a firm and all-encompassing heat of flesh and care. 

“Don’t get used to it, John.” Shaking his hand, you smirk, legs shifting. 

“Never,” he chuffs, squeezing your limb. 

You don’t know why you stayed under that overhang with him that night. You don’t think you’ll ever be able to explain it as you had looked up and seen the C-17 fly off without you in its cargo hold, hands resting on your vest collar and blue eyes watching you, slightly narrowed. 

You never even verbally told him you were sticking around…it had happened like a stray cat under the porch of your childhood home; taken in and cared for. Just the same, John never mentioned it beyond paperwork. 

Shaking your head, you blink back to the black site, turning that last corner and making it to one of the exits. Pushing the metal-reinforced door open, you shift outside and move a hand to cover the glare of the setting sun from your eyes, grunting. 

Laswell’s voice peaks back in as you jog toward the far-off body of a whirling plane, three figures just managing to walk down the ramp. 

“Hart? It’s Laswell.”

“Copy,” you say, knees taking the brunt of the heavy items you carry in pouches and have strapped to your form. “What is it?” 

“The Task Force is a go for Denmark—when you get there, I need everyone searching; we can’t lose him again.”

“Affirm. I’m on it, Kate.” You breathe. “John and I’ll get him. It’s personal for us, you know that.”

“That I do. Make sure to keep your heads on with this, Hart. Out.”

You lick your lips, nodding even if she can’t see you. 

Slowing as you near the plane, friendly smiles spark up from the two Sergeants. Gaz comes over, grasping at your shoulder and speaking above the engine behind him. 

“Ma’am! Good to have you back.” Soap chuckles, tilting his head your way as you grasp Kyle’s forearm—squeezing in greeting with a twinkle in your eye.

“Surprised to see us?” The Scot calls. 

You scoff. “Laswell gave you up.”

“Damn,” Kyle moves back, fixing the cap atop his head and glancing back at his fellow Sergeant. Simon nods from behind the two to which you respond in like. “She bloody betrayed us.” 

“Not as much as Kinsman,” the mood sours; lips thinning as you speak firmly. “Where’s John?” 

“Right here,” the man in question comes down the ramp, blue eyes meet yours. A second of inspection passes, eyes from both parties flickering up and down forms for any mistreatment—any ailments. “Kate already told me. We’re leaving now that we have you.”

Bumping Simon’s fist with yours as you pass him, you ascend the ramp, Soap muttering under his breath about the flight time from behind. 

Standing beside John, you pause like a bird, eyes half narrowed. “You didn’t have to pick me up, you know? I could have gotten another plane.”

The man the same rank as you hums, making sure the men are all inside and taking one last look out to the black site, eyes missing nothing down to the concrete structure to the lights that will soon illuminate the pure nothingness of the fields of this area.

“Wait time would have put us back.” Tiny eyes blink, a hand coming up to rest on his collar as his face shifts to you. “You good?”

“Always,” you mutter without hesitation. “Nothing from Romania, then?”

He grumbles, clenching his jaw and taking in your words. “Negative.”

A silence settles in which you quirk your brow—a small flicker of a smirk makes him turn away and stalk back into the hull, grunting in annoyance. You follow on silent feet. 

“That’s it? It must have been horrible, then. Care to explain?” 

“Get in your seat, Captain.” 

You hold back a low chuckle, walking beside him until you both come to the back of the plane—easing back into the hard plastic, you huff as you clip in your seatbelt. 

It’s all relative silence until the large metal beast is in the air; everyone's bodies shifting as the floor evens out. John and you take long breaths and, feeling the occasional jostle of the plane, you occupy yourself by picking at the dried blood all over your hands as the flight begins—Tony’s blood. 

Blue eyes blink down at you, watching from the side.

“He know anything important?” You stifle a yawn on your lips, one hand coming up to cover the open-jawed expression of tiredness. 

Glancing, you shrug with a slow response of, “Only a location. Even then I don’t know if it’ll pan out like we want it to, John.”

Everyone had been hoping for more, but they also knew that you were the best at interrogations and information retrieval. If you had called it that the man only knew a city and nothing else, John wasn’t one to question you. He knew better. 

A large hand shifts to grasp your right bloody one, picking it up and bringing it to his lap. You let him do it without protest, shoulders loosening at the roughness of his calluses moving across yours until the familiar ritual begins to take part like a black mass. 

Fingers twitching, you hear a hum as John takes out a rag from his pocket, opening it with a flick of his wrist. Moments later, the water bottle on the seat next to him is taken and the droplets that are left are scattered like rain over the fabric until they absorb. 

“All dirty, Love,” he grumbles as your eyes soften, watching him trace the lines of your palm with the wet rag—dabbing away the beads of red. Watching, you listen as he continues. “We’ll figure it out, eh?”

Blue locks with you, holding your gaze until the permanent set of his brows slowly loosens. “We will,” he reaffirms firmly.

“...I should have shot him when I had the chance,” you whisper to John, words low and tone nothing more than a mouse’s murmur; a small pebble hitting the ground. “Don’t lie and say it wasn’t my fault.”

“You’re going to fucking ruin yourself with that, Hart.” He advises, his cleaning of blood coming to a slow halt. “You did what you thought was best,” John leans in closer, not blinking as you try to move your head away with a half-hidden scoff. A damp hand grabs lightly at your chin, shifting it back as you blink in mild shock into John’s face. He doesn’t falter. “It’s all any of us can do, yeah?” 

As if it were nothing, he lets you go and shifts his focus back to cleaning your hand. You watch for a long moment, oblivious to the elbows hitting sides from farther down the hull, quick glances tossed between Sergeants and a Lieutenant who quirks a brow under his mask, huffing a sound in his throat.

“If I had,” you force back the stutter in your voice. “More people would still be alive.”

“Maybe,” John tilts his head, the rag brushing the length of your fingers. “Maybe not. We don’t know that, do we? No use wasting our breath talking about it then. What matters, Hart, is how we fix this.”

You sigh, repressing a shiver as his thumb brushes scars and blemishes, moving like moss over stone. 

“And we don’t leave our bloody problems for the next poor bastard, do we?” You puff air from your nose, shaking your head at the smirked comment. You watch John’s beard move with it—taking in the crinkling of his eyes and the way his knee hits yours. 

“Wonderful pep-talk, Captain.” You lean your head back against the netted sides of the aircraft, letting your eyes flutter shut; oblivious to the way he watches you. “The service is lost on you—therapist is right up your alley.”

“Fuck’s sake,” John scoffs. “I’d sooner go back to the academy than that.” 

“The food was utter shite, wasn’t it?” You agree.

“No need to bring it up,” John comments lowly, amusement thick in his words. 

You don’t know when you fell asleep, but you do know that the pressure around your limb stayed there for a long while—the rag moving over every sliver of skin until only the base was left behind; like a painter creating an ocean scene, shrouded in mist, every bit of red was gone. 

Your dreams are plagued by Emmett Kinsman. His sharp face; his sly eyes and his knack for being undetected.

He’d been a part of your and John’s class in the Royal Military Academy—when all was done, he’d graduated and begun to serve in the 22nd SAS Regiment just as the both of you had. There was never much interaction there, beyond shared drinks and a few good words, a single operation, but the bonds of brotherhood run deep. If given the chance over any deployment or service, John or yourself would have given your lives for him—for the boy you’d bled and persevered with to a point of utter loyalty akin to beasts; unrestrained by any threat of violence, sharp attitude, or past faults.

And in the end, he’d thrown that all away to get into bed with terrorists. 

Location: London, England

Time: 1718

Operation: ‘Purple Cloth’

Your eyes rest behind the glass of the bookstore, gazing out over the street from the second floor with a level of new-found skill and a surety in yourself. Fresh off the cut, you aren’t overly eager for this, but you’re assured in your abilities. 

There can be no failure.

Emmett is down below, sitting at a café and sipping tea as John is stationed at a building farther down the street; waiting. Another man, directly relaying information to Emmett, is at the café as well, sitting in the corner reading a newspaper and facing the individual you’re supposed to follow. Only the four of you for this, and you’re not overly familiar with half of them. John was your only shining grace. 

“Target’s getting the bill,” you shift your head into the collar of your shirt, muttering. “He’ll move soon.”

“He carrying?” John’s voice slithers in, a soft murmur. 

You stare, expression lax at the large body that shifts and stands with a tight shirt on, waving off the barista when she tells him to have a good day. “If I had to guess? Negative. Nothing big—no bulge at his spine. At the very opposite end, I’d say an X13 could be concealed and accessed via a slit in the pant’s pocket and in a holster at his thigh. They’re baggy enough for it, but the draw time’ll be longer. Drug runners are sloppy.”

John grunts, and you address Emmett. “How are we doing, Mate?” 

A smooth, suave, tone moves into your ear. “Not too bad, Sweet Thing. Else, I'd be better if you were sharing a drink with me before I disappear.”

“Only in your imagination, Kinsman,” John interrupts, unimpressed drawl taking your attention. “Keep on it.” 

“I swear I rank the same as you, Price. Where do you get off ordering me around like your dog?” The comment is so easily dismissed as a joke between comrades that there’s no hostility there.

“Since I was given oversight,” the amusement is easily taken in John’s voice. “I’m the one keeping your arse alive, eh?” 

The other addition to your team speaks up, a voice that in the future you’ve already long forgotten. He says to cut the chatter, and you have to agree. 

Emmett and the target are nearing an alley. 

“I’m heading down,” you utter, already turning and heading to the stairs, swiftly moving down them and exiting the building. 

“Copy,” John’s voice fizzles the line. “I’ll head them off.”

“Emmett,” you move to link up with the fourth member of the team as he joins at your side, both of you sharking a glance and a jerk of your heads. “Keep him away from civilians. We can’t deal with casualties in this populated of an area.”

“He won’t have a chance to shoot them,” the comment makes your brows furrow, the tone not a cocky gloat but rather...quiet. A moment of silence wafts out. “What in the bloody hell is that supposed to mean, Kinsman?” You frown tightly, your gut swirling with something unidentifiable. The X12 in the back of your baggy sweatshirt is heavy—suddenly ten times more so. 

In the corner of your eye, you see John far across the way shift, leaning before on a trash can, now standing upright. You swear you lock eyes with him, both gifted in all sense when it comes to war. Perhaps it was ingrained into both of your DNA—a knowledge of all things deadly; of threats unseen. Some primal and horrible understanding spanning back to when man had first raised a fist to another. 

“Oi,” your voice pushes. “What does that mean?” Feet pivoting, you move closer to the alley where the light shade of hair disappears. 

The line is silent. 

Silent before a loud gunshot rings.

Birds scatter, and you instinctively duck down, hand snapping to your service weapon as your eyes go wide. Head snapping about, you dash to the alley opening above the screaming; pushing past fleeing people.

“Hart!” 

“He’s in the alley!” 

“Do not engage until I get there, do you hear me?!” You’re already at the entrance, X12 ahead of you, and the safety flicked off with a heavy finger. “Hart!”

The body of your mark is on the ground—a bullet in the back of his skull. 

“Fuck!” You shout, feet slapping the concrete as you zoom past. “Price—target’s down, Emmett shot him in the damn head, on his tail now.”

“Fucking hell.” The man is growling out at you, voice heated.

Your eyes snap this way and that, weapon at the ready as you take a sharp turn. At the very end of the opening, you see him. 

Kinsman slips his service weapon back into the base of his spine, pulling at his shirt to cover the grip as a mass of the crowd is just behind him. He rushes quickly on long legs. 

“Emmett!” Your voice makes him freeze. There’s a long pause before anything is spoken; you have your sights trained—a perfect line-up to the roundness of his skull. 

“I had hoped to be fast enough,” the man tells you, head tilting to the side, “but I should have known you’d move head-long into danger without backup.”

“Hart,” John’s voice nearly startles you from the line. “Sitrep, now!”

“Why would you do that, Emmett?”

“There’s more to this than being pawns, Hart,” Kinsman growls at you. “I play my game right, I always come on top. I needed to earn their trust; our target had a price on his head and no one else could get as close as me. Well,” he pauses, “us.”

“I’m taking you in,” you grit your teeth, hands tight on the gun. You don’t even want to think about what he means by ‘their’ or his ‘game’. It was always word puzzles with this man—one second you had the right piece, and the next the entire picture had changed like sand in the waves of a tide.

“Are you really that torn up about a drug runner?” A scoff makes you hold back a snarl, but your resolve is shaking. This was a man you had trusted—now fast can something that was forged with steel break?

“He was just some filthy nobody, Hart.” Emmett starts walking into the crowd ahead of him, and in your mind you know if you take that shot you run the risk of shooting an innocent civilian. “I’ll be more than a nobody. Or a grunt soldier. People are going to know me.” 

Bodies flee quickly—screams. Mothers, children, husbands.

Kinsman smirks, and as your finger tightens on the trigger, he’s already swallowed by the hoard. 

“I’ll be seeing you.”

John and you sit in the safehouse, for a moment, surrounded by quiet and the smell of hot tea. One week in Denmark, and you have no leads. The other three are away, sleeping in the rooms down the hallway. 

“You’re still thinking about him,” John speaks up, eyes on you. It’s blunt, but that was just how he was. 

You peek your eyes open slowly, your body slouching in the chair and feet outstretched under the table. Your boot lightly touches John’s own. A long sigh exits your nose, grumbling on your tired lips. 

“John,” you level, drawing the name out like the years of your life. A thin warning. 

The man clenches his jaw slightly, bringing up his cup and taking a slow slip. You see the flesh of his throat bob with the liquid as it goes down, the overhead light of the kitchen only a single bulb of warm glow. 

“Been chasing him for years, Hart,” he says when the item is back to the woodgrain. Voice a deep murmur—a scrape of vocal chords. “We both have.”

“He knows too much,” you reply. “I can’t let him get away again. Strategies, operators, everything.” Your eyes shift as your head raises, blinking away the sleep in your glinting orbs. “For years he’s been under our nose, getting away with who knows what—”

“Hart,” your rant is interrupted, and you stop with a snap of your teeth. Blue eyes lock a concerned sheen to them. “Breathe.” 

Your face moves away, arms loosely crossed over your chest tensing. 

John’s body shifts to you, leaning forward until his elbows are resting on his knees. He stares, brows a line on his flesh. You send a swift glance, lips pulling. 

“...Stop that,” your voice murmurs, echoing off the walls of the kitchen. John blinks, not speaking as you move in your seat. The man tilts his head, a slow something making his lips go back slightly. Gradually, your face goes hotter, blinking at him a few times; sucked in like a fox to a trap. “John, quit it.”

“M’not doing anything, Love.” 

“Bullshit,” you try and glare at the looseness of his expression, his smirk that makes your gut tighten. Goosebumps move up your arms. “You’re a horror.”

A low chuckle wafts out, John shrugging casually before he leans back. 

He takes up his cup again and takes down the last of the remnants. “Go to sleep,” hits your ears as your pounding heart takes a breather. It’s a grumble on the air—not as much an order as it is a suggestion. “It’s late.” 

You decide to sip at your own drink as well, eyes drooping at the steam that wafts around your face, nose twitching to the scents. 

“You?” John hums, looking you up and down; seeing the fatigue you carry. You’d been relentless for the week you’d all been here, holding the few strings of the lead you had to your chest—five-fingered grasping with a desperate prayer to all things unholy.  

“I’ll be here.” You tilt your head his way, eyes still half-closed in your seat. Your answer is easy, pushed out in a slow sentence. 

“Then so will I.”

John sighs under his breath. It’s a moment before an exasperated chuckle moves through your earbuds. You smile, eyes slipping closed fully. 

Yet, they startle back open as the cup is taken from your hands, your chair moved back firmly. 

“Up you get, then,” John grunts, and his arms snake around you. Blinking quickly, your jaw is slack as you get taken up into a tight carry; John’s chest firm and your nose brushing the side of his chin. 

Air getting sucked into your lungs, you stifle a hitch in your breath. 

It’s only after he starts walking forward, hiking you farther up into him, and his fingers gliding over your clothes, that you start to relax. His heat seeps like a warm fire.

Head sagging to the side, you grumble into his neck as you miss his eyes looking down at you, eyes soft in a way only you would have been able to see. “Can walk, y’know.”

He hums, head shifting back to the hallway as he carries you to the last door on the right, bumping into the wood with his shoulder and shifting to walk in sideways so you don’t let your legs on the frame. 

“Remember Preu? 05’?” John asks you, moving over to the bed and setting you down slowly, a tiny huff exiting his mouth. Your body sinks into the mattress, head to the pillow as your hand comes up to rub at your eyes. The man moves to grab the blanket at the end of the bed—knowing your trained habit of sleeping atop the comforter on operations; not tangled up in sheets just in case. He slips off your boots. “Carried you two miles.”

“I recall it,” you grunt, a tired flicker coming to your lips. “Bleeding out and all.”

“Well,” John hums, quirking a brow. “Wasn’t about to let my Hart die on me. Blood was the least of my worries.” 

Your pulse flutters at the title, even if it’s just your codename and not the beating muscular organ inside of your breast. 

My Heart.

But it’s never that simple. 

A hand moves up your cheek, a kiss pressed to your forehead. 

The both of you already know you love each other. It wasn’t a secret. You were smart; eyes sharper than a blade—you caught the way he watched you, saw the softness of his expression, and felt the drag of his hand. Just as he caught the way you stayed beside him, an ever-present pair of eyes watching his six. The content nature that only you showed him. 

With feet so eager to leave at any moment, it said much that you chose to exist near him simply because you wanted to. 

You loved each other. 

Boil it down, and you’d both known even back in the Academy that it would be the two of you at the end of all things. The rivers said your name. The valleys rustled with the breeze of your breath. You saw John in the bits of water that sloshed the rocks and in the earth beneath your palms. 

Over the years you’d been apart, the yearning hadn’t been any less sharp—any less potent. In every birdsong, the echoes of the other's voice flew and disappeared on wingbeats. In everything that existed, there was a fraction of what should be. 

What should be. 

“John,” your voice is a whisper, nothing more than a rustle of a cloth. He keeps his lips to your forehead, resting there for a moment against all sense and responsibility. John’s eyes droop down, lashes resting on the swell of his cheeks. “You know I love you.”

He takes a breath. Rain is in the air—the movement of a storm’s wind. A leaving C-17. 

It’s a low mutter into your flesh.

“I know.” 

You grasp at his wrist, pulling lightly. Without a noise, John slips in beside you, kicking off his boots with a single clop of the soles to the wood and the movement of your blanket. He grunts, pushing his nose into your scalp, arms going around your middle. Your head slots under his chin, lips to his Adam’s apple.

The house is silent beyond the murmur of the pipes—the buzz of awaiting electricity. 

So many memories. So many lost dreams. It was akin to two skeletons lying in a grave of their own making, forever holding the bones of the other. Duty and honor are etched into the fractures. 

But he still holds you, he still murmurs into your ear, “Sleep, Love.”

“And you?” You ask, mirroring the conversation in the kitchen.

John’s lips move along your flesh, moving into a soft smile as he glances down at you. His beard scrapes you delicately.

“I’ll be here.”

Then it is here you’ll stay, dreaming of deer and the way nothing could compare to how he held you in his arms.

—

“I have eyes on,” your head snaps up, blankly staring ahead as your fingers hover over the hanging beads of a wind chime. You stand outside of a restaurant in the heart of Copenhagen. 

Laswell had sent in more eyes for the Task Force to use—local soldiers that knew the layout of the city better and where would be a good place to look. For days you’d been moving through the streets; far-off storage units and hidden buildings providing fruitless harvests. Anthony had said a warehouse, but that was panning out as nothing as well.

False information? Possibly, but unlikely. The man had been genuine in his pain and pleading, and it only served to confuse you more.

You had Gaz with you and five others, taking over as the leader of this fireteam while John headed the other with Johnny and Ghost. They were on the opposite side of the city, and you can’t help but compare this to the moment Emmett had become an enemy. 

But divide and conquer was the only option in times like these.

Emmett had become someone, just as he said he would. The man was in charge of supplying arms to terrorist organizations all over the world, and with his knowledge of how the SAS operates as well as any number of special forces, he’d utterly disappeared off the radar.

A wraith of lies and murder.

He had locations all over the globe with his goods, shipped out for money and power. 

And now you have a positive ID.

“Where are you,” your voice is hard and stiff, the body already moving back from the chime and leaving its little bits and bobs swinging. 

“Café down the street,” feet nearly locking together, you continue down the street to where you know Gaz’s last position was. “He’s just…sitting there.” A pause. “You want to know what it’s called in English, Ma’am?”

“The café?” your brows furrow, jogging across the street. 

“‘The Warehouse.’” Growling under your breath, you shake your head and send a curse into the air after a pause.

“I think the man thought he was clever,” Kyle’s voice is smooth and teasing. 

“Should have shot his other leg,” you grunt. “You told Laswell? John?”

“Negative, I’ll get on it—”

“I’ll do it,” you interrupt. “Tell the others to group up at your position and spread out to create a choke point; we can’t let him get away.”

“Rog. Will do.” 

You patch into John’s frequency.

“We have him,” you instantly breathe out. “Down Holbergsgade—café called ‘The Warehouse’.”

It’s swiftly that an answer hits you. “Get him surrounded, we’re coming.” 

Your heart is moving rapidly, fast in your chest as you pass people and business quickly. You didn’t like this—didn’t like the similarities, the…nostalgic dread that builds. A café of all places? Sitting down? Waiting?

It was so ironic it made alarm bells go off.

“John,” you lick your lips, glancing at faces as they pass. “I think he knows we’re here.”

“Explain.”

“A café?” John’s low grunt lets you know he understands. “Just sitting there? He knows—he’s not dumb enough to throw away all of his secrecy just as we so happen to get here and begin looking for him.”

“How sure are you?” The man takes your words into account, and you hear his breath puffing as he runs to your location. 

“Ninety,” you breathe. 

“Then I’m callin’ it off.” Your eyes widen, feet skidding as you come to a stop. 

You have no clue as to how far John will go to keep you safe—even if it means potentially letting one of the SAS’s highest HVTs go. There wasn’t anything that could compare to the thought of you getting in harm's way. Not you. 

John had spent his whole life watching soldiers die in the worst ways possible; they haunted his dreams and he knew they’d follow him to his grave—men he’d led down paths that they never should have been on. 

Not you. 

Losing you would break what little was left of him, the remnants held on by tape and sheer stubbornness. One of the last old faces he could still look at anymore; could draw comfort from in the thin hours. To hold and to love. 

You both knew you wouldn’t stand for it.

“No,” your voice cuts across, monotone. “I’m not allowing that.”

“Bloody hell, Hart, listen to me—do not,” John growls, making your spine tingle, “go after him. If he knows we’re fuckin’ here, we need to pull back and close off the area.”

You’re walking forward, that same pressure of a gun at the back of your spine. It was almost poetic. 

A thought sparks. Years of knowledge and understanding lighting up. 

Emmett was a snake. 

A snake that liked to play games and prove points; greed stuck into his brain for reasons you can’t quite say for certain. Even if you did catch him, he would never tell the locations of his goods or the buyers.

But there was one way to find out. One way this might turn.

“There’s a tracker in my arm,” you speak, growing more sure of your actions with every fast movement of your body. The café is just up the street, and a head of blonde hair is a knife to your vision. “I asked Laswell to insert and monitor it years back when I had to infiltrate a cell before I joined up with you again. Cautionary procedure since I had to forgo my rig and gear.”

A sharp bark. He knew what you were insinuating. “Hart!” You were going to get yourself taken hostage.

“Get Kate to watch it, John.” You move off his frequency before he can comment again, half of a roaring refusal cut off. Speaking to Gaz with a restricted throat, you say, “Kyle?”

“Right here, Ma’am.”

“Good. Don’t engage—I’m moving in.”

A stiff breath is taken in. “W…what was that?”

You don’t reply, only saying, “Whatever happens, I order you and the others to stay back, yeah?”

Your hand pulls the earpiece out and shoves it into your pocket right as you slip into the chair directly across from Emmett Kinsman. 

“Emmett,” you say in greeting, moving up a few fingers to a barista with a low call of your order. The individual nods and moves off before you lock on green eyes; they nearly make you flinch. 

You can only imagine what Gaz is telling John right now. 

Kinsman blinks at you, but he isn’t surprised. You were right.

“Hart,” the man smiles. His voice is still the same, though he looks older. “Pleasure seeing you again. Enjoying the sights of the city?”

“Not particularly,” you stare at him.

He chuckles, tilting his head before he brings his drink to his lips. He swallows and continues. 

“You always were serious. No fun.” You take the insult without any emotion, blinking at him slowly. What was his play?

“Why?”

“You already know why,” he shrugs, dressed in a nice suit. “I’ve made a name for myself—my name will be remembered for ages.” A twinkle in his eye. “SAS soldier turned weapon supplier; isn’t it exciting.”

“It’s a disgrace,” you lean forward, only stopping your voice from rising as a cup is placed down in front of you by the barista. 

Your face plasters a fake smile and you nod, moving it in front of you. Emmett watches with a smirk.

“I call it a change of heart.” He sighs, smirk simmering to a casual smile. “But I am glad to see you, you’ve been creating a big mess of things and I took it upon myself to have a meeting between us as old friends.”

“I’m not your friend,” you growl. “You’ve killed innocent people for no more than a fucking paycheck.”

“Well,” he snorts. “I don’t kill anyone. I’m the middle man—there’s a difference.”

Rage makes your eyes go to slits.

“And innocents, Sweet Thing?” Emmett leans in closer, face so smug and open you want to pull your weapon on him and worry about the consequences later. “What do I call what you do then?”

“A necessary evil,” you huff. “One I carry on my shoulders just like every other soldier does. One that was far better than supplying terrorists.”

Kinsman shrugs, moving back and picking up his drink, swirling it. “If you say so.” He hums. “You have to try the pastries here, you know. They’re very good.”

“I know you’re here because you expected us to find you, what I can’t figure out is why you broke your cover in the open instead of turning yourself in.” You look around at the faces in the outdoor seating, studying them trying to pinpoint if they’re civilians or in league with Kinsman. “Tell me before I decide to shoot you right here and now and end this regardless of hidden goods.”

“You already tried that, Hart,” Emmett laughs. “Pointing a gun at me didn’t work last time.”

“I’m not going to use a gun,” you ease out. “I’m going to take the butter knife on the table and slit your throat.”

“Uncivilized,” Emmet grumbles, frowning at the silver object near your hands. “It isn’t even sharp.”

“Good.” Green eyes narrow, unimpressed. He sighs, fingers moving in an outward gesture of exasperation. 

“If you must know before the main finale, I wanted to bring you here to say that I’m thoroughly impressed with your drive.” You try to stave off the shock in your stomach at the words coming out like a charmer’s flute. Raising a slow brow, you’re caught off guard. Emmett chuckles. “You nearly caught me at several instances throughout our game of cat and mouse. Many times I forget who the assigned roles were even given to; I’m telling you that I had fun.”

You stare, face tight. 

Emmett hums and his eyes go to slits. 

“But every game has to come to an end. I’m growing tired of it.”

The building across the street erupts into a great ball of fire.

—

John hears the explosion in the air, the shockwave that leaves his body halting to look into the sky in time to see black smoke.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath. “Fuck!” 

He rushes into the panicked crowd, memories stuck in his head and a bone-deep fear he’d been feeling since you cut the connection in your earpiece. Gaz had been relaying to him what was going on action for action—a football game, only the difference was that your life was on the line. 

“Kate,” John shouts. “Get the authorities down here now! We have an explosion on Holbergsgade.”

“Explosion?” The woman’s voice is sharp and disbelieving. “What’s going on—”

“Hart’s in the bloody crossfire, there’s no time!” John’s face is tight, wind whipping past his ears as screams fly on the wind; crying. “The fool is trying to get herself taken fucking hostage for intel!”

Whatever else was said was lost to the wind—Gaz comes over the line, calling to him in a panic as Johnny and Simon join in. 

“The entire building just went up in—”

“Fucking Christ—”

“Price, what is this?”

“All of you get down here!” John sprints past people on the ground, ripping his gun out of the back of his waistband. There’s no arguing. 

When the Captain turns the last corner, carnage greets him. 

The building across from the café was reduced to nothing but rubble and a still-burning flame. Eyes wide, John only looks at it for a few moments, too preoccupied with you.

Where were you? 

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with rage. Such a perfect soldier yet such a flawed sense of teamwork, he had a feeling you’d try something like this—had left Gaz with you for that very reason. Fuck he should have been at your side. He should have known. 

A low grumble moves through his lips, head snapping all around. There are bodies on the ground. Blood pooling under thick building material—fabric in the breeze. 

“Hart!” John yells, running to the café and seeing the remnants of a fast fight. 

The Captain’s heart drops to his feet, face burning with hellfire so much that a sheen comes to his cheek. His hand moves out to touch the handle of a butter knife that had been slammed into the table now half-fallen over, eyes stuck on only one thing on the ground under it.

Through the wails and the call of sirens, the man stares at the two long fingers sitting in the dust.

Never in his life had he felt a fear like this.

—

“I wanted to be kind about this,” Emmett fiddles with the wrappings of his bandaged left hand, only three fingers remaining. “I was going to make it quick.”

You’re locked in a cell-like room, head to the side and blood leaking out of a cut face. Burns travel up your arm, the sticky puss leaking out only serving to make you shiver. You don’t know where you are—don’t know what happened after you severed Kinsman’s fingers with that knife.

But you know the pain isn’t something that you haven’t already gone through before. 

Your voice is hoarse but firm as it leaks out of you, vision spotty. You’d been thrown in here after a ride in the trunk of a car. The ground is concrete. 

“...Don’t make me laugh.”

Emmett growls, eyes wide with hatred. 

“Pathetic!” He barks eyes looking you over with disgust. “Look at what you did to my hand!”

His other hand connects with the bars of the cage, producing a metal ringing sound as you push yourself up with one arm, eyelids flinching in pain. Sitting up, your body falls back to the wall behind it, and you grunt when the air in your lungs is expelled. You lick at your dust-coated lips, your head ringing and your focus failing. Concussion. 

“Least of your worries,” you roll your jaw, a wave of pain making your body seize up and your hands tense with quivering shakes. Your mouth opens with sharp pants. Bile pools in the base of your throat. 

It’s nothing. 

John will come soon. The tracker. If Laswell can get it working again, you’d be out of here and you would have whatever this location turns out to be and the intel that it can offer you—computer databases would be a one-and-done game. You would get names, coordinates, and buyers. It could all be over. 

Your clothes are melted into your skin, and when you move, they peel away with the remnant of your epidermis. The flesh of your left thigh and arm had taken the worst of it—and the cut from flying debris over your left cheek hasn’t stopped bleeding. 

Blood drips from it, and a loud ache makes your head pound all the worse. 

You’ve gone through worse.

“I don’t know why I bother,” Emmett snarls, the crimson bandages thick over his hand. “But it isn’t a problem,” he says, moving his other hand to slick back his hair. “It isn’t a problem,” the man utters again. “You’re going to help me. Yes…I’ve made up my mind. I need you to understand why I do the things I do.” 

Your brows furrow, but above this burning in your head, it’s hard to understand what’s being said to you. Shadows move and Emmett orders one of his men to open the cell door.

You fight the black dots at the sides of your vision, leaking until you’ve accepted the reality of yourself going unconscious. As your body slouches to the side, hands ruthlessly grasp under your arms and drag you to your feet. 

“Everyone has a breaking point.”

—

“What do you mean,” John glares at Laswell, his arms crossed over his chest; hands tightly grasping at his biceps. “You can’t find her?”

“The tracker was old, John,” the woman tries to explain, furiously typing at her computer that rests on the table in front of her—her spine bent over as the rest of the One-Four-One stay in a limbo of anxious looks. “To get it working again, it would need something to restart it. I don’t know if you can see,” Kate’s eyes are hard as they lock with his, “but I can’t do anything if she’s not here first.”

“Well of course she’d not bloody here Laswell, fucking Kinsman has her!” He shouts, hands moving out in a display of aggression. 

“Captain,” Kate rises to the challenge, hand moving flat to the table and glaring with the heat of a thousand missiles. “Do not take that tone with me.” 

John snarls and jerks his head away, feet on the ground trading weight. 

The man was borderline feral—all snapping teeth and sharp glances. Gaz had seen him like this only a handful of times, MacTavish even fewer. Ghost, of course, knew, but even his brown eyes wouldn’t leave his Captain, absorbed in the way he was unable to stay still for even a moment. He was in full gear, too. Had put it on directly after returning to a local base. 

John was ready to go to war, down to the rifle that swung from a strap at his side, the ammunition stuffed to his chest—sidearm at his thigh. A rabid dog with intelligence and the knowledge of where teeth needed to be applied to a neck for a clean kill. Simon doubted he wanted it to be clean.

John was ready to rip people to pieces. 

“Give me something,” the Captain says in a low growl, beard shifting. “Give me what I need.”

Kate splays her hands. “All we have is surveillance of a car leaving the area—the smoke covers all chances of the drone we had flying picking up a clear picture. John,” Laswell eases, standing up, “there’s only so much we can do. We need to wait—”

“We can’t bloody wait,” Gaz speaks up, “What’ll he do to her in the meantime?”

“Garrick’s right, we need to be on the ground with this.” Johnny nods, mohawk bobbing. “That’s one of our own—we’re not sitting around with our thumbs up our arses, Laswell. Not with Hart.”

Simon blinks, humming. Laswell’s eyes shift to him, near pleading for one to be on her side with this and see sense. Ghost shrugs. “I’m with them. Hart’s one of our own; we’ll do what needs to be done.”

John’s chest swells with pride while his eyes get stuck on your file on the table, your printed picture, and your black ink—he’d never loved an image more, but nothing could beat the real thing. He needed you back. He’d gone through hell with you for his entire life; you’d suffered with him and only locked your hands together and held on tighter. 

That was love—that was duty.

John Price wasn’t against skewing his morals for the sake of your safety. You would always be his most important mission. The man didn’t want to think about what might happen if he found you too late.

“Give me the video of the vehicle,” he grunts, jaw tight and his eyes beady. His body slightly leans forward to Kate, love going lower. “Or I’m going out there myself.” 

Laswell frowns tightly at him. 

“I just sent it into forensics—they’re trying to get a match. Go out if you want, but I won’t be able to stop the firestorm that comes out of it.”

She closes her laptop and moves past him, sending one last comment into the stone man as he towers ever taller.

“She’s strong, John. If you’re smart, you’ll keep yourself out of the crossfire until we have a definitive hit.” 

Her voice echoes from behind him as his hands slowly move to clench into knuckle-whitening fists.

“If Kinsman gets a tip we’re still onto him—you’ll never see Hart again.”

—

Day Three:

Your days start blending. One moment you hear the snapping of your bones, and then the next you’re wasting away in this cell—ears ringing and eyes buggy. So much blood. Blood on the walls—blood on the chair they strap you into in the other room; even stuck in the groves of your flesh. 

You don’t think you can stop closing your eyes and seeing a deer at the bottom of a bridge drop-off. It’s stuck in your head like a virus; those car lights in the back of your mind just waiting for you. 

There’s no sense as to what they do to you—all its purpose is, is to prove a point to Emmett. A sort of broken retribution for your interference and his fingers. 

Vain man, really. You’d told him as much when he was watching you get your own finger torn off my pliers; spit it at him as the blood from your bitten tongue stayed his suit. You remember the feeling of the knuckle popping first, and then the burning heat of the flesh being twisted to the side. Two firm yanks and the flesh had sprung like elastic, fissuring, the tendon snapping. 

You think you blacked out after that, but you can’t be sure. All you remember doing is screaming. 

You woke up with your left pinkie finger completely gone, resting outside in the hallway to mock you from past the bars. Your eyes could see the bone sticking out of it, and all that was left on you was a badly cauterized stump. 

When Emmett had come to gloat, you started slurring out laughter. 

“I’m going to rip you apart.” Your broken body had jerked back and forth like a marionette doll, only succeeding in spreading more red over the floors as green eyes widened and went dumbfounded. 

It sounded like a choking fish.

All he’d done was left, quickly passing the pinkie left limp on the ground.

Day five:

You can’t move your body as they dump you back into the chair—the drain below you flooded over with crimson and bits of hair; vomit and torn-off fingernails. You’re unable to open your eyelids fully. 

A hand grasps at your face, yanking it up into the overhead light until a bucket of water is dumped directly over your head. Your body jerks, coughing and darting forward until you’re shoved to the back of the chair and the rope is tied around the front of your shoulders, the second at your wrists.

Trying to suck down air, you shiver with the strength of an earthquake. Whoever said that they would never be afraid while being tortured was a liar; whoever thinks that they would be able to push through it—a fraud. Emmett was right, everyone had a breaking point.

But you admitted yours would only come after your death.

Your legs are seized, bent up as you hiss as well as you’re able, teeth snapping. 

They’re dumped back down into a bucket of ice-cold water as droplets drip from your nose—wet skin for the moment only holding streaks of gore. Even with your scattered mind, you know what this means. 

Heart tight and eyes widening, you try to push back in the chair; try to fight the rope and the way your body won’t respond. 

A battery is rolled up beside you on a metal cart. Jumper cables. 

There’s a low chuckle at the way your face goes fearful. 

—

John shoves open the door to Laswell’s temporary office, already talking before it hits the far wall. 

“Do we have her?” His hands move beside him, brushing the grip of his sidearm. He hadn’t been out of his full gear for more than five minutes in days. Waiting day and night for any word; sleeping in it, eating in it. The forensics team had been stumped, unable to get more than a model out of the picture. 

But this might finally give him something to act on. 

Kate is moving, grabbing documents and her laptop, speeding past him and out of the door. 

“Kate!” John shouts, following after. “Hey,” he calls, grabbing at her arm to stop her. 

The woman only halts to say, quickly, “We have a hit. Follow me.”

John’s heart is rampaging, pulse wild under his skin as his gloved hands twitch. Finally. He can only smoke so many cigars—only think of so many scenarios until he feels he needs to vomit. You’d been gone for too long. Every moment had been like trying to walk with a cloth over his head; lost. 

He’d grown stiff. Stiffer than normal. Everyone had seen it.

“Where is it, then?” John asks as Laswell pushes open the door to the meeting room, the other three already inside.

“A property outside of Copenhagen—bought through a proxy on a fund that was linked to blood money in South America; it all went directly back to Kinsman. It was found only ten minutes ago.” A pause. Electricity in the air. “But that’s not how we found it.”

“How,” Simon asks, moving closer. 

John gives the woman his full undivided attention, hands moving to rest at his collar in a soothing gesture. 

“Her tracker came back on.” Eyes go wide, all sharing rapid glances as Kate opens her laptop and opens a man, turning the device for them to see. “Same location.”

Johnny blinks, his eyes narrowing. “And what does that mean?”

“That can’t have just done that by itself,” Gaz mutters, brown eyes sliding over to John who’s stiller than a wolf. The Sergeant pauses. 

His eyes are dead set on that screen. His thighs were so tense it was nearly like the Captain was about to sprint out of the room. Kyle’s face goes blank at that, never quite seeing the extent that your disappearance had on the man. His superior had bags under his eyes; far more pale than usual. His apparel was ruffled, too. Even in the more serious of situations, the Sergeant had never seen John so…out of it. He was always the one with the even head, even if he had a short fuse with certain things. Nothing was ever done without thought, he should say. 

But this is something else. 

“Torture,” Simon gives his two cents and John’s cheek twitches at the word. “Electrocution. They jump-started it and didn’t even know.” 

“Bloody Jesus,” John breathes. Everyone had already had a hunch, but no one had wanted to name it. 

It’s a low rumble that makes the rest of them freeze, though. It was so dead in tone that it even made Kyle’s spine lock up; Johnny’s eyes went a smidgen upward. Simon, although his face was covered, felt his lips twitch.

John looks at nothing but that dot on the computer screen.

“Am I green, Laswell?”

Kate looks at John. It’s like setting a hellhound loose. 

“You’re green, Captain.”

—

You’re tossed into the cell and your body rolls along the floor, bouncing and flinching until your back slams into the wall. Air is forced from your lungs, coming out in a loud grunt before you land on your stomach in a heap. Staying there, your nerves are fried. 

Every moment you think the twitching of your fingers will stop—the dance of your muscles responding to the aftereffects of electrocution, it only starts back up again. Your eyes blink rapidly; your clothes have the scent of smoke to them. 

Gasping for breath, you feel like you’re drowning and being set on fire all at once. 

Yet the question in your head was a simple one, one you’d been asking for days.

Where was John?

Emmett enters the cell, clicking his tongue as the metal hinges squeak. 

“I’m not surprised it’s taking this long,” he explains. “But I am surprised you’re still alive, admittingly.” 

A boot comes out and places itself atop your shoulder, pressing down slowly until its full weight is on top of you. Your mouth opens in a shuddering sound of a dying animal, blood dripping from your ears and nose. 

“I know you’ve taken torture before—even taken a part of it,” Kinsman sighs. “But, shit Hart, you really do scare me when I know you’re strong enough to get through th—”

Your body jolts up, grappling Emmet’s leg and twisting it to the side. Regardless of pain—of agony—there’s such primal rage inside of you that what little adrenaline you can bring forth is all that more addictive. 

The man collapses in a heap, gasping, but you’re already on top of him, wrestling your hand to his neck, missing finger and all. Blood moves, staining his precious suit and dripping from your mouth into his hairline. You bare down your weight on him, teeth clenched and eyes wild—one orb holding nothing but red from burst veins and the other full of a vicious gleam of ferality. 

Hands snap up to your wrists, mouth opening in flapping panic. 

But Emmett has grown weak; he’s out of practice. All of those years out of the SAS, giving up on the training of the body to match the mind. The idiot wasn’t even carrying a gun when he walked into the cell of a charging stag, its antlers dripping gore, sharper than any knife. 

When the flaps of his eyes fall there’s no gloating speech—there’s no snort of a tall and proper victor. All you do is take the front of his face, grasp it, and start sending his skull back into the concrete floors. 

Crack.

…Crack.

….Crack.

Only when the sound of his head breaking open meets your ringing ears, do you force your wheezing lungs to take a large breath. 

Emmet Kinsman died as he lived. 

A fucking piece of shit.

“Fuck you,” you spit on his corpse, saliva bloody; his jaw is loose as you release the man’s face, eyes bulging. Falling to the side, you groan in pain, your body curling into itself until you resemble a sleeping fawn. You’re shaking more and more with every second, coughing with the force of an earthquake until your shredded vocal chores force you to stop. 

But the brain is a funny thing. 

In times of danger, survival is the only thing that takes priority. It was why, in a long shove of your hand to the floor, with your bones creaking and your vomit meeting the ground, you’re able to stand. It isn’t enough to help you heal the snapped bone of your right leg, however, and in a steadily failing stupor, you drag it behind you. In this state, nothing else matters to you besides a simple command: get out.

Your shoulder slaps the metal of the cell as you stumble out of it, careening into the far wall and letting out a loud shout. 

Eyes fluttering, you connect your temple to the cool concrete, trying to breathe. 

It hurts too much, your mind says. God, I can’t feel my limbs. 

A long trail of blood follows you down the hallway as you slide along the wall, using it as a brace. 

You want to see John, you whisper inside of your head. You want to be held by him—be taken into his chest; cared for away from all of this fighting. 

A trip back to Herefordshire with him, to go deep into the country together; rest in the green grass where no one can find you for just a few good hours. It didn’t have to be forever, you would say. Just a few hours. A few hours of sky and earth wrapped in a time loop of just your own. 

You want to kiss him there. In the open, out in the wild. You want to stay by his side, your mind thinks as you stumble over the three dead bodies in the left corridor, bullet wounds in their heads. You want to be by his side forever, no more gaps in years, not more longing. It’s so close you can nearly reach out and grasp it—

Your name is yelled on a heavy breath, and hands capture your shoulders as you fall straight into them with no more strength.

Blue eyes lock with yours as you’re hurriedly settled to the ground, body limp and eyes trying to stay open. 

Blue eyes on a grassy hill.

“Hart, fucking hell.” Hands move your body, pressing and sliding—finding every opening and spreading blood like water. “Fucking hell! Hey!”

You’re yelled at, and the ripping of pouches and the familiar sound of bandages being wrapped come to the back of your brain. A hand shakes your head, locked under your chin as you take slow, broken, breaths. 

“Please, fuck sake, please,” it’s a desperate growl, so familiar and yet a world away. Your body is moved and manipulated as every leaking wound is packed with so much gauze it hangs out of you like you’re a mummy. The burns along your flesh are crust and infected, open skin peeling back. 

But the pain is lesser now. Easier to manage. 

There’s such a ruckus that it’s hard to focus on John—the man on the hill. In the grass and the wind. Brown hair moves in the breeze as white clouds roll past. On the air, there’s the scent of rain, and in the far distance, you can see a group of ten deer grazing, ears twitching.

Maybe you’ll ask them if they blame their leader, or the two trucks on the end of a bridge.

“Keep your eyes on me!” You blink into John’s tiny blues, that mist rolling back. You stare for a moment as he frantically screams into his radio; night vision rig on his head and all-black gear covering him from you. His face is pale, his eyes glossy. “Look at me, hey,” he blinks as he notices you watching, surging forward. “Hey, keep 'em open, yeah? You keep them fucking open, Love.” 

Your chest is heavy. 

“John,” you push out a flicker coming to your lips as your vision slightly unblurs itself to the sight of a flood of blood on the man’s body—an unimaginable amount.

“I’m ‘ere,” his accent grows deeper with emotion, one hand holding your cheek and the other at your shoulder, keeping you still to stop any additional damage. “I’ve got you, you understand me? I’m not letting you go, so don’t you think that I will.” 

It’s a double-edged sword.

A smile peels back your chapped lips, red running from the corner of your mouth. You glance at his stained gear again. The abyss swirls at the corners of your eyes.

“Is that your blood, or mine, John Price?” 

You hear him scream for a medic, and then it all goes numb.

—

You dream of deer on a hill, but every time you search for John, he isn’t there. You go past rivers—

“She’s dropping!”

“Get me the defibrillator!”

—past copses. Your voice goes high and low, but all the while you look, there’s nothing but a nagging feeling in the back of your head that you shouldn’t be here.

“Again!”

It’s a strange nagging, truly. Like falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up in the night without any remembrance of what had happened prior. A displacement of the mind. 

“We’ve got a pulse, Doctor, do we stop and—”

“No, I need to finish off the internal bleeding or else she won’t make it another day. Get me the cauterizer, now.”

You blink and grip your chest, a sudden pain sharp in your heart as the grass moves about your ankles. Coughing, you bend over, your eyes fluttering rapidly. In the deepest part of your eardrum, you hear a murmur of a voice you can’t place.

“The man came back, again. He’s been out there for days. He just…sits there, waiting until someone tells him something. He can’t come in, and I’m sorry about that. I’m sure hearing his voice would help more than mine, but you’re in too much of an unstable condition for that. If you get another infection, you won’t…hm, I shouldn’t talk about that. Everyone in school said only to talk positively to patients when they’re like this. I…I’m sure he’ll be able to come in soon. I think everyone calls him John if that rings a bell?”

“John?” Your eyes flutter open, sharp light above you making you snap them back closed. No one answers. 

It’s a long moment before you find the strength to breathe in the oxygen from the mask over your face, taking a long and deep inhale before a slight cough makes your abdomen tight. You flinch at the pull of stitches, all coming from so many places, that it’s unwise to move too much. 

Gradually, you open back up your eyes, pushing past the sting. Inside of your throat, the skin is so dried out you can feel it cracking at every articulation of your words. 

“Where's…John?” When you shift your head to the side, no one’s there. No one’s even in the room, either.

Blinking through the haze, your lips twitch on your face, skin tight. With a slap of your weak hand, you grasp the oxygen mask and pull it down to your neck, grunting in mild annoyance at the medicated numbness of your form. 

Your leg is in a cast—and your left side is tightly bound by wrappings to hide away the burns where skin grafts most likely live. With a glance, you see the missing pinky and the bandages that cover the strange remnants. 

The facial wound will scar, you know, but right now it’s patched over and healing. That’s all you can ask for. 

Sighing long, you blink slowly at the ceiling, licking your lips. You need water.

Outside, the murmurs are missed to you as your unmarred hand reaches for the nightstand table, where a half-drunk bottle of water sits next to a tray of food. Even if your stomach rumbles, water takes precedence. Your throat was like the Sahara desert.

“Forget something, John?”

“Bloody fork. The bastard gave me the slip. Dropped mine, needed to go back and grab another.”

“Oh, that’s alright—you could have asked one of us to get one for you. We’d hate for you to miss any time for visiting hours.”

“It’s fine; gets me moving, eh?”

“Just grab us if you need anything else!”

A low grunt is accented by the opening of the door; immediately you tense and pause, neck fighting itself to shift forward once more.

Wide blues lock with your own, and it’s like every pain fades away. 

John’s jaw is slack hidden under the layers of his beard bristles, brows going atop his head in an instant. The sound of a dropping metal utensil echoes through the room. 

You both stare at one another for a long time, and the murmur of nurses accumulates to some peaking through the crack; their expressions also going to shock. A few scurry off, probably to get a doctor. 

“What?” Your hoarse voice asks, unnerved by this. 

At the sound of your voice, John flinches forward on his boots. The nurses get shut out with beaming faces as the barrier closes with a small click of metal.

Walking to the side of your bed, John clears his throat, eyes looking you up and down in two glances. A million things are hidden in them. After an opening and closing of his mouth, which you watch closely while squinting, he speaks.

“How are we feeling, then?” You breathe slowly and in tiny puffs. John looks at the oxygen mask as if telling you to put it back on, but you refuse for a moment. 

“Like shit,” you utter, voice cracking.

With a huff, John pushes away your reaching hand and gets the water himself, unscrewing it. Bringing it to your lips, you take it down as he speaks.

“Easy, Love.” 

When you’d had your fill and the ache settled, you brought a hand to your head and rubbed at your injured cheek before John sighed and grabbed at it, intertwining his fingers with yours and lowering the limb back to your chest.

You stare at him, and he stares at you. 

“I don’t know what to ask,” you confess. 

“You don’t have to ask anything,” John mutters, and his face is tight with worry. “You’ve been in a coma for three weeks, all you need to do is ease back into it.”

Your eyes snap back.

“Tell me if it hurts,” He speaks slowly, moving on one word at a time so the realization doesn’t dwell in your brain. “I can get someone to come in, yeah?”

Your hand in his burns, and John pulls at the chair by the nightstand until he’s able to sit down in it fully with a tiny grunt.

“No,” you say, “no, it’s…I’m fine.”

Better now that you’re here, but your body is tense. Three weeks?

“Just need to take it easy,” the man states, thumb running up and down your knuckles. “You’ll be better soon.”

A dry look is sent his way, and he hides a soft quirk on his lips. “You’ll be better, Love.”

You hum, head moving back more heavily into the pillow. 

“When do I get to go back?”

“When you’re healed,” he grunts. “Not a fuckin’ moment sooner.”

“We get anything on the other locations of the—”

“Hart,” you’re interrupted. Blue eyes stare at you heavily, digging past every shield you’d put up and every fear. What happened was still heavy in your mind; it pained you to imagine it, even the way John had found you—even if it was all glimpses. “Slow down. That’s not an order coming from a soldier, it’s a caution from an old friend.” John says, squeezing your flesh. His other hand comes to your shoulder, sitting there heavily. 

“Breathe,” he orders, face gruff. “We always figure it out.” 

You close your eyes and sigh, frowning. 

A low chuckle moves along the air a second later. 

“Never sit down, do you?” A flicker dances over your lips like a butterfly. “Impossible, you are.”

“You’re one to talk,” you huff, eyes shifting back to him. 

He’s smiling at you, and you can’t help but mirror it right back at the sight. Your facial injury pulls and tightens, but you would welcome an ache like that for as long as it stayed. A scar born of the stretch of lips is one well-earned. Only John could ever make it a reality.

The man stares at your lips, his wide build eager to stay over you in this state. He can’t stop himself from caressing your skin; to feel you alive and breathing. Talking.

“Scared me,” John admits under his breath. 

You blink, your smile fading slowly until it was like it was never there. Your body builds with guilt; also something only he could bring. “I’m sorry, John.” 

A small thinning of his lips is what you get, accented by a hum. 

“Hart,” he grunts. “I…”

John’s eyes closed for a moment before opening back up—spearing you with their gaze. Your tired eyes crinkle in confusion.

“What is it?” Over the tingle of your flesh from where he touches you, it isn’t hard to forget the world is around you when he’s here like this. You’re nearly trapped by his eyes, yet you welcome it eagerly. His voice moves out, accent and natural gravel, all. 

“I love you.” 

Your nose lets a chuff exit. Was that all?

“I love you, too, John—”

“No, Hart,” he pushes slightly harder, moving closer and licking his lips as he glances away. “No,” John looks you dead in the eye as you lay here battered and broken within an inch of your life—a risk that you took willingly as if it had meant nothing. The both of you weren’t new to this; you both knew that on any day you or he would do it over and over again until it resulted in death. That was the way of this game; this trial. 

You had both always been content with that, but when had it changed? 

Why was the thought of losing you more fear-invoking than anything else he’d ever encountered?

You watch him as his lips utter the words, lips close to yours and your eyes locked. 

“I love you.” 

Your voice is caught in your throat, stuck in the throws of a quick gasp. Not blinking, the man waits for you—waits for an answer to the earth-shattering confession. But it all came far easier than you would ever admit to anybody besides him. It was already known, after all. 

All that remained was the pesky words.

“I love you, too.” You beam, words low with intimacy. “I think I always have.”

John chuckles, a large smile pushing at his reddening cheeks. “Good,” he nods, clearing his throat. “Good,” he says again. “Well, I—”

You softly connect your lips with his, and you feel him pause, breathing you down for a moment as hearts beat at the same tempo. He sighs, one hand coming up to capture your cheek, holding it there for you as you sag into it and live in this everlasting moment. 

It’s there you had a revelation.

It was never Hart to him. John had never been calling you that. 

He’d always just been saying Heart.

You breathe out a laugh, when you separate, beaming in a happiness you thought was long gone from you—stolen in the dark nights and sold through even darker deeds. Neither of you was worthy of this, of the love that breeds in broken things. Yet, here it is regardless. Here, among blood and the blue eyes of a man you’d known since knowing anything became important. You had always known it was John. And finally, finally, finally.

“I would marry you in an instant, John Price,” you breathe when you separate, not weak enough to stop the words from exiting from the deepest part of your soul.

His crinkled eyes watch, reverently gazing at every blemish and mark; everything he could learn new again. John’s eyes are as soft as you ever imagined them to be, and he gives them over freely to you.

He kisses you again and leaves the taste of his heavy, happy, chuckle tingling across your lips.

“Seems I’d better get on that, then.”

A/N: This fic is strangely nostalgic for me even if I just wrote it - I remember the first ever fic I posted on here was a rescue fic, as well as a John Price fic; it's amazing to see how far I've come in regards to overall content/story building and how my understanding of the character has evolved. This might not be the best work I've posted on my blog, but I'm glad to say I'm proud of myself and how far I've come. It's so wonderful that I can have this feeling for such a big moment and still feel so drawn back to the past at the same time. Totally not tearing up at the thought rn.

Thank you all very much for your support.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting , @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

[b14augrana]

Scrubber

Your make your debut in a La Roja jersey

Barça Femení x teen!reader

pt. 7 masterlist

Warnings: mentions of injury / blood

A/N: bebita is back by popular demand!! i wrote this pretty late at night so excuse any grammar mistakes but on the bright side i included lots of vidić references. enjoy! 💝

‘Time goes by too fast,’ you thought, as you stood in the tunnel, sandwiched between Salma and Alexia. Only a couple days ago you were struggling to decide what you wanted for breakfast, and now you were minutes away from playing in a Euro qualifying match against Denmark.

The officials gestured to both teams, beckoning them out of the tunnel and onto the pitch, and Irene led the way.

Your nerves normally subsided when you played for Barcelona, but this was different. This was a place and team you weren’t used to, it wasn’t Barcelona.

As your team lined up and prepared to sing the national anthem of Spain, you could only think about one thing; how were you supposed to play?

That was another thing that made you miss Barcelona all over again. Back in Barça, you had Lucy, Mapi, Ona, Patri and Pina to encourage your advanced tackles. You weren’t very hopeful about the other Spain girls being so supportive.

You were deep in thought as the national anthem rung through the stadium, and the words erupted from your mouth mindlessly. After the song concluded, you followed Alexia off the pitch and shook your jacket off your shoulders.

Over the speakers in the stadium, you barely make out what the commentators were saying. It was something about you, that’s all you could tell.

“…making her international debut tonight at just 16 years old. She’s been pivotal for FC Barcelona this season, scoring a last minute goal in the Champions–” The rest was lost in the sea of roars coming from the crowd.

There was barely enough time for your coach to give her last word, and before you knew it, you were stood in the back with Irene, awaiting the whistle.

You quickly learned that today, Denmark had chosen to take a more passive approach to attacking. You were naturally aggressive in defence, so taking on this more patient style of offensive play wasn’t too much of a challenge.

It was different playing without Mapi. You knew she should’ve been there, playing in your spot because she deserves to represent her national team and enjoy it. It made you sad that the old management failed her and she couldn’t do that.

You missed her. A lot.

“(Y/N), mira la pelota!” Irene yelled, dropping back into the box. Your attention averted to the Danish strikers running towards you, and the midfielder preparing to put a ball through.

Pernille Harder blistered past you as soon as the ball had been kicked. It took you barely a second before you went after her, your legs drilling into the ground with every long stride until you were right beside her going shoulder-to-shoulder for the ball.

Irene was there, you knew that, but you didn’t want to get beaten and let Irene clean up your mess.

Pernille was getting closer and closer to the box with every touch she took, and though you knew she was a world class attacker, you would rather die than let anyone advance on goal.

You lurched, your foot making contact with the ball and cutting it out of her path, sending it somewhere to the sidelines. You slid across the ground on your hip, and it was like everything was in slow motion as Pernille stumbled over your outstretched leg and lunged forwards. The ball found its way to the right back, Oihane Hernandez, who was quick to clear it down the line for Athenea.

When there was too much proximity between a player and the goal, the decision to make was extremely straightforward for you; your body gets hit before the back of the net.

A quick look at the ‘NV15’ written on your wrist gave you all the motivation you needed to power through the first half and continue to produce tackles. When you walked off the pitch for halftime and retreated into the locker room, you slumped beside Irene and took a large sip of water.

“Dios mío (Y/N), fue increíble defender. ¡Tenemos suerte de que juegues para nosotras!” Leila said, smiling fondly at you.

You had properly met her a couple days prior, and immediately liked her. She was a defender, just like you, which meant you got to grow your circle of defender friends.

You returned her smile and mumbled a shy ‘gracías’ while Irene gave you a side hug, “Esa es mi nenita.”

Half time flew by. You were lost in a train of empty thought, too eager to get back on the pitch to concentrate on anything else. You practically jumped to your feet when your coach gave the last word and players started filing out of the locker room.

The second half did not start off much like the first one. Denmark ditched the passiveness for a more fierce approach, which showed from the minute they received the ball. Spain was only up by one goal and the 90 minutes was coming to an end.

Snerle ploughed through the midfield with the ball at her feet and sent a sharp through ball towards the flank. The pass was too quick for Leila to intercept, and the right wing charged past her, leaving Leila behind.

There was an obvious pass to make from the wing; a cross into the box for Pernille to touch and score.

Pernille realised this. Thomsen realised this. You realised this as well.

Pernille came sprinting from behind you into the box and the ball flew over the heads of Spanish and Danish players alike, almost about to land right at the captain’s feet.

The decision to make was extremely straightforward for you.

You can fix a broken nose, but if you let someone score a goal, your pride cannot be fixed.

There was Cata on the near post, and you knew there was no chance she could save a shot from such short distance.

You can fix a broken nose, but if you let someone score a goal, your pride cannot be fixed.

It was hard to not be acutely aware of Pernille right behind you, practically breathing down your neck, extremely desperate for a goal that could change the entire game.

You can fix a broken nose, but if you let someone score a goal, your pride cannot be fixed.

The ball was descending to the ground again, right in front of the goal, threatening to change the momentum of the game entirely.

You can fix a broken nose, but if you let someone score a goal, your pride cannot be fixed.

All it could’ve taken was one big step for Pernille to knock it in the back of the net. You threw yourself forwards and plummeted towards the moist grass as your head blocked the ball from meeting anyone in the box. It ricocheted off your head and bounced away as you fully fell onto your chest, and once again you felt Pernille lose her footing after tripping over your leg.

The last thing you felt before you were overwhelmed with pain in your face was a body landing on top of your head, forcing your face to collide with the ground. There was a barely audible crack, and then the searing pain came into effect. Nonetheless, you scrambled to your feet, clutching your face with your hands as you hunted for the ball and cleared it away from your box completely, which became near impossible as the pain became intolerable.

Liquid trickled down your arm, and the source wasn’t a mystery. You clamped your eyes shut for a moment and when you finally opened them, Alexia and Irene were in front of you with looks of horror on their faces.

There was a swarm of many other teammates, plus a worried looking Pernille standing beside you with a hand on your shoulder, apologising profusely.

You smiled at her, though it must’ve been a horribly bloody one. “It’s ‘kay, not your fault,” you mumbled, shaking your head.

“Árbitro, necesita ayuda de inmediato. ¡Mírala! Está sangrando por todas partes, está herida–” Alexia yelled, flailing her hands in the air. The referee was on the sidelines, sending the medical team onto the pitch.

“I’m fine, just m’nose..” you said, but nobody looked convinced. You wiggled past the bunch of women and made your own way off the pitch, heading for the bench.

As soon as you sat down, you were about to go to the locker room and claim your Hay Day login when multiple medics ran towards you, inspecting your nose and figuring out what to do.

To you, it was all worth it, because the last few minutes of the game were approaching and your broken nose had prevented a possible equaliser.

“You can fix a broken nose, but if you let someone score a goal, your pride cannot be fixed,” you told the medics when they asked you what happened, “…in the words of Nemanja Vidić.”

Spain came away with a win against Denmark, thanks to your little accident-causing header. Alexia almost sprinted over to you after the game to bombard you with a million questions, such as ‘How are you?’, ‘How long are you out for?’ and, ‘Are you even out? Will you get one of those special masks?’

When you had answered all her questions, you made your way over to the Danish side, where Pernille was standing. You nervously tapped her on the shoulder, and her expression was one of surprise when she spun around and saw you.

“Hi, Miss Harder, I’m (Y/N),” you said.

“I know you, don’t worry. Please, call me Pernille,” she responded.

“I was wondering if.. you’d want to, maybe, trade shirts?” you asked shyly, “I made sure my jersey didn’t get any blood on it, just for this.”

Your comment incited a laugh from Pernille and then, to your relief, a nod. “I’d love to trade jerseys.”

After you had swapped jerseys and you slipped the Denmark jersey over your head, you smiled at the woman. “Thank you so much, Pernille! I really loved playing with you, even the broken nose part. Thank you!”

You returned to Alexia as you were in the process of zipping up your jacket. “You have a quick press conference to go to, and then we can go back to the hotel,” she informed, and you nodded.

Post-match interviews weren’t your favourite. You normally just wanted to go home, have some dinner, and have the deepest sleep of your life. Today was a little different because Alexia was accompanying you.

“(Y/N), what can you tell us about the medical incident that occurred earlier? Is that a lesson for you?” a reporter asked, and you shuffled about in your seat.

“Not necessarily a lesson, because I will break my nose again if I have to, but definitely an experience,”you responded with a small smile.

“Alexia,” the next reporter spoke, “What are your thoughts about the incident?”

She was in the process of taking a sip of water when the question was asked, so her answer didn’t come immediately. When she placed the bottle back down onto the table and leaned closer towards the mic, she began to speak.

“Que… it is a testament to (Y/N)’s selflessness and dedication to football, no matter if it’s club or country. It shouldn’t be looked at as a bad accident, because it wasn’t an accident — it was a sacrifice.”

[risoria]

so. have you seen the pictures from Rafah of the blackened, charred infants? the toddler with no head?

i would like to ask a favour of everyone seeing this post, from one human to another. don't think about the things you can't do - because as it seems, nothing is enough, and nobody can do enough - there is no use to be paralyzed by these thoughts. instead focus on the things you are already doing and the things you can do. i will start by compile a small list of personal suggestions, and please add to it from your own resources! this list is not numbered, i will just add things that i can think of off the top of my head and if it is of any help to at least one person, thats good. take care of yourself - that includes taking care of others, and this world we live in.

this is obvious but keep listening to Palestinian voices. i am mostly active on twitter so i will give some examples from there: Hind_Gaza, HossamShabat, BayanPalestine (press). MuhammadSmiry, does community work with Care for Gaza. m7mdkurd. Everyone is saying mostly the same thing - keep talking, keep protesting, keep boycotting. so do it.

keep talking. humans are social animals and it's as simple as this: the ongoing genocide is dire, urgent and catastrophic - i dont think i need to tell you that. but when people, a lot of people, share posts with each other and reiterate this fact the urgency will be felt stronger by everyone, and reach people who would otherwise maybe not see the reports of the genocide on their screens. if people instead choose to stop sharing and stop talking because it's "been so long" or it's "too difficult", the suffering will become normalized and the only thing people will see on their feeds are mundane things - food, pets, fandoms, and it will send the message that oh, it's not that important after all.... sometimes, you SHOULD feel disturbed and uncomfortable. these feelings are not evil - they will be channelled into actions to better a situation and better the world. silence is violence.

search for protests near your town, sometimes they're hard to find but once you find your local organizations for the Palestinian movement, follow them and you will usually find them! this all depends on where you live of course - but most often there will be fundraisers and events and mailing campaigns etc, and the more people joining the better. and, most importantly i would say, share these events and pictures (no faces of strangers, ofc! from protests on your facebook, twitter etc - because that way people close to you will see them and that it's completely rational and normal to attend protests, and if they've been on the fence maybe they will reach out and join you.

donate if you are able and share links to the different organizations - some examples are Care for Gaza, Sulala animal rescue, the Gazan Municipality Life for Gaza project (https://gaza-city.ensany.com/campaign/6737), the PCRF.

individual gofundmes - here is the google doc with a lot of campaigns, but im sure there are lots of them that arent yet added: https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1-DDMFyn-ttboPXrz1bB3MFk7BlzCwfugh4259Wh7U1s/htmlview

donate e-sims, which will be sent by the Esims for Gaza team to people in Gaza, to help communicate with their families etc during blackouts. it's very quick and easy and on nomad you can get a referral code which gives someone else 25% off their first purchase, and there's also often different bonus codes. on the website there's tutorials for how to buy the different esims. https://gazaesims.com/

there's some different charity shops where you can buy Palestinian products and the proceeds help Palestinian artisans and people. here are some examples, please add more if you know any: https://handmadepalestine.com/ (based in Ramallah, Palestine), https://forpalestine.dk/ (based in Denmark), https://www.shoppalestine.org/ (based in the US)

boycott!! the BDS of course have their targeted brands (https://bdsmovement.net/) but there's also for example the witness website with lists of brands and the reasons for boycotting them (https://boycott.thewitness.news/) and some different apps that do the same thing, like the "no thanks" app. yes, the list of brands is very, very long. maybe all of it isn't feasible BUT i think a good start would be to go through them and decide which ones are unnecessary either way that you're better off without (mcdonalds, starbucks etc), and then which ones are part of your usual shopping routine, make a mental note of them and pick different options - see it as an opportunity to try new things, to support local brands and smaller businesses!

go do yourself a favour and give Palestinian-Canadian artist Nemahsis' new single "stick of gum" a listen, it's super good! <3 https://youtu.be/VsqYlmf3SAg?si=EK_TZjo0Ijny8hMT

please, add more tips and resources below or just share your own pictures or art or thoughts!

[woso-dreamzzz]

Call Up II

Hardersson x Teen!Reader

Part of the Big Adventures Universe

Summary: Zećira and Frido's reactions

You sit out the front of Millie's house, staring down at your phone.

Zećira's smiling contact picture looks back at you. Your finger hovers over the call button. You're not too sure how to start this off. You can see Morsa pacing up and down the road, as she talks to moster Frido and you look back down at Zećira's picture.

"Hey," She says when the call is picked up," What's up? You never call."

You laugh a little awkwardly. "I..er..." You definitely didn't think this far ahead. "I actually have some news."

You can practically hear Zećira's eye roll. "Don't tell me your mothers are doing something stupid again. I can only take so much of Magda falling out of trees."

"It's about me, actually."

You could hear the moment Zećira went serious. There's some rustling on her side of the phone as she moves about.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," You say, biting at your lip," I was just wondering if you want to come watch me play."

"For Arsenal? Sorry, y/n, I know the derby is tomorrow but I'm busy until lunch. I won't be able to make it."

"No," You say," During the international break."

"Oh, then yeah, I'm free. So long as you get Pernille to send me directions. I'm telling you the roads in Denmark aren't natural. They-"

"In Sweden, actually," You cut her off," With the senior team."

There's silence for a moment and then an odd little squeaking sound.

"For our senior team? For Sweden?"

"Yeah, for Sweden."

Silence again.

"You got called up?! When?!"

"A few minutes ago," You reply," There's three friendlies. One for each keeper so I'm actually going to get game time."

"Are you serious?"

"Would I lie?"

"You sort me out with tickets, do you hear me? And...And...You're going to be wearing a Sweden shirt?"

"No more wearing yours," You laugh.

"When do you go back home? After the derby? I'll send you something. I don't know what but I'll send you something, okay? Have you told Frido yet?"

"Morsa's calling her now."

"Okay...okay..." She takes several deep breaths. "Video call me tonight so I can sort everything out, alright? God, I'm so proud of you."

You had just dropped the call when Morsa comes hurrying over. She shoves her phone into your ear.

"Congratulations!"

"Thanks, moster."

"I called it," Moster Frido boasts," I said to your mothers that we'd see you in a Sweden jersey one day. I love being right."

You laugh a little bit in disbelief. "You can't have known."

"I did," Frido insists," Although, I did assume it would be as a forward."

You roll your eyes. "But you're fine with it being as a keeper?"

"Well," Frido says with a laugh," So long as when your kids are named Frido, we have enough to fill all positions, I'm happy with you as a keeper."

You huff in amusement. "Bold of you to assume they'd be named after you."

"Bold of you to assume that I won't be front row watching you next month."

You perk up. "You're coming?"

"You think I'd miss your first game on the senior team?" Frido asks back," I don't know if they'll be selling your shirts yet. I'll have to DIY my own."

Your cheeks go a little red at that. You hadn't thought about people selling your shirt. They didn't sell shirts at the youth level. It had never really crossed your mind.

But you also knew what moster Frido was like. You knew how embarrassing she was.

"Please don't."

"I will," She promises," Just you wait."

Momma pops her head out the door. "Millie said dinner's ready."

"I have to go," You say to Frido," I've got a match tomorrow. I need to eat."

"Alright," Frido says," I'll see you soon, alright? Front row."

"Front row," You confirm," Love you, moster Frido."

"Love you too, little monster."

[nordickies]

Nordictalia Fanfiction Masterpost

Hello, hello! I recently asked people to send me their Nordic 5-centric fanfiction recommendations, and I ended up getting so many good suggestions that I figured I'd compile them all into a single master post! Thank you so much to everyone who participated; this is exactly what I was looking for <3

All linked fanfictions are recommended by people in my inbox, I haven't read them all (yet). I'm willing to update this list if more recommendations come my way!

I decided to share this list because I have seen other people on the desperate lookout for new fics to read. Hopefully, this list will serve you well, too!

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Oneshots (<10K)

Sticky notes by MilyV wc: 732 || rating: G || pairings: SuFin || completed Soulmates AU summary: AU. If you had the chance, would you communicate with your soulmate through sticky notes? Tino wasn't really sure about it but he decided to try it anyway. Fishermen & drowning sailors prompt by @saltcove wc: ~800 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: DenNor || completed Fantasy AU summary: pairing: denmark/norway / theme: fishermen & drowning sailors SuNor oneshot by @norgetalia wc: ~900 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: SuNor || completed Nationverse summary: Inspired by this post by nordickies! I love writing SuNor… mmmm stoic old men exes who are secretly in love >:) Linger by islande wc: 1,207 || rating: T || pairings: NorEst || completed Paranormal AU summary: Estonia sees ghosts from his past. They linger in the corner of his eyes, always watching. People who cared for him, people he cared for in return. Even strangers—men, women, and children whom he had never seen while they lived—appear before him. But Norway cares for him now, and Estonia is glad to care for him for as long as he will accept it. Beowulf by @balladofthewhitehorse wc: ~1,400 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: Eng & Swe || completed Nationverse summary: One of the earliest mentions of Sweden in old English literature comes in the form of the epic poem of Beowulf ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Coffee and Piano Keys by @scarlettlillies wc: 1,545 || rating: G || pairings: DenEst || completed Human AU summary: Christian is a busy construction worker who's a social butterfly, Eduard is a pianist who's tickets aren't selling. Everything started with just a cup of coffee. Knight's Ghost by RosieTheRo wc: 1,550 || rating: G || pairings: SuFin || completed Paranormal AU summary: Musician Tino Väinämöinen is interviewed for a television show, and has a strange story to tell. Inspired by the show "Celebrity Ghost Stories." Slight SuFin. First-person monologue. // cw: Major Character Death Make Me Laugh by bwinkbear wc: 1,594 || rating: G || pairings: DenFin || completed Nationverse summary: Valentine's Day in the States isn't quite what Tino is used to, but at least his delivery driver likes dogs. The Librarian Aide's Tale by Fintastica wc: 2,142 || rating: G || pairings: Ame & Liet, Den & Nor || completed Harry Potter AU summary: Lukas Bondevik, or, the struggles of dealing with people Kärringkånk - Or Not by Kono10 wc: 2,521 || rating: G || pairings: SuFin, DenNor || completed Nationverse summary: Finland and Estonia compete in the "Wife-Carrying" competition every year which makes Sweden very jealous. So, after a few drinks, he marches all the way across the Baltic to get his lover back, but he ends up going the wrong way to Denmark's front door instead. Will his friends comfort him in his time of emotional need? Highly unlikely.. Fireflies by @darcymariaphoster wc: 2,534 || rating: T || pairings: SuNor || completed Human AU summary: It started and ended on a summer night, before Berwald goes off to college. But apparently neither forgot, and a more or less chance meeting at a cafe some 20 years later reignites a spark they almost let disappear. [Late Night Vibes/High School prompts for SuNorWeek2022 on tumblr] the shore by phyripo wc: 3,000 || rating: G || pairings: Nyo!DenEst || completed Fantasy AU, Mermaid AU summary: Helle has always loved the sea, loves living this close to it, despite the dangers that come with the situation. The air is always sharper here than inland, carrying with it cold from the east, the smell of salt or faraway forests. The sea brings stories that no one would ever hear otherwise. And sometimes, the sea brings wandering mermaids. My Caoineag by @darcymariaphoster wc: 4,148 || rating: T || pairings: ScotNor || completed Fantasy AU summary: The waves should have taken him, but fate had other ideas. Sigurd instead found himself entangled with a creature who could not know kindness, and yet only showed kindness to him. [loosely ScotNor] ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Alternative Universes (AUs)

With Flowers by orphan_account wc: 2,170 || rating: G || pairings: DenNor, SuFin || completed Flower Shop AU summary: What was not normal was the blonde man shoving the door open, panting and red faced. Lukas stood up abruptly, before the man looked up, eyes locking on him. "How do you say 'screw you' with flowers?" Reverie Of The North by @eveistdiepommes wc: ~4,000 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: SuFin || work in progress Fantasy AU summary: ROTN: We Were Tasked With Slaying the Demon Prince takes place in a medieval/fairytale/fantasy setting. Magic is ever present, beasts and creatures roam the forests, and while peace is happily maintained in the northern kingdoms, a new threat looms over the horizon. Word has spread of ferocious, terrifying armies of dark beings attacking kingdoms and leaving civilians fleeing their homes. The only kingdoms with enough time and resources to assemble a plan are the ones high up, the ones who haven’t been affected… yet. The Kingdoms of Frost, Shadows, Mystery, Isolation, and Life must band together and find the root of the issue. Good thing the princes from each kingdom are childhood best friends! Your Guardian Ghosts by @darcymariaphoster wc: 7,253 || rating: T || pairings: NorFin || completed Paranormal AU summary: Emil has always seen things -- ghosts and the like. The problem is, they're never nice things, and so he's refused to admit that he sees anything at all. But as his life changes, he may have to admit defeat. [A story of spooks and hauntings and healing for tumblr's 2022 Hetaween event.] // cw: major character death ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Espresso Kiss by @darcymariaphoster wc: 10,094 || rating: T || pairings: NorFin || completed Human AU summary: Lukas has run this cat cafe for the past three years and he's never had any problems. Until now -- two weeks before Christmas, his friends all show up for a big get-together and he's supposed to get an inspection right before the holiday hits. Maybe he'd be able to handle it, if his ex wasn't also going to be there, and if he hadn't just brought in a new batch of kittens, one of which seems absolutely hellbent on escaping. Or, maybe not so much escaping as pushing people together… Diamond Glints on Snow by Ludwiggle73 wc: 11,574 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor, SuFin || completed Fantasy AU summary: Mikkel sets off on a quest to save an old friend and ends up finding a new perspective as well. // cw: Major Character Death Not With Haste by @snark-sniper wc: 12,109 || rating: G || pairings: DenNor || completed Nobility AU summary: In a world where literacy is restricted to the upperclass, Mathias finds his soulmate's first words to him written on his forearm. Lukas doesn't. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

folly of men by @brokskar wc: 15,689 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor || completed Human AU summary: Losing his job is not something that Mathias is particularly happy about. But it leads him back to Lukas, an old friend he lost touch with years ago. A lot has changed throughout the years, and as Mathias learns more about Lukas, he realizes there's more to learn about himself, too. The Best Bakery In The City by Peanutsfan1 wc: 33,439 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor, SUFin, HongIce || completed Human AU, Crime AU summary: Mathias Køhler was feeling quite confident. The week started with his Captain approaching him with the best case, an undercover mission to investigate the crime organisation run by the Bondevik family. Turns out this case isn't as simple as Mathias thought. As he keeps running into obstacles, he has to deal with the ever-present fear that he will be found out. Can he take down this criminal organisation without being discovered? And is Lukas Bondevik as terrifying as he let's on? Read My Lips by Terra Saltt wc: 36,782 || rating: T || pairings: SuFin || completed Superpower AU summary: Tino enjoys the comfort of a quiet library and dreaming minds when he picks up on the charming thoughts of a perfect stranger. Has Berwald found someone that can fully understand him, even when he is silent? MindReader!Tino x Deaf!Berwald AU ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Nationverse

Words and Broken Tables by Liradawn wc: 475 || rating: T || pairings: SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: "I thought I would love you forever. But forever is a long time to be wrong." SuFin angst, written for the kink meme. Reviews will always be much loved! The Birch tree by @caffinatedstory wc: ~800 II rating: Not Rated II pairings: none II completed Nationverse summary: It’s not a pretty sight that greets his eyes. His uniform is ripped and worn. Pale and washed out from far too much exposure to the outdoors. Scars are visible all over his chest. Deep grooves and soft lines of pink mar his pale skin. But scars are nothing new. Scars do not cause him pain. // cw: gore Two Oceans by @caffinatedstory wc: 934 || rating: G || pairings: Nor & Ice || completed Nationverse summary: "What's love?" Iceland enquires with a curious gaze up at his brother. The question seems to take Norway by surprise. The previous 30-50 questions Iceland had asked today had been more about why grass was green and the sky blue. Norway wasn't prepared for this sort of stuff. He'd gotten away with blaming the gods for a lot of stuff too, but he didn't think that would work now. Selfoss by @scarlettlillies wc: 1,346 || rating: G || pairings: Swe & Ice || completed Nationverse summary: During a trip to see the northern lights near the Icelandic town of Selfoss, Sweden couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being watched. Yesterday by @scarlettlillies wc: 1,450 || rating: G || pairings: Nyo!DenEst || completed Nationverse summary: It was the final day of their brief holiday in Hiiumaa. Even though Estonia assures her that they will be back again soon, it's not enough. Denmark was tired of going home alone. Change by @ifindus wc: 2,515 || rating: G || pairings: SuNor || completed Nationverse summary: Norway is not happy with being traded around like a piece of property and he is certainly not happy with his new "boss" ; Sweden. Over the years, his opinion does not change, but their personal relationship just might. Brushstrokes by yuuago wc: ~3,100 || rating: G || pairings: SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: When Sweden had commissioned the portraits, he had meant it only as a token of affection; he hadn't thought there would be a time when he'd see Finland's portrait more often than Finland himself. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Ástin mín by @i-am-a--lionheart wc: 3,941 II rating: M II pairing: SuNor II completed Nationverse summary: At the End of Kalmar, nothing keeps Sweden around but Norway. As he asks him to leave the union, the words between them stay soft and gentle, but hearts are torn apart anyways. // cw: Graphic Depictions Of Violence. Major Character Death Siblings and Quibblings by @95jezzica wc: 4,587 || rating: G (K) || pairings: none || completed Nationverse summary: Multiple fics dedicated to sibling idiocy. xD - [Ch1, Punchline: Norway goes to the market and leaves Sweden with the task of keeping Denmark out of trouble. In hindsight that was a stupid idea.] - [Ch5, Parenting is Warranting: There was no rush, and so Sweden could afford to let Sealand n Ladonia finish thinking what was on their minds. In hindsight, this had been a mistake.] xD Those Easy Days by kosame wc: 5,409 || rating: M || pairings: DenNor || completed Nationverse summary: He may not have his memories, but he has a good, simple life, until two strangers come to town and destroy his quiet equilibrium. The Butterfly I Keep in the Pocket of my Shirt by @randomw07 wc: 5,501 || rating: G || pairings: none || completed Nationverse summary: In Norway, he doesn't so much question his sexuality as realise it has a name. Snippets of Love by @95jezzica wc: 8,499 || rating: G (K+) || pairings: SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: Multiple snippets of various genres and SuFin's love for each other. [Ch1: Not Leaving. -Sweden has to be insane if he thinks Finland is about to leave him wounded and alone in the middle of a blizzard.] - [Ch10: Just Trust - Free Falling. - "Trust is a must in relationships, but sometimes Finland takes trust falls a little TOO literally for Sweden's and Estonia's liking."] xD ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Waiting for Sunshine in Tallinn by A_Virtuous_Pyromaniac wc: 10,207 || rating: T || pairings: SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: The year is 1974. From fraternal obligation, Finland takes a ferry across the Iron Curtain to pay Estonia a Christmas visit. Soviet Estonia might seem closed-off and static, but change is rippling beneath the surface. A mostly-serious historical fic about Estonian/Finnish relations during the Soviet occupation Five Loves for Berwald Oxenstierna by coeurgie wc: 17k+ || rating: M || pairings: DenSu, SuNor, SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: From Björn of the ætt Steirnung to Lord Berwald Oxenstierna to Papa, one thing has stayed the same: Sweden loves. / Sweden/OFC, Sweden/Denmark, Sweden/Finland, Sweden/Norway, Papa!Sweden Sealand. Historically accurate. Author's note inside with more. Ystävänpäivä by orphan_account wc: 17,410 || rating: M || pairings: SuFin, RusFin, NorFin || completed Nationverse summary: It's February 14th, and in honor of Friendship day, Finland has sent out cards to every nation he has an embassy in. It's just too bad that most countries do not view this particular day as a day to celebrate friendship. Why Iceland Can Speak Arabic by Klokkenspel wc: 23,429 || rating: T || pairings: none || completed Nationverse summary: He didn't think this visit would be different from the others, as his people were doing quite well, after all. He probably should have paid more attention to those ships on the horizon, but there was little room for regret when your hands are tied and you're taken aboard on a voyage to who-knows-where. Iceland is kidnapped by Barbary pirates. Norway comes to the rescue. Based off the Turkish Abductions of 1627. // cw: kidnapping Once a Family by Simana wc: 28,638 || rating: G || pairings: none || completed Nationverse summary: Once a family, always a family. Nordic story, Denmark-centric. Five times Denmark was there for his family, and one time his family was there for him. No slash. Originally posted on FF.net. Lif & Lifthrasir by @snark-sniper wc: 39,387 || rating: T || pairings: HongIce || completed Nationverse summary: On May 10, 1940, Iceland is occupied by England; per tradition, the personification of Iceland is brought to London to live in England's household. An Asian colony greets him at the door. (A story of coming of age in quarantine.) // cw: WW2 Healing by messe_jesse wc: 40,680 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: Dennor, SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: It's the end of World War II. The Nordics, after not being together for six years, are living together again under the same roof. It's tough, and all they want to do is go back to normal. But how do you go back to normal after seeing nothing but death, destruction and fear for six years? The chapters after the prologue are the same events but in different point of views so there's some repetition, but it's to show how everybody is processing events differently. The prologue is a bit heavy with the history and there's no dialogue, but the rest of the story has a lot more going on! Also, I apologize if any of my history is incorrect!! I did my best with research. // cw: WW2, PTSD ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Multichapters (+50K)

Apartment 43 by @lumassen wc: 56,867 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor || completed Human AU summary: Sigurd is a single parent to Emil, and they've just moved in to a new apartment complex for a fresh start. Mads, their neighbour below them in Apartment 33 becomes friends with them over time, and he realises that he can help Sigurd in more ways than one. While he figures out what he wants to do with his life, Mads not only forms a friendship with Sigurd, but with little Emil too. Under the North Star by Embrose wc: 66,327 || rating: T || pairings: SuFin, DenNor || completed Human AU summary: Tino Väinämöinen lives in the farthest reaches of Lapland, scraping together a living and keeping himself sane through painting. He ran away from his past, but cast himself into loneliness and darkness. But his quiet living is interrupted, when a Swedish giant Berwald Oxenstierna comes into his life and gradually pulls Tino back into the light. But eventually Tino's past catches up to him… Sendlingur og Sandlóa by @pyrrhocorax wc: 74,037 || rating: T || pairings: SuNor, EstFin, (queerplatonic) DenNor and SuFin (romantic) || completed Nationverse summary: During an average summer in modern day, the Nordics meet up in the countryside for a long vacation to relax together. However, with hundreds of years of history between them, old memories get dredged up, both bad and good. Sendlingur og Sandlóa is a story about perspective, of loss and longing, the temperamental nature of both life and human relationships, and family. (Aromantic asexual Iceland, queerplatonic SuNor and EstFin, romantic DenNor and SuFin. Centered around DenNorIce as a family unit but includes other relationships as well. And honestly, even though this is my intent, you can freely interpret the relationships however you see fit and I actively encourage you to do so if you'd like.) Top Secret by VyraFinn wc: 76,001 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor, SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: Iceland thought that his life would return to normal once he finished the studies in Copenhagen. Unfortunately, he wasn’t right about that, and a bet made with Norway gives him whole new set of problems. Can he survive the Norwegian military training and find the spy before it is too late? There is also something strange going on with Denmark and Norway, but Iceland is not even sure if he wants to know more about that. Sequel to Higher Education. Mise en Scène by @brokskar wc: 77,013 || rating: M || pairings: DenNor || completed Human AU summary: As a screenwriter, Lukas wants to tell the truth about the world; that it's messy, unkind, and complicated. He's also desperate for a way out of the home situation he's stuck in. As a director, Mathias is trying to take back control of the life he lost sight of two years ago. He's looking for an escape from the messy, unkind, and complicated world that Lukas is so adamant on recreating. As members of the same film group, they both have their own ideas and ambitions when it comes to making their new movie, and neither one of them are particularly interested in letting the other get in their way. Stories Through the Years by Ikikuka wc: 79,541 || rating: M || pairings: SuFin || work in progress Nationverse summary: Short, and sometimes a little bit longer, stories from the North. Finland's and Sweden's journey from the past to this day from their respective perspectives. Gutters by glassamilk wc: 98,149 || rating: M || pairings: Den & Sea || completed Apocalypse AU summary: 'The Calamity' has left the world stripped and dying. Alone in a civilian bunker in Munich, Sealand will be reunited with the last known living member of his surrogate family and together, they will set out across Europe to find those they have lost. // cw: Major Character Death ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Higher Education by VyraFinn wc: 99,845 || rating: T || pairings: DenNor, SuFin || completed Nationverse summary: After a brief argument with his boss Iceland finds himself to be enrolled in to a master program in University of Copenhagen. Not only he is a nation but now he should somehow survive the student life and keep it all secret from his family. Good thing Denmark never notices anything, right? A Kingdom to Fall by @darcymariaphoster wc: 150,275 || rating: M || pairings: Nordic polycule || work in progress Fantasy AU summary: The Väinämöinen family is dead. That's the news that sparks the building of a new and vast kingdom, one that promises to rival even the most powerful kingdoms in Europe. It's not the way Sigurd had imagined meeting any of his soul partners, under political terms and conditions. But here he is -- with three other men, conspiracy, and more personal challenges than he'd ever thought one could handle. All he'd wanted was to be King. // cw: Graphic Depictions Of Violence. Major Character Death Take a Chance on Me by Hetart wc: 183,443 || rating: Not Rated || pairings: DenNor || completed Human AU, High School AU summary: When Lukas moved in with his grandparents next door, Mathias immediately knew they would be the best of friends. For the most part, this prediction was correct. But as the years pass and the two grow older, Mathias learns that life is rarely as simple as it seems when you are six years old and with a heart full of stars. Or. A story of two boys who, against all odds, will find each other every time. Once in 19th century by VyraFinn wc: 203,195 II rating: M II pairings: DenNor, SuFin II work in progress Nationverse summary: Denmark has fallen, Norway has been taken away, and Iceland… Iceland is all alone. Thrown into a life of great changes and discoveries, he has to figure out what it really means to grow up. Independent, stand-alone part of the Icelandic Studies, and prequel of sort to Higher Education and Top Secret. ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

Explicit [18+]

Head Over Feet by Sara Generis (kanadka) wc: 2,128 || rating: E || pairings: NedDen || completed Nationverse summary: It all starts out perfectly innocent: well-travelled routes brought a Viking Dane through to Dorestad where he met a young Lowland enterpreneur selling wares. And when they grew up it was natural enough to consider each other for a spot of casual fun. Just innocent fun, filthy sex, but nothing so messy as romance. //cw: smut Stuffed by uncagingwardens wc: 3,275 || rating: E || pairings: DenNor || completed Nationverse summary: Aleksander makes a promise, and Mathias holds him to it. // cw: smut, OC Decades by wickedlupin wc: 3,477 || rating: E || pairings: DenNor || work in progress Nationverse summary: separation. n. 1. the action or state of being moved apart. 2. the division of something into constituent or distinct elements. independence. n. 1. free from outside control. 2. not depending on another for livelihood or subsistence. “Sve will be pissed if he finds out I have you like this.” “That’s all the more reason for you to do it, then, isn’t it?” // cw: smut Under Your Breath by Ludwiggle73 wc: 5,007 || rating: E || pairings: SuFin || completed Human AU summary: Berwald is a chiropractor. Tino gets his back blown out. // cw: smut, omega verse Rags To Dance In by bunnyfication wc: 9,690 || rating: E || pairings: NedDen || completed Nationverse summary: In which blood is thicker than water, but even that might not be enough, and Netherlands is a (mostly) neutral spectator helping bros with trouble with other bros. // cw: smut, medical trauma Dragon's Heart by Domina_Ecca wc: 10,359 || rating: E || pairing: DenSu || completed Fantasy AU summary: Hetalia Fantasy AU: A beast of legend has attacked a defenseless village at the base of a dark mountain. Only one warrior is brave enough to seek it out. But no creature is more determined at getting what it wants than a dragon… Rated for cursing, adult content, and some violence. [warrior!Sweden x dragonshifter!Denmark] // cw: smut ─•~❉᯽❉~•─

[buzzcutlip]

Cracks and Gaps - The Worst Day (part I) Carmen Berzatto x Fem!Reader Mature (Explicit in the following parts) 7434 words ao3

You meet Carmen in Copenhagen through a mutual friend and bond over shared experiences. After following his rising career from afar, you reconnect in Chicago when he renovates his late brother's restaurant. As an editor, you can't miss an opportunity to find out more about the comeback of this chef prodigy.

A/N: I've started writing this story a looong time ago last year. There will be two more parts. I would like to thank @carmyboobear for being the most incredible beta and helping me out on the rocky journey. They're a very special person to me, and also a fantastic and inspiring writer themselves. Please, check their Carmy stories if you haven't!

THE WORST DAY

The first time you meet Carmen, you are both a little over twenty and in Copenhagen. He is staging at Noma, and you are interning at a design studio where everyone is very “green.” From one of your conversations with Carmen, you learn that Pop-Tarts and Cheetos are illegal here. In Europe. Most of the sodas that stained your tongue crazy colors when you were a kid are banned too. He lectures you on Scandinavian agriculture and food production.

Carmen is skinny and short—still a bit taller than you, though—with sharp, high cheekbones and bulging eyes. You don't know enough about each other to be “friends,” but he is a good companion. Your high school friend Becky knows Carmen’s older sister; that’s how you found each other in Denmark’s capital.

On two rare occasions, you get drunk together, and that happens only when he is stressed from work. Like, stressed STRESSED. You'd think he only drinks special natural wine from Lofoten or something, but his choice of poison is canned Budweiser. Maybe he misses home as much as you do. Maybe that’s what leads you to almost kiss him the second time. Carmen lives on a boat, and he takes you there, where you drink vodka mixed with herbs and licorice that Carmen concocts, his tongue peeking out between his lips as he concentrates. The drink tastes good. Weird. You don't hide your grimace. Neither of you comments on the alcohol ratio. It's more vodka than anything else, that's for sure.

Carmen is not your type, physically or character-wise—you are an introvert yourself, so you need someone to bring you out of your shell. Obviously, doing an internship on a different continent is a huge step, one that is only on you. He also smokes a lot and probably doesn't wash his hair. You've heard about his crazy mother and bonkers family from Becky, so you understand why Carmen is Carmen. Why he’s run off to Europe. It's just—his face—his eyes, when he's telling you about his dream job at Noma or Alchemist—they glow, and he becomes so animated, the quiet excitement seeping to the surface, and there's fondness blooming in your chest. He also knows a thing or two about sports, as you do, the subject bringing you back to Chicago, and the longing for “home” and “familiar” is terribly strong in the moment, enhanced by the alcohol. And Carmen, the boy sitting opposite you, with burns on his hands and ripped jeans, is both of those things put into one.

Nothing happens between you two, but the urge to press your own lips against his lingers after you leave in a taxi, not brave enough to ride a bike under the influence.

You try to stay in touch after Copenhagen, messaging Carmen on his empty Facebook profile, sending a text once in a while, mainly at Christmas, and when you have some terrible junk food, just to make fun of him. When he FaceTimes you, he’s in Paris, and you’re in Dublin. The next time, he’s in California.

He rarely ever answers messages on the phone. Usually, it's an emoji, sometimes a word or two. Soon, there are no answers, and you can't be bothered. You carry on with your life in Chicago, and it doesn’t take long before you start seeing Carmen Berzatto in the paper, on the internet. The young prodigy chef, everyone says. Reluctantly, you read the articles, thinking about the Copenhagen Carmen, smiling at his photos. He's grown up, filled out. His hair is curlier, his shoulders wider, his biceps stronger. He looks good. Good and sad, you think to yourself, and decide not to text him to congratulate him on his star career. Carmen is not one to care about what you think of it.

It's only when you hear from Becky that Mikey Berzatto has died, that you think of Carmen properly, after years full of work in the magazine office, one shitty almost-boyfriend, and summers spent in Europe, writing about sustainable travel and solo adventures. Becky says that he's inherited a restaurant from Michael. You decide against sending him condolences—too personal.

But about ten months later, there's whispering that a fancy restaurant, The Bear, is replacing The Beef of Chicagoland, and it's actually your boss who tells you that you should go check the place out.

You are not into that whole haute cuisine thing, to be honest. You never understood those tiny little portions and strange ingredients and their combinations. You prefer good pasta with Bolognese sauce or roasted chicken with mashed potatoes. Sometimes you wonder if Carmen's strange relationship with his family is what's keeping him away from his Italian roots and forcing him to work in pristine, starched whites in sterile kitchens, cooking intestines and antlers, making it art.

---

Becky gives you Natalie Berzatto’s phone number to get in touch with her to try to schedule an interview for the magazine feature. Your boss, Rob, hopes that Carmen could even make it to the cover soon when The Bear takes off. You’re not sure how you feel about bypassing Carmen completely and going straight to his sister.

So one Thursday, in early May, you decide to walk there, unannounced. You corner the building, passing a big glass window, and before you make it to the main entrance, you nearly collide with a very wonky wooden stepladder. With Carmen Berzatto on top of it, fiddling with a screwdriver or a similar tool, and a signboard.

The second you make contact with the ancient stepladder, Carmen shouts, "Fuck!"

“Sorry,” you yelp, and one glance at the man high up confirms that you are indeed dealing with the Chef himself.

“Could you watch out?” he says angrily as he makes his way down, measuring every step carefully.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize again, waiting anxiously for Carmen to—hopefully—recognize you. To anyone walking by, you must look like an idiot, standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, waiting motionless and stiff for a guy to climb down a ladder.

You don’t know what you had been expecting but definitely not Carmen staring at you with his huge, bloodshot eyes for seconds that feel like minutes. You nearly turn around and walk away, no joke.

He looks—

“You look—” you start. Terrible. But also, like, gorgeous. Terribly tired but hot. Is it awful of you to think that?

“Hi,” Carmen says, one hand going into the big mess of his hair, the other one into his pants pocket. He's avoiding your eyes, which makes you even more nervous, makes you think it was not such a great idea to come here.

“Hi!” you say, probably overly enthusiastically. “You're back in Chicago,” is the first thing you can think of.

He nods. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Well, congrats on the new place,” you say, gesturing to the building behind him, newspaper covering the windows. “I'm really sorry, I thought it was already open,” you explain, tugging on the hem of your lilac sweatshirt nervously. Can he tell you’re lying? “Becky mentioned something about it.”

“No, we’re opening next week,” Carmen says, holding a cigarette between his fingers.

“I'm really curious,” you smile carefully, testing the waters, wondering how he's going to react. You haven't seen each other in more than five years, and Carmen's never been exactly friendly. Not like mean, but definitely not easily approachable. “I work for this magazine, and we would love to do a feature on this,” you say, leaving out that it's you who would be writing it. Who wants to write it. Not only about the place but about Carmen, the enigma, the quiet boy, the excellent chef.

He only nods, clearly not sharing your enthusiasm. “Maybe later,” he taps the cigarette against the palm of his other hand. “When we're ready for this kind of thing.”

“Of course,” you agree quickly.

“Might be a while.”

“So what is the big plan?”

Carmen looks at you, measuring you. Like he thinks you have some ulterior motive. He lights up the cigarette, taking a long drag from it, and you fight not to scrunch your nose in disgust. The older you get, the more you hate the smell. Especially when someone is blowing out the smoke aimlessly—almost—in your face.

“My partner—Sydney, she’s hung up on the stars. So I guess a fine dining kinda place,” Carmen says, flicking the cigarette butt in the general direction of the gutter. The second sentence comes out more like a question than a statement, but you are still processing the first one.

“You run a business with your girlfriend?” you swear you don’t mean it to sound so accusing.

Carmen takes a step back, physically—bumping into the stepladder behind him—and mentally, too. “No! She—Sydney’s my business partner.” The defensive tone tells you exactly how your words sounded though. You wince. “We’ve been working on the new concept together with Nat, and the whole crew, actually. It’s—it’s a family business, I guess—uhm. We had only like three months to finish, and—”

You can see he’s really flustered. He’s starting to stutter, hand nervously scratching his neck. You hate the sight, hate that you’ve made him feel like this.

“I’m sorry!” you interrupt him. “It came out all wrong. I shouldn’t have said that,” you say urgently, hoping to see him relax back to his non-caring, nonchalant, tired-looking self. How could you mess up so quickly? Is that your special ability or a curse?

“‘s fine,” Carmen says, and he does relax a bit, shoulders dropping an inch. He doesn’t look friendly though. Or in the mood for a chat. “I just—she’s a business partner,” he repeats obstinately, face red.

The moment grows awkward. In your coat pocket, you touch a pack of chewing gum and start fiddling with it. “I—my office is nearby so I thought I could come around and see the progress,” you say into the void, trying not to cringe too much. “Maybe I would take a few colleagues for dinner.”

“The reservations aren't open yet,” Carmen says in a flat voice. You can’t call him out because it’s probably true anyway. Plus, you just lied again—the offices are not close; you had taken the L—and you feel bad about it.

There’s not much left to say, you realize. He’s not giving you any space to turn this “accidental” meeting into a proper conversation. You shuffle your feet nervously, feeling stupid.

“Alright. It was nice seeing you!” you say, as it’s about time to end this. “Hope everything’s gonna work out great!” you add in a cheerful tone, already setting to walk back to the station.

“Yeah. Thanks. Bye.” Carmen says back, lighting a second cigarette.

What a nightmare, you think as you walk through the busy streets.

—

In the following weeks, you almost forget about The Bear. Rob complains about the nonexistent article on the new, already hyped-up restaurant and wasted opportunities, but what can you do? The not-at-all-accidental meeting with Carmen had been a disaster you actively try to erase from your mind. Working on your regular column and material for the website keeps you busy. Then Becky calls out of nowhere, and you two arrange lunch at The Marq. You end up swapping hilarious stories from the last two months you hadn’t seen each other, and you secretly pray she doesn’t ask about Natalie Berzatto or her brother. You're out of luck, because she does—of course she does—and you have to lay the cards on the table.

“You did contact Nat first though?” is the first thing Becky asks.

“I didn’t,” you shake your head. “I didn’t want to exclude Carmen right at the very beginning,” you admit.

“Oh god,” Becky rolls her eyes at you, taking a small bite of her salmon cake sandwich.

“I knooow,” you quickly stop her, feeling like ordering something stronger than the simple soda you’ve been drinking.

“I think you should still call Natalie,” Becky says, pointing at you with a determined frown. “I went to see her and her new baby just last week. She asked about you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” she nods. “Apparently they could really use some help getting the word out about The Bear. A good excuse to talk Carmen into an interview maybe? An exclusive one?” She wiggles her eyebrows, knowing how cool it would be for you to come up with this.

“Maybe,” you muse, playing it cool. Inside, you are already hyped up about the possibility of scoring the first interview with the former best chef in the world. Is he still good at all? Why did he disappear? Why is he back?

—

The anxiety of the following days forces you to actually text Natalie. You’ve been checking online websites and Instagram accounts apprehensively, worried that a medium might publish something about The Bear before you get a chance. Rob isn’t a dick, but you wouldn’t want to look incompetent in his eyes. So far, you’ve been able to steer away from conversations about the new Carmen Berzatto restaurant at work. Your work ethic makes it difficult for you to let The Bear go without a fight.

That’s how you find yourself in front of Natalie’s door. When she opens it, she doesn’t hide her fervor.

“Oh, finally! Hi! Please come in.” She ushers you inside. You’ve never seen her in person, only on Becky’s Instagram, maybe, and even though the exhaustion is apparent on the woman’s face, you can spot the similarities with Carmen in her features right away.

From the dark hallway, she leads you to the sitting room. When you look around, it’s hard to find a clutter-free space. Every surface is covered with baby clothes, baby diapers, baby wipes—clean and dirty—bottles—full and empty.

“Sorry for the mess,” Natalie appears next to you, snatching away a baby muslin from the sofa. “Have a seat, please,” she nods. “The baby’s asleep. Hopefully for the next—” and she checks her watch, “another twenty minutes.”

As you sit down, Natalie collapses into an armchair, not minding what appears to be a pile of freshly washed newborn onesies and other clothes underneath her.

“Thank you so much for stopping by,” she says sincerely, and you notice the many stains on her purple t-shirt.

You smile. “No problem.”

“Becky said that you know stuff about Instagram and social media and marketing and all that?” Natalie’s eyes are wide and hopeful.

“I would say so,” you nod.

“I’m not sure what Becky mentioned already,” Natalie says as she starts pulling the baby clothes from under her and folding them absentmindedly. That definitely says something about the state she’s in, without Becky describing the situation to you—not only with The Bear but also Nat herself. “Carmy’s putting so much into the restaurant—we all are—so much hope,” she babbles, “none of us have slept properly in weeks—months! And now the baby...” Natalie’s gaze becomes unfocused for a moment before she blinks rapidly. “The timing’s not so great,” she forces out a weak laugh, and you smile again, already feeling bad for her, not wanting to make her uncomfortable.

“I understand. It’s hard,” you empathize, feeling genuinely bad—not for The Bear—but for Natalie.

“I’m not a marketing guru, but I can research things,” she carries on, more confident now. “But I can’t be there all the time, y’know? It’s just not possible. If—if someone could help with keeping the place afloat and spreading the word—” she stops talking and folding, looking directly at you. “That would be just so awesome,” she finishes quietly, her bottom lip wobbling.

You know that Nat’s not trying to emotionally blackmail you, even though the situation kinda feels like it, and you do feel for her.

“I can help, yes.”

“I’ll talk to Carm and Sydney, and we’ll figure out how much we can offer you!” The relief and excitement are apparent in the way Nat jumps up from the armchair.

“That’s alright, really,” you say calmly, putting a hand on her arm now that she’s closer. “We can discuss this later,” and you give her another encouraging smile.

The unmistakable sound of a baby crying comes from somewhere in the house. Poor Natalie freezes, her hand going to touch her chest. She takes a deep, steadying breath.

“Thank you. Thank you,” and she takes a hold of your hand, squeezing it. “I’ll tell Sydney to get in touch with you—or you can actually just go to the restaurant; they know about you.”

That makes you slightly uncertain as you remember your first attempt at an unannounced visit to The Bear.

“Alright,” you nod with a polite smile. After all, you’re getting something out of this too.

—

Sydney texts you exactly 22 minutes after you leave worn-out Natalie and her baby behind and invites you to come to The Bear the next day. To make yourself appear more untouchable, you reply that the soonest you’re available is next Monday. Make them wait.

It gets you on edge, though, and more than once you think of Carmen in his tiny Copenhagen kitchen, how things used to be. How easy it is to grow apart. Not that you’d been friends exactly. Hard to be anything like that with a person as closed off as Carmen Berzatto.

On the agreed Monday, you dare to finish early at work and take the train to The Bear. Your stomach is in knots, even though you’ve been pretty brave about the whole thing. It’s just—you’re not sure how Carmen’s gonna react when he sees you, and you’re already thinking about the worst possible scenarios. Just stop! you tell yourself resolutely, forcing yourself to concentrate on the simple but well-thought-out marketing plan you prepared to present. Without being asked. If Carmen sees that you actually KNOW things, he might change his opinion about you. Not that you KNOW his opinion, but—maybe he would actually acknowledge you finally.

It’s just after the family meal when you arrive. A tall man who introduces himself as Richie lets you in instantly, and he’s clearly been informed about your arrivall. As soon as Sydney is notified of your presence, she rushes to you from the kitchen in the back, wiping her hands on her apron. You notice right away that she’s friendly and calm, and it relaxes your nerves. There’s no doubt she loves the restaurant and her job, and you see that she worries as much as Natalie does, or even more.

“We’re opening in two hours, so it’s a bit wild in the back, but maybe you wanna see the kitchen?” Sydney offers as she’s showing you around the newly restored restaurant, opening the heavy door. “A quick peek,” she adds as a loud cracking noise comes out of the exact door.

You’ve been to a couple of kitchens, and you must say that this one’s definitely on the chaotic side of the scale. People in white aprons run here and there, no one’s still, not even for a second. There’s a good amount of shouting and a huge amount of swearing. In the middle of everything, there’s Chef Carmen Berzatto. He looks like a character from Cartoon Network. His wild hair is sticking out in all directions, dark tattoos covering his arms and hands, face sweaty, eyes ready to pop out of his head. He’s shorter than most people you see circling the kitchen, but the loudest one. He shouts orders, and you notice the vein on the side of his neck—it sure is ready to burst. You wonder how far he is from having a heart attack.

“Or maybe next time,” Sydney mutters, gently pushing you out of the way and shutting the door again. She leads you to one of the brown wooden tables where you settle again.

“Is he always like that?” you ask Sydney, actually glad that you’re not in the room where the storm’s currently happening.

“Only when he’s stressed,” Sydney explains shortly, an apologetic smile on her lips.

When it comes to money, it’s obvious The Bear doesn’t have much to spare, that much is clear. Sydney is extremely apologetic and sweet about it.

“There’s a marketing budget—previously non-existent—that we’ve set aside and can offer. It’s just not much, I’m afraid,” she tells you, jittery.

You want to reassure her, to tell her that you're doing it for Carmen, for an old "friend." But from what you've gathered, Sydney doesn't even know that Carmen knows you.

So you just smile and reassure her anyway. "I'll put it on my resume. I can use more cases with social media for hospitality," you lie.

Nodding, Sydney clarifies, "Yes, just Instagram. Please. Carmy doesn't want to put anything in the press. Yet."

When a curious Richie joins you at the table, you present the Instagram plan to both of them. Even though Richie can't help making a few rather stupid remarks that only he finds funny, they both listen carefully. You see a lot of skepticism on Richie's face, probably because he doesn't understand some of the big words, you guess, but Sydney seems to be really into everything from pictures of the food and the weekly specials, to quick reels showing potential customers a little bit of behind-the-scenes action.

"Oh, I'm sure Cousin will be thrilled to have people sticking their noses into his business," Richie says, and you're not sure how serious he is. But Sydney shushes him, and you carry on, showing her the mock-up of the possible Instagram feed to set the mood for the profile.

For the next three weeks, you go to The Bear twice a week to gather some content—photos and videos. You talk to the crew and film those who are okay with it. Your presence is met with mixed emotions, but Sydney's gratitude and kindness make up for every suspicious glare and exasperated sigh when you find yourself in someone's way. Besides the restaurant, you take your neighbor's dog for a long walk every Saturday morning, call your mom and dad to check in, scroll Instagram instead of finally starting an actual book, and often wonder why Carmen is so hostile towards you.

Generally, you try not to hang out in the kitchen directly, especially not when Chef Carmen is present. Being uncomfortable in a new environment makes you positively anxious, causing you to go through a whole pack of your favorite cinnamon Simply Gums a day.

You also remember to always tie your hair up—not that the staff there wear hairnets or anything, but you don't want Carmen to find another reason to frown at you. He's been basically only frowning or ignoring you. Hard to tell which one is worse.

You always clean your hands super thoroughly, like during COVID, singing the "Happy Birthday" song to time it before daring to even stick your finger in the restaurant. Sydney offers you an apron to protect your work clothes, which you refuse. You sense from some people there that you're not entirely welcome.

But the more you avoid Carmen, the more likely you are to bump into him. You know Murphy's Law. So one morning, he just appears from around the corner, carrying a tray of mushrooms.

For a second, you're actually horrified that he's going to introduce himself. Before that can happen, you blurt out, "Uh—do you remember me? Copenhagen?"

Carmen stops and looks at you, wiping his wet hands on the towel attached to the string of his white apron. "Yeah," he confirms, "yeah, I do." He says your name, all soft and correct, along with your surname, and with his eyes fixed on you, you're frozen to the spot, affected whether you like it or not. Then he leaves to taste Tina's roasted peppers.

Obviously, your mind can't let the episode slip away. As you type copy for the upcoming Instagram posts, you pause every so often to cringe at how embarrassing you behaved. Of course, he remembers you, for fuck's sake! You're working in his restaurant—kinda.

"Hey! Copenhagen! You wanna see this?" Carmen yells a bit later from the other side of the kitchen, and you falter, deciding whether you're really going to answer to him calling you that.

You bite your tongue and trail hesitantly to the station where Carmen is with Tina and Ebraheim, gathered around a saucepan.

"Tina, chef, this is excellent. Well done," Carmen says to her as you approach, then turns to you.

"This is what we wanna share with the world. Perfect red pepper sauce. Simple but delicious."

"Okay," you respond, taking in the expectant way all three of them are looking at you. Like you're some kind of magician. Or a fraud.

"Just," Carmen adds before he sets off, "no recipes leave this kitchen," and he waits for you to confirm.

"Right."

Slowly, you start to question why you're helping The Bear. Is it because two years ago you thought of Carmen and what you might have felt for him? What could have been? More than the chef himself, you find yourself growing fond of the place and the employees—some of them! Seeing the Instagram followers number increase fills you with pride and satisfaction. Fuck Carmen.

---

Mornings are usually the only time when Carmen isn’t around, and you try to time your visits so your paths don’t cross.

Wanting to snap photos of the new tableware and make a quick, fun video reel, you head into the kitchen. There's no one around—Sweeps is probably hiding somewhere, and Sydney might be in the office. Not wanting to bother anyone, you set your always-heavy handbag on a chair and start looking for everything you need. There's no reason for you to feel like you're sneaking around, but you can't help feeling nervous. That’s when your clumsiness strikes, and you manage to knock over a glass of water. Rolling your eyes, you get on your hands and knees to wipe the spilled water with a rug that you hope is meant for cleaning, as you’re very aware of every item having its particular function here.

You straighten up and stretch to get one more plate from the shelf. Then you lose your footing on the still-wet tiles. Your foot slips, and the top plate falls to the countertop with a loud cracking noise. You react quickly, trying to break the fall, but there's no use. The plate shatters to pieces.

Of course, it’s Carmen himself who emerges from the door leading to the office, and you wince—both physically and mentally—preparing yourself for a very unpleasant collision.

“What’s going on?” he asks as he approaches you, eyebrows pinched. He’s not wearing his chef whites, just a simple white t-shirt and dark jeans.

“Sorry, I—” you start apologizing as Carmen stands next to you, assessing the damage.

“What—what’re you doing here?” he asks in a very flat voice, staring at the pieces of ceramic.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to tidy this and also pay for the plate, obviously,” you ramble, reaching down for the shards.

“Don’t,” Carmy barks, stopping you by grabbing your shaking hands in his. His hands are big, the tattoos making them look harsh and crude, even though the touch is gentle. “Don’t cut yourself,” he adds quietly, holding you until you relax your arms and then a second longer.

He must sense your nervousness. “It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Carmen assures you, catching your eye. “Hey,” he lays a soft hand on your arm, “step away, I’ll clean this.”

Nodding, you step back and wait patiently, disconcerted, watching as Carmen carefully handles and discards the shards, then checks the floor for any tiny fragments. He turns back to you.

“Are you okay?” he checks.

“Yeah.” And you’re more thrown off balance by having Carmen pay attention to you, all of a sudden, than by damaging the kitchen’s equipment.

He studies you for a moment, his face unreadable, and you’re the one to look away first. Which you hate, by the way.

“You wanna see some stuff I’ve been working on?”

“Sure,” you agree, taking a deep breath to relax further. “I’m sorry. The loud noise—” you wave your hand in the air vaguely, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Just scared the shit out of me, I guess,” you finish with an apologetic smile.

“You’re alright,” Carmen confirms and disappears for a bit. In the meantime, you have a small meltdown, shaking your head at yourself for being so, so very terribly lame. Luckily, before he returns with a tray of different dishes, you pull yourself together.

Carmen sets the tray down, revealing an array of colorful and sophisticated meals that instantly catch your curiosity.

“Any allergies?” he asks.

“Passion fruit—easily avoidable. Sometimes kiwi,” you list. “And grumpy chefs,” you add cheekily, feeling bold.

Carmen pauses. “I’m not grumpy. I’m focused.”

“You weren’t like this in Copenhagen,” you say softly, leaning a bit closer to him, your body language signaling that once you had been comfortable around each other.

“I’m more focused now,” Carmen retorts, stubborn and maybe a bit offended. “Back then I—uhm—I felt comfortable around you. It was easy.”

“And now?” you almost whisper.

But Carmen ignores the question, pushing the first bowl closer to you. “Here, taste this… or take a picture and then taste it.”

And you understand that the re-bonding is over.

---

Soon, you drop the habit of visiting the restaurant only in the mornings. One reason is that spending time with Carmen, talking to him or watching him cook and explain things, makes you late for work twice in a row. That usually never happens as you take pride in being on time at the office. You don’t work at The Bear for money, but you hardly think about it that way. When you decide to pop in during the morning, Carmen shares his deadly strong black coffee that he mills himself with you. It’s bitter but heavenly. Secretly, you like drinking it while chewing your favorite cinnamon gum, which somehow makes the taste even better—smoother and richer.

The second reason—you discover that Carmen is much calmer in the evenings after service. Less jittery, more relaxed. His blood flows slower, you think. His heart pumps with more ease. Sydney and he share thoughts and plans for the restaurant with you while you all sit at an empty table. It’s nice, you think, while watching Carmen’s hands play with a napkin. His hands are especially nice.

It’s Saturday and raining as you find yourself sitting in Gordon Ramsay's Burger. Nothing could’ve surprised you more than Carmen asking you to go out eat together. Had he felt bad for ignoring you at the beginning? You’re watching the rivers of raindrops on the big glass window, waiting for Carmen. As usual, you’re ten minutes early, and after you order a Life’s a Beach, the first thing on your mind is you're just early, he didn't stand you up, and then: this is not a date, babe! Which instantly startles you into sitting up straight and looking around, as if someone could see your embarrassing thoughts. Why are you even thinking about this?? Then Carmen arrives, wet patches on his shoulders and jeans that cling to his thighs. He chooses the Chicago hot dog and three different burgers with a bunch of sides. While he only nibbles on them and writes down notes on his phone, you feel bad for wasting the food and eat more than you should. Carmen studies the buns very carefully and asks you a lot of questions about the food, some of which you find amusing and actually—endearing. When you go to bed that night, your belly’s uncomfortably full. You dream that you’re pregnant and about to go into labor, and you’re pretty sure that Carmen’s the father. And, honestly, do you need a book of dreams to explain the meaning? Fuck.

---

All goes to hell next week when Carmen sees you eating a sandwich from the corner shop down the street. Instead of having your regular lunch with Becky, you’ve chosen to run to The Bear so you could see Marcus unveil his new dessert. But before that, you popped into the nearby deli to order a mozzarella and sundried tomato sandwich. No one at The Bear had ever explicitly invited you to the family meal, and you would never dare to have free food there. But the way Carmen looks at you while you sit on the step by the back exit, eating the rather dry sandwich, is indescribable. The stern look on his face is back, with a closed-off facade. His eyes are cold. Before you take it all in, you wave at him awkwardly, chewing. Carmen retreats back inside wordlessly, leaving you confused and a little hurt.

Unfortunately, the atmosphere surrounding you doesn’t improve when you return to work, the stupid sandwich sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone. You have a big argument in the meeting room while planning the next month's issue. Then one of your co-workers makes a nasty remark about your single life. The afternoon drags on painfully slowly, which forces you to message your cousin—an astrologist extraordinaire—to check what the heck is going on with the universe.

Tuesday morning is rough. The second you wake up, you know you’ve overslept because you never get up without the alarm ringing angrily. A single glance at your phone proves it to be true. Right after, you notice three missed calls from Sydney and two from Nat. There are no text messages, though.

At first, you intend to call Rob to beg for a home office day, something you rarely ever use. But as soon as you check your calendar, you’re reminded of the big conference happening from 11 a.m. until 5 p.m. You rush to work, finishing your makeup on the train, then enter the office building to quickly run through notes with your colleagues. The first time you have a chance to make a quick phone call is when you finally go to the bathroom. It’s Natalie who you manage to reach first, as the lunch rush at The Bear is just unfolding. Over the cries of Natalie’s baby, you hear half-sentences about a recipe, Carmen, and a leak. It’s hard to put it all together. At 4 p.m., Nat finally sends you a text. It says: “Recipe’s published in Taste of Home. Carm’s mad. Says someone leaked it.”

It contains a link to the Taste of Home website, with Carmen’s perfect Berkswell Pudding recipe in the Top Recipes of the Week, marked “Chef’s tip.” You check it again to make sure, and surely—it’s one of the dishes Carmen introduced to you just last week. You didn’t dare to photograph it, much less taste it. You remember concentrating on the way his lips moved when he explained the preparation process, not much on the cooking itself.

What’s clear to you is that the "Someone" from Nat’s message is actually you.

A gloomy dread settles in your stomach as the meeting goes on and on. You barely pay attention, which makes everything even worse. You’re scared of what’s happened in the restaurant, and you’re worried that you’re going to miss something important in the meeting.

When you run for a second quick bathroom break, instead of peeing, you think of your next step. You could try to call everyone in the restaurant, try to find out what the hell is going on. But you don’t want to be seen as hysterical. You check Instagram and possible messages to find traces of a catastrophe. There’s nothing. Again, you open the website with the recipe. The photos are pretty sloppy, definitely not something Carmen would prepare. As you check the ingredients, you notice there are some major differences from Carmen’s dish. All in all, the only thing that stops you from texting Carmen is your pride. And true fear.

Absolutely dreading facing Carmen, you make it to The Bear during dinner time. Which, obviously, is the worst possible timing. You’re only praying that he’s not in the kitchen but hiding in his office, deep in paperwork.

It’s Sydney who you meet first as you sneak into the restaurant through the back door. She grabs your arm.

“Don’t go to talk to him now! He’s in a really, really bad mood. Natalie and I were trying to call you.” There’s genuine worry on Sydney’s face, her eyes big and honest.

“I don’t understand what happened,” you frown. You can feel a headache approaching from the intense day in the office. “I think he should tell me himself if there’s a problem.”

“I’ve been trying to work it out with him, to explain—”

“Explain what?” you question, more sternly than you usually are around Syd.

She falters. “It’s just this stupid thing—and we love having you—don’t let Carmy upset you,” Sydney half-explains. It doesn’t make much sense, and you shake your head, heading to the office. You’re more mad than afraid now.

You don’t wait for an invite after you knock shortly. Closing the door behind you, you find Carmen leaning against the desk, a bottle of water in his hand.

Everything inside of you drops the second he lays his eyes on you. There’s no doubt he’s angry.

“Didn’t Natalie tell you you don’t have to come here again?” Carmen asks curtly. “I’m surprised you think it’s okay to be here.”

Not expecting Carmen to be this harsh from the beginning, you swallow instead of answering.

“I hope that you’re happy now,” he says meanly, putting the bottle down on the desk.

“I don’t—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you croak out, sincerely meaning it.

Carmen straightens up, watching you like a feline. “The recipe. It’s out. One fucking thing I asked not to get out, and now the whole of America can see and fucking even cook it at home.”

You’re frozen to the spot. From the very beginning, you knew that Carmen is not a person to mess with, hoping that you would never experience his anger directed at you. Now it’s happening.

You want to say something about no one being able to cook the way he does, but it’s pointless. Instead, you’re fighting off the flush on your face from embarrassment. You feel like a child being scolded, but you don’t want to look like one.

The muted but still loud kitchen noises bleed through the closed door. A shout, clattering. Not loud enough to stop Carmen from piercing you through and through with his ice-cold eyes.

“I promise I didn’t do anything like that,” you say, desperately wanting the chef to believe you. “I swear!”

Carmen pinches the bridge of his nose, one hand propped on his waist. You wait, breathless, for his next move, scared to death. The shirt you have on is wet with your sweat. The really badly smelling kind—the one your body produces when you’re stressed or scared. And you’ve been stressed since the very morning. You flinch when you move your arm and the odor hits your nose, hoping that Carmen can’t smell you. You would be mortified. The strap of your tote bag is digging into your shoulder painfully, but you don’t dare to move to put it down to relieve your arm.

“This all doesn’t—it doesn’t make any sense,” Carmen starts pacing, looking down at the floor and not at you anymore. You’re not sure if it’s better this way. “You come here, wanna do a fucking interview with me, or some shit, then you show up again—this time wanting to work here. For free! So, please, tell me—how does it sound, huh?”

Petrified, you realize how exactly it all sounds. When Carmen says it like this, it makes you look like a fraud. Like a terrible, terrible person. A liar. Your mind goes weeks back, back to the moment you actually thought of maybe digging some scoop in here, maybe convincing Carmen to do the interview after all. But it’s far from how he’s making the situation sound.

“Carmen,” you start without knowing what you want to say. Carmen’s stopped walking around the tiny office like a caged animal, and he’s again looking at you. There’s so much tension in his face, back hunched. “It sounds bad, but may I explain—”

“You may not,” he cuts you off briskly. His neck—normally a place you find sexy—is all red, and the thick vein there is getting more and more prominent by the second. “No one fucks with my business, you understand?” Oh—and he’s shouting now.

The natural defense, you didn’t know existed, is to make yourself smaller. Somehow, anyhow. You hang your head, avoiding looking at his face. You just can’t meet his eyes, even though Carmen’s bowing and tilting his head to force you to.

“It’s like I have to start asking the staff to sign an NDA,” he carries on.

Carmen’s getting slowly closer and closer to you, pushing you against the wall by the door. He’s not touching you but only because you’re not allowing it. You’re sick with humiliation. Lost for words, probably for the first time in your life.

“—and Nat fucking leaves me here—us, all of us—and that’s just not fair. I would expect so, so much more from my sister. Not that my brother was much better,” he chuckles humorlessly, but you see it’s more like an effort to catch his breath. “Lousy fuckers… Do you think you do your job well here, chef?”

He’s scaring you now. The hair by his temples and above his forehead is damp, and his gesticulation is wild and weird.

“Do we disgust you here, is that right, hm?” Carmen probably finally sees your frightened expression because he adds, “Why would you buy food somewhere else and then come here to eat it?!” You understand that he’s referring to the day he saw you eating the sandwich by the rear exit. Unsure whether he expects you to reply, you decide to stay quiet. Your knees are starting to shake, from exhaustion after the long day and perhaps, from Carmen’s current behavior.

“It made ME sick,” he says, his face just inches from yours when one of his hands slams into the thin wall right next to your head. The noise echoes in the room, and you’re desperately hoping it’s not loud enough for the others to hear from outside. You would die on the spot if they knew what’s going on here.

“Who do you think you are?” Carmen shouts some more, loud, by your ear. It vibrates through you and never stops. You’re shivering all over, you notice. It’s not okay, not okay!

At last, you raise your head, chin jutting out. “No one’s going to talk to me like this. No one,” you spit out in the chef’s face, taking him by surprise. “Don’t you ever shout at me again,” and you jab him right in the middle of his chest, instead of punching him there like he deserves.

When you’re leaving his office and rushing to the back exit, you hear Carmen yelling.

Everything feels tense and your hands are shaking. Your jaw is set so hard your teeth could crush from the pressure. The fresh air hits your face, and you focus on breathing deeply through your nose. The sounds remind you of a steam engine. You walk for about a minute, mind blank with the shock. Only when you turn a corner do you allow yourself to stop, which causes the first tears to fall. You’re so mad at yourself. Why the fuck are you crying?! There’s so much frustration in the crazy mixture of emotions you’re feeling. You’re completely overwhelmed with it, not knowing what to focus on at first.

Out of habit, you look for your phone in your handbag to check the screen. The fucking heavy bag that’s been killing your shoulder. Frustrated, you let it slide off your arm and down to the sidewalk. You don’t even care if it breaks, as it lands with a noisy, dull sound. It had been years since you got properly yelled at, and you’re angry that it affects you this much. You promise yourself to take a few seconds here, in the middle of an empty street, then call a cab. At home, you can cry.

PART II

[drakyns]

I saw that youre writing hiccup+jack but you also claim you want to take a more """historical""" interpretation with your rps? so which one is it?? you have to pick one or the other :/

hello, happy new year! yes, you’re right; i ship and write one of our beloved 2010s dreamworks nostalgic ship hijack with my wonderful best friend and creative soul-mate, @frystsnow. i’ve been having such a fun time! and yes, you’re right again; i am taking a more historical approach and interpretation with my portrayal of hiccup. but no, you’re wrong; i don’t have to choose one or another. my hiccup (håkan) has a more historical take and is queer (demiromantic and bisexual). one does not interfere with another whatsoever.

first of all, thank you for your question! though i don’t know if it stems from genuine ignorance or a hint of homophobia or hypernationalism. either way, i want to extend the benefit of the doubt and commend you for taking the time and energy to send in your inquiry, even as an anon. as someone who specialises in medieval queerness in my current master’s degree and as a licensed history teacher, it’s incredibly heartwarming to see people questioning things (even when it comes to literal fictional ships). i shall not, therefore, take your question as an attempt at an insult. instead, i will respond to you as i would to one of my students and/or the public at a conference. please let me know if you’d like any clarifications, and i’d be more than happy to oblige. should you need such access, i’m excited to send you pdfs of the following scientific articles, too.

i am assuming, by the tone and content of your comment, that you take vikings to be these white-centric, heteronormative, misogynistic and savage-like people, correct? the good old supreme white and straight men propaganda. they were barbarians, blindly bloodthirsty, and god knows how virile they were! they wanted to conquer the world, behead their enemies, muscles and brawl everywhere, grrrrr grrrr! etc etc. the whole spiel of supreme predators/conquerors. this mythical belief has roots in the hyper-nationalism and romanticism ingrained in 18th century northern europe: to prove themselves as worthy, old societies, germany, sweden, denmark, england, scotland and many others utilised their ties with these old tribes and reshaped (rewrote) narratives to fit into their then-current ideals of power, masculinity and politics. an excellent book on historical representation and its rewritings across geographies and due to political influences was written by f. r. ankersmit and a 38-page preview can be found at this link.

it isn’t far off to claim, then, that the use of symbols, narratives and imagery from old norse cultures have been continuously used to represent politics of hate in various countries with the rise of patriotism and alt-right extremism. just look at how john toll’s braveheart (1995) is a hymn to white supremacists in the usa or how european incels love robert zemeckis’ beowulf (2007). i highly recommend reading verena höfig’s article about old norse myths being used as tools for radical nationalist groups and andrew b. r. elliott’s book on medievalism, politics and mass media. “viking men are straight, hyper-masculine and obey this white fantasy of pure dominance.” this way of thinking, shouted and supported by reactionaries, reinforces whiteness, androcentricity, and authoritarianism. medieval scandinavian societies were highly intelligent: being a viking was a profession, not an identity in itself. diplomacy was important for commerce and cultural trade. battle-crazed lunatics were frowned upon, if not straight up removed from tribal settings, as they represented danger to the whole society. a conscious and perfected balance of violence, peace-keeping, trade, conscious pillaging and sea-voyaging made vikings who they were. how else do you think that they kept in contact with asian and african societies? even indigenous ones in americas, too! they were not interested in expanding and conquering more than they could keep and they valued communal efforts. so when contemporary media (tv, books, comics, games) represent our oh-so-beloved macho vikings as being queer or even not all that violent or intolerant, people tend to frown upon such a notion, thinking they’re ludicrous. this, as i’ve continuously expressed up until now, is political propaganda—an old, outdated and incorrect one.

you might here be thinking: “okay balu, i get it, vikings weren’t all that masculine, nor that savage, nor anything, but were there really queer vikings?” and the answer to that is: YES! first of all, queer people didn’t suddenly sprout from the ground all of a sudden. we’ve always existed from the very beginning of times—queerness is humanity itself. have you ever wondered why loki, a literal mythological norse god, is genderfluid and pansexual? he’s also described as one of the oldest of the bunch, alongside odin himself. if a deity exists in mythology, it’s because they represent societal beliefs and practices. or do you think people made up whatever they thought was cool, and everyone just agreed on their ideas, canonising said things in their literal tribal history just because, hey, it sounds neat? it’s more logical to deduce that, since loki existed, people like him existed, too, no? and not only loki—jess nevins has a superb paper on how most of the old norse pantheon are queer gods and goddesses, from gender to sexuality (it’s the first one of the list, though the others are super interesting, too). contemporary religious practitioners of heathenism and ásatrú also heavily embrace and welcome these queer readings. this is further endorsed by critical analysis of old poems such as the poetic edda, lokasenna and others, which contain concepts such as hvatr and blauðr, which are used interchangeably between men and women and their partners, not to refer to their binary genders per se, but about their role as either more submissive or dominating in a relationship.

if you need more “concrete” evidence other than theological, linguistics and culture studies, do not fret—archaeologists and anthropologists also agree that the “viking” (read: medieval pre-christian scandinavian) societies were more queer than most people think. for example, marianne moen studied graves in norway and, with the little samples she had, she concluded something fascinating: the biological sex of individuals (read by the use of double x chromosomes detections or the absence thereof) did not always correlate with their masculine/feminine social roles, i.e by their clothes and materials they were buried! a woman could be dressed highly masculine, and a man completely feminine. unlike our modern societies (that claim to be o so progressive and freeing), they were not bound by fixed societal norms. they were fluid. moen’s study is also a further contribution to hedenstierna‐jonson’s research team findings: in 2017, they found the body of an elite viking-age warrior in sweden, which many historians and anthropologists hyped. at first, they thought the individual was sexed male due to the “maleness” of the objects found in the grave site. however, upon further investigation, they were biologically sexed female (two x chromosomes, bone structures, as well as ritualistic objects for young womanhood). a lot of people wanted to contest such a finding because the belief that women can be powerful rulers and warriors just like men are is something detested by traditionalists, as we all know. however, what was more interesting is that said warrior individual seemed to socially fluctuate between masculine and feminine roles throughout their life (being accepted and honoured by their tribe, by the way), and had a partner that also fluctuated between masculinity and femininity. they were, therefore, both queer in gender and sexuality. as well, ever since the start of the 2000s, studies have shown that queer expressions of sexuality and gender can be found being supported by religious practices and objects—a book called “queering norway”, edited by pal bjorby and anka ryall is fairly popular on that front. it has the contribution of many historians, anthropologists and more on old norse traditions.

lastly, in case you wonder if we can read dreamwork’s “how to train your dragon”’s characters as being queer, the answer is, of course, yes. i will not enter into art studies discussions or literature queerness appropriation theories because otherwise this post would be much longer than it already is, but i will say these points: hiccup is literally described, from the first movie alone, as not being like the other kids. this could be read as him being autistic, as him having adhd, as him being queer. as well, the presence of monsters (especially dragons) in media tends to represent queerness/clash with heteronormative ideals (i recommend checking out jeffrey cohen’s seven theses chapter). it’s a queer series by its very theoretical premises and execution.

[siffrins-therapist]

🏴magictrioinitiate-deactivated

Reblog if your name isn't Alfred F Jones.

🃏thekinglovesplayingwithmyballs follow

WE'LL FIND YOU JONES

🐺a-squared-omegaverse follow

As if he couldn't just lie, if he even is on this hellsite.

🏴magictrioinitiate-deactivated

He wouldn't cuz heroes don't lie.

🏴notafjonesprommy-deactivated

A hero would lie to protect his secret identity ;)

🎻sayakamikideservedbetter follow

THIS IS THE POST! ON MY DASH! I FEEL LIKE I'M SEEING A CELEBRITY!!

🗿givemegumgumdumdum follow

NO NOTES???????????????

🦪clamoutjamout follow

so i got like really hella drunk last night and out of what must have been a mix of desperation and hubris, I sent an email to Mr. Romano, askiNG FOR AN INTERVIEW OVER ZOOM TO ASK QUESTIONS FOR RESEARCH FOR MY HISTORICAL EROTICA WIP AND HE SAID YES???????!!!!!!!!!!!!!

🍖hannibalservedmemyownballs follow

Doesn't he like never talk to historians and w/e? Holy shit what kind of magical persuasive powers did your drinks give you and can you send me some?

🦖little-arms-big-hugs follow

I wouldn't say *never*. He's given interviews before, he just has a really low tolerance for disrespect compared to his brother. But with his temper I wouldn't be surprised if his gov asked him to not accept as many interviews anymore.

🍖hannibalservedmemyownballs follow

True, true. I still want to borrow some of OP's persuasion magical drinks.

🦪clamoutjamout follow

my mom sent me a bottle of that liquor mr Latvia made and i didnt look at the proof before drinking like half the bottle (mixed with pop).

also... I finally pulled up my big girl panties and read what I wrote to mr. romano...............

... im going to kms.

🦖little-arms-big-hugs follow

Forget persuasion powers, I want whatever healing magic you have that drinking half of MR. LATVIA'S balsam didn't kill you!

🦪clamoutjamout follow

#we're almost there folx! #RIP OP #nation person mention #alcohol mention

9,879 Notes

🌄cabininthewoodscore follow

UM. HELLO????

🤠redbreadrebellion follow

Yeah, Ch*rchill pushed hard for those two to get together, it's no secret. What about it? It doesn't mean they actually got together turn off your shipping brain.

🏴tw1stedm1nd-deactivated

Sure and America definitely didn't talk about it in an interview

🌄cabininthewoodscore follow

😭😭😭😭😭 The link just goes to a 404 page NNNNOOOOOOOO WHYYYYYYY

#usuk ship real is the only conspiracy theory i'll believe

132 Notes

🐸enby-froggy follow

did anyone else see h/bomber/guy's new video??? PLEASE someone put that man in witness protection or something before K*rkland gets him

🍝spaghetti-breaker follow

wasn't he originally supposed to talk about that one bbc pirate show?

🐸enby-froggy follow

spaghetti-breaker He was but he ended up going off-track after he found some reddit post that led him down a rabbit hole of research. tl;dr: K*irkland yo-hoe-hoeing isn't just a meme

🦐butisbugsshrimp follow

I'm more worried about dickland's teaboo white knights getting him tbh

🍯kidsishrunkthehoney follow

Lmao looks like he saw it!

#wait a min i gotta search something #THE VIDEO IS ALMOST 3 HOURS WTF #now i gotta watch

983 Notes

🪃callmyanxietyboomerang follow

dylan's collab with mr canada was just them trying to out-do each other with all the gay jokes sjflsfjsifhsifjsij someone make one of those 10 hour videos with just the cuts of that please? 🙏🏼

🪃callmyanxietyboomerang follow

SOMEONE DID FUCK YEAH!!!

#canada nation person #vintage baker man #someone send me the video i refuse to download tiktok

97 Notes

🎲dev1ld1c3 follow

If we try hard enough, do you guys think we can convince Mr. Denmark to do a girl month donation goal?

🛸area51searchandrescue follow

Tbh I'm surprised he doesn't have a subscription goal like that already

🔦berwaldsfleshlight follow

There's a rumour he's trying to convince Jones and Beilschmidt to do it with him first before he makes the goal official

#pretty sure those two dont need convincing

73 Notes

[coldresolve]

Hi, I'm Elias, I'm a 26yo trans guy from Denmark. I write shit, I draw shit, and I get into unneccesarily tedious arguments with anons about torture apologia in fiction. I think that sums up my vibe

I've made a few posts about this already, but tl;dr: the Danish NHS has been refusing to treat me for gender dysphoria for the better part of a year now because they've deemed me "unstable." Unstable how, you ask?

I have depression.

No, that is quite literally it. Full context under the readmore.

Fighting to be heard and having the door repeatedly slammed in your face sucks peak ass, and I'm done now. The NHS is so lackluster when it comes to trans people, all of a sudden, it makes perfect sense to me why 31% of transgender Danes get HRT outside of the NHS.

And I'd rather not have to turn to the black market, so rn I'm hoping to get a prescription with GenderGP. The issue is, I'm poor as fuck and can't afford the start-up fees for the forseeable future - unless I do something like this. I hate asking others for money, and I hate it even more if I'm not in a place where I can give anything in return. But I also recognize I'm in over my head with this, so. If you've got a cent or two to spare, I'd be grateful as hell.

I've mathed it out, and my best estimate is that I need around 3500,- DKK / $500 USD. Again, this is just to cover the initial subscription as well as mandatory consultations/blood tests. I should be able to cover the prescriptions on my own, as well as further tests/consultations down the line, so I'm hoping this is a one-and-done sort of thing.

paypal: elimunpau@gmail.com

Also, important note. We're in a global cost of living/housing crisis and this isn't a strict life-or-death situation. If you're in a tough spot right now, don't send me anything, that'd just make me feel worse about asking. I appreciate the thought but you gotta take care of your own needs first. Peace and take care ✌️

So I've been dealing with major depressive disorder since I was 11. It runs in my family, and as you might imagine, after 15 years of living with this thing, I've learned how to manage it pretty well by now. I know what it's like to genuinely be unstable - and if I were in a place like that, no problem, I'd be open about that. I wouldn't be making decisions like this. I know myself. You kind of have to when you're dealing with a chronic mental illness.

Here's where I am right now: I've got no suicidal ideation, been clean from self harm for four years, no psychosis, no inpatient admissions for the last five years. I live on my own, take my meds, and I'm keeping my life in order. Depressed, yes, but about as stable as someone with my history can get, and ask anyone who knows me, me wanting to get on HRT isn't some spur of the moment decision. I've done a fucking decade of soul searching, and a few years ago, I finally (duh) reached the conclusion that living as a woman isn't something I can even fake being content with - believe me, I've tried. I'm well aware of the scope of medical transition, but I'm settled in who I am. And I just want to live like me now. That's the only thing I want.

If it counts for anything, my partner and family have supported me through this, which has been priceless obviously, but it also goes to show that me saying "I'm capable of making medical decisions" isn't purely a personal assessment. I'm pretty sure they'd speak up if they thought I was being unstable about it or whatever

But the CPH clinic for sexology, who have consistently refused to listen to me telling them all this, have somehow magically aquired divine knowledge on my capacity to make adult decisions about my own body, and on the basis that I have MDD, they're refusing to even set me up for a preliminary interview - one that would preceed a 6 month full-team psych evaluation before the prospect of HRT would even come up. They said in their latest refusal that they wont accept another referral from me until a year after my last in-clinic conversation with them, which happened on October 24th, 2023 - meaning that with the NHS, if they accepted my referral come October (which I don't have much faith they will), the earliest I could possibly get on HRT is April 2025. Arguing for my own sanity would've sucked enough as is, but it's made harder by the fact that they won't even talk to me. You're a trans guy who would like healthcare, but you have a mental illness? Good luck, you're on your own. Long live the Danish bureaucracy.

Dysphoria makes me fucking miserable. I'd rather not have to write a sob story here, and tumblr is like 80% trans people so I guess a good portion of you can imagine why waiting another year for the possibility of maybe-perhaps-if-all-goes-well getting on HRT would not actually make me less miserable about it.

So. I'm sitting down next week along with my mom to file a formal complaint with the patient's rights committee. I don't know what to call this other than some form of discrimination on the basis of mental illness, because nothing in my current situation would prohibit me from making medical decisions for myself. And I honestly don't think that a complaint is going to do much, but I intend to make it obnoxiously long, because by law, a specialized doctor and an attorney have to read through the whole thing. If you can't beat 'em, make 'em read 50 pages of you going into detail about why you think they suck, right

And yeah, like I said, in the meantime, I'm trying to go via GenderGP. It'd be nice if my poor ass could get HRT via the NHS instead of having to pay out of pocket, but apparently the bar for entry requires that you 1) have gender dysphoria to the point where it impedes normal function and 2) somehow aren't mentally ill. Who wrote these rules? Some 60yo cis guy in a suit in Christiansborg, I imagine.

Feel free ask about anything relating to this whole situation, I'll be as open as I can about it, cause I understand that if you're going to give money to someone, you want to know what it's going to. Though I hope you understand I'm not going to doxx myself more than I already have now, or give you my entire medical history - only what's relevant to my current situation.

I know Denmark is a welfare state and on a global scale we're doing alright, but I hope you don't mind if I say this: This shouldn't be happening as often as it does. Fuck the Danish NHS.

[paikothecateater]

What’s your take on Finland & Icelands relationship?

Also I loved your recent post about texting; how would they text?

Oo~ a two part ask. I love that. You might have just made my night. Alright let's start with Finland and Iceland's friendship.

They're both kind of treated like the children of the group despite Finland being a full on adult, so naturally, they hang out a lot. Here are some headcanons.

-Finland is not a confrontational person. Really, unless his life depends on it, Finland is a bit of a doormat, despite being physically super strong. Iceland on the other hand is the opposite. He will absolutely rip anyone to shreds. I've said this before and I'll say it again, Iceland has single-handedly inherited all the backbone of a thousand vikings. You can't get this kid to even blink, despite being built like a Minecraft skeleton. Iceland will absolutely defend Finland if anyone gives him even an ounce of bullshit.

-Finland is Iceland's ride or die. Iceland needs help hiding a body? Finland already has the shovel. Iceland needs a getaway driver? Finland can't drive well and is about to make it everyone's business. Iceland needs an alibi? Finland already ended any witness.

-they relate to each other the most, and they're also super gossipy whenever they're together. This leads to some of the mean girliest sleepovers in the history of the world.

-I've mentioned before that Iceland subconsciously has very specific rules for who's allowed to touch him. He's almost always fine with Finland. That might be because Finland is almost always leaning on someone whenever he sits on a sofa and that usually happens to be Iceland, so he's used to it at this point.

-they have a bunch of inside jokes they make in front of the others for the express purpose of confusing the shit out of the others.

-Finland is extremely gullible and the others (especially Denmark) use this to their advantage by getting to confuse Finland and having him second guess himself. Iceland is always the one to nudge him while saying something to the effect of 'they're joking'.

-they're both very comfortable around each other and whenever they hang out alone is usually the only time they can really be as silly as they wanna be without feeling judged.

I think that's enough for now, although if you want more, I'm more than willing.

Now for the texting headcanons:

Denmark: this is how a lot of people would imagine Sweden or Germany to text. Very neat and punctuated. He doesn't use abbreviations. He's very quick and will respond within ten seconds.

Norway: he'll un-grammar your English. He also forgets how to spell shit all the time and he's an extremely slow texter, but he reads a lot, so the words he remembers to spell are always words you'd find in historical romance books. All that combines into some of the trippiest texts ever.

Finland: always calls others pet names over texts. Regardless of how close he is to them. Honey, sweetie, love, dear, etcetera. His responses are usually delayed by an hour or so for some reason. They're usually pretty short answers.

Sweden: he's either super dad like, sending thumbs up emojis as responses, or he's arguing with Denmark. No in between. He texts the bare minimum. Abbreviations are his first language. Once he's sure the point of the message is there, he'll just send it even if the message isn't complete.

Iceland: he doesn't text like an edgy dark humour teen. I've seen a lot of headcanons where he's essentially just an emo kid over text, but you have to remember that he speaks very properly. The most teen thing he does is call everyone close to him 'babe' over text regardless of his relationship with them. A platonic babe if you will. He's not super fast and he doesn't always add punctuation, but he's usually very coherent.

I love these asks so much

[catofadifferentcolor]

Terrible Fic Idea #90: Hogwarts Legacy, but make it time travel

One of my absolute favorite WIPs at the moment is A Different Legacy by Finexs, in which a female!Harry Potter travels through time and becomes the MC of Hogwarts Legacy. It's an absolutely brilliant fic for a variety of reasons, the most relevant being that it tickled my own brain and brought back a fic idea I had when I first played the game a year ago...

Or: What if the Hogwarts Legacy MC traveled through time to become the competent adult Harry so desperately needs?

aka the I'll Build a Fire (You Fetch the Water) Fic

Bear with me:

There is absolutely no reason why the governments of the UK and the wizarding UK should be contiguous - or really any reason for there to be a wizarding UK at all. The Treaty of Union came into effect in 1707, whereas the Statue of Secrecy became law in 1692. And since muggle and wizard seemed to have gone their own way long before this... why not take it to the logical conclusion?

For the sake of this AU: Wizarding Ireland has always been its own place, ruled by Irish Wizards, separate from anything going on in Great Britain. Wizarding England is largely made up of a combination of the old Anglo-Saxon states and the Danelaw, while wizarding Cornwall, Wales, Scotland, and Strathclyde all do their own thing. Most import to this fic: the Orkney Islands still belong to the unified wizarding kingdom of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden.

Wizarding Orkney, as part of wizarding Denmark, contains the Orkney and Shetland Islands. The culture reflects their stronger Norse background, and Norn is still the mother tongue - though Scots and English are common second or third languages.

These two archipelagos are ruled by a wizarding earldom, the House of Magnusson, from their seat at Stonybreck Castle on Fair Isle. Prior to her death in 1887, the countess was Eydis Magnusson. When she died the earldom fell to her 12-year-old daughter, Freya - though her muggleborn father, Joseph Evans, does a lot of the heavy lifting at first.

Just imagine it:

Freya Magnusson is a witch who was trained by tutors her entire life. In the spring of 1890 she begins showing signs of a rare magical ability that requires further training, the only teacher of which is a professor at Hogwarts who won't be tempted away for love or money. And so, with great reluctance, Freya begins attending Hogwarts in the fall of 1890 as a Fifth Year.

She proves to be a consummate Ravenclaw with some decidedly Slytherin tendencies whose greatest interests are DADA and Ancient Runes, and if she didn't have an earldom to run the Danish version of Unspeakables would be snapping her up in a heartbeat.

Events of Hogwarts Legacy follow canon. Freya kills Victor Rookwood, defeats Ranrok, and contains the ancient magic.

More importantly for the purposes of this fic, after the skirmish at the Feldcroft catacomb, Freya convinces Anne and Ominis not to turn in Sebastian for killing his uncle... and convinces him to stay with her at Stonybreck Castle during the summer of 1891, to get away from all the reminders and start afresh. This kicks the slow burn they'd been dealing with since almost the moment they met into full gear, and by the end of the summer they're dating.

Sixth and Seventh Year pass without nearly as much excitement. Freya and Sebastian graduate in May 1892. They marry the following year and by late 1894 have a daughter, Ingrid.

Fast forward to the summer of 1898.

By this point, Sebastian has made a name for himself on the professional dueling circuit, winning the European Championships 3 years in a row.

Freya, meanwhile, throws herself into running her earldom, but still finds time to research runes and Ancient Magic. Though she's keen to recreate the mirror-portals she came across in her adventures, Freya takes all the precautions she can... including sending her 3-year-old daughter out of the castle with her father whenever she's testing something particularly dangerous.

...but something still goes wrong, and the magic seems to be pulled out of her, and the castle fills with light...

To the outside world, Stonybreck Castle appears to be caught in a time bubble.

No one can enter, no one can leave, and the goblin nation - more thankful to Freya for stopping Ranrok than any of the human ministries - takes up a watchful vigil over the castle. (Think The Still Ruins in DA:I's Western Approach.)

As the years pass, the mystery of Stonybreck Castle is largely forgotten by everyone except the goblins, who are present when the bubble dissipates in the summer of 1993, revealing a Freya and Sebastian who show no signs that any time has passed for them at all.

They're taken to Gringotts. Once their identities are verified, one of their old goblin friends - now very old indeed - has the unfortunate task of explaining to them just how much time has passed. And just how much the wars took from them.

(Natty died fighting Grindelwald; so did Ominis, though his death was originally thought to be an accident after Grindelwald came looking for his family's Hollow and was only later found to be otherwise. Poppy was maimed fighting poachers and later fell during Voldemort's rise... and so on. Their daughter Ingrid died in 1979, alone, of Dragon Pox, the wars having taken her husband and children long before.)

Their first day in 1993 is spent mourning.

Their second day might well have been spent the same if not for the fact that Harry Potter, freshly escaped from the Dursleys, comes to the bank that morning... and for the first time ever the magical guardians portion of his paperwork is not obfuscated - and reads Countess Freya Magnusson of Orkney and her consort, Sebastian Sallow of Feldcroft.

It eventually comes out that Freya's muggleborn father, Joseph Evans, is the brother of Harry's mother's great-great-grandfather, Samuel Evans, making them first cousins four times removed. Regardless of the details, Freya is Harry's closest magical blood relative, making her and her husband automatically his magical guardians.

This proves to be just the thing Freya needs to pull herself of the depression she might otherwise have fallen into (the guilt over leaving her daughter alone is crushing, and while Ingrid had Freya's father to take care of her... Harry has not been so lucky).

Freya is a one-woman war machine, bulldozing over any and all who stand in her way. Who placed Harry with his aunt and uncle? Why were his parents' ignored? Why did no one check on the boy? Why did no one realize he was being abused? How did the headmaster not realize Voldemort was possessing one of this teachers? Why did it fall to a 12-year-old child to save a classmate from a basilisk stalking the school halls? - She sets out to solve all these problems and more.

Sebastian is equally incensed by all of this, but views a large part of it as Hogwart's failing - after all, if the school had done a better job of teaching why it's such a bad idea to delve into the Dark Arts rather than just saying, Dark Magic bad, they wouldn't be in this position. Some of it is also the Ministry's fault for being so incompetent, but the only way to keep more people from losing themselves to the Dark Arts like he almost did (and more people dying because of those Dark wizards) is education.

And so Sebastian becomes the DADA teacher for the 1993 school year, because even a man 95 years out of time is still preferable to werewolf to the school board. (Or, since Lupin's status as a werewolf is not widely known, a pureblood a century out of time is far preferable to a poor half-blood mated to a man in Azkaban for life.)

Canon does not so much proceed apace as nosedive into AU.

Sebastian is nearly fired within his first month for sitting down with all his classes, explaining what Dark magic really is, why it's dangerous, and why some parts of it can be safely used but why it's very easy to get lost in it. The takeaway is basically: if you want to learn, find yourself a reputable teacher after you graduate, but until then you'll find yourself in detention if I catch you dabbling in it... which is still entirely too pro-Dark for Dumbledore. Although Dumbledore attempts to chide him on it, Sebastian comes back with - among other things - I remember you as a tetchy first year and telling kids why they shouldn't do something works better than a simple no, that's parenting 101.

He goes on to catch Sirius during his Halloween break-in by the simple expedient of having been on his way outside the wards to apparate back to Stonybreck Castle to visit his wife, but by this point they've realized that the MoM has never given him a trial, so rather than tell anyone he takes Sirius home with him, where Freya offers him legal sanctuary on behalf of the Danish government.

Third Year ends up being remarkably peaceful for Harry despite the Dementors, but even they are gone by Easter once the Danish government makes it known they've offered Sirius sanctuary.

Fourth Year has the Triwizard Tournament, but since Sebastian is still DADA professor, he's the one who insists on casting the age lines around the Goblet of Fire and makes it so someone can only put their own name in if they're between 17 and 20. And so Harry is never a part of it - and is too protected by Sebastian and Freya to be easily kidnapped.

Voldemort finally manages to resurrect himself during Halloween 1995 using the blood of Mad-Eye Moody. He slowly gathers forces, staying quiet until he manages a big attack on Platform 9 3/4 on the last day of Harry's Fifth Year. Several students are killed - especially the younger ones - but several more are able to fight back, having had 3 years of DADA under a competent professor.

It quickly becomes undeniable that Voldemort is back - or, as the MoM spins it, someone is pretending to be him to gain power.

Sixth Year is spent with Voldemort on the offensive. Dumbledore tries to counter with the Order, but after 3 years of seeing Freya gradually erode his power base for failing so badly in the aftermath of the war - and 3 years of seeing a DADA teacher teach their children and stand up for them for the first time in living memory - it's to Freya and Sebastian most turn.

Between Freya's Ancient Magic and Sebastian's knowledge of the Dark Arts, they're able to determine Voldemort made Horcruxes without having to wait for Dumbledore to cough up the knowledge. They're able to use runes to track the others down and Ancient Magic to destroy them. When they face Voldie during his attack on Hogwarts in May 1997, he is mortal.

Though they both fight, Sebastian is the one who casts the final blow this time, and he's hailed as the wizarding world's latest savior.

Sebastian goes on to hold the DADA post for 25 more years before going on to replace McGonagall as Hogwarts Headmaster. He holds that post for half-a-century before retiring as one of the most beloved headmasters in Hogwarts history.

Freya continues her research into runes and Ancient Magic, eventually succeeding in making the mirror-portal she so desired. These come to replace long-distance portkeys, with mirror-portal "airports" set up in each of the largest wizarding cities to facilitate travel. She remains a strong political force as Countess of Orkney, but largely stays out of British wizarding affairs after Harry comes of age...

...and Harry, following her example, goes on to use the training they gave him and his own political power as the Boy-Who-Lived to reform the MoM from the inside - starting with the Aurors. It's a long a difficult journey, but by the time he steps down after his third term as Minister of Magic, the MoM utterly unrecognizable. And actually worthy of being called a competent wizarding government.

Bonuses include:

It never being clear what caused the time bubble that catapulted Freya and Sebastian from 1898 to 1993, although Freya comes to suspect it has something to do with having been approximately 4 weeks pregnant at the time. Twins Aleksander and Irene are born 1 February, 1994 - nearly a full century after their sister Ingrid - and both start showing proficiency in Ancient Magic upon reaching their 15th birthdays;

Harry spending nearly his entire Third Year being confused by kind, loving guardians who sweep in and care for him in a way no one ever has before. It's overwhelming and would be oppressive if they didn't also realize that he's a teenager who's been taking care of himself most of his life and therefore try to take his opinions into account. (He also proves to be the best big brother ever to Alek and Irene after they're born);

Harry himself is never a Horcrux, as Horcruxes cannot be made accidentally. Dumbledore's whole plan to have him sacrifice himself is predicated on a misunderstanding of how the Dark Arts work and thus unnecessary. Whatever connection the two share is because of prophesy, not magic;

At least a third of this fic being about the differences between the muggle world and the wizarding - not just national borders, but culture, language, religion, clothing, food, and everything. The wizarding world does not exist in isolation from the muggles, but it is largely self-contained with only marginal influences from the muggleborns who join each year (who, for the most part, adapt to wizarding ways). This should have a variety of cascading effects beyond what we see in canon and should be most obvious with Freya, who is very much a Nordic Witch despite being from what in the muggle world is a British island. It should also create all sorts of political tensions as the wizarding various powers within the British Isles brush against each other (perhaps the English MoM bulled the Scottish MoM into allowing Dementors at Hogwarts in Third Year and the Scots hold a grudge? &c); and

Freya Magnusson and Sebastian Sallow being the example of love among magicals for the next two hundred years. He respects her power and influence, never begrudging her the time she must spend dealing with her earldom or resenting the power she or their children have. She loves and respects him in turn, never judging him for his occasional slips into the darkest of Dark Arts, and trusts him in all things. They are a BAMF battle couple - and loving parents. They care for Harry as much as they for for any children of their blood, and want to make a world a better place for all of them.

As you can tell, I have a lot of ideas for this plot bunny, most of which is background information. Although the hopping off point for this fic was giving Harry a responsible adult, most of the action centers around Freya and Sebastian, and it shows. As always, feel free to borrow this bun. Just link back if you do anything with it.

More HP Ideas | More Terrible Fic Ideas

[misophoniatroubles]

Welcome to Misophonia Troubles!

Misophonia is a sensory processing disorder. It causes a decreased tolerance to specific sounds termed as "triggers". When triggered, people with misophonia experience high negative emotional and physical responses, often strong enough to be described as nonphysical pain.

PLEASE NOTE: I am not a licensed medical professional. If you'd like to vent, I can offer places for you to do so, but please do not vent to me. I am not able to give you the support you need. I am a furry artist, not a doctor.

The link below contains resources for if you need to talk, are in danger, need help, etc. These resources are here for you, a person who deserves happiness and respect.

Mental Health Resources

Misophonia Resources

A-MISO-S: This is the current only widely accepted diagnostic criteria for misophonia, established in 2013 based on the results of a 90 participant study done in Denmark. Although trusted, there are ways it can be improved, like more specific explanations.

How to Wear Ear Protection Safely: Ear protection (earplugs, earbuds, and headphones) are extremely helpful, but wearing them for as long as we do as misophonics can create some problems if you are unaware.

Printable Cards/Posters: This page has cards that can be handed out to people when you are nonverbal, mute, someone can't hear you, or you just don't want to talk. They explain misophonia and are really useful, and they come in Spanish! This page also has example letters for what to send to a teacher or employer. These do not come in Spanish.

Accommodation List: A list of accommodations that can be helpful to those with misophonia.

QNA Below the Cut

What do I do if I think I have misophonia?

Take the A-MISO-S test, it explains the available diagnostic criteria, gives you a good idea of how severe it may be, and you can present it to doctors.

Talk to loved ones about it. Answer their questions, there will be many and ask for them to accommodate your disability. Ask for them to be aware of what sounds they make around you and to plan activities that work with your misophonia.

Talk to a medical professional if you can. Bring along a trusted individual, a trusted adult if you're a minor, that will help you get the doctor to believe you. It'll be easier to get legal accommodations with a doctor's note.

Get accommodations in the workplace, school, extracurricular, everywhere you can. It'll make life so much easier, I promise.

What is misokinesea? What do I do if I think I have it?

Misokinesea is another sensory processing disorder commonly found in those with misophonia. Seeing a repetitive motion (like someone bouncing their leg, tapping their pencil, a flashing light, etc.) creates the same or a similar response to a misophonic trigger.

There is no diagnostic criteria for misokinesea, but it should be quite obvious if you do. The best you can do is ask for accommodations, and tell your loved ones so they can support you.

What do I do if someone doesn't believe I have misophonia?

This is a tough one. Ideally, you don't have to talk or interact with them ever again, and them not believing you has no power over your life. Unfortunately, that's not always the case.

You can talk to someone in charge of them. If they're a teacher, talk to the staff, the dean/principal, the school board if you have to. If they're a coworker, talk to your manager, then their manager, then their manager until you get somewhere. And, contact a union. Misophonia is legally protected under ADA, so public schools and employers have to respect that.

If they're someone like a family member or friend, trying to convince them is the first obvious and ideal choice. This source tends to get people to believe me, because everyone trusts Harvard. If that's not possible, try to get someone else to talk to them. Beyond that, avoid them the best you can. Cut them out if you can. Ideally, you can fall back on people that do believe you for support.

If they're your parent or guardian, especially if you're a minor or still living with them, you're in trouble. Talk to another trusted adult or friend, preferably one your parent/guardian also trusts, to convince them enough to work around your misophonia enough for you to live. If you're a minor, you could probably get CPS involved if it gets especially bad.

[mitamicah]

Hi guys, I want to talk a bit about what is going on in my life and my plans for the rest of my year. Feel free to just read the TLDR.

TLDR:

I had a consultation with a private clinic in Malmö about top surgery. Went great and have free reigns to suggest a day for surgery. Want to talk with my social worker and contact person first tho.

Celebrated my one year on hrt anniversary being at a heavy music award show.

The rest of November is busy and then Sunday I will be flying to Zagreb – for this reason maybe I won’t be able to draw a lot (which sucks).

December is building up to be busy too yet I’ll try myself to find time to finished owned artworks (mostly the three secret santas I’m in).  

First up, I want to talk my weekend since it was a very special one for me being that it was my second birthday weekend (Saturday I had been one year on testosterone).

When I realized that my favourite Danish band would guest at a local award show for heavy music in Copenhagen, I immediately bought tickets, which turned out to be the best timing, given that I later booked a consultation at Reformkliniken in Malmö for pre-op consultation about potential top surgery the day before.

I slept by my friends’ house, a lesbian couple where one is a transwoman so they’ve experience with surgery especially gender affirming surgery. They had also offered to be my companions at the consultation which I was very grateful for) so the three of us went over the border the next day and had half a day in Sweden together, visiting Folkets park (to see if my sticker was still up – unfortunately we couldn’t find it) and this cute little café before going to the appointment.

Half an hour late we got inside where the surgeon was surprised to see not one but three people step inside. The consultation went well, and honestly better than I’d expected. He was kind, a good listener, factual and thorough. While I maybe should have expected it for a private clinic the fact that there was no waitlist blew me back a bit, yet I ended up asking if it was alright I went back later with a suggestion to a date for surgery. Then we talked to the secretary who was just as thorough if not more about everything I would need to know leading up to the surgery down to little things I’d never would’ve imagined having to think about like not eating specific medicine, wearing nailpolish, washing myself daily for a month leading up to the surgery and much, much more. All wasn’t fun and games though since while I know it was necessary for the consultation, the 2-5 min. of me being topless in front of the surgeon having to describe what I saw shook me up. This is the first time since my ex I have been topless in front of somebody else and I felt my body betraying me a bit almost making me choke on my words and cheer up having to speak. I guess in the end that only goes to show even more why I want/need this surgery. Now what I need to do is print the part of my journal from the gender clinic in Denmark that’s about me wanting top surgery (to send to the secretary) and see if I can set up a meeting between me and the people around me from the local authorities (contact person and social worker mostly) to hear about how to plan a surgery into my schedule. All this by also knowing I still have a second appointment with the gender clinic on December 12.

The next day I went to see my faves and got a bit of a whiplash meeting up as the sole queue member at 5 pm, one hour before the doors. I have been getting so used to go to shows where you need to queue to secure a spot, so I felt very odd sitting out here alone for an hour even more so when everybody I told was shocked, I’d arrived so “early”. Oh, well the award show was good and I got to cling to my band before it began, steal the set lists of three of four performing bands and talk with new, cool people. I even met somebody from my summer camp that was up getting an award together with a band he’d played with as a substitute guitarist.

Secondly, I feel like I haven’t kept you guys up to date about everything so here’s a bit of a rant about my plans for the rest of the year:

This upcoming week will be wild! Before November is over I have one tattoo appointment (tomorrow), one study to participate in (Tuesday), one craft painting appointment with my sister (Tuesday), one concert with my choir (Wednesday), one trans support group meeting (Thursday) and four more days at the internship to go (Monday, Wednesday-Friday). Then on top of that I have a trip to plan since yes, I got approved to have a break on both December 2-4 and December 16-18 so I can go to Zagreb (and Poland)!!!

December starts off with me literally on day one flying to Croatia to spend the first few days in the Balkans. December 2 I have scheduled a trip to Ljubjana just because. Then there’s the Zagreb concert on Tuesday where I have made a sign to go with my homemade t-shirts for the band members (and another sign saying I travelled to Denmark to see them). I think I’ll bring some of my textile markers if in case the guys want to sign my Bluza shirt. But that will not be my priority – my biggest hope for this concert is still to gift them the shirts and then Bojan to see my tattoo. Everything else after that is bonus upon a bonus!!!

After arriving home from Zagreb I will have a week and a half to work and to find out how to schedule Christmas shopping and art making (also having an appointment with the gender clinic and another choir concert inbetween). Then on December 15 I will be flying to Warszawa (and taking the bus to Kraków thereafter) to participate in two of three of Käärijä’s polish concerts. The closer we get to the trip however the less confident I am about my flight choices (the one home is at 6 almost 7 am in the morning) so I hope to use the option of rescheduling the flight to a later time the same day (I purchased a ticket where you could do that but I have to call booking.com and I am not sure the phone number I’ve found is the right one). Other than that I feel like the planning of the polish trip is coming along nicely as well. Then I will go home, work for two days then travel with my sister and her boyfriend to my dad’s house to celebrate pre-christmas with them and then later Christmas with my mother. I still don’t know what to do after December 24 other than my sister want me (and my mom) out before December 28 so to prepare for her having guests over for the new years.

Honestly, I think this might be the busiest Christmas I will have had for a while, so fingers crossed I haven’t bit over more than I can chew signing up for three secret santa events (one luckily running until January).

[woso-dreamzzz]

Call Up

Hardersson x Teen!Reader

Part of The Big Adventures Universe

Summary: You get called up

Your first senior call up happens when you're seventeen (nearly eighteen) and still playing at Arsenal.

You've got a day off before the derby against Chelsea so your mothers have flown out to support you and, somehow, you've ended up at Millie Bright's house.

You're surrounded by your Momma and Morsa's old teammates (and a few of the Arsenal girls who were on the team when you were very little). There aren't enough seats for everyone but you're happy to sit on the floor in front of Momma and let her slowly card her fingers through your hair.

It's one of the things you've missed about being in England. You miss the little things about Momma and Morsa like this. You know they miss you too because there's never a day where they rearrange your daily video calls or don't send Leah around to your apartment when they think you're feeling especially sad on the call.

You miss them. They miss you. But you all know that it's best for you to be here, in England. You're still the second choice keeper but you know that if you keep working hard then by your eighteenth birthday, you'll have managed to clinch the number one spot.

After the derby, it's international break and you know that, while the senior teams are calling everyone up this week, you need to wait a few more days until the Denmark youth team sends for you again.

You've settled in well in the under-nineteen squad and you know that there's a round of friendlies coming up soon that you're excited to be apart of.

"The third choice keeper broke her arm," You can hear Morsa complain about the Swedish team," It was such a freak accident. It was gory to even watch. I almost threw up."

You don't pay much attention though, leaning back easily into Momma's hands. You're not paying attention to anything actually because you almost miss the vibrating of your phone on your leg.

You don't recognise the number but you pick it up anyway.

"Hello?"

"Is this y/n?" A professional-sounding voice asks," The Arsenal keeper?"

"Yes? Who is this?"

"Excellent. I'm calling up on behalf of the Swedish Senior team. I'm sure you know by now but our usual third keeper has been injured. We're offering you the call up in her place."

"W-What?"

You must sound especially panicked because everyone in the room has turned to look at you in confusion.

"I understand that you usually play for Denmark's youth teams but we've had our eye on you for a while. We've got a round of three friendlies coming up, one for each keeper, and would love to have you with us."

You feel frozen in place, capable of nothing but blinking.

"I..."

"Sorry," The person says," I'm getting ahead of myself. I understand completely if you wish to stay with Denmark. You're such a talent. Forgive me for wanting to have it on my team. I understand if you need to discuss this with your mothers as well. Do you need some time to think about it?"

"No!" You say quickly.

You've never really thought about a senior team call up. You just kind of assumed that Denmark would be the obvious choice. You've spent so much time in a Denmark shirt that you just assumed Sweden didn't want you anymore.

"You've already come to a decision?"

Your feelings on this call up must have already been decided. It must have been decided for years in some deep, hidden away part of your brain because there's no need to even think about it. There's no need to even discuss it with Momma and Morsa.

Somehow, you think you've always known the decision you would come to.

"I'd love to join you for the friendlies."

You can hear the person's smile through the phone. "Excellent," They say," The details will be sent to your email as well as your agent's, who I'm sure will forward it to your mothers. Just in advance, what would you like on your jersey? Your name or Eriksson-Harder, like your Denmark jersey?"

You make eye contact with Momma, who looks increasingly worried the longer you stay on the phone. "Harder-Eriksson," You say," Please."

"You've got it. I'll see you very soon, y/n."

"Yeah, you too."

The call ends and you stare at your phone for several seconds.

"It's a bit early for the youth team call up," Morsa teases," You're changing your name? Does Eriksson-Harder not cut it anymore for Denmark?"

You blink. "More like Harder-Eriksson suits Sweden better."

"Sweden called you up?" Momma asks," That's strange. You've never had any problem rejecting their call if it came before Denmark's before."

You shake your head. "No, it wasn't the youth team. It was the senior team."

The room's quiet enough to hear a pin drop.

Morsa's voice goes hoarse. "What?"

You look at her. "I got called up for Sweden's senior team."

Someone else in the room, Leah, you think, says," Holy shit."

Momma pulls you into a hug. "Harder-Eriksson?" She asks, eyes glistening with tears.

You manage to shrug. "Morsa got Eriksson-Harder when I played for Denmark. You get Harder-Eriksson when I play for Sweden."

Morsa is still frozen in shock, looking much like how you feel. Her hands are shaking a little as she crushes you in her embrace. When she pulls away, she's crying too.

"Magda," Momma says," Why don't you call Frido? I'm sure she'd want to know."

Morsa nods robotically. "Right. Yes. Frido. Would want to know. Yes."

"And you," Momma says fondly, cupping your face and kissing your forehead," I think you should call a certain retired keeper, shouldn't you?"

You've already got Zećira's contact lined up on your phone.

[a-random-person-on-the-interent]

Lists of my Au's

Fic/fic idea's that will become Au's (Please ask me about them)

Immortal Leo Valdez - Hera turned him immortal when she put him in the fire place (tag: Hera adopts a traumatized child)

Crossover fic with hetalia and PJO, Leo Valdez as Mexico - the fates send Leo to another world and in this world Leo is the personification of Mexico (tag: I was leo valdez now I'm mexico) Note: This AU has been discontinued! Mexico's first world meeting is being moved to Gods Demigods and Nations oh my!

I'm Leo Valdez and you? (Finished 1/1)

Crossover fic with KOTLC and PJO where Leo Valdez is Jensi (tag: Leo valdez and the elves) Leo Valdez and the Elves (WIP)

To sleep and fire the world must fall - Leo X Clovis fic, where Clovis joins the 7 (making it the 8) (tag: To sleep and fire the world must fall)

Second time round - Leo, Conner, Clovis, Meg and Apollo/Lester are the only surviving people after the war with Tartarus and are sent back in time by the fates (tag: Second time round) Second time round (WIP)

Starlight - A au where Leo is the son of Nyx and Hepheastus and is the personifcation of starlight but was raised as a mortal (tag: Go supernova, starlight) Starlight (WIP)

The Lab - an Au where some nations get kidnapped and turned into monsters it's one of the two main Au's I'm working on (Tag: Some nations got kidnapped and now they're monsters)

The Lab (WIP 16/115 chapters published)

Echos of the past - where Echo joins the crew of the Argos 2 (tag: echoes of the past)

Made of clay - Hepheastus kids are made from clay and they have magma instead of blood, and Pandora is their older sister, watch as chaos ensues (tag: Made of clay)

Son of Tartarus - Leo is the son of Tartarus and joins camp half blood during The Titans Curse (tag: Son of Tartarus) Son of Tartarus (WIP)

I made friends with Death - The Fates think their little brother needs more friends so they send him to another universe where he's Makoto neagi, only he still a god, I guess the fates couldn't take that part away without big consequences (Tag: I Made Friends With Death)

Miraculous Thanatos - After getting into an argument with Nyx Thanatos is sent to the world of Lady Bug and Cat Noir where Thanatos get's the Raven Miraculous, I can't give him the butterfly which is what he's most commonly associated with, because HawkMoth has it, DESPITE THE FACT THAT MOTHS AND BUTTERFLYS ARENT THE SAME THING (Also fun fact, Hawk moths or Humming bird moths are the fastest type of moth and bug to exist) (tag: Miraculous Thanatos)

______ as an SCP - A huge crossover series I'm planning on making with many different characters, (Fandoms so far: Hetalia, PJO universe, MLB, MHA, KNY, Danganronpa, KOTLC, and FNAF) as SCPs (tag: ______ as an SCP) ____ as an SCP (WIP)

Hephaestus and Aphrodite pay child support - basically Hephaestus and Aphrodite actually parent their kids and are full time parents to the kids whose parent's died. They do it together so the kids are raised like siblings (Yes I know Hephaestus remarried but in this AU they got divorced because Hera and Zeus forced Hepheastus and Aphordite back into a marrige) how will this change the plot, idk (tag: Hephaestus and Aphrodite pay child support) Child Support written by Olympus' most toxic couple (Rivalled by Zues and hera) (WIP)

Gods, Demigods and Nations, oh my - This is the second main AU I'm working on, it's a hetalia Crossover AU but you don't need to know anything about Hetalia for the first arcs of the AU (Tag: Gods, Demigods and Nations, oh my) The Boy who held up the sky - Denmark centric fic exploring his mortal life before he became a nation The Boy who Held up the sky (WIP 1/15)

Leo in the Titan war - Leo joins camp half blood during The Titans Curse, this is part of the Gods, Demigods and Nations, Oh my series, but no knowledge of Hetalia is required (Tag: Leo in the Titan war)

Leo In The Titan's Curse (WIP 7/?) Mexico's first world meeting - Takes place after Leo becomes a nation was originally in another AU and it's his first world meeting Mexico's first world meeting ( Finished 1/1)