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dicejpg · 8 months

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I've got a sinking feeling - {Five Hargreeves x GN!Reader}

Synopsis: You are very flirty with Five, and he's tricked himself into believing he hates it. He tells you to stop. Then he learns the hard way how much he took you for granted when you meet someone else.

Note: Five requests would be very appreciated! Thank you to those who sent requests on my last one shot.

(Not Edited)

Warnings: Swearing

Word count: 1.5k

Extra Information: Viisi means Five in Finnish. Five and Y/n were partners in the commission. They look seventeen or eighteen instead of thirteen. This one-shot takes place on the last episode of season one, and the entirety of season two.

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The Academy, Five's home, has just collapsed--courtesy of Vanya's new powers--and Five ordered his family to meet at Super Star Lanes bowling alley to come up with a new plan of action.

He grabs your wrist, blinking you with him. You're both in front of the bowling alley in a flash of blue.

Five takes a moment to pace around, not entering the building. The crisp, spring air bites at your earlobes as you hug your sides for warmth

"Hey, Viisi, can we go inside?" You look at him with a grimace and a pleading smile. He whips his head in your direction to glare at you, then strolls inside with a roll of his eyes. You follow in his stead.

The interior is heated, thankfully. Five informs the underpaid worker that his "parents" will be arriving shortly to pay for his bowling shoes. He takes a seat adjacent to Lane 6 and you sit next to him.

"So, how was the farewell with Delores? I know you two were close." You lean back in your seat, getting more comfortable while waiting for Five's siblings to arrive.

He does not look at you, his jaw ticks in annoyance.

"Come onnn, I know you're stressed, but this is your sister. I'm sure she's reasonable enough not to end the world." You turn towards him, leaning your elbows on your thighs and admiring his pretty face.

"No, it's not that." He scoffs, looking at you with a sneer.

You notice that his tie is crooked so you reach out to fix it, like you often do. It's sort of your thing.

He smacks your hand away and you raise an eyebrow.

"You okay Viisi?" You rub your hand a little, surprised. Normally, he lets you fix his tie with no problem. Although, he would grumble about it a little.

"God- No. I'm not okay." He puts his hands in his hair, gripping it slightly with an exasperated expression. "And stop calling me that."

"What?" You breathe with a smile of disbelief. "What's going on? Did something happen- Did I do something?" You lean away from him a little to give him more space.

"Stop, just stop it with the touching and the nicknames. I'm sick of it!" He looks at you with cold eyes. This is very unusual of him.

You cock your head to the side, trying to understand. "Five, I thought- I thought that was our thing! Y'know, the friendly banter and-"

"I know you're desperate for some sort of relationship with me, but I'm here to tell you that it's not going to happen. We were only ever co-workers." He says through gritted teeth, avoiding your eyes. "I'm telling you to stop pursuing me." You were never 'pursuing' him.

Usually you would brush this sort of behavior off, ignore it. Tell yourself that it's only because he's stressed. He's always stressed! Thinking back, he was never all that nice to you. Even in your Commission days.

You'd tricked yourself into thinking that maybe he thought you were special, or that you were at least his friend. His confidant.

You look at him with eyes full of hurt, which Five has never seen from you. He almost feels something bubbling up his throat, but the feeling dissipates quickly. "Have I made myself clear?" He says evenly.

You only nod, turning away so he doesn't see the tears prick at your eyes.

Five's siblings come inside and you two don't speak to each other again.

A year and seven months later (for you, at least.)

1963, Dallas Texas:

Five anxiously pulls at his tie after narrowly escaping three armed Swedish men. He had just watched his siblings, along with you, blow up in yet another nuclear explosion. It's left him oddly shaken up about how he treated you back in 2019.

He's pacing down the alley-way between the Commerse and Knox when he notices a flash atop the roof. A large camera of some sort.

A brown haired man closes his window briskly. That's strange.

Five teleports inside, scaling up a flight of stairs with cat-like agility. When he knocks on a door, the one beside him answers, revealing a mouse-y looking man in his early thirties. He looks at him with big, expectant eyes.

"What do you want." His tone is dripping with suspicion.

"Hi, I'm selling encyclopedias for my youth group. I was curious if-" Five gets a door to the face. He huffs, blinking inside after him.

The man, Elliot, jumps, yelping in fear and pulling out a butter-knife from his drawer of kitchen utensils. "H-how did you do that?" He hesitates, astonished.

Five looks at him with amusement. "Don't really have time to explain."

Elliot runs a hand through his unkempt brown hair, gripping the butter-knife in a feeble attempt to protect himself. "You from the Pentagon? Huh?"

"Definitely not."

"CIA? FBI? KGB?"

Five eyes up the kitchen, noticing a coffee pot on the other side of the room. "Is that fresh?" He uses his powers again, blinking himself right in front of the coffee pot.

Elliot screams, whipping his head back and forth between the place Five just was and the place he appeared. "What..." He pants, eyes wide.

"Elliot? You okay?" Five hears a faraway voice from another room. A familiar voice. "Who's with you?" It asks.

You appear from around the corner, presumably from Elliot's bedroom, looking almost two years older.

Five furrows his eyebrows and so do you. He breathes out your name is what you almost register as relief. But, you know better then to think that.

"Oh, Five. You're back." You say casually, nodding and crossing your arms. Five sets the coffee down, unwillingly noticing how you didn't call him by his nickname.

"How long have you been here?" He walks towards you, looking at your slightly different features. You changed your hair, he observes. He says nothing about it.

"A year and a half, I believe." You tap your chin in thought. Elliot glances between you two with interest or surprise.

"You two know each-other?" He puts the butter-knife back onto the counter with a small clatter.

You nod, shrugging. "We were co-workers." You send Elliot a reassuring, genuine smile.

Co-workers. Five doesn't like how the word rolled off your tongue.

He licks his lips, looking away. "You live here?" He asks you, though it was a silly question considering its obvious answer.

You nod with tight lipped smile, approaching Elliot. You fix his hair with your fingers and flip the collar of his flannel back down. "Did he scare you? I told you he could be a bit much."

Elliot exhales a shaky laugh at your words and actions as Five begins to feel a hot, frothy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He changes the subject. "Are my siblings here too?"

Elliot answers for you, looking back towards the teen again. "The other six anomalys- The power surges." He begins to look excited at this new discovery. "They're your siblings?"

Five ticks his jaw, ignoring him. "So they're alive..." He begins to pace around. "I think I stranded them here. Now listen to me..."

"Elliot." You tell him his name.

"Whatever, alright? I got ten days to find them and save the world." He points to you and Elliot. "Now, I need your help to do that."

Elliot is just so happy to be involved, his three year long project finally achieving some major development. He scrambles to find a certain newspaper scrap from his desk drawer. "You know what? I, uh..." He fumbles with it, handing it to Five.

"I always thought that this, uh, mugshot looked like arrival number four."

"Diego." Five reads softly, then he twists around to face you. "You're coming with me." He states.

You hiss awkwardly through your teeth, avoiding his eyes. "Ohh, about that... Actually, Elliot and I were about to play scrabble."

Five narrows his eyes at you, barking your name. "The world is ending and you're just gonna play scrabble with this homebody?"

Elliot looks at his dusty wooden floors with a look of dejection.

"Uh, yeah. That's exactly what I'm gonna do." You lean against the door-frame with a bored expression. "I thought you wanted me to stop following you around like a lost puppy."

Five feels strange. "You know what? I don't need this." He blinks away to search for Diego.

When Five returns from the strip club, after a failed attempt of recruiting both Luther and Diego, he decides to test something. His fingers reach for his tie, pulling at it and skewing it. Perfectly crooked.

You couldn't resist fixing his tie, he knew this.

So why didn't you? He finds himself uncharacteristically frustrated about unresponsiveness.

As he demands that Elliot develop his Frankel Footage, his eyes trail to you occasionally, silently tempting you to straighten his tie.

Your eyes flicked to it once. However, you made no move to adjust it.

Five heaves a dramatic sigh, angrily fixes it, and leaves to look for Vanya.

He messed up before, he realizes. He feels like shit.

#five hargreeves #number five #five hargreeves x reader #tua five #five hargreaves x reader #tua #five hargreaves x you #the umbrella academy #five x y/n #five x you #five x reader #umbrella academy #umbrella academy x reader

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delta-piscium · 10 months

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Steddie | 1.7k words it is (swedish) midsummer so I wrote this based on my favorite old tradition because I can and will make anything steddie, so like glad midsommar (happy midsummer)

“What are you doing?” Steve asks as he follows Eddie to the hallway where he’s frantically putting on his shoes.

“I almost forgot,” he mutters under his breath not acknowledging Steve at all.

“Forgot what?”

“I can’t believe I almost forgot.”

“Eddie,” Steve says a little louder, more adamant.

He does look up at Steve then and almost looks surprised to see him. As if he’d forgotten he was there, as if they haven’t been hanging out for hours.

“Oh,” he says. “Uhm,” he squints at Steve who waits for him to continue, to explain. He doesn’t.

“Yes?” Steve implores because he would really like an explanation. Eddie had just abruptly stood up halfway through telling Steve about some folklore he’s using in his new campaign, just cut himself off mid-sentence and walked off. Steve doesn’t think it’s especially weird or demanding of him to have questions.

“Did you have other plans that you just now remembered?” Steve frowns, starting to feel unsure when Eddie still isn’t saying anything. It’s just past eleven at night and Steve doesn’t know what plans those would be but he had showed up unannounced earlier in the evening so it’s not impossible that Eddie had plans that Steve interrupted.

“No, no, no,” Eddie assures him finally breaking his silence, “it’s- okay it’s a little silly but I read this thing researching and I want to try it.”

And well, okay then.

Steve raises his eyebrows and waves his hand gesturing for Eddie to go on.

Eddie’s cheeks turn a light pink and he resolutely looks somewhere above Steve’s shoulder instead of at him.

“Midsummer, which is today, is supposed to be this magical night and there are all these traditions and old myths about it.”

Eddie glances at Steve and he smiles. Tries to show he’s listening and wants to know whatever thing Eddie read about.

“And well, okay so there’s this one tradition where you pick seven different kinds of flowers before you go to bed and then put them under your pillow and you’re supposed to dream about who you’re gonna spend your life with.”

Steve blinks, wasn’t expecting that and doesn’t know what to say about it, so, he blinks again.

“Maybe it’s dumb, but with all we’ve seen magic and folklore don’t seem so far-fetched and,” he shrugs, “I wanna try. And like, it’s close to midnight and I don’t know if that’s a rule but I don’t wanna risk messing it up.”

“It- huh,” Steve frowns slightly and looks at his shoes then back at Eddie. “Yeah alright, let’s do it. Can’t hurt right?”

His voice is light, like it’s not a big deal and just a fun thing Eddie read about because that’s what it is, isn’t it? But something about it settles deep in Steve’s gut. Makes it feel important in a way he’s not sure he could explain if he tried. Maybe it’s just the fact that Eddie is getting so worked up about the possibility of dreaming about the person he’s gonna spend his life with when Steve maybe a little bit wishes it would be him, but like, only a little.

Eddie looks at him with wide eyes like he didn’t expect Steve to want to join, like maybe he expected Steve to make fun of him for wanting to do it. But then something seems to switch in him and a slow smile spreads over his face and he gives Steve an exaggerated once over.

“Looking to find your true love huh, Harrington?”

“I thought you said it was the person you spend your life with, not the same as true love necessarily.” Steve quips back because technicalities are easier to argue over than answering that question, especially when Eddie is the one asking.

Eddie shrugs. “Different sources say different things, sometimes it’s true love sometimes it’s who you marry.”

“Well, then I guess we’re both looking to find our true loves?” Steve hedges, drags Eddie down with him if they’re gonna go there.

A soft look passes Eddie’s face before a responds, voice quieter. “Guess we are, yeah.”

They pick their flowers in silence, something about the magic being broken if you speak. Walking around the edge of the woods behind Eddie’s trailer a couple of feet apart, every once in a while coming together or crossing paths.

After, Steve stands in between Eddie’s trailer and his own car. Holding on to his bouquet of seven flowers unsure what to do. He could go home, he should go home, but he doesn’t want to. He did have some beers hours ago and if he was allowed to speak he’d use that as an excuse to not drive and ask Eddie to crash on his couch. Right now he can’t though so he sighs inwardly and turns to his car.

He makes it about two steps before a hand reaches out and grips him around his free wrist stopping him. When he turns around Eddie is giving him a look that very clearly says ‘stop being stupid’ and jerks his head towards the trailer silently telling Steve to go with him. He doesn’t let go though and uses his grip on Steve to drag him along like he can’t be sure Steve will actually listen and follow. As if Steve would ever not follow Eddie.

They quickly get ready for bed. And again when Steve walks toward the couch Eddie grabs him and shakes his head. He waves his arms around a bit like that’s supposed to explain anything but Steve isn’t too bothered about an explanation anyways and easily follows Eddie to his bedroom.

They’ve shared a bed before but always when they’ve been drunk or high so this feels different. Steve is a little glad they can’t speak or he’s sure he’d blurt out something way too revealing about it all.

He avoids looking at Eddie as he tucks his flowers in under his pillow, knows Eddie is doing the same next to him. Is aware of it only being an old myth from a region halfway across the world but there’s a weight to it. Something real and tangible.

He expects it to take a while for him to fall asleep like it always does. For him to twist and turn and lay awake until the early morning. For once though, that doesn’t happen. With the weight of Eddie next to him and to the sounds of his soft breathing and small movements, Steve falls asleep.

And he dreams. He dreams of big brown eyes and bright laughter. Of wild hair and warm arms embracing him. He dreams of growing old next to someone and how every wrinkle on their face tells a story of their shared love.

He wants to stay in the dream forever, desperately tries to hold onto it even as he floats into consciousness. He turns and groans, gets a mess of someone’s hair in his mouth and nose and that’s enough to startle him into full wakefulness.

Eddie grumbles next to him, clearly also just waking up. Steve looks at him, with his wild hair and his big brown eyes that are slowly blinking open and of course. Of course, it was Eddie he dreamed about.

Their eyes meet and Eddie freezes. Eyes widening as he looks back at Steve.

“Oh,” he says.

And yeah, oh.

“Eddie?” Steve asks, unsure of how to bring it up, to ask about it. If he even should?

He puts on a teasing smile, even though he feels like goo inside, but making it lighthearted is all he can think of because what if he’s taking this whole thing way too seriously? Jumping to conclusions?

“Dream of anyone?”

Eddie nods and looks away, “I did.” He says it simply, voice careful.

And maybe it isn’t just Steve.

“Who?” He asks, dropping the teasing tone.

Eddie swallows and looks back at Steve. “The person I wanted to dream of,” he says and it’s not really an answer but he’s looking at Steve so intently he thinks it still might be.

He thinks about Eddie’s quiet but delighted surprise at Steve wanting to join him yesterday. About Eddie dragging him first into his trailer and then into his bed. How they’re so close on Steve’s side of the bed and Eddie must have drifted towards him in his sleep.

He bites his lip to stop his smile from spreading too wide, there’s still a chance he’s misinterpreting things, “yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And who would that be?” Steve asks, leaning in even closer until he feels Eddie’s small puffs of breath across his face.

“You,” Eddie whispers but Steve hears it clearly.

He takes a moment to bask in it, to let it wash over him before he responds.

“That’s good,” Steve tells him eventually and Eddie’s eyes are so wide and open, and so pretty, “because I dreamt of you.”

He knows it’s cheesy so he doesn’t give Eddie time to respond, just leans in and closes the remaining gap between them. Slots their lips together. Eddie gasps into the kiss, grabs Steve by the hair, and pulls him in. Makes all these cute noises that make Steve want and want and want.

He shifts, goes to put his leg in between Eddie’s to move on top of him and get a better angle. But he only gets halfway before Eddie grabs his hips and twists them around. Pushes Steve flat on his back and straddles him.

He grins down at Steve.

“You think the Scandinavian magic worked or was it just dream psychology and wishful thinking?”

“Does it matter?” Steve asks, way too earnestly. But like, they’ve just spent this whole time doing some true love magic so he thinks it’s fine, “got what I wanted.”

“It’s forever though,” Eddie points out, bending down to bite at Steve’s jaw, “if we believe the old Norse people.”

Steve hears the question there, thinks this might be Eddie’s way of asking what this means to Steve. His way of telling Steve this isn’t just a hookup for him.

“God yeah,” Steve exhales, “I fucking hope so.”

He feels Eddie smile into his neck and grabs his hair, uses it to pull him back and steer him into another kiss.

#listen I wrote this today while actively celebrating midsummer during any break i had so lets just hope it makes sense and isn't riddled #with mistakes but if it is i can only apologize...#literally me with anything ever 'but what if it was steddie tho?' like damn del calm down #posting this after midnight tho so just shhh about it okay? ive been busy busy #me: ill work on my wips #also me immediately: *writes something else*#but it was for the occasion so #steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #dels steddie thoughts #my writing #stranger things #steddie fic

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chut-je-dors · 1 year

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Now I'm curious cause of your tag. What did Swedish media say about the eurovision thing?

Oof yeah, here's a post detailing it ... here another... Basically they've absolutely flipped over the fact that Finnish public didn't give Loreen points at all (which I find absolutely hilarious) and suddenly started wielding such rhetoric as "the former eastern part of our kingdom" referring to Finland, which is???? like??? do I even need to say how Not Okay that is?

It might seem to some that the Finnish people are reacting to Sweden's (unfair) win and them being sore winners (which, points to them, I didn't know was possible!) with too much drama, but it's all tied to our history together. Finland has traditionally seen itself, and has been seen by other countries (Sweden included) as the sort of "little brother" to the more advanced, better-faring, glorious Sweden. While Sweden to my knowledge doesn't much care about what Finland gets up to (perhaps overlooking/ignoring us and our merits), Finland is always comparing itself to Sweden and trying to live up to it. It's a very common rhetoric and sort of, the atmosphere over here. We know more about Sweden than Sweden knows about us; we're constantly conscious that Sweden exists. Sweden gets talked about in international news; Finland, if mentioned, is often tied to - you guessed it - being Sweden's neighboring country.

We used to be part of Sweden for 600 years. During that time, Swedish was implemented as the language of the culture and the "civilised" whereas the finns living in the eAstErn pArT oF tHe kiNgDoM were seen as "wild" and "uncivilised" and just, generally a lesser people to the Swedish speaking population. We haven't been under Sweden's rule for some 200 years and STILL we can't seem to shake their influence on us. Swedish is still a mandatory language to learn at school (and I have many opinions on that, but that'd be another post). Finnish as a language has been disregarded for its whole existence. Our leading national thinkers and poets in the 19th century, who were the first ones to really push for the Finnish identity instead of us seeing ourselves as part of Sweden or Russia, wrote in Swedish. The first novel in Finnish was published in 1870.

So this is monumental to us, to have the whole word watching Finland and not Sweden. Finland has a lot of merits, especially considering how small a people we are (just 5,5mil). To have a song in our language, in Finnish be this popular, is something we couldn't have imagined. We as a people are humble to the extreme, so much that we might easily scorn anyone who is too successful (not a good thing!), and this is the first time in my life that I'm seeing the whole country rally behind someone like this. When we say "Our Jere" we mean it with our whole hearts. We're so so proud of him, everyone is, and for once Finnish people seem to think in unison that someone deserves all the praise and the success.

SO, to have Sweden in this UNIQUE moment of Finland raising its head and being "we're so amazing", with the rest of Europe going "yes you're so amazing!!", spew rhetoric like this, is just, unbelievable to me. Like I can't just believe that in the 21st century there are people in Sweden who hold up 200 year old thought patterns of our country. It's been shocking 'cos though there's always been rivalry, it's felt more... tongue in cheek. We "love to hate" Sweden over here. It's been "I hate Sweden (affectionate)". But now we find this unbelievably condescending and belittling attitude towards us raising its head, and we wonder, we thought we two were okay?? But have they always held these beliefs???

So there's a sense of betrayal in the air as well. And just, full on disbelief. And maybe we're starting to see that it has been like this all along, but we've decided to turn a blind eye to it? True colours shining through? Perhaps not... but yeah.

Sweden not looking good here!

(here's one more post that says the same that i did but was better at making it SHORT oops)

#eurovision #finland #sweden #käärijä #loreen #look i have nothing against loreen or individual swedish people #i don't believe most swedes would think like this!#still to have something like this in a piece of media over there is... wild #and somewhat telling?#welp #bit of a long answer but there's more to this mess than just what's happening now #it's 800 years of shared history that we understand without it needing to be said #at least i think so!#if anyone has anything to add/discuss please go ahead!#anonymous #answered #the finnish people have a forever inferior complex when it comes to sweden and now the one time the world actually sees us sweden's like #'such dumb people :( we won look at our trophy. stop celebrating the circus act'#they're just jealous we have the crazy we have the party #:) <3 i wrote this cos i'm hiding from work heheh #esc23 #suomi

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formulaforza · 1 year

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furniture-- c.leclerc

pairing: charles leclerc x reader word count: 750 a/n: thank u dani for snapping my writers block. art imitates life fr fr here

Are you busy? You texted him, tossed your phone onto the ground next to you and assessed the situation in front of you for the hundredth time. Pieces of wood everywhere, harware everywhere, a cordless drill your dad had given you when you moved out years ago–one he didn’t show you how to use.

What had started as a simple Friday evening project, rearranging your apartment living room, had transformed into an all-consuming weekend of furniture and clutter shopping. The Ikea box–boxes–sit torn apart on the floor and the instruction pamphlet is disheveled amongst the mess somewhere.

Never for you, he replies, you roll your eyes.

You reach for your phone, quickly type out your response. Come over? You text, and immediately follow it up. Not for the reason you think.

He’s knocking on your door twenty-five minutes later, three knocks, pause, and then another. Just like always. You try to manuver your way out of the maze of wooden boards and dowels and hardware and the dreadful drill to get to the door. He’s on his phone when you open it, quickly shuts it off and shoves it in his pocket and smiles at you like an idiot. “Hi.”

“Help.” You say, straight-faced and serious because you’re in so over your head it’s not even funny. He laughs, you swing open the door nad mumble out a preemptive apology.

He chokes your name out through a laugh as soon as he sees the mess. “What have you done?”

“Can you help me?” You say over his shoulder, over his shaking head. Disbelief, amazement, fear, probably all of the above because you’ve truly created a monster.

“Cherie, what am I looking at, even?” He scratches the back of his head, his neck, just inside the collar of his t-shirt.

“Entertainment center.”

He tries not to laugh. Fails miserably. “Are you sure?”

“I think.”

“Oh, mamma mia.” He shakes his head, looks at you and reflects your pout. “You’re so cute.”

You roll your eyes. “Are you going to help me, or not?” You are so far beyond help, mon amour, he sighed, told you to get something to drink and that he would figure out how to undo whatever you’d done and build the furniture the way it was originally intended to be built. “You don’t want my help?”

“I am scared of your help.” You would be offended if everything you’d managed to put together looked even a little bit like what the end goal was, but, he was probably right to be scared by what you could do. You were a little scared by how badly you’d managed to screw it up. It felt like maybe someone should take away your rights to adult if you couldn’t built a simple peice of furniture. “If I teach you, you won’t have to ask for my help next time.”

“This is truly an enlightening experience,” you say, pop another piece of fruit into your mouth. “Dinner and a show.” Who knew watching your guy-who-isn’t-your-guy play with high stakes Swedish legos could be so attractive. It’s just furniture, you’d try to remind yourself, and then he'd use your drill like his dad taught him how to use one instead of just giving him one as a gift.

“Who gave this to you?” He asked about the drill the first time he picked it up. “I don’t think they liked you much.”

You laughed. He laughed at your laugh. “My dad,” you answered, and he shrugged his shoulders, didn’t confirm or deny his previous claim. You don’t know if he plays it safe because you’ve told him too much–or too little–information.

Despite a few of the screws angled just a bit awkwardly, the only real victim of the entertainment center debacle of 2023 is a single wooden dowel that snapped clean in half. “Do you have super glue?” He asked when the two of you finally stopped laughing about it. I have nail glue, you told him, and only time will tell if the cosmetic solution actually worked.

“My hero!” You joked, stood up on your tip-toes to throw an arm around him, admired your–his–work now that the console had been set in it’s forever home. “I could not have done it without you.”

“You would’ve figured it out.” He says, smiles down at you like he isn’t a liar. “It just would have been…”

“A disaster?”

He chuckles. “Abstract.”

“Oh.” You laugh, kiss him because how can you not? “You’re sweet.”

#charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc blurb #charles leclerc fluff #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc fic #charles leclerc fanfic #f1 blurb #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 2023 #f1 fandom #cl16 #mack's 10 days of fluff #day 8

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herozdiary · 3 months

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Heaven

Simon x reader

This diary entry contains…This isn’t a full writing but instead a small Drabble or whatever on Simon’s love for you! | fluff | established relationship | mentions of depression | Simon is WHIPPED (he’s always gonna be whipped for you though 😜)

You were his safe place,heaven even in his eyes,You were an angel sent to protect him and show you how nice and beautiful the world can actually be.

You were complete opposites as you were more open and loud while Simon was more shut in and quiet.people saw you around campus and would wonder how Simon was able to pull you.

Simon didn’t know himself.Maybe you were just attracted to quiet loser kids who didn’t really do much in life.

He was in love with you.he loved the way your hair looked,The way you spoke,the way you dressed.Everything about you was perfect in his eyes.

He knew everything about you mostly.He knew your favorite food,Your favorite cuddling position,Everything.

He knew your favorite crayon and he knew the way you liked your bed to be made.he knew things that not even your closet friend knew.

It was like Simon knew you like the back of his hand.He was madly in love you with.Couldnt take his eyes off of you when your in his presence.

He once did a whole presentation on you for one of his classes and got the best grade in the class.He started to call you his good luck charm for this reason alone.

You were so admirable also.The way you did things were so pleasing to watch.He praised you like you just did the most amazing thing ever when you only got a 100% on your test.

He made you feel special,Lifted you up when you felt down.He knew a good thing or two to help get you back in the mood.

He knew that maybe cuddling in bed with you,Watching a scary movie if your up to watch it or he might let you do a face mask on him.He knew you had a thing for finding cool rocks and putting them in your “cool rock” jar so every time he went somewhere and saw a cool looking rock,he would pick it up,take it with him and bring it to you!He likes to think of it as his gift to you for being an amazing partner.

He loves teaching you how to make Swedish dishes,Guiding you through every step like his mom did.In the end you both try it and you notice how small tears fill Simon’s tired eyes as he makes a comment on how it tastes just like how his mom made it.

You listened to him,Cared for him and made sure he was okay.you would sit and listen to him ramble about his day,clinging onto every word he spoke.

You never forced Simon to tell you everything.If he wanted to tell you about something he would.You never pushed him into explaining everything to you as everything wasn’t meant for you to know.

You felt safe with Simon and he felt safe with you.you guys trusted each other,Looked out for each other and loved each other the best way you guys could.

Simon would tell Dr.Purnell about you,Explaining how being around you makes him feel better about himself and how your actively trying to help Simon get better.You made sure Simon was showered,had brushed his teeth and you even offered to wash his clothes.

He knew that you were an angel sent from heaven in that moment when you went over the instructions on how to get certain stains out of his favorite hoodie.

You are an angel sent from heaven in his eyes.

#cry of fear #cry of fear x reader #cry of fear x you #simon henriksson #simon henriksson x reader #character x you #video game x reader #x reader #x y/n #fluff

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slavghoul · 1 year

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Interview from Upset Magazine 6/2023

Words: Steven Loftin

Like an apparition manifesting within a dense fog, it was through radio static that Swedish rockers Ghost were formed. In the kindergarten he attended as a young boy, Tobias Forge found himself enamoured with the music crackling through the little toy speakers. From this point forward, he began picking apart the notes and melodies - his journey toward the lore and canon coming into focus as he sat, trying to figure out how this black magic could be summoned.

While it would be many years before he would don his garb as Papa Emeritus, the essence of what his future would sound like was being set through his exposure to a wide variety of music. If any proof were needed, just look to the impressive list of covers Ghost have put their ghastly mark upon, including 2016's 'Popestar' EP, which included the band's takes on Echo & The Bunnymen ('Nocturnal Me') and Simian Mobile Disco ('I Believe').

Ghost's latest EP is another covers bonanza. A five-piece offering of Tobias's backstory, 'Phantomime' plays out like a Greatest Hits radio playlist - a fitting throwback to Tobias' first dalliances with music. Of course, when a group more aligned to the metal/hard rock community bust out covers, including Genesis and Tina Turner, eyebrows are raised. To this reaction, Tobias scoffs. "In 1991, Genesis was one of the biggest bands on the planet! That was a huge hit. In the mid-80s, when I had an older teenage brother who rented every VHS movie that came out, of course, we saw the fucking Thunderdome, and that was a huge hit, and it's still being played on Swedish radio. It's an evergreen; it's not an eclectic choice at all," he declares. "I grew up listening to Stranglers because my brother liked them. What else do we have, Iron Maiden - I mean, are you kidding? I'm a metalhead!"

Originally conceived during the sessions for their fifth album, last year's 'Impera', there were two folders on his computer's desktop: one named 'Impera', the other simply 'Covers'. As the ideas for 'Impera' grew, Tobias would enter his usual routine of working on a cover or two. "At any point, when you lose a little wind in writing your own things, it's quite nice to say, 'Today let's go in and work on the covers'; you can choose anything you want, you can work on absolutely anything you want. And you don't have to finish it, you don't have to release it, you don't have to do anything, but just continue working."

He likens it to the freedom of being a theatre owner who, instead of trying to pen the next greatest Broadway phenomenon, opts to have a go at something already timeless and perfected.

"Maybe you're like, 'Okay, so this fall we're just going to do a reinterpretation of Hamlet instead, that's going to be fine, and that keeps everyone working, and that keeps a project moving along! And I find a similar thing with working on covers. So as I was writing "Impera', the covers folder was also growing exponentially and at a point. I had this idea that was going to be a full-length album."

With COVID restrictions meaning the original producer for 'Impera' was stuck in the US, Tobias had to source a replacement. It would be Klas Åhlund who stepped up to the plate. But, on one condition. "He was pretty upfront. He was like. Yeah, I only want to make the record; I don't want to work on covers," Tobias remembers "Fine, fine, fine, that's fine." he shrugs. "So, after the 'Impera' recording was done, I felt as if making a completely different, whole record again: I didn't have time for that. I didn't have the energy for that. But once I trimmed down the number of songs to only these five to make a very rocky record, it loosened up the screws a little bit for me in terms of like, "Okay, so now I know what the EP is going to be - it's going to be a full, full-throttle rock one."

Ditching some rumoured softer covers, including U2, Misfits, and Motörhead. 'Phantomime is instead a delectable slice of Ghost doing what Ghost do best: creating theatrically big rock. It's Tobias's mark upon some bonafide classics, including Iron Maiden's 'Phantom of the Opera' which feels as befitting to Ghost as it does seeing Papa Emeritus kick the bucket ready for his next iteration. While the focus was on creating this small dose of Tobias's musical DNA, it also served another purpose; to simply be "not very complicated." The project began with the mindset of "we can make this recording loosely - quick but stress-free - as opposed to making a record which is your hard fifth record that needs to live up to certain standards. So it was just a very inspired, very simple recording, actually."

After the complexities of 'Impera' which wound up requiring two studios simultaneously running in parallel "to be able to work efficiently" - Ghost was morphing into a taxing experience for the band leader, "It was just a bigger thing [and] way more stressful."

Deciding to strip that covers folder down to the five tracks, by all accounts, 'Phantomime was a measured and reserved effort. "It ended up being me, an engineer, and an occasional musician coming in and doing something. It was so much looser, so much more mentally Feng Shui," he smiles, relief glowing in his voice. "And I think that that reflected a little bit on the two different records. They're meant to be related - they are definitely related - they were made roughly in the same time, but they're completely different things."

'Phantomime' plays out like a ghoulish social commentary. Starting with a searing rendition of Televison's 'See No Evil, the journey traverses the scourge of Televangelism (Genesis' Jesus He Knows Me') with a delightfully-fitting NSFW video, the instant gratification humans require to feel (The Stranglers' Hanging Around"); the pull back into cruel reality (Phantom Of The Opera"), and the resulting undying hope from a degraded society (Tina Turner's 'We Don't Need Another Hero"). Each offering is bolstered with Ghost's dramatic, theatric rock licks and Tobias's powerhouse vocals.

With 'Phantomime' in the bag and the European leg of the 'Impera' tour imminent (Tobias is currently holed up in preparation), the idea of reflecting on how he came to go from a young boy listening to the static sounds of pop hits on the radio to orchestrating not only a feverishly adored band and its lore but finding the capacity to embrace his inner music nerd, couldn't be more timely. Tobias's relationship with music has always been one of intrigue. He's a pop songwriter with the ambition and ideas of a stadium rock band, which, in essence, explains perfectly why Ghost can sit in a unique, exponentially growing and expanding space.

"My earliest inclination of wanting to transform into something else was definitely Twisted Sister," he recalls. "You know, "I Want To Rock' and 'We're Not Going To Take It' - that was a huge record in 1984, and in 1984, I was three years old," he says. "My brother was 16, so everything that was going on pop-culturally amongst teenagers was happening in my home."

It was thanks to his brother that much of Tobias's relationship with music was formed. He's introduced him to various giants of the time, like tectonic plates being pushed around, impacting and shaping his musical landscape. Translating for young Tobias the attitude of punk at the time, as well as everything else that was 'in', he remembers, "When I was a kid, and he was supposed to babysit me, as a pacifier he would put me in front of [Sex Pistols mockumentary film] 'The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle"," he laughs. "And then when that was over, he would just switch to [X-rated cartoon] Fritz the Cat. And I loved that stuff, of course. That was as much [about] the expression and the attitude. Of course, I loved the songs, but it was also filtered or combined with big songs for me." Those big songs ("Men At Work 'Down Under'," he initially cites, "those sort of songs still have a unique place in my in my writing") would eventually entwine with his darker side that he'd explore as he grew older. "Whilst my whole adolescence was completely in the name of extreme metal, I always had a very soft spot for Top 40 rock and pop radio always," Tobias explains. "And I've listened to that all my life. So it's almost equal portions of Venom as it is anything. that was on the radio."

Also, witnessing shock and glam-rock bands explode intrigued Tobias. He became swept away in the idea that not only could you push a boundary to its absolute limits with convictions and over-the-top grandiosity, but you could do so with songs that quantifiably bop. But, as time has gone onto prove, it wasn't pop music that enamoured Tobias enough that he wanted to become a pop star. It's the mythology and mystery that has become his calling card.

Tobias remained an enigma under the disguise of an evolving form of the iconic Papa Emeritus (now in his fourth incarnation) until 2017, after a lawsuit from a previous iteration of his backing band's rotating cast, the Nameless Ghouls. Visual and video components to releases are often hoovered up by the fandom, stripped apart for meaning and potential. Instagram posts are referred to as a '[Message From The Clergy]" (a phrase later claimed for 2022's Best Of playlist), and lest it is forgotten, the Ghost 'Grucifix' - the prominent crucifix deconstructed into Tobias's gothic 'G' logo - which ties together the vision, religious imagery and satire that would become a core part of the Ghost experience.

His musical ambition and education colliding in the middle of his Venn diagram between dark metal and pop magic is thanks to the likes of the aforementioned Twisted Sister and W.A.S.P., as well as his teen years in the black metal community. "Their first record was also a huge impact in Swedish media," Tobias remembers. "There was this big sort of Satanic panic thing going on at the time in the fall of 1984. Where you had essentially all those things happening. You had Mötley Crüe 'Shout At The Devil', which came out a year earlier, and they were there because they toured with Iron Maiden in 1984, so there was a lot of focus on these shock-rock bands. I saw that as a kid, and I was immediately blown away - it was the coolest thing I've ever seen. And I think that that was the trigger that made me identify as that is how I want to express myself."

Decoding the songs he'd hear also became an integral part of that expression. "That was the only thing I did for years before I started writing my own songs." Recalling his time in kindergarten, they had a piano and guitar, which Tobias became infatuated with. Instead of playing with the other children, he would find himself enraptured, listening to the radio or flipping over whichever cassette happened to be loaded at the time. He would then imitate the sounds he was soaking up. "A lot of those early beginnings of how to learn and how I've learned how to understand music filters through everything I do now," he explains.

The early records he'd find himself trying to unpack included KISS 'Alive' and Pink Floyd's 'Piper At The Gates Of Dawn' - disparate matches, but undoubtedly Ghost fuel with hard rock melodies and psychedelic tendencies. "I had the first and the second Pink Floyd on a double LP that was called 'A Nice Pair'. And that's the shit that I sat and listened to and played guitar to," he says proudly. "That's weird music, that's really weird chord sequences and melodies that sort of went nowhere. And, that coloured me a lot in my vision of this is how you write a pop song. Of course, I knew more conventional writing as well. But I figured that this resonates with me, and I want to write more like that."

Tobias is the first to admit that the influence his musical exposure has had on him isn't the most straightforward. "For all the years that I was in bands, up until Ghost, basically when I was in bands not doing well, I got a lot of, I wouldn't say stick, but it was always like, 'You write weird songs, there's something weird about them, and it will never really become anything because it has that sort of weirdness to it".

As he grew, the songs he'd heard reflected this inherent strangeness he'd constructed. Before the days of mass formulaic pop factories, the music emanating from the radio abided by the strictest rule of needing to at least be approachable, but within these confines, artists of the 70s and 80s would push the envelope as far as they could. Citing Nik Kershaw's 'The Riddle' as one example, "Holy shit, if you would have taken that song and taken it to a chord structure masterclass amongst pop writers now who want to write songs for Miley Cyrus or The Weeknd or any of that sort of level they would say, no, no, no, no, that this will never work. It's too strange. It's too weird. You can't do that; it doesn't have the normal chord progression.

"There are a lot of songs from the 80s that are like that," he reckons, "compared to the now, more informative way of writing, the 80s was braver actually, and it worked well. And those songs are evergreens in a way that a lot of the top radio shit from seven years ago is forgotten, and that's the stuff that I grew up with when I started playing the guitar."

Having made that inner sanctum, he would enter kindergarten a reality, one where he can explore those recesses of his mind shaken by the musical earthquakes he experienced; now, he's matured and deeply entrenched in the reality. "Throughout the modern day of pop writing, I know a few professional pop songwriters, and we continue having these conversations because in pop," he says, "where some of them work prolifically on really high releases, they're like, it's strange how the business wants everything to be so informative. Everybody wants a weird song, but still, all the big songs are usually very, very formatted [and] very, very simple."

While unpacking the songs he'd heard back in the 80s offered Tobias a chance to comprehend what makes a good song, it, more importantly, helped him to set out doing it on his own. When digging into crafting a new Ghost number, Tobias explains that "each new song is a little bit like virgin territory with its own riddle to be solved, and is always a combination of the horror of maybe not solving the puzzle, with the thrill when you do. And it's never easy because each new song needs something new. And so you constantly need to feed your ability with knowledge about how other things are."

Breaking it down into a figurative example, he likens it to being like a detective. "I'm assuming that part of being a great detective is to constantly have an open mind, but also constantly learning about human behaviour and wha people do. If you just had 100 forensic classes, but you know nothing about people and how they live their lives, it's gonna be hard to solve crimes." The same rings true for writers who have to read to improve and further understand language, while comedians pull from real-life experiences - music is no different. Tobias's early days of stripping down songs to their basic parts and then rebuilding them have remained a constant endeavour. "But that's how you write songs as well; you go and absorb new things."

The covers process, as mentioned, is a release for Tobias. When things are stuck when trying to piece together a new chapter for the Ghost bible, a cover offers up a chance for something lighter. "Working on covers can be equally euphoric," he confirms, "because it's fun to understand a song whereas, on the other hand, it can be almost demoralising because you're like, I can't believe that this song is so much better than anything that I've written! And it's so much easier. It's so simple."

"I find myself overcomplicating things often, but you might not hear the complicated detour that I took to end up at the more understandable, straighter version that ended up being the actual recording," he continues. "That's a never-ending struggle because that's how it's supposed to be. It's not like you write the one song. I don't think I know anyone or know of anyone who's content with the idea of having written one huge song. And then you know, okay, that's nirvana for you. You don't write the one song the same way that if you're a comedian, it's not like, 'Oh, I just told the funniest joke. So now I'm done".

While Tobias is one for wanting to keep the ball rolling and on a constant endeavour to continue his musical evolution, he knows there's a limit. Every release of Ghost must have a purpose. Nodding to the 60s method of firing singles out on all fronts, eventually compiling them for a full-length release, Tobias acknowledges his relationship with his fans is based on a more long-term understanding. "That's not how we do things; we make an album, and off of that album, there are singles - it's a 70s/80s thinking. And I don't want to refrain from that - I don't want too many singles to be these autonomous little creatures."

But the world is different now. It's a Wild West where being in the masses' consciousness is key, so things may have to change for him. Admitting that right now, he knows he's post-release of Ghost's last canon entry, 'Impera', which arrived back in 2022, and while 'Phantomime' is a reasonable enough bridge, sooner or later, he's going to have to play the game of ensuring Ghost ramp up. Earlier this year, Ghost collaborated with Def Leppard's Joe Elliott on a re-release of 'Impera' cut 'Spillways' which, while a fantastic addition to their arsenal, adds to the same notion Tobias is fearful of. "I'm slowly preparing for making a new record that's going to come out in 2024, which is way too long for the current contemporary music climate; you need to be ever-present," the last phrase hanging in the air ominously.

That doesn't mean he has to lower his standards, however. No Ghost release will exist just for content's sake. Everything must have its place. He even reckons a 14-track album is "a lot of music", and he still sees an album as being "22 minutes of music per side" - true to form, currently, no standard issue of any Ghost album breaches 12 tracks. He's even ready to aim for the likes of The Rolling Stones and The Beatles by swiftly lobbing a couple of spicy takes out. "Look, man, I don't even think that 'Exile on Main Street' is that good. Not even the fucking White album is that great - break it up! Both of those records would have been better if they were trimmed down to singular records."

That pop mind breaking through; Tobias is someone who knows that music is entertainment. Certainly, a medium which often leads to more bulky connotations, but it must entertain. It's why he doesn't pay any mind to those naysayers that yearn for Ghost to be more metal or to follow a different path. This is Tobias's game; we're just privy to the sermon. These days the floodgates are open and, when compared to previous decades, as Tobias remembers it, "you had to buy your own records. Whatever additional music you got, that wasn't maybe heard on the TV or the radio, when you took something from someone else, was usually a choice, so music styles could in some way be a little bit more insular back then just because you weren't subjected to as much." He mentions his beloved death metal as being a signifier of the changes happening. "Back in the day, when I was starting listening to extreme metal, that was completely embraced by a certain little subculture or group of mostly teenagers and 20-somethings. Whereas in the 2000s, when Vice started doing black metal reporting, all of a sudden you have indie personalities who were fans of Darkthrone, and so, obviously, what ended up that turned into this fusion, which was a positive and very natural thing."

This cultural shift is another reason Ghost's space is widening and its success growing. "Nowadays, people are a little bit more open," he admits. But, with this comes issues. "As time has progressed, metal and hard rock, as well as most genres that have been around for a while, [they've] gone from this youth culture to a conservative institution because so many of the fans are now aged." The passage of time waits for no one. But, more presciently for culture, it also means our understanding of what is 'good' and what should be where is moulded differently to when we were younger. "Unfortunately, that happens to most people regardless of who you were when you were 20," Tobias reckons, "or your ideals when you're like 40/50/60 years old. Your brain starts morphing into a slightly more conservative, slightly more nostalgic... You don't want things to change."

Tobias is the first to hold his hands up and admit the same has happened to him. He yearns for 1984 and even 1990-94. He would even be happy with 1987, back to those days with the crackling radio and a childlike spirit. "That would be so much cooler. I loved that way more than in this day and age. But I can't sit around and mope about that because it's not a problem that it's not 1987."

'Phantomime' is proof nostalgia can be a useful tool. It fuels with passion, and Ghost is Tobias's Neverland. "There's such a debate about what we are and why that is." Ghost are a band that, thanks to Tobias's musical education, transcend time. They exist on their own plain and with the evergreen, timeless sounds of yesteryear echoing around Tobias's head, long may Papa reign with his gloved melodic iron fist.

#the band ghost #tobias forge #interview #really good one 👍

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romeulusroy · 1 year

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Harm (Roman Roy Oneshot)

Character/s: Roman, Lukas

Word Count: 1,645

Warning/s: abusive relationship mention/warning

A/N: This whole scene was a masterpiece, no one can tell me otherwise. Angry Roman is a gem, I love!!! I think Lukas would be a shitty boyfriend and Roman would come to their rescue. That is all :P Feedback is always appreciated 💜💜💜

Your lip was split. The bruise across your cheek yellowed in it’s melancholy hue. Across your body, your skin is painted in purple splotches, dipped in blue and red, the mark of an angry soul. They ache with every breathe, every beat. Your eyes are red around the edges, bloodshot and glossy. Your hands were shaking, unable to steady them. You had nothing. You left with nothing. The clothes on your back, your slippers caked in mud, still spongy from the Swedish rainfall. You didn’t stop running. You didn’t stop until now, halted by, of all things, a locked door. You’d been pounding, palm flat, ready to scream, to collapse, constantly looking behind you. Certain shadows resembled his shape. Please, your thoughts begged, please let me in. Roman, please. When the door opened, you fought to catch your breath, shrinking as the harsh light of the morning opened wide in front of you, at you, assaulting you. He stood there, taking you in. Taking in the crime scene. The brown of his eyes golden in the light, shocked. Wild, wide with fear, worry, with recognition. All he could do was back away, letting you in. He didn’t move, instead watching you slam the door shut, acting quickly, locking every lock. The silence between you was palpable, heavy. Immediately you slid down, your back against the wood, choking on sobs. Tears streamed down your cheeks. A guttural, animalistic, infantile whine left your lips before you were too embarrassed to stop yourself. Your hands hovered around your face, unsteady, unsure of how to comfort yourself in this moment. Everything hurt. Every little movement, every second of existence, hurt. Killed.

Carefully, he lead you to the bathroom, scared to touch you, unsure of where to put his hands. He ran the water, a warm bath, setting you on the edge of the tub. You didn’t say a thing, instead slumped over, watching him work. Here’s the fuckin- you know and, and a towel here, too. Do you need clothes? Of course you do. S, stay here, I’ll get some. Fuck. He cursed himself, not you. Never you, not like this. He wasn’t prepared for this. Was anyone? The emotions, the feelings, the heartbreak. He didn’t know how to soothe anyone, anything. He’d never been taught. He skimmed through his drawers, his closet, for a pair of pajamas. Not soft enough. There was no blood, but parts of your skin looked broken, gaping wounds, puncture marks. What the fuck happened? Finally he found something that couldn’t possibly do anymore damage, finding his way back to you. You hadn’t moved a muscle, the heaviness of the day, the past few days, weighing you down. I’ll be right outside, okay? You call me if you need anything, okay? All you could do was nod. Quietly, slowly, he shut the door, not wanting to scare you. God knows how long he sat there for, waiting for something to happen. Digging his nails into his palms, trying to take control of the situation. Was there anyone he could call? Shiv would know what to do, so would Gerri. Connor, maybe? Hell, he’d even give Kendall a chance if it meant someone telling him to do the right thing. The last time he’d seen you you were with that prick, happy, so happy, in a better condition than this. Much better. The last time he left you, you were in one piece. He knocked a few times, wanting to know if you were still okay. Your voice came out small and strained, exhausted, but at least you were speaking. That was one step in the right direction, right? In the end, he calls no one. He doesn’t even know where his phone is. You went to him for a reason. Alone. If he said anything to someone else, he knew, deep down, that would fracture the trust you had. He felt ill prepared, but it was you and him. He could do this. He could help you.

Roman hadn’t noticed the bags under your eyes, too distracted by the bruises before. Deep, dark, painful looking. When was the last time you’d slept? You looked funny in his clothes. Not funny, that’s not the right word. They seemed strange on you. In all the years you’d known one another, practically from childhood, he’d never expected to be the person you ran to when you were in trouble. You came out of the steamy room smelling of vanilla and lavender, unsure of what to do next. Roman, at an equal loss, lead you to his bedroom. The sun had just come up, surpassing golden hour, but you needed rest and he needed to buy himself a few hours. Cancel everything he had planned for the day. He wasn’t going to leave you. He pulled the blankets over you, tucking you in softly, wondering if he was dreaming. Having a terrible, horrible, awful bad dream. Any minute he’d wake up and none of this would be real. The look on your face though, the pain, the humiliation, it was all too real. Your eyes were closing before you could stop them, curled into a little ball, as if you were still trying to protect yourself. He thought you had everything. A perfect relationship, a devoted boyfriend, an escape from your real life. Everything. He didn’t love it, or even like it, biting back jealousy since the beginning, but he never expected it to go like this. Matsson had always been a dick, someone who expected to get his way whenever he wanted, but he’d assumed there was a line in the sand between business and life. There had to be. Roman paced the floors of his apartment, wondering where it all went wrong. . . .

Bits and pieces have come to light over the past few months. Your skin has healed, your mind taking a little longer. That’s okay, he was patient. Gentle. You ran away, in the middle of the night. A private jet, your family’s. He could track you if you used his. Things weren’t good, hadn’t been for a long time. You didn’t know how to leave, how to get out. One night you couldn’t take it anymore. Why did you go to him, you were both wondering. To this day, you’re not sure. You couldn’t go to your family. They were, they’d make a spectacle out of it. Run his name through the mud. You couldn’t stand to look at him, let alone say his name, tell the public every detail of your twisted relationship. They wouldn’t have been there for you, rather the story. You didn’t have many friends left. He’d alienated you from them. The Roys seemed like the safest option. They knew him, knew how he could be, but they also knew you, have known you for years now. Roman felt like the safest option. He still was. He held you when you had nightmares. At first scared to touch you, to speak, then you felt his arms tight around you, his voice breaking, dripping in worry. Hey, hey it’s just me. It’s just me, you’re okay. You’re okay. Every night, he’d comfort you, find his way back to you. He ended up sleeping beside you, so he’d be there always. Over time, the space between you grew smaller, until you were falling asleep in his arms. Those were the nights when your dreams remained sweet. Safe at last. He never pushed the subject, not those first days, where you mostly slept, and not now. If someone on his team angered him, if someone said something, he’d take it out on you. You left your phone, your wallet, everything. Roman took care of it all once he realized, made some calls, saved your finances, got you a new phone with a new number. He helped you make painful, generalized calls to your mother, father, family. No mom, no it just didn’t work out. Please don’t call him, we need out time apart. It ended in tears. It always did. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving you. He knew the weeks leading up to this inevitable would be hard, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He’d have to leave soon, group therapy, or playing gladiator, depending on how it went. A retreat in Norway to seal the deal. Roman had been asked to go and though he would have loved to tell him to fuck off, you insisted he play nice. Pretend nothing happened. You could barely look at yourself those first months, avoiding mirrors, avoiding reflective surfaces. How could anyone do that to a person? How could he let him get away with it? Play nice, please. For me. Every time he closed his eyes he saw your blood in the sheets, heard the sharp inhale as every bruise felt pushed, the whimper you made in your sleep. You froze every time his face was on the television, unable to turn away, your arms reflexively wrapping around yourself, holding yourself. For you, and only you, he would play nice. He would put on a smile. He would make the deal and win and come home to you and tell you all about how he fucked him. You were supposed to be married, last week. The last bit of information you’d been keeping from him. You were engaged and the wedding was supposed to be the week before. And yet, Matsson picked the date like nothing happened, as if he knew what Roman knew. Instigating him. Taunting him. Holding it over your head, causing even more harm. What kind of husband would do that? What kind of a man does that? Don’t say anything. Not to your family, not to him. Pretend you know nothing. I promise. As soon as he saw him though, all he could see was red.

#writing #roman roy #roman roy imagine #roman roy x reader #lukas matsson #lukas matsson imagine #lukas matsson x reader #roman roy fic #lukas matsson fic #succession #succession imagine #succession x reader #succession fic

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comphy-and-cozy · 1 year

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Bad for Business - Mikko Rantanen

Pairing: Mikko Rantanen x massage therapist!Reader (f)

Summary: Mikko has a crush on his massage therapist.

Word Count: 4.2K

Author’s Note: I don't know where this came from and I’m not sorry. I didn’t research if this is anywhere near factually accurate (I’m pretty confident it’s not), but it does the trick.

Warnings: Smut (18+ ONLY). Language, unprotected sex, risqué sex, voyeurism (kind of?), size kink, morally/ethically gray professional decisions (don’t fuck your clients people), Mikko’s a little bit of a simp.

NHL Masterlist

Hockey is and always will be Mikko’s first true love. The feeling of stepping out onto a fresh sheet of ice, the sound of a puck hitting a stick right on the tape, the euphoria of scoring a goal under bright lights and the eruption of thousands of fans—it’s something he’ll never, ever get tired of.

The other perks—millions of dollars, private jets, personal chefs and five-star cuisine—are all great, but not why he got into the league in the first place. They certainly don’t hurt, though, especially not the myriad of girls at his disposal. His DM’s are chock full of them, some more blatant than others, but either way, he’s definitely a fan of the accessibility his celebrity provides.

And then there’s you. One of the team’s massage therapists, but you’re undoubtedly everyone’s favorite, considering the other two are middle-aged men. You’re not employed directly by the team, so you technically have other clients, but the Avalanche are certainly your highest priority and most important.

Most of the guys certainly prefer when they’re on your schedule, but they don’t complain if it’s one of the other two. Mikko, on the other hand, specifically requests you, a half-assed excuse that your smaller hands work his muscles better. But really, he just likes getting to talk to you afterwards.

It’s safe to say he has a crush. A hopeless crush, one that’s surely unrequited, but it doesn’t stop him from asking you about your day, your weekend, and of course, your cat.

What he doesn’t know, what you’ve never told him, is that he is your favorite client for that exact reason. For the most part, all of your clients are polite, especially the Avalanche players, but Mikko’s the only one who’s made a real effort to talk to you, to get to know you past the usual salutations. Sure, a few of the guys flirt a little, but it’s all surface level, while something about Mikko seems so genuine.

You’re not sure you’d use the word “crush,” but you certainly feel a flutter in your chest when you see his name on your docket for the day, pleased that he’s your last appointment. Maybe, if you’re lucky, he’ll walk you to your car so you can spend a few more minutes bathing yourself in his sweet smile and the deep boom of his voice.

So, maybe it is a crush. Whatever.

It’s a quarter to 4, and Mikko’s knee bounces as he pulls into the parking lot. He likes to arrive early even though he’s already filled out the paperwork, just in case you’re free to spend a few minutes chatting before the session. Today, he’s disappointed when it’s only the receptionist that greets him with a smile, offering him a lemon water and asking if he needs to be walked back to the locker room.

He doesn’t, instead glancing down the hall toward the massage rooms, wondering if you’re in one and who you’re with. Once he’s changed into his robe, he sips his lemon water as he waits for you.

“Hi, Mikko,” you greet him with a smile, and he smiles nervously back. “How are you?”

“Hi,” he breathes, his heartbeat quickening at the sight of you—the exact opposite of what it should be doing. “Good, and you?”

“I’m good,” you say, and he hopes that he’s part of the reason why.

He follows your lead into room 4, appreciating the intimacy that’s created when you quietly close the door behind you.

“The usual, right? Swedish deep tissue massage?”

“Actually, I’ll take the Finnish massage,” he jokes, then immediately wants to kick himself for how stupid it is. You laugh anyway, and he feels warmth emanating in his chest.

“Any problem areas?”

He grimaces. “My shoulders and my quads are pretty tight. Think I might’ve strained something in practice.”

“We’ll take a look at it. You know the drill by now,” you say, gesturing to the table. “Dress to your comfort level, and we’ll start with the back first—so face down on the table. I’ll give you a few minutes to get situated.”

Mikko nods, watching you step out and shut the door quietly, finally breathing once it latches. He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath. The robe is soft on his body, discarded and set on the table beside the massage table as he climbs in the warm bed, letting the sheet cover his back. He adjusts so his face is resting on the cushion, enough room for him to breathe.

As promised, you return a few moments later, knocking softly and pausing before gently pushing the door open. Mikko listens to the sound of you preparing the towels and nods when you quietly ask if the temperature of the heated table cushion is okay.

He can feel himself tense even before your hands touch him, when they’re still collecting the oil you’ll soon rub into his back. He almost jumps when your hands come into contact with his shoulders, soft and warm and already working sinful magic on the sore muscles between his shoulder blades.

“Is the pressure okay?” you ask, voice soft.

All you hear in response is a low groan of approval, followed by a muffled, “Perfect.”

For the next while, it’s quiet except for the sound of the aromatherapy steamer humming softly in the corner and the slick sounds of your hands and arms rubbing over his back. Mikko can’t tell what feels better; the way your fingers expertly massage out the tension in his back, or the gentle, smooth glide of your hands on his skin. Either way, he’s in heaven, lost in the haze of your presence.

When you carefully pull his arm out from under the sheet, you gulp almost audibly when you see the size of his bicep. It’s strong and prominent in your hands as you work your way down his forearm. When you reach his hands, he feels the tingle where your fingertips caress his, threading your fingers with his to maneuver his wrist. Mikko closes his eyes and pretends that you’re just holding his hand because you want to, and not because you’re being paid to.

He has to stop himself from huffing in disappointment when you let go, placing his hand back down. Then it’s on to his other arm, and he gets to enjoy your fingers laced together for another few precious moments.

Every time you’re finished with an area, he’s filled with a brief despair before you’re moving onto a different body part, and he’s appeased again once your hands return to his skin. This time, you’re moving to the end of the table, shifting his left leg out from under the sheet. It isn’t until you’re halfway up his leg that you realize there is no additional fabric barrier around his hips—he’s naked.

This time, you can’t help the gasp that leaves your throat. You can feel your cheeks turn hot, embarrassed even though he chose this; you did tell him to dress to his comfort level, after all. It certainly isn’t your first naked client, but it is the first one that’s stopped you dead in your tracks, mind shamelessly wandering to what lies between the apex of his massive thighs.

You keep yourself contained, though you can’t help from glancing at the edge of the privacy sheet that’s bunched near his ass, part of you wishing he’d had a sore glute so you could have an excuse to touch it. The second leg is a little easier, and you lose yourself in the motions and the feeling of his strong muscles beneath your fingertips.

“Mikko,” you whisper, unsure if he’s fallen asleep. He hums to let you know he hasn’t. “I’m going to lift the sheet over you, and I want you to flip over onto your back and scoot down, okay?”

“Mmhmm.”

It’s only once he starts to turn around that he realizes he’s got a problem—one that’s throbbing against his leg. Before he can do anything to adjust himself, you’ve laid the sheet down over him and made a small gasp of surprise as you, too, realize his situation. There’s a tent—a big one, you think as you gulp—in the sheet, and for a moment all you can do is stare. You don’t know if you should acknowledge it or ignore it, teetering on the edge of indecision.

Mikko stammers an apology, mortified, his cheeks pink as he tries to tuck it between his legs. He wishes he could melt into the massage table and never show his face again.

“It’s okay,” you say gently. “It happens more often than you think.”

You meant for it to be comforting, but all it does is make Mikko blind with jealousy, the thought of your hands on his teammates and witnessing their boners. He wonders, have any of them ever made a pass at you? Do you wish any of them had? Is there any part of ou that wishes he would?

He clears his throat in an effort to vanish some of the discomfort that hangs in the room, accepting the weighted cover you place over his eyes, grateful for an excuse to hide his face. If you’re flustered, you don’t show it, though part of him is disappointed you didn’t react—selfishly, he wants you to be impressed, or turned on, or something. Mostly, he’s glad that you didn’t instantly kick him out, never to speak to him again.

You pull out his tree trunk of a leg, tucking the sheet underneath in an effort to keep him protected and contained. Your work on his leg begins, intimidated by the sheer size of his thigh that’s staring at you. The bareness of his hip reminds you of his lack of clothing, and you’re once again struck with the revelation that only a very, very thin sheet lies between you and his most private possession.

You do your best to ignore it, but as your fingers massage his leg, it’s difficult to avoid brushing him in more delicate places. But, hell, maybe you want to.

It’s on the next leg that your knuckles graze against something soft between his legs, and he lets out a guttural groan that has your low belly igniting in a blazing flame. You mutter an apology, even though you don’t entirely mean it.

The first time was an accident. The second, less so. The third time—well, now you’re just playing with fire.

A warning flashes through your mind, a memory seared into your brain of ethics and boundaries, and part of you can’t believe you’re really considering crossing them, here, now, for this man in front of you. His eyes are covered, but you’ve seen him lick his lips enough times to wish his tongue was your own, and you’ve stared at the aromatherapy steam puffing and billowing for long enough in an effort to avoid the dilemma that’s still standing proudly before you.

The question is out of your mouth before you can stop it. Though, once it’s out, you don’t regret it.

Mikko’s eyes shoot open from underneath the covering over his face, hearing the way you purr the words. He doesn’t know if it’s real or if he imagined it, not until he feels your fingers tracing the inside of his thigh in a massage technique he’s pretty certain is not something you learned in school.

“Do you want me to take care of that for you?”

He can’t nod fast enough, the words caught in his throat as he tries to swallow his sharp inhale. His hands fight against the sheet over his torso, quickly ripping off the face covering to find you smiling.

“You don’t—I—you—” he stammers, his cheeks flushing a gorgeous shade of pink.

“I don’t? You don’t want me to?” you pout. His eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he sees your hands move to the buttons on your polo.

“No—I mean, fuck yes I do—” he gulps, eyes darting down to the shadow of cleavage that you reveal. “I just want to make sure you’re sure.”

It’s sweet, so incredibly sweet, that you can’t help but smile. You walk to the head of the table so you’re looking upside down at him as you gently lay him back down, only this time, instead of covering his body with the sheet, you’re working it down his torso. Your movement is slow, deliberate, holding his eyes as you press forward.

“I’m sure, Mikko.”

His mouth surges forward, blindly mouthing at the material of your uniform as he pulls your body to him. The next thing you know, his hands are tugging the material of your top down to get a better taste of your breasts. It’s clumsy, given your position, but neither of you care; he’s just happy to finally get his hands on you after so many months the other way around.

Mikko maneuvers your body with ease, pausing frequently to grope your body and press his lips against any open skin he can find, ultimately getting you where he wants you: on top of him on the massage table. The new position is intimate, somehow more intimate than you with your hands all over his naked body; this time, you can feel the width of him as your legs straddle his hips, the sheet barely covering his modesty—and certainly not covering the cut muscles of his torso.

His hands run up the sides of your legs, scorching you even through the material of your uniform pants. You’re distracted as you trail your hands up the firm muscle on his stomach, one of the few places on his body you’ve never touched, and certainly never at your own leisure. Mikko flexes his abs, hard and tight as he gives you a cheeky wink, allowing you to admire the fruits of his labor. What’s the point in being a professional athlete if not to have pretty girls ogle your body?

Before long, your desire urges you to move past his muscles—though you’re convinced he’s got nicer tits than you do—and lean down until your face is inches from his. His expression is soft despite the darkness in his eyes and the pulse in his neck that’s heightened with every touch on his body.

Mikko pauses, waiting for your action, itching to know what it feels like to have your lips against his own. His eyes are drawn to the way your tongue darts out to wet your lips, slow and teasing in a way that has him twitching between your thighs.

“I could get in so much trouble,” you murmur. There isn’t an ounce of hesitation in your voice; instead, it’s replaced with desire, a compulsion to do something bad.

“We don’t have to,” he says quickly. He means it, but he’s hoping—praying—that you won’t change your mind.

“Maybe I want to get in trouble,” is your reply. Mikko doesn’t even wait for you to say anything else before he’s lunging forward to kiss you, finally capturing your lips with his. It’s just as magical as he thought it’d be, even better that he’s already naked.

His tongue slides into your mouth, meeting yours for the first time, and you moan when your hips begin to move of their own accord, dragging your core over the flimsy sheet and his throbbing length. It doesn’t take long for the temperature to reach searing levels, his hands fumbling with the hem of your top before you’re helping him to tug it off, tossed haphazardly on the floor.

Mikko’s frozen in place, staring at the way your breasts sit, perfect, in your bra. Part of you wishes you’d put on cuter undergarments today, but then you remember you weren’t exactly planning on this happening. He doesn’t seem to be fazed by the ‘boring’ nude, too transfixed by the way your breasts feel in his large hands. Before you know it, he’s shifting you so he can sit up, pressing his mouth against your chest while his hands work their way to the clasp of your bra, expertly flicking it open. He barely pauses when the fabric falls between your bodies, flinging it blindly out of the way before his mouth is attaching to your nipple, hot and wet in a way that causes you to gasp.

“Mikko,” you sigh, and he decides in the moment that the way his name sounds in your mouth is his new favorite sound. He hums against your chest, switching to grant your other breast attention while his hand is quick to replace his mouth against your now wet nipple.

His hum morphs into a groan when your hand snakes between your bodies to stroke his erection, almost painfully hard now. Your eyes widen when you feel how fucking thick he is, barely able to fit him in your fist, and you let out a mewl as you imagine what it’ll feel like inside you.

“Fuck,” he grits out, mouth trailing up to the sensitive place where your neck meets your shoulder, careful to nip gently to avoid making too big a mark. Your hands are magic, having worked miracles on the majority of his muscles, though this time undoubtedly takes the cake for his favorite session with you.

He can’t wait any longer, his hand sneaking past the elastic waistband of your uniform pants, teasing at the hem of your panties. His fingers dance over your mound, familiarizing himself, before he’s probing at the damp fabric at the apex of your thighs with a curse, deeply aroused at how wet you are. A choked moan leaves your throat, vibrating against his lips that are trailing across your neck.

When his fingers slip into your panties, the mere heat of his hand against your clit is enough to make you moan. The feeling of his finger slipping inside your walls has you throwing your head back, relishing the way he grunts at how snugly you squeeze him.

“So tight, baby,” he murmurs, voice muffled as he laves at your collarbone. A second finger joins his first and immediately they curl together to hit the spot that makes you see stars. He grins when he feels your hand clutching onto his shoulder as he works you, drawing out the sweetest whimpers.

After a brief pause to shove your pants further down your hips to grant him more space, his fingers are back in your greedy cunt, eagerly accepting the long, thick digits. Mikko knows what he’s doing, knows exactly where to put his fingers, knows how much pressure to use, knows the perfect way to circle your clit with his thumb. He wants to drink in the erotic noises that spill from your mouth, heart beating faster at the way his name sounds like in a moan.

“Mikko, I’m—s-so—”

His lips press kisses against your jaw as your eyes squeeze shut, an explosion erupting in your belly. Your hips roll against his hand, dragging out the waves of your high as you feel him hum against your skin. He’s pleased with himself, feeling the way his balls clench at the way his entire hand is soaked with your juices.

“Fuck, gotta have you,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, before he’s wrenching his hands away from your core and flipping you onto your back. Your legs can’t kick off your pants fast enough, his hands smoothly slipping your panties over your thighs. Once all of the offending garments are removed, Mikko takes a moment to admire the sight of you, spread out and naked for him after all this time. He’s sure none of his teammates have had this type of session.

His calloused hands are rough on your skin as they slide up your thighs, spreading them apart slowly to create space for his hips. As he sits up on his knees, the privacy sheet slips from his body, freeing his erection. Your jaw drops as he releases one of your legs in favor of stroking it, and your mouth waters watching it slide in and out of his hand. Unconsciously, your leg falls open as you begin to imagine what it’s going to feel like inside you, part of you wondering if it’s even going to fit.

Mikko smirks at the way your legs spread for him, taking in the lust in your eyes. He can’t believe he’s here, right now, with you, and he wants to pinch himself. But, he thinks, if it is a dream, he’s not ready for it to end quite yet—not when he hasn’t even been inside you.

He has to squeeze his eyes shut at the mewl you let out when he lets the tip of his cock bump against your swollen clit. Repeating the action, Mikko bites his lip as the sound trails directly to his balls. He isn’t sure how much longer he’s going to last before he loses control, but he pushes through it as he guides himself down, positioning himself at your entrance.

“You sure you want this?” he asks with a smile that tells you he knows you want it and that he just wants to hear you say it.

“Yes, Mikko,” you whine out, bucking your hips until he rewards you with the very tip pressing into your entrance. With a frustrated sigh, you add, “Fuck me, Mikko.”

He groans at your words, eyes shutting again as he wills himself not to finish right then and there. Another call of his name brings him back to the present, eyes connecting with yours, powered by the desperation in them. Slowly, patiently, he pushes forward, feeling the way your pussy grips even the first inch of him. He watches the way your eyes roll backward, relishing the way he stretches you.

It’s delicious, and as much as you want to tell him you can take it, part of you loves how he takes his time, letting you feel every single ridge and vein as they ease past your drooling lips. Before long, though, he’s sheathed inside you, feeling the flutter of your walls surrounding him.

“Holy fuck,” he groans, face buried in your neck. “You feel so fucking good.”

“You f—so—” gasp— “big. Fuck, Mikk—”

He wants to celebrate the fact that he’s rendered you almost speechless, that you’re a whimpering mess stuttering about how big his dick is, but he needs to move or he’ll die. He does, and he’s rewarded with your fingers digging into his shoulder blades—which is impressive, considering they’re covered in massage oil.

You’re in awe of the sheer size of him and the way that he reaches places you didn’t know existed. He reveals more of them each time he punches his hips forward, and you’re absolutely positive that he’s touching your organs when they nestle against the back of your thighs. It’s hot, it’s raw, it’s real, the way his skin feels on yours and the hot puffs of breath he exhales onto your neck.

Mikko is loving the way you mewl in his ear, determined to keep drawing those delicious sounds until you’re crying out his name and creaming on his cock. A hand slips from his shoulders to frantically paw at your clit, adding fuel to the fire that’s now roaring in your core. He can feel how wet you are, how tightly you’re squeezing him, the way your body is begging him to let you come.

The way you orgasm is ethereal, he thinks, how your mouth falls open and your head tilts back and your eyes flutter closed as the ripples of your release flow through you. The sound of the cry of his name is even better. He drinks it in, using it to drive himself home inside your quaking walls. A few pumps later and he’s pulling out to shoot his load on your lower stomach with a groan. Your pussy clenches at the sight, already wishing for a round two as you gaze up at him and how big he looks kneeling over you.

With a shy grin, Mikko slides off the bed and grabs an extra cloth from the counter to clean you off. It isn’t until after he’s pressed a few gentle kisses to your lips that he searches for your clothes and hands them to you; as the moment returns to normal, the reality of what you’ve just done sinks in and you gasp.

“I can’t believe we just did that—I—this is so unethical,” you say, envisioning the Board tearing your license to shreds.

Mikko frowns, slipping his robe back over his shoulders. “I’m not going to tell anyone, you know.”

You glance at him gratefully but shake your head. “It’s not just that—it’s so taboo and—I mean, a relationship is one thing, but just sex is so demeaning to myself as a female massage therapist—”

“Do you want to go out with me?”

“—and I—what?”

“Like, to dinner.”

“What?” you repeat incredulously.

His pinks turn pink and he casts his eyes to the floor. “Oh, it was just a question—”

“Mikko, I’d love to go to dinner with you.”

With the excitement of a child, your heart melts at the way his eyes light up in an instant. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod with a smile. “You owe me for making me risk my career.”

“I think that’s more than fair,” he grins. “But I can’t honestly tell you I’m sorry.”

“Me either.”

Six days later, when you’re panting through your third orgasm of the night, Mikko’s name a prayer on your lips, you think to yourself it was more than worth the risk.

#mikko rantanen fic #mikko rantanen smut #mikko rantanen imagine #nhl imagine #hockey fic #mikko rantanen blurb #mikko rantanen imagines #nhl blurb #nhl fic #hockey imagine #hockey blurb

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realbeijinger · 6 months

Text

A semi-coherent rant on climate change, the value of idealism, and a criticism of TGCF (But also not really because I haven’t finished it yet and also I love MXTX…)

I’m in the middle of Book 3 of Tian Guan Ci Fu, and it is legit making me depressed. Like really, unnecessarily sad. I know I should probably wait until the end to write up my thoughts since I don’t know how things will ultimately turn out, but I feel like I need to process. And so, here we go…

First of all, I am sooo Xie Lian. I feel like this story gets me down so much because it hits too close to home. When I was little, I was super idealistic—I used to go around telling people that love was the most important thing in the world, and that civilization was wrong, because we were destroying the environment, and so we should all go back to living in harmony with nature. I was like a crazy, radical five year old, but also somehow mature-sounding and nauseatingly sweet. Grownups loved me and assumed I would grow up to do something big. But… I haven’t really. Instead I am just a normal person and realized that the world is actually super complicated—like I said, sooo Xie Lian. Except I never became a god or saved even one person…

Anyways, it’s not like I disagree with MXTX’s criticism of blind idealism. She hit the nail on the head—crushingly well. But I guess, like Xie Lian, I am still clinging to that last bit of hope I haven’t let go of yet.

In TGCF and Mo Dao Zu Shi, things are never black and white, and she criticizes those characters who act with a blind sense of righteousness. She believes in nuance. And yet, in our current moment, we are headed toward a climate catastrophe, and it feels like we are all just sitting back, trying to carefully weigh the ideal course of action—the pros and cons, scared of being too rash, too impulsive—while the world burns.

When I first started watching the Untamed (which is where my MXTX journey started), I was initially drawn in by this extremely beautiful man who was willing to sacrifice so much to do what was right. I loved how he refused to compromise with this screwed up society. Because, I am so frustrated with myself for always compromising. For being part of this system that’s horrible and destroying the world and personally doing very little to stop it. And I wanted to be inspired—and for a minute I was by Wei Wuxian.

And then, of course, it turns out that the real message was the complete opposite of that, and having dogmatic, uncompromising morals is not something to be applauded. In the eyes of MXTX, it’s very dangerous.

And I mean, she’s not wrong. But I can’t help but think maybe we still need heroes like that. I really admire Greta Thunberg who refuses to fly in planes, buy anything new, doesn’t eat meat. Before anyone joined her protests, she was ditching school every day, literally sitting all by herself in front of Swedish parliament with one pathetic-looking sign. I mean that kind of commitment takes HUGE resolve. It has to come from a total sense of self-righteousness, from a complete unwillingness to compromise or back down—a refusal to listen to her parents, or her teachers, or the large numbers of people around her who were definitely telling her she was nuts. I mean, I try to go veg, and my mother-in-law hands me one homemade meat dish and I instantly fold…

In interviews, Greta often talks about how being on the autism spectrum causes her to view the world in very black and white terms—with good and evil being clearly defined. She often refers to the older generation as “evil” for their role in the climate crisis—a word MXTX would probably not approve of. Normally, I don’t think black and white thinking is good. I also believe in nuance. But when it comes to something like climate, it’s incredibly complicated but also incredibly simple. We have to stop burning fossil fuels. We have to do it now. If we want humanity to survive, we don’t have a choice. We gotta pull out all the stops. We can’t hesitate. And if we do, we’ll lose everything. Any drawbacks that may come from us not using fossil fuels are completely outweighed if the climate goes to shit. There’s no real nuance in that. And to get people to make that sort of change, you need passion. You need motivation. You need feeling. Basically, you need blind idealism. We are soooo screwed, and really, blind idealism is all we have left.

And I want to have that. Part of me wants to get back to that idealism I lost. But like Xie Lian, I don’t know how…

I dunno. There are always reasons not to do anything. Most of us know life is complicated—our limitations are usually way too obvious. But, I think, sometimes we still should take the single log bridge into darkness. And maybe we need some dumb, cliché hero story to give us the motivation to do it…

Of course, saving the world is not easy. Especially when it comes to large scale national or international politics, the situation in Xianle demonstrates very clearly how easy it is to create unintended consequences. Everything is so complex. There are so many factors, so many competing interests to consider. I do not envy political leaders.

But most of us are not political leaders. Most of us are just ordinary people who want to make the world a little better. We have the capacity to be activists, but that’s it. We don’t have the power to make detailed policy decisions anyway. And so, to some extent, I don’t think we need to worry so much about all that. We just have to push politicians in the right direction.

Even at that high leadership level, though, I do think it’s possible to make better choices—ones that create less harm. And I do think we have an obligation to try and find those. I don’t agree with what the State Preceptor said (and what I think MXTX actually believes), that “Assigning fault is meaningless.” To me, that’s akin to giving up on morality altogether.

A lot of this is a matter of perspective. Yes, if you zoom out far enough, assigning fault is meaningless. But then, if you zoom out far enough, everything is meaningless. Everything we love and care about will one day be gone. Our battles for justice, for equality, for the people we love, will all be entirely pointless once our current society goes the way of the Aztecs, once humanity disappears, once the earth gets swallowed by the sun.

Again, if we zoom far enough out, climate change is not really a problem. According to that wise state preceptor, “In this world, fortune—good or bad—is predetermined.” MXTX believes there is only so much good fortune in the world. If we somehow manage to take too much of it, we will eventually pay the price. Balance will be restored.

Which is exactly what is happening in this era of climate catastrophe. In the past 200 years since the industrial revolution, humanity has taken a lot of fortune. For the first time in history, we don’t worry every day about finding food. We’ve conquered a whole host of deadly diseases, have greatly reduced our need for manual labor, and can spend our days in mental pursuits, making art, or writing self-indulgent essays about Chinese web novels.

All of this, I would argue, is not really because of human ingenuity, but because we happened to find an incredibly powerful energy source—fossil fuels—which have given us the illusion of “human progress.” Let’s remember that this “progress” has only lasted for about 200 years, a small dot on the graph of human existence (300,000 years), and that for most of that time, people viewed history as a cycle, with inevitable ups and downs, rather than a continuous march upward.

In other words, in the past 200 years, we’ve taken too much fortune. But nature will correct the balance. I don’t think climate change will destroy life on earth. Even if the worst happens and humanity bites the dust, other species will most likely persist, evolving into creatures completely new—a rebirth, of sorts. Looking at it from that far-off, disinterested perspective, it’s not really a problem. It’s just what nature does. New species follow each other, one after the next—like passing seasons.

But, even if all this is true, I don’t think we can be so detached. I don’t think we can live our lives believing that morality is pointless, not trying to do the right thing, or not worrying about how our actions affect others. If we approach life with such indifference, what’s to stop us from completely giving up?

One of my favorite TV shows is this old drama called Dead Like Me, where a wise, older character (a state preceptor, of sorts), says to the main character, “If you stand too close to a painting — all you see are patches of color, if you stand too far back, you can't see any of the detail.” In other words, when it comes to life, you need to stand the right distance away. Personally, I think MXTX is standing too far back. It’s true, there is so much we can’t control. Though we may be able to make things better for a bit, we cannot alter the basic cycle of life. Life is suffering. It was true when Buddha said it, and it’s true now. And if we try to “attempt the impossible,” as the Jiang motto says, and radically change that dynamic, we will fail.

But unlike in MXTX’s universe, fate doesn’t really screw us at every turn. Every day there are small victories. I used to do social work, which really was an exercise in the futility of trying to fix deeply rooted problems with insufficient tools, but I still remember those few times when I did do something right: the old man with dementia I got to take his meds, the guy who found his family on Facebook.

Even just writing a stupid email to Biden telling him to stop the drilling… we have to value those actions. We have to be invested. Sure, the universe doesn’t care. But I think we should still care. We can’t just throw up our hands and say the world is fucked. Because if everyone did that, the world really would be fucked. Even more so than it already is.

Again, I realize I don’t entirely know where she’s going with all this. It’s very possible there’s going to be more to it than just criticizing idealism. Despite all the depressing stuff, I see crumbs of hope in how Hua Cheng loves Xie Lian, and values his attempts to help others. The line, “Although foolish, it is brave,” just floored me. I loved it so much. Honestly, I’d probably be happy if she leaves open any hope for idealism at all.

But also, I have to prepare myself for the possibility that I will not totally agree with what she has to say. Which should be fine. I mean, in real life, I’m pretty good at interacting with people I fundamentally disagree with. But… in the hands of an author like MXTX, I feel like my emotions are like putty. I’m completely at her mercy. And partially, I don’t want to fight that. I want to give myself to the story, and lose myself in it completely. That’s a great feeling, but also, kind of… vulnerable? And then, when so emotionally invested, to suddenly realize that what the author’s saying bothers me…

Of course, I’ll get over it. I always do. Usually I write meta or fanfic as a way to process—to get out of someone else’s story, out of their head, and back into my own.

Anyways, we’ll see. Don’t tell me what happens!! I am trusting YOU, strangers on the internet!

If that’s not blind idealism, I don’t know what is…

#tgcf #mxtx #mdzs #climate change #tian guan ci fu #heaven official's blessing #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #chinese bl

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dreamcubed · 1 year

Text

i did something bad | tom riddle x reader

song; i did something bad [taylor swift] pairing; tom riddle x fem!slytherin!half-blood!eastern european!reader genre; s2l, angst, hurt comfort(ish) word count; 6,5k timeline; tom riddle's last year at hogwarts warnings; referenced child abuse (physical/psychological/verbal), discrimination (muggle-borns), minor character deaths, minor character murders, swearing, extreme manipulation, toxic/unhealthy relationship, srsly tom is so manipulative to y/n, blackmail summary; an orphaned boy with sinister plans for the future, and a new girl who is about to discover she may be just as bad as her parents. what happens when they meet?

fyi i do mix up the order that tom makes the horcruxes a bit :)

PSA | Please Read | y/n is EXTREMELY morally unethical by the end of this. i do not condone such a moral compass, this is a work of fiction and should be treated as such.

masterlist

"you say i did something bad, then why's it feel so good?"

———————————

Hogwarts had a friendlier presence than Durmstrang - but maybe you just had bad memories associated with the latter.

The flashbacks of backstabbing friends and relentless bullying, with you not even getting a break from physical and mental torture during the holidays.

Why?

Well, that was a story.

As like many magic families from the Durmstrang catchment zone, pure-blood supremacist idealism was strong, coupled with the muggle-born hatred that came as a result. Your father's family was no exception: the purest of the pure when it came to blood, or so they claimed.

A stark difference from your mother: a muggle-born.

Only, she didn't tell him that, she lied and told your father (and everyone else for that matter) that she was a pure-blood witch, and the reason they didn't know of her family is because she was from Western Europe (which she was) and fed into Beauxbatons instead. After all, she didn't meet your father until post-education at a European wizarding event.

It wasn't until after marrying and falling pregnant with your father's child did she reveal the truth, burning your father's reputation on the spot. Evidently, your mother had thought that locking down a pregnancy with your father would prevent him from divorcing her - she was dead wrong. Literally, dead wrong.

You would never be sure, but you suspected that your father's family had something to do with your mother dying during childbirth. After all, magic medicine meant there were rarely fatalities around labour.

After you were born and your mother was dead, you were kept as hushed child, hidden away in the corners as your father remarried a woman of a well-known Swedish pure-blood family and continued on to have pure-blood heirs to your family's estate. In all fairness, your stepmother wasn't horrible to you.

But your father was.

The physical and mental abuse you endured for years chipped away at your sanity, and your siblings grew to mirror your father's behaviour. They were younger than you, but there were more of them, and your friendships fell apart at Durmstrang after they enrolled and told everyone of the circumstances of your conception.

Your stepmother never particularly abused you, but she didn't do anything to stop the abuse either. She simply acted indifferent towards you, which given how everyone else was, made her your favourite person by default.

You hated your father and everything he had done to you.

You resented your mother and the situation she had put you in.

When your stepmother fell terribly sick, your father decided to send you away. Which, honestly, was the nicest thing he had ever done for you.

He sent you to live with another hushed secret of his family - even more hushed than you - his squib sister. After she was discovered to be magicless, she had been essentially banished to England where she then was put through all-year muggle boarding schools until she aged out of the system. You had never even heard her mentioned before, yet she welcomed you more warmly than anyone had before, and under your father's orders, you transferred to Hogwarts - the magic school closest to your aunt's residence.

So, there you were, at the beginning of seventh year in an entirely new school. The certified new girl.

Hogwarts was more welcoming, sure, but you didn't think the idea of friends appealed to you anymore. You had been a lone wolf for so long that being anything but seemed unnatural, you were just looking forward to not being bullied like you used to be.

You were sorted into Slytherin: the green house. Unfortunately, it seemed to be the one house that had a similar vibe to Durmstrang. Well, beggars can't be choosers, you thought.

The people in Slytherin gave you curious looks as you sat down, making you scowl.

"What?" you snapped.

They all mumbled, "Nothing," and looked back down at their plates, all apart from one.

The one boy that remained gazing at you curiously had a piercing stare, accompanied by his strong jaw and perfectly gelled hair.

You raised an eyebrow at him, "Can I help you?"

He cleared his throat, "Tom, Tom Riddle. As head boy, I am more than capable of answering any questions you have." His words came across as kind, but the sinister glint in his eye told you every sentence he spoke was just for show.

So, you rolled your eyes, and began eating your food.

***

Your very presence pissed Tom Riddle off.

Everything from the way your lips moved when you spoke to the colour of your eyes irritated him.

The way you answered shortly and curtly towards him, the way you didn't give him the time of day, the way you didn't hang off his every word.

The way you saw through his façade.

Tom Riddle hated it when things didn't go his way, despised it, even. He had learned to perfectly craft his words in such a silky smooth manner that both men and women fell at his feet. He could talk anyone around, fall into anyone's good graces.

But you didn't even give him a chance to build a positive rapport. It was like you smelled his true intentions on him the very second his cologne entered your nostrils. Which was an exaggeration: you were naturally mistrusting of people given your childhood, so you clung to any reason to dislike someone in order to give yourself a reason to avoid them and not risk exposing yourself to another betrayal.

Tom Riddle was too arrogant to realise you treated everybody the exact same way as you did him. He was but another face that could potentially harm you, like every other person in Hogwarts.

Your dorm mates had given up on trying to bond with you, so why wouldn't he?

"Miss L/N," Tom Riddle called to you after a potions lesson. Glances from other students came and went - Tom Riddle was not known for speaking to girls alone all that much.

You exhaled slowly through your nose, turning towards the head boy to raise your eyebrow at him.

"I feel as though we may have gotten off on the wrong foot," his words were calculated, "Perhaps I can amend that?"

His question - if it could be even called a question - was left open ended, leaving the ball in your court. You narrowed your eyes at him. "Amend what exactly?"

"The impression I have made upon you."

"Tom Riddle, I do not think about you outside of whenever you speak to me. There was nothing between us to be broken, and thus nothing to amend."

You picked up your bag and began leaving the classroom, only for the boy to quickly catch up to you. "But your responses have been so curt and... rude."

"Have you ever considered that maybe it's not personal? Maybe my attitude isn't a vendetta against you specifically?" you countered, refusing to even look in his direction.

"Yes, but-"

You stopped in your tracks and turned to him, "The world doesn't revolve around you, Tom Riddle. I treat everyone like this and I have no interest in a positive relationship with anybody here. Please leave me be like everyone else is doing."

And then you departed, only this time, Tom Riddle didn't follow you. He stood, stunned at your words.

Unfortunately, as big of an impact as your words had on him, they had the opposite effect of what you wanted.

Instead of him abandoning all thoughts of you and ignoring your existence, you became a person of incredible interest to the orphaned boy.

***

Tom Riddle moved to sit next to you in every single lesson you shared.

Tom Riddle would always sit next to you during meals.

And Tom Riddle would follow you around a significant amount of the time, always trying to make conversation with you. The conversations were very one-sided, and he didn't lose the arrogant aspect to his personality, nor ever show that he actually cared about you. He would just talk. Talk and talk.

Apart from during lessons when a teacher was talking: he was a studious boy and aimed to master every subject. You cherished those moments of silence.

"Great question, Mr Parkinson," your history of magic professor spoke as you came back to reality from your thoughts, "How does a man as evil as Grindelwald come to be?"

You glanced at Riddle's notebook which was full of notes.

"Bad people come from bad people," your professor stated, making your grip around your quill tighten to the point you snapped it.

Riddle observed your reaction curiously.

"Grindelwald was likely abused as a child, giving him an intense desire for power to make up for the lack of power he had while receiving the abuse."

Your English may not have been perfect, but you understood what the professor was saying all too well.

You couldn't be your father, you simply couldn't.

"We all have skeletons, L/N," arrived a whisper from Riddle in your ear. You turned to him in mild horror, feeling as if he could read you to your core as he gazed into your eyes.

That was when you felt him in your mind. You weren't all that familiar with legilimency, but you were almost entirely sure that Tom Riddle was using it on you.

You broke eye contact with him, but it was too late. He knew.

"Fascinating," he muttered, "Absolutely fascinating."

It felt like you couldn't keep up the cold exterior around Riddle anymore as you shrank in your seat, wishing the ground would swallow you whole.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone," he said simply, "As long as you do a few things for me."

Fuck, blackmail.

***

Now you were the one who followed Tom Riddle around instead of him you. Despite maintaining a cold nature towards everyone else, you trailed behind the head boy like a scared little lamb - because you were. You didn't want people to know of your past in fear of being bullied again. You could no longer speak to him brashly, your voice would crack and quiver as you avoided eye contact with him, not wanting to feel so vulnerable with his presence in your mind again.

He hadn't even given you anything to do yet like he said he would, and it had been a week. Was it an empty threat?

No, that wasn't it. It fuelled his ego to have you following him around and maybe that was enough for him to keep your secret - for now.

***

"How do you feel about mudbloods?" he asked you one time, sat in the library together as you worked on your respective homework assignments.

You looked up at him and frowned. You had come to understand that 'mudblood' was an English insult for muggle-borns. "My mother was muggle-born."

"I am aware." Right, he had been in your mind. "But you're upset with her, yes? Her faking her blood status to your father ultimately led to your life being the way it is."

"What are you suggesting?"

"That she is an example of why mudbloods should not be allowed in this world. Her greed and selfishness is what killed her in the end."

"What caused you to be so hateful?" you asked - a bold question on your part. Your voice was timid as you spoke.

"Well, growing up in an orphanage doesn't help," he said, sitting back in his seat, "My mother was a pure-blood and my father was a muggle, and look what happened. Muggle culture should stay separate from the wizarding world. But that's only possible if mudbloods are eradicated."

You cast your eyes down to your work laid before you. Tom Riddle scared you. He scared you because he had the eyes of a cold-hearted man, and you knew what came from people with those kinds of eyes.

Riddle observed you as you zoned out, attempting to piece together your thoughts, which was difficult as your eyes weren't locked with his.

"You and I are not so different, Miss L/N," he spoke, "Relations between someone from muggle society and a pure-blood is what caused our childhoods to be so unfair. We have the right to retaliate."

"How do we know it wasn't the pure-blood's fault?"

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is, it simply proves that the two societies should not mix. Mudbloods are the bridge between them, and so we must break that bridge."

You exhaled slowly, daring to look up at Riddle but without looking in his eyes.

"Are you not angry? Angry for what has happened to you?"

"Of course I am, I-"

"Whose fault is it you ended up in an abusive situation?"

"Technically my mother's, but-"

"No, no buts. There's your answer, L/N."

You finally locked your eyes with his, but he didn't push into your mind like he did before.

"You think I'm going to abuse you like your father did, don't you?" he had drawn that conclusion without even using legilimency - was it that obvious?

At your lack of response, he hummed.

"I understand you are distrusting, but I do not wish to hurt you, Miss L/N. I am here to help you."

You stared at him blankly.

"Look, everyone else avoids you, thinks you are strange. But not me, I understand you. I'm the only person who understands you."

Considering his childhood, that was a fair observation, you thought.

"You need to learn to trust me," he said simply, "Because I am all you have."

"But, Riddle, I-"

"Tom," he corrected, "Call me Tom. You will never trust me if we continue to be so formal. May I call you by Y/N?"

You feebly nodded, unsure of what was happening to you in that moment.

"Perfect," he smiled a gorgeous yet uncanny smile that made you feel queasy, "If you are ever in dilemma, don't hesitate to come to me. I'm your only option, after all, but I'm a good option. I'm here for you."

You again nodded.

"I'm going to need you to verbally agree, Y/N."

"Y- yes, Tom," you words almost caught in your throat.

He smiled the eery smile again, "Glad to hear you're willing to build trust with me."

***

When he said to do some things for him you had thought he meant do his homework for him or something along those lines - apparently he meant join his muggle-born hate group. You didn't know where your life was heading, but you did know that you were becoming increasingly trapped.

With the amount of time you spent with Tom Riddle, rumours were beginning to flood around the castle that the head boy and the new girl were dating. He never corrected the rumours, not even once.

In fact, you were pretty sure it made him feel as if he had even more ownership of you.

"Students, it is with great sadness that I inform you today that a student by the name of Myrtle Warren has passed," the headmaster said during dinner, "Due to the circumstances of her death, the girls' toilets on the second floor will be shut until further notice, and an investigation into the cause of her death will be opened."

Although he didn't say the word 'murder', everybody knew, but they didn't know who. You, however, had a sneaking suspicion that was confirmed when your eyes met Tom's and he smirked at you.

Myrtle had been a muggle-born.

With an increased amount of fear you followed Tom as he departed from the table, as you usually did on your way back to the dungeons. He hardly acknowledged your presence, but you still heard mutters of how cute it was that you were always together as you passed the tables. Well, at least you weren't being bullied, you supposed.

And it wasn't like Tom ever harmed you - he was true to his word in that sense. So, maybe your fear was unwarranted.

In fact, this was the safest you had ever felt.

Was it Tom that made you feel this way? You glanced up at his stern expression as he walked, feeling your stomach twist when you heard someone in the corridor say, "Look, it's Riddle and his girlfriend." Girlfriend?

You continued to look at Tom, trying to fit the word boyfriend to him: he was handsome, that was for sure. And he cared about you, in a strange way, but cared nonetheless.

He was truthful about wanting to eradicate muggle-borns, as proven through Myrtle, so he must be truthful about not wanting to harm you as well. After all, if he had proved such an extreme thing about himself, a much milder thing such as caring for someone else's wellbeing was basically a given.

"Are you alright, Y/N?" his voice brought you out your thoughts, "You are staring off into space."

"Sorry," you mumbled, taking a deep breath before asking, "Are you my boyfriend?"

Tom stilled in his movements, turning to properly look at you, "What makes you ask?"

"Well, everyone says because we spend so much time together we must be dating," you said nervously, "And you don't correct them."

"If that's how you would like to describe our agreement, then so be it."

Agreement was a strong word.

"I don't correct rumours because I don't care for them," he added, "But if me being your boyfriend makes you more inclined to trust me, then I suppose I should thank the rumours."

"I don't... not trust you," you found yourself saying, which made Tom smile.

"Then all that's left is trust," he held out his hand to you, and you stared at it pensively for a few moments before taking it.

***

"Salazar, I sound just like my mother," a girl sat nearby you at dinner laughed in reference to her previous statement, her surrounding friends joining in with the giggling.

"Well, that's what they say. We become our parents," one of the friends added, which was a passing remark - but one that stuck with you.

You couldn't be like your father... you simply couldn't.

"Tom," you asked quietly after you were tucked away in the corner of the Slytherin common room together, "Do you think I am like my father?"

The boy looked up from his essay, "In terms of what? Appearance?"

You shook your head, "Personality."

He paused, "You are not entirely different."

That struck a chord in you, "But- but I'm not abusing anyone!"

"You are not pleasant to anyone who speaks with you," he said, "I assume the manner in which you talk is learnt from your father."

"No, I- I'm like that because I don't trust people!" your voice was exasperated, but not loud.

"Did your father trust you?"

At your lack of response, he continued talking.

"Darling-" that was new, "-when you are raised by bad people, you know more of how to be a bad person than somebody raised by good people. In fact, you know more of how to be a bad person than a good person in general. It can't be helped."

"Why not?" all the insecurities and self-doubt you had built over the years were now amplifying.

"Because it's your default learned behaviour."

"I- I..." honestly you felt like crying, "No, I can't be..."

Tom shushed you softly, "Don't fret. I understand you, remember? The others don't accept your flaws, but I do, because I have the same flaws."

"You just called me a bad person," you mumbled.

"Bad was perhaps the wrong word to use. Misunderstood or socialised differently are perhaps more fitting terms."

"We really can't change ourselves?"

"No, but we can find like-minded people and grow in numbers in order to change the structure of society. Make it a place for us and not them."

"That just seems so extreme."

Tom traced his fingers along your exposed arm, sending shivers up your spine, "Don't you think it's our time? The so-called good people have had their way for so long. We didn't choose to be 'bad', we were unlucky with who we were born to - we deserve compensation not societal neglect."

"I mean, I- I guess."

The head boy smiled at you: that uncanny yet charming smile he had equipped in his inventory for moments like these. Still, you hadn't been smiled at in such a way ever before, and couldn't help the fact it gave you butterflies.

You let the silence sit for a few moments, noticing how the common room was now practically empty because of how late it was. It hadn't been Tom's turn to do the prefect rounds that night.

With the absence of people, you felt safe enough to state, "It was you."

"It was me what?"

You let your eyes meet his for a brief few seconds, but he didn't attempt to enter your mind. "You know what. Who else would it have been?"

He hummed softly, "She would have just gone on to traumatise her future children with her muggle ways in some way or other."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. I was raised in a muggle orphanage. Muggles are cruel and horrible, and they cannot plague wizarding society."

You stared at him, no words coming to mind.

"Besides, her death was not without cause. I needed someone to die in order to ensure my immortality."

"What?"

Tom gave that smile again, before explaining something that only made you further aware of how twisted his mind was.

***

That night you lay awake in bed, thinking over everything Tom had told you about horcruxes and the basilisk that lived in a chamber beneath the school. You knew you weren't the only one that knew, as you weren't the only one who hung around him. Avery, Lestrange and Malfoy were also a part of Tom's 'movement', as he called it.

You didn't know what to do. You felt trapped within a relationship with Tom, since you now knew he was fully capable of murder and you knew too much about him to be able to distance yourself safely.

At the same time, a lot of what he said made sense, and maybe you were just harbouring more and more resentment for your mother, but you found yourself beginning to agree with him. I mean, you were sorted into a house that didn't allow muggle-borns into it, just like Durmstrang didn't allow muggle-borns at all. At this point, it was written in the stars that you weren't supposed to be fond of 'mudbloods', since you always wound up in spaces that despised them: your family, Durmstrang, Slytherin... and Tom Riddle.

It's not that you even had a choice anymore.

***

The Christmas holidays arrived, and you didn't think twice about signing yourself up to stay at Hogwarts for the two week period - Tom was obviously staying as well. It was weird, as you weren't sure if you should be getting him a gift for the day.

Despite the fact you had never kissed or even hugged, he was technically your boyfriend, so you reasoned that you should be getting him something. But what do you buy for a man whose only interests are world domination? On top of that, you had no money.

You could make him something.

And that was how you found yourself sat at your desk in your dormitory (which you had all to yourself until the next term), carving a snake out of a bit of wood you had (magically) cut from a part of your bed. It wasn't a large amount, just enough to make a small figurine, but you intended to charm it to create some sort of snake hologram that would erupt out of the wooden snake's mouth. Wood carving had been a common activity in your family growing up, although you always had to use the scraps of wood and blunt knives while your siblings got the good quality stuff.

Once you had completed the final step of perfecting the charm, you smiled proudly to yourself at your work and wrapped it up carefully.

***

Your routine since the Christmas holidays began was pretty simple: you, Tom and a second year were the only Slytherins staying, and there was only a handful from the other houses too. Every morning you would meet Tom in the common room at 8am and head to breakfast together, where you would eat plenty before heading to the library to study. Tom's studies were almost exclusively directed towards dark magic, meanwhile you worked to improve in your subjects, which you struggled more with due to English not being your first language.

Being head boy, Tom had basically permanent access to the restricted section, especially because he could get Professor Slughorn to sign off on anything. Everyday he learned darker and darker wizarding secrets, which scared you more than you would ever admit.

After morning studies, you would return to the Great Hall for lunch, and then Tom would insist on a walk around the castle grounds after a morning of mostly sitting down. Afternoon would be when he would have his meetings with Slughorn, whatever they were about, whilst you took the time to relax and decompress in the Slytherin common room with a good book.

Then it would be back again to the Great Hall for dinner, and then, since Tom didn't have prefect rounds to worry about, he would sit with you in the common room for a couple hours. Sometimes you chatted, sometimes you didn't.

"Y/N, darling," he spoke as he sat down next to you, the two of you having just returned from dinner. The second year was nowhere in sight.

You hummed, turning to look at him.

"Slughorn is starting to suspect my interest in dark magic is more than just curiosity."

"It is, isn't it?" you replied nonchalantly.

"Yes, but it is making him stop answering the questions I ask so easily. It is most frustrating."

"Maybe you should back off for a while then, build up trust again."

That was when Tom surprised you by dropping his head on to your shoulder, exhaling as he felt your warmth touch his cheek. "I'll have to. I just hate that it will cause a delay in my learning."

You nervously let your head rest against his as you pushed back the butterflies swarming in your stomach, wondering desperately how a man with such violent thoughts had only ever been so kind to you. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn't so bad being trapped with him.

Tom's eyes fluttered shut as his body began relaxing, and you took the moment to work up the courage to initiate more affection. You reached out and took his thumb into your hand, since the rest of it was balled up and not easy to hold. He acknowledged the gesture by rubbing the back of your hand with his forefinger, without opening his eyes.

You were probably the first to see this soft side of Tom.

***

Christmas Day quickly rolled around, not that the day had ever particularly meant much to you. So many years had been spent with you watching your half-siblings open their luxurious gifts, meanwhile you got a new pair of socks if you were lucky. That was until you were at Durmstrang, where you always stayed behind for the holidays while your half-siblings went home to loving parents that you never got.

Tom's Christmases had probably been even worse when they were spent at an orphanage. At least you were allowed a small portion of the grand Christmas meal at your childhood home. Orphans likely got the usual everyday food.

Regardless, you weren't expecting anything when you left your dormitory and entered the Slytherin common room. The Durmstrang Christmas feasts had made the traditional food your favourite part of the day, and you were simply hoping Hogwarts could top the delicacies. You were pleasantly surprised to see Tom already in the common room on the sofa by the tree, holding a neatly wrapped gift.

You couldn't help but smile at him as he noticed your presence, and clutched your gift for him behind your back as you approached his location.

"Merry Christmas, darling," he said to you, rising in order to greet you properly.

"Merry Christmas, Tom," you replied, standing still in front of him.

"I got you something," he said, holding out the box.

You accepted it and presented your gift to him, "And I got you something."

He smiled a small smile and accepted your present, moving in sync with you as you sat down to eagerly open the parcels.

You were absolutely shocked to uncover an absolutely gorgeous white gold ring with a snake design wrapping around, and two large emeralds in place of the snake's eyes. You had seen many expensive things in your life, but you had never had the privilege of touching one - let alone owning one. Looking over at Tom to search for some sort of answer, you received none as he was too busy gazing at the illusion you had spent ages charming.

"It's beautiful, darling."

"Thank you," you couldn't help but be shy, "I don't have any money so I could only make you something."

He smiled, "What do you think of my gift?"

"Oh, Tom, it's- it's gorgeous," you were speechless, "I- I don't know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much."

"It's to your taste, then?"

You didn't hesitate to nod.

"Lovely, I was hoping it would be. I had to resist using legilimency to confirm."

"Why didn't you?"

"I want you to trust me, doll, and invading your mind won't get you there, will it?"

You softly shook your head, shifting closer to him so you could embrace him in a side hug. He turned his body to hold you properly, and as you buried your face in his chest, you smelled a scent that you had never had the privilege of smelling before: the scent of home.

Tom was your home - he had to be. He was the safest place for you to be in all regards, and that was what a home was, right?

"But what's the ring for?" you asked as you pulled away from the embrace.

"It's for my darling," he said simply, and he didn't elaborate.

But as you tried it on all your fingers, you found that the only one it fit perfectly snug on was your ring finger.

Perhaps that was a coincidence.

***

You had taken to wearing the ring at all times, and you could tell Tom liked it that way, having that mark of ownership on you. Due to the finger on which you wore the piece of jewellery, you received many comments from students and teachers when they returned after New Year's.

"Is congratulations due?" Professor Slughorn had asked during the first potions class of the new year, to which you had merely smiled as you didn't know what to say.

It didn't matter, though, because the rumour spread through the castle quick enough to be considered a well-known fact. Tom Riddle and Y/N L/N being engaged was simply a fact at Hogwarts, and no one had ever debated it.

It wasn't unusual for seventh year couples to get engaged: in fact, it seemed that your 'engagement' had triggered a domino effect of more proposals.

You supposed this probably happened every year after there was a first couple to announce their engagement. Girls pushing more hints towards their boyfriends to get them to ask to tie the knot, probably somewhat out of jealousy and not wanting to be left behind.

"How many kids are you going to have?" one of your dorm mates asked at lunch - the first time she had bothered speaking to you in a while.

"I- I don't know," you had never felt safe enough to even consider if you wanted kids. It's not like you even had a good role model to base your parenting off of. Her question had caught you so off guard you failed to even put up the cold exterior you held for everyone except Tom.

"I think I want four," the girl continued, "I want a kinda big family but not overwhelmingly big, you know?"

You nodded absently.

"But if my husband wants more then I guess I would consider it," she said pensively, "How many does Riddle want?"

"I haven't asked Tom," your cold tone finally caught up to you.

"Asked me what?" your 'fiancé' arrived at the table and sat next to you, greeting you with a kiss on the cheek - which he had never done before. The girls opposite you awed at his behaviour.

"How many kids you want," the same girl reiterated.

You watched as Tom chewed on his cheek a bit before saying, "As many as my wife wants, it's her body that has to go through the turmoil after all."

Your dorm mates began murmuring about how considerate that was of Tom, and how one of the girl's boyfriends was insistent on at least three kids with no room for negotiation.

"Salazar, L/N, now we all want your man," one of the girls joked.

You turned to look at Tom to see that he wasn't even looking in their direction, and instead looking at you.

***

"This diary is my first horcrux," Tom explained to you, handing the book over. He had surprised you by showing you the Chamber of Salazar Slytherin, where the basilisk who killed Myrtle under Tom's orders (as you learned) resided. Despite the fact you hadn't seen the giant snake, you were nervous. "This is what Warren died for."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" you asked, flicking through the pages of the diary.

"You weren't ready to think too much about my plans, as you were still processing the motive," he said, handing you a quill and ink pot, "Write in the diary."

You frowned, but took the quill and dipped it in ink, before writing a simple message of 'hello'.

You nearly jumped out your skin when the diary replied to you.

"What is this?"

"I've charmed the part of my soul in the diary to be able to interact with whoever's writing in it, and in the case I lose the body I currently have, drain the life force of this hypothetical person to create a new body for me."

Regardless of your feelings about the matter, you had to give it to Tom that he was incredibly intelligent.

"So, I suggest you don't write anymore in it," he said, taking the diary back, "I quite like you alive."

"You're immortal now."

He hummed, "After we leave Hogwarts, I would like to continue making more. I want them to be grand, meaningful items, like the valuable objects of each house here."

"Like the sword of Gryffindor?"

"Yes, but that one wouldn't be very wise to pick. It's kept in the headmaster's office."

You nodded, "What are the others?"

"Ravenclaw's diadem, Slytherin's locket and Hufflepuff's cup."

"And which one do you want to use?"

He sighed, looking around the gloomy chamber, "Ideally, all three of them."

***

APPROX. SIX YEARS LATER.

***

You returned home with bags of food weighing your hands down, a playful song replaying in your mind in a loop. This was a normal day for you, thus far, as you entered the household that you shared with your husband, Tom Riddle. It was a house in the middle of nowhere, as he preferred it.

As you walked into the kitchen, you couldn't help but notice that it seemed way too quiet - normally you could feel Tom's presence from his work study, but today you couldn't. After checking the office to confirm he wasn't there, you turned back towards the kitchen to unpack the shopping (presuming he was simply out somewhere and forgot to mention) when you noticed that the door to the cellar was slightly open.

Ensuring your wand was definitely on your person, you entered through the door of rotting wood and slowly made your way down the stone slab stairs. You peered around the corner to see Tom stood across from a slumped figure in the corner, and between them stood a small table with Slytherin's locket set on it. Next to the locket was a wand, but it wasn't Tom's since he was holding his.

You had never witnessed Tom during his... dark magic... before.

You observed as Tom slightly turned his back to the captive person, reading carefully a page of the dusty book he was holding. It was then, to your horror, that the person got up and rushed to grab their wand from the table, beginning to say the fatal killing curse, "Avada kedav-"

"Avada kedavra!"

Tom turned around in shock, looking between you with your wand extended, and the now-corpse on the cold stone floor. All you could do was stare in horror at what you had done.

Only, the horror didn't come from the fact you had just killed someone for the first time - no, the horror came from the fire pumping in your veins and making you feel alive. Why did something so bad make you feel so good? It was like a drug - unholy but godly all the same.

"Darling?" Tom snapped you out of your thoughts, and you finally lowered your wand, "Darling, are you okay?"

You nodded, finding yourself breathless as your husband embraced you.

"You saved my life."

"You're immortal, my love."

"You saved me the hassle of creating a new body," he corrected, parting from you to look down at your face, "How do you feel?"

You exhaled slowly, "Exhilarated."

He raised an eyebrow at you.

"Were they a mudblood?"

Tom's face displayed even more surprise: you had never referred to muggle-borns in such a way before. "Yes, doll, but I'll need a new one now to finish this horcrux."

"Sorry."

"Don't be," he chuckled, pecking your lips, "Never apologise for the death of mudbloods."

You gave him a small smile, "I'm apologising for the kidnapping hassle you now have to go through again, not the death."

"I'm in love with you," he said quickly, staring at you with his piercing eyes.

You beamed up at Tom: your lover, your devil, your rock.

"I'm in love with you too."

———————————————

masterlist

written; 08/03/2023 —> 19/03/2023 published; 20/03/2023 edited; —/—/——

taglist ; @workinatdapyramid

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #young tom riddle #young tom riddle x reader #young tom riddle x you #young tom riddle x y/n #voldemort #lord voldemort #slytherin reader #angst #hurt comfort #hp #hp oneshots #harry potter #harry potter oneshots #hp fic #self insert

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im-a-king-baby · 8 months

Note

🪷

Hi! I cannot see this emoji because apparently I need to update several of my devices but I am going to ASSUME it is a flower. <3

Your snippet is about Laura (aka the fan who drove Simon to Bjarstad at the end of a very strange day)

Laura is pretty sure she’s dreaming. The entire night has had this air of unreality and now there’s this boy sitting in her passenger seat staring out the window in a white hoodie several sizes too big.

“What was your name?” he asks.

They’ve been driving for twenty minutes. This is the first thing he’s said since he offered to have sex with her and she said, “Um, no thank you?” like the most awkward person in history.

Google maps says it’s still nearly two hours to Bjarstad. And she can’t put on music because the car only has a CD player and the only CDs she has are Simme albums and Simme is sitting in her passenger seat. “Laura. Laura Andersson.”

He nods. “Hi.”

So fucking surreal. “Hi.”

“Were you looking for me?”

“What?”

“Looking for me,” he repeats. “Like, did Twitter say where I was so you went to find me?”

For a second she’s insulted at the implication, but when she glances over he doesn’t look angry, just tired. Resigned. Like he expects her to say yes.

And she’s seen all the news footage of crowds around the Grand hotel. She was looking on Twitter after the show for other fans talking about the new song but instead it was all people asking where the crew had moved to, rumours about different hotels. “No,” she says. “I was -” she pauses, trying to plan the sentence and tripping up on several words. Funnily enough high school language classes never covered ‘adulterous asshole’. Or maybe they did, she wasn’t great at paying attention. “I don’t know how to say it in English.”

“Oh,” he sounds surprised, like he’d forgotten where he was in between playing the show and now, and switches. “Swedish is fine. Sorry.” His Swedish accent is a bit rough, just like on stage, but he speaks it easily enough. Of course he does, he grew up here.

“I know you don’t like it,” she says.

He laughs softly, at a joke he doesn’t bother to share, letting his head thud against the passenger window. “Did I say that?”

He’s still speaking Swedish, so she switches because translating everything at 3am while her ears are still ringing and she’s driving an unfamiliar route into the middle of nowhere is going to give her a headache. “You gave an interview once where you said you wish you could forget Swedish so that you could forget everything that happened in Sweden.”

“Oh.” He touches his hoodie pocket, like he needs to reassure himself that it’s still there. “I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“Is it true?”

He glances sideways at her, possibly looking at her properly for the first time. “Sometimes,” he says. Whatever that means. “So where were you headed, before?”

“I was looking for a hostel. I was supposed to be staying with my boyfriend - I’m from Gothenburg and he’s from Stockholm but he comes over a lot for work. Then he texts me after the show started like ‘actually my wife has decided not to take the kids to her mother’s so you’ll have to get a hotel.’ And obviously I called him and he goes ‘I thought you knew I was married’ like obviously I did not. And the wife doesn’t know about me so all this time I’ve been a fucking homewrecker or something. Anyway all the hotels were booked out from the concert so I was looking for this hostel I saw online in the hope they might have a bed free and then I saw you.”

And she pulled over to check if he was alright and to ask if she could drive him somewhere - half wondering if she could maybe negotiate a room at his hotel, or at least a couch to crash on and somewhere to park overnight - and he’d climbed in and asked if she knew a town called Bjarstad.

It’s kind of on her way home, only adds an hour or so to the overall drive time. And when she’d unsubtly mentioned that she’d need to sleep at some point, he’d dropped that he owned a house there. In some middle-of-nowhere town in Sweden, a country he supposedly hasn’t been back to in nearly 3 years.

Then he’d offered her money, a photograph, and sex, in that order.

“Fuck,” Simme says, his voice is flat but she appreciates the sentiment. “Well. Sorry I fucked up the show for you as well.”

She glances sideways, but she can’t look long enough to get a good sense of his expression without taking her attention off the road. “It was fine. I mean who else can say they got to hear a Simme original song, live.” God, that makes it sound like she hated it. “I mean I loved the song, the song was great.” Or maybe that’s too much enthusiasm for a song he sang like his heart was fucking breaking. “I mean, it was sad. But really pretty.”

She takes her eyes off the road again, to see his mouth quirk into a tiny half smile. “You should send that to my PR team,” he says. “Sad But Pretty. There’s an album title right there.”

#bonus content meme #elyn fic #elyn spoilers #everybody loves you now fic

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couthbbg · 3 months

Text

What You Like

Kris Letang/Erik Karlsson • Rating: E • Ch: 1/2 • 12k

What could Karlsson possibly want, showing up at Kris's hotel room at one in the morning after a blow out loss? Surely nothing good.

Read on Ao3

Finally finished my kriserik fic! It's a BDSM AU, the first in a series of fics. This fic is finished, second chapter will be posted soon. Preview under the cut!

“Tanger!” an unfortunately familiar voice calls, somehow much too loud even muffled through the door. “I can hear you in there. Let me in!”

Of course, Kris thinks. There’s not a single soul on the team he’d want less at his door at one o’clock in the morning, after that shit show of a game no less. Just at the sound of that voice, Kris feels his poorly buried anger bubble up again, prickling at his skin. Three goals against, three goals against with this three-time Norris trophy winner on the ice, and now he wants to show up here, at Kris’s room, in the middle of the night? He must be drunk, Kris thinks, stalking to the door. He must have a fucking death wish.

Kris yanks the door open, hard, though the automatic mechanism at its hinges makes the gesture less dramatic than he was going for.

Karlsson smirks like he can tell. “Hello,” he says far too happily. He should be miserable. He should be groveling. Kris opens his mouth to let Karl know exactly where he can stick his good cheer, but before Kris gets the words out, his overtired brain finally registers the scene in front of him—Karlsson in sweatpants and an inside-out t-shirt, a suitcase propped by his side and a garment bag slung over his shoulder. Karlsson, with all his things. At Kris’s door. At one in the morning.

“Absolutely not,” Kris says flatly, shutting the door in Karl’s face. Or he would have, if it weren’t for that fucking mechanism slowing it down, giving Karl enough time to wedge the side of his shoe against the bottom of the door. Karl doesn’t try to open the door more, just slides over so he’s still visible.

“A pipe burst in my room,” he says, something odd in his voice, maybe disbelief or humor, the exact opposite of the fury Kris would be feeling if that happened to him.

Even foggy and exhausted, Kris can follow that explanation to its likely conclusion. The huff of laughter he lets out is anything but amused. “You’re not staying with me,” he says. “Go find Sid.” Team captain, team dom—Sid’s the resident fixer, the solver of problems, even maddening, smug Swedish problems, smirking at Kris like this is funny. Like it’s not one in the morning, and they didn’t just get their asses handed to them by the Blues.

“Ah,” says Karl, his smirk widening, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I tried his room first, but. He’s a bit busy.” Karl has the audacity to wink at Kris, as though Sid’s getting up to something exciting and indulgent, instead of the much more likely scenario. Given that Sid’s sub was on the ice for another three of the eight goals against them tonight, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he might be up to. And Sid’s not like Kris. He doesn’t revel in the punishment aspect of being a dom. Kris knows for a fact that Sid’s not enjoying whatever’s going on in his room at this hour any more than Geno is, and the fact that Karl is winking about it just makes the ire in Kris’s blood boil that much hotter.

“Find someone else,” Kris grits out. “I don’t share. It’s in my contract,” he adds and then tugs again at the door, hard enough that it must hurt Karl’s foot, still propping it open.

“It won’t be for the whole night,” Karl goes on, apparently unmoved by the vitriol in Kris’s voice. “They’re getting another room for me, it’s just not ready yet. Just thirty minutes. Maybe forty-five.” Then, unbelievably, Karlsson gets an elbow into the crack of the door and starts to pry it open.

“So wait in the lobby.” But Kris’s counteroffer goes unheard.

For one wild moment, as Karlsson genuinely wiggles to squeeze himself through the gap and into the room, Kris feels like he might actually physically stop him. There's a familiar thrum under Kris's skin, his hands twitching with the need to grip Karl’s arm and twist it. They’re the same height, and Karl is strong. Kris would need to use his whole body to shove Karl out, or maybe, against something, the closed door, or a wall. Kris would shove him, and Karl’s head would thunk against the wall, except he’d like that, probably, would smirk at Kris about it, and then he’d—

Kris snaps back to himself just in time to see Karl hanging his garment bag up in the closet, making himself right at home. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to have noticed Kris’s short bout of insanity. He just sits at end of the other queen bed, the remote somehow already in his hand.

“Are you watching this?” Karl asks, then doesn’t wait for answer, just flips through channels faster than he could possibly keep up with.

Read the rest on Ao3

#kriserik #erikris #hrpf #my fics #tangerkarlsson

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blu3b3rryj4mp1r3 · 1 year

Note

Curious question as someone that does not speak Swedish. How well do you think they translated the famous "I am just so PEEVED right now" scene in the dub? youtube GcJX1HOjh2M?t=310

honestly, I think "förargad" (annoyed) is a pretty good choice of word :) usually when someone wants to express that they're angry in swedish they'll say "jag är så/I am so (insert curse words of choice) förbannad "

"förbannad" is like, so mad that you're cursed/damned/overtaken by evil (the devil lol) and because of that I'd guess not all too popular to use in modern kids cartoons (that being said Eda outright curses at one point in the swedish dub off the owl house. don't ask me HOW in the world they got away with that in a disney dub but it shocked me so much I fell of the couch laughing haha)

so "förargad" is pretty mild, maybe something like "uppretad", "sur" or "illsk" would've been slightly funnier because they're ever so slightly milder but honestly that kinda depends on who you ask

although since they both begin with "för" I'd argue it's the best option 'cause when she first starts saying the word you're tricked into thinking she's going to say "förbannad" but she instead goes with the milder term, which is just the same as how the joke works in the original haha >♡< so I say good job to the translator, Anna Engh!

♡ ˢᶠʷ ᶦⁿᵗᵉʳᵃᶜᵗᶦᵒⁿ ᵒⁿˡʸ ♡

#my little pony: vänskap är magiskt #dub stuff #flutter brutter #besvärlig bror #S6E11 #fluttershy #rainbow dash #my little pony #mlp #mlp fim #friendship is magic #☆.asks

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meet-the-coffee · 3 months

Text

Nemesis | [ Speeding Bullet ]

A very cringe and gay fanfic I published on wattpad originally :')

They are so gay actually... and I am cringe but I am free.......

Authors Note: I don't really write or read fanfics or even books in general these days... sad. But I was inspired by an artist and I made this, lmao,, it's not graphic and no it barely contains any fluff or anything, but it does imply something at one part.

Please keep in mind that I don't write or read often at all, so this being pure shite isn't supposed to come as a surprise lmao...

That said, I'm also Swedish, so I apologize for awkward wording, misspellings or grammatical errors!

Content Warning: This story contains content such as suggestive reactions, aggressive behaviour, blood, internalized homophobia and homophobic behavior and slurs.

Read at your own risk.

~ ~ ~

What would otherwise be a very typical friday afternoon for team Red, had turned in to a few hours of complete frustration for the team's scout.

Jeremy had rounds before this felt the exciting thrills of bouncing off rooftops and straight in to the enemy team's spawn to whack people right in their heads, as well as zooming up to the enemy Sniper to give him a whack as well. He had been snickering the whole morning, putting enemy after enemy in the spawner, blasting them right in the face, bouncing around avoiding missiles, grenades and bulletshots.

He had been downright annoying, and he loved it.

Finally he could maybe for once be respected for his success and ability.

He was so ready for it.

One of the snipers in team Blu completely raged after getting hit with a fish, splashing that rotting ocean water not only over the sniper's face, but also over the walls and anything else within range.

That same sniper sat in spawn after that, furious and cussing outloud, when another one, a fellow sniper, had finally decided to crawl out of his hole and come fight the red team.

The latter sat on the bench and watched as the former was complaining. While the first was always loud, furious and whiney, the latter was a reserved and methodical man. He always thought the other was a bit of an obnoxious mouthbreather, who never seemed to learn from his experiences. The theory was that he was too busy fuming about things and wanting black-seighted revenge.

The loudmouth's name was Lawrence, "Larry", while the other was Mick, "Mickey".

Mick had recently joined the team, but seemed to be a solid bullseye. He had a feeling Larry might be laid off if he didn't learn from his mistakes soon.

The two of them entered the battlefield again, both heading over to sit in their own little towers to peer through their scopes. They were not located many feet off from each other. Every once in a while, the trigger went off, and the familiar echo of the rifle rang through the valley.

While Mick sat in silence, he could hear the "Shit!" escaping Larry's mouth every now and then.

'Amateur.'

He listened intently. He took a silent, deep breath. At the very peak, he holds it... Bang.

'Down you go.'

He watched the enemy collapse as he reloaded his rifle. He jolted by the yelping of his fellow sniper in the tower to his east. He snapped his gaze to his teammate, who he discovered to be overrun by the same scout he had been whining about earlier.

Mick got on his feet, raised his scope against his shoulder. Clear shot on the obnoxious scout. He pulled the trigger, and silence once again befalls the two towers.

Mick lowered his rifle, his eyes fixed on Larry, who was now correcting his vest and sunglasses.

Larry tried a nonchalant sniffle and gave a thumbs up.

Mick replied with an amused huff before sitting back down.

It didn't take long before Larry had been left alone by the enemy scout, and instead been frustrated by Mick "stealing" his kills.

Mick hadn't any intent to steal anything -- He was only doing his job after all.

It soon lead up to Larry throwing in the towel for the night, as the battle seemed to tire itself out.

There weren't many fighters left on the field. Even fewer were the enemies remaining.

Mickey, who had arrived a few hours later than the others, had only gotten started, he figured.

Besides, he had found a new favourite toy...

That scout from before.

He hadn't been able to get even close to the towers since Mick had been taking a liking to him.

This scout was fast. He was skilled. Unfortunately, Mick was just a bit quicker. And calculating.

~ ~ ~

The sun laid low now. It was snuggling up behind the mountains, and Mickey needed a small break soon. He choked a yawn, wondering where that scout had gone off to. The last four rounds, Mick had been chasing that speeder around with his scope, making him dance before blasting him back to last week.

It had been a while now...

Had he given up for the day? Was he pouting in his spawn?

Mick sat in his silence, sipping his coffee.

And suddenly...

The slightest change in atmosphere.

The softest pat of rubbersole on wooden boards.

Mickey shot up on his feet, kukri in hand, now facing the doorway.

There he stood. Sweating. There was a sense of horror in the scout's eyes, like stepping right in to a bear's den.

The scout had let his mouth slightly ajar, breathing whispering huffs of adrenaline, staring straight in to Mickey's glass-shaded eyes.

Mick held the kukri firmly in his hand. The corner of his mouth pulled, and he snickered.

Scout was, surprisingly enough, holding his handgun, pointed somewhere in chest-height of Mick's stature. Scout took slow steps in to the room before moving along the wall.

The odds were against Mick this time.

And yet, he went for it. He wasn't sure if the scout's aim was genuinely awful or if he only pulled the trigger when the sniper had thrown himself out of the way, but something felt off about it. He missed his shot.

Mick went in with his kukri, throwing the scout against the wall, threatening Scout's throat with a perfect angle for a good slice. In this motion, Mick had managed pinning the scout's right arm to the wall, holding the gun aimed away from their faces.

Scout had yelped at the motion, thrashing and kicking. Mick held steady. The former was now frantically staring at his arm, as if trying to force it to muster strength to overpower the sniper's grasp. He darted his eyes into the stranger's eyes before trying to find somewhere less uncomfortable to look.

Mick wasn't wavering. He held himself composed, sternly looking at this quivering puppy.

'So helpless.'

The scout gave labored huffs of attempts to keep fighting back.

This was where Mick noticed the tears.

It distracted him enough to instinctively letting his guard down, which slightly loosened his grip.

This gave Scout an opportunity. It was only a split second, but it was enough for him.

Jeremy head-butted the sniper, and once a brief distance had been allowed, Scout flicked the gun upside down in his hand and struck the sniper over the face.

Mickey dropped the kukri as he staggered back, yet remained on his feet. That had pissed him off.

He came back with a swing of his fist and sat a solid bullseye on the scout's nose. There was loud crack, and blood.

And yet, Scout composed himself before he went in again, and this time, fired his gun with seemingly more attempt to kill.

In a last-second decision to move out of the way, the sniper's wound landed in the shoulder. He grunted and staggered, before swinging his other arm out. He managed to knock the gun out of the Red's hand, before grabbing him in the collar and shoving him around. They danced half a circle, landing the scout on the desk.

Mickey was fuming. He had made a mistake letting the scout distract him with those puppy eyes.

He really shoved him on the desk. He held a hard grasp of the enemy's jaw, almost squishing his well-sculptured face. Mick growled through a tooth-gritting smirk.

"Dominated," he almost snarled through his teeth, pushing his face close enough to Scout's to feel his own warm breath bounce back.

The scout teared up once again. The blood from his nose was running still, while the tears mirrored it, running down his right cheek.

"Sissy," the blue whispered coldly into Jeremy's ear.

Jeremy had tried so hard to get rid of this enemy.

He had no clue why the team had decided to appoint him the mission of taking him down.

Did they think it would be the same as with the other sniper? Regardless, they viewed him as a carpet. There had been plenty of other people capable in the red team, yet none seemed willing. They had shoved that mission on Scout, rather than admit their own incapability.

He had gotten his ass totally kicked the entire afternoon and evening, with his closest thing to success being wounding his nemesis in the shoulder.

He felt defenseless.

This man was leaning over him, pressing himself onto Jeremy.

He felt the stranger's hand searching for its way up under Jeremy's own arm, which he had put on the sniper's shoulder in an attempt to hold distance between them.

He felt the soft tug of the chain around his neck. The man was peering down at it. He sneered once again, and the scout realized immediately.

"Jeremy, eh?" he now looked at Scout, satisfaction plastered in those cold eyes. The dogtag had just given a name to the enemy, which was not a comforting fact to Jeremy.

"You've been quite a mayhem to my colleague, I've heard," Mickey finally admitted. "And you've been quite a toy for me to mess with."

The timing of getting his head shoved in the gutter didn't feel appropriate, so Jeremy forced himself out of there. It sent goosebumps down his arms.

"You're quick on your feet, Jeremy," the aussie chuckled. "You almost had me... You were so, so close."

Jeremy listened. Usually, Jeremy is one to put up a good conversation while others sat in silence. As of right now, he just wasn't sure what to respond.

"You were however completely dominated. I've been dominating you since you showed up in my colleague's tower."

He corrected his stance, still pushing the scout to the desk.

He moved his leg, as it had gotten uncomfortable where it stood.

He moved it just a bit hastily, landing his mid-thigh where he thought was next to Jeremy's inner thigh.

Which... It was. However, this sudden movement had landed too well between the scout's legs.

Jeremy gave a surprised gasp, shoving hard on the other's vest, forcing distance between them.

Mick stopped dead in his tracks, studying Jeremy's reaction through unbelieving eyes. He didn't notice it himself at first, but it was instantly salivating in his mouth.

"You like that, you li'l freak," Mickey stated, rather than asked. "You can't even help your own face."

He continued studying the Red's body language, as Jeremy composed himself and stood up.

"You wish," Jeremy now wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand.

"It seems more like... you wish." Mick sneered, giving a nod as he shot an implying glance down Scout's body.

Scout got flustered and looked squirmy.

"You... we're both guys! You know that just happens sometimes, I mean... c'mon, man! As if that hasn't happened to you in absolutely awkward moments... I mean... c'mon...!"

The time seemed to pause for a second.

They just looked at each other for a moment.

Until Mick broke out in full laughter.

Jeremy wasn't sure how to react. He started nervously joining in, before he also realized just how funny this was.

Scout and Sniper had just been trying to murder each other, and now they were laughing at men's anatomy needing a bug fix.

At least that's what Scout was laughing at. Until the blue asked the question, still cackling.

"You are a definite gay, aren't you!"

Scout sort of calmed his laughter a bit, processing this comment, before he laughed a bit further.

"Takes one to know one, am I right?"

The two of them laughed themselves to tears for a while, before having to sit on the floor and calm down.

They sat there in silence for a while.

Mickey gave Jeremy a cup of coffee.

"So... same time tomorrow, then?" Jeremy broke the silence.

"Sure."

"Cool, cool..."

...

"So are you actually gay? Or did you just call me that to insult me?"

"Do you want me to be?" Mick peered up at him, taking a sip from his cup.

"Is that an invitation?" Jeremy chuckled nervously, "nah, I mean... I like girls..."

Another pause. The sniper took a silent sip of his coffee.

"You mean, you like girls too."

"Huh? What? Oh! Erm... no! I mean... yes? Wait... I like girls. That's it. Yeah. I like girls. That's all."

"... Do you like girls dominating you, too?"

Jeremy's ears got hot. His cheeks too.

"No."

"So why'd you react like that?"

"Because. I... just. I don't know. I don't know, okay! I don't know. I like girls."

They sat silent for a bit, Mick sweeping the last bit of coffee before getting up. He cracked his back.

"You're like an old man, y'know." Scout teased him, also getting up on his feet.

"I sure feel like one," Sniper sighed as his body was snapping and cracking.

"Aren't you only like, literally four years older than me?"

"Yes."

"So why do you look like a grandpa?"

"Not sure. Why do you look like a 10 year old?"

"I do not!" Scout punched his arm.

"Maybe not, but you sure act like one."

Jeremy scoffed. "Unbelievable! What a jerk-face."

"Jerk-face? You are a walking example of what I just said."

Both of them gave a small laugh.

"Alright, asshole, I'm heading back to base. Thanks for not murdering me, and for breaking my nose."

"You're alright, Jeremy."

"You, too! Though... I never got your name?"

"Mick."

"Mick? Alright. I know what that rhymes with."

"You can grow up aaany moment now..." Mick pretended to look at a wristwatch.

"Oh, fuck off. I'm funny." Another mutual laughter.

"Alright. Head off, then."

"Aight. Get yourself to bed now, grandpa!"

"Sure will."

"Buh-bye!"

Mick hesitated, but decided anyway.

"Hey Jeremy?"

"Huh?"

"I like girls, too."

Jeremy's uncertain chuckle echoed.

"Alright, good to know!"

"Emphasis on 'too'"

"... oh... Oh! Oh, alright! Uh... Same, dude."

"Yeah."

"... Yeah... G'night then!"

"G'night"

The moon was sitting high on the sky by now. The red shirt of the scout vanishing down the valley had turned to purple in the blue moon light, and the sniper gathered his stuff before heading out as well.

What an odd day at work.

He could barely wait until dawn to meet his new-found nemesis again.

#team fortress 2 #tf2 #tf2 sniper #tf2 scout #sniperscout #speeding bullet #fanfic #mature #suggestive #blood #aggressive #homophobia #homophobic #slur #cw slur #cw blood #fanfiction

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bratshaws · 1 year

Text

through the hourglass 107. brb x oc

a/n: 👀👀👀👀

pairing: plus size!oc x rooster

warnings: none.

goodness gracious (pls read this one to know more what this fic is about!!)

chapter

50/51/52/53/54/55/56/57/58/59/60/61/62/63/64/65/66/67/68/69/70/71/72/73/74/75/76/77/78/79/80/81/82/83/84/85/86/87/88

/89/90/91/92/93/94/95/96/97/98/99/100/101/102/103/104/105

/106

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@emilybradshaw @j-6o @louisahale @leobabbyyy @kulicny @winter-run @ktjmac @graciereads @bigpoppajes @taytaylala12

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Beatrice tried to mask her grimace once she showed up at Marcus’ studio. It wasn’t because of him, but she was feeling really ill and nauseated from last night, maybe they shouldn’t have eaten that chili, maybe she should’ve gotten something lighter instead.

Because her stomach was making her see double, and the bright colors surrounding her were only making her situation a bit worse. She tried to hide her discomfort as Marcus explained everything, sometimes even putting a hand in front of her mouth because that nausea was intense and she feared she’d just blow at any second.

Nicole was happily playing in the playpen Marcus set up in his office, something he really didn’t have to do but he adored her as much as Bea and Rooster did. He was the honorary uncle, the honorary rich stylist uncle who gave her daughter tiny brand toys he got from PR packets over the years.

The Valentino rubber teddy bear was probably the cutest thing she had ever seen…and it was the first time ever too. Black with pink eyes and a bow tie with the ‘V’ on each side, in gold thread that shone whenever Nikki moved it. Her daughter just vocalized when playing with it, she didn’t have a lot of stuffed toys - in fact Rooster’s blue teddy bear was the only one that Beatrice kept in her room since she was so young - so when Marcus said he researched what babies her age could have,Beatrice was more than honored to know that he found something safe for her daughter.

And seeing Nicole have so much fun while playing was enough for her too.

She hoped it’d make the nausea pass, but it was a bit complicated. She also was having a hard time focusing on what Marcus was saying, because she was trying to not die right in front of him. Maybe it was something they added? She never had this issue with chili before, it wasn’t like there was something that happened.

Plus Rooster was feeling so good, maybe it was something in her making her feel so sick.

Marcus, who was very observant, removed the bright colorful glasses from his eyes and furrowed his brows, “Bea,what is the matter? You appear…” he moves the frame in the air,trying to find words, “You appear…confused, or upset…or both.”

“Huh?”

“Are you okay,darling? What’s wrong?”

“Oh, ah,I’m sorry Marcus.” she laughs softly, “I just..I think yesterday’s dinner is kind of messing with me,so…I’m okay.”

“Do you want to sit down?” his whole demeanor changed, “Tea? I can get you tea- Trinity! Bring us my personal selection!”

“W-No!” Beatrice holds her hands up, “No,no! No, water is fine, in fact I prefer it,Marcus. Please.”

The stylist narrowed his eyes but sighed, “Very well, get us the Swedish one.”

Beatrice almost told him there was no need, but chose to just sit down on the chair closest to Nicole’s highly expensive playpen, blinking when she saw her daughter playing with a Versace rattle now, “Um…Marcus.”

“Yes, darling.”

“I…could be very wrong.” she laughs nervously, ‘But um,brands don’t do baby stuff, do they? I mean,from what I’ve seen with you and from what you told me?”

Marcus places his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, pushing it up to his brows with a elegant finger, “Well, they don’t darling.” he says casually, “But I told them that I have a lovely little girl whom I adore and I’d be more than happy to see her enjoying the best in life.” he smirks at Beatrice’s face, confusion slowly turning into surprise and then absolute shock. He holds up a hand, “Ah ah ah! No take backs,darling. I adore you three, you know that.”

“But–”

“Sssh, no no,” he taps her nose playfully, “No take backs,it won’t hurt me to give my favorite people gifts…besides,I don’t have nieces or nephews and since you and Evelyn will be the first of my friends to have children, why not?”

“Does Evelyn know?”

“Of course not,she’d be worse than you if she found out.” he laughs gleefully, grabbing the teal colored bottle from Trinity’s gloved hands alongside the long flute that would usually be filled with champagne, “There you go,darling.” he pours the water and Beatrice blinks at how clear it really is, she could almost see her own past with how beautiful that water looked, “Enjoy it.”

“Thanks,Marcus.” she grabs the flute delicately, bringing it to her lips and blinking at how expensive water could taste. But besides that, it did help her stomach because it slowly settled once the cold water hit it, her eyes closing as a sigh of relief broke out of her.

Marcus crosses his legs once he sits down on the velvet chair in front of Beatrice, “Better?”

“Yes, thank you,Marcus. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, darling.” he waves his hand off, rolling his eyes, “We all get sick…you said there’s something you ate,yes?”

“That and some personal stuff.” she laughs gently, placing the flute on top of the mahogany desk as she leans back on her seat, the papers filled with her own designs were fixed together almost as if it was a Tetris game, “And I got,” she moves her hand, “I got nervous I guess, and my stomach is now feeling it.”

“Oh, goodness, you cannot stress darling. You know it gives you wrinkles.” he pats the corners of his eyes for emphasis, “And makes your brain scream. We already go through so much in our daily lives, there’s no need for more.”

Beatrice smiles thankfully, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and sighing once her body feels comfortable enough for her to speak, “Well,I’m sorry about that, um…so, from what you said everything is good,right?”

‘Yes, darling.” he points a manicured finger to one of her drawings, “It’ll be marvelous and remember: there’ll be no photographers, no paparazzi,nothing, there’ll be only us having a good old time as friends and to celebrate the launch…and obviously,show you the pictures.”

She flushes a bit but smiles more, “Thank you,I know it’s not what you are used to but-”

“Darling,I’m so tired of the vultures that surround me.” he tilts his head fondly, “I am almost forty, I can decide what and who I want in my party.” he looks down when he hears Nicole vocalize and shake a shoe that looked like a small Louboutin, “I can arrange a baby area if you so wish as well.”

“Oh,no,no, she’s staying with her nonni.” Beatrice smiles, gently combing some of Nicole’s hair back when she looks up at her mother, “Plus,I don’t think it’d be such a good idea to take her there, might be too much for her.”

She says as if her daughter couldn’t handle sleeping through a storm.

Which she did. Twice already.

“Oh,very well, I’m just saying…which brings me to my other idea!”

“Other?” Beatrice blinks when Marcus disappears under his desk, his gleeful laughter being the only answer as he messed with something she can’t see, “Marcus?” more laughter and this time he pushes a small box on top of the desk, pushing it towards her, “What’s this?”

“My new plan! I was heavily inspired by the little princess.” Nicole turns her head when she hears, even if in her mind she had no idea what that word meant she knew it was used to refer to her, “And because I adore her so,I am working on my own baby and kids line!”

“Wait…what?!”

“Yes!Oh it’s so fun! Smaller sizes! SO small! And tiny,tiny socks!” he is elated when speaking, “And I’ve never did anything like this before, so I think it’s so fun and out of my comfort zone,I don’t know why I hadn’t tried.”

Beatrice was so surprised that Nicole, in her six months of life, managed to make pretty much everyone around her feel either inspired or happy. The Dagger Squad loved her - and she didn’t want to tell anyone, but it was obvious her favorite people in the squad were Payback and Phoenix because of how much she liked when they held her - Maverick absolutely adored that little girl to the point that she was sure he’d break someone’s arms if they talked about her. Penny wasn’t that far behind and Shells was doing a great job being the crazy wild aunt that could possibly kill anyone who looked at you wrong while Evelyn was the cool, hip, savvy aunt who knew what to give you when you least expected.

To say that their baby daughter was a light of joy was pretty obvious.

“And of course she’ll be one of the first to receive a full batch of clothes.”

“Oh, ah,” Beatrice laughs softly at Marcus, “There’s no need,Marcus, she’s growing so fast I don’t know if it’d be a good idea to…send her more clothing. I even bought some more since she’s already so big.” Nicole chews more on the rubber Louboutin and then looks around for anything else to play with.

“Oh…” Marcus frowns, then his grin returns, “Very well,I’ll save it up for the next babies.”

“HUh?”

“I mean,” he props his chin on top of his interlaced hands, “You do plan on having more kiddos,right? You and your pilot.”

Beatrice’s cheeks flushed red, an embarrassed little giggle breaking out of her as she retucks her hair behind her ear, “Um…” she clears her throat, feeling the words get stuck in there while looking to the side, “One day,maybe. We aren’t in a hurry, Nikki is just six months too and Roos is busy with the Navy and such.”

Marcus hums, pursing his lips as he smiles, “Okay! Well,I’ll still keep them saved up for you!”

“Mama!” Nicole breaks the conversation, and Beatrice is so thankful for the distraction, to show her mother the other toy she got, “Abuuh buh ah!” it was a monkey, of course it was a monkey, from Moschino with bright colors and a huge head that undoubtedly made Nicole think of her own monkey back home.

Beatrice smiles, picking her daughter up when she crawled over to the small gate that held her back, being sat on her mother’s lap as she nommed on the new rubber primate, “Thank you,though. I really appreciate it, you don’t have to but…you know.”

‘Oh darling,you have to stop saying that.” he smirks,”I adore your little family.”

“I know…we appreciate it.”

“And I adore how in love your husband is with you, you two are a fairy tale in real life!” he clasps his hands together, “It’s adorable!”

He wouldn’t be the first one to say that either.

Beatrice just laughs again, still blushing, “Well, he does make me feel that way-” her alarm goes off and she sighs, “Oh,I gotta go Marcus,I have to meet with Penny and Shells at the bar reall quick.” she looks back at him in question, “We ah, we are finished,right?”

“Yes, we are.” he smiles, “But oh, let’s just wrap it up.” she thought he meant the papers and the meeting, but no he meant the many brand toys that Nicole played with. His several assistants just flocked into the room and started packaging everything, everything in front of them with the exception of the playpen.

“There’ll be more when you visit me the next time,”

‘Wait,more?Marcus!”

“Sssh, darling,” he smiles, “Those are gifts for the little princess.” they are all inside beautiful sleek black boxes with large red ribbons and Beatrice could only stare wide eyed.

“I-I don’t even know how to take all of those home.” she murmurs, “I-I mean you–” the knowing look from Marcus was enough to answer, “You are going to send the ones I can’t take over to me.”

“Hmhm! “ he bites the end of his glasses while holding his arm up, then gestures to her body, “Oh I need to send you the dresses too, I know you’ll love to see them. Trinity! Please write that down! Bea needs her dresses.”

Beatrice could only watch wide eyed. Never in one million years she’d ever think she’d be here, standing next to Marcus Beverly - who is her friend now -, helping him with the new launch and being one of his models. One of his favorite models that is.

And that she’d still work at the Hard Deck and be happy doing it.

She bites the inside of her cheek to hide her smile as she follows Marcus and his flurry of assistants out of the building to her jeep. One of the male assistants even holds her bag for her as she unlocks the car, both her and Nicole watching as they put everything inside - almost perfectly aligning each box - and closing it once they are done.

They all say their goodbyes to her and Nicole, the little baby smiling happily when theirs voices get higher when referring to her. Marcus stands outside next to Beatrice, inhaling happily before turning to her, “Well, darling, you must go and so do I.” he air kisses her cheeks while holding her shoulders, “I will give you a call before the launch party, yes?”

“Yes, of course Marcus.”

He smiles fondly at her, before turning his gaze to Nicole, “Goodbye little princess.” he coos, gently kissing her tiny hands and smiling at her happy giggle, “You enjoy your time with mommy, yes?” Nicole laughs louder and Marcus drops her hands from his, “Goodbye darling, have a good day!”

Beatrice watches as Marcus flourishes back into the building, his clothes shining and hair still in place even with the wind outside. She gives him one final wave before the doors closed and she’s left standing with Nicole next to her car “...well…” she laughs, looking down at the little girl in her arms, “That was fun,huh?”

“Ah!’ Nicole’s vocalizations were only sounding more and more like actual words as time went by, “Come on, let’s…” Beatrice frowns when she feels the nausea again, “...not eat Mexican food again so late, oof, I feel awful.’

Rooster talked to Maverick, because he wanted to solve this once and for all. They sat away from everyone while in the cafeteria, because they needed privacy and needed to talk about things over.

It was a quiet conversation, as private as they could have, but he knew his uncle appreciated it. Pete’s eyes glazed over with tears but he was trying so hard not to cry, only offering the younger pilot a tight smile and a tap to the hand to show that it was solved, he didn’t need to worry anymore.

And things went back to normal, well, as normal as it could be.

“You are coming to the Christmas party,right?” Rooster asks after taking a bite of his pizza, while his uncle sips his soda “At Bea’s parents.”

Maverick slowly places the soda down, tapping his fingers on the table’s surface as his jaw moves, “I…I mean yes,” his nephew arches his brow at the hesitation, “I don’t know,Brad. I hadn’t…been to a Christmas party in…a very, very long time.” he licks his lips, “How many people will be there?”

“Well, let’s see.” Bradley looks to the side as he things, slowly unfurling his finger as he voices out the family members, “Her parents, her siblings, her nephews and nieces, the dogs, it’s possible her aunt will be there, and maybe her uncle Roberto with his wife and sons…so…” he counts each finger, “Around twenty-five people?”

“Twenty five?”

“You saw most of them at our wedding,Mav.” he shrugs, “Plus, you like parties. And music.”

“Twenty five people,” his uncle rubs his forehead while looking wide eyed to the side, “I…I can’t buy all of them presents, Brad.”

“I told you don’t have to,Mav-”

“Yeah, but isn’t that the polite thing to do?”

Bradley chuckles a bit, “Listen,it’ll be fine and…” he looks down at his hands, “We’d really appreciate it if you showed up…even if it’s for a little bit, you know? Bea especially wants you to go because she thinks it’d be good for you…and Penny said yes already.”

“She did?”

“Way before you.”

Pete huffed softly, in a way it was supposed to mean how annoyingly happy he was because of that woman. He just tsks, then tosses his hand up, “Yeah,well, okay…I’m going.” he huffs, “But are you sure I don’t need to bring gifts?”

“One hundred percent.” he says with a grin, “It’ll be like the first time I met them too,Mav. I didn’t bring a lot and I got…a lot…so you better be ready for that.”

‘What,wait, I am going to get gifts?” Rooster nods, “But I can’t give them back, that doesn’t make much sense.”

Rooster laughs, “Well,” he looks down when his phone starts to ring, “Well, you better get used to it and– it’s Bea,I’m going to answer it Mav. Give me a few minutes.” his uncle just looked stupefied by that, not even looking when Rooster walked away.

“Hellooooo gorgeous.” he drawls, leaning his shoulder against the wall, “You rarely call me, is everything okay?”

“Everything is fine! Well,a little,I’m a bit sick.”

“Sick?”

“I think eating chili so late was a mistake, blegh.” she laughs softly, “I’m okay though,lying in bed a bit, just got back from talking to Penny and Shells and Nikki is keeping me company. How are you though? You okay? Did you talk to Mav?”

“I did,gorgeous.” he looks back to where his uncle was, “We’re good.” but before she could exclaim how happy she was, he cut her off, “Wait, you are feeling sick, do you need me to bring you something? Some meds?”

“Ummm…I dunno…maybe? I just hope I get better until I go to the bar. I’ve never had issues with food like this before. I’m not throwing up or anything, but you know, it’s really annoying.”

“I know,gorgeous.” he whispers, “I’m going to Rizzo’s then, get you some pastries,” she makes a noise of discomfort, “Something light?”

“I might just have juice, I’m not feeling like having anything.”

“I can–oh. Oh. Oh I had an idea.”

“An Idea?”

“I can’t tell you yet but…I will…have to stay with Nikki tonight.” she makes a confused noise from the other side, “Can’t tell you why, but I know you’ll feel a lot better once I do what I have planned.”

“...you know, you can be very dangerous.”

“Yes,gorgeous.” he laughs, “Yes I can.”

#bradley rooster bradshaw #rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x oc #top gun maverick #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x named reader #tgm oc #tgm fic #tgm fanfiction

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