#I crush them I crush them I crush them I crush them I crush them I crush them

[kings-robot-swooning-blog]

Your honor these two stole my heart

@keferon come get yer boys >:)

[mariasont]

HI i have an idea and its making me really giddy

ok so reader is a translator for the bau and they’re always reading and translating texts or calls or anything like that. and the reader to spencer is basically like penelope to derek. they flirt all the time and all of those lovely things.. and it’s kinda just where they’re flirting on the phone and morgan teases reid about it and reid gets all flustered

IDK IF IT CAN WORK I JUST LOVE FLUSTERED SPENCER :(

anyway i’ll probably be in your inbox a bunch uhhh so call me h or something

-h

Warm Under the Collar - S.R

summary: spencer insists he is not flirting. morgan insists that spencer absolutely is. one of them is lying. pairings: spencer reid x translator!reader warnings: heavy flirting, pre-relationship mutual pining, verbal sparring as foreplay, workplace hr violations, use of angel wc: 0.6k

“Are you thinking about me, Dr. Reid? Because I’ve been thinking about you.”

Spencer exhales, tugging at the collar of his dress shirt as if loosening it might alleviate the sudden stranglehold of your words. He wasn’t sure if it was always this constricting or if it was conspiring against him at the mere sound of your voice.

He rolls his eyes, performative, really, because you can’t see him, and it’s easier to feign exasperation than admit the effect you have on him. His mouth, however, twitches in betrayal, flirting with a smile before he crushes it. 

The crime board he was supposed to be focusing on, filled with monochrome photos and reports, was now blurring into meaningless scribbles as his thoughts veer off-course, plummeting headfirst into you.

“I’m always thinking about you.”

The words come easily because they require no effort to be true. Always isn’t hyperbole, it’s a mathematical constant, an irrefutable fact.

He was thinking about you before he even called you, felt the shape of you in his mind like an afterimage burned onto his retinas. 

Thought about what color you were wearing, whether your hair was up or down. He wondered if you’d eaten, if you were drinking enough water, if you’d remembered to bring a jacket to the office because the temperature had dropped unexpectedly. 

“Always? Spencer, if you wanted me that bad, all you had to do was say so.”

He isn’t sure why he hesitates — why his brain takes a detour through all the ways he has said so, if not in words, then in the way his thoughts orbit you like a law of nature. 

“I feel like I did say so. Quite literally. But if you’d like me to be more explicit about it, I’m happy to oblige.”

Another pause. He wonders if you’re smiling.

“Mmm, well, I’m certainly not going to stop you.” You sigh, a little dramatic. “Go ahead, be explicit.”

Spencer physically winces at how hot his face gets. The very concept of explicit sits indecently in the pit of his stomach.

“Tempting.” He exhales, rubs a hand down his face, forcibly redirects. “But I do actually have a job to do. And, lucky for me, it just so happens to require your specific set of skills.” 

He leans against the crime board, half-smirking despite himself, because if nothing else, this is fun — the sharp back-and-forth, the way you press all the right buttons just to see what happens.

“I have a recording that needs translating. Think you can focus for long enough to help me, or do I need to, I don’t know, compliment your intelligence first to get you in a professional mindset?”

“Complimenting my intelligence to get what you want? Interesting. Manipulative, even.”

He groans, tilting his head toward the ceiling, appealing to some higher power for patience. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t say I was going to —”

“Too late, you put the idea in my head, and now I expect it. Preferably in an eloquent, well-structured speech. Bonus points if you make it poetic.”

“Or,” he counters, “you could translate the recording first, and I’ll… circle back to stroking your ego at a later, more convenient time.”

A small pause. The kind that feels intentional, like you’re weighing your options.

“I guess that works,” you say. “Send it over, pretty boy.”

Spencer shakes his head, fingers moving on autopilot as he sends the file, because if he thinks too hard about the way you lilted that last pretty boy, he might die. “Alright, thanks. Be good, angel.”

He hangs up, still grinning like an idiot, still entirely too warm under the collar. He exhales, staring at the phone in his hand like it might have the decency to cool him off, maybe undo the physiological mess you’ve left him in.

“If I have to listen to one more of your phone calls with her, I’m sending y’all an invoice.”

Spencer freezes when he sees Morgan standing behind him.

He clears his throat, ignoring the flush he knew was climbing up his neck. “Flirting is an unsubstantiated claim.”

Morgan just stares at him. Stares. “You don’t even believe that.”

Spencer mutters something about professionalism because he’s nothing if not a walking contradiction.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[mstrchu]

my experience with the ending of ne zha 2

[muqingslover]

Hi! If you're open to requests, what would you think the lads men (or just one guy of your choice!!) would do in the following scenario?

They are out with mc when they run into mc's ex, and mc's ex says, "Damn, your taste in men changed a lot" in like a condescending manner. (Or something along those lines)

I hope you have a great time!! I love reading your stories!!

[ Thank you for the request! <3 I did a little of everyone so enjoy! ]

Sylus

"Your tastes sure have changed since the last time I saw you." is the first thing that actually catches his attention during the otherwise boring conversation.

Sylus is not an overly jealous person simply because he is very secure of his love for you and how good he is to you. The only thing your ex does is greatly amuse him because the difference is too great to even be considered fair.

"Naturally. You surely don't expect someone to eat trash forever, do you?" He would answer for you in a smooth voice while he towers over the both of you with that confident expression of his on his face.

He feels almost sorry for you, who had to make do with such men, but, not to worry, he's here now and he's not going anywhere.

Xavier

Taunting his jealous side is the same as playing with fire while knowing you're going to get burn.

"Is that the type of guy you prefer?" He'd ask the second the two of you are alone again. His hands pin you to the closest surface so you're unable to run from the conversation and he keeps his face very close to yours to watch for even the smallest reactions "Do you like him more than me?"

My advice? Say no as quickly as possible and give him a kiss to shush him otherwise you're in for the long, loooooong haul. Xavier is not easily soothed once he's worked up and he WILL hold grudges.

The next time your ex shows up he is quick to cut the conversation before they can even get a good morning in and makes it clear you belong to him now.

Rafayel

"What did you just say?" His head never whipped back faster mans almost twisted his own neck.

Arguably the most aggressive per se because he's SO obvious. To him it's just staggering you ever went out with anyone else, especially a thing like that, and that it's here, again, approaching you. Does it not see him? He's right there for god's sake!

"She's on duty so she can't talk to you right now. Or ever." He'd grab you by the shoulder as he sized the guy up and down with the most condescending and judgmental look on his face before scoffing. what a diva

He'll nag at you later for being "distracted while on the job" and say you're supposed to pay attention to him at all times otherwise how will his dear bodyguard protect him? Please be more mindful!

Caleb

It was a school reunion party when your old high school sweetheart came up to the both of you.

"Oh hey, I remember you! Weren't you the guy who got kicked out for cheating on his graduation exam?" He says with an innocent grin on his face knowing full well the guy is a deadbeat and making sure others heard it too.

It's canon he kept track of all crushes MC had while growing up and I'm sure he goes out of his way to show you their bad points so you won't even consider looking their way.

In some cases, Caleb had to get rid of them by manipulating things behind the scenes if they didn't take the hint and this one was one of those cases.

The guy was struggling with his grades and who is he to deny a helping hand? All he did was slip the sheet of answers to the test without anyone knowing, it's not his fault if the idiot accepted it knowing it was against the rules. Such an angel, isn't he.

This interaction will lead to him being even more territorial around you and he wants you to just stay home with him where it's safe. Pretty please?

Zayne

He will step in if they are bothering you by pretending he needs your immediate help in the office but otherwise Zayne merely listening in the background.

Once they're gone the silence is so loud.

You can basically feel that he's bothered by something, but he won't open his mouth even if you ask him about it because it's 'petty and childish'.

"Are you happy with me?" He'd eventually ask you after stewing in his own thoughts for the day. What if your tastes hadn't changed and you were just too nice to tell him he's not doing enough? That he is not enough.

Please reassure this sweet man that you're happy in the relationship. Especially so if your ex is the type that is super extroverted and easy to get along with since that's one of the points he struggles with the most.

The problem goes away on its own after some good quality time together and affectionate words.

[gloomwitchwrites]

could we possibly get 141’s and niks reactions/hcs to a tall (possibly taller than them) and toned/muscled f!reader? If you get what I mean 😼

Not me cackling and screaming at the top of my lungs, y’all. All of these men are tall and strong anyway! (Proceeds to go outside and scream over this.)

MDNI

John Price

Your #1 hype man. Brags about you constantly.

Loves it when you wear heels because it purposefully makes you taller.

Loves it even more when you wear heels during sex.

Has you get things off the top shelf. Not because he can’t reach but because he knows you’ll do it. (Also, he’s old and has a bad back.)

Won’t allow you to give him piggyback rides.

Loves saying “Be polite or my wife will kick your ass.”

Will only get on his knees for you.

John “Soap” MacTavish

Immediate simp. No question.

Dared you to an arm-wrestling contest when he first met you.

Lost said contest, but not on purpose. He did try.

Doesn’t ask you out but watches at a distance. He thinks you’re not interested. Wants to take the chance but is a little nervous.

Absolutely talks the rest of 141s’ ears off about you. Literally will not shut up.

Thinks it’s cute when he has to go up on his toes a bit to kiss you.

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Favorite thing about you are your legs.

Secretly enjoys being little spoon.

Will punch someone in the fucking face for picking on the height difference

Loves it when your thigh muscles squeeze his face as he’s eating you out.

Gets a bit flustered when your face is close to his. He’s thankful for the balaclava.

Asks “how’s the weather up there?” just to piss you off.

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

Absolutely crushing on you but a little intimidated. But Gaz isn’t afraid. He boldly asks you out.

You’re the only person allowed to pick him up.

Finds it hilarious that you grab things off the top shelf to hand to him (because he can reach them, too.)

Loves it when you hug him from behind and rests your chin on his shoulder or nuzzles his neck.

Never worries about losing you in a crowd.

Both of you go to the gym together. You always out bench him.

Nikolai

It’s love at first sight (on Nikolai’s side.)

Dares you to a wrestling contest (and not the arm kind.)

Loses said contest on purpose because his dream is to be topped by a larger, stronger woman.

Promptly flirts and asks you out on a date. You reject him, but his ego isn’t blown.

Tells everyone who will listen that he’s going to make beautiful, massive babies with you.

Grins like a big idiot when your face is close to his.

Constant positive affirmations about your body.

main masterlist

[slavhew]

prusty torment nexus

[aayakashii]

No because let me add something here. I used to have a crush on a friend of mine and was heartbroken when he revealed to everyone that he was dating a girl for four months. I got over it, everything's fine and whatever.

Now you may ask what does this has to do with chat gpt??? I say, wait

Two other friends of ours got married, and they set up a little gift wishlist where we could send them their gift with a little message congratulating them on their wedding. I wrote mine short and sweet.

Tell me why this mf (the guy I used to like) turns to me and say he asked for chat gpt TO WRITE A SHORT MESSAGE CONGRATULATING OUR FRIENDS ON THEIR WEDDING. HELLO?

I was so disgusted by the laziness that I legit said he was awful for that, and he just giggled as if he was super pleased with himself and his witty. Like, he legit became one of those assholes from apple's ads.

Needlessly to say I began wondering why tf I spent so much time crushing on him back then, because I could NEVER want someone who can't make the tiniest effort for the people they like

the generational gap between me and the people my age who use chat gpt

[wosospacegirl]

Matching stitches - Grace Clinton

Summary: Y/n can handle tough tackles and intense matches—but stitches? Absolutely not. After a head collision mid-match, the last person she expects to help her through it is Grace —her opponent.

Warnings: mentions of blood; hurt comfort; just a meet cute overall with a lot of found family and accidentally liking old pictures on ig hehe

Word count: 7k

MASTERLIST

..

The game was heated.

1-1 and both teams wanted to win.

Y/n didn’t see it coming.

She was close to the Manchester United goal, ready to assist either Alessia or Foxy. Leah had played a long ball to Y/n, who jumped as the ball got closer, ready to receive it.

As the ball came closer, Y/n felt the impact of a body against her, knocking her to the ground. She felt something sharp open her inner lip and hit her forehead.

She fell on the pitch, her back hitting the grass painfully. For a moment she couldn't breathe, her lungs aching from the impact.

“Fuck,” Y/n muttered.

The crowd fell silent.

Y/n could smell grass, blood and sweat. It was a mixture of smells that Y/n was used to, but at the moment it reeked.

Her whole body ached as if a knife were slicing through her lips and forehead. She tried to move her head, but that hurt too. She could not see who crushed her.

The Arsenal players came running as soon as Y/n’s hit the ground. A mix of familiar voices reached Y/n’s ear. They were all talking at the same time, but it was as if they made no sense, it was just a blend of words being thrown around.

“She’s fucking bleeding!” Y/n heard Leah’s voice. “Stop the game! Call someone!”

The referee hadn’t blown the whistle yet. Maybe they should because Y/n was not going to get up anytime soon.

Y/n felt lightheaded like she was going to pass out any time soon. She wanted to stay there on the pitch, the grass hugging her, even though it irritated her skin.

Okay maybe her brain wasn’t getting all the oxygen it needed. She felt dazed.

“There’s been a head clash here! Where are the bloody medics?”

Someone said Y/n wasn’t sure if it was Kim or Katie, maybe it was Jen. Oh no, Jen had retired a couple of seasons ago, hadn’t she? Wow, they really needed to get someone to help her out.

Her teammates, whether retired or not, sounded worried. Was it bad, maybe her injury was worse than she thought it was.

Y/n felt like she was dying, but her teammates usually just called her dramatic when she was tackled in a game.

Was she being dramatic right now?

She wasn’t sure. But she was tired though. And it hurt.

She wanted to rest. Maybe she should do that.

“No, don’t. Keep your eyes open,” Y/n felt the warmth of a hand holding hers, “They’re going to take you to the infirmary, okay?”

“Damn, she’s out.”

Was the last thing Y/n heard before everything went black.

..

“Y/n?”

Y/n forced herself to breathe. The air went in and out of her lungs, and her back didn’t hurt anymore, just the slight discomfort of being tackled and lying down on a hard surface.

Was she in a hospital? The bed she was in felt like a hospital bed. It was uncomfortable.

“Y/n, you need to open your eyes, I know you are awake,” the voice said again. It wasn’t familiar to Y/n, but it seemed to belong to an older woman.

Y/n tried to do what the woman asked her. She carefully opened one eye and then the other, but the lights in the room were too bright. She decided to close them.

Y/n didn’t remember exactly what happened. She was on the field playing, then someone crashed into her, and then she was out. She had a faint memory of Leah’s voice saying something to her as she was being carried off the pitch on a stretcher.

The first shock of pain hit her.

Y/n whimpered, bringing her hand to her lip and then to her forehead. Both places were wet and tender. Two very fresh bruises.

Medicine. Why hadn’t they given her some painkillers? If she was in a hospital, it must have been a bad one because she was in pain, her mouth tasted like iron.

Y/n tried to open her eyes again, the light was not as intense as before. She removed her hands from her face and looked at them, they were red.

Blood, fresh blood. She had been hurt and it hadn’t been long ago.

Why did it feel like days?

“Don’t look at it,” the older woman said, taking Y/n’s hands and cleaning them with a tissue.

“What hospital am I in?,” Y/n asked the woman.

“We're in the infirmary, the stadium’s infirmary,” another voice said beside Y/n. The voice was calm, not as energetic as the other women’s, and it was younger.

It was probably the person who had bumped into Y/n.

She was so disoriented that she hadn’t even noticed that someone else had been hurt as well. But if the pain on her face was any indication of how hard they had bumped into each other, the other player was probably in bad shape too.

She tried to turn her head around, but it hurt too much, so she just kept staring at the person in front of her.

Nurse Mary, the badge said. She had a kind, round face.

“Are you all right?” The younger voice said again.

Y/n tried to remember who the voice belonged to. She was being marked by Gabby George and Millie. T seconds before she was hit, but they were in front of her and the collision was caused by someone running to her side. So Y/n didn't see who it was.

Y/n turned her head to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl, but the movement was too fast and nausea hit her stomach.

“Mary, I'm gonna throw up,” Y/n warned the nurse.

A few seconds later there was a bucket right next to her.

Y/n emptied her stomach. The vomit was mixed with blood from her new injuries and she just wanted to go home, put an ice pack on her face and pretend this day never happened, especially after throwing up in front of two strangers.

Nurse Mary patted Y/n’s back maternally. “It's okay, honey. You’ve got a concussion, it's normal to feel nauseous. Miss Grace here also had a concussion.”

Grace? Grace Clinton?

Great, she had puked in front of Grace Clinton. Not embarrassing at all.

Y/n had the vaguest recollection of seeing Grace in the tunnel as they walked to the pitch. She had her hair in a low bun and her shirt looked a size too big for her.

Grace was a midfielder for Man United, she was very young but very skilled. Y/n had never had the chance to talk to her before, but Leah had told her once that Grace was very calm on the pitch and that she should mark her, but not be too aggressive about it, as Grace herself had a chill style of play.

“You bumped heads during the game,” Mary continued. “It wasn’t too bad, so there was no need for an ambulance.”

Y/n felt like she had been hit by a whole bus, not just bumped heads. Clinton was strong, so it made sense that she was in so much pain from the collision.

“–But you Y/n got the worst of it, Grace’s teeth bit your inner lip open when you both fell,” Mary added.

Grace's teeth?

That explained why she felt like her lips were split open.

When Y/n opened her mouth to ask Grace if she was all right, a wet, cold cloth was pressed into her face.

“Ouch! Fuck, it hurts,” Y/n said angrily, but regret quickly struck her. She shouldn't be yelling at Mary.

“I-'m sorry, it just…”

“Hurts?” Mary finished the sentence for her.

“Yeah,” Y/n mumbled, accepting the cloth to her face, the coldness of it helping with the burning sensation and easing her pain. She stayed with the cloth for a few seconds before Mary took it away from her.

“You two sit nice and still, okay?” Mary said. “I need to get some supplies in the other room, but I’ll be back.”

“I’ll talk to your teammates, too, Y/n,” she said, turning to Y/n now. “They were quite a bit worried about you, especially the skipper.”

Before Y/n could reply Mary left.

She and Grace were alone in the small room, the smell of antiseptic and disinfectant filling Y/n’s nose. She hated it.

Y/n slowly sat up on the bed and finally looked at Grace, who was sitting on the bed next to her.

Her back was propped up against two pillows, she was still wearing her Manchester kit, stained with dirt and blood. Her hair was down around her shoulders, a few leaves of grass lying in between the strings.

Should Y/n tell her about the grass? Well, given Y/n’s situation, she wasn’t really in a position to judge. She hadn’t looked in the mirror yet, but she knew she was a mess.

Grace had a very soft, baby-like face, with delicate features, but right now she looked like she had come back from war. Her bottom lip was swollen, with a deep cut on it. Y/n couldn't see it properly because Grace was holding an ice pack against it, but from what she could see it was obvious that the girl’s lip was just also bruised.

“Your mouth–” Y/n said, pointing at Grace.

“Yeah, yours doesn't look too different either,” Grace said, removing the ice from her face. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay. I don’t remember how it happened.” Y/n admitted.

“Tooney made a high pass, I tried to get it with my head and I didn’t see you were close,” Grace said with a sad smile. “They say we bump heads but I pretty much bit your lip off, too”

“it hurts,” Y/n said in a low voice.

“I’m sorry.”

“It's okay. Are you okay?” Y/n asked.

“Yeah, I'm fine, but we’re gonna have to get stitches though,” Gracie said casually as she leaned back on her bed.

Stitches.

Great.

“I don’t think I’ll need stitches,” Y/n said, trying to sound stoic. She couldn’t freak out in front of Grace Clinton.

She was terrified of needles and anything that had to go into her skin. She didn’t even have any tattoos for that reason. Y/n was most definitely not going to get stitches, nonetheless here in the Man United infirmary. If it was in Arsenal’s infirmary might be cool about it.

“Well, I can barely understand what you’re saying because of how much your lip is so busted, so I think you are going to need stitches,” Grace said with an amused smile on her face. “She’ll put a numbing cream on it, you won’t feel a thing, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.” Y/n lied, her trembling hands betraying her. She quickly tried to hide them by sitting on her hands, but then her feet began to move anxiously.

Grace looked Y/n up and down, an understanding smile on her face. “You don’t have to act tough, it’s okay.”

Y/n felt a rush of blood to her cheeks. “I’m not acting tough,” she muttered, looking down.

She was a grown woman with a fear of needles. She felt silly.

Mary came in, a box written with suture materials on her hand.

Y/n went pale. Maybe she was going to throw up again.

“Okay sweeties,” Mary said enthusiastically, as if she enjoyed sewing people up. “Good news first: I found the anaesthetic cream,” she held up the small tube up as a prize.

“And bad news: we’ve got to be quickly because Y/n’s bus is waiting for her to leave, so let’s get going!” Mary continued.

Good to know that Y/n hadn’t been completely abandoned by her teammates in the middle of Manchester.

“Y/n, let’s get you stitched up first, yeah?”

Y/n gulped and opened her mouth, but she froze and couldn’t say anything. She looked frightened at Mary terrified and then at Grace.

“I can go first, Mary,” Grace said, holding up her hand. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay, then,” Mary said.

The nurse took the suture kit and walked in Grace’s direction. Y/n couldn’t see what Mary was doing because her body was directly in front of Y/n. The girl could only hear the nurse open the cream, and then it was quiet.

Mary started stitching Grace up. Grace didn’t make a sound or move. Y/n was in awe, she just couldn’t believe that she was being switched up and not shaking all over.

In less than 10 minutes Grace’s stitches were done. They were just on her lips, in the same place where Y/n would get hers.

The stitches were small, they looked raw and swollen, but the scar would be tiny.

“Okay, you’re good to go, honey, just make sure you don’t carry any heavyweight until your bruise is completely healed.” Mary patted Grace on the back as the girl got up from the bed.

Mary turned to Y/n and pointed at her. “Now it’s your turn, lie down on the bed for me please.”

Y/n’s heart skipped a beat again.

Okay, she could do it. All she had to do was breathe in and out.

Y/n tried to breathe, but the air didn’t reach her lungs. Her hands started to tremble. She shook her head and put her hands in front of her body, not letting Mary get any closer.

“I don’t want to,” Y/n said, trying to get away from Mary. “I’ll get stitches when I get back to Arsenal.” She was most definitely not going to do that.

Mary looked at her like she was a child.

“And are you planning to sit on a 4-hour drive to London with blood dripping from your forehead and mouth?” Mary asked patronisingly. “Don’t be silly, there’s no way a player like you is afraid of a few stitches, now lie down, I haven’t got all the time in the world and neither have you.

Okay, Mary wasn’t so nice anymore.

If Y/n hadn’t just had a concussion, she’d swear she’d seen the slightest frown on Grace’s face.

Y/n was embarrassed. She was a professional player and she was afraid of stitches, blood and needles. Y/n’s worst nightmare wasn’t to tear her ACL, but to suffer some kind of laceration during the game. And right now her nightmare had come true.

Her brain was already planning an escape route. There was nothing in her contract that said she had to go through with medical procedures if she didn’t agree with them.

And yes, her teammates would not enjoy spending 4 hours on a bus with someone bleeding, but what could they do? Put her on a train and send her off to London on her own.

If she could just get Mary to look away for a second, maybe she could reach the door and…

Y/n felt a dip in the mattress by her side.

“You guys won, did you know it?” Grace said, smiling at Y/n. “Cooney-Cross scored, 2-1 to Arsenal.”

Y/n narrowed her eyes. “You’re trying to distract me, I know it.”

“I just want to talk, really,” Grace said relaxed as if the infirmary was her favourite place to make small talk. “

Mary put the numbing cream first on her forehead and then on her lips. It stung at first, but then she couldn’t feel her skin anymore, as if it was anaesthetized.

Y/n breathed in and out again, trying not to panic. She would get stitches and she would be fine.

She closed her eyes.

“Who-who assisted Kyra?” Y/n questioned. If Grace was being kind enough to help her, Y/n would cooperate as well.

Mary’s cold hand found her skin. She didn't know if she was getting the stitches yet. Maybe not feeling them was worse than feeling the pain, at least she could understand what was happening.

“That Fox girl, I think her name is Emily, right?” Grace said. “Is she American?”

“Uhum,” Y/n said.

Breathe in and out. She just had to pretend there weren’t any kind of needles near her face.

“Now I’m going to do your lips, just keep them closed, Y/n,” Mary said.

If she was working on Y/n’s lips then maybe she was done with her forehead? She didn’t feel any pain, so it was probably good.

“I’ve always wanted to visit America,” Grace said, more to herself since Y/n couldn’t answer her. “I saw that Arsenal played in Washington last season, I hope Man United can play there too, it would be fun to travel with the girls.”

Y/n smiled, thinking about the trip. It was really a nice change of scenery to play in America. The crowd was different, the weather was warmer. It was a good memory.

“Try not to smile now, honey,” Mary said. “I’m almost finished here.”

“We’ve got a game in France next week, it’s just a friendly against Lyon, but it’ll be nice to get away from England’s winter,” Grace continued. “Not that the weather in France is any better at this time of the year. But still, I would rather be cold and eat a good croissant.”

Y/n wanted to smile at Grace again but remembered Mary’s scolding.

“And we’re all done here!” Mary said, clapping her hands. “Now you’re both free to go, I’ll email each of your clubs what we’ve done so they can include it in your medical report.”

Y/n opened her eyes and was met with Grace’s face. She looked pretty, even with the stitches on.

“Thank you, Mary,” Y/n and Grace said in unison as they left the infirmary. They were met with a silent and empty corridor.

Manchester United Stadium was pretty and clean, but it was way too dark to see anything. The hallways were gloomy and Y/n wasn’t a fan of the dark.

“Thank you for what you did there,” Y/n said, looking up at Grace, she couldn't really see her face, but Y/n knew she was there by the subtle touch of their hands as they walked. “You didn't have to, you’re probably late now and–”

“I know I didn’t have to,” Grace said as they walked through the corridors. “I just wanted to do it.”

Y/n honestly didn’t know where she was, she was just following Grace, hoping that the girl knew her own team’s stadium better she did.

“But you were scared and it was my fault that you had to get stitches at the end of the day,” Grace continued. “Besides, it was nice talking to you.”

Y/n blushed slightly. “You still think that even after I threw up in front of you and almost had a panic attack because of some stitches?” Y/n said half-jokingly, feeling a small shiver as their hands touched again

“Well, I did cut your lip open with my teeth, so I’d say we’re even,” Grace joked, turning left into a hallway that was less dark than before.

“It’s a very physical game, it’s bound to happen,” Y/n said smiling. “You don’t have to apologise.”

They walked on until Y/n finally realised where she was. She was near the changing rooms for the away and home teams. Next to the changing room was the media room, where the players, but mainly the technical staff, answered questions from sports journalists.

There were a lot of voices coming from the media room, it looked busy.

Y/n took a quick look inside the room and saw both Arsenal and Man United managers answering questions.

She wasn’t as sneaky as she thought she was, though, because in a matter of seconds a girl with a badge that said ‘Media’ was standing in front of her and Grace, mobile phone in hand.

“Hi girls, I’m Tara, I work for the Barclays Women's Super League’s Instagram and I was wondering if I could get a picture of you two together?” The woman asked nicely. “The fans are worried about your injury, so it would be nice to give a little update.”

“Would it just be a picture? Or an interview? We can’t talk much because of our lips,” Grace said, pointing at Y/n’s mouth and then at herself. “We just got stitches.”

“Just a picture to put on the Instagram feed,” Tara explained professionally. “If that’s all right with you, guys?”

Grace and Y/n exchanged a look and then nodded to Tara, who smiled and asked them to stand in front of one of the lights in the hallway.

Grace took a step closer to Y/n and gently placed her hand on Y/n’s hip. They smiled as Grace made the peace sign with her hand.

Y/n missed Grace’s hand after she had taken it from her body. It was warm, she liked it.

“Okay, that’s great! Thanks, girls,” Tara said after looking at the picture on her phone. “I hope you make a full recovery”

Tara left, leaving Y/n and Grace alone.

“We should probably go before more journalists come, I don’t really feel like talking to them,” Grace said.

“Well, we actually can’t talk much, anyway.”

They walked until they reached a door with the words “Player’s car park” on it. Grace opened the door for Y/n and they were greeted by the Manchester night.

Y/n quickly spotted the Arsenal bus. She even forgot that her teammates were waiting for her, they must be tired of waiting. It was already late.

Y/n turned to Grace “Thanks again, for staying with me…and being so nice,”

Grace smiled, “You don’t have to thank me, it’s alright, I’m the one who should thank you, if it was any other player they’d be mad at me for the injury, it was reckless.”

“I don't think anyone could be mad at you,” Y/n said, looking into Grace’s green eyes

“Oh they could,” Grace joked, looking around the car park. “Sorry again for hurting you, I hope it heals soon”

“It will, I’ll take good care of it,” Y/n said.

“Good. I’ll see you around, yeah?” Grace said.

“Yeah, of course,” Y/n said, feeling warmth in her cheeks. Grace was pretty, very pretty.

“Bye them, have a safe trip,” Grace waved before walking to a car parked on the other side of the parking lot, Y/n assumed it was hers.

Y/n made her way to the Arsenal team bus, but when she opened the door all she could hear was her teammates yapping.

“I think I should go check on her,” Kim said worriedly. “She’s been there for an hour!”

“I already talked to the nurse, she said it would take some time to stitch her up, mate, be patient,” Leah said.

“And that’s why somebody should go with her, Y/n is scared of needles, how is she going to get stitched up alone?” Kim stated.

“Kim, mate, relax! You always fuss over us, Y/n's fine, I just spoke with the nurse.”

“Of course, I fuss over you guys, I’m the captain! And you, Leah,” Kim said pointing at the blonde, “should do the same, since you’re co-captain.”

Leah rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay, I’ll go! You’re talking as if I didn't stand by the infirmary door like a dog until the nurse kicked me out,” Leah muttered as she walked down the steps of the bus.

As she walked down she came face to face with Y/n.

“Oh look who’s here,” Leah said smiling, stopping in her tracks, she turned around and shouted, “Guys, she’s here!”

Leah took Y/n’s hand and the two girls walked into the bus. It was mostly dark, with an annoying smell of the peanuts Katie was always snacking on.

When the girl saw Y/n they all smiled at him.r

“Hey girl, how are you?” Alessia said, getting up from her seat to give Y/n a hug. “I was so scared when you fell there was so much blood on Grace's face! And the referee took forever to stop the game.”

Leah put a comforting hand on Y/n’s back. “You fainted, I thought they were going to call an ambulance. Don’t do that again, please”

“Do that again? You’re saying it like I wanted to get my forehead and lips cut open,” Y/n mumbled, waving and smiling at Kim.

“Leah and Kim were so angry,” Katie said from one of the last seats, “I think the only reason Leah didn’t scream at Grace was because she was hurt.”

“Of course, I wanted to scream! What was she thinking, jumping on you like that?” Leah said, her protective side showing as she squeezed Y/n’s shoulder a little harder. “She knows better than that. If it had happened at Camp, Sarina would’ve benched her on the spot.

“Come on Leah, you’d never forgive yourself if you shouted at Gracie girl,” Beth said, “she’s a sweetheart when we play for England.”

“Plus, I don’t think she saw Y/n, she wasn’t even looking at her side,” Kim said, “But let’s forget about Grace, how are those stitches? Did you panic?”

“Yeah I kind of did, but Grace talked me through it,” Y/n said, sitting down in her usual spot next to Alessia, the blonde wrapping her arms around her.

“That seems like grace, she is like the nicest person ever,” Alessia said. “And she gives great hugs too.”

“Okay, now you’re all making me feel bad for getting mad at her,” Leah said, rolling her eyes and sitting down in her seat a few rows away from Y/n.

“So y/n, tell me, do you think the game was mind-blowing or what?” Kyra said teasingly, sitting in the row right behind Y/n and Alessia, Steph by her side.”

“Too soon to be making puns about her bruise, you menace,” Steph said, playfully smacking Kyra on the head. “At least wait until it heals.”

..

The Arsenal team have been on the road to London for two hours. Everyone was asleep, some girls had their sleep masks on, and others were wrapped in blankets.

Everyone except Y/n.

The pain in her lip and forehead was bothering her and she didn’t have any painkillers she could take, she’d have to wait until she got home to take some ibuprofen. The pain was the main reason why Y/n was awake and playing games on her phone next to a very sleeping Alessia.

Y/n had set the screen brightness to the lowest possible, the bus was completely dark, which made her feel furtive in some sort of way.

She was halfway through with her Sudoku when she got a notification on her Instagram.

Barclays Women’s Super League tagged you on their post.

Y/n quickly clicked on it and in a matter of seconds, the picture of her and Grace appeared on her screen.

“A tough game, but both players are on the mend! ⚽” read the caption. There were an awful lot of comments on the post already. Maybe people were really worried about them.

The picture was cute.

Well, Grace looked cute. Y/n looked awful, her kit was completely dirty with grass, blood and mud, her hair was in a messy bun, and you could literally see the sweat on her neck. Gross.

Y/n’s stitches looked awful as well, they were very red, swollen and just raw.

Of course, Grace didn't look much different from Y/n, neither of them had had a chance to shower before the photo, but still, for some reason, Grace still looked pretty in her Manchester United kit.

Y/n stared at the picture, then the picture stared at her back.

She clicked on the post and saw Grace’s Instagram handle. She clicked on it and started scrolling through Grace’s profile, but not in I'm-obsessed-with-you way, more like a you-were-so-nice-i-want-to-get-to-know-you-better way.

Her Instagram was like any other player's. Lots of pictures of her on the pitch, in training, and at camp, but not much about her private life, unfortunately.

Y/n didn't know why she felt so creepy while scrolling through Grace’s Instagram, It wasn’t like it was wrong or weird, they just met and y/n wanted to know more about her… see if there were any hobbies she was interested in in in, what places had Grace had been, and stuff like that.

Grace seemed like a very nice person through the lens of Instagram. She seemed very dedicated to football, loyal to a few of her friends, and funny but also private.

Y/n wasn’t much different, she also didn’t like to post much about her life outside of football on social media. She and Grace had this in common.

Y/n went back to the picture of them together.

Maybe she should comment on it. Something casual, something funny, but not bold.

Stitch up buddies! she wrote, but then deleted.

God, that was so lame.

Matching tattoos are overrated, so we got matching stitches instead.

That was good. It was casual, it didn’t sound like she was flirting.

She hit send.

Then she dramatically put her hands in her face. “Bloody hell why did I do that?” she whispered to herself, but not loud enough for anyone to hear.

Would Grace think she was weird? She didn’t tag Grace on the comment, maybe the girl wouldn’t even see it and they’d just get on with their lives. Maybe she could delete it.

Y/n waited a few seconds before unlocking her phone again. She decided to finish her Sudoku, maybe it would help her fall asleep.

When she was almost done with a square her phone buzzed. She read the notification.

Grace Clinton replied to your comment.

Y/n’s heart dropped. She hesitated before opening the notification.

No one I’d rather get stitches with❤️

Y/n smiled as she read it, feeling like a giggling teenager with a secret crush.

Grace saw her comment and replied to it, and put a heart emoji next to it and it was a red heart emoji. Y/n stared at the comment for a few seconds before deciding she needed big help.

“Hey Less,” Y/n nudged Alessia, who was sleeping, face against the window, wrapped in an Arsenal hoodie. “I need your help.”

“Mm?”

Y/n place the phone on Alessia's barely awake face, she squinted her eyes because of the sudden light and pushed it away slightly, confused.

“What does a heart emoji mean?” Y/n asked,

“Huh?” Alessia said again, still sleepy.“What are you talking about?” She rubbed her eyes.

“A media girl took a picture of me and Grace after we got the stitches and they posted it, see here” Y/n showed Alessia the picture, but the girl still looked barely awake.

“Okay–?”

“So I commented on it, and Gracie replied to my comment!” Y/n did the same thing, showing Alessia the screen, but this time Alessia took the phone to read it herself.

“Oh,”

“Oh? What does "oh" mean?” Y/n said worriedly.

Alessia smiled at Y/n, a little grin on her face, something you didn’t normally see from Alessia. “Oh as in she used a red heart! That's good, oh.”?”

“Yes! That's what I thought, she could choose a blue one, right or even a yellow one?” Y/n said enthusiastically. “But do you feel like she picked it in a friendly way or…”

“What are you guys on about?” Kyra chimed in from the seat behind Y/n, just her face sticking out of the side of Y/n’s seat. “

“Y/n has a crush on Grace,” Alessia said in a low voice.

“I-What?! It’s not a crush, stop it,” Y/n denied, frowning. “It’s–I just think she’s cute, that’s all.”

“Oh wow, a crush, huh?” Kyra said, wiggling her eyebrows. “Are you star-crossed lovers? She bit a part of your lip and now she has a piece of your heart?”

Y/n rolled her eyes and pushed Kyra's face back into her row. “You’re so annoying, go back to your seat.”

“What are you going to do about that comment?” Alessia asked, ignoring the usual bickering between Kyra and Y/n.

“I don’t know. What do you think I should do, Less?” Y/n asked.

Alessia and Kyra were Y/n’s go-to girls for every problem she had, although she always leaned more towards Alessia when her problems involved other people.

“You should reply to it,” Kyra said, sticking her head back to Y/n’s row. “Drop a heart too, I dunno, but you can’t just leave it at that.”

“How do you even know what we are talking about? I haven’t even told you what she commented” Y/n turned to Kyra.

“I was eavesdropping,” Kyra admitted, “You guys were whisper-yelling.”

“No, we were not,” Y/n argued.

“Yes you were, you should be grateful that Kim sleeps with earplugs. Do you remember the last time we woke her up during a trip? She made Less cry.”

“She scares me sometimes,” Alessia said, looking into the void.

“Guys back to the real problem!” Y/n said, pointing at her phone. “Should I just like the comment and say anything? Or maybe I don't like it at all?”

“Can I take a look at it?” Kyra asked a pout on her face. “Please?”

“Yeah, of course, babe,” Y/n said, giving the phone to Kyra.

She was so bad at socialising and interacting with people in general, especially the ones she found attractive, like Grace.

She wasn’t even sure if Grace was into girls. Then again, she was a football player, so there was at least a 75 per cent chance—but still. Y/n bit her lip out of anxiety, but a sharp pain came, she forgot she had just got those damn stitches.

“Oh no,” Kyra whispered.

“What?” Y/n and Alessia turned their heads at the same time, not so much as whisper-yelling anymore.

“I liked one of her pictures,” Kyra admitted, talking fast “I’m so so sorry Y/n, I just disliked it back, but she’ll get the notification anyway.”

Y/n went pale. Fuck no.

“Kyra!” Y/n said, taking the phone out of her hands.

“Was it an old picture?” Alessia asked, biting her nails and looking from Kyra to Y/n. “Y/n don’t freak out, it’s okay.” She put a hand on Y/n's back and patted it.

“I think it was from 3 years ago,” Kyra said. “I just wanted to see her profile! I’m really sorry!”

“I’m gonna eat broken glass,” Y/n said. No expression on her face.

Alessia put her arm around Y/n. “It’s okay, maybe she won’t even notice, she must get a lot of notifications all the time, she probably won’t see yours.”

“Yeah! Especially after a game, people go crazy when we play,” Kyra said guiltily. “I’m really sorry, I didn't mean to.”

“It’s okay, Ky,” Y/n said, leaning into Alessia's shoulder as Kyra’s hand patted her arm.

“I guess I’ll just never play against Man United ever again,” Y/n continued, biting her nails. “It’s not like football is my only talent, I can quiet it. That’s a good option.

“When’s our next game against United anyway?” Alessia asked, ignoring Y/n ramblings.

“In two months,” Kyra replied. “But it’s just a friendly.”

“Just so you know I’ll have a serious case of period cramps by then. Y/n said. “Renée will have to bench me.”

Y/n was in distress. Now Grace was going to think she was some kind of weird stalker going through old pictures of her. She wanted to hide away in her bed and never come out into the world ever again.

Y/n’s phone buzzed again, unexpectedly.

The three girls held their breath.

“I can’t look at it,” Y/n said, giving her phone to Alessia and burying her face in her shirt. “You look at it.”

Alessia took the phone as Kyra moved her head to see the screen.

“Oh she definitely noticed you,” Alessia said teasingly. “She just followed you! Yay! ”

“What!?” Y/n said, taking her face out of her shirt. “She followed me?!”

“And liked your last post about helping stray animals,” Kyra said, holding the phone to her face.

Y/n felt disappointed. “Really?

“No, I'm kidding, she liked a selfie, and an old one too, from 2021,” Kyra smiled as she jabbed from Y/n playful punch. “Congrats, she likes you back,”

“Now Y/n, you have to say ‘Kyra thank you so much, your mistake was a blessing in disguise, I’m so lucky to have you as a frie–”

“Who likes you back?”

The three girls turned their heads.

Leah was staring at them, arms crossed, frown on her face, her pillow tucked under her arm. She looked tired.

“W-what?” the girls said in unison.

“Did we wake you up? Kyra said, trying to give Leah one of her sweet smiles, but the frown on Leah’s face continued.”We’re sorry,”

“Yes you did, you’re out here giggling like schoolgirls,” she muttered. “But it doesn’t matter, at least Kim is still asleep. If she woke up we’d have a problem.”

They all looked to their left where Kim was in a deep sleep.

“Last time she woke up–”

“Yeah, we remember,” The girls answered Leah again in unison.

“But back to the point,” Leah said. “Who likes you back?”

The bus was silent.

“Oh come on, it’s the least you can do after waking me up,” Leah said, crossing her arms. “You know I never pry on your life, just tell me this once.”

Y/n looked at Alessia, then at Kyra, waiting for them to come in and elaborate a straight-up lie so she wouldn’t have to admit to Leah that she had a crush on the girl who sent her to the infirmary just three hours ago.

“I think Grace Clinton is cute.” Y/n quickly and defensively, crossing her arm and imitating Leah.

Leah grinned. “Grace Clinton, huh? Okay, I wasn’t expecting that. Do you have something for a girl who draws you a little blood? “

“Stop it, Leah, don’t say it like that!” Y/n blushed. “I think she’s cute and kind…and I’m not embarrassed about it.”

“I mean… yeah? Why would you be embarrassed about it? ” Leah said with the i-don’t-really-care-that-much usual tone in her voice, " She is a nice girl.”

“Yeah, she is,” Y/n stated, a little defensive.

Ok, maybe she should let her guard down, neither Alessia nor Kyranorr Leah were judging her for her little crush.

“She just helped me calm down with the stitches,” Y/n explained. “And she’s pretty.

“You should just ask her out whenever we have a game around Manchester or London,” Leah said casually. “You could take her out to dinner, or to some coffee shop you like.”

“You say that as if it’s easy to just ask someone on a date,” Y/n said, rolling her eyes.

Leah looked at her confused. “Well, it is easy. You just have to ask them. If they say yes you go on the date and if they say no you just say ok and move on.”

“Things just work that way because you are Leah,” Y/n said, defeated. “I'm not like you, I'm not naturally charismatic or good with other people”

“I think you’re quite charming if that’s any consolation,” Kyra said, winking at her.

“It absolutely does not, Ky, but I appreciate you throwing me a pity bone,” Y/n said desolated.

Leah held out her hand, palm open. “Give me your phone–I’ll fix it in like ten seconds.”

“What, no!” Y/n said, holding her phone close to her chest, and protecting it.

“Why not? If you’re too scared I can ask her for you,” Leah rolled her eyes.

“I think you should do it,” Alessia said. “Or else you’ll regret not doing something about it,”

“Yeah, and you’ll whine about it every girl's night,” Kyra said. “Do it, come on.”

“What if she says no?” Y/n whined.

“Then you’ll get over it,” Leah said bluntly. “Haven’t you ever been rejected before?”

“No!” Y/n said. “I’m never the one who initiates anything.”

“Bloody hell, you’re hopeless.” Leah pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Leah!” Alessia said in a more stern voice. “Don’t say that, you have to encourage her.”

Leah held Y/n’s shoulder and leaned forward so they were the same height.

“You can’t be a coward forever,” Leah said, using her authoritative voice. “You need to woman up, are you a chicken or are you a girl?”

Y/n was silent for a few seconds.

“A girl,” she mumbled.

“Exactly, a girl, so let’s do it!”

Y/n thought about it and hesitantly handed her phone to Leah. “Don’t be too bold or too flirty or too Leah about it,”

Leah rolled her eyes but took the phone.

“Hey, Grace. Coffee next time we’re in Manchester or London?” Leah said aloud as she typed.

“No, that's too direct!” Y/n said

“Oh fine,” Leah huffed. “Hi, let me know if you’re ever around London, we could grab something to eat, xoxo.”

“I don't use xoxo.”

Leah looked at Y/n impatiently and clicked on the screen with more force than necessary, deleting the last part. “ok, no xoxo.” she huffed again.

Leah finished typing but didn’t hit send right away. She picked up the phone, teasing Y/n: “Are you going to do it, or should I?”

Y/n takes a deep breath, grabs the phone, and hits send herself—a small victory for her confidence.

“She’s gonna say yes, I can feel it,” Kyra says dramatically as Alessia hugged Y/n.

Y/n stared at her phone, her heart hammering against her ribs. She couldn’t take it back now. Well, she could, but that would be humiliating. The message was out there, sitting in Grace Clinton’s DMs, waiting to be read.

“See?” Leah smirked. “That wasn’t so hard.”

Y/n groaned and buried her face in her hoodie. “I’m never doing that again.”

“Oh, babe,” Kyra cooed, patting her head. “You’re gonna have to survive until she answers first.”

Y/n peeked at her phone screen one last time before locking it. Maybe getting stitches had been less painful than this.

..

Notes: Please like, share and let me know what you think! Feedback is important and makes me want to write even more. :D

Read more of my work here -> Masterlist

[hhughes]

𐔌 　 ⁺　 𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐀 𝐍𝐔𝐌𝐁𝐄𝐑 𓂃۶ৎ

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 , after some comments were made by quinn's brothers, you get a little insecure in your relationship and he has to reassure you

𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒕. luke!bsf x quinn hughes. 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕. fluff. teasing. flirting. 𝒙𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒊. I love writing quinn so much😭 this is a repost that’s slightly edited if it looks a little familiar to you. one of my favs things ive ever written to this day so thanks again to the anon who requested it! <333

you and quinn had been dating a few months now. sneaking around behind everyone's backs including luke. your best friend and quinn's youngest brother.

the four of you were sitting in the living room at the lake house, watching some movie. jack and luke were chirping quinn about some actress that he used to have a crush on. going on and on about how he had a thing for older women because he was such a mommas boy.

you laughed along at first, always finding it so endearing to watch the brothers bicker back and forth. even though you've been around to witness it for quite a few years now...it never got old. your smile quickly faded when jack started making comments about how all quinn's relationships with younger women has failed, and that he should go for someone older this time, cause it doesn't seem like the younger girls can handle him.

you know you shouldn't let these comments bother you. it wasn't that serious and it wasn't directed towards you, but it was one of your, if not the biggest insecurity you had when it came to your relationship with quinn. being four years younger than him. not being enough to keep him interested. these comments from two people who probably knew him the best, didn't do anything to reassure you.

"I'll be right back," you whisper, avoiding quinn's eyes as you make your way to the bathroom.

a few minutes later there's a soft knock on the door and quinn enters, when you answer, shutting the door behind him and coming over to where you're standing in front of the sink. he wraps his arms around you from behind, pulling you closer and kissing your shoulder softly.

"what's wrong sweetheart?" he asks you softly, brushing the hair out of your face as he holds you tight. the time he’s had to spent close to you but not allowed to touch you, having taken its toll on him.

"nothing," you mumble and he puts his hands on your hips, spinning you around to face him and pushing you against the counter.

"don't lie to me. I know you well enough to know everything's not okay and even if I didnt this pout is enough to tell me there's something wrong." quinn says, rubbing circles on your hip and tracing your lips with the thumb of his other hand.

"do you think I'm too young for you?" the words fly out before you can stop them and quinn sighs, knowing his brother's comments was the cause of this.

"age is just a number baby," quinn says teasingly, kissing your lips softly and you sigh.

"quinn I'm being serious," you retort, grabbing both of his hands and holding them in yours, the way they were caressing you becoming a little too distracting.

"so am I. I don't care if you're four years younger or four years older or if you were born the exact same day I was. It doesn't change the fact that you're perfect for me. you know how jack is, especially if he's been drinking, he can't keep his mouth shut. if there's an opportunity to chirp me about something, he’s gonna take it. if they knew that we were together, he would be more careful about making remarks like that. you know both of them adore you and would never say anything to hurt you on purpose" quinn says and you bite the inside of your cheek, knowing he was right.

“and besides, those relationships didn’t work out because they just weren’t the right girl for me baby. not because they were younger. they just weren’t you” he says softly, pressing yet another kiss to your collarbone.

"i’m not ready to tell luke yet." you say and quinn nods, expecting that response from you.

"the longer we wait, the worse it's gonna be." quinn replies and you look down, not wanting to argue about this. again.

quinn sighs softly before taking his hand out of yours and cupping your face between his palms, planting a soft kiss on your lips.

"god it's torture seeing you all day and not being able to touch you. kiss you." he says wrapping his arms around your waist and just hugging you for a few minutes. you smile a bit, thinking that this is exactly why he was nicknamed "huggy bear". your guy loves hugging.

"I'll sneak into your room tonight. if you think a young girl like me can handle you," you quip and quinn chuckles, knowing you're not gonna let that go for a while.

"I think you can handle me just fine baby" quinn smirks, slapping your ass as you walk past him, and out the door.

𝒙𝒐 𝒄𝒂𝒎𝒊. thank you for reading and feel free to drop by the inbox and share any and all thoughts <333

[theetherealbloom]

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.7

Chapter Seven: What Are You Doing To Me Now?

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Paring: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, 

Word Count: 8.3k

A/N: ISTG last chapter— ya’ll comments had me wheezing and dying of laughter PLEASE— MY BAD, I DIDN’T MEAN TO GIVE PEDRO A HEART ATTACK LMAOOOO. Anyways, enjoy this little filler of a chapter. That’s 8k words long LMAO…

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Song: The blue by Gracie Abrams

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PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

“You still need to change.”

The words tumble out before you can stop them, and you immediately want to crawl into a hole. Out of everything you could have said, that’s what your brain decided on?

Pedro blinks at you.

Then, as if just realizing it himself, he looks down at his suit—a bright, unmistakable blue, the bold insignia stretched across his chest.

Mr. Fantastic.

A literal superhero, walking through the lot, guiding you with steady hands like you were the fragile one. It’s so utterly absurd you almost laugh.

“Huh,” he says, eyebrows raising in mild amusement. “Guess I forgot.”

You shake your head, half-exasperated, half-fond. The adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving a dull ache in its place, and for the first time since the accident, the weight of everything presses in.

The stitches in your arm pull when you move too fast, a sharp reminder that this was real. That you’d actually shoved Pedro out of the way and taken the hit yourself.

He hasn’t let you forget it, either.

Not in the way his fingers still ghost over your wrist, as if testing to make sure you’re solid. Not in the way he keeps looking at you, his expression unreadable, like he’s trying to work through something in his head but hasn’t found the words yet.

And now, on top of it all, you still need to check in with Jess, confirm with Matt that you’re cleared for the day, and figure out if you need to file for medical leave.

So much for an easy afternoon.

You make your way across the lot, Pedro still at your side, his presence warm and steady. When you find Matt and Jess, they’re already deep in conversation with Rob Beggs, the safety manager. The area where the light rig fell is cordoned off now, crew members carefully maneuvering around it as they assess the situation.

The moment Jess spots you, her face crumples into something equal parts relief and guilt.

“Oh my god, are you okay?” she asks, stepping forward like she wants to hug you but stops herself at the last second, eyeing your injured arm. “Shit, I’m so sorry—”

“Jess, no,” you interject quickly, shaking your head. “This wasn’t your fault. Accidents happen.”

“Still, I feel awful,” Matt adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “We should have double-checked the rigging before calling everyone in.”

“And we’re going to,” Rob says, tone firm but even. “I’m running a full investigation on this. We’ll figure out where the breakdown happened and make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

You nod, appreciating the sentiment but also not wanting to linger on it. The last thing you want is for everyone to start treating you like glass.

“I’m okay,” you say, offering them what you hope is a reassuring smile. “Just a few stitches. I’ll live.”

“Damn right you will,” a familiar voice cuts in.

Daisy.

She and Omar appear from the side, both of them looking equally relieved and exasperated.

“You scared the hell out of us,” Omar says, shaking his head. “One second everything was fine, and then—boom. We see you on the ground, bleeding.”

You wince. “Yeah. That part wasn’t fun.”

“No shit,” Daisy mutters. Then her eyes flick to Pedro, who still hasn’t strayed far from your side. Her gaze sharpens just slightly.

“You sticking to her like glue for the rest of the day or what?” she teases, but there’s an underlying note of curiosity there.

Pedro doesn’t even hesitate.

“Yep.”

You glance at him, surprised by how easily the answer leaves him. His expression is relaxed, but there’s something in his eyes, something quietly unwavering, that makes your stomach flip.

Daisy arches a brow, but she doesn’t push.

Instead, she just shakes her head, smirking slightly. “Figures.”

Omar huffs a laugh. “Well, at least she’s in good hands.”

You feel your face heat, and Pedro, the absolute menace, just looks utterly unbothered, like he was always meant to be standing here next to you. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Alright,” Jess sighs, rubbing her temples. “You’re cleared for the day. If you need extra time off, just let me know.”

You nod. “Thanks, Jess.”

“Now,” Matt adds, giving Pedro a once-over, “please tell me you’re not actually taking her back to the hotel like that.”

Pedro glances down at himself again.

Then he shrugs. “I dunno. Kinda think it adds character.”

You groan, covering your face with your good hand.

“Just go change, man,” Omar snorts.

Pedro grins, but then his attention shifts back to you, and the humor fades just slightly, replaced with something softer. Something quieter.

“I’ll be quick,” he says, voice low. “Stay here, okay?”

You nod, and the second he steps away, you exhale, feeling the weight of everything settle just a little heavier on your shoulders.

Daisy nudges you.

“So,” she drawls, a knowing glint in her eye. “Anything you wanna share?”

Your face burns.

“Nope.”

Omar snickers. “Yeah, sure.”

You huff, shaking your head, but you don’t say anything else. Because honestly?

You’re not sure how to explain what just happened.

Or how you’re supposed to go back to normal after it.

You don’t know how Pedro managed to convince Matt and Jess to call it an early day, but somehow, he did. Maybe it was the way he asked, firm yet gentle, leaving no room for argument, or maybe they saw the concern in his eyes—the kind that couldn’t be faked. Either way, production had been shut down for the day.

Besides, Rob had said they needed to check the cameras, review the footage, and determine exactly what went wrong.

Now, you were surrounded by Vanessa, Ebon, and Joseph, their voices overlapping as they checked in on you.

“Oh my god, are you sure you’re okay?” Vanessa asked, wide-eyed, her hand hovering near your arm as if she was scared you’d break.

“Yeah, you took quite the hit,” Ebon added, shaking his head. “Looked bad from where we were standing.”

Joseph crossed his arms, his brow furrowed. “They need to get that sorted out before we continue filming. It could’ve been worse.”

You nodded, offering them a small smile, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline and the way their concern made you feel more fragile than you wanted to admit.

“I’m fine, really,” you reassured them. “Just a couple of stitches. No big deal.”

But your voice wavered slightly, betraying the truth. Your hands were still cold, your heart still hadn’t settled into its usual rhythm. You wanted to be strong—to be the girl who brushed things off with a laugh. You’d always been that girl.

Then Pedro emerged from his trailer.

He’d finally changed out of the Mr. Fantastic suit, trading in the blue spandex for a soft black sweater and dark jeans, but he still had that look—the same one he’d had since the moment the accident happened. Like he hadn’t been able to let out a full breath since.

His eyes found yours instantly.

“Hey.”

You swallowed, your mouth suddenly dry. “Hey.”

Pedro ignored everyone else, his focus entirely on you as he closed the distance between you. The warmth of his presence was immediate and grounding, and when he reached out—his fingers ghosting over the bandage on your forehead—you felt yourself sway slightly.

“You should be resting,” he murmured, his voice lower, softer, meant just for you.

“I’ll rest when I get home.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded, but something in your expression must’ve given you away, because Pedro exhaled through his nose, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face before he could think better of it.

“You scared the shit out of me.”

His thumb brushed over your cheekbone, barely there, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. You were very aware of the way the others had fallen silent, watching the moment unfold. But Pedro didn’t seem to care, and you... you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away.

“I didn’t mean to.” The words came out quieter than you intended.

His brows knit together like he was about to say something else, but then Matt called out from the other side of the lot, breaking the moment.

Pedro sighed, dropping his hand, but not before giving your shoulder a small squeeze. “Let me take you back to the hotel. You shouldn’t be dealing with all of this right now.”

Your instinct was to protest, to insist that you were fine, that you could handle it. But the truth was, the idea of getting away from set, from all the eyes and whispers, sounded... nice.

So you swallowed your pride, glanced up at Pedro, and nodded.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened slightly, like he’d been waiting for you to agree. “Okay.”

And just like that, he was guiding you toward the parking lot, his hand ghosting over your lower back, protective, steady, like he was ready to catch you if you stumbled.

You exhaled, letting yourself lean into the warmth of him, just a little. Just for now.

The black van was already waiting at the curb, engine humming softly as the late afternoon light spilled golden streaks over the lot. Pedro kept a firm but gentle hand on the small of your back as he guided you inside, like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.  

Albert, the driver, glanced back as you climbed in. “Miss,” he greeted with a polite nod, his eyes flickering briefly to Pedro as if silently assessing whether you were okay.  

You gave him a small smile. “Hey, Albert.”  

Once everyone was settled, the doors shut with a soft thud, sealing you into the familiar bubble of the ride back to the hotel.  

“I think after today, we deserve drinks.” Joseph stretched out his legs with a groan, his head thumping lightly against the headrest. “Preferably something strong. Maybe something that could wipe today from my memory entirely.”  

You let out a quiet laugh but shook your head. “Thanks, but no alcohol for me.” You scrunched your nose, pulling a face. “Kind of wanna keep all my blood inside me for now.”  

Pedro made a noise next to you—something between amusement and disapproval—as he shot you a sidelong glance. “Yeah, no tequila shots for you, querida. Not when you just got stitched up.”  

“Ugh, I was gonna say wine, but sure, make me sound like a total mess,” Joseph quipped.  

Vanessa smirked. “You are a mess.”  

Ebon chuckled. “At least you admit it.”  

The conversation carried on, the lighthearted teasing making the tension from earlier slowly fade. You felt yourself relax, your body sinking a little deeper into the seat. But even as the laughter filled the van, you remained acutely aware of the warmth beside you—the way Pedro’s thigh pressed lightly against yours, the way his arm rested along the back of the seat, close but not quite touching you.  

And when you glanced at him, you found his gaze already on you, something unreadable in those deep brown eyes.  

You looked away first.

The drive back to the hotel stretched longer than expected, traffic turning the usual route into a slow crawl. London streets, thick with impatient drivers and red taillights, blurred into a haze outside the window. Rain had started to drizzle, streaking the glass with soft, uneven patterns. The low hum of conversation filled the van, punctuated by the occasional groan from Joseph whenever the vehicle lurched forward, only to stop again moments later.  

You let your head rest against the window, watching the world pass in slow motion. The warmth of the van, the steady rhythm of the rain, and the quiet murmur of voices lulled you into something close to drowsiness. Your body ached—not unbearably, but enough that exhaustion tugged at you with each passing second.  

Pedro shifted beside you, the movement drawing your attention. His arm, which had been loosely draped along the back of the seat, dipped slightly, fingertips ghosting over your shoulder in a touch so light you almost imagined it.  

“You okay?” His voice was low, meant only for you.  

You hummed, turning your head slightly but keeping your gaze on the rain-slicked streets. “Yeah. Just tired.”  

His fingers flexed, the briefest hesitation before he let his hand settle—gentle and warm—on your arm. Not overbearing. Just there. Just enough.  

You should sit up straighter. You should move, make some joke, shake off the way his presence settled around you like something protective, something safe. But you didn’t. Instead, you let yourself relax, the weight of exhaustion pressing heavier against you.  

The next time the van jolted to another stop, your body leaned instinctively toward the nearest solid thing—Pedro.  

You felt it the moment your head made contact with his shoulder. The way he stiffened, just for a beat, before exhaling like he’d been holding his breath. You started to move away, an apology forming on your lips, but before you could, his hand found your knee—just the lightest touch, grounding, reassuring.  

“Stay,” he murmured.  

You weren’t sure if he even realized he’d said it.  

But you did. And you stayed.  

The voices around you blended, fading into the background as your eyelids grew heavier. Pedro’s breathing was steady beneath your cheek, the rise and fall of his chest lulling you into something dangerously close to comfort. His scent—faint traces of cologne and whatever they used to take off the makeup from set—wrapped around you, familiar and warm.  

Outside, the rain kept falling. The city moved in slow motion.  

And in the middle of it all, you slept, tucked safely into the space Pedro had made for you.

Pedro stilled when he felt the full weight of you against him.  

At first, he thought you were just resting your eyes, letting exhaustion settle in after the long, chaotic day. But then your breathing slowed, deepened, the kind of rhythm that only came with sleep.  

Carefully, he glanced down at you. Your face was relaxed now, lips slightly parted, the tension that had clung to you all day finally melting away. A soft, barely-there snore slipped past your lips, and—fuck—his heart clenched.  

Then he felt it.  

A faint warmth against his shoulder.  

He shifted ever so slightly, and sure enough—yep. You were drooling.  

He should probably mind. He should probably shake you awake or shift you off of him. But the thought didn’t even cross his mind.  

Instead, he swallowed past the lump in his throat and stayed perfectly still.  

Because if this was all he got—this fleeting moment of quiet, of you trusting him enough to let your guard down, to lean on him like this—he wasn’t about to ruin it.  

Still, guilt gnawed at him. The scene kept playing in his head. The accident. The way his stomach had dropped when he saw you hit the ground. The way you had looked up at him afterward, trying to play it off like it was nothing, even though he knew better. Even though he knew you.  

He could have lost you today.  

The thought made his grip tighten ever so slightly against his knee, his other hand twitching with the urge to reach for you. To make sure you were really here.  

And then there was that look.  

The one you had given him. The one that sent something sharp and undeniable curling in his chest. The one that told him—without words—that whatever this was between you, it wasn’t just in his head.  

He could have kissed you then.  

He should have.  

But it hadn’t been the right time. Not after what had happened. Not when you were still reeling from it, still patching yourself up.  

But fuck, it’s going to keep him up at night.  

He wants you.  

And he knows—knows—that you want him too.  

The van hit another bump, jostling you slightly, and instinctively, he shifted, tucking you closer so your head wouldn’t slip from his shoulder.  

You murmured something in your sleep, a soft sigh, curling the tiniest bit toward him. And Pedro?  

Pedro let himself enjoy it. Just for now. Just for tonight.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING  

A gentle voice coaxed you from sleep.  

“We’re here.”  

You stirred, warmth pressed against your cheek, the rhythmic hum of the van’s engine fading as the vehicle rolled to a stop. Your mind felt sluggish, still tangled in the remnants of sleep, but then—oh God.  

Your head had been resting on him.  

Panic flickered through you as you jerked upright, realizing with horror that you had not only slept on Pedro’s shoulder but also left a small damp patch on the fabric of his hoodie.  

“Oh my—shit.” You wiped hastily at your mouth, mortified. “I didn’t mean to—Jesus, I drooled all over you. I’m so—”  

Pedro chuckled, low and amused, shaking his head. “It’s fine.” His voice softened. “Just don’t move too much. Remember—your stitches.”  

The reminder stopped you in your tracks. Right. Your stitches. Your ribs ached dully, a reminder of the accident earlier on set. You swallowed, nodding.  

“Right,” you murmured.  

Across from you, Joseph twisted in his seat, smirking slightly. “You good?”  

“Yeah.” Your voice was still rough with sleep. You cleared your throat and tried again. “M’good.”  

Vanessa gave you a sympathetic look, her expression warm. “You should probably head up and rest.”  

You nodded again, still feeling a little disoriented. The van door slid open, letting in the cool London air. One by one, everyone filed out, stretching and murmuring about what to do next. Pedro moved to step out, then hesitated, glancing back at you.  

“You coming?” he asked, voice low, just for you.  

You blinked, forcing yourself to move. Your limbs felt heavy, your body still craving rest. As you started to climb out, your footing wavered slightly—maybe from exhaustion, maybe from the dull ache in your side.  

Pedro was there in an instant.  

His hand hovered near the small of your back, not quite touching, but close enough to steady you. Close enough to say, I’ve got you.  

You inhaled, just for a moment, letting yourself take comfort in his presence. 

The warmth of the hotel lobby wrapped around you as you stepped inside, the soft hum of distant conversation and the faint scent of polished wood and expensive cologne filling the air. Pedro stayed close, his presence a quiet reassurance, his hand hovering near your lower back again, never quite touching, but there.  

You made your way toward the elevators, pressing the call button. When the doors slid open, you stepped inside with a sigh, exhaustion settling deep into your bones. You tapped your keycard, pressing the button for your floor before instinctively pressing Pedro’s as well.  

“Nope,” he said immediately, crossing his arms.  

You turned, blinking up at him. “What?”  

“You’re staying with me tonight.”  

Your lips parted in surprise. “Excuse me?”  

Pedro sighed, like he had already expected you to put up a fight. “Someone needs to look after you.”  

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “Pedro, I’ll be fine. They’re just stitches. I’m just gonna head to bed early—” You punctuated the statement with a yawn, covering your mouth with the back of your hand.  

Pedro gave you that look. That firm, stubborn, no-room-for-argument look, the one you’d seen him use when he was absolutely set on something.  

You narrowed your eyes. “What?”  

“Just stay in the suite,” he said, softer this time. “Please. You can use your old room.”  

Your brows furrowed. “Pedro, my stuff is still in my room.”  

“Then I’ll stay with you.”  

Your breath hitched. “What?”  

Pedro shrugged, like it was the most casual suggestion in the world. “If you won’t stay in my suite, then I’ll stay in yours.”  

You stared at him, your heart thudding a little too loudly in your ears. The idea of sharing a space with Pedro for the night—of waking up knowing he was just a room away, of the quiet intimacy of existing in the same space—made your stomach flip.  

“You don’t have to do that,” you said, voice quieter now.  

He tilted his head, studying you. “I want to.”  

The elevator dinged, signaling your floor. The doors slid open, but neither of you moved. The air between you was charged, thick with something unspoken, something there.  

You hesitated. He was giving you a choice.  

You exhaled, already knowing you were going to give in before the words even left your mouth.  

“Fine…” you muttered, crossing your arms. “If it makes you feel better.” You glanced up at him and sighed. “Now put away your puppy eyes.”  

Pedro grinned, all smug warmth and victory, but there was something softer in his eyes—relief, maybe. Like he was glad you weren’t pushing him away.  

“I’ll just grab some of my stuff. I’ll be right back,” he said, already stepping back toward the elevator panel to press his floor again.  

You shot him a teasing look. “Better hurry, or I might just pass out before you get there.”  

Pedro narrowed his eyes playfully. “Seven minutes,” he said, like it was a challenge.  

You smirked as the doors slid shut, leaving you alone with the quiet hum of the hallway.  

By the time you got to your room, exhaustion was already creeping in. You barely had the energy to kick off your shoes before flopping onto the bed, sighing into the plush comforter. You told yourself you’d just close your eyes for a moment—just a second.  

Then, exactly seven minutes later, the sound of your doorbell rang through the room.

You rolled off the bed with a groggy sigh, rubbing your eyes as you shuffled toward the door. When you pulled it open, Pedro was standing there, looking so effortlessly comfortable it made your stomach flip.  

A plain black tee stretched across his broad chest, the soft fabric hanging loosely over the curve of his arms. Grey sweatpants sat low on his hips, the kind that made your brain short-circuit for a second longer than you wanted to admit. He’d traded his usual contacts for his square-framed glasses, the ones that made him look just a little too good, like a university professor who knew exactly how to ruin you with a well-placed argument.  

In one hand, he held a small duffle bag, the strap slung over his shoulder like he belonged here, like this was routine. Like you’d done this before.  

Pedro’s gaze flicked over you, taking in your half-lidded eyes and the way you leaned against the doorframe, still fighting off the edges of sleep.  

“You didn’t pass out,” he noted, amused.  

“Almost did,” you mumbled, stepping back to let him in.  

Pedro walked past you, his familiar scent trailing after him—clean, warm, a mix of something woody and subtle, like cedar and spice. He moved easily around the space, setting his bag down by the chair, toeing off his sneakers before glancing back at you.  

“You should get some rest,” he said, softer now.  

You folded your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that you were still in the clothes you wore earlier, your sweater slightly rumpled from your half-nap. “I was resting until someone rang my doorbell exactly seven minutes after leaving.”  

Pedro just smiled, unapologetic. “I said I’d be quick.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the small grin tugging at your lips.  

Then, as if the weight of the day finally caught up to him, Pedro let out a long breath, rubbing a hand over his jaw before tilting his head at you. His gaze softened, the humor fading just a little.  

“How’s your side?”  

You hesitated, glancing down like you could see the stitches through your clothes. “Fine,” you said, but it wasn’t very convincing.  

Pedro’s brows pulled together. “Let me see.”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“Just—let me check, make sure it’s not bleeding or anything.”  

You frowned, the shyness creeping back in. “Pedro, I can—”  

“You could,” he interrupted gently, stepping closer, “but you won’t.” His voice dipped into something quieter, something coaxing. “Just let me take care of you, okay?”  

Your breath hitched.  

You should’ve argued, should’ve batted away his concern with another stubborn insistence that you were fine. But he was looking at you like that—like you were something fragile and precious, something worth worrying over.  

And maybe a part of you wanted to be taken care of.  

You swallowed, nodding once.  

Pedro exhaled, something unspoken passing between you, before he gestured toward the bed. “Sit.”  

You did.  

He knelt in front of you, hands careful as he helped you lift the hem of your sweater, just enough to check the bandages covering your side. His fingers barely grazed your skin, but it was enough to send a shiver up your spine.  

Pedro stilled.  

His gaze flicked up to yours, like he’d felt it too.  

For a moment, neither of you moved. The room felt smaller, the air thicker.  

Then, finally, he spoke—voice rough, quiet.  

“You scared the shit out of me today.”

“So you’ve said…” You mumbled.

Pedro huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he carefully smoothed the fabric of your sweater back down. His hands lingered for half a second too long, fingertips brushing against your waist before he pulled away.  

“You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was no real bite to it—just exhaustion, something fond underneath.  

You swallowed past the warmth creeping up your neck and cleared your throat. “I, uh—I need to shower.”  

Pedro’s expression shifted instantly, concern knitting his brows together. “Careful with your stitches.”  

“I know,” you sighed, already pushing yourself up from the bed. “I just—” You hesitated, suddenly aware of how gross you felt. Your sweater was stiff in places, dried with sweat and blood, and your skin itched from the grime of the day. “I just need to wash this all off.”  

Pedro’s gaze softened, but his jaw ticked, like he was biting back a hundred different things he wanted to say.  

Instead, he nodded. “Okay.”  

You quickly gathered your pajamas and underwear, started toward the bathroom, then paused at the door, glancing over your shoulder. “Don’t—” You hesitated, shifting awkwardly. “Don’t leave, okay?”  

Pedro blinked, something flickering behind his eyes before he nodded again. “I won’t.”  

That was all you needed.  

You closed the bathroom door behind you and exhaled, pressing your forehead against the cool wood for a second longer than necessary. Your heart was beating too fast.  

You shook it off, moving to turn on the water, making sure it wasn’t too hot—you didn’t want to irritate the stitches. The mirror caught your reflection, and you winced. You looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes, dried blood streaked near your collar. No wonder Pedro had been hovering.  

Carefully, you peeled off your clothes, mindful of your injury as you stepped under the spray. Warm water cascaded over you, washing away the dirt and the tension, and you sighed in relief.  

The moment you stepped out of the bathroom, warmth wrapped around you—not just from the plush hotel robe you’d thrown on, but from the scent of food lingering in the air. Something rich, comforting.  

Pedro sat on the edge of the couch, scrolling through his phone, but his head snapped up the second he heard you. His eyes flickered over you, scanning for any signs of discomfort, lingering too long on the bandages at your side before he forced himself to meet your gaze.  

He offered you a small smile. “I ordered room service for dinner. Figured you needed something to eat before your next set of meds.”  

Your stomach answered before you could, a low grumble betraying just how little you’d eaten today.  

Pedro smirked. “Guess I made the right call.”  

You rolled your eyes, but the truth was, you were grateful. The thoughtfulness of it made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with your stitches.  

“What’d you get?” You padded over, tucking damp hair behind your ear as you settled onto the small couch beside him.  

“Chicken soup, because, you know—doctor’s orders.” He lifted the lid with a flourish, steam curling into the air. “And some pasta, just in case you wanted something more solid.”  

Your lips twitched. “You really thought this through, huh?”  

Pedro shrugged, too casual. “You’re my responsibility tonight.”  

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch. He didn’t say it like it was an obligation. He said it like it was a fact. Like he wanted it to be.  

You looked away, focusing on the soup as you picked up a spoon. “Thanks,” you murmured.  

Pedro watched you for a beat before nodding. “Anytime.”

The silence between you was warm, familiar. The kind that didn’t need to be filled.  

You focused on your food, spooning up the broth, letting the heat soothe you from the inside out. The warmth of it settled deep in your chest, easing away the tightness that had been there since the accident. Pedro had been right—this was exactly what you needed.  

Across from you, Pedro twirled his fork through his pasta absentmindedly, but he wasn’t eating much. His eyes kept flicking toward you, like he was checking, making sure you were still here, still breathing.  

“You should eat,” you murmured, not looking up from your bowl.  

Pedro let out a small breath of amusement. “You sound like me.”  

You lifted a brow. “Guess it’s contagious.”  

He smirked but didn’t argue, finally taking a bite of his food. You kept eating, but the weight of his gaze never fully left you. It sat there, unspoken, lingering between the spaces of your breath and the scrape of silverware against ceramic.  

After a while, you set your spoon down and leaned back against the couch, stretching your legs out. Pedro’s eyes flickered to your bandages again, his jaw tightening slightly.  

Pedro’s gaze flickered down to your bandages again, his jaw tightening slightly.  

“You have no idea how much you worried me today,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges.  

You exhaled slowly. “I know.”  

“I mean it,” he said, setting his plate aside. He shifted closer, his knee brushing against yours, grounding himself in the warmth of you. “One second, you were fine, and the next…” He shook his head, running a hand through his curls. “I keep thinking—if things had gone differently…”  

“Hey.” Your voice was soft but firm. You reached out without thinking, resting a hand over his. His fingers twitched under yours, like he was resisting the urge to hold on.  

“I’m okay,” you reassured him. “It was just an accident.”  

Pedro let out a humorless huff. “That doesn’t make it any less terrifying.”  

You swallowed, your fingers curling slightly over his. “I know.”  

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The distant sounds of the city hummed beyond the hotel window, the murmur of footsteps passing by in the hallway. But here, in this quiet little bubble, it was just the two of you.  

Pedro’s fingers twitched again, then slowly, finally, curled around yours. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t hold too tightly. Just enough to tell you he was still here. That he wasn’t letting go.  

Your throat felt tight, emotions tangling up somewhere in your chest.  

“Pedro,” you started, but you didn’t know what to say.  

He looked at you then, really looked at you. And for the first time all night, you didn’t look away.  

There was something in his eyes—something raw, something real. It made your heart stumble in your chest.  

He swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “You need to drink your meds.”

“Right.” You nodded and reached for the bottle of water on the nightstand and twisted the cap off with a sigh. Pedro, ever watchful, pushed the packet of pills closer to you with two fingers.  

“Go on,” he urged, tilting his head.  

You huffed but took the meds anyway, popping them into your mouth and swallowing them down with a gulp of water. The whole time, Pedro watched you like a hawk, arms crossed over his chest, his face full of barely restrained concern.  

“There. Happy?” you mumbled, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.  

Pedro narrowed his eyes slightly, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “Very.”  

“You’re being a little much,” you teased, setting the bottle down.  

He arched a brow. “A little much?”  

“You’re hovering. You’re being—” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like a mother hen.”  

Pedro let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Damn right I am. Someone’s gotta make sure you’re not out here trying to tough it out on your own.”  

You looked away, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. He wasn’t wrong. You’d spent so much of your life trying to prove that you didn’t need anyone, that you could handle things on your own. But having him here, fussing over you, making sure you took your meds, ordering you food—it was… nice.  

Really nice.  

You cleared your throat, suddenly feeling warm all over. “Well, thanks,” you muttered, voice softer this time.  

Pedro studied you for a beat, then gave a small nod, like he understood. Like he saw right through you.  

You busied yourself adjusting the pillows, trying to ignore how much your heart was racing. But then you froze.  

There was only one bed.  

Your eyes darted to Pedro’s, and you saw the exact moment he noticed, too. His lips parted slightly, gaze flicking from you to the bed and back again.  

“Oh,” you said.  

Pedro exhaled sharply, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can take the floor.”  

You blinked. “What?”  

“The floor,” he repeated. “I’ll sleep there.”  

You frowned, looking between him and the thick, undoubtedly uncomfortable carpet. “Absolutely the fuck not.”  

Pedro smirked, clearly amused by your sudden shift in tone. “Wow. Strong words.”  

“I’m serious, Pedro.” You crossed your arms. “Your back will hate you forever.”  

His smirk widened into a grin. “Are you calling me old?”  

Your mouth opened, then closed. “No! I—I’m just saying, you’ll wake up sore as hell and—ugh.” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples.  

Pedro chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax, I’m just messing with you.”  

You glared at him, flustered beyond belief. “Not funny.”  

“Very funny.”  

You threw a pillow at him. He caught it effortlessly, still grinning like a damn idiot.  

“You’re sleeping in the bed,” you grumbled, trying to regain some of your dignity.  

Pedro held up his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. But if I wake up with an elbow to the ribs, I’m filing a complaint.”  

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at your lips.  

One bed. Pedro Pascal. You.  

You were doomed.

You climb into bed first, carefully maneuvering around your injury as you settle against the pillows. Pedro follows soon after, turning off the last of the lights, leaving only the bedside lamp casting a soft, golden glow over the room. The space between you is small—closer than what two people who are just friends probably should be—but neither of you move to fix it.  

For a moment, the only sounds in the room are the quiet hum of the heater and the occasional creak of the hotel settling. Then, Pedro shifts slightly, resting his head on his hand as he looks at you.  

“Isn’t it weird?” he murmurs.  

You blink sleepily. “What?”  

“You changed rooms… and now we’re in the same bed.” His voice is thoughtful, like he’s only just realizing the weight of the situation.  

You snort. “Maybe I’m cursed.”  

Pedro chuckles, low and warm. “Nah, can’t be cursed if you end up spending more time with me.” His grin is downright smug.  

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “Okay, superstar, calm down.”  

Pedro huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m just saying. If this is a curse, it’s not a bad one.”  

You open your mouth to argue—because really, who just casually says things like that?—but the words catch in your throat when you realize how close he really is. His face is relaxed in the dim light, his eyes dark and unreadable, his curls a little mussed from the day.  

Your heart stumbles.  

It should be weird, lying here with him like this, but somehow… it isn’t.  

Somehow, it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

The quiet hum of the night settles around you, the warmth of the sheets and the steady presence of Pedro beside you making it all too easy to forget the chaos of the day.  

You should be sleeping, but instead, you’re scrolling on your phone, the dim glow illuminating your face as you read. The soft, rhythmic sound of Pedro’s breathing makes you think he’s fallen asleep—until his voice rumbles low in the quiet.  

“You always do that before bed?”  

You nearly jump, clutching your phone against your chest. “Do what?”  

Pedro’s lips twitch in amusement. “Read.”  

You swallow. Shit.  

“Yeah?” you say, trying to sound nonchalant.  

Pedro props himself up on one elbow, peering at your phone. “What are you reading?”  

Your body goes rigid. Oh god.  

You’re reading fanfiction. Specifically, his character’s fanfiction.  

Absolutely not. You cannot let this man know.  

“Nothing,” you say too quickly, locking your phone and placing it screen-down on the nightstand.  

Pedro raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”  

You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and you turn away, mumbling, “It’s nothing important.”  

Pedro hums, amused, but thankfully doesn’t push further. Instead, he settles back down, stretching one arm under the pillow.  

“Alright, secrets,” he teases, voice laced with sleep. “Guess I’ll just have to wonder.”  

You groan. “Go to sleep, Pedro.”  

He chuckles, the sound warm and deep. “Fine, fine.”  

A comfortable silence blankets the room, the kind that makes your eyelids grow heavier. The warmth of Pedro beside you—solid, steady, real—only adds to it, pulling you deeper into rest.  

And before you know it, you’re asleep.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EARLY MORNING

The muffled chime of your alarm cuts through the quiet, dragging you from the depths of sleep. You groan, blindly reaching for your phone on the nightstand, smacking at the screen until the sound dies out.

As you settle back into the pillows, intending to steal a few more minutes of sleep, that's when you feel it.

Warmth. Solid and everywhere.

Your drowsy brain takes a second to catch up, to process the strong arm slung over your waist, the steady rise and fall of a broad chest against your back, the way his legs are tangled with yours, locking you in place.

And then—oh.

Something hard presses against the curve of your ass.

Your breath catches.

Oh.

Heat floods your face instantly. The realization slams into you with the force of a freight train. Pedro is wrapped around you, his body flush against yours, and—yep, there’s no mistaking that.

You go completely still, hoping—praying—that maybe, maybe he’s still asleep, that he’s not aware of how intimately you’re pressed together.

A slow, deep inhale against your shoulder tells you otherwise.

Shit.

You can feel the moment he wakes up, the way his breathing shifts, the faintest tensing of his muscles. And then—

A sleepy, raspy groan vibrates against your skin.

Pedro shifts slightly behind you, his grip on your waist tightening for the briefest moment before his entire body goes rigid.

Silence.

You can practically hear the gears turning in his still half-asleep brain.

“…Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.

Your entire body feels like it’s on fire.

His hand flexes against your stomach before he very, very slowly starts to pull away, but in doing so, he shifts again—and you feel everything for a split second longer than you should.

A tiny, humiliating sound escapes the back of your throat.

Pedro freezes.

Oh, god. Kill me now.

“…Did you just whimper?” His voice is still thick with sleep, rough and laced with amusement.

“No…” you mumble, barely above a whisper.

He shifts slightly, just enough for you to feel him again, solid and unmistakable.

Your breath stutters.

Pedro lets out a low, knowing chuckle, his lips brushing against your shoulder as he murmurs, “Mmm. I think you did.”

You want to die.

Or maybe kill him. Either option seems preferable to this moment.

“You’re imagining things,” you mutter, voice strained as you try to ignore the way heat licks up your spine.

“Am I?” His arm tightens slightly around your waist, his fingers splaying against your stomach in a way that makes your breath catch.

God, he’s so warm.

You swallow, heart hammering against your ribs. “Pedro.”

Pedro hums in response, low and teasing, the sound vibrating against your skin.  

You shiver, heat pooling deep in your stomach. He’s still so close—his breath warm against your jaw, his fingers resting against your waist, firm and grounding.  

You don’t know who moves first.  

Maybe it’s you, tilting your head just slightly, your lips parting in anticipation. Or maybe it’s him, the way his nose grazes your cheek, the way he exhales shakily, like he’s been fighting this just as much as you have.  

And then his lips are on yours.  

Soft at first, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away, to stop this before it can spiral into something neither of you can take back.  

But you don’t pull away.  

Instead, you press into him, fingers gripping onto the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.  

Pedro groans low in his throat, something almost desperate unraveling between you. His hand slips under your shirt, fingers splaying against the bare skin of your waist, not pushing—just holding. His lips part against yours, deepening the kiss, tongue sweeping against yours in a slow, intoxicating glide.  

You sigh into him, utterly lost in the way he tastes, the way he feels.  

Then he shifts, leaning more of his weight onto you, and a sharp twinge shoots through your side. You inhale sharply, wincing.  

Pedro immediately freezes.  

His lips break from yours, breath warm and uneven against your jaw. “Shit.” He pulls back, eyes scanning your face, concern flickering in the deep brown of his gaze. “Did I—did I hurt you?”  

You shake your head, blinking away the haze of want clouding your thoughts. “No, I’m okay. Just… a little sore.”  

His lips press into a thin line, and then he’s pulling away completely, his hands gentle as he brushes a thumb over your hip. “I shouldn’t have—”  

You cut him off with a soft laugh. “Pedro, you didn’t break me.”  

His brows pinch together, still looking unsure. But then his gaze flickers to the clock on the nightstand, and he mutters a quiet fuck.  

You glance at the time. “What?”  

“I have to be on set in thirty minutes.” He groans, rubbing a hand down his face. “I gotta get dressed.”  

Your heart sinks.  

You don’t even try to hide it, the disappointment settling deep in your bones. But it’s not just that he has to leave—it’s the way he pulls away so fast, the way his hands are gone from your skin, the way reality rushes back in like a cold slap to the face.  

What if that kiss was a mistake? 

What if he didn’t mean it, not really? What if it was just the heat of the moment, an impulse he already regrets?  

You swallow hard, trying to school your expression, trying not to let the spiral show on your face.  

But Pedro catches it anyway.  

He stops halfway through buttoning his shirt, his gaze snapping to yours. His brows furrow, that warm, knowing look settling into his features. “No.”  

You blink. “What?”  

He shakes his head, stepping closer, voice firm. “No. I know that face.”  

You press your lips together, looking away, but Pedro doesn’t let you retreat.  

His fingers find your chin, tilting your face back toward him. His eyes are soft, earnest, searching yours. “That kiss wasn’t a mistake.”  

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.  

Pedro exhales, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I like you.” His voice is rough, almost exasperated, like he can’t believe he even has to say it out loud. “Fuck, I like you.”  

Your stomach flips. “You do?”  

His lips twitch into a small, crooked smile. “Yeah. I do.” He presses his forehead against yours, letting out a breathy chuckle. “And I really wish I didn’t have to leave right now.”  

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your chest easing just a little. “Me too.”  

Pedro lingers a second longer before groaning, pulling away. “Okay. I really do have to go.” He finishes buttoning his shirt in record time, shoving on his jacket, running a hand through his messy hair.  

And yet—before he reaches the door, he turns back, pointing at you. “Take your meds. We’ll talk more later when I get back.”  

You roll your eyes. “Yes, dad.”  

“I’m serious,” he says, giving you a pointed look. “Rest, take your meds, don’t do anything stupid.”  

You huff, crossing your arms. “You’re really bossy, you know that?”  

Pedro smirks, walking backward toward the door. “Yeah? And you really like it.”  

You grab a pillow and launch it at him.  

He laughs, catching it before it can hit the floor, and then he’s gone—leaving behind the ghost of his touch, the lingering taste of his lips, and the undeniable truth that you are absolutely, utterly screwed.

The moment the door clicks shut, you stare at it for a solid five seconds.  

Then—  

You let out a muffled squeal, practically throwing yourself onto the bed, hugging your pillow close to your chest as you kick your feet.  

Oh my god.  

Oh. My. God.  

Did that really just happen? Did Pedro fucking Pascal just kiss you? Did he say—no, did he actually say he likes you? Out loud? Like, in real life?  

You bury your face into the pillow, squeezing your eyes shut. This has to be a dream. Some fever-induced hallucination from the painkillers, because there is no way this is actually happening to you.  

Your stomach flips as you replay every second of it—the warmth of his hands on your skin, the way his lips moved against yours, the way he groaned into your mouth. Jesus. Your body feels like it’s buzzing, and you don’t know if you’ll ever recover from this.  

Then, like a bucket of cold water, a terrifying realization crashes over you.  

He doesn’t know. 

You push yourself up, staring blankly at the wall as the horror sinks in.  

He doesn’t know you’ve been reading fanfiction about him. About his characters. About him doing things that— 

You slap a hand over your mouth.  

Oh God.  

This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you.  

What if he ever finds out? What if he ever catches you again, peeking at your phone, and this time you don’t have the composure to hide it? What if he sees the ungodly amount of saved bookmarks you have?  

You flop back onto the bed, groaning into your pillow.  

Oh. Oh no.  

The fanfiction was bad enough. But then—  

Your stomach drops.  

The TikTok edits.  

The candid photos.  

The folder.  

You physically sit up in bed, gripping the pillow like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The folder on your phone—hidden in the depths of your camera roll, labeled something totally inconspicuous like Receipts or Taxes—is filled with candid pictures, behind-the-scenes clips, and so many thirst edits of Pedro Pascal set to unholy audio.  

You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing so hard your whole body tenses.  

You can never let him near your phone.  

Ever.  

What if he finds the one edit with him as Jack Daniels? The one that made you short-circuit the first time you saw it? Or the compilation of him laughing, looking stupidly charming, set to some overly romantic Taylor Swift song?  

Jesus Christ.  

You groan, flopping back against the pillows, dragging your hands down your face.  

This is bad.  

Like, really bad.  

Because not only have you been a lowkey (very highkey) fangirl for years, but now you’ve kissed him. Now he likes you. Now there’s a very real possibility that this could actually go somewhere.  

And if he ever finds out just how deep your obsession goes?  

You’re changing your name and moving to a remote island.

End Notes:

Well… IT HAS BEEN HINTED AT. TIME AND TIME AGAIN. That you are a fan girl so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Oh God, what if he finds out 😃

Ya’ll they kissed! YAYYY!!

Awww you have a week off to rest and heal up girlieeee heuheuh

Look at Pedro being a mind reader. Love that for you!

We love a reassuring king. Gimme that shit. 

Yes, this is a little filler chapter before absolute chaos… oh hrm I meant… nothing what?

TAGLIST: @comfortzonequeen @christinamadsen @liciafonseca @greenwitchfromthewoods @iqr-x @southernbe @maryfanson @brittmb115 @taytay0403 @whimsiwitchy @zymiii @sarahhxx03 @leilanixx @lilasskicker-23 @https-murdock @barnescamboy @widowsvail @senhoritamayblog @morganlolitta @suzysface @reidsworld @xmaykeca @dontlookatme121 @mandaloriankait @picketniffler @pedrofan @mystickittytaco @enchantingchildkitten @seven-seas-of-fuck-you @ro-nahime-things @senhoritamayblog @hermionelove @ashhlsstuff @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @youusunshineyoutemptress @klajmekkk @aomi-nabi

[anuses]

i held my friend's hand as they got their nose pierced because needles scare the absolute piss out of them and they crushed the hell out of my hand, but their piercing looks awesome and i think of that moment we shared as friends every time i look at it 🩷🩷🩷 i need my friends to ask me to do stuff with them, because it means i get to do stuff with them

[andhumanslovedstories]

Do you know the Langston Hughes poem "Let America Be America Again"? I think you would enjoy reading it.

I know it's cool among leftists to hate America and wish it harm, and yes it's built on a LOT of harms, but your post resonated with me. It's the country we have, and it IS our duty to keep the freedoms we have and extend them to everyone.

god Langston Hughes is always hitting

Let America Be America Again

Let America be America again. Let it be the dream it used to be. Let it be the pioneer on the plain Seeking a home where he himself is free.

(America never was America to me.)

Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed— Let it be that great strong land of love Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme That any man be crushed by one above.

(It never was America to me.)

O, let my land be a land where Liberty Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath, But opportunity is real, and life is free, Equality is in the air we breathe.

(There's never been equality for me, Nor freedom in this "homeland of the free.")

Say, who are you that mumbles in the dark? And who are you that draws your veil across the stars?

I am the poor white, fooled and pushed apart, I am the Negro bearing slavery's scars. I am the red man driven from the land, I am the immigrant clutching the hope I seek— And finding only the same old stupid plan Of dog eat dog, of mighty crush the weak.

I am the young man, full of strength and hope, Tangled in that ancient endless chain Of profit, power, gain, of grab the land! Of grab the gold! Of grab the ways of satisfying need! Of work the men! Of take the pay! Of owning everything for one's own greed!

I am the farmer, bondsman to the soil. I am the worker sold to the machine. I am the Negro, servant to you all. I am the people, humble, hungry, mean— Hungry yet today despite the dream. Beaten yet today—O, Pioneers! I am the man who never got ahead, The poorest worker bartered through the years.

Yet I'm the one who dreamt our basic dream In the Old World while still a serf of kings, Who dreamt a dream so strong, so brave, so true, That even yet its mighty daring sings In every brick and stone, in every furrow turned That's made America the land it has become. O, I'm the man who sailed those early seas In search of what I meant to be my home— For I'm the one who left dark Ireland's shore, And Poland's plain, and England's grassy lea, And torn from Black Africa's strand I came To build a "homeland of the free."

The free?

Who said the free? Not me? Surely not me? The millions on relief today? The millions shot down when we strike? The millions who have nothing for our pay? For all the dreams we've dreamed And all the songs we've sung And all the hopes we've held And all the flags we've hung, The millions who have nothing for our pay— Except the dream that's almost dead today.

O, let America be America again— The land that never has been yet— And yet must be—the land where every man is free. The land that's mine—the poor man's, Indian's, Negro's, ME— Who made America, Whose sweat and blood, whose faith and pain, Whose hand at the foundry, whose plow in the rain, Must bring back our mighty dream again.

Sure, call me any ugly name you choose— The steel of freedom does not stain. From those who live like leeches on the people's lives, We must take back our land again, America!

O, yes, I say it plain, America never was America to me, And yet I swear this oath— America will be!

Out of the rack and ruin of our gangster death, The rape and rot of graft, and stealth, and lies, We, the people, must redeem The land, the mines, the plants, the rivers. The mountains and the endless plain— All, all the stretch of these great green states— And make America again!

[keferon]

Writing this before I go to bed lolll anyways ~~

The ocean was much darker, much colder than Jazz had remembered. It spread out in all directions, no concrete walls to keep him trapped, no ceiling above but blue-black sky. Stars glittered, the moon’s light rippling across the surface of the water. He was free.

A few meters away, Prowl floated, gazing at the mer who’d been deprived of the sea for years. He hurt for Jazz in a way he couldn’t describe. The weight of it crushed him, knowing the mer had been kept in captivity since he was a calf and remembered next to nothing of his life before. Staring at Jazz now, Prowl could see wonder in his expression. Could see the realization dawning on Jazz that he was out, he wasn’t in captivity anymore. How could anyone do this to someone? Hold them hostage for years for entertainment? His blood boiled thinking about Jazz floating at the surface of his – their – enclosure, eyes empty and staring at nothing, bored out of his mind. He swam to Jazz’s side, concern apparent on his face.

“Are you okay?” Not the best question perhaps, but Prowl had to know what Jazz was thinking.

“I missed the stars,” the mer responded, blue eyes still fixated on the sky. “There are so many out here, I’d forgotten…” Jazz stopped then, lowering his gaze to level with Prowl’s. “I’ve forgotten everything.”

Prowl lurched at that, unsure at first how to respond. “You haven’t forgotten everything,” he told Jazz, “You have been trapped in a concrete box for years. That alone has done so much damage to your psyche.”

Jazz’s eyes lowered to the waves before he muttered, “Yeah, I’m damaged alright. Flopped fins and unable to remember my own mother.” With that, he dove beneath the waves, leaving Prowl concerned he’d scared his friend away. He dove down after Jazz.

“I am sorry, Jazz, I shouldn’t have phrased it that way,” Prowl whirled to face Jazz head-on. “You are not damaged. The way you’ve been treated is horrible, but you are not the problem.”

Jazz huffed and crossed his arms, looking away from Prowl’s unflinching gaze. “I can’t even remember their songs,” he whispered into the dark. “I can’t remember. I know my pod sang, I know my mother sang, but for the life of me I can’t remember them.”

He shut his eyes, biting back tears. He then felt a gentle pull on his wrists. Prowl pulled his arms away from his chest, taking Jazz’s hands in his. A high-pitched, warbling melody emerged between them. Prowl’s voice dipped lower, holding longer notes. He clicked occasionally, seeing through to what felt like Jazz’s very soul. The melody reawakened the memories buried deep in Jazz’s mind. He pulled at the strings, beckoning them to return to him, to remind him what the song meant. Note after note Prowl sang, and the two mers drifted together, resting their foreheads against one another. The meaning slowly came back to Jazz.

I’m here.

I will not leave you behind.

I love you.

Prowl’s voice echoed in the water around them, the melody burrowing into Jazz’s being, down to his very marrow. He felt as though his soul was being cleaned of all the dust that had gathered in the corners through years of neglect. The meaning was so clear then, Jazz buried his head into Prowl’s shoulder. The memories, his memories, of his pod and his mother and the love she had for him returned, and he ached. The need to sing erupted within him.

With a trembling heart, Jazz offered his own voice. His song was different, reminiscent of the supposed ‘calming melodies’ the aquarium played while humans were visiting. His clicks were lower in frequency and uneven in rhythm, but they fit in with Prowl’s long, higher notes. Their combined voices created a melody all their own, one that could grow and change as they did.

Prowl and Jazz held each other that way for a long time, singing softly to themselves in the dark. The ocean stopped to listen, to warm the water around the mers and keep them safe. These two, at least, had made it.

Hoping this wasn’t too inaccurate lore-wise, I haven't been able to read everything about this au, all I know is I LOVE IT. This is,,,my first time submitting a fic to someone, so I hope it isn’t terrible ^t^ thank you for reading!!! Love what you do, Keferon!!!

Oh man oh man OH MAN THIS IS SO BEAUTIFUL HFCBHDBJUFD PLEASE I WANNA INJECT YOUR WRITING STRAIGHT INTO MY VEINS

[hiimneptune]

Last year I made a friend who enjoyed cuddeling and I imediately got a crush on them, but it wasnt reciprocate. Big sad at first but after a bit of time I realized the platonic cuddeling is in some ways so much more cozy, plus part of why I had a crush was that I was severely touch starved and they were the first person in years to even just give me long hugs. Humans weren't meant to only cuddle with partners, we're social animals and touch is part of that. So please, spoon your friends platonically, its amazing.

the way ppl have designated cuddling as a purely romantic thing and is weird outside of that context has done widespread damage to our pack animal nature

[robyn-i-guess]

liking someone platonically is so embarrassing like. yeah i admire you. yeah i think about you all the time. yeah i look forward to every time i see you even if it's only for a minute. yeah it's all platonic and yeah i couldn't explain this because it'd sound romantic. fucking hell

[beepboopappreciation]

Is this anything