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pedge-stuff · 1 year

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trailer reunion (pedro pascal x gn/m!reader)

a/n: same vague universe as “marked," as always. this one skews a little more m! and a little less gn!, apologies if that puts anyone off.

thanks, as always, for everything.

summary: 5 weeks is a long, long time.

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Your leg won’t stop bouncing. It’s not your fault, really— it’s the Edmonton Airport’s, for having such a conveniently located Tim Hortons, right outside the baggage claim. After the 7-hour red eye from JFK, with the connection through Toronto, the coffee was necessary.

The caffeine isn’t entirely to blame, though. If the taxi wouldn’t stop going so fucking slow, maybe you’d settle down. But the traffic is unyielding, so the 20 minute drive to your heartfelt reunion is looking more like 45. Apparently, shutting part of the city down to film a TV show really screws up peoples’ commutes. You’d waited long enough (a month and six days, but who’s counting?), surely an extra half-hour won’t kill you. But in the taxi, the minutes seem to stretch into years.

The filming schedule for The Last of Us has been brutal. From what Pedro has told you, there was apparently a strain to film both the first and second episode back-to-back; something about using the same locations and exterior shots. For him, it has meant a marathon of shooting… the only downside to being the star of the show.

SNL’s new season was in full swing anyways, so you’d had plenty to keep you busy. Spent enough late nights at 30 Rock, after many a panicked call to the dog walker, that you barely had to inhabit his otherwise vacant condo. You talked every night, usually Facetiming before bed, but the distance was wearing on you both.

Now, the only thing in between you and your man is this fucking traffic jam.

Though this wasn’t a surprise visit— you’d booked the flight as soon as you’d realized the SNL hiatus week lined up with The Last of Us breaking to change locations for the next episode— you did have one trick up your sleeve. Or, more accurately, under your mask.

You’d been attempting to grow facial hair well before meeting Pedro, but it had been a sparse and largely unsuccessful endeavor until very recently. Your jawline had filled in between your sideburn and chin, albeit slightly patchy. You’d been hiding it over Facetime, opting for regular calls a bit more and hoping he wouldn’t notice. Not the craziest surprise, but still, your heart thrums at the prospect of finally sharing it with him.

Of course, once you arrive to set, the obstacles multiply.

Some college kid in a neon yellow vest stops you before you’ve even managed to remove your duffle from the trunk of the cab.

“Covid testing is this way, please follow me,” he insists tersely. Self-consciously, you adjust the KN95 strap around your ear.

The kid leads you to a tent, where two people in full white hazmat suits, complete with gloves and face shields, ask your name and instruct you to pull down your mask. (There’s a joke in there somewhere, about infection at a show about infected, but you get the sense it might be inappropriate to fool around here.)

Once swabbed and registered, you move to leave, scanning the exit for anyone who might be able to help you navigate onto set. But you are immediately blocked by a hazmat woman.

“You need to wait for the rapid to clear,” she insists, pointing to a row of folding chairs. “Fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes, after 5 weeks. Just fifteen minutes. You resign yourself to a seat by the door.

It’s 4pm. You were supposed to have arrived during a stop down between shots— timed so that Pedro would be in his trailer, and accessible, when you arrived. It feels like that window is physically, tangibly closing as you watch the second-hand tick slowly.

Initially, you’d been hesitant to join him on set at all, but he’d insisted you come meet his “second family.” You’d met several of his colleagues via Facetime, when he’d called you from his trailer. Bella, in particular, you’ve taken a liking to— they pepper you with whispered questions about transitioning and gripes about the gender binary when Pedro has been forced to hand over the phone.

You check your phone. Nothing from Pedro, although his little blue dot looks stationary when you pull up FindMyFriends. The clock ticks. There is a burning sting each time you blink— that third cup of coffee is wearing off, and the 5am wake-up this morning is starting to catch up to you. Really, all you want to do is go back to your partner’s hotel room, said partner in tow, curl up on the king-sized and fall asleep watching some West Wing rerun. (Maybe also shower together, and then some. You can keep yourself awake for that.)

Finally, finally, finally, the hazmat woman returns. “You’re clear,” she announces, handing you a green sticker to adhere on your jacket. You make it through the tent flap, heart in your throat with anticipation—

But you have no fucking idea where to go.

A sea of white tents lays before you, stations with people doing things of varying levels of importance. A neon slip of paper points you towards set, but that’s not where you’re headed. Finally, past a corralled group of extras in some really disgusting mushroom prosthetics, and a tent full of picked-over lunch offerings, you spot some trailers in the distance.

And apparently, a stranger with a duffle bag walking quickly towards actors’ trailers, yields a quick security intervention.

In their defense, you definitely look like a crazy person.

“Do you have a clearance list, or anything?” You beg, discretely craning your neck to see over the guard’s neck. The trailers are right there. There are only a few, it shouldn’t take any time at all to find Pedro. He’s within arm’s reach and yet he couldn’t possibly feel further away as the guard talks code into a very official-looking walkie talkie.

“Roger.” He looks down at you. “Listen, you gotta go man. It’s a clearance-only set, and they’ve got strict covid rules, so—”

The green sticker may or may not get shoved in the man’s face. There may or may not be angry tears threatening to ruin your cool. “I got covid tested! I’m clean, they let me through. They had me on their list. I’m—”

From behind you, a familiar voice cuts you off. “With me, Robbie.”

You whip around.

Jaw? On the floor.

Pedro looks… really fucking old. His hair has been sprayed gray, wily and wind-swept; the beard, too, is much grayer than normal. It’s all part of a dirty-looking, artificially stained, mostly denim-based costume. You file away for later, how attracted you are to seeing him like this. Jesus Christ.

He looks old, but he is here, and he is grinning at you, and he’s here.

“Aw, shit.” The guard talks into the radio again. “86. Sorry about that.”

Easy to ignore him, though, as you’re preoccupied with staring at your man.

Before you can move to pounce on him, close the final four feet of distance between you, a well-manicure hand splays menacingly out at you.

“Don’t even think about it,” Coco warns. “We have fifteen minutes for touch-ups and I do not have time to fix everything.”

Pedro’s nose twitches, frowning at you. You reach down to hold his hand, but it is… apparently also covered in make-up, looking red, nasty and broken.

Sorry, he mouths dejectedly.

The inside of his trailer is familiar, though it looks a little smaller in-person than it appears on Facetime. A mirror and counter, a decently sized couch, a bathroom, a desk in the corner. Pedro settles in the make-up chair, smiling backwards at you in the mirror.

“Drop your stuff,” he insists.

Little touches of your life together pepper the room in a way that grips your heart a little. A framed picture on the desk, which you recognize from last summer; a particularly nice day in Prospect Park with the dogs, captured in a Polaroid snapped candid by a total stranger. You’d declined it, at first, assuming it was a weird fan thing. But they had insisted, leaving the picture behind and walking away. It was too lovely to leave.

The sweatshirt draped over the arm of the sofa is yours— an old NYU hoodie Pedro usually travels with. He claims it’s a ‘security blanket,’ and honestly, he might only be half-joking. A note you’d recently sent in a package (he’d accidentally left his whole box of contacts at home), taped up on the mirror, alongside a photo strip with Sarah from some gala a couple years back.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Pedro says quietly, watching you look around. “Take your mask off, baby, I’m assuming you cleared testing if you made it through the front.”

In your excitement to reunite, you almost forgot the little surprise. His jaw drops, into an awed smile. With the un-fake-injured hand, he reaches up to palm your cheek. Runs a hand up and down your jaw, scratching lightly along the new hair.

You turn enough to plant a kiss on the pulse point of Pedro’s wrist. Capture his hand with yours, against your face, to feel him for the first time in over a month.

“Oh! The oil is working,” Coco has paused, midway through spraying something silvery and chemical-smelling to Pedro’s temples. She had suggested it surreptitiously a few months back, off-handedly, and you’d been religiously using it since. The woman knows her shit.

Pedro continues to thumb at the new scruff, transfixed. His jaw muscle twitches.

“I’ve uh—” He stalls out. “Uh. Sorry. Dinner. Craig—”

You step backwards, pulling your hand down to hold in his lap, instead. He huffs.

“Craig wants to go to dinner tonight, since we’re wrapping in Edmonton. I guess there’s this restaurant he is insisting we have to try, it’s a whole thing. Big group. I didn’t give him an answer, in case you’re tired and wanna just head back to the hotel? But we can go, either way it’s fine, I figured…”

“Pedge,” you interrupt. “It’s all good. I’d be happy to go, it sounds fun.”

He exhales. “Thank god, because it’s like a spouse-thing, Neil and Craig’s wives are here.”

Your eyebrow quirks. “Spouse?”

Just to get a blush out of the man. You’d discussed it, of course, but had yet to make moves. Being marked soothed any sense of urgency— you were committed by flesh and blood, and that was ultimately more binding than a ring or ceremony. But, still.

“Joking, love." Despite the coffee, a yawn sneaks up on you. "I might crash on the couch for a bit, when you go back."

He glances at his phone. "We only have one more shot to get alts on. Neil swears we have a hard-out in an hour. Close your eyes, and I'll be right back."

— — —

You didn't mean to actually fall asleep. Just lay there on your phone and zone out for a bit. But suddenly, you're waking up, to the feeling of a mouth on your own.

A familiar mouth. Warm, scruffy around the edges, a little pepperminty.

"We're done," Pedro whispers. "Coco says I can fuck up my makeup now."

When you open your eyes, he is hovering above you, grinning like a wolf. He's still in costume, though the denim overshirt is already half-unbuttoned.

"Are you done being gross?"

Sitting up, you find Bella in the doorway. They waste no time flinging themselves at the couch.

"In the flesh!" You both laugh.

"Shorter in person, huh?" Pedro is rewarded by a hearty shove from his costar, as he scrubs a makeup wipe across his face.

Wiping sleep from your eyes, you can tell it's gotten dark outside in the time that you've been asleep. "Craig still insisting on dinner?"

"Mm. It's like fancy Mediterranean, I think."

"Fetaaaaa," Bella pumps the air. "Nice."

The evening stretches out before you— a few more obstacles between you and the hotel bed. But Pedro is here, in the flesh, and he's smiling at you in a way that forms the little crinkles beside his eyes, and you think maybe you can sit through a few hours of fancy dinner and small talk.

You've waited this long, anyways.

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coochiequeens · 3 months

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I'm going to guess that this is another man who can't compete with younger men anymore, through no fault of his own he's just aging, and instead of accepting that gracefully and focusing elsewhere like coaching he's using women’s sports to prolong a sports career that should have been over by now.

By Amy Hamm June 24, 2024

Female rugby players in Alberta, Canada, are expressing concerns for their safety after a male who only recently began to identify as a “woman” was permitted to join their team. The women say their club is more worried about “discrimination” lawsuits than their potential injuries.

Players for the Clanswomen, a female rugby team in the Clansmen Rugby Club (CRC) and under the jurisdiction of the Edmonton Rugby Club, told Reduxx they were only recently informed by a coach that Maeryn Gellhaus, 48, was allowed to join their team.

Several members of the Clanswomen, who are being kept anonymous for their protection, explained that they knew Gellhaus had previously played on a men’s team in the CRC before he began to identify as transgender. He also reportedly coaches a youth team in the CRC.

According to a Clanswomen player who spoke with Reduxx, Gellhaus approached executives at the CRC sometime in May, requesting to switch from the men’s team to the women’s team. He has since been attending the women’s practice sessions twice a week. The female players were reportedly not consulted about his acceptance onto the roster.

Gellhaus made an Instagram post about joining the women’s team on May 29, boasting that he had played nearly 300 games as a male, but had been accepted into the Clanswomen after declaring himself to be a woman.

“I’ve played almost 300 games for my club. Played on every team possible. But the reason I never really fit in was because I was never really on the RIGHT team. Until tonight… tonight the Clanswomen allowed me to join them. So for once (maybe just once) I can take the pitch as myself for the right team.”

According to an Instagram post by Gellhaus, he began to identify as transgender and take cross-sex hormones (HRT) just four months ago and primarily presents as “male” most of the time.

“I’m only 4 months deep into HRT. I haven’t had [facial feminization surgery]. I still boy-mode mostly,” he wrote in another post from June 4.

The anonymous female players said that Gellhaus was allegedly informed that several of the women on the team were uncomfortable with his presence and worried about being injured playing with a male. Days later, Gellhaus took to Instagram again, complaining that some of the women had been less than accomodating to him.

“There are a lot of girls that have been absolutely amazing to me there. But there is an underlying feeling that some don’t want me there. Badly. It hasn’t been figured out yet. I’m trying to decide if it’s worth the struggle. I want to be celebrated, not tolerated,” he wrote.

Just last week, Gellhaus was finally added to the publicly-available team roster on the Clansmen Rugby Club’s website. He played his first game with the team on Saturday in St. Albert, Alberta.

One female player told Reduxx that she was focused on fairness and safety, and that none of the women opposed to Gellhaus’ presence were motivated by transphobia. Instead, she explained fear of injury was the primary concern amongst the women.

“It’s safety and fairness of sport. It’s pretty f*cked up that one person’s ‘feelings’ trump legitimate concerns of safety from our women. Our opinions and feelings don’t matter,” she said.

“In an aggressive contact sport like rugby, where your only required protection is a mouth guard, why do we have to argue over safety and explain the risks of women versus men?”

Several of the women have approached Canada’s governing body for Rugby with concerns about safety, but were told that the club must follow the current guidance, which enables players to choose a team based on their self-identified gender “at both recreational and competitive levels.”

Rugby Canada regulations claim to “resolve gender identity and gender expression issues” via their discipline and complaints policy. The policy does not provide any mention of the safety of female players matched with or against males.

“It’s reckless. The club is afraid [Gellhaus] will file a discrimination suit if we don’t let him play,” another Clanswomen player revealed. “I argue he is to be accepted ‘as is’ with the men’s team, or he can go play in one of the co-ed leagues.”

#Canada #SaveWomen'sSports #Save Women's Sports Saturday #Alberta #Rugby #Clanswomen #Clansmen Rugby Club (CRC)#Maeryn Gellhaus is a 48 year old man #Women’s sports is not a retirement plan for older men #A trans identified male wants to be celebrated #The link between neonf trans and narcissism

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thenhlteaissuperhot · 9 months

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speaking of Celeste I've watched one of her movies some weeks ago because it was on tv and I gotta say she's so bad at acting and has zero charisma. She's lucky she's pretty and has a rich boyfriend because otherwise I don't even think she would be getting any acting jobs.

I have only seen bits and pieces of her work, but overall, I am not the biggest fan of her expressions while she is acting. Don't know why, but she just overdoes to a point where it's cringy to look at. If she toned it down and made her face look more natural, she would be decent, but this way you look at her and see that is trying too hard to act and convey the emotions her character is feeling through her facial expression rather than other tools you as an actor have (voice, body language...).

With that being said though, I don't think that being Leon Draisaitl's girlfriend gives her much advantage. If she dated an NBA or NFL player, we could be talking about the boyfriend-influence, but she is dating a German, who plays in Edmonton and is always in McDavid's shadow.

The only advantage she has thanks to Leon is that she probably doesn't feel the need to be desperately booking every acting gig possible and constantly looking for new jobs to make a living like the other amateur actors have to because Leon is the one bringing in big bucks.

#nhl gossip #l. draisaitl

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aquatechdiving · 2 months

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canadianjobbank · 5 months

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hemingwaymedical · 18 days

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