#for me to go numb and not feel things or else be just going into panic panic panic hell freakout but beyond that it can be very hard

[yourmessagehasbeendenied]

~ONE LESS PROBLEM​

tw; NSFW content, reader described as chubby, MDNI, p in v, toxicity, addiction , cursing, sex, how else can I make it obvious?

Addiction is horrible, it ruins your life, gets you hooked to something that ruins your life, gets you to need something you in reality wouldn't. And that's why he was your addiction.

It was never love with Simon Riley, no, he told you from the start he doesn't do that "love shit," because "It ain't never worth it, sweetheart."

At the start, it was good enough, just what you needed after a shitty relationship and break up, just a good old fuck with no feelings attached. Just a rebound, nothing else, you didn't want anything else, but let's be honest? The fact that people saw you leave the bar with a huge man like him, bigger than your ex, was an extreme ego boost.

You didn't want anything more of it, you weren't ready for anything more. A good hook up, and you went on your way the next day, you didn't fucking owe him anything. You thought that was it, until you got a message from an unknown number, claiming to be the bulky man you hooked up with, asking for round two.

"Never had a cunt like yours, sweetheart." He claimed. You learned he got your number from your mutual friend, Johnny, you two were.. Semi friends. Either way, getting a round two request from the sexiest man you've had in your life? You'd need to be stupid, to reject it.

So you did it again. You fell for his trap, fell into his arms and let him fuck you like your ex never could. You let him ruin you, because fuck, you had nothing to lose. You fell into the lion's den, let him get his claws on you and scratch you up the way he wanted to. He fucked you like you were nothing to him. Roughed you up, bent you into positions no one would, willing to break your back if he had to. He fucked like a madman, like he's a caveman needing his release, like he deserved this, like you were just for his use.

You loved it. Every fucking sick part of it. You didn't owe him shit, but you let him use you like you did, because that made you forget about everything. While you two were fucking, the world was nothing, it was a dark room and just moans full with pleasure.

So you became friends with benefits. It wasn't horrible, not at first. It was perfect, just what you needed to forget that tiny dicked asshole who thought it would be funny to fuck a random blonde bitch. Like he wouldn't cum 2 seconds after being inside you. It was what you needed to numb the pain, and it was what he needed to release the pain.

Until it turned into a huge problem. Going from it being nothing else but just fuck buddies, it turned into something way more toxic. You fell for him. Fuck, how couldn't you have? He was a big man, he fucked you like an animal, and out of bed, he was a gentleman. He listened like no one else did, was there when you needed. And he had a lethal face card, let's be honest.

You shoot your shot. You ask him out once and for all, where he looks at you and full blown laughs. He points out he would never do anything with anyone, that it "Ain't you sweetheart, Love's too much for me baby. I'm not husband material, sweet thing."

It wasn't enough for you. You tried and tried, to make him like you but it never fucking worked. You started losing weight, started trying things, but he got mad at you. "Don't you fucking dare change that body of yours, it's perfect."

So if it wasn't your body, was it your personality? You tried your hardest but nothing worked, the man just wouldn't budge. His rule was fuck only, nothing else, and you hated it. It turned into heated arguments, into hopes, and fuck him seriously. I mean why would he talk to you like you're a princess to only tell you he wants nothing else than sex?

So you got mad at him. And stopped hooking up with him. The first week was great, no problems there. Simon didn't seem to mind that you didn't wanna hook up with him, that you weren't around him anymore. It pissed you off. The second week you gave your back when he finally texted you saying, "You up?" At 3 AM, the usual routine. But the afterwards turned into the most horrible fight you ever had. "Simon, I want more." You had the most serious tone ever, when you told him that, and he just looked at you like you were a joke. Nothing to him. "I don't. How many times do I have to tell you, to get it through your stupid fucking head, huh? I don't love. You got a problem in your head for you to not understand?" He asked, growled at you. So you yelled back. "Fuck you, Simon. I'm tired of this. I'm tired of you." He looked at you one last time as he said, "Then let's stop this all together." It hurt, it stung. But you grabbed your clothes, your car keys and bag, and left him there for good. Your life started to turn out differently. You hung out with your friends more, and you finally had a better social life, not as shy as you used to be. Simon still lingered in your mind, but now that you left him there for good, no contact, you felt better. You have one less problem without him.

So you went out.

You met this guy. Sammy, or whatever his stupid name was. He seemed sweet enough, was a gentleman and just wanted to get to know you better. You thought to yourself, now with Simon gone, it was time for a change. For the better, hopefully.

You agreed on a date with him, and thought nothing of it at the time. If this works out in your favor, you get a boyfriend and you don't worry about wanting Simon anymore. That's what you thought. The date was fine, he bought you flowers and took you to a fancy restaurant where he mostly talked about himself. He didn't exactly ask questions about you, like he was a little uninterested, but he was very sweet and when you tried to say something he did let you speak. You went home giving him a hug and a "Thank you" for the dinner he paid for. Walking home, you put your headphones on, listening to music. The walk home was fine, until you walked into your home. Just as you shut the door behind you, a deep voice bloomed from your living room. "Welcome home, sweetheart."

You stood there, freezing up. Does he know you went out on a date? Were you supposed to tell him? And for a second a little guilt comes up your stomach, like you did something wrong by living your own life without him. But it disappears just as quickly because fuck that, what the hell is he doing in your house?!

"Simon, why the fuck are you here?" The lights turn on but it's like it's still dark, the atmosphere is. He slowly walks towards you as he speaks. "Waiting. For you." He slowly smiled at you, as he kept walking towards you. "How was your little date?" You swallowed. "None of your business. What the fuck are you doing in my house? Wh- why do you even have the damn key?!" You were frustrated. This is practically breaking in. You felt mixed emotions. You felt like you wanted to rip his head off for acting like this is his place, but it also scared you. His eyes gleamed with something much worse than just the intention of breaking in. It was an inhumane claim, staring deep into your soul, as if he was trying to engrave his own name into your head. "That's not the way you fucking talk to me, baby." His smirk dropped and he was in front of you. He breathed heavy, like a beast. He gripped your chin and not in a gentle way. "You're gonna get your pretty little fingers into your pockets, pull out your fucking phone, and text the bastard that you don't wanna see him again. Make an excuse for it for all I give a fuck. And after that, you're gonna get that sweet little ass into the bedroom, and-" "No, Simon." He let go of your chin. "No?" "No." He leaned next to your ear. Heavy breathing, silence. ... "Yes." He whispered, breathless. Snap. He gripped your chin harder in that moment, his hand finding it's way back to you, and he kissed you. He kissed you like he's never done it before, and he let go after a few seconds of your shock. His lips travelled down your neck, leaving purple marks, a reminder. Grabbing your ass with his other hand like it's his, like you belong to him. You don't. You want to believe you don't. But you let him use you, control you. He ripped your pants off like he needed to. It was rough, it was the usual, except it wasn't. There was something deep in his eyes, something you'd only see in a hungry man's eyes, a starving man's eyes. Desperation. He tore his own clothes off in a rush, like he was afraid you'd leave, disappear if he didn't. He didn't bother with getting you on the bed, the couch was good enough. Muttering, moans, as he looked at you with a need for your confirmation, like he needed it to live. Once he got your nod, he immediately slammed into you. But it was different this time. He wasn't rushing for release, he was rushing to mark you. He was rushing to make you his. Muttering words, like he needs your confirmation, "Tell me you're mine," "Promise me you're mine," "You were made for me baby, isn't that right love? Isn't tha' right.." Like he was begging for your answer each time. It felt wrong. It felt so goddamn fucking wrong, because it was different from all the other times. This time, He fucked you like he loved you. And you hated how real it felt. After he fucked you like there's no tomorrow, he sat up from the couch and grabbed his clothes, fixing himself up. He looked at your body laying there on the couch, and with that final look, he grabbed his shoes and left. After all, it was still just sex.

A/N: WHOOOOOOOOOooooooooo man i dont know what to even do with this to be really honest. I was just writing whatever i could and its a little rushed, so sorry. This is my second fiction and im SERIOUSLY trying to work my way up with my writing. This was fun writing, hope you guys have fun reading it too. Love ya'll, and I am gonna be working on part 2 on my last fiction. Have a great rest of your day<3

[xcaptainhannax]

Where It Hurts The Most (joel miller x reader)

Plot: Abby swears she only wants Joel dead—until she sees how much she means to him. Blinded by grief and rage, she changes her plan, targeting her instead. Joel powerless to stop the fallout is forced to watch as Abby wants him to feel the same crushing loss she once did.

Warnings: violence, blood, torture

A/N: I know Abby mentions multiple times that she only wants Joel BUT this idea came to mind and yet again i can do whatever the fuck i want SO yeah !! i hope you like this new twisted idea, joel is alive tho so that counts for something, right? RIGHT??

The ski lodge reeked of blood and gunpowder.

Joel's breathing was ragged as he struggled against the ropes biting into his wrists. Blood slicked his side — Abby hadn’t wasted time. When they'd first dragged him in, she'd made sure to beat him half to death, cracking ribs, splitting his brow, breaking him down piece by piece.

He didn’t know if the pool beneath him was mostly his or someone else's.

Ellie’s muffled screams and Dina’s frantic shouts echoed around the wooden beams of the cabin, but Joel’s focus was locked on one thing: you, forced to your knees before Abby, bruised and bloodied.

"I was just going to kill him," Abby said, voice trembling with rage as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "Quick. Clean."

From across the room, Owen stepped forward, hesitation thick in his voice. "Abby — this isn’t what we talked about. We came for Joel. Just Joel."

"Yeah," Manny added warily, shifting his weight, his rifle lowering slightly. "Don't make this messier."

Abby barely heard them. She glanced down at you — saw the way your eyes, swollen and bloodshot, still searched for Joel — and her expression twisted into something dark, something cruel.

"But that’s not enough anymore," she muttered.

Joel jerked against his bonds so violently the chair scraped loudly against the floor. "You fuckin’ touch her, I swear to God—" His voice broke into a growl, hoarse and burning from the earlier beating.

Abby laughed, cold and hollow. "You’re gonna watch, Joel. You’re gonna feel everything I felt when you killed my father."

"No!" Ellie screamed, fighting against the arms pinning her down. "Please — please, don't!"

Abby barely glanced at her before turning back to you. She grabbed you roughly by the collar, yanking you closer. You didn’t cry, didn’t beg — you just kept your eyes on Joel.

Trying to be strong for him.

The first punch landed hard, sending your head snapping back. Joel bellowed your name, straining so hard that blood seeped from his wrists where the rope cut into his skin.

Another blow. And another.

Joel was roaring, begging, his voice hoarse and broken. Ellie was sobbing, Dina trying to twist free from the guards holding her.

"I’m gonna kill you!" Joel swore, voice cracking. "I’m gonna rip you apart!"

But Abby didn’t stop — not until your body slumped, weak and trembling, against the floorboards.

Joel’s vision blurred — from blood, from rage, from helplessness — until he heard it: Gunshots.

The door to the lodge slammed open, splintering against the wall.

Tommy burst inside, rifle raised, already firing. Behind him, Jackson patrols flooded the lodge like a tide — someone must have sent a signal.

The room exploded into chaos — gunfire, screaming, bodies scrambling for cover.

Joel didn’t think. He tore at the ropes until the chair tipped over, smashing against the floor. He rolled, gasping, side burning, and his hands — bloody and half-numb — finally found freedom.

He crawled to you, heart thundering so loud he couldn't hear anything else.

"Baby—" His hands cradled your face, sticky with blood and too cold. "No, no, stay with me. Look at me."

You blinked sluggishly, pupils slow to respond — but you were alive.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracked and broken, but so alive it made him choke on a sob.

"I got you," he rasped, pressing his forehead against yours. "You're okay, baby. You’re okay."

Ellie and Dina were suddenly there too, shielding you as Tommy’s voice barked orders across the lodge.

And then Joel heard it — a sharp yell, a struggle — and through the broken beams of the lodge, he saw Abby trying to escape, blood trailing from a wound at her side. She shoved past a patrolman, frantic.

Tommy didn't hesitate.

One clean shot rang out.

Abby stumbled, then crumpled to the floor without a sound.

Joel stared — not with triumph, not even with hatred — just with a hollow, aching finality. She would never hurt anyone again.

The fight moved outside. The lodge grew quieter, except for your shallow breathing and Joel’s broken prayers.

Ellie clung to your side, Dina pressing cloth to your wounds, and Joel held you like he could will you whole again — ignoring the searing pain in his ribs, the way blood trickled down his temple.

Maybe he couldn't undo the pain Abby had caused. Maybe nothing would ever be the same.

But you were alive. And for Joel Miller, that was enough to keep fighting.

[lydilicious]

The things I never said

Nanami x GN reader

Nanami always made it easy to love him.

It wasn’t the expensive suits or the immaculate manners, though those helped.

It was the way he existed in a world that didn’t deserve him, moving through it with quiet integrity, refusing to bow under the weight of all the things he couldn’t fix. It was the way he carried sorrow like a second skin, dignified and unspoken.

It was the way he smiled — rare, fleeting — when he looked at you.

Or at least, you thought he was looking at you.

You told yourself you could survive like this — on scraps, on maybes. You didn’t need grand declarations or promises. It was enough just to be near him, enough to be his steady, constant presence.

His… friend.

Always his friend.

But you were greedy. You wanted more.

You wanted all of him.

And that was your first mistake.

---

You notice the change before anyone else.

Nanami starts checking his phone during missions. A tiny thing. Almost imperceptible — but he never used to do that. His dedication was rigid, absolute. Until now.

You don't ask.

You don't want to know.

(You already know.)

One evening, while patching up a wound on his arm, your hand lingers too long against his skin. His eyes — always so clear, so unreadable — flick to yours.

And there's something there.

Something heavy.

Your heart stutters with hope. You open your mouth, reckless and terrified.

But before the words can escape, his phone buzzes on the table.

He smiles — soft, almost shy — and says, “Sorry. I have to take this.”

You watch him leave the room, his voice low and tender through the closed door.

He never used that tone with you.

You finish bandaging his arm alone.

---

Her name is Mai.

You learn this by accident. Shoko mentions her in passing — Nanami’s new girlfriend, a civilian, the girl at the bakery he'd always buy you pastries from.

Sweet, kind.

Good for him, Shoko says with a smile that feels like a dagger in your ribs.

After everything he's been through, he deserves someone who makes him happy.

You nod. You smile.

You bleed in silence.

That night, you walk home in the rain without an umbrella, letting it soak through your clothes, your skin, your bones.

Maybe if you get cold enough, numb enough, it’ll drown out the hollow ache in your chest.

It doesn’t.

---

You tell yourself you can be happy for him.

You try.

You listen as he talks about her — little things, casual things. How she likes her coffee, the books she recommends, the way she laughs so hard she snorts.

You laugh along, like it's funny.

Like it doesn't tear you apart.

Every time he says her name, it's another small death.

You become an expert at pretending:

Pretending you don't see the softness in his eyes when he talks about her.

Pretending your hands don't shake when he casually mentions taking her to a quiet little café you used to go to together.

Pretending you're not still stupidly, hopelessly in love with him.

You don’t think he notices.

You don’t think he would care if he did.

---

One night, you find yourself at Nanami’s apartment — a half-hearted excuse about a mission report clutched in your hands.

He invites you in without hesitation.

The place smells different.

It’s subtle — a floral note in the air, delicate and sweet. A woman's touch woven into the fabric of his life.

You sit on the couch while he makes tea, your fingers curling into tight fists against your thighs.

There’s a photograph on the bookshelf.

You can’t help it. You look.

It’s him and Mai. She's tucked against his side, grinning up at him like he hung the stars.

And Nanami — serious, reserved Nanami — is smiling back at her.

A real smile.

One you've never seen before.

Something inside you fractures.

When he returns, handing you a steaming cup, he notices the way you're staring.

For a moment, the air feels heavier. Denser.

"She makes me happy," he says quietly.

You nod, swallowing the shards of your heart.

"I'm glad," you lie.

He sits beside you. Close enough to touch.

Close enough to hurt.

"You're important to me," he says after a moment, his voice low. "You know that, don't you?"

You force yourself to meet his gaze. His sincerity is a knife twisting deeper.

"Of course," you whisper.

But you’re not the one he chose.

You’re just the one he leaned on until he didn’t need you anymore.

---

You drift apart after that.

It's not immediate — Nanami isn't cruel — but the distance grows.

Fewer texts.

Shorter conversations.

Excuses.

He's building a life you don't fit into anymore.

And you — you’re left standing outside, watching through the window, unwanted, unseen.

You wonder if he even notices you fading.

Maybe he does.

Maybe he just doesn't care.

---

You find out about the engagement secondhand.

Gojo bursts into the office, waving a bottle of champagne, grinning like an idiot.

"Our Nanamin’s getting hitched!" he crows.

The room explodes into cheers and congratulations.

You sit frozen, the noise fading into a low, dull roar.

You smile.

You clap.

You die a little more.

Later, after the others have gone, you find yourself alone on the training field, the night pressing cold and heavy around you.

You punch the dummy until your knuckles split, blood smearing across the rough canvas.

It’s not enough.

Nothing will ever be enough.

---

Nanami finds you there.

He approaches quietly, a hesitant shadow against the floodlights.

"You missed the celebration," he says softly.

You wipe your bloody hand on your pants, refusing to meet his eyes.

"Wasn't in the mood," you mutter.

A beat of silence.

Then — "I'm sorry."

You bark out a laugh, bitter and broken.

"What are you sorry for, Nanami? Falling in love? Being happy? None of that’s a crime."

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says.

You finally look at him.

And God, it’s worse.

Because he looks guilty.

Because he knows.

"Don't flatter yourself," you say. Your voice shakes. "Not everything is about you."

He flinches.

Good.

Let him hurt a little. Let him taste the smallest fraction of the agony he left you drowning in.

"You should go," you whisper.

For a long moment, he just stands there, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Then he nods.

"I wish..." he begins, then stops. Shakes his head.

"Forget it."

You watch him walk away, taking the last shattered pieces of you with him.

---

You don't attend the wedding.

You send a gift — impersonal, safe — and a note scribbled with shaky hands: Wishing you happiness.

You mean it.

You hate yourself for meaning it.

Because at the end of everything — the hollow nights, the splintered dreams, the years of unspoken love — you never wanted anything but for him to be happy.

Even if it killed you.

Especially if it killed you.

---

Sometimes, in the dead hours of the night, you wonder:

If you had told him — if you had reached out, been brave — would it have changed anything?

Would he have chosen you?

Or were you always destined to be the almost, the could-have-been, the not-quite-enough?

You’ll never know.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part.

Because some loves aren’t meant to be requited.

Some loves are just meant to break you.

---

[Word count: ~2140]

---

[oaksgrove]

Hii I have a request for König x fem reader hurt/comfort, friends to lovers type thing

so y/n and konig are very close friends but he’s always loved her more than that, but she had a really bad crush on one guy and they were talking it seemed to be going well but he ghosted her for seemingly no reason and it really hurt her. She went to König for comfort and found out that it was actually him who she loved and he’d never do her like the other guy had done

Right in Front of Me

Pairing: König x Reader

Synopsis: After yet another heartbreak, you find yourself on König’s doorstep—unplanned, unraveling, and aching for something you can’t quite name. He welcomes you in with quiet understanding, offering comfort without question, shelter without condition. But as grief softens into vulnerability, and vulnerability into truth, you begin to see what was always there: love that never left, waiting patiently in silence for you to come home.

Warnings: Emotional hurt/comfort, post-heartbreak vulnerability, reader crying, gentle pining, soft confession, implied mutual feelings, tender physical touch, healing after emotional neglect.

Word Count: 1043

You hadn’t meant to end up at his door.

You’d told yourself it was just a walk. A long, mindless stretch through the quiet evening, hoping the chill in the air would settle the ache in your chest. Maybe you’d get a coffee, let it go cold in your hands while you stared out the window of some little shop, pretending the numbness was by choice.

But your feet had betrayed you. Or maybe they had just known better.

They led you to the only place that ever felt like a harbor when the storm hit. To him.

König opened the door with soft surprise—his tired blue eyes widening, eyebrows knitting in quiet concern. He didn’t ask why. He didn’t need to.

He simply stepped back, holding the door wider with that gentleness that always hurt more when you needed it most. Like a wound you forgot you had until someone brushed it tenderly.

You stepped inside, and the door closed behind you with a soft click. The apartment was dim, warm. Faint scent of coffee and worn leather and something else you’d never placed—something that always smelled like safety.

You’d been here before. Movie nights. Lazy dinners. Long shifts that ended in you passed out on his couch with a blanket tucked around you. But tonight wasn’t like those nights.

Tonight, something about the silence felt heavier. And you were trying so hard not to cry.

You sat on the edge of his couch like you didn’t belong there. The soft grey blanket—your favorite—was still folded over the armrest. You pulled it into your lap like armor. Like maybe if you wrapped it around yourself tight enough, you wouldn’t fall apart.

König sat on the floor beside you. Not too close. Not too far. Just there.

His presence was steady, grounding. A lighthouse in fog.

“I thought it was going well,” you said. The words cracked at the edges. “He… he was kind. Funny. He said he wanted to see me again. I—I let myself think maybe this time—”

You sucked in a breath. Tried to laugh, but it broke halfway through.

“He just stopped answering. Like I didn’t matter at all.”

The pain rolled in like a tide. Bitter and sharp. The kind that made your chest ache with every inhale. The kind that made you feel stupid for ever hoping.

König didn’t speak. Didn’t rush to tell you it was fine. He just reached out slowly, his hand covering yours with quiet reverence.

“You mattered,” he said, voice low and sure. “You always matter.”

“I feel pathetic,” you whispered, eyes still on the floor. “Like I made the whole thing up. Like maybe I just wanted it so badly I saw something that wasn’t there.”

König was silent for a long beat. Then:

“You didn’t imagine it. You gave your heart. That’s not pathetic—it’s brave.”

You blinked. And the tears that had been threatening finally slipped free.

And then—he moved. Without hesitation. Without a single word, he reached up and pulled you into his chest. Held you like you were breakable. Like you were precious.

“I don’t understand,” you whispered into his hoodie. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“No,” he murmured. “He did.”

His hand stroked gently down your back, slow and rhythmic. He never flinched at your shaking shoulders, never shifted away from the wet warmth of your tears soaking his chest.

“You’d never do that to me,” you said into the fabric. A small truth. A realization you’d been blind to.

König tensed—just a fraction. “No. Never.”

You pulled back slightly, enough to look at him. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you really saw him. The softness in his gaze. The grief he had buried for your sake. The quiet love you’d never let yourself believe was there.

“I think I’ve always felt safe with you,” you said, brokenly. “I just… I didn’t know what that meant.”

His hand cradled the back of your head like he was afraid you’d disappear.

“I’ve loved you quietly,” he whispered, “for a very long time.”

It cracked something deep inside.

“I’m sorry,” you said again. “For not seeing it sooner.”

He shook his head. “You don’t have to apologize for timing. You’re here now.”

But later—when the storm had passed and left only wreckage—you sat on the edge of his bed wrapped in the blanket, staring at the far wall. Quiet again.

The grief came back in waves. Not as sharp. But deeper. Heavier.

König padded into the room quietly, a steaming mug of tea in his hands.

“Chamomile,” he said softly. “Good for the nerves.”

You took it, but didn’t sip.

“I feel like I failed,” you whispered.

He sat on the floor again, looking up at you with all the patience in the world.

“You didn’t fail.”

“I gave so much to someone who didn’t care.”

“Giving love is never a failure,” he said. “It means your heart works.”

A tear slipped down your cheek. “I made you wait.”

“I would’ve waited forever.”

You looked at him, heart in your throat.

“I hurt you.”

He nodded. Once. “Yes.”

“But I never meant to.”

“I know.” He reached out, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “It’s not pain I regret.”

And that broke you again.

Your breath hitched. The mug trembled in your grip.

“I just want to feel like I’m enough for someone,” you choked.

“You are,” he said firmly. “You’re more than enough. He couldn’t see it—but I do. I always have.”

Your voice wavered. “You should hate me.”

“I could never,” he said. “Even when it hurt, I was grateful to love you.”

You reached for him then, desperate for warmth. For forgiveness. For him.

And König held you again. This time not as a friend comforting pain, but as someone holding a home he’d waited years to return to.

“I think I was looking for someone who saw me,” you murmured, “and you… you were right in front of me all along.”

“I never left,” he whispered.

And finally, for the first time in days—maybe weeks—you exhaled and let yourself feel the safety that had always been waiting. Right there. In his arms.

Because he saw you.

And he never looked away.

taglist: @honestlymassivetrash @pythonmoth @kittygonap @rainyjellybear @anonymouse1807 @twoandahalfdimes

[po3tbbygirl]

Under your wings~

Pedro pascal x platonic!reader

In which reader, a rising star and The Last of Us’ leading actress, faces some rough moments on the red carpet… and Pedro, as always, is ready to step up

content warning: nawt proof read ‼️, mentions of losing a parent, big father figure/ girl dad energy

a/n: he’s so dear to me

It had only been a few days since the final episode of The Last of Us had aired.

I was buzzing with excitement for our last red carpet before award season officially kicked off. As thrilled as I was, though, there was this nervous energy bubbling inside me — because while this wasn’t my first time on a red carpet, it was the end of the first-ever project I had booked in my life and career as an actress.

Not something the rest of my cast could say. They were seasoned, experienced — professionals who had done this kind of thing a dozen times over. Meanwhile, I still felt like the new kid, trying to keep up.

I was standing there, answering questions, smiling for photos, soaking it all in — when my interviewer blindsided me with something completely different.

“Hey, we heard that you lost your dad a few days before recording started for the second season of The Last of Us. Is that true?

I froze.

I let out a small sigh without meaning to, the weight of the question crashing down on me. I hadn’t expected them to go there. Sure, there had been whispers online after those awful leaked photos from my father’s funeral, but I really didn’t think they’d bring it up to my face. Not here. Not tonight.

I looked up at the interviewer, feeling my eyes start to sting.

I can’t do this, I thought, panic setting in. I just can’t.

It didn’t matter how grateful I was to be standing there, surrounded by so many incredible people. It didn’t matter how badly I wanted to do a good job, to smile and be strong.

This… this was too much.

I opened my mouth, desperate to find something to say — even if it came out shaky and broken — when suddenly, I felt a warm, steady hand on my shoulder.

Before I could even process what was happening, I was being gently pulled away from the interviewer.

“Hey, man,” a deep, familiar voice said, firm but calm. “I don’t think those kinds of questions are really appropriate for the red carpet, do you? You’ve got an amazing actress here, playing an amazing character from an amazing TV show and video game, and that’s what you choose to ask? Not cool.”

I turned to look — and there he was.

Pedro.

The guy who, from day one of filming season one, had taken me under his wing without a second thought.

I was Ellie. He was Joel. And even though our characters started off cold with each other, our bond off-screen had been instant, natural, and just as strong.

Pedro was like a father to me.

When I lost my dad, he was the one who comforted me.

When he saw me spiraling with nerves before a big scene, he cracked jokes in Spanish — our shared mother language — just to get a smile out of me.

I still remembered that first table read, me sitting there as a bright-eyed sixteen-year-old who had never even been on a real set before, heart hammering against my ribs.

And there was Pedro, making it all a little less scary. Making me feel like I belonged.

After losing my mom when I was just a little kid — and now losing my dad right before the second season — Pedro had stepped into that empty space in a way no one else could.

He hadn’t just been a co-star.

He had become family.

He had become my dad.

Pedro practically dragged me away to the sidelines of the red carpet.

Me, still numb from what I had just been asked.

He led me away from the cameras, the microphones, the nosy and rude interviewers. Somewhere quiet, somewhere safe.

He stopped, took my shoulders in his hands, and bent down slightly so he could meet me at eye level.

“¿Estás bien?” he asked softly. “Say the word and I’ll take you out of here. We’ll go eat some crappy, oily burgers and have a movie marathon. Dime, ¿qué piensas?”

His voice was calm but full of concern. I could see it all over his face — the worry, the protectiveness.

But after almost a year since my father’s passing, I had learned something important: how to acknowledge his death not just with grief, but also with gratitude for the time we had shared.

Even if moments like these still hurt.

I looked up at him, feeling a tear slip free. He wiped it away gently with his thumb, just like a real dad would.

I gave him a small, tired smil

“Estoy bien, gracias,” I whispered.

Then I looked down at my ridiculously expensive shoes, the ones my stylist had insisted I wear.

What was I even doing here?

Wearing shoes that cost more than my first paycheck, standing under these blinding lights, pretending everything was fine?

This is so stupid, I thought.

I looked back up at Pedro, feeling lighter somehow, but also more certain about what I needed.

“Creo que sí me quiero escapar de acá,” I said with a laugh.

He laughed too — that warm, real laugh that always made things feel less heavy.

The truth was, we were both pretty awkward at these events.

Sure, he was way better at socializing than I was, but he didn’t love it either. And honestly? Neither of us needed an excuse to ditch.

We found our managers, made our case (with a lot of pleading looks and promises to make it up later), and somehow convinced them to let us sneak away for the night.

We ran down the street until we found the nearest burger place.

The kind of spot that looked slightly shady but smelled like heaven.

We ordered everything. Burgers, fries, milkshakes. Enough food to fill our stomachs until we felt like we could go without eating for days.

We talked about everything, anything, and nothing at all.

Movies we wanted to make. Dreams we hadn’t said out loud before. Silly memories from set.

And sometimes, we sat there in comfortable silence, just sharing the space.

Pedro understood me. He knew me.

He always knew when to crack a joke, when to let me talk, and when to just sit there and let me be.

Later that night, he walked me back to my hotel, refusing to let me go up until he made sure I was changed into something comfortable — sweatpants and an old hoodie that still smelled like laundry detergent.

I led him to the door, feeling a little sleepy now, the weight of the night finally settling down in my bones.

Before he left, he turned to me one last time, his face serious under the hallway light.

“¿Estás segura de que estás bien?” he asked again. “Dí la palabra, y me quedo aquí. Ponemos unas almohadas en el sillón, y mientras tú te duermes, yo te cuido. Tú dímelo.”

I smiled up at him.

Tire but grateful. So, so grateful.

“Pedro, estoy bien,” I said softly. “Ya no soy esa niña chiquita que conociste hace años.”

He looked at me for a moment, eyes shining with something between pride and sadness.

Then he smiled — that real, heart-deep smile that always reached his eyes.

“Ya lo sé,” he said. “Pero aún así te voy a proteger, porque aunque no eres mi hija por sangre, todo lo que hemos pasado juntos te ha vuelto mi hija en mi corazón.”

I smiled back, feeling tears threaten again — but this time, they were happy ones.

In that moment, standing there in an empty hallway in an overpriced hotel, I knew something simple and true:

Nothing would ever replace my father. Or my mother.

But Pedro had carved a permanent space for himself right next to them.

And I would carry him there forever.

“I love you, Pedro.”

He grinned and pulled me into a hug, squeezing me tight.

“I love you too,” he said.

And I knew he meant it.

Every word.

a/n #2: a alguien le gustaría un fic en puro español?? no se si hacerlo digo mi cuenta es casi toda en inglés pero ya me estoy adentrando a escribir en español

[incense-and-iron]

Hm. Maybe its an insomnia thought, maybe its not. But im genuienly thinking on finally attempting to leave this hell hole of an app-- open up more free time instead of doom scrolling and feeling like I'm getting absolutly nothing. Tbh i dont even get very good memes anymore from here. Sigh.

Well, in any case, if youve been 👉👈 abt asking me for my discord nows the time to ask. I doubt I'll legit leave leave, but the likelyhood of uninstalling the app feels pretty high??? Idk well see how i feel after some sleep. Im also feeling this way abt bsky; kinda fucking sucks there too and is a "if you didnt have mutuals go in with you from the bird app or first wave off other apps you're invisible just like everywhere else :)"

[infitsovermisfits]

unfortunate and awful news- I lost my job and we're getting evicted from our hous🙃

[ankhisms]

can i be emotionally vulnerable with you all in the torture dungeon

[walriding]

also since we are talking about it, miles has little to no libido / sex drive / desire to actually physically sleep with people who aren’t the walrider post canon. he flirts and makes passes a lot because it’s just his personality, but he’s terrified of anything other than brief and basic physical contact. so while he might entertain Ideas and want to take things in that direction — unless there’s a lot of trust and discussion beforehand he most likely won’t follow through

[shadowed-yet-vibrant]

Super cool and healthy that the only way I can stomach having sex is getting so drunk I can hardly comprehend my surroundings.

[joyridingmp3]

the only good thing about my job is that every now and then my coworkers will mention something about trauma that describes me that i didn't know i experienced due to cptsd and then i get to subtly be like OHH ✍️✍️📝 okay that's why im like that

[nururu]

I'm at the advanced stage of burn out where it's just full on trauma and I truly don't think many ppl can understand what it's like. and what it does to your brain and your ability to live normally. it's unexplainable.

[trebeksfault]

[floorpancakes]

crashing out crashing out crashing out crashing out crashing out crashing out crashing out crashing out